#remmick angst

[goldenlikedayl1ght]

ptolemaea | remmick

a/n: hi! so this fic has been a work in progress for three months since i watched sinners and for good reason, it is a beast of a fic! also! i’m from new york so any southern inaccuracies/inaccurate accents should be ignored! there's a lot of violence in this, i would describe it as lovers to enemies if that's your thing. basically this is my swing at answering 'why does remmick wear a wedding ring' in sinners. warnings: DEAD DOVE: DO NOT EAT, depictions of suicide, toxic relationships, major character death, gore, weapon use, general content warnings, canon typical violence, p in v sex, fingering (fem receiving), talks of christianity, remmick hates the british, mentions of torture, remmick being so down bad for the reader and it repeatedly goes wrong, angst, manipulative remmick, remmick is a bad husband, so just head that general warning, there's a lot going on in this onelots of teasing, lots of blasphemy, lots and lots of vampire references, kind of a time loop fic if ya think about it, cursing, flirting, many nicknames, preacher’s daughter trope, divorced couple energy, lots of drama, mentions of classism and general class differences, reader is female and uses she/her pronouns, with female anatomy, no use of y/n, religious/weird parents word count: 17.5k summary: remmick considers himself a very patient man. after all, he's been waiting for you for centuries. pairing: remmick x fem!reader now playing: ptolemaea - ethel cain "you poor thing/sweet, mourning lamb/there's nothing you can do/it's already been done." you can now read this fic on ao3, found here! let me know what you think!

Mississippi, 1932

At first, he does not approach you. He doesn’t talk to you, for two weeks, he only observes—

He watches. 

He haunts.

And something deep down tells you that he’s been looking for you for a long time. 

It started on a Sunday Night, just as the sun set.

Your mama had told you to fill a pitcher of water from the well that you had on your property, and you, being the good girl you were, obeyed without more than a ‘yes, ma’am.’

Your life hadn’t been anything fancy—You lived in the same house your entire life. You’d never gone farther south than Jackson and never been farther north than Memphis. Your daddy was a preacher; your mama was a devoted wife. You had lived in the same bedroom your entire life, tracing the same cracks in your walls since you were little. 

The depression had hit your little town as hard as it had hit the rest of the country, but when people got desperate and scared, they turned to the lord. While everyone else was worried where their next meal was coming from, your daddy had become the most popular man in town. 

Being the preachers’ daughter, you hadn’t made many friends— other girls didn’t think you’d make a particularly reliable presence in their mischief. And when you were younger, you didn’t mind so much—there had been plenty of chores for you to do. Even as you got older, you didn’t necessarily mind your quiet social life. You found comfort in the few books you could get your hands on, reading anything and everything you could find. 

Your folks didn’t care for that—blaming your wandering eye for knowledge on temptation, telling you that if you wanted to read, you should invest more time in the ‘good book’, and you had nodded and agreed at the time, not bothering to tell them that the good book wasn’t as good as the adventure stories you kept under your bed. 

Even that day your mama had sent you to the well, your mind was somewhere else. It had been a habit of yours, to stare off into space, to the edge of the property line, and just go. Anywhere you wanted. In your head, you were not barely beating the mid-summer heat, a pitcher leaning on your hip—you were in some far-off metropolis, dancing and drinking and learning—

When you glanced towards the edge of the property line, ready to mumble out some dramatic line you had read from one of your books when your eyes met his. He was just standing there. Like you were a play he had been watching for a long time. 

From that far, you couldn’t make out many of his features, and somehow, it made him even scarier. Something about him filled you with dread as you looked at him, and you found yourself not wanting to turn your back on him even as you walked back to your house. But you heard your mama call for you from the porch and knew you couldn’t walk backwards—you’d be accused of demonic possession and scheduled for an exorcism by sunrise. 

So, you made your first in a long list of vampire-related mistakes. 

You turned your back to him and ignored your gut telling you to drop your water pitcher and run back to the house. 

When you got to the porch, your mama had this look on her face. 

“You alright? You’re lookin’ pale,” She said, worry seeping through her words. You pushed out an airy laugh, shaking your head.

“I’m okay, you know how I get when it’s hot like this,” You lied like it was natural—and at this point, you felt like it was. When you had a reputation for being a good girl, no one ever suspected that the words that left your mouth easily were far from the truth.

“Well, alright, hurry up and wash up for bed.” She ordered, before taking the water pitcher from your hands. You were quick to follow, but glanced back to the edge of the property line and—

Mistake number two. 

He was closer now, leaning against the well you were just using, and you could see his features more clearly now. Mostly, you saw that he had dark hair, that an instrument was wrapped around him, and that he reminded you of something dark; something unnatural. 

And there was something about him that made you dizzy, and you wondered what he sounded like when he spoke. You’d get your answer two whole weeks later.

But for those two weeks, you were haunted. It was like he was your ghost, but what had you done to deserve insomnia, stitched between nightmares, and paranoia? You felt like you were being watched. You dreaded the sunset, because you’d see him in the corner of your eye, like a shadow. You’d dream of red irises in black voids—you hadn’t even noticed red eyes, had you? 

It was starting to affect everything. Church was first—a week after this haunting began, you were sitting in church, at the 9:00 a.m. service. You had spent the entire night awake with a pillow over your head trying to escape, go to whatever daydream could break this spell. Then, you were snapped out of it at dawn with a sharp knock at your bedroom door, to get ready for the service, always having errands to run; cookies to bake, people to meet, and church services to participate in. 

But then, while your daddy was doing his sermon, you felt the warm morning sun on your face, and you couldn’t help but let your eyes flutter closed.. And you began to daydream. Drift off, just.. let go. 

He never watched you while the sun was out, he never lingered past sunrise. You were safe.

Nothing could hurt you in the house of the—

Slam!

A smack of a book to your hand jerked you awake, a stinging sensation shooting across the back of your hand, as you looked up, your eyes meeting your fathers. And without another word, he went back to his sermon. 

Shit.

And for the next week, you started to crumble further. You’re jumpy, scared and worst of all—you’re always on the verge of tears. On Monday, a shopping trip with your mama turns into a lecture about respect for her words. By Wednesday, you don’t even want to eat you’re so tired. Friday into Saturday, you think you can hear whispering and it doesn’t stop, causing you to let out soft whimpers as tears stream down your face—you just want to be left alone.

So, Sunday morning, you planted the seeds of ‘I’m not feeling too good’, needing a night to just sleep. To rest. 

Your folks bought it—well, maybe they just saw how badly you wanted to stay home, but with your luck, they would’ve reminded you that the lord heals— But they didn’t. Instead, they told you to get some rest and that you could have some supper left over from the night before.  

As soon as they left for the evening service, you went up to your room and collapsed on your bed. It was a cooler night than it had been in weeks, a rare break from the soldering heat you were used to. You didn’t need to open your windows for it to be cool enough to sleep and that was a blessing. You fell asleep as soon as your head hit the pillow. As if someone had snapped their fingers. 

And you weren’t sure how long you slept. But it was a wonderful reprieve from—

Tap, tap, tap!

Your eyes shot open. Someone was at the front door. 

And you knew who it was. 

You sat up in bed and rubbed your eyes. You took a deep breath. And you made mistake number three. You got up from bed, pulled on your robe, and went to the front door. You took a deep breath. Now or never. You just wanted him to let you sleep. 

You were so tired.

So, you opened the door and got your first good look at your ghost. 

He had dark hair, and had dark edges, as you had remembered—but he had no instrument wrapped around him. And his face was more.. boyish than you would’ve thought yet complimented by smile lines and crows feet. He had a smile that made your stomach turn.

“Good evenin’,” His voice takes you back—for the most part, he had a southern drawl, but there was something else about it—something foreign. Unfamiliar. Ancient. “Hope I didn’t wake ya.”

And that strikes a chord—because you know it’s him that has been keeping you up, so you’re already feeling defensive. 

“Can I help you with somethin’?” 

This causes him to laugh a bit, and you just stare at him. 

“Would you mind if I came in for a minute? I been walkin’ ‘round all day and just need to rest my feet.” He says, and his words are so.. innocent. But he stares at you like you’re prey. 

“I don’t think that’s such a good idea.” You say softly, and he tilts his head, leaning in a bit, his eyes burning into your skin as they wander your nightgown. You pull your robe tighter. 

“How come? You all alone in there?” His voice drops a bit, and there’s something much more sinister behind his words. When you don’t respond, he continues, “Say, you wouldn’t be the daughter of that preacher I saw givin’ his sermon earlier, would you?” He asks, and you’re not sure how he knows about your daddy’s preaching considering you never feel him watching you during the day—but you don’t care. Every inch of you is screaming to run away. To slam the door shut and hide in your closet until your parents get home. Maybe you should’ve grabbed your Pa’s gun before answering the door.

“Can I help you?” You repeat your question, your grip on the door tightening. 

“Didn’t your mama ever teach you manners?”

“She taught me to not talk to strangers.” 

That makes him scoff. 

“Well, my name’s Remmick. What’s yours?” He asks, and you decide to add a tick on the list of mistakes—and you give him your name. Remmick doesn’t seem surprised, like this isn’t new information in the slightest. “Well, we ain’t strangers anymore-- your daddy’s the preacher, right?”

“Yes. He’s preachin’ now, right in town. You should go and check it out.” You’re trying to get him out of here, off your front porch and out of your life. But his feet do not move. It seems as if he’s exactly where he wants to be—well, almost. 

“Now why would I do that when I can talk to his pretty lost lamb?” You almost take a step back at that. 

Pretty? Lost?

“Ain’t no one lost here, except maybe you.” You remind, and he shakes his head,

“Nah, see, now I just don’t think that’s true. You wanna know what I really think, sugar?” He doesn’t give you an answer before he continues, “I think you’ve been lost for a long time. I think you’ve had your head in the clouds, dreamin’ ‘bout somewhere you ain’t never been. And I think you’ve been waitin’ for me to take you there.” 

His words aren’t accusatory, they’re knowing. 

And deep down, you know they’re right. That you have been waiting for something to change for years. But why would you let him believe he’s right?

“Well, I don’t think anyone pays you to do much thinkin’, so I don’t buy whatever it is you’re sellin’.” 

It makes him laugh. 

“No, you don’t yet. But you will.” He says, “Don’t matter how long it takes, one day.. you’re gonna let me in.”

You scoff as you go to close the door. 

“You’ll be waitin’ a long time.”

His words hit you just as you close the door—

“That’s alright, lass. I’m patient.” 

-

You start recalling memories that aren’t yours. Glimpses. 

A soft touch, a flicker of a white dress, and then a whisp of fire. 

Remmick ruins the dream every time. He shows up, and the dream ends, disappearing into clouds of smoke, but when you wake, you could swear you’ve lived hundreds of years. Tuesday night, you bid your folks goodnight, promising to help your mother with cleaning in the morning, 

Then, you wait. 

You wait for a long time. You sit on your bed, and you’re not sure when you start to fall asleep. But before you know it, you’re dreaming again, and this time the dream has a different sort of fuzziness, like film, just like the movies they showed in town (you’d made a habit of sneaking into the theatre while on errands in town.) And this time, the dream isn’t filled with dread. 

But every bit of it feels real. 

The dream starts with you in a bedroom, and someone throwing stones against the glass of your window. It’s as if you’re watching yourself open the window and help someone inside—but you feel the warmth of his hand spread up your arm as you pull him inside, the laugh that escapes him also escapes you, and before you can do much else, his lips are on yours. And it feels real, like you know the feeling well. 

Remmick looks younger. Younger than you’ve ever seen him. His crows feet and smile lines are far less pronounced, and his hair is much lighter than you recall, even with a bit of scruff. And he’s happy. The way he smiles spreads a warmth across your chest, as if you are the one he’s pressing against the bed, whispering about—

Well, he’s whispering in choppy, broken words, his accent thick and foreign. And yet, as if you know him like you know yourself, despite having had one, brief conversation with him, you understand him despite his unfamiliar accent—

“You’re so pretty,” he starts, and you can feel the heat at your core, his fingers finding slick folds as he stretches you out for his cock with his fingers. You’ve never been touched like this before outside of these dream-memories, but it’s like he’s fucking you with his fingers, and you’re letting him—hell, you’re enjoying it, “Letting me fill you up like this, bein’ such a good girl for your—"

You wake up before he can finish his sentence, waking up with a start, blinking as you looked around your now dark bedroom. You rub your eyes, feeling sweat drip down your forehead as you wipe the hair from your face. Your chest is heaving up and down as you attempt to ground yourself; You’re safe, you think, nothing is wrong, and—

Your thighs are coated with a silky wetness, because that dream—or maybe it was a memory—felt so real. You’re waiting for your brain to catch up to the way your body is buzzing for more, chasing an unfamiliar touch that you have always known. You try to reason with yourself. 

You’re being difficult, you think.

How could you possibly have been that close to him, he didn’t even come inside on Sunday, you remind. 

What would he have finished that sentence with?, you wonder, before shaking your head and leaning over to your bedside table to find your crucifix, but you’re interrupted just as your hand finds the chain with a tap, tap, tap!—

Your eyes drift to the window, covered by a thin white curtain, but you can see his silhouette through it, and just the thought of him makes you nauseous—and maybe something else, a little more sinister, a little less than holy. 

But you were waiting for him, not that you’d ever admit it, especially not to him, so you clutch the crucifix in your hand, the metal of the cross digging into your palm, before going over to the window and opening the curtain, like ripping off a bandage with bated breath—

And you let out a soft exhale of relief (with a dash of disappointment) when you find no one standing in front of the window. You blink, and when you open your eyes, suddenly there he is, his eyes burning holes into your skin. The sudden appearance makes you jump (you feel like your soul’s left your body, but you’re not that lucky), which causes Remmick to start laughing at your fear.

Over two weeks of sleep deprivation, nightmares, downright torture, has worn you down. Tears fill your eyes, angry tears that threaten to run down your face, but you just blink them back, and when your eyes open again, they harden into a glare at the man through the glass. Your hands are moving before you can stop yourself, opening the window and telling him—

“If you’re looking to kill me, stop being a pussy and get it over with.” Your voice is sharp, and it makes him laugh again. He’s looking at you like he’s already won. You quietly wonder how long it will take you to understand whatever game he’s playing with you. 

“I don’t wanna kill yer, sugar.” He answers, and you think about the dream you had. Were those really his hands? But why did it feel like it was you he was touching?

“Then, what do you want?” You wonder, and he shrugs. 

“I want you to invite me inside.” It clicks then, that in the dream, there was no invitation, he had just climbed through the window. The gears in your mind begin to move, and your eyes flicker down to his neck, where two small puncture wounds sit as if he had been—

You take a step forward to look at the teeth that he bears, and Remmick humors you, a sickening grin spreading over his face as you peer—and then you step back as if you were worried he’d lunge and bite you (and he would).

“Clever girl,” he praises, and you can feel a shiver of something unfamiliar run down your spine. 

“Vampires aren’t real,” You say, and he gives you this look. You’re moving around your room, turning your back to him (idiot), and digging around for your copy of Dracula. You had to keep it hidden from your parents, not wanting them to accuse you of being persuaded by the devil (Ha.) You glance back at Remmick, who’s just looking at you and smiling, and wonder if maybe you are. You step back towards him to continue your thought, “So all I have to do to get rid of you is stake you through the heart?” You wonder, and he puts a hand right over where his heart should be. 

“Ya could just ask me to leave instead of snappin’ at me, lass.”

“Oh, please.” You scoff, and it makes him smile again. 

“Y’know, that Stoker guy, he gives men like me a bad name,” he starts, “That whole ‘we can’t rest on foreign soil’ thang is a load of shit,” he informs, a smirk on his face. “I can rest anywhere, so long that there’s a pretty girl layin’ there with me.”

The comment goes over your head, because you’re too busy putting the pieces together to acknowledge the way he flirts with you. 

“But I bet he got the other stuff right,” You say, “I never see you in the sun, only ever at night, and you can’t come inside without invitation.” 

Remmick’s fingers curl around your windowsill as he stares at you, as if he’s finding some self-control before he talks again, 

“Yer a smart one, I’ll give ya that.” He hums, “Did I wake you?” 

You look at him with a snap. Something about the way he says it makes you realize he knows exactly what kind of dream you were having. 

“How did you do that? Get inside my head like that?” You question, and Remmick shakes his head. 

“That ain’t me.” He says. 

“Looked a whole damn lot like you.” You mutter, and he shakes his head. 

“I didn’t put that in ya head,” He promises, “You did that all by yerself.”

Your hands come up to rub your eyes, and when you stop, you look up to Remmick again, and he’s looking at you. For a long time. But his gaze isn’t predatory, it’s almost.. yearning. Like he knows something you don’t—or at least, something you haven’t accepted yet. 

“If I let you in,” You start, and when Remmick smiles, his teeth look sharper, “What will you do?” You wonder, recalling that vampires weren’t exactly known for their kindness, their softness.

Remmick tries something he hasn’t in a long time, but, he’d admit to himself later, you always knew how to make him a better man, so he tells you the truth;

“Well, first I’d really like to kiss ya.” He starts, and he tilts his head like a loyal dog, looking at you. “Then, I think I’ll fuck you, nice and slow, that way you really feel every inch of me buried inside of ya,” His vulgar words make you blush, and he seems to like the way you’re frozen in place, “and I’ll be really sweet about it too, don’t you worry, baby, I’ll make you cum over and over again—and I won’t stop kissin’ you neither. And when I’m sure you’re fucked out, curling against me, I’ll ask you if I can bite ya.” He says, “It’ll be up to you. I already told you, I am a patient man.” He leans forward, his fingers curling around the windowsill, and before you know it, you’re moving to slam the window shut, thankful that Remmick pulls his fingers away quick enough to not get his fingers crushed. 

He laughs as he steps back, clearly enjoying your reaction. You glare at him, and it doesn’t seem to shake him at all. 

“I can’t stand you,” You huff, and it only eggs him on. You close the curtain as drool drips down his chin. 

-

You give in on a Thursday. 

Well, you don’t fully give in. 

But you do let him fuck you. 

Alright, yeah, it’s not your brightest idea, but you’re running on empty when it happens. You haven’t slept through the night in weeks, and you keep having these dreams about all the ways he can touch you. 

And maybe, you reason, if you get a fix of him, you could focus. Figure out what it is about him that tortures you, figure out why you have memories you don’t remember living. That night, when he shows up, you’re lingering in your doorway, and he smiles like he knows. Maybe he does. 

You feel crazy. You’d venture to guess you are crazy. 

And maybe that’s why, when he sees you sitting criss-cross applesauce on the edge of the door, just beyond his reach, his face forms into something kind of soft, and without a word, he sits in front of you, mirroring your position. Except, you’re sitting with your posture rigid, and Remmick leans back on palms spread across the wood of your porch.

You keep the gun you should’ve pointed at him the first night you met right out of view, but within reach. Just in case. 

“Why, Hi there, sugar.” His voice does not seem to be letting up on any teasing, despite the look of fondness on his face. 

You look at him for a long, quiet moment. You have a million questions, but finally decide on,

“Why won’t you let me sleep?” You continue when he goes to open his mouth, “And don’t tell me you want me to let you in. I won’t. You know I’m not gonna, so why not just let me sleep through the night? Why torture me, wondering if those dreams are memories or not? Why not spare me the filth, the sin?” 

Remmick smiles at this. He shifts so he’s leaning forward now.

“I’ll cut ya a deal.” You resist the urge to roll your eyes. “You let me in, and you never have to worry about sleep again.”

You’re not a perfect person. You consider it for a second. But you’re also not stupid, understanding it’s exactly what he wants. 

“Counteroffer,” You start, and Remmick looks amused. You’re glad (Kind of, not really) that at least one of you finds this funny. “You take a hike for the night and let me catch up on a few hours, without any implanted memories either.”

“How ‘bout you consider my offer again?” He hums, and you shrug. 

“Then I guess we have nothing to talk about.” You say, “Goodnight Remmick,” you hum, before standing up, turning away from him and moving to close the screen door when you hear—

“Wait—Just, wait a minute, baby, let’s talk about this.” You can’t help the smirk on your face, wiping it off quick before sitting back down in front of him. He lets out a huff before telling you, “Alright, how about.. You come outside,” he starts, holding a finger up when you open your mouth to counter, “I won’t bite you, but you let me show you how real those memories can be.” His tone is rich, starving for something. Your finger twitches at the idea.

This moment is probably the worst of your vampire related mistakes. 

“And then, when you’re done, you’ll let me sleep.” You say, and he smiles. 

“Deal.” He holds his hand out for you to shake. 

“Deal—Woah!” As soon as your hand grasps his, he’s pulling you past the doorway and onto the porch, right on top of him. His laugh pierces your ears as cold hands spread across your sides.

“You’re a naïve thing.” His tone is too sweet, and your face is too red. 

“You’re a dick.” You grumble back, and he squeezes your sides, 

“You have a dirty mouth for a church girl.” He accuses, his hands beginning to roam. Your face is flush with embarrassment, but you can’t stop thinking about how cold he is, like a body that’s lost it’s heat. It’s really unsettling, but you’d be lying if it didn’t make you want him worse. Something about his non-human qualities draws you in. 

“We can’t do this here,” you remind.

“Why not?” 

 “Besides my folks sleepin’ bout ten feet from us?” You ask rhetorically and Remmick lets out a huff. It almost makes you smile. 

“Fine, we’ll go somewhere more private, just give me a kiss,” He grins, and it’s your turn to scoff. 

“You’re insatiable.” You accuse, “Say please.” 

 Remmick looks at you for a long time. 

“Please.” He finally answers, and you reward him by pressing your lips to his. He eagerly leans into it, tilting his head a bit, giving your lips a better angle to melt into his. He adjusts in one fluid motion, sitting up with you in his lap now. His kiss is desperate, needy. His hands move up to cradle your face.

He kisses you slowly, wanting to really take his time with you, proving to you just how patient he’ll be for you. He can be good, he wants to say, he can be so good for you. 

His tongue lips your lips before he’s pulling away to whisper, “How ‘bout I fuck you in the field behind your house?” he wonders, “Would ye like that, lass?” He asks, and before you can answer, his hand moves up your skirt and between your thighs, his fingers finding your damp underwear. You gasp at the feeling, and he smiles. “Yeah, I recon you would.” 

His lips find yours again, and he’s wrapping his arms around you and hoisting you up, carrying you towards the back of the house as you cling onto him, giggling against his lips as he kisses you, over and over again. 

When you’re in the field, Remmick pauses, not wanting to put you down, but needing to take off the shirt he’s wearing so he can fuck you on the grass. He sighs, before setting you down so you can stand. 

“Don’t you go nowhere,” He advises,  and there’s no room for argument in his words. You happily watch him unbutton his shirt, before laying it on the grass. He sits down on the shirt and lays back, holding his hands out to him. “C’mere,” he requests, and he holds your hands to steady as you position yourself ontop of him, your knees resting on his shirt. 

You admire his torso. He’s pale, but he looks strong. Rough hands come up to brush hair out of your face before he grips your hips, pulling you down so your clothed cunt is pressing on his growing erection. You groan softly, as Remmick’s mouth meets yours, pulling you in for a kiss. 

His fingers find your panties as you kiss, and the way your hips roll against his hard on does not go unnoticed by him. His fingers travel further, beginning to tease your folds as you moan into his mouth. His tongue explores your mouth, like he’s trying to suck your face off. 

There’s no fanfare as Remmick’s fingers slip inside of you, except for you letting out a whine as you adjust to the feeling. You wiggle your hips, as if you’re trying to move away from him, 

“No, Shh, C’mon, Lass,” He hums, catching your mouth with his lips, silencing the way you whine and moan, “It’s okay, I’ve got ya, just relax for me, yeah?” He says softly, beginning to kiss your cheek, then your jaw, and then your neck. You hum, inhaling sharply. 

You can do this, you think. You want this so bad. You move your hips towards him instead of away, and let out a sharp gasp as he moves his fingers,

“That’s it, that’s my clever girl,” he mumbles softly, “You know how to ride my fingers just perfectly, don’t you? You sure this is yer first time?” He mumbles, whispering into your ear, licking sweat off the skin of your cheek. He moves his fingers faster now, edging you on to ride his fingers.

You let out an annoyed huff when he asks that, only to be cut off with a soft whine when he moves his fingers faster. 

“You know it’s my first time.” You mumble, and he smirks. 

“Well, it ain’t mine.” 

Yeah, you had a feeling. 

“Whatever,” You whine, continuing to ride his fingers. 

“Just let me stretch you out,” he grumbles, “I’ll make you feel so good. C’mon, baby, let me make you feel so good,” His teeth graze your neck, but Remmick takes only a nibble, just to hear you gasp as he bites, before moving his fingers faster, making sure to hit just the right spot to make you see stars. 

“Oh, god,” You whine, “Rem, I’m close,” He shushes you softly, guiding your hips to ride his fingers. 

“There you go, look at you.. that’s it..” He coos softly, “Let go for me, all over my fingers,” He praises, biting the shell of your ear when you let out a sharp moan, biting your lip hard, enough to draw blood, even just a bit. His tongue is immediately on your lips as you ride your high, panting softly against his lisp. You give him this look and he shrugs. “Can’t blame a man for takin’ a taste.” He grins, before kissing you again, oh so slowly slipping his fingers out of you before he’s pulling away.

Then, he brings his hand up to his lips and licks one of the fingers you just came on, letting out a soft ‘mmm’, before holding the other two to your lips, wanting you to open your mouth. You’re both a little shocked at how easily you comply. You lick his fingers clean, and he’s drooling by the time you’re done. 

“I need to be inside of you,” he grumbles, beginning to unlatch his belt, before opening his pants, and pulling them down just a bit to pull out his cock. Then, his fingers move up to your thighs, pulling your panties down. 

He rolls them right off your legs, before having you sit back on his lap. He kisses you and stuffs your panties in his pocket while you’re distracted. Then, he’s guiding the tip of his cock towards your slits, teasing your wet, leaking folds. You gasp at that feeling, before rolling your hips forward. He huffs softly, before grabbing your hip with one hand, slowly pushing inside you, groaning softly at the feeling, before kissing you—

He doesn’t want you waking anyone nearby up. Then you might have to stop and Remmick might snap. He slowly pushes you to sit on his cock, and when you’re finally full of him, he gives you a moment to adjust. He keeps kissing you. Then, he feels you begin to roll your hips and clench around him. He begins to thrust into you, grabbing your hips so he can set the pace. 

You begin to melt, your hands resting on Remmick’s bare chest, stabilizing yourself as he fucks up into you, your hips beginning to shake as you get close. 

“Remmick,” You whimper, and he hums and kisses your head. 

Something strange happens as you he fucks you. Suddenly, you have déjà vu, remembering a filmy memory, just like that dreams you’ve been happening. Except in this memory, Remmick and you are in this exact position, his hips thrusting against yours—but you’re in a bed. It’s early morning, and in the memory, you go to look at his face, but he’s flipping you over suddenly, quickening his pace and using his free hand that isn’t on your hips to force your back down, as you moan into the pillows. 

When you open your eyes, Remmick is still making you ride him in the field behind your house. The memory was brief, only a flash—but it shakes you to your core, until you realize how close you are. 

“Oh, my god,” You whine softly, “Rem, ‘m close, honey,” he moans when you call him that, not stopping his pace as he fucks hard into you, feeling your legs spasm as you cum, moaning into his mouth. He keeps fucking you, and then you begin to pull away, but Remmick grabs your hips and pulls you back towards him, reveling in the way you clench around him.

He cums with a moan silenced by your mouth, but you wrap your arms around his neck, hands playing with his hair as he lays back, the two of you panting as he rubs up and down your sides. He listens to your heartbeat, loud in his ears, while looking at the stars. 

Neither of you talk for a long while. You take a break, just laying with one another, appreciating the moment. 

As you lay against him, warm cock still stuffed deep inside of you, filling you up perfectly, Remmick whispers in your ear, 

“Lass?” His voice is rough, and he’s panting gently. “Will you let me bite you?” He asks, and you know what this is. If you say no, and Remmick bites you anyways, you will die still leaking with his cum. 

You hesitate. 

He notices.

But he feels the way you clench around him when he asks.

“Not tonight, Rem.” You say, your tone a little too affectionate as you kiss him softly. He lets out a soft noise into the kiss, and he’s grateful for it, because it gives him time to find his patience. You just smell so god damn good.

“’mkay, sugar” he mumbles against your lips. “That’s alrght. I meant what I said, I won’t bite you until you let me.” He offers softly. 

“You promise?” You wonder. Remmick kisses your cheek. 

“I promise.” 

A long moment pauses. 

“You know I gotta go back inside,” You mumble against his lips, and Remmick groans, his head falling back against the grass. 

“Why you always gotta ruin my fun?” He wonders out loud, and you smile a bit. 

“Just lucky, I guess.” You tease as you sit up, starting to fix your hair and your top. “Hey, where the hell are my panties?” 

Remmick smiles a bit. 

“Don’t worry ‘bout it.” He offers, and you roll your eyes. 

“You’re somethin’ else, you know that, Remmick?” You ask. Remmick smiles and looks at you for a long time. 

“I wish you didn’t have to go.” His words are honest, as honest as he can be. You just smile at him and press a kiss to the space between his eyes. 

“Well, being apart only makes the reunion sweeter.” You remind, and Remmick almost rolls his eyes. He just shakes his head. 

“But I hate to be apart from you,” and based on the way he made your thighs shake, you’re inclined to believe him.

“I know,” You hum, leaning in to kiss him again. He loves this playful, affectionate side of you. “But you told me you were a patient man. Besides, you owe me a good night’s sleep.” You recall, and he nods. 

“I did. And I am a man of my word, so,” he leans in and plans one long, warm kiss right to your lips, his tongue barely breaching your parted lips. Then he pulls away to say, “Off ye go, lass. I’ll see you tomorrow night.” He promises, tapping your thigh over your dress and helping you up. He stands, plucking his shirt off the ground. You linger for a moment. 

“You don’t want to walk me home?” You wonder, and Remmick begins to button up his shirt with a soft exhale. 

“Yer pa’s awake,” He grumbles, “Plus.. I gotta eat.” He confesses. You notice, then, the way he moves with a subtle fatigue. He must be hungry. He must’ve thought there was a chance you said yes to being bitten tonight, wanting to really savor the meal he’d been dreaming of for over centuries.

Something about that makes your stomach turn. 

“Okay,” you oblige, because hey... he held up his end of the bargain. He isn’t biting you, and you’ll get a few hours. You just wonder what hunger must feel like to him, since the craving for human blood must be vastly different than the hunger you experienced, especially considering his life span. 

He could go a few weeks without eating before hunger hit him. 

But before you can walk away, he grabs your hand, before bringing it up to his lips, inhaling your scent sharply before dropping your hand. 

“Goodnight, lass.” He says softly, and you smile to him. 

“Goodnight, Remmick.” You say back, walking a couple steps forward before looking back to him, maybe just to see him one last time before he goes out in search of food. He’s standing there, shirt messily buttoned and wrinkled, covered in grass and dirt. He doesn’t mind. His eyes are fixed on you, just watching. 

You keep walking. When you get up to your porch, your face a bit warm, and your hair kind of sweaty, which you’d blame on the humidity, you remember what he said about your father, so you enter after taking a deep breath. 

And there he is, your father, having a cup of something that you doubt is water, while sitting at the table. You smile to him, going towards the cabinet to get a cup for water. 

“Where’d you get off to?” He wonders, and you shrug. 

“I couldn’t sleep. Figured a walk might be nice.” You say, and your father nods. 

“Is it a boy?” He asks, and you just smile again. Remmick isn’t a ‘boy’, he’s—well, he’s not like any man that you’ve ever known. 

“What?”

“Is it a boy that’s been keeping you up at night?” He asks, and you shake your head, 

“No, pa. Told you, I don’t sleep well in this heat.” You take a sip of your water. 

“Right.”

“Well, I’m goin’ to bed.” You yawn, “Night, pa.” You hum, and you don’t even hear him as he bids you goodnight, too busy imagining the night’s sleep you have ahead of you. You close the door behind you and flick your leg to kick your shoe off and doing the same thing with your other leg. 

You put on a thin silk thing to sleep in before glancing out your window. You can see the field where the two of you just were from here, and you see no sign of Remmick. Poor boy, you think, he must be starving. You hope whoever it is that feasts his hunger is good enough until you can figure out what to do about him. If maybe you should let him bite you. 

You fall right asleep as you soon as your head hits the pillow. You’re so tired. And, as foolish as it might be... You trust Remmick to let you sleep.

You sleep soundly that night, completely dreamless—The bright morning sun is shining through your windows, waking you up far too early. But that’s okay. 

You feel refreshed, and quite honestly, looking forward to the next time you’d see him. You spend all day thinking about him, wondering what he looks like when he’s sleeping.

-

By the time you wake up to Remmick’s game, it’s almost too late. 

He’s turned you into something you don’t recognize, and he hasn’t even sunk his teeth into you. You find yourself not caring for other people, busy thinking about your sharp toothed lover. Well, not that you ever cared for other people—but even little things like going to the shops and running errands go from mundane to agitating. All you want to do is wait around for the sun to set so you can sit on your porch and make out with him, ride his fingers, and play with his hair. 

Sometimes you read to him, other times he fiddles with a smaller four string guitar and plays music. You watch his face as he plays, sometimes humming a tune that sounds familiar and foreign at the same time. 

You don’t really sleep. Sure, the sleep deprivation makes you agitated and cranky, but something about Remmick soothes you out of those moods (So it’s torture when he’s not around. You think, in the back of your mind, that this is on purpose. You don’t mind as much as you used to.) And when you do, your dreams are full of those memories that aren’t yours.

Except, they are yours. 

There are glimpses of you in a mirror, and you’re met with your reflection as you know it. Sometimes the mirror is a small thing in that wood house where you pulled Remmick in through the window. Sometimes, the memories take place in a grand hall, with lots of candlelight, elegant music, and silk gloves. In those memories, Remmick stalks you, eyes full of adoration as a suitor spins you—mostly, you get glimpses of him out of the corner of your eye in those dreams. Sometimes, the dreams take place in a cramped apartment, where Remmick wipes soot off your face with a rag and a gentle touch. 

But there are other dreams too. 

Sometimes, you dream of that wood house burning to the ground, and it’s like you’re burning too. Sometimes, you dream of sharp claws cutting across your stomach, ruining a pretty silk gown. Sometimes, you dream of a mean laugh as your hand is crushed in a big power loom, your screams drowned out by the machine’s loud mechanical whirring.

A Saturday deep in the dog days of summer is when everything changes. Well, it started as Saturday, but when it happens, you’re pretty sure it’s early in the morning on Sunday. 

The night had started the same as it usually did. With you staying up, and stepping outside, taking his hand when he offered it to you. You had bit his shoulder trying to stay quiet, and your mouth had filed with a bitter, nasty bile, which caused you to pull away, right as you were riding him on the steps to your porch, and he had begged so sweetly, “C’mon, baby, don’t stop, you’re so tight around me”, and you appreciated the dirty talk, really, you do, but the taste of his.. blood(?) on your lips, in your mouth, on your tongue, causes you to mumble out a soft “Is that your blood? Does it even count as blood?” but Remmick didn’t really care about the question, thick drool dribbling down his chin at the sight of your face bloody, but not hurting, deciding instead to catch your lips in his to kiss you. 

When you had pulled your panties back on, and he had buttoned his pants, you found yourself leaning against the railings of the porch, your legs extended over his lap as he holds his guitar. As he tunes the strings, his hand rubs up and down your leg, a mindless action full of love. 

You had wiped his blood and his drool from your mouth, but the bitter taste lingered. You’d have gone inside to get a drink if you weren’t so infatuated with him. 

“Will you sing me something?” You finally ask, your voice cutting through the sounds of late summer, cicadas humming, frogs singing, crickets strumming. The perfect ensemble to accompany his voice. 

Remmick, for all his talk, all his humming, all his strumming, hesitates. And he finds himself asking why—why is he hesitating to sing you a song? Probably because his first instinct is to sing a song you know—well, a song a version of you knew, a long time ago. 

He looks at you and then smiles. 

“’Course, darlin’.” He hums. He puts his guitar to the side, causing you to sit up a little straighter, intrigued. He starts to utter soft words in a foreign tongue, a language you don’t know, a tune you can’t follow, and your hand finds his, your fingers curling around a gold band. You stand, and he keeps singing but his eyes follow you as you readjust, sitting right on his lap. A smile pierces through his voice as his other arm wraps around you. Your forehead rests against his, and his eyes close, then his voice becomes quieter as he gets to a familiar chorus.

A familiar chorus? 

Your eyes flutter shut as your fingers mess with his ring, and suddenly you’re not on the front porch of your folks’ shack, you’re somewhere else.

 You’re in that wooden house, and Remmick is singing this song as you sit in his lap. You’re wearing a pretty white dress, and when you look down to your hands wrapped around his, you’re taken back by the sight of your hand, a wedding band on your ring finger. You look back at Remmick’s face in the memory, and he opens his eyes, pausing his singing. 

“Mo ghrá thú,” and you aren’t sure what unsettles you more—the fact that you know exactly what that means, or the fact that your instinct is to say it back. 

Actually, you know exactly what takes the cake for ‘most unsettling’. It’s the fact that Remmick’s eyes are not the dark, sometimes red eyes that you’ve gotten used to. In this memory, fuzzy and filmy, Remmick’s eyes are a soft blue that take your breath away. 

Then, you open your eyes, scared. More scared than you had been in weeks. Scared of dying. Scared of Remmick. And honestly, you have every right to be, because Remmick is not only drooling like a dog, his teeth are big, sharp, and his mouth is open, hovering over your shoulder, jaw wide like he’s about to take a bite out of you. 

“What the fuck,” You spit, as you push him off you, taking a few paces back (adding another tick to the list of Vampire related mistakes, you’re supposed to be running towards the house, not away!). Your hand comes up to wipe blood dripping from your nose. Why your nose is bleeding, you don’t know, and honestly, you have bigger problems to deal with right now.

Remmick looks regretful. And you’re not particularly sure why, but you can tell that he doesn’t feel bad about almost biting you, he feels bad that he got caught before he could sink his teeth into your skin. 

“Lass—”

“You told me,” you recalled, and he wants to curse at you for being so damn smart, so damn hot, for making him want you so damn bad. “You told me that if you bit me, it would be up to me!” You’re angry. Hundreds of years of anger and fear has built up and is now oozing out of every pore. 

Remmick knew it couldn’t last forever. That eventually you’d figure it out, that he would push you too far. If he was human, it might make his heart ache. 

"I got caught up in the moment," Remmick sighs, “C’mere, sugar, come—”

“Let me see your ring.” You demand. 

He lets out a condescending chuckle, that comes across as disbelieving. But you’ve woken up to his tricks. 

“My ring?” He scoffs, “Don’t be ridiculous, now, baby, it’s just a—”

You extend your palm from where you are, a few steps back from him. Remmick wants to grab you, to finish this once and for all.. His eyes burn into yours as he pulls his golden band off, before tossing it to you. 

You catch it, your eyes never leaving his. You look down, bringing the ring up to your face, taking a long look at it. Your breath catches. Your name is etched onto the inscription, and you suspect that somewhere, a ring just like you saw on your own hand in that memory is inscribed with his name, buried somewhere long forgotten. 

You finally look up at him, after what feels like an eternity (Remmick would laugh at that. You have no idea what it is to wait.).

“So,” You inhale, “When were you gonna tell me that when you were human, you were married to me? Well, a version of me, at least.” Remmick doesn’t respond. Not for a long moment. He’s just starring at you, like he’s trying to decide on something. You keep going, “And when were you goin’ to tell me that you’ve found me, time after time, and killed me, over and over again?” Your voice is shaky, uneven, and full of fear. 

If he wasn’t so mad at that accusation, your fear might make him hard. 

“Nah, now,” he laughs bitterly with a scoff, “that ain’t fair. You know that ain’t fair, because it ain’t true.” 

“Which part?”

“Which part?” He echoes, and you nod.

“Yeah, which damn part? Because I know the marriage part is true, I got memories that ain’t mine, memories of your eyes and they’re blue. And I keep getting glimpses of you killing me, so what the hell part of it ain’t true?” 

Remmick’s eyes burn a bright red. 

“You have no idea how long I have been—”

“Oh, spare me,” You laugh, “I can’t believe you.” You spit, and in one movement, you throw the ring by his feet and start to make your way back up the porch steps, but Remmick is quicker than you, one hand reaching to grab the ring, slipping it back on his hand before he’s kneeling on the step he was just sitting on, and grabbing your leg as you attempt to walk away. 

“Don’t,” he says, and you will yourself not to look at him, to not let him trick you into staying, “Come on, Lass,” he leans in and presses soft kisses up your calf, his hand rubbing up and down, “You’re tellin’ me, you can’t feel it? That pull that keeps me around, that helps me to find you, any place, any time?” 

You look back at him, because you love him. 

And it doesn’t hurt that he looks awful good on his knees. His face is desperate, begging. 

You almost give in. Then you think of the memory in the factory, with your hand crushed in that machine. Remmick did that. He’s the one that caused you all that pain, all of this fear. You look back at him and shake your head. 

“I’m done, Rem.” You turn and go to walk inside.

Another mistake. 

Remmick’s grip hardens, and you attempt to tear your leg from his grip, because it’s going to start bruise if you don’t get away, but as you try and step away, Remmick tugs, knocking you straight to the ground, on your stomach, bruising your knee, hip and arm. You let out a soft groan, glancing back at Remmick, still gripping your ankle. 

“I ain’t lettin’ you go that easy,” And Remmick would’ve finished with ‘not this time’, but you kick him in the face before he can respond. He lets go of you with a groan, that dissolves into a laugh, his hand comes up to simply set his nose back into place with a sickening crack!, and you’re already on your feet when he rises from his knees, taking another step towards you. “I tried really hard, baby, I did—”

“Oh, cry me a river.” You spit, already stepping back from him, almost like a dance. You take a step back, and he steps forward. 

“Ah, ah—Do not interrupt me, lass,” he laughs, “See, I’ve been a patient man, ya know that, I have been patient for centuries. And every time, yer slip through my fingers like sand, no—not sand. Sugar.” He looks like he’s plotting how he’s going to make you scream, and oh, he is, “And I love when ye make me chase ye, I do, but I do not take kindly to spoiled little brats who can’t appreciate when good is good,” He takes another step forward to you, “So next time I get my hands on you, I’m gonna bite ya. I am goin’ to make you mine, and this time, I will keep you mine. I wanna see you kill your mama and pa too, you’ll do it with a smile, and you and I will be together for eternity, you won’t hardly remember denying me,” Remmick promises, then he moves forward to grab you, to pull you close to him, sink his teeth into that pretty neck of yours, but you step back quickly, and he’s stopped by the invisible shield that prevents him from entering your house uninvited. Remmick laughs bitterly. “that’s a cruel trick, clever girl.” 

You smile, but it’s not kind, and it’s not easy. 

You can do that too. Make threatening promises. 

“I’m gonna kill you.” 

Remmick looks at you. 

“What?”

“I am goin’ to kill you.” You reiterate, “And I’ll keep trying to until the day I die. And if it ain’t me, it’ll be someone who looks an awful lot like me.” 

He lets out a snarl—hundreds of years of anger and shame and waiting has made turned him into something unrecognizable. Something evil. 

“I’m patient.” He tells you with a glare. 

“Not patient enough.” You glare right back. 

A match made in hell, the two of you. 

You turn, ready for this to be over.

“Well, sweet dreams, and good luck sleepin’, lass.” Remmick says, just as the door closes behind you. 

You don’t dignify him (or humiliate yourself) by looking back this time. 

-

You fall asleep angry. You fall asleep planning. 

You get an hour or two before you’re woken up by a nightmare you can’t remember when you wake up. You peer out your curtains, met with blinding sun of a brand-new day. You spend twenty minutes getting ready, scrounging up every cent you can—a birthday card here, a penny there, and a small bundle of savings you kept in a metal box between books under your bed. 

You count every dollar. It’s not enough, but it will have to do. You pull a knit bag over your shoulder, and stuff your copy of Dracula inside. You tear out the mostly blank dedication page and begin to scribble a list of things you’ll be needing. Your money and list are stuffed into your pocket. When you’re finished getting ready, you pull your bedroom door open only to be met with the sight of your parents, ready for church. 

You must be a sight for sore eyes—apart from the bags under your eyes and the one thrown over your shoulder, you have fresh bruises on your face, your clothes are wrinkled and ragged, and you hold a pair of flats in your hands that are coated with dirt. 

“You can’t go to church like that,” are the first words out of your father’s mouth. 

“Well, I ain’t goin’ to church,” you respond, moving past them to the kitchen. You search the cabinets for a minute, finding an empty flask and putting that in your bag, too. Then, you begin to scoop breakfast onto a plate without permission. You’re going to have a long day and an even longer night, so you should really eat while you can. 

Your folks are looking at you like you have two heads. 

“What do you mean you ain’t goin’ to church?” Your ma scoffs, “’Course you’re goin’ to church, it’s Sunday.”

You wonder if they’ll do this the easy way. 

“I can’t today, I gotta..” you pause, not knowing how to explain what you need to get ready for. “I got errands to run. I’ll make it up to you guys, I promise,” and your parents share an uneasy look, because they might be two of God’s most loyal lambs, but they aren’t stupid. Their little girl hasn’t been sleeping, and they’re watching you eat like it’s your last meal (and you quietly hope it’s not). 

Your father says your full name in a stern tone, the type that men take on when they want you to listen to them, before continuing, “If you’re sayin’ you got better places to be than the house of the lord on his day of rest—”

You slam both hands down on the table. Okay, the hard way it is, you think. 

“Jesus Christ! Why can’t the two of you just trust me for once? I will go to church tomorrow, Bible study the day after that, hell, I will join a damn convent by the end of the week, but today, I got things to do that ain’t have nothin’ to do with the two of you or God, so either I can catch a ride to town with you, or I can walk there, which is just gonna slow me down.” You snap, years of pent-up frustration spilling out in your words, brought to a head by two months of barely sleeping, memories that you don’t remember making, and a tormenting, cruel man who wants to kill not only you, but your folks too. 

Needless to say, it’s a real quiet drive to town. 

You buy ammunition for your pa’s gun, hoping that long forgotten days of watching your dad and uncle shoot the thing would come back to you after ten years. You’re not entirely sure that will kill Remmick, but it’s the best you have for now. You stop at the general store, and you buy two jars of pickled garlic, a spool of string, bandages, and a pack of cigarettes. You do stop by your father’s church in between services, avoiding his questions, only filling the flask you found with holy water. 

You walk right past your ma, in the pews, praying for you. You’ll apologize tomorrow, you hope.

You wander off the beaten path afterwards, finding the house of a woman you’ve heard is much more familiar with the supernatural than you are. You’re honest with her, too. You hand her the rest of your money and beg the woman to tell you how to kill a vampire.

And that’s how you spend the better part of your afternoon pulling legs off chairs in your house, then filing them down with a knife. You manage to cut your fingers a few times, thankful that they’d clot before nightfall. You don’t need to give him any advantages. You wrap bandages around your fingers before you hide a few of the stakes here and there, hoping your parents will be home long after this is done. You set one jar of garlic in a trap, using the string to set it up. You turn your small shack into a Remmick mouse trap, planning exactly how you’ll do it. Your final touch is wrapping the rosary around your shotgun, letting the cross hang off the barrel. 

Then you wait. You wait for a long time. You bounce between chewing on pickled gloves of garlic and smoking cigarettes. It’s not much of a dinner, but it’s all you can do.

You even doze off a bit, waking up with a start when you hear singing. 

Singing?

It’s dark now, darker than it had been when you fell asleep. You peer out one of the windows in the house, and in the distance, you see Remmick leaning against the well where you first saw him, from a time that seems so damn long ago now. 

He’s singing the song he sang to you last night, and the one he sang to you on your wedding night, hundreds of years ago. 

Motherfucker. You glare at him, flip him off, and then move around the kitchen to make sure everything is ready. You tuck your knife into your pocket, right besides your small flask of holy water. You pop another piece of garlic into your mouth, beginning to chew it as you aim your gun at the screen door.  You watch Remmick come closer, making his way up to your doorway. He stares at you, before his fingers become long claws, slicing through the screen door with an unmatched rage- well, unmatched by anyone except you. 

His sudden destruction makes you falter, only for a moment, taking a half a step back, as a memory flashes into your mind—of his claws cutting across your stomach, adorned in a pretty silk dress, in a past life. You blink the memory away, before inhaling deeply.

“I’ll give you one more chance to leave.” You call to him. He glares. Instead of responding, he lets out a growl, something animalistic. He’s staring holes into your skin, and drool drips from his chin like he can’t help it. And you suspect he can’t. “Fine.” You snap, cocking the gun. “Come in, asshole.” 

Remmick doesn’t hesitate. He slams open the screen door, stepping inside, ignoring the way the screen rattles against the main door. You don’t even pull the string to the garlic jar, just watch as Remmick’s violent opening of the screen causes the jar of pickled garlic resting on the top of the door toppling over and smashing right on top of his head, shattered glass falling all around him. But the best part is the way he yells, the way he curses as the garlic burns him with a violent hiss!, as steam rises off his melting skin. 

Remmick is far less pretty like this. 

“Son of a—” He curses his hands coming up to his face as he wipes off extra garlic juice from his eyes and hair, skin still steaming—but you see the way that certain parts of his skin are already healing. He snarls at you. “Ye know, Lass, I think this time, I’m really gonna enjoy killin’ yer.” 

“Yeah,” You nod, “I figured. Feelin’s mutual, sugar.” You spit, aiming the gun right at him. You watch as melted, goopy skin that hangs off his skin begins to inch back his face, his hair regrowing in the spots it was singed off, as if someone is waving a magic wand over his wounds, fixing it. 

“A gun? What, you’re gonna shoot me?” He asks, looking at your gun. He takes a step towards you, but your feet are firmly planted. “Nah, I don’t think so. Little girl like you, probably don’t even know to turn the safety off.. ye ain’t gonna shoot me.”

You click the safety off, voice steady. 

“Wanna bet?” 

“Yeah.” He huffs, chest to your gun now. He’s close enough to grab you, but you can see he’s having fun; And you, in the deepest part of your soul, are still his wife, and want him to enjoy this last bit of fun. “I think yer all bark, no—”

BANG!

Remmick hits the wall before the pain hits him, now leaning against the wall, flat on his ass. He screams as he’s shot back, cursing at you with a hole in his chest.

“You fucking shot me! I can’t believe you—” You reload the gun and shoot again. “Fuck! Stop fuckin’ shootin’ me, you little—” he cuts himself off with a curse, whimpering a soft ‘oooo’, as he sharply inhales. Black blood like bile seeps into his shirt, a hand over the wound on his shoulder. As he licks his wounds, you reach to where you’ve stored the other ammunition, reloading the gun as he’s distracted.

“You’re in trouble. So much trouble, I’m gonna have to fuck that attitude outta ya before I kill ya,” He snarls, and before you can react, he’s up and moving again, except instead of coming right at you, he grabs the glass vase of wild flowers that sits next to the pitcher you were filling when you first saw him. And then he takes that vase and throws it at you. 

He takes advantage of you putting your arms up to block it, shattered glass cutting your cheek, but you’re in better shape than Remmick when he tackles you, bodyweight pressed against you as the gun goes flying across the room. You begin to panic, squirming beneath him, when you feel his one claw digging into your side, the other digging into your thigh, both ripping your clothes and drawing a bit of blood, as his tongue licks the blood from your cheek, dripping out of your fresh cut. 

“I really do hate to kill ye,” he starts, “But I always did love the taste of yer blood.. always tastes like lust, and fear.. Desperation and love.” He smirks, and before you could stop him, his mouth is on yours, capturing you in a deep kiss. You appreciate the way it grounds you back to reality, and while you have your mouth on his, one knee comes up to rub against Remmick’s half hard cock. Remmick groans into the kiss, his tongue slipping into your mouth, only to pull away and spit to the side. “Chewin’ garlic? Clever girl.” He scoffs, and you move one hand to curl into his hair, your touch warm and soft, despite the moment. He lets out a groan, “Clever, mean, insufferable girl..” 

Your other hand reaches to your pocket, and Remmick’s claws pull out of your thigh to grab your wrist, claws digging into the skin around your hand. You inhale sharply, 

“I have a flask! In my pocket—let me get the garlic tatste outta my mouth, then you can kiss me all you want, Rem.” He lets out a sharp exhale. 

“Fine.”

Fucking Idiot, You want to say, You’re playing my game now. Learn the rules. 

You grab the flask, pull it out, not breaking eye contact despite your shaky hands, bringing it to your lips and untwisting the cap with your teeth. Then you pour a mouthful into your mouth, closing and swishing it around so it coats your mouth. Then, you smile to Remmick, before spitting the holy water at his skin, burning his pretty face again. You kick him right where the sun does not shine, and he groans, rolling off you. 

Sharp pain shoots up his groin. He was going to make you cum, too. 

“Mother—” You scramble for the gun, ignoring the sound of him groaning in pain. You grab the gun off the ground, pointing it right at him. “Sugar, don’t you shoot—” 

BANG!

You cock the gun again, knowing you need to make the most of this last bullet (You’re poor, this is 1932, you can only afford so many bullets). You look at your (kind of) husband, panting softly as he whines and writhers on the ground, holding a new wound in his leg. It doesn’t turn you on like it usually would, well not as much, but it gives your gun a great angle, to aim right for his hard-on, and—

BANG!

Remmick really screams this time, and his blood is everywhere. He’s holding his crotch now, and he’s panting heavily. You’d feel bad if you didn’t know it would take him only a few minutes to heal enough to get you back. Or that he wants to kill you. 

“You little bitch,” he spits, “I’m gonna fuckin gut ya—” 

You smirk, running to the door of your bedroom before asking, “Was it as good for you as it was for me?”

You slam the door shut as Remmick’s cursing becomes louder, more frantic. It takes him a few minutes to get on his feet again, and another few to find his strength to stumble to your door. 

“You have no idea what we were.” He speaks through the door. He turns the knob, and, of course, you’ve locked it behind you. He can hear you moving around, and he takes a moment to imagine you gurgling on your own blood before he begins to jiggle the handle, “I loved you—I have always loved you, everything I have done, I have done because I love you,” he starts to slam his body into your bedroom door, inhumane strength literally curving the wood, on the verge of knocking it down. “And all you have done since that first time you died, is run.” His voice breaks as he slams his body against the door again, “You run, given me a taste at who I was, and die, over and over,” Thud! “and over,” Thud! “and over!” 

The door cracks off the hinges and falls to the ground with a thunk! And Remmick stumbles into the room, looking around, and getting his bearings. He’s hurt, even if the wounds heal, the pain lingers—and any humanity left in him is fighting, screaming to stop. To let you go, to walk right outside when the sun comes up, finally putting an end to his own misery—and yours. That piece screams, hasn’t she suffered enough? Is this what love is? Would this really make either of you happy?

But time and time again, that thing he calls his conscious, the thing only you can pull out of him, is drowned out by the sound of the horrible, gnawing, crushing craving for power. This power to know your every thought, to literally suck the life out of you, to feel the warmth leave your body—and then come back, just as hungry as he is. 

It’s not a craving that is unique to you—he feels that craving for all people to some degree, but with you, he might as well be sunbathing, that’s how the craving burns. It drowns out everything else within him, even the part of him that wanted to be a better man for you.

He inhales deeply, trying to get a whiff of—

Despite his pain, he smirks. His eyes lock onto your closet. He creeps up. He wonders if you know he’s creeping up, if you’re scared. Of course you’re scared. You’re always so scared in the end. He moves suddenly then, ripping your closet door off it’s hinge and—you’re not there. The only thing he sees when he looks down where you should be cowering in fear, or at least about to lunge at him with a hidden knife or something, is a pair of panties. He laughs then, like, really gets a kick out of this. 

“Dirty girl.” He thinks back to what he called you earlier—“Clever, mean, insufferable, dirty girl..” He scoffs, “Too many words.. I’ll write ya a list.” He grumbles, saying it in the soft whisper that echoes in every corner of your house, trying to focus on that thing that pulls him to you, that thing that tugs no matter how far he wanders. 

Then, he starts to sing you your wedding song, the type of love song that could make any lass swoon, but Remmick only wants you. 

Then his nose picks up on a different smell, and he smirks. Your nose is bleeding, and he knows it’s because that song always brings back a memory, and your nose always bleeds when he does it. He keeps singing as he approaches the window, a smirk on his face. 

He’ll have to add clever to the list twice. 

Suddenly, your eyes snap open, and you’re running before you really know what you’re doing, running towards the fields that surround the back of your house, right to the edge, where you’ve hidden a stake you want to drive through his heart, as Remmick opens the window, intending to climb out the window after you, when he stops, another sound catching his attention. 

The sound of a car pulling up to the front of your house. Your mama and pa are home. 

Remmick knows just how to break you. What better way to get you to spend eternity with him, then throwing in eternity with your folks too? Only, the nicest version of them? At the very least, it might make you do something stupid. 

And you do. 

Your heart is racing as you watch him smile wickedly at you, before turning to go meet your folks at the door. You quickly run through all the ways you could get his attention back on you, and you unthinkingly take your knife out of your pocket, before looking down at your wrists. Then, back to Remmick. Then, you take your knife and make long, deep cuts into your wrists, down to your forearm—The kind of injury Remmick cannot ignore. Not if he wants to turn you before you die. 

You let out an inhuman noise, like an animal stuck in a bear trap. Your hands shake as you make cuts into your other wrist. You can’t breathe. Your vision grows fuzzy as you watch him stumble out of the window, running right towards you. He doesn’t want you to die. He wants you to live forever, and the scent of your blood is making him woozy too. 

You fall to the ground just in time for Remmick to catch you, and the part of you in the back of your mind, who knows this is how the story is always meant to end, kind of enjoys the idea of dying in Remmick’s arms. On the one hand, you love him. On the other hand, you know this moment will haunt him for a long time. 

Your body is shaking, and there is blood everywhere. Remmick cradles you against him, hands smearing your blood as if he could push it back inside of you. 

“No, no, C’mere, I got you,” He has an idea. He leans into your neck and tugs you close to him. His claws, covered in blood, cradle you, as he opens his jaw wide, before sinking his teeth deep into the skin of your collarbone, drinking the sweet taste of you. He drinks, and drinks, and for a moment, he forgets that you’re dying, but he eventually comes up for air, beginning to pet your hair. “All gonna be okay, we’re gonna be together for a long, long time,” he rambles.

You don’t want to die. But you’d rather die than give him what he wants. But it’s more than just the way he’s tortured you for the past two month—although, it does feed into your anger. No, If you turn, it means he won. It means that he gets away with killing all those different versions of you, and still gets to be with you. Still gets to invade your thoughts, still gets to spend eternity with you—after doing nothing but hurt you (and, occasionally, fuck you).

Your hand searches until your fingers wrap around something grainy and wooden. You’re not sure you have the strength to stab Remmick with the stake, but you wonder if you could bide your time until the sun comes up. You pull him in for a kiss, right against your lips, and then stab yourself the best you can with the wooden stake. 

You can taste blood now, and you wonder if Remmick is as overwhelmed by it as you are, how it coats everything around you. Him, the grass, your clothes. Your ears are ringing, the noises of the world far away, muffled by the fuzziness that overtakes you from your wounds. Your vision begins to fade, and the last thing you see before everything turns white is Remmick leaning down to kiss your head, before getting up, setting you down gently, and going to kill your parents. 

Son of a bitch, You think, laying in a pool of Remmick’s and your own tears, and your blood (mostly), I’ll get you in the next life, husband.

-

Ireland, 1652

The first thing you noticed about Remmick was his eyes. A beautiful bright blue. Like a clear creek on a summer’s day. He took you somewhere like that once. Right before he asked you to marry him.

You had met him when he was just a travelling musician, penniless and preforming songs for lodgings. You were working as a governess to a rich British family who had been given the land on account of the patriarch being a clergyman. Remmick had known the family who used to own the land. He hated the people you worked for, the way they took mercilessly.

You thought the kids were nice enough, if not a little snotty. But they were comfortable. They didn’t have to worry about the fact that the people who used to live there often had to choose between food and firewood. 

The two of you fell in love, as deep as any two people could. You fell in love over ale in a pub loud with music, over quiet mornings spent tracing the lines of Remmick’s face, and in between grueling, exhausting day of work. Remmick took your breath away, and Remmick couldn’t go for more than a few hours before itching to see you again. He asked you to marry him and on a warm spring morning, right as the sun rose, you promised to be his forever. 

To your credit, the two of you got a wonderful few months before things went wrong.

Remmick never should’ve went out. He never went out on Sundays, preferring to spend his day off kneeling between your legs, eating you out like a starved man. Sundays were for two things—Rest and keeping his wife happy. He tended to get more gigs on the weekend and often picked up shifts at the pub to pay your bills. So, Sunday was his day off. But you requested, oh so sweetly, for him to pick up honey for your evening tea, and he wanted to pick you a bundle of wildflowers, just to show you that he loved you. After all—Sundays were for keeping his wife happy.

He left right after lunch, but didn’t get back until the early evening, just as the sun set.

Remmick would play that night over and over again in his head.

He’d wonder about whether things would’ve been different. If he had left earlier. If he had never went out in the first place, if he had just spent the morning between your legs like he wanted to, if he had done anything differently. 

But maybe things were always going to end that way, maybe there was nothing he could’ve done. 

 With a fistful of white daffodils, Remmick started to whistle your song as he traversed the path towards your wooden house, the one on the property of the family you worked for.

He heard your screams before he saw the flames. 

He broke out into a sprint, dropping the jar of honey and your flowers as he dashed towards his wife, hoping against hope that you’d be okay. He was just in time to see the men who set the fire ride off on horses, half drunk and laughing—laughing that the woman he loved was burning alive, laughing that the people they deemed below them were suffering. 

You were warm. You were kind, and soft. The hardened edges you did have only emphasized your softness, the way you always gave whoever you were talking to your full attention, the way your hands felt running along his skin. 

He knew he couldn’t save you, not without killing himself, and looking back, that’s exactly what he should’ve done. But before he could, as he sat there, sobbing for his wife—someone creeped out of the shadows. 

“You’re hurting, lad,” They had said, in his native tongue. But his accent was british. Remmick hated that posh accent.  “I can make that pain go away.. Fellowship and love is all you need, but..” They bared their sharp teeth at him, “all you gotta do is let me see that pretty neck of yours, and you’ll have the power to get revenge. Wouldn’t you like that? To kill the men who murdered your pretty little wife?” 

Remmick doesn’t remember saying yes. 

All he does remember is how much pain he was in, how drinking the blood of those men made him feel better, how he missed you horribly—more than the sun.

This is the truth. Remmick really did love you, and he really didn’t understand what he was getting into—it’s true. It really happened. 

But so did everything that came after.

-

London, 1812

He stood outside Lady Arlington’s grand masquerade ball, waiting, watching. His suit was out of style, stolen from an old bachelor he had bitten last week, but at least he was in a suit. Besides, everyone would assume it to be a costume. He looked nice—or he assumed he did. Damn mirrors. 

His mask was fastened onto his face, and he was sure he could convince at least half the people here that his red eyes and sharp teeth were part of the costume. He wasn’t even sure why he was here. He hated London, had specifically avoided Britian in the past two hundred years. 

But something ate away at him. It gnawed at him, told him to come here. Something about this damn masquerade is pulling him in, and It’s too loud to ignore. So, he’s happy when the man at the door graciously accepts the invitation he stole, inviting him in with a posh, “Good evening, Sir, right this way.” 

Remmick sticks to the outskirts of the crowd, watching as men twirled women, listening to the sound of a string quartet, and he finds himself sipping wine that he doesn’t even like. So why is he here? He searches the room, looking for—

And then, his breath catches as he catches sight of a familiar lock of hair. He blinks, his eyes following the glimpse. He watches as familiar woman dance with a man, and then he realizes why she’s so familiar.

But how are you here?

You died. You died, and Remmick turned into this monster. 

But when he hears you laugh, he knows it’s you. He could never forget your laugh, you’re his wife. 

His feet begin to move across the room as the music finishes and you curtsey to your dance partner, making your way towards the refreshment table. He says your name to stop himself from grabbing you in the middle of this crowded room. 

No one ever called you by your first name at a ball, it was always ‘Miss’ followed by your first name or your last name. You knew you’d need to be married eventually, but you always found these dances boring—although you did enjoy a masquerade.

You turned and blinked. Even though he was wearing a mask, there was something... familiar about the man. And his red eyes don’t scare you. They lure you in. 

“Oh, good evening, may I help you?” You ask, and Remmick almost recoils at the sound of your voice. Your familiar, soft cadence is replaced by that posh British accent he hates. 

“I just..” For two hundred years, Remmick has longed to see you again. He’s spent hours mulling it over in his head, coming up with a million different things he would say to you if he could tell you anything. All that comes out is, “Yer beautiful.”

Your face flushes. 

“Oh,” You giggle a bit. “Why, thank you, I—Oh dear,” a gloved hand comes up to cover your gasp, “You seem to have a bit of,” you motion towards your lip, and Remmick feels drool dribbling down his chin. His hand comes up to wipe it away, but you hand him a handkerchief. He mumbles out a thank you, before taking it and wiping his mouth.  

“Thank ye,” he hums, and your head twitches. His accent is rare in a crowd like this, but it pulls your lips up into a smile. 

“It’s a lovely night for a walk. Would you accompany me?”

Technically, you’re not supposed to be unchaperoned and alone with a bachelor. But you have a feeling that this particular bachelor is not the man your mother and father had in mind to be your husband. So, if you don’t get caught, you don’t see the harm. At the very least, it’s not a particularly horrible way to kill time. 

“Of course,” is his answer, offering you his arm, eyes glued on you as you lead him to the nearest door. 

“I never got your name,” you say politely, because it seems he already knows yours, which makes sense—your family is quite popular within ‘society’. Not that you even really believe in that.

“Remmick,” he answers, and you nod. 

“Right, and your last name?”

He scoffs quietly. 

“Just Remmick.” Telling you his last name seems pointless. He’ll just be Remmick. At least in this lifetime. 

“Okay, Just Remmick. Tell me, where does a gentleman such as you find himself when he’s not attending masquerades?” He can tell you know this isn’t really his scene from that question alone—It may not seem like much, but it’s as if he’d forgotten just how clever you were. His clever girl. 

And more selfishly, Remmick misses being known. Being known by you. He feeds minimally, and mostly on animals or small critters. His fingers twitch for more, for blood and destruction, but he just couldn’t. His humanity was louder for a long time. But don’t worry, he’ll get it soon, tonight, in fact. 

“I play music.” He says honestly, “I’m what ye ma would call a, er, ‘penniless musician.’” 

You smile at him. 

“I enjoy music,” You tell him, “I think music is a beautiful thing that transcends time and memory. Don’t you?”

His heart would be beating out of his chest if he still had one. He brings your handkerchief to his chin and wipes drool. He’d make something up, tell you he had something wrong with his mouth, or something. He’d figure it out when you asked about it.

“I do,” he nods, but he’s not fully paying attention, if he’s honest. He’s listening to the living, breathing heartbeat that thumps in your chest, quicker when you make eye contact with him. He wonders if you’re wet, but he doubts that your mind is as dirty or depraved as his. 

“Well, would you play me something sometime?” You ask, and Remmick smiles a bit, pats your arm in an affectionate matter—he’s suddenly back in the meadow just south of your wooden house, watching the way you shone in the sunlight, like it hasn’t been two hundred years since he’s last seen you. 

“Anything ye want, lass.” He promises, and he means it so genuinely that your heart nearly stops. He wipes his chin again. 

“What are you doing here, then?” You ask softly. “I don’t mean any offense, but there are so few people who share your accent, I cannot help my curiosity, though I hold no judgement.” Remmick tries not to scoff at how much he likes you, even his disdain for British accents can’t stop the fact that he loves that even now, two hundred years later, you’re still giving your full attention to every conversation. 

He’s been in love with you for long enough to know your question comes from nothing except genuine curiosity. So, he doesn’t laugh when you ask him that, but he does think about it. 

“Well, ye see, somethin’s been... pulling me, tugging me towards Britian at first,” he starts, “Then to London, and now to this... palace,” he huffs, a part of him a little bitter that he found you in the type of place he couldn’t fit in well, no matter how charismatic. “And I didn’t know what it was pullin’ me towards, but—” he looks at you again. “I think I know what it was pullin’ me towards now..” 

You smile. 

“And what would that be, Mr. Re—” Someone calls your name as footsteps approach, and you turn to look at the source, only to find your mother approaching, guiding a gentleman only a few years older than you towards you.

“Whatever are you doing out here alone, dear?” Your mother asks, and you turn back to introduce Remmick to your mother, but he’s gone. Nowhere to be found. You blink, confused. Where had he gone?

“Just taking a break from all the excitement, mother.” The lie slips off your tongue easily enough, and it’s all your mother needs before she’s introducing you to a young blonde gentleman, and you intend to give him your fullest attention, but you suspect it will be difficult on account of your mysterious penniless musician. 

Remmick watches from the shadows, lingering. He can’t stop glaring at the young eligible bachelor who holds your arm, who’s looking at you like you’re a prize. He waits and waits—until the bachelor closes the door behind you when he leads you into the library of the manor. He tries to reason with himself. 

You’re a very pretty girl. The light blue silk of your dress, your posh accent, your skilled dance moves—you obviously come from money. And he knows you’re clever. He looks around and realizes any bachelor at this stupid party would be lucky to have you. 

He breaks the door handle before he knows what he’s doing, quickly opening the door and this is what he sees:

You, leaning against the far wall of the library, squirming. Your eligible bachelor with his hands on your sides, bunching up the fabric of your dress, with his mouth on your neck. You’re trying to push him away.

Remmick grabs him by the shoulder before he even realizes he’s stepped towards the two of you, and then he’s swinging at him with a clenched fist. It causes you to gasp, and before you know it, blonde bachelor’s nose is bleeding and he’s shoving Remmick back against another bookshelf. Books fall around him, and he glances down and sees one on Irish folklore and mythology—

Open to the section on the Gancanagh—a male fae known for his ability to enchant and kill young women, often through powerful seduction. The legend of the Gancanagh dictates that he cannot enter a home unless invited. Remmick rolls his eyes and is on his feet again, going after blonde bachelor. 

He lunges at him, claws drawn, and then he’s swiping at him, but blonde bachelor, to his credit, isn’t entirely stupid. He grabs you and uses you as a shield—and suddenly there are five distinct, large slashes across the front of your dress. Then, you start to bleed, and Remmick catches you as you fall, blood pooling in your abdomen and soaking his stolen suit.

He sets you down gently, and he goes to move away from you, to fucking kill this blonde asshole, but you grip his arm, pulling him back. 

“Don’t,” You let out a soft whimper of pain, gripping his arm, not wanting him to leave. He leans in and kisses your forehead, 

“I’m so sorry, I’ll be right back, Lass,” he promises, before moving away from you, your weak protests drowned out by how badly Remmick wants this man dead. How badly he wants to drink his blood. 

He grabs the man just as he reaches the door, covering his mouth with his large, now bloodstained claw, and uses that hand to tilt his head, before Remmick sinks his teeth into the flesh of the man who wanted to take you from him. Who kissed you without asking. 

And he tastes delicious. Remmick almost moans—it’s like eating a well-seasoned steak after two hundred years of bone broth. He sucks and sucks, draining the man of every ounce of blood. Then he drops his corpse, using your handkerchief to wipe his chin of any excess blood.

He stands, and glances to the corpse on the ground. Whatever. He’ll wake up in a little bit, but Remmick does not give a single fuck what happens to the poor fool. Remmick, on the other hand, feels phenomenal. He feels like he’s strong enough to hold the sky up, and he starts to smile when he remembers you. 

“Sorry ye had to see that, lass, but yer friend won’t be—” he turns to you and realizes you’re not moving. He’s by your side in a flash. “No, no, c’mon, lass, wake up,” He listens for the sound of your heartbeat, but he doesn’t hear one. He had let you die. Again. And this time, it had been his fault. Not indirectly, either. He should’ve bitten you when he had the chance. “I’m sorry,” he says softly, leaning his forehead against yours. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, lass,” he begins to cry, and that feels stupid, so he leans down to try and bite you, maybe he can still bring you back—but his teeth get about an inch to your skin, and it’s like something’s stopping him from sinking in the rest of the way—his eyes flicker down to the cross that hangs from your pretty dead neck. 

Remmick takes only a few more minutes to kiss you, to whisper his apologies before he slips out of the window, deciding to take out his heartbreak and his anger out on anything else with a pulse that comes his way. 

You came back once, he reasons eventually, right before the sun rises the next morning, as he stares at your handkerchief, covered in blood now, since he used it to wipe his mouth four times as he’s drunk the bodies of three different drunk idiots outside a gentleman’s club. He’s sure you’ll come back again. He’ll wait. He has all the time in the world. 

He’ll just have to be patient. 

-

New York, 1892

Fucking Sundays. You always die on a Sunday. 

You and Remmick have been going out for six months. Remmick lays awake at night, thinking about how this is the longest he’s ever gotten with you, at least since you were married. This is try number six. 

Why do you keep dying? 

It frustrates him, like an itch he just can’t get to go away. It’s one of the many things he hates about living forever. Another thing he hates is innovation. He’s watched the Industrial revolution happen slowly at first, and then, all at once. He hates it for all the reasons you can imagine, but part of the things he really hates is how it dulls you. You work hours that are too long. You work a job that’s too harsh. 

You work in a weaving factory. You spend your precious life in a factory without proper ventilation, often working with dangerous equipment and conditions. You’re so tired when you come home. Remmick just wants you to be safe, just wants you nearby, Is that so terrible? 

Or at least, that’s how he had said it when you told him you couldn’t quit your job and stay in the apartment with him forever, like he had asked you to. Remmick figured, what the hell, worst you could do is say no. You had handled him being a vampire so well. 

But nothing could ever go the way he wanted it to. Not in any of your lifetimes so far. He just wanted you close so bad, that the thought of you not being with him, it drives him a little insane. To the point of violence. So, he dug his claws into your ankle, threatening to snap the bone as he offered a game—

“Shh, Shh,” he said, a sinister smile adorning his lips, “Wanna play a game, baby?”

“No, you fucking— ow!” You yelped as he tightened his grip, threating to rip his claws up the skin of your calf, “Ow, ow—Fuck, okay, fine! Yes, What game?” You sob, and Remmick’s grip loosened only slightly. 

“Hide and seek.”

He was stalking you through the factory, where you worked. No one was here now; it had been too late. But you turned on all the big machines, hoping to throw off his hearing. That was the worst part about being with you for longer. You had more time to know his weaknesses. To hate him. 

But he was close. He could smell you. The sweat that beaded down your forehead, the heat between your thighs, and the smell of your blood as it dripped from your ankle. You were hiding, knelt under one of those big machines. Your heart is racing, and your ankle really fucking aches. You creep around the machine to see where he was, when he grabs you from behind. 

You struggle against him, yelling, but neither of you can hear each other over the loud industrial machinery. He grabs your arm, before sticking it in the machine, focusing on the sound of your screams—he thinks he even laughs. 

He can’t remember killing you. 

He just wakes up a few hours later, laying in a pool of your blood, right before the factory opens. He needs to go. 

He spends as much time as he can apologizing over your body, as he always does. He was sloppy this time. Sloppier than he had been. He had let any urge he felt win, but he was sure if he could keep his wits about you, and strike when he needed to, and he would finally get to keep you. 

He’d just need to be smarter about it. Next time, he decides right then and there, as he limps away from the factory and towards the nearest port, needing to kill a few decades, will be different. 

Next time, the story will end a different way. 

-

Indiana, 1982

You twisted your key in the door of the family video, shivering a bit. You hated working the night shift. You rarely ever did. You pulled your jacket close, before fishing into your bag, pulling out your Walkman and unwrapping the cord of your headphones, walking down the sidewalk, towards the path you’ll take to get home. 

Your thumb begins to press down to begin your tape, when you hear the vroom, vroom from a motorcycle fit for a man who might be a little butthurt that the last time you saw him, you shot him in the dick, among other places. 

But when your head picks up to look at the motorcycle, you pause, because you suddenly realize you’ve never seen this man before in your life. And yet, there’s a familiarity about him. He’s leaning against his motorcycle now, having turned it off and parked it. 

“Hey there, Sugar,” he says, maybe a little too sweetly. He doesn’t hide the way he looks you up and down. You don’t hate it. You’re currently taking the summer to enjoy your hometown before you go away to school. So, if a handsome man with a hot motorcycle wants to take you home, who are you to deny him? (No survival instinct, but you’ll catch on quick.)

“Hi. Cool bike.” You say, pulling your jacket closer to your body. 

“Why, thank you.” You can’t place his accent. “Wanna ride?” He asks, and you roll your eyes but are thankful it’s too dark for him to see your red cheeks. 

“On the bike you mean?” You question, and Remmick offers you the helmet he holds. 

“For now.” He shrugs, and you take it, resting it on your hip.

“Well, where are we gonna go?” You wonder, “I know what you’re after, and I expect a nice date before I even think about something like that,” You smile, and Remmick scoffs.

“You have no idea what I’m after,” He starts, before reaching to his mostly non-existent soft side and rephrasing, “How ‘bout you and I go for a drink?” He offers, and you let out a nervous laugh. 

“I was just gonna go home and watch a movie,” you tell him, and he tilts his head.

“Oh yeah? What movie?” Remmick won’t admit it, but he’s watched as movies have gone from an expensive, once in a while treat, to something most families pick three of on a Friday and return them the next Friday, and... he thinks that is one small silver lining to this horrible, never-ending existence. 

You dig into your bag and pull out a VHS Tape, labeled Dracula, a movie that came out in 1979. You don’t love it as an adaptation of your favorite book, but for what it is, you enjoy it. Remmick laughs. 

“What? Not a vampire guy?” 

Remmick doesn’t remember it being laid on this thick the last time. 

He shrugs. 

“I just think that bein’ a vampire,” he shakes his head. “it ain’t all it’s made out to be.” 

You shrug. 

“I think it’s sexy.” 

Remmick’s head picks up at that, a smirk forming on his face. 

“Yeah?”

You smile. He’s funny. Too cool, too flirty, and just desperate enough for you to see through his charade. You’re not sure why, but you get the idea that his desperation goes deeper than just looking for a fuck—

“Yeah. A mysterious, handsome stranger, biting my neck and promising me forever?” You wonder out loud, taking a few steps towards him. “What kind of girl wouldn’t think that’s romantic?” 

Remmick would laugh if he hadn’t spent the last two centuries figuring out that you are exactly the kind of girl who doesn’t think that’s romantic. Well, maybe he would laugh if he also wasn’t really fucking bitter about it. 

He offers you his hand. 

“Let’s find out. I got popcorn back at mine.” Remmick doesn’t really eat, but movies have become synonymous with popcorn, and he’s just desperate to get you alone, to get his teeth in your neck. He won’t fail again. He can’t—he doesn’t know if he has it in him. As it is, ever since you slit your wrists, you’re significantly angrier at him by the end. 

The last time the two of you met, he had these horrific 60’s style sideburns, and you stabbed him in the eye with a mirror shard from a disco ball and had gotten blood all over what you had described as your ‘dancing boots’. 

“Hmm.. I dunno.” You shrug. “I’m not in the habit of going home with a stranger.” You tease, and he scoffs. This again?

“Well, my name’s Remmick. And yours,” he says your name, and a shiver runs down your spine. 

“I didn’t tell you that.” 

He taps the top left of his chest with the pointer finger of his right hand. 

“Yer name tag.” 

You let out a laugh.

“Oh, right. Sorry, that was silly of me.” 

“Silly girl.” He teases. Clever, mean, insufferable, dirty, silly girl. “So, what do you say?” he extends his hand again. You think about it for a long minute. A really long moment. Remmick holds his breath. C’mon, lass, He thinks, take the god damn bait before I grab you right here.

You sigh, put on his helmet, and take his hand. 

“There are worse ways to spend a Sunday night,” you shrug as you climb onto the back of his motorcycle. 

As you wrap your arms around him, chest pressed to his back, Remmick finds that he couldn’t agree more. 

[faestunna]

remmick breeding kink :)

❝ can you handle it? ❞

remmick x f!reader

WC: 829

WARNINGS: smut (18+ ONLY), p in v, rough sex/pure porn with no plot, dom/sub vibes, slight size kink, dirty talk, creampie

A/N: anddddd my seat is wet thank you anon! thinking about this concept all day everyday cus remmick is a filthy little freak and i need him so bad

masterlist | taglist

likes, reblogs, and comments are always and greatly appreciated! this post is 18+ only. minors do not interact.

YOUR HEAD LEANS back against the wall as your eyes squeeze shut, lips falling open just enough for him to see the point of your teeth.

“Just like that, darlin’,” Remmick cooes, holding back a moan. He moves his eyes down to where the two of you connected. About half of his length was hidden inside of you. “Christ, that’s good.” The other half was the only thing keeping his hips from fully pressing against yours.

When you were a little girl, you’d been told to never speak the Lord’s name in vain; the preacher hadn’t said anything about speaking it in pleasure.

For as long as you’d known Remmick, pleasure was all he seemed to know. You’d miss him for a month or so—a time during which your life was ever so drab—until he came lurking around your cottage again. All it took was one “Come inside” and Remmick knew you were his.

That and the way you managed to grip him the same every time he fucked you. “Miss me, honey?” He asks while maintaining the merciless speed of his hips.

You nod rapidly, nose crinkled and hands gripping the table below you. He couldn’t have even waited to get you into the bedroom to have his way with you. Remmick was a man who got what he wanted, and you were the girl who gave it to him.

“M-missed you so bad,” you stutter out. He was stronger than you—a lot—to the point where if you tried to move yourself or switch positions, he’d press your hips down, leaving bruises on the skin.

“I bet so, baby.” It’s unfair, really. Here you are, a trembling, sobbing mess with him between your legs, and he manages to pound into you like it’s nothing. Don’t be fooled—it’s one of the most heavenly things Remmick has felt. He grabs your face by your cheeks and leans in half way, pulling you to him. “Tell you what,” he whispers. “What if you don’t have to miss me no more?”

You peek your eyes open and look at him through heavy eyelids. “W-,” You’re cut off by a moan. “What?”

He angles his hips a certain way so you can feel the tip of him hitting a new spot inside you. As your toes curled, Remmick grinned. “I’ll leave a little piece of me with you. That way,” he caresses your chin with his thumb. His other hand acts as a weight on your stomach. “You won’t miss me when I’m gone. How’s that sound, darlin’?”

It only takes your foggy mind a second to process what he says, and you immediately nod your head. “Please,” you gripped onto his arms.

“I think you need it, honey,” he almost chuckles, and if you weren’t distracted by the warmth building up between your legs, you would’ve scolded him. You could feel every inch of him that drew in and out of you, kissing your cervix so gently but enough that your legs wrapped around him.

A devilish glare overcame your eyes. “I need it,” you confirm, taking his thumb from your chin in between your lips. Remmick’s jaw drops slack as he lets out a soft groan. His pace somehow quickens, leaving you whimpering around his digit.

“Oh, I knew you’d let me fuck you like this,” he says while his movements turn rougher. They’re ragged and sharp, and (from experience) you know he’s just as close as you are. “A sweet girl like you needs someone to take care of her like this. I know you can handle yourself…wasn’t sure if you could handle me.”

Your lips part open and he drops his hand. “Now,” he says into your ear with a small smirk. “I’m wondering if you can handle more.”

His forehead presses against yours. Your body nearly bounces with every snap of hips. There’s still a glorious sensation of yourself stretching open for him. Letting him in. Your legs twist around his frame as if begging him to fill you up with his promise.

When you finish, you crash. It’s a series of both of yours’ high-pitched moans and throaty groans, the feeling of a warmth spurting into you. “That’s it, darlin’, take it all. Every drop of me.” Remmick cooes as your chest rises and falls with desperate breaths. He doesn’t move out of you. His length, still unbelievably hard, plugs you to keep any of his release from dripping out.

A sheer layer of sweat creates a glisten over your face. You smile in a tired pleasure. “Gonna have a piece of you with me forever.” You say, taking his hand and placing it back over your lower stomach.

Remmick nods, rubbing the skin like he’s never felt something so soft. And as he moves forward to place a kiss on your lips—a perfect mixture of gentle and rough—he accidentally pushes himself even deeper into you.

A small moan escapes your throat…and he smirks into the kiss.

© faestunna 2025.

[fear-is-truth]

REMMICK is selfish enough to want you always by his side. and yet, he hasn’t turned you into one of his own. it’s not doubt in your consent; bare-throated and unwavering, you’ve offered yourself to him—more than once. whispered that you’re ready.

the truth in his reluctance is simple: he’s not ready. when the curse takes hold of you—and it will—you’ll remain mostly unchanged (except for the black irises, sharpened teeth and sun-sickness) you’ll have the same voice. same laughter. same bend. but also: no heaven. no rest. no end.

what he fears is the slow erosion of your love. not today, not next decade, but in some far-off century, resentment would grow like a tumour, and the hive mind wouldn’t spare him from hearing the bitter accusations you’d never speak out loud: you did this to me. you made me yours, and i now can’t leave.

he has endured wars, lived through plagues and famine, the extinction of his kin. but he could not endure you hating him.

worse still, he fears the change might not come from you at all, but from him. time might dull his awe, replace wonder with boredom, until the sight of you no longer stirs anything at all. he imagines you as a marionette—soul strung taut between his fingers, your thoughts hollowed into reflections of his own. and one night, he might look at you and feel nothing at all.

what if, in trying to keep you, he ruined the very thing he loved?

(what he cannot fathom—what eludes him entirely—is that you were his from the moment you stayed. curse or no curse, your soul had already given itself over.)

part II III

[ay0nha]

How Many Miles to Babylon? | Remmick (i)

SUMMARY: In the bible, "Babylon" is used as a symbol of sin and rebellion. Based on this request.

"How many miles to Babylon? Three score miles and ten. Can I get there by candlelight? Yes, and back again ... If your heels are nimble and your toes are light, You may get there by candlelight." Nursery Rhyme, Unknown, 1801

PAIRING: Remmick x f!reader (human)

WORD COUNT: 2.1K

WARNINGS: Canon-typical things, tension-filled enemies to lovers, heavy on the religious themes (mentions of god, prayer, sin, bible verses, devil mentions, etc.), mentions of blood, inner turmoil, ANGST, inspo from Margaret Atwood, James Baldwin, Jennifer Johnston (Irish writer of 'How Many Miles to Babylon'), and Nosferatu quotes, etc.

A/N: Lowkey really enjoyed writing this, might have to do a part two! Thank you so much for this request. I incorporated similar requests into the story as well, so I'm not ignoring my inbox. Comments HEAVILY encouraged, it makes writers' hearts full and encourages me to continue writing. Enjoy.

part ii, part iii

“You again.”  

You were a master of speaking silently—you've spoken silently all your life, and you’ve had to live through entire tragedies because of it. 

Yet, your tone was sterile. It left little room for interpretation or defiance. The statement came without hesitation but held pent-up sentiment veiled by familiar poise.

“Miss me?” Remmick vetted your blank gaze for the proper determination of your upset. He nodded mockingly. “...Thought you might.”

The bliss had been idyllic.

Your wrist balanced on the rocking chair’s arm as you lazily tapped the ash of your cigarette. The humid air caressed your arm and gave you goosebumps that reminded you that you were still alive. Human.

Your senses had been perked, knowing a disruption was overdue.

“Cicadas warned me you’d be comin’ tonight.” Your vexation was pointed, always honest in the distaste you held for the man before you. “Have I not made myself clear?”

The cracks behind your exterior were so deeply concealed you hadn’t thought anything could slip between. Yet, standing before you, his presence was the ice-pick that’s pressure had threatened to shatter you. 

“Oh, no, ma’am, you have.” Remmick's posture was playful as if he held control of the situation. “Just reckon you’d change your mind by now.” 

You hummed. It wasn’t thoughtful, but a placeholder. You were slow to anger; your patience could outwit Remmick.

You’d grown so accustomed to how he worked, his body language became predictable, and so did his actions.  Especially, with the banjo strapped across Remmick’s back.

Even in the dark, you could see how his fingers itched to toy with the instrument. You’d learned he couldn’t sit still in silence, even if the night itself always buzzed. Remmick would twist the banjo’s strap, settling the instrument in his lap, and persuade the night to succumb to him and his song. 

You drew in another crackling breath, “Tonight’s no night for pickin’ that thing.” 

“Wouldn’t think of it.” Remmick’s hands were joined behind his back.

He swayed back and forth on his feet, waiting with a childlike enthusiasm. His smile wasn’t foreign on his face, but something was off.

Different. 

There was an odd sense of pride you felt with his presence. It confirmed the distant admiration that Remmick held for years. You respected his drive, but your desires fell elsewhere. He carved space for you despite your protests, but you could never be the one to fill it—you could never be his. 

Something swirled in your chest, but you brought the cigarette to your lips to suffocate it. 

“Those’ll kill you, ya know…” Remmick gestured to your vice. 

You flicked the roach onto the dirt before his feet.

“So will you.” 

Another smile, sinful this time. You never had to say it aloud, nor did he. You knew what he was. To you, it was obvious his desires; he was an open wound rooted to his devotions. You, another thing in his path.

“Heard what you did to those clan folk…” You prodded. Apparently, you were all heart tonight, carrying the conversation. Something rare and in between. 

“You sound impressed.” 

“Your massacre will fall on the shoulders of the undeserving.” You shook your head with wry sympathy. “You ain’t a hero.”

“To some, I am.” He shrugged. “I’ve had many titles, but I know to pay no mind to ‘em. Can’t let the bullies win, right?” 

You tutted lightly. “Peace be upon you for what you have so mightily endured.”

Remmick talked to you about suffering. He had said it in passing, in riddles that took a few visits for you to realize what he wanted. He wanted a home, but too much time had bastardized the sentiment.

Instead, his suffering became one very long moment. You learned it could not be divided by seasons. You could only record their moods and chronicle their return—his return. 

Remmick wagged his finger at you, hand on hip, teasing. He inched closer to your porch, but you knew he’d never touch the steps unless you said so. 

“You almost got me thinkin’ something dangerous—” He cocked his head, musing a buried thought.  Then, he clicked his tongue against his teeth with ridicule, “Careful—you’re getting awful sentimental these days.”

You tracked Remmick’s movements. You envied how he filled the space better than you. Perhaps it was the smugness in his presence. Regardless, you felt like a guest outside your own home. 

You felt caught, exposed. So, you stood, leaving your shadow with the rhythm of your rocking chair. 

The weight of your footsteps made the rotting wood of your porch groan, as if warning you not to move further. But you continued down the steps until the last, giving you enough height for Remmick to tilt his chin up to reach your eyes. 

“Thinkin’ bout me often?” You cooed. “That why you always lurkin’, waitin’...for me?”

“Ain’t never said that, lass.” Something sparkled in his eyes, but they remained dark and curious. You wouldn’t stop until they shone red. “Some of us appear out of habit, guided by some blood-orchestral pulse—”

“Is that why you keep coming back to me?” You considered. “That’s not a comfort.”

“Ain’t meant to be.” 

You hummed. “Nothin’ you say will shake me, there’s a devil in this world, and I’ve already met him—you ain’t him.”

Remmick’s tongue sat on the roof of his mouth in thought, eyes mulling over your expression.

Then, he smiled, the shadows of the night elongating his teeth’s point. “Should I be jealous?” 

“Yeah, I reckon so.” Provoking him, you dangled a foot off the step. You kept your eyes on his, waiting. “Just remember he who sups with the Devil should have a long spoon.”

Remmick could pull you forward before you could blink. Sink his teeth into your neck, but you knew he wouldn’t. You knew it wasn’t out of kindness.

He liked to play with his food. He liked it when his food talked back. 

“Easy.” His warning highlighted his drawl. 

“Isn’t this why you haunt me?” You followed his eyes, not letting him break the contact. “Seems not every one of your hauntings is for horror; sometimes it’s just for company, huh?”

You taunted him with a claim you never let him forget.

You waited for Remmick to lunge with anger. You’d been far more liberal with your words than usual.

Remmick watched you with something close to admiration, but his hands stayed firm in his pockets, and so did his posture. 

“Trick question, that is.” He pushed against the physical boundary, his nose looking to touch yours. “I told ya, down in the Delta, never trust what you see. I’m an appetite, nothin’ more.”

Your foot finally landed, and you stood chest to chest with Remmick, past the threshold of safety. 

“You think I’m afraid of you?” Fear was like a pet to you: something you’d pick up to get a better look at, but that you’d soon grow tired of. And now, fear was your ally. “You must be starvin’.”

You traced his face with your half-lidded eyes.  He looked proper, shirt tucked in, suspenders tightened perfectly, necklace sticking to the sweat of his skin. What skin you could see was dirty, like his clothes. It had clearly been some time since he last tidied his appearance.

All an act of deception. 

Meeting his eyes again, you smiled at his very human-like reaction; his pupils were blown wide and resisting something coveted.

The night was silent, holding its breath in hopes of saving you. You should have heeded its warning.

“If only you’d listen.” Remmick continued, filling the quiet. Your breath fell on his lips. It was a push and pull, your mouths ghosting each other, but never quite making full contact. “Look at what you’re doing, playin’ like this. Your revelin’ in my torture—”

“No.” You insisted half-heartedly. Remmick thought this was another lie, a deception to get him pliable. “You’re sorely mistaken.” 

“You know, lyin’ doesn’t suit you.” Remmick sounded dangerous, his voice deep and coarse in a way you’d never heard before, every word he spoke seeming to rumble out of him. A hand snaked its way up to your throat. “Oh, to freeze this moment forever, where you are so warm and your heart is going so deliciously fast.” 

You felt thin, sharp nails prick against the tender skin. Remmick nosed at your cheek, taking in every scent you offered. He trailed down your jawline, his ragged breath falling on your pulse point. 

“I’m charmed.” Your remark fell on absent but not deaf ears. 

“I’ve beheld a thousand faces, made purple with cold; whence o'er me comes a shudder, and evermore will come, at frozen rivers.” He spoke like a song, lilting his words as if reading a poem. “Yet, at the river’s bend, I see you as you are—”

You watched how his eyes flickered with a red gleam. There it was. 

“—here you are.” Remmick continued, mouth searching for yours. “Changin’ right before my eyes.”

Your features were accentuated by an internal glow. There was no modesty in your gaze; it shattered any notion of strength. There was no insight into your emotions. 

Yet, it highlighted something else, something deeper. It was subtle but powerful, like the way a garden seemed to breathe life into a space.

Something shifted in Remmick’s eyes; a baptism in fire. You missed how his eyebrows furrowed in conflict.

Fear clawed its way up Remmick’s throat, determined to make itself known. It fought with another emotion he was too proud to name. He wasn’t unfamiliar with loss. But this. The feeling was wild—sentimental.  

The shadows were still pressed thick against the night. Morning was there, but hadn't been announced. Suffering had yet to spot you, though you heard it hunting. No one, yet, had spoiled the dark by singing. The air outside was too cold, even for the birds.

Remmick felt his skin prick. It was electric. Cold. Warm. All and nothing combined. A centuries-buried question revealed itself:

Do you not deserve to be somewhere that brings out the softness in you, not the survival?

Remmick’s hand tightened on your neck. You felt drool pool on his lips and drip down your neck. He pressed his lips there, teeth ready to puncture your flesh.

It was what he wanted, you thought. All this time he’d haunted you, you’d finally given him what he wanted. 

However, you felt nothing but warmth. Remmick’s teeth were replaced with his lips, providing a wet, open-mouthed kiss. He lingered there, breath ragged through his nose as if testing his own limits. 

“Fuck.” Remmick’s grip lightened. An act of submission, of failure, of self-consciousness. He rested his forehead on your shoulder, cursing in a language foreign to you. 

Anger wouldn’t settle outside his chest, so he pulled away from you like you were sunlight. He avoided your gaze as if you were a mirror; he had no interest in learning what it felt like to meet his own eyes.

Remmick paced against the dissonance of conflict that filled his ears. He was supposed to devour you, turn you towards blood and music. 

“...and how odd is it to be haunted by someone that is still alive, Remmick?” Even with a low tone, your voice carried throughout the open air. “You dangle on the leash of your own longing; your need grows teeth.” 

 “Stop—” Remmick’s confusion manifested physically; he pulled at his hair trying to think clearly, rubbed at his cheek and chin to rid himself strife, and almost fell to his knees to beg for mercy. 

Remmick stepped backward just as you moved closer. The only evidence you’d been standing in front of him at all was the pounding of your heart and a sick feeling in his stomach. 

“Those colonizers took your father’s land, forced prayer upon your people, and you still recite His word for comfort.” You spat, stepping further from your forgotten home. “O, turn to me and be gracious to me, for I am lonely and afflicted. Relieve the troubles of my heart and free me from my anguish!"

You were something volatile and authentic. You didn’t mock religion, you related to the way your lips moved on instinct to verses as old as time. Comfort was needed when the world was on fire, when the world forgot about you. 

You remember that once, Remmick had told you: We’re all dying, slowly, every day. But even you knew there was no use in prayers.

Remmick looked at you with manic agony.

Then, disappeared. 

[hatethysinner]

How about a mix of angst, fluff, AND smut? Lol

(Could be either a drabble or a headcanon, whichever is better for you 😉)

Idea: Remmick hurting reader's feelings and trying to apologize/make it up to her.

Sooo I'm picturing him saying something stupid/out of pocket, which hits a nerve or an insecurity of reader. Maybe he didn't even mean it/do it on purpose, but either way, wrong words, wrong tone, very bad timing. He can immediately see that he fucked up big time by the look on reader's face.

Even after Remmick apologizes, tells reader he didn't mean any of that, and draws a couple of orgasms out of her, there's still something...off.

Days go by and, although reader tells him "it's fine", "I'm fine", "it's all good", he can sense something is off. Remmick notices reader being quieter than usual, stiff, awkward around him -as if reader's in her own head.

At night he swears he can hear reader's brain overthinking and her frantic pulse -probably from replaying his words/that scene over and over again, even though she lies still pretending to be asleep.

Worst part? Nothing Remmick does seems to work; he can feel reader slowly shutting him off and it drives him mad, desperate.

"Please, lass...just -just talk to me? Hmm?"

ꜱᴛᴀʏ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴍᴇ

ᴡᴄ: 7.7k

ᴀ/ɴ: this was another ask that i was at a loss on for a while, but then i listened to my first city pop song and watched the bear season 4 and the inspiration flew out of me. unfortunately for y'all, that inspiration came with debilitating angst, my first ever perspective switching, and my own experience in an unhealthy relationship. enjoy, but please do mind the warnings, especially if any of the topics hit too close to home!

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: established relationship with lots of baggage, perspective switching (OOH!), heavy angst no comfort, intense fighting, below-the-belt insults, panic attack, insecure!reader, asshole!remmick (it is NOT romanticized), vaguely modern au, the trials and tribulations of having an immortal vampire lover, an uncomfortably real depiction of a very toxic relationship, for the love of god communicate with your partners

You didn’t remember what you came in here for.

The kitchen was too quiet. No fridge hum. No drip from the sink. Just the clock ticking behind you and your own heartbeat trying to crawl out your throat.

Your hands braced against the counter. Eyes fixed on the cabinets like maybe they’d give you a clue.

What did you need? What were you doing? Something simple. Grabbing a glass. Or tea. Or—

He said it so flatly. Like it didn’t matter. Like it wasn’t going to stick to your ribs for the rest of your life.

You blinked once. Twice.

Still here.

Still breathing.

It hadn’t sounded like yelling. It wasn’t even loud. But your ears rang anyway.

Something about the way he said it. About the way he looked at you while it came out, slow and measured, like he wasn’t just saying it—he meant it. Fully. Intentionally. He chose those words, sifted through centuries of vocabulary and handed you the sharpest ones.

God, he’d always been good with language.

You pressed your palms harder to the countertop. Tried to ground yourself in something. The cool wood. The sting behind your eyes. The ugly throb in your chest.

You could’ve gone back in there. You could’ve asked what he meant. Made him say it again. Let him tear the scab wider and see if he flinched this time.

But you didn’t.

Because you knew what he meant. You knew it too well.

You’d seen it in other moments. In silence that went on too long. In that odd little distance that crept in when he thought you weren’t looking. Like he was remembering something, or someone, or some place—something that made him want to fold into himself. Not all the way. Not so you noticed. Just enough to keep you at arm’s length when it mattered.

And now you knew.

You’d always been at arm’s length.

You sucked in a slow breath, but it hit a lump in your throat and stayed there. Like everything else that night. Unfinished.

God, it was stupid. It started so stupid. You asked if he was coming with you to dinner. He said no. You asked why. He said he didn’t feel like it. You asked again because maybe there was more—maybe he was tired, maybe he was hungry, maybe he was spiraling and needed help crawling out of it—and he looked at you like he was seeing a puzzle he didn’t have the energy to solve and said:

“Why is it always somethin’ with ya?”

Just like that.

Not even mad. Just tired.

Why is it always somethin’ with ya.

Like you were an inconvenience. A gnat. A faucet dripping in the background of his endless life.

And maybe you were.

Maybe it was always something with you. You asked questions, you needed reassurances, you held him when he didn’t ask for it and talked when he wanted quiet and begged him to meet you in a place he didn’t know how to get to.

You were human. You were so human.

And maybe that was the problem.

You opened the cabinet too hard and winced at the bang. Your hands were shaking. You grabbed a glass and filled it with water just to give yourself something to do. Something to hold. You didn’t drink it.

The worst part wasn’t the sentence.

It was the look.

You’d seen that look before. On other people. People who stayed too long. People who outgrew you or got tired of carrying your mess. People who gave up.

You never thought you’d see it on his face.

He said forever like it was a promise. And maybe it was, for him. But for you—what did forever even mean? You couldn’t imagine next year without flinching. You woke up some mornings already sad for what hadn’t happened yet.

He talked about time like it was a tool. Like he could wield it. Stretch it. Move around in it. Heal inside it.

But you? Time bruised you.

A harsh word stuck for months. One look, one sigh, one silence too long—these things festered. You weren’t made to let go of things lightly. You were built to ache.

And he… wasn’t.

You clutched the edge of the sink, staring down at the drain like it might answer you.

You loved him. Of course you did. You loved the way he listened when he did listen, like you were the last voice left on earth. You loved the way he knew your moods before you did, the way he touched your hand like it was sacred. You loved the way he lit up when you got something right, like your joy was his food.

But you needed him to love you back in a way that felt like now.

Not like memory. Not like he was borrowing from some other century. Not like he was patching you in where someone else used to be.

You didn’t want to be a ghost in someone else’s castle.

You wanted to be home.

Behind you, the hallway creaked.

You knew it was him before he said anything.

You didn’t turn.

Not yet.

Because if you looked at him now, you’d cry. You’d sob. You’d ask why he said it and what it meant and whether he meant it and what he saw when he looked at you and if he really wanted to keep doing this—whatever this was—with someone who broke under a single sentence.

You didn’t want to ask those questions until you were ready to hear the answers.

Even if they broke you worse.

So you breathed. Shallow. Quiet.

And you waited.

You didn’t turn when he stepped into the kitchen.

That was the first sign.

You always turned. Even when you were angry. Even when you didn’t want to. You always gave him that—your face, your eyes, your breath at least. But this time, nothing. Not even a shift of weight or a flicker of movement. Just your back to him, hands on the counter, like you were bracing for something.

He stood in the doorway longer than he needed to.

Watched your shoulders rise and fall. Watched the way your fingers curled a little tighter against the wood. Watched the glass of water on the counter—untouched.

God.

He’d done it again, hadn’t he?

He crossed the threshold slow, each step deliberate, soundless but weighted. Ghostlike. A habit that hadn’t left him even after all these years of trying to be soft. Trying not to startle you. Trying not to become the thing people feared when they noticed what didn’t age.

He moved to the fridge. Didn’t open it. Just leaned against it, pretending to think. To idle. Let the silence stretch in case you wanted to fill it.

You didn’t.

He glanced at the floor, then at the back of your head.

Say something, he thought. Please.

Because it was worse when you didn’t.

It was always worse when you went quiet. When you folded into yourself and left him standing outside the walls. Not angry. Not shouting. Just… gone. Retreating in a way that made the air thinner.

He rubbed a hand over his jaw.

He shouldn’t have said it. He knew that now. He knew it the moment it left his mouth. Even as he said it, he heard the edge in his own voice and knew it’d land wrong. Knew it would hurt. But he let it fly anyway, like some reflex he hadn’t learned how to kill.

He didn’t even know where it came from. Wasn’t angry. Not truly. Just tired, maybe. Stretched thin in a way he couldn’t name. Thoughts too loud. Days too long. You asked a question—one too many—and something snapped in him that he didn’t know was still brittle.

And now here you were.

Still. Silent. Hurt.

He shifted again. Picked up a spoon off the counter just to put it back down. Another few seconds passed, thick as molasses.

Then finally, because you wouldn’t speak, because you wouldn’t even look at him, he cleared his throat.

“Wasn’t fair of me,” he said, voice low. “What I said.”

You didn’t move.

Didn’t even flinch.

His fingers twitched at his sides.

“I know you were just askin’. Weren’t tryin’ to start anything. I just…” He let the sentence dangle, fumbled for something better. “It came out wrong. S’pose I was feelin’… I don’t know. Off. Tired, maybe.”

Still nothing.

No mercy tonight.

He took a slow breath.

“It’s not always somethin’ with you. That’s not true. I know it’s not. You just care too much sometimes. That ain’t a crime.”

Your head dipped a little. He didn’t know if that meant anything.

He swallowed hard.

“I… I don’t always know what t’do with that,” he admitted, softer this time. “With bein’ cared for like that. It’s a lot. Not bad, just…” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I’m not used to it.”

It wasn’t enough. He knew it wasn’t enough. But it was all he had right now.

He took a step closer. Careful. Gentle.

When he got close enough to see the side of your face—your lashes, wet but not falling—his stomach knotted.

“You ain’t a burden, alright?” he said, quieter now. “Not to me.”

The truth of it sat heavy in his mouth.

He meant it. God, he meant it. He just didn’t know how to say it in the right order. He didn’t know how to make you feel it the way he did—that particular ache that curled behind his ribs when you walked into the room, that hum in his chest that only quieted when you were near.

Sometimes you looked at him like he was the sun. And that terrified him.

Because he wasn’t the sun. He was shadow. He’d lived too long. Seen too much rot. Been made to kill, and learned to be good at it.

And you?

You were light.

Mortal. Warm. Complicated. Full of so much life it made his heart ache. He didn’t know how to hold you right. He didn’t know how not to bruise you when he reached for you with hands that had buried centuries.

He wanted to say that. Wanted to tell you it wasn’t you. That it was him. That it was always him. That he carried things he hadn’t shown you yet. That he was afraid of breaking something so soft.

But all that came out was—

“I didn’t mean to hurt your feelin’s.”

He paused.

Then: “But I know I did. And I’m sorry.”

That was it. That was the truth.

You didn’t need to hear about war or fire or the centuries that peeled the gentleness from him like paint in the sun. Not right now. Not when you were still hurting. Still waiting for him to be human for once.

So he stayed quiet after that. Let the apology settle. Let the room breathe.

And waited.

He hated waiting.

“It’s fine,” you said.

It wasn’t.

You knew it wasn’t.

You didn’t even know why the words left your mouth, except they were easier than the truth. Lighter. Like they could float above the weight in your chest.

You said it again, quieter this time.

“It’s fine.”

Another lie.

You weren’t even sure who you were trying to convince. Yourself? Him? The air?

You weren’t fine. And you didn’t understand why you were pretending to be. Especially not now, with his apology still echoing between your ribs, raw and awkward and tender in that half-formed way he always managed to apologize. Like he knew the words but not the shape of them. Like he’d studied sorrow in a language no longer spoken.

And the worst part—the part that made your throat tight—was that he believed you.

He believed you.

He nodded, just once, like that settled it. Like “it’s fine” meant anything when your hands had curled in on themselves, nails digging into your own palms. Like it wasn’t a patch hastily thrown over a hole he didn’t even want to look at.

You wished he’d argue. You wished he’d push.

But he didn’t.

He let it go because that’s what he did. That’s what he always did when you got like this—quiet, soft, making yourself into something easier to hold.

But you didn’t want to be easy tonight.

You didn’t want to be anything except understood.

And somehow, even with all his years, with all his ancient patience and centuries of watching humanity splinter and change and ache and grow, he still couldn’t see it.

Couldn’t see you.

Not really.

He’d heard your voice shake before. Seen your face break. Sat with you through grief, through anger, through the painful mess of simply existing beside someone else. But there was always this invisible line—this thread you couldn’t cross. Because if you pulled too hard, if you unraveled even a little too much, he wouldn’t know what to do with the pieces.

You told yourself that was fine.

Another lie.

That night, when he brushed his teeth with the new charcoal toothpaste you bought him, you sat on the edge of the bed, your hands in your lap, your face hollow. Watching the lamplight pool like oil in the corners of the room. Waiting to feel like you again.

He came out shirtless, towel slung over one shoulder, eyes soft and cautious the way they always were after a fight. As though proximity might spook you.

“I’ll take the right side,” he murmured. “Give you some room.”

You nodded. Said nothing.

He crawled in first. Careful. Quiet. Tried not to shake the mattress too much.

You followed eventually, turned toward the window like it might offer you something better than his shoulder. The sheets were cool. The silence colder.

Then came his arm. Slipping across your waist. Slow, hopeful. Like the feel of his skin might say what words couldn’t.

But your body tensed.

Not violently. Not cruelly. Just enough. Just enough to say, not now. Not yet.

He paused.

Then pulled back.

Didn’t speak. Didn’t sigh or plead or ask what was wrong. Just left the space between you as it was, a gulf carved by things neither of you could name without bleeding.

And still you said nothing.

You stared at the moonlight tracing patterns on the ceiling and plucked at the threads of your lies like they were split seams.

“It’s fine.”

You didn’t believe that.

You were tired. Tired of saying it. Tired of meaning it when you didn’t. Tired of cushioning things for a man who’d lived through plagues and revolutions but still couldn’t stomach the idea of someone being mad at him for too long.

You knew he loved you. That wasn’t the problem.

The problem was how that love showed up. In apologies that didn’t go deep enough. In distance he didn’t even realize he created. In the way he could look at you like the center of the universe but still miss the gravity pulling you apart.

He called you sensitive once. Differently than the countless other times before.

He hadn’t meant it cruelly. But it stuck. Not the word—his tone. That soft, patronizing edge. Like he thought it was sweet. Like he didn’t understand why things clung to you the way they did. Why your chest ached over small things. Why you needed to be heard and not just held.

But tonight wasn’t about that one comment. It wasn’t about the way he brushed you off or how he muttered something sharp under his breath when he thought you couldn’t hear.

It was about every moment like this—where you stayed silent because the alternative meant cracking open a dam you didn’t trust him to stand beneath.

You closed your eyes.

You felt the bed shift with his breathing. Felt the warmth of his body, only inches away. Felt the space between you like a wound you weren’t ready to stitch up.

And for once, you didn’t try to cross it.

You let the silence stretch.

Let the ache settle.

And he did.

Remmick lay still, spine curved toward you but not quite touching, eyes open in the dark. The ceiling above was lit in ribbons—pale light cut through slats in the blinds, painting the room in soft grays and golds. But it was your heartbeat that kept him tethered.

God, that sound. He could hear it like a clock. Not frantic, not panicked—but tight. Like you were trying to hold something back. Like there was a scream or a sob caught behind your ribs and your body was doing its best to cage it. And it was always like that after you said things you didn’t mean.

“It's fine.”

No, it wasn’t.

Of course he knew that.

He might not have always understood the sharp tilt of your emotions, the sudden quiet, the way your voice could dip just so—but he’d been alive long enough to know what a lie felt like in the dark. Your lies were soft and clumsy. Half-hearted even when well-meant.

And your thoughts—Christ. Sometimes he swore he could hear them too. Not the words, not exactly. But the swirl of them. That static hum when your mind turned inward and refused to let him in.

He hated that sound.

He exhaled, nose brushing the pillow. Eyes heavy.

He didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

It wasn’t that he didn’t care. Of course he cared. You were… well. You were you. The one person who hadn’t run. The one who didn’t flinch at his teeth. The one curled up next to him every night like he wasn’t something broken stitched together by charm and poor impulse control.

But the thing was—

You’d get over it.

You always did.

He’d say something sharp, something thoughtless, and you’d pull away. Go quiet. Overthink it. He knew the pattern by now. But eventually, always, you softened. You let him hold you again. You tucked your head under his chin and kissed the hollow of his throat and said things like I’m tired of being mad.

So he didn’t press.

Didn’t ask what was wrong.

Didn’t poke the bear.

Because Remmick had survived this long by knowing when to shut his mouth. When to pretend he hadn’t noticed. When to let discomfort smooth itself out rather than dragging it into the light and giving it teeth.

He’d been with women who screamed when they were angry. Who threw glasses or locked themselves in bathrooms. But you—you always got small. And honestly, that was easier.

Less noise. Less mess.

Sure, sometimes you looked at him like he’d cracked something in you. Like he was a blade you hadn’t seen coming. But you still looked. Still loved him.

And really, wasn’t that what counted?

He stared at the ceiling, one hand draped over his chest. The other curled in the sheets where your body could’ve been if you hadn’t turned your back.

You were right there. Inches away. But he didn’t reach.

He used to. Early on. Before he’d started assuming time would fix things for him.

But the truth was, lately… it was easier to wait.

Easier not to deal with the part of you that made him feel like he was always a step behind. Like you wanted him to read your mind. Like he was supposed to feel what you felt with the same urgency—and when he didn’t, when he blinked at you confused or made some stupid half-joke to lighten the tension, your whole body would go stiff.

You were young. Comparatively, anyway. And you were human. That was the tricky part. You felt everything all at once and all the time. And sometimes he forgot how loud that must be for you—how sharp. He’d had lifetimes to dull his reactions, to tuck away the things that hurt. You hadn’t. You still bled when someone touched the bruise.

He rubbed at his temple and sighed again, softer this time.

He should’ve said more. He knew that. Something better than the half-assed apology. Something that sounded like he actually gave a damn about why your chest had gone quiet, why your laugh hadn’t returned since dinner.

But he didn’t.

Because deep down, he figured this would blow over. Like it always did.

You’d both sleep on it. Wake up a little bleary. A little sheepish. He’d make coffee—or try to, and probably mess it up—and you’d smile despite yourself, and whatever this was would fade into that unspoken pile of almost-fights and swallowed arguments.

So he didn’t reach for you.

Didn’t fix it.

Didn’t earn it.

He closed his eyes instead. Let the steady thump of your heart lull him toward sleep.

And somewhere in the space between guilt and laziness, between arrogance and fear, he let himself drift.

Believing he still had time.

The smell of food woke you before the light did.

Remmick had slipped out of bed quietly. You hadn’t stirred when he did—just felt the sudden shift in weight behind you, the loss of heat. No kiss to the shoulder, no whispered good morning. That used to bother you, once. Now it just felt… safe. He was careful around you this morning. You could feel it.

And you hated that.

You sat at the edge of the bed longer than you meant to, staring at the closet door like it had answers. Your skin felt too tight. Like your body had grown around last night’s silence and hadn’t stretched back yet.

Eventually, you forced yourself up.

The kitchen was warm. Golden with soft light, sun bleeding in through the windows. You blinked against it. The table was already set—two mugs, one of them steaming, your favorite syrup bottle half-cocked on its side like someone had rushed to make it look casual. The skillet hissed on the stove.

Remmick turned just as you stepped in. He smiled.

It wasn’t smug or sleazy, not exactly. Just… light. Pleased with himself. Familiar. Easy in the way you used to find endearing. But this morning, it felt like an insult.

“Y’finally up,” he said gently, that rasp in his voice still warm from sleep. “Thought I’d have to come coax you out.”

You didn’t answer.

You didn’t have the energy to lie with a smile again.

Instead, you moved past him toward the coffee. Your fingers brushed the ceramic of the mug he’d poured for you—it was still hot. He’d timed it well. Probably heard the floor creak upstairs and hustled to finish.

Your eyes flicked to the table. A folded napkin. Knife turned inward like he always did. He used to joke it was in case you ever lunged across the table at him in a fit of fury. Now, it just felt like proof that he’d noticed. That he remembered the night before and was trying too hard to make today look soft.

You didn’t touch the food.

He plated it anyway. Pancakes. Blueberries battered in. Just enough butter. No powdered sugar—because he knew you hated the mess.

Your stomach turned.

“Ya sleep alright?” he asked after a minute, voice careful. Measured.

You nodded.

You didn’t.

Your dreams had been fractured and noisy. You kept waking in that half-place where memory and reality blur—staring at the ceiling, feeling the ghost of his voice ring in your chest. That damn sentence from the night before, sharp and casual like a tossed stone: Why is it always somethin’ with ya?

Like it wasn’t cruel.

Like it wasn’t meant to cut.

You sat at the table with the mug pressed to your lips, pretending to drink.

Remmick didn’t push. He moved around the kitchen quiet as anything, barefoot and fluid, sleeves pushed to his elbows. He hummed under his breath—some old song you couldn’t name. It made your chest ache, how easily he moved back into comfort. Or maybe he’d never left it.

You caught yourself watching him.

Not lovingly. Not this time.

It was observation, almost cold. He was so careful with the pan, so gentle with how he layered your food, like it’d undo what he said. Like it could fill the space he’d hollowed out.

You used to think mornings were his most honest time. When the world was quiet and his voice was still thick with sleep and he’d lean into you without his usual coolness. He never asked for much in the mornings. He just existed near you. Made breakfast. Held your hand across the table sometimes, like it meant something.

But today wasn’t honest.

Today was performance.

He was being sweet. He was being careful. He was being good.

And you hated him for it.

Because it felt like a dare.

Like if you didn’t accept the peace offering, you were the unreasonable one.

Like he hadn’t said what he said.

Like the pancakes could make it better. Like you were supposed to forget the way his voice sounded when he’d said it—just tired enough to be cruel, just calm enough to mean it.

“Everything okay?” he asked finally, the edge of his voice barely touching worry.

You nodded again. “Good.”

Your throat caught on it.

He didn’t call you on it. He just gave a small smile and slid the plate closer to you, like the gesture might matter more than your answer.

And maybe that’s what made it worse.

Because he accepted the lie.

Like always.

Because he wanted things smoothed over. Because he wanted you to eat. Because he wanted the rhythm back. And you knew him well enough by now to know he wasn’t trying to manipulate you—not outright. But he was still asking for something. Still dangling the quiet, the tenderness, the see, I’m good to you in front of you like a balm.

But it wasn’t a balm.

It was a bruise.

And the pressure of his kindness only made it throb more.

So you sat. Stiff and aching. And didn’t take a bite. Let the food cool. Let your coffee go lukewarm.

Remmick watched you from the stove, eyes flicking between the plate and your face. You knew he wanted to say something. You knew he wouldn’t. Not unless you cracked first.

And wasn’t that the story of it all?

He never pressed. Never forced. Just waited. Until you gave in. Until you softened. Until it was your guilt that made the first move.

But not this time.

You wrapped both hands around your mug, and stared at your untouched plate like it was some kind of test.

Let the silence settle, heavy.

He kept his back to you as he scraped the last of the batter from the bowl, lips drawn in a tight, polite line. The spatula moved slow in his hand, more to fill the space than anything else. He didn’t need more pancakes. Hell, he didn’t even care if you ate the ones he’d made.

He’d gone through the motions. He’d woken soft. Moved soft. Didn’t touch you without permission. Didn’t press. Made the damn breakfast. Just like you liked it.

And still—nothing.

Not a smile. Not a bite.

Just you, sitting there like a statue with a coffee mug clutched between your hands like it might burn you if you breathed too hard. And him, standing by the stove, starting to feel like a fool.

The longer the quiet stretched, the more sour his mood turned.

He didn’t show it—not much. Kept his shoulders loose. Let the corners of his mouth stay upturned like this whole morning hadn’t been a balancing act on a wire he didn’t remember agreeing to walk. But underneath the surface, a thread tugged tighter. A kind of tiredness curled in his gut, sticky and slow.

Because this? This was always how it went.

He said one wrong thing. One slightly-too-honest sentence.

And then you’d go quiet for a day and a half. Maybe more. And he was left doing cartwheels trying to fix something you wouldn’t even name.

He didn’t mean to hurt you. That’s what made it worse. He’d said it out of frustration, not malice. He didn’t call you names. Didn’t scream. Didn’t cheat or disappear for days like the men from your past. He was here, wasn’t he?

Still here. Still trying.

And still, it wasn’t enough.

He exhaled slow through his nose and turned back toward the table.

You hadn’t moved.

Still gripping that mug like it might spill all your secrets if you let it go. Your gaze was far away, jaw tight. He could see the little twitch of muscle there. The storm you were trying to hide.

Remmick leaned one hand on the table, cocked his head.

Voice soft as velvet.

“Y’still mad at me, sweetheart?”

He meant it to land gentle. Meant it as peace.

But the second the words left his mouth, he saw it hit you sideways.

Your face didn’t twist all at once. It wasn’t an explosion. It was worse. Slower.

Like something broke open in you in stages.

First, your brow knit. Then your eyes welled—not with tears, but fury. Your mouth parted just slightly, like you were trying to find the shape of breath. And then, wordlessly, your hand moved.

Fast.

The plate went first.

It shattered against the wall with a sound like a gunshot. Blueberries splattered across the plaster like blood. The syrup left a dark smear as the ceramic cracked in a dozen places, one half spinning on the floor.

The mug followed.

Coffee sprayed like it had been pressurized, splashing across the counter and down the cupboards. The mug broke cleaner—two solid halves. One skittered across the tile and hit the pantry door with a dull thud.

You were already up by the time the second crash echoed.

He jerked back, not out of fear, but out of sheer disbelief.

“The hell was that for?” he snapped, finally dropping the mask.

But you didn’t stop.

You shoved your chair back so hard it tipped, scraping the floor with an awful screech. Your arms shook as you stormed past him, breathing ragged, mouth clenched shut like if you opened it, something terrible might come out.

He turned with you.

Hot now. Irritated and confused and insulted, all at once. He followed fast, the heat in his jaw rising.

“Are you fuckin’ serious right now?”

You didn’t answer.

You didn’t even look back.

Your shoulders were stiff, your hands curled into fists, your walk sharp with rage. He didn’t see the quiet woman from last night anymore. Didn’t see the wounded silence, the soft body curled against the far edge of the bed.

No—this was worse.

You were leaving the room like you were leaving him, and he couldn’t make sense of it.

Because it was one sentence. One tired, stupid sentence.

He’d apologized.

Sort of.

He’d made breakfast. He’d played the good man. What else did you want from him?

Still, he didn’t yell.

Didn’t grab you.

Didn’t say the dozen things that flared up in the back of his throat, every ugly little retort begging to be set loose.

Instead, he followed.

Not because he understood.

But because he couldn’t bear not being close.

And you hated that about him.

You hated so many things about him.

The way he followed you without a word. The way you could hear his bare feet on the hardwood floor like a shadow too thick to shake. The way he never let anything breathe—always hovering, always waiting to talk before you'd even figured out what you wanted to say.

You hated how patient he was until he wasn’t.

How he moved like mist through every door in your life, and how you always let him.

And God, you hated how that meant he always got to be the one who ended things. Who said the last word. Who closed the distance and made the silence go away.

Even now, he caught the door just before it slammed, his hand snapping around the edge and shoving it back open like it was his right. You spun around with your jaw clenched, chest heaving like you’d been running, but he didn’t flinch.

Didn’t pause.

Didn’t read the room.

Of course not.

Because then that stupid mouth opened.

“What the hell was that back there?” he snapped, voice too sweet for the words it carried. “Smashin’ plates now? Is that what we’re doin’? Jesus—”

You didn’t answer.

You crossed the room with tight steps, ready to put something—anything—between you and him. But his voice followed like a leash.

“Could’a talked to me like a grown woman instead of hurlin’ breakfast at the goddamn wall!”

He stepped into the doorway, arms spread like he was presenting evidence. Like you were the irrational one here. Like none of this was his fault.

“I’ve been nothin’ but good to ya this mornin’,” he went on, tone swinging between pity and anger. “Made yer coffee, made yer favorite, didn’t even press when ya sat there starin’ through me like I wasn’t right there. But sure. Let’s act like I kicked your dog.”

“Are you serious right now?” you snapped.

“Oh, finally. She speaks.”

Your face twisted, heat rising so fast it nearly choked you.

“You say one mean, uncalled for thing—”

“One thing,” he echoed mockingly, head tilted. “One truth, and suddenly I’m the villain? Y’lose your damn mind over me stating a fact—”

“You made me feel like a burden—”

“Ya are when it means I gotta tiptoe ‘round you every time your feelin’s get bruised!”

You reeled, stunned silent for just a beat. But then the rage surged again—hot and loud and righteous.

“Oh, fuck you, Remmick.”

He threw his hands in the air, stepping deeper into the room.

“I knew this was comin’. No matter what I say, it’s never good enough, is it?”

“Because you don’t mean it!” you shouted. “You never mean it when you say sorry, you just want me to get over it. You want things back to normal without doing a single thing to fix it!”

He scoffed. “Y‘want me to write you a sonnet, sweetheart? Want me on my knees with a fuckin’ Hallmark card and a basket of kittens?”

“I want you to care!” your voice cracked. “Actually care! Not pretend. Not play the good man in the morning and then roll your eyes when I’m still upset.”

“Oh, don’t act like I’m some manipulative bastard—”

“You are! You gaslight me every time we argue!”

He blinked at that, hard.

You could see the offense settle in his face, real and sharp.

“Y’throw that word around like it don’t mean a damn thing.”

“You make me feel crazy for having normal reactions to the mean shit that comes out of your mouth!”

He stalked forward again, hands twitching at his sides like he didn’t know what to do with them.

“I’m not mean to ya,” he snarled. “I don’t raise my voice, I don’t hit, I don’t lie—”

“You belittle me.”

Your voice dropped low.

Still hot. Still sharp.

But dangerous now. Controlled.

“You belittle me, and you call it being honest. You invalidate me, and you call it calm. You make me out to be the problem every time, and when I finally say something back—when I finally get angry—you act like I’m the one ruining everything.”

He stopped.

Really stopped.

And you saw that flicker of guilt. Of shame. But it passed quick, too quick.

He shook his head, scoffing again. “Yer makin’ this bigger than it is.”

And there it was.

The sentence that pushed you over the edge.

You didn’t walk away.

You stared him down.

Because how dare he.

How fucking dare he.

You didn’t even recognize your voice when it came out—sharp, shaking, something ripped raw from deep inside your chest.

“Bigger than it is? I gave up everything to be with you!”

He blinked.

You took a step forward. Then another. Like something possessed. Like if you didn’t move, the scream building in your chest would destroy you from the inside out.

“My family, my job, my life—I gave it all up to stay here with you in this weird little nowhere bubble you built because the world scares the shit out of you now! And you stand there like you’re the one being wronged?”

Remmick's jaw tensed. “No one asked ya to give all that up—”

“You didn’t stop me either! You never asked for anything, Remmick, you just stood there and waited for me to offer it. And you knew I would. You knew I was in love with you. And you used that.”

His mouth opened. Closed. His fingers twitched again, then flexed like he wanted to crack his knuckles but couldn’t justify it. You weren’t done.

“You want to act like you’re so above everything. So controlled. But you are the most selfish, manipulative bastard I have ever met.”

His face flickered.

But you didn’t stop.

You couldn’t.

“I wish I never met you.”

A pause fell.

Still, hot, wide.

“I wish I could put into words how much I hate you.”

You pressed on, even as your stomach twisted violently, even as something in you begged you to shut the hell up.

“You’re not a man, Remmick. You’re just… old.”

His throat bobbed.

“You don’t know how to love. You never did. You’ve just been alive so long you got good at pretending. You think memorizing someone’s favorite breakfast makes you a good partner?”

Remmick’s mouth opened, and this time, his voice was venom.

“Y’think pitying someone’s trauma gives ya the moral high ground?”

You flinched.

But neither of you stopped.

“Oh, there it is,” you snapped. “Go ahead, say what you really want to say.”

“I don’t know what the fuck y’want from me!” he barked. “One day ya cling to me like I’m your goddamn lifeline and the next yer cryin’ because I didn’t say the word sorry in the right tone—how am I supposed to keep up with that?”

“You’re supposed to try!” you shrieked. “You’re supposed to care enough to try! But you don’t. You don’t!”

He stormed forward, fast. Too fast.

You backed up without thinking, and suddenly his presence felt huge.

He wasn’t touching you. But it was close.

Close enough to make your body coil tight.

Close enough for your lungs to stop working properly.

“I’ve bent over backwards to keep ya happy!”

You laughed.

It came out wild and broken and ugly.

“You’ve kept me tolerable, Remmick. You’ve kept me quiet. There’s a difference.”

“Oh, please,” he snarled. “Ya haven’t shut up since the day I met ya.”

You stepped in close, nose to nose.

“You are the loneliest person I have ever met,” you hissed.

“And y’still ruined the only person who ever loved ya.”

He stared at you like you’d torn his ribs open.

But then—

Then he sneered.

Low and quiet. A sound made of something sharp and long-buried.

His voice, when it came next, was almost too soft. Too knowing.

“Y’know,” he said, “I see why all the men in your life left ya.”

You stopped breathing.

“I’ve thought about it,” he added, his voice a low threat. “Thought about walkin’ out that door and never comin’ back. Just like the rest of ‘em. Just like your daddy—”

SMACK.

You slapped him.

You didn’t think. You didn’t hesitate. You didn’t even register the movement until the sound cracked through the room like a gunshot and your hand throbbed from wrist to fingertips.

He stumbled back a step—not from the force, but from the shock of it. The shock you were feeling too.

Because you’d never hit anyone before.

Because he’d never said anything so vile before.

The red bloomed across his cheek, pale skin blooming crimson with the heat of your palm. And he just stood there. Breath caught. Face tilted slightly to the side. Eyes burning. Mouth half open like he might still say something, might double down, might spit something even worse into the air—

But he didn’t.

Because the thing that finally settled on his face wasn’t anger. It wasn’t pride.

It was regret.

Thick and full and sudden.

He took a breath.

And you ran.

You shoved past him with the weight of your whole body, shoulder catching his arm, chest twisting, breath ragged. Your fingers fumbled on the bathroom doorknob like they didn’t belong to you.

You didn’t even lock it properly—just slammed it and collapsed into the corner, legs folding beneath you like they’d given out.

The sob cracked out of you so loud and raw it hurt your throat. You curled into yourself, knees to chest, arms wrapped tight. The cold tile pressed against your hip. The baseboard dug into your spine.

But none of it compared to the ache splitting you down the center.

The way your chest heaved.

The way your breath wouldn’t come in properly.

The way your head spun like the air was too thin and the world was too loud and everything inside you was crashing.

You couldn’t breathe. You couldn’t see through it.

Everything he’d said. Everything you had said.

You pressed your forehead to your knees and shook.

Then the silence.

Not total.

Not empty.

Because you heard him.

On the other side of the door.

Not knocking. Not banging. Not shouting like you’d half expected him to.

Just… sitting.

You heard the faint shift of weight. The whisper of fabric against wood. His back sliding down the door until he met the floor.

Then the sound of his head—soft, dull—coming to rest against the panel.

That was it.

No apology. No plea. Not even a whisper of your name.

Just his presence. Quiet and heavy on the other side.

And this time, the silence wasn’t cruel.

It was a mercy.

It was space.

It was the only thing between you and another explosion. And for once, he seemed to understand that.

So he stayed quiet.

And you stayed curled, face buried in your knees, letting your sobs soften into something more hollow.

There was nothing else to say. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

Just the door between you.

And—for now—that was enough.

He’d drifted off somewhere close to the floor.

Didn’t remember laying down. Didn’t remember when the ache in his spine had gone dull. But he remembered the door. His head against it. The sound of you crying so hard it made his brain itch. He’d stayed there until your sobs gave out, until all he could hear was breathing, shallow and wrung out and exhausted. Then nothing.

And now…

Click.

His eyes snapped open at the whisper of the knob turning. The quietest creak of a door eased open slow as fog. He blinked into the dim light as the shape of you stepped out. Fragile. Tired. Still shaking slightly as your hand reached to close the door again with a barely-there push.

He moved before he could think. Got to his feet, joints groaning as he stepped aside, slow and careful. Gave you room. Didn't speak.

Didn’t dare.

You didn’t look at him. Just walked past and climbed into bed like the floor might collapse otherwise. You moved like your skin hurt. Like breathing was hard work. The blankets barely rustled as you pulled them up.

He watched you settle. Noticed how the light from the hallway caught on your cheeks—puffy and dark with salt. The red still clung to your eyes, swollen and bloodshot. You didn’t look at him, and he didn’t ask you to.

He stood there for a beat longer, hands at his sides. Debating.

If you told him to go, he would.

If you turned away or threw the covers off or gave even the slightest hint—

But you didn’t.

So, he moved. Cautiously. Pulled the door to a gentle close behind him and padded toward the bed like a man unsure if he was welcome in his own home.

The mattress dipped beneath his weight. He stayed to his side. Barely inched toward the center.

Paused.

Waited.

Waited again.

Still, you didn’t move.

So, he braved another few inches. Laid back against the pillow. Turned his face to yours in the dark even though he knew you wouldn't meet it.

Still nothing.

And so he waited. Again.

You felt the mattress give first.

The smallest shift. A slow sag that told you he was there again. Close.

You didn’t move. Couldn’t.

You lay facing the wall, curled in on yourself like your insides were made of glass and someone had just thrown a stone straight through them. Eyes dry but aching, lips pressed together like a seal. The silence was thick, but not unbearable. Not this time.

You felt him stop short. Like he was giving you a chance to flinch. To push him away.

But you didn’t.

Because even if it was all broken. Even if tonight had left claw marks through both of you. Even if you weren’t sure what the morning would bring—

You didn’t want to be alone right now.

So when the mattress dipped again, just slightly, and the warmth of him drew an inch closer, you let it happen.

Let him settle behind you without a word.

Let him wait.

And then—

His arm.

Tentative. Unsteady. Shaking with hesitation.

He draped it across your waist, barely even resting it there, as though expecting to be flinched from. Pushed off.

But you didn’t stiffen this time.

Didn’t tense or shrink or shove him away.

Instead, you let him hold you.

Let the warmth of him wrap around your exhausted body.

Let the quiet settle for the first time in hours.

And when he pressed a soft, remorseful kiss to the curve of your shoulder—so light it barely registered—you let him.

No forgiveness. Not yet.

But not rejection, either.

You didn’t move as sleep pulled at your bones.

Didn’t say a word.

Because there’d be time for that later.

Time for the fixing. Time for the fallout.

Time for apologies that actually meant something.

Time for all of it.

But not now.

Not tonight.

Tonight, you just breathed in the dark, with his arm around you and your heart bruised but still beating, and let yourself drift.

You’ll deal with this tomorrow.

[americanunaverage]

𝑅𝑒𝓂𝓂𝒾𝒸𝓀 𝐼𝓂𝒶𝑔𝒾𝓃𝑒- 𝒯𝒽𝑒 𝐵𝒾𝓉𝑒

𝑀𝒾𝓃𝑜𝓇𝓈 𝒟𝒩𝐼! 𝟣𝟪+ |𝑀𝒾𝓈𝒸. 𝑀𝒶𝓈𝓉𝑒𝓇𝓁𝒾𝓈𝓉|

!You’re at a SmokeStack twins’ party when a new group arrives… and one of them takes a particular interest in you.

The music’s too loud. The kind that rattles the walls and makes everything feel a little unreal. Someone’s yelling in the kitchen, someone else is laughing too hard in the hallway, and the whole place smells like cheap alcohol and heat.

You shouldn’t have come.

But you did.

You’re halfway through a drink you don’t even remember pouring when the front door opens—and something shifts.

Not the music. Not the people.

The energy.

It’s subtle at first. A few heads turn. Conversations stutter. There’s this strange ripple through the room like people can’t quite figure out why they suddenly feel… watched.

You glance over.

And there they are.

Remmick stands at the door like he belongs there—like he’s always belonged there—shoulders relaxed, expression easy, polite even. The others linger just behind him, quiet, composed, out of place in a way that makes your stomach tighten.

Too clean.

Too calm.

Too aware.

Someone from the party laughs, claps him on the shoulder like they’re old friends. Remmick smiles—just enough to pass. Just enough to blend.

But his eyes—

His eyes don’t move like everyone else’s.

They’re searching.

They land on you.

And stay there.

Your breath catches before you can stop it.

You look away first.

Big mistake.

Because now you feel it. That awareness. Like a thread’s been pulled tight between you, even across the room.

You try to shake it off. Take another sip. Laugh at something someone says.

Doesn’t work.

A minute later, you’re already moving.

You don’t remember deciding to. Just that suddenly the walls feel too close, the noise too much, and the only thing that makes sense is getting out—just for a second.

Just to breathe.

The night air hits cool against your skin as you step outside, the door thudding shut behind you. The music dulls instantly, replaced by quiet and distant bass.

You barely get a second—

“Leaving already?”

Your stomach drops.

He’s there.

Leaning against the porch railing like he’s been waiting. Like he knew you’d come out.

Remmick straightens slowly, pushing off the wood, eyes already on you. Not surprised. Not curious.

Certain.

You cross your arms without thinking, more to ground yourself than anything. “It’s loud.”

“Mmm.” He tilts his head slightly, like he’s considering that. “Didn’t seem like the kind of thing that bothered you.”

There’s something in the way he says it.

Like he knows you.

Like he’s been watching longer than you realized.

You shift your weight. “Do I know you?”

His mouth twitches. Not quite a smile.

“I think you would’ve remembered.”

Your pulse ticks up.

He steps closer—not fast, not aggressive. Just enough to close some of the space between you. Enough that you can feel the difference in temperature, the subtle shift in the air.

Too close for someone you just met.

Not close enough to justify stepping back.

“You came out here awful quick,” he adds quietly.

You scoff, but it comes out thinner than you meant. “I said—it’s loud.”

“Right.”

Another step.

Now it’s noticeable.

Now it’s deliberate.

“And it had nothin’ to do with me?”

Your breath hitches—just slightly.

He notices.

His gaze drops, not fully—just enough to catch the movement of your chest, the way your fingers tighten where they’re tucked against your arms. Then back up again, slow, unhurried.

Taking his time.

Like he’s got plenty of it.

Like you’re not going anywhere.

“I don’t even know you,” you say, quieter now.

“That’s the interesting part.”

The words land heavier than they should.

He’s close enough now that if you shifted forward even a little, you’d brush against him. Close enough that you can see the way his eyes track every tiny reaction you try to hide.

Close enough that the rest of the world—the party, the noise, the people—feels very, very far away.

“You should probably go back inside,” you add, but there’s no bite to it. No real push.

His gaze flicks past you—toward the door. Toward the noise, the warmth, the people packed inside.

Then back to you.

Something shifts.

He steps closer—not crossing anything, not forcing—but enough that the space between you feels… thinner. Charged.

“I would,” he says quietly, almost amused. “If I could.”

Your brows pull together slightly. “What, the door’s locked or something?”

A soft huff of breath leaves him—almost a laugh, but not quite.

“Not exactly.”

His eyes hold yours, steady, unreadable… waiting.

And then it clicks.

Not the words.

The feeling.

That strange, crawling awareness from earlier—the way the room shifted when he walked up, the way everyone let him stand there like he belonged, even when something felt off.

“You didn’t come in,” you say slowly.

It’s not really a question.

His mouth curves—just barely. Not smug. Not kind.

Knowing.

“No one asked.”

Your stomach flips.

The air feels colder now.

Quieter.

He leans in just slightly—not touching, not crossing—but close enough that his voice drops, low and deliberate.

“Go on,” he murmurs. “Invite me.”

A pause.

Your heartbeat’s loud in your ears.

Because suddenly it doesn’t feel like a small thing.

It feels like a line.

And he’s waiting for you to erase it.

His eyes don’t leave yours.

“Or don’t,” he adds softly, like it doesn’t matter.

Like he hasn’t already decided how this ends.

Foolishly, you invite him in.

“Come with me, it’s best you stay out of the way,” you say, already turning before you can overthink it.

You don’t wait to see if he follows.

You know he will.

The noise of the party swallows you both again for a moment—heat, bodies, laughter—but it feels different now. Sharper. Like everything’s been edged in something you can’t quite name.

You push through the crowd, down the hallway, past half-open doors until you find one empty.

You slip inside.

A second later, the door clicks shut behind you.

And there he is.

Closer than before.

“This your attempt at getting me alone, sweetheart?” he asks.

That low, amused edge in his voice makes your stomach twist.

You roll your eyes, turning slightly, more to give yourself something to do than anything else. “You said you couldn’t come in. Figured I’d help you out.”

“Mm.” He takes a slow step forward, gaze dragging over you like he’s taking inventory. “Very kind of you.”

There’s something about the way he says it that makes it sound like anything but.

You lean back against the edge of the dresser, arms crossing again—your default defense. “Don’t read into it.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

Another step.

He takes his time like he’s already won something you haven’t realized you gave him.

The room suddenly feels smaller. Quieter.

The music outside is muffled now, just a dull thud through the walls, and all you can really hear is your own breathing—and his.

“You always pull strangers into bedrooms at parties?” he asks, tilting his head slightly.

You scoff, but it comes out weaker than you intended. “You’re the one who wanted in.”

“Did I say that?” he murmurs.

He’s close now.

Close enough that you’d only need to shift a few inches—

His hand lifts. Just hovering—near your arm, your waist.

Your breath stutters despite yourself.

His eyes flick down, catching it instantly.

There’s that look again.

“Careful,” he says quietly.

Your fingers tighten slightly against your arms, but you don’t move away. Don’t tell him to stop. Don’t break whatever this is.

And that seems to be all the permission he needs.

He leans in slowly—

Close enough that you can feel his breath now, warm against your skin, his voice dropping to something almost private.

“Inviting me in…” he murmurs, just barely there, “and then dragging me somewhere quiet.”

A pause.

His gaze lifts back to yours.

“You’re either very brave…”

His hand finally, finally brushes against you—light, testing—

“…or you’ve got no idea what you’ve just done.”

You don’t say anything.

You just move first.

It’s quick—almost reckless—the way you close the space between you, your hand catching the front of his shirt as you pull him down into you. For a split second, he stills, like he wasn’t expecting you to be the one to break.

Then he kisses you back.

Hard.

There’s nothing gentle about it. No hesitation. His hand tightens at your waist instantly, pulling you flush against him as if he’s been holding back and just… stopped trying. Your breath catches against his mouth, the force of it, the way he takes control just as quickly as you gave it up.

It’s messy. Hot. All teeth and pressure and barely-contained restraint.

His hand slides up your side, gripping, anchoring you there while the other comes to your jaw, tilting your head just enough for him to deepen the kiss. You melt into it before you can stop yourself—before you can think, before you can remember why this might be a bad idea.

A soft sound slips out of you, barely there, but he hears it. Of course he does.

He pulls back just enough to look at you, breathing uneven, eyes darker now—something sharper sitting behind them.

“Yeah…” he murmurs, voice rough. “That’s what I thought.”

You barely get a second to process it before his mouth is on you again—but not your lips this time.

Your neck.

The shift is immediate. Different.

His kisses there are slower, dragging, deliberate, like he’s savoring it—like he’s testing just how far he can push before you stop him. You don’t. Your head tips back without meaning to, fingers tightening in his shirt as your breathing stutters again.

“Sensitive, are you?” he murmurs against your skin, the words ghosting over you before his mouth follows again—hot, insistent, leaving a trail that makes your knees feel weaker than you’d like to admit.

You melt.

There’s no other word for it. The tension, the noise, the world outside—it all disappears under the weight of it, under the way he’s got you pinned there without even trying, like he knows exactly what he’s doing. Like he’s done this before.

His hand presses firmer at your waist, holding you steady as his mouth lingers at your throat—

And then it changes.

Subtle, but wrong.

The pressure of his mouth shifts. Still close, still warm—but there’s something else under it now, something that makes your stomach drop even as your body reacts the same way. You barely get time to register it.

His grip tightens—not painfully, just enough—and then—

A sharp, sudden bite.

You gasp, the sound breaking out of you before you can stop it, hands gripping him tighter on instinct, but he doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t ease up. If anything, he leans in closer, teeth sinking in firm and deliberate, like this was always where it was heading.

Your vision blurs for a second—shock, heat, something overwhelming all at once—

The door flies open.

“—oh my God—”

Your friends’ voices cut through the room, loud, startled, half-laughing—until they stop.

Because what they see isn’t just you making out with some guy from the party.

You’re pressed back against the dresser, head tipped, body slack under his hold—and he’s buried against your neck. Too still. Too focused. Not reacting to the interruption at all.

For a second, no one moves.

Then, slowly, he lifts his head just enough—not letting you go, his hand still firm at your waist. His gaze flicks toward the doorway, completely calm, completely unbothered.

Like he’s already decided no one here is going to stop him.

[rhaenyraeri]

vampire heart - remmick

minors dni, 18+!!

pairing: remmick x fem!vampire!reader

summary: one night, remmick couldn’t control himself. now you’re damned to eternity alongside him, without your say so.

warnings: smut, fem!receiving oral, overstimulation, themes of blasphemy?, crying after sex

word count: 2.9k

the room was dim, the candles in the windowsill, half melted onto the wood, were the only light. the flickers danced against remmick, highlighting the emotions cast on his face. blood covered his usual light blue shirt. he sat on the edge of your bed, claws ripping at the fabric of his jeans as they curled over his knees. his knuckles are white, the inner turmoil and anxiety he felt finding themselves exuding through his fingers. you’re standing in the doorframe of the bedroom, eyes locked onto him as your eyes furrowed at him.

a few nights ago, like usual, remmick came stomping up your porch steps after striding through the woods to your home. you’d let him in, and you could tell something was off. no matter the issues, he usually had the same gentlemanly demeanor towards you. but that night, he felt different. as soon as the door shut behind him, he pushed you up against the wall. he kissed you with more ferocity, more.. power. it was unfamiliar to you, but nevertheless played into it. that was until, however, he kissed down you neck and the darkest, strangest, inhuman snarl evoked from him. you’d never been around remmick when he fed, but if you were to guess, that’s exactly what his victims heard before their demise. your vision went dark, and the last thing you heard was remmick saying “no, please, no.” over and over again. and then, what seemed like just a second later, you woke up in bed. tucked under the sheets. you were still dazed by everything, not entirely sure of what happened until you went outside to get some fresh air. the second the sun hit your skin, a blazing pain coursed your skin. you jumped back until you hit the wall, the smell of burning flesh and ash filled your nose. and then it made sense quick; he’d turned you. and you had no say in it.

now, here the two of were, two creatures of the night, just staring at each other. his black eyes pierced red lights into your own— something you would have to adjust to for a while. finally, the silence breaks, as you hear a small sigh leave him.

“i-i know i shouldn’t have done that. i wish i could tell you i tried harder to prevent it but i’d be lyin’ to you. i knew that what i felt the other night was too much for me to control but i-i still came here. i knew what it would do to you, darlin’, and yet i did it anyway.”

your eyes drifted to the floor, taking in what he’d just said. he realized that his vampire nature became too much the other night. he knew he could hurt you— kill you, even— yet he still came crawling to your doorstep asking to be let in. you didn’t say anything at first, your reply wouldn’t make sense if you spewed out the first thing that came to mind. it’s too hard to focus now. your hearing is tuned in to every little nook and cranny, every little sound you can hear at once. your vision is pristine; hell, you weren’t even sure if it could get this good. every scent was stronger, and you could smell fear now. passerby’s that now drove past your suddenly empty home had the aura of fear, despair, and intrigue. your heart doesn’t beat, and somehow that’s the worst of it all. the emptiness in your chest heightened your other senses and feelings, but the vacancy hit the hardest.

“why? how was that night any different then the ones before?” you voice cracked, trembling at first as you’re still taking in everything. no matter the situation, he’d always come to your home for comfort and treat you like the best damn thing to ever happen to him. because you were. you are.

he got up from the bed, walking over to you and took both of your hands into his.

“i couldn’t.. i-i couldn’t lose you, darlin’. i got too into my head about losin’ you one day and it sent me spiralin’. you’re too fragile as a human, who knows what could’ve happened to you. what if you died a-and i didn’t know where you’d gone.. it destroyed me to think about that. i love you, darlin’, and i would do anything in this world to keep you around.” his eyes softened, the thoughts coming back to him hard. though this time, they’re filled with sorrow and remorse. he knew he did something horrible to you.

“remmick.. i-” you started, trying to find the response that described how you felt. you sighed, before trying again, “i wanted to be with you forev-“

“wanted?,” he cut you off, his dead heart breaking as he almost felt it skip. he tried to meet your eyes, but you looked down, squeezing them shut. you did want forever with him- you do, but as of now, you’re unhappy with him. slowly opening your eyes, you stared right into his as the look for despair sent more regret through his body.

“i did- i do, rem. but i didn’t ask for it that night. you took it upon yourself to change me. i wanted to come to terms with ending my human life before changing for eternity as a vampire. now i’m here, i-i’ve got family that i wanted to see a little longer. now i can’t, remmick, in fear i’ll kill them. i can’t forgive you.” tears started to fill your eyes, looking straight into his. his hands let go of yours, and he ran them up for arms to your shoulders, his grip firm but loving.

“i will spend the rest of my life regretting it, darlin’. i-i-i can’t go back and undo it or i would. i promise you, i wish i coulda controlled it better. my emotions got the best of me and it just happened. i-i’m not tryin’ to make excuses, just know i’m so sorry, sugar. if you want, i-i’ll leave. you won’t have to see me again. i’ll live out each day atonin’ for this.”

“no, you don’t get to leave, remmick. you don’t get to walk away. you did this to me, you stay. you suffer this with me. as much as you’ve really pissed me off, i can’t go on without you. fuck, i’m.. this life is gonna be forever, so we might as well stay together.”

this silence after is deafening, like he’s taking in a lifetime’s worth of pain all at once. he would spend the rest of his days crawling this earth on his hands and knees begging for your forgiveness if it meant you’d stick around.

after a few seconds, remmick nodded his head like he’d spent forever waiting for you to say that. your arms wrapped around his waist, pulling yourself into him. despite it all, you knew eventually you would forgive him. you had to. he’s the one you want to spend eternity with. you just had the last part of your humanity ripped from you without your say. it’ll take a long, long time to adjust to that, if ever. his arms hugged you back, holding you tight as one hand cradled the back of your head. you felt him shake, before hearing a small sniffle.

“i love you so goddamn much, sweetheart. i-i love you more than anything on this earth and you know i would die for you. i’m sorry i did what i did without you tellin’ me you’re ready, i really am. i just hope one day you can forgive me. i’ll spend every hour of every day makin’ it up to you and worshippin’ the ground you walk on until you do.”

you pulled back from the hug, putting a hand on his face. his eyes were red from the tears, lip trembling. he looked like a kicked puppy. you’ve never saw him this way. he’s never done anything to warrant these emotions— until now. and it’s tearing at your heartstrings. he’s never told you about how he became a vampire, but from the small comments he’d made, you figured he didn’t want this life at all. and now that he’d come to terms with it, he’d ripped life from the one he loved. something he didn’t want to do, but it’s happened. there’s no going back. they’ll have to go through eternity together.

you put your forehead to his, the hand on his cheek moved to the back of his head, playing with some of his hair. “i love you too, rem. we’ll just have to get through this together.” you kissed him, and you could feel every emotion he had for you in the way he reciprocated. it was loving, careful, but still strong. like he wouldn’t kiss you again.

“let me take care of you, sugar. let me make it up to you,” he whispered as he pulled back, taking your hand and leading you to your bedroom. he got to work on your dress, taking his time as to not ruin it. he laid you on the bed, standing back to look at you. “you’re so beautiful, darlin’.“

he crawled onto the bed, running a hand up your leg, then thigh, before hooking his finger around your underwear. his other hand followed suit, pulling them down and tossing them somewhere in your room. “so goddamn beautiful,” he muttered to himself before kissing your hip, then right above your pussy. he took your legs and put them over his shoulders, planting one more kiss directly onto your pussy. the shivers ran up your spine, chill bumps forming on your arms. he’d touched you like this before, more than you could count, but it’s different this time. your senses are heightened. it’s like the first time all over again.

his tongue licked a loving stripe right up your pussy, and he gave another kiss. “love you so much, i’ll spend every day between your legs showin’ you how much i mean it,” he promised, before licking your center with passion and tenderness, like he’s savoring you. the taste of you was something he’d never get tired of. his tongue dove deeper into your core, more than you thought was possible. the sounds of your slick and his saliva were all you could hear, and it’s all you wanted to hear right now. one of your hands went to his hair, gripping lightly as he went to work on you. each click and wet slurp gave you a reminder of how much he loved you. you pushed his face closer to your center, feeling his nose rub your clit as he didn’t let a drop of your arousal go to waste. he hummed against you, almost sending you over the edge then and there. he took a finger and inserted it into you, slowly working his magic. your moans grew more desperate, so close to your release. he pulled his mouth off before adding a second finger, and kissing your thigh, “you taste like heaven, darlin’. so, so good. could stay here forever.” he looked up at you as your breathing got quicker. your moans and whimpers for more were like a choir to him, the most beautiful sound he’d ever heard. his mouth went back to work on your clit, humming one more time as you came on his face. the hand you gripped his hair with held him in place as your hips rocked against him, overstimulated as he continued licking and sucking, but you couldn’t get enough. the newfound feeling of vampiric senses changed how it all felt— so much more addicitng.

he stopped, kissing your pussy once again, then leaning his head against your thigh. his fingers came to a slow stop. he took them out and brought them to his mouth, savoring the taste for the last time. “mmm, so perfect, darlin’. i’ll never get tired of how beautiful you taste.” you gave him a small smile. he kissed up your stomach, then to each breast, and finally to your lips. the taste of your slick and the slightest bit of his vampiric drool filling your mouth as he kissed you with love and passion. he unbuttoned his shirt, laying it beside the two of you on the bed before shuffling his pants and underwear off.

“you ready, darlin’?”

you nodded, feeling him slowly push himself into you. his breath hitched, a content sigh falling out as he looked into your eyes. you whined, the sensation of him in you this time now felt different— good, different. he slowly started to move, his eyes not looking away from your face as the pleasure began to build up. his hips worked expertly on you. “fuck, you feel so good, rem,” you praised. words he didn’t think he’d hear again after he did what he did. his hips sped up, your moans encouraging him to pick up the pace. “you’re perfect for me, darlin’.” his moans are low, but he’s more vocal than usual. almost whiny at times. he placed a hand on each side of you, his loving thrusts getting more desperate and rough. your legs wrapped around his waist, giving him better access to your pussy. his cross necklace dangled in front of you, occasionally hitting you in the face as he bucked his hips faster into your core.

propping himself up, he took one hand and brought the pendant to his mouth, biting it to keep it out of your face. you’re supposed to be mad at him, you still are, but the way he looked down at you with the cross pendant bit between his teeth as he fucks you almost made you forget it all. he groans, he doesn’t have much longer until he comes, knowing you’re close too. another thing you’ll have to get used to. your breathing grows more rapid, his thrusts feel deeper and more desperate. drool seeps out of his mouth and into your face, and you move your head to find the perfect angle so it drips into your own mouth, drinking up every bit he offered to you. he moves to hold himself up with his forearm, the other hand going between you to rub your clit, bringing you closer to your release. you take one hand off his neck, moving it to pull the necklace out of his mouth and into yours. it was wet, covered in saliva and vampiric drool, and seeing you bite it, holding it almost like a leash, had him bucking his hips as he came. you followed suit just seconds after, his thrusts slow, guiding the two of you through your high. “i love you, sugar,” he whispered into your ear, kissing the shell of it as you slowly nodded, your moans preventing you from replying. his lips trailed down, planting small kisses on your neck; right where he had bit you a couple nights before. your eyes closed, as you tried to catch your breath. you let go of the pendant, moving your head up to kiss him on the neck, reciprocating the feeling. unspoken, but now known between you two as a sentiment of your life together. it reminded him again of how he went against what you wished, changing you for his own selfish ways. his hips picked up the pace again; rough, messy. you were getting overstimulated, but remmick was lost in his own world. there was no rhythm to the thrusts, just desperate jolts into your core. he’s still face level with your ear, and between each hoarse wail of a moan you let out, you heard a muttered phrase.

“i’m sorry, i’m so sorry.”

“fuck, darlin’. i’m sorry.”

“i love you so much.”

he’s fucking an apology into you, and you accept it and forgive him. you ‘shh’ him, holding him closer to you as the sloppy thrusts slow to a stop, the both of you overstimulated and exhausted. your eyes close as both of you calm your bodies down from everything. silence begins take over as the breathing comes to a calming pace. then you feel a cold wetness roll down your shoulder, then another, and then a sniffle. he’s crying. you kiss his neck once more, using your hands to guide his face to look at you, taking your thumbs to wipe at his eyes.

“rem, i.. i forgive you, honey. i do. it’ll all be okay. it’ll take me some time to get used to this, but.. i know i want to spend the rest of our lives together, and this is just a bump along the road. it’ll be okay, i promise. i love you so, so much.”

he rests his forehead against yours, the tears falling quicker and you’re there to wipe them away. “i’m gonna love you forever, sweetheart. forever. i’m gonna love you til death do us part.”

and from that night, the two of you worked on your small cottage, boarding up the windows to prevent sunlight, spending the rest of your days in your own little home. it wasn’t what either of you thought your life would lead to, and despite everything, it was ideal for the two of you. he found you a nice ring, and himself a gold band, and the two of you had everything you could ask for. you made it work. you had to. the two of you loved each other for better or for worse, and that reigned true for you, until that fateful night at the juke joint.

[bokonowriter]

A Vow of Shadow And Ash

⋆ ˚｡⋆౨ৎ˚ Knight! Remmick x Princess! Reader

⭑𓂃 WC: 4.6K words

⭑𓂃 Summary: You were raised to be a prize for a crown you never wanted, but in the dead of night, the silent knight at your door becomes your ruin. One touch from Remmick is enough to make you forget your vows, choosing the shadow of his possessive claim over the gold of a hollow throne.

⭑𓂃 contents: Explicit sexual content, knight/princess forbidden romance, heavy power dynamics, possessive & territorial behavior, biting/marking, praise play, dirty talk, overstimulation, p in v, fingering and begging. mdni(18+ only)

Sleep would not come.

It lingered just out of reach, leaving you tangled in silk and fur sheets and restless thoughts that refused to quiet. The fire had burned low. The candles had guttered. Still, your mind paced.

The letter lay open beside your bed.

You had read it too many times now. Each pass made it worse. Not cruel. Not insulting. Just empty. A stranger agreeing to claim you like land, like coin, like something that came with a signature and a seal.

No questions. No interest. No you.

Your chest tightened. Heat prickled behind your eyes, equal parts anger and humiliation.

You swung your legs over the side of the bed.

The floor was cold. Your nightgown thin. The air sharper than you expected, but it felt grounding, real in a way nothing else had all evening.

You paced once. Twice. Hands dragging through your hair, breath uneven.

It was ridiculous.

You were a princess. You knew your duty. You had been raised on it, shaped by it, praised for how well you carried it.

So why did it feel like you were being quietly erased?

Your gaze drifted to the door, where you knew he'd be.

He was always there at this hour. Posted outside your chambers, silent as stone, watching the corridor while the rest of the world slept.

The thought came before you could stop it.

He would listen.

Not like the advisors. Not like the maids. Not like the prince.

Just… listen.

You crossed the room before you could talk yourself out of it and pulled the door open.

And there he stood. Remmick.

He was a pillar of dark iron and silent menace, his back against the wall opposite of your door. He didn’t move as you stepped out, the silk of your nightgown whispering against your ankles—a sound that felt like a scream in the dead of night.

He didn't even turn his head, but you saw the muscle in his jaw jump. He knew exactly who was standing there, and he wasn't going to give you the satisfaction you desired.

“You stand outside my door every night,” you said softly. “You watch over me while I sleep.”

Your fingers curled in the thin fabric of your nightgown.

“Tell me, Sir Remmick… when you hear me pacing like this, do you tell yourself it’s only duty that keeps you there?”

Finally, he turned. Slowly. Deliberately. The flickering torchlight caught the hard planes of his face, the scars that told stories of wars you’d only read about.

His throat worked before he spoke. A thick swallow. Controlled, but not enough.

He stepped into your space, the scent of rain and cold steel hitting you like a physical blow. He was so close you could feel the radiating heat of his body through his leather gambeson.

“I am but your shade, Princess,” he rasped, the words rough, dragged from somewhere deep and unwilling. His gaze dropped, betraying him for a heartbeat as it lingered on your mouth before snapping back to your eyes.

He did not touch you. He wouldn’t.

“And shades have no say in the iron that binds you,” he continued, quieter now. “They follow. They endure.”

A breath passed between you, sharp and unsteady.

“So go back inside.”

It wasn’t a request. It was a warning—the kind a predator gives before patience runs out. His voice scraped low and rough through the corridor, flint striking steel in the dark.

Your heart hammered against your ribs, a frantic bird seeking escape. But you didn’t retreat.

You took one step. Then another. Until the heat radiating from his broad frame chased the cold from your skin, until the space between you felt charged, fragile.

“Don’t,” you said softly, shaking your head. Not refusal. Not obedience. Just… disbelief. “You look at me like I matter,” you continued, voice tightening. “Like I’m more than the crown. More than the bargain.”

Another step. Close enough now to feel his breath.

“And then the next moment, you stand there and pretend I’m nothing but a duty you’re forced to endure.” Your gaze searched his, sharp and unflinching. “Doesn’t it ever exhaust you?” you asked. “Pretending you don’t feel it?”

Silence stretched, taut as a drawn bow.

“I’ve seen the way you watch me, Remmick. I’m not blind. So tell me…” Your voice dropped, barely more than breath. “Why is it that one moment you’re right here—”

You lifted a hand, hovering near his chest but not touching.

“—and the next, you act like I’m already gone?”

For a moment, something dangerous flickered in his eyes. Not anger. Not frustration. But want.

Your name almost left his mouth.

Instead, he inhaled slowly through his nose, like a man steadying himself before stepping back into battle.

“Do not do this,” he said, low and strained. Not harsh. Not yet. His hand twitched at his side, as if it wanted to reach for you and thought better of it. “You think I don’t feel it?” His voice dropped further, roughened by the admission. “You think I have not spent every night outside that door convincing myself I am stone?”

A beat.

“I am not blind. And I am not immune.”

There it was. The truth. Bare and dangerous.

Then he straightened.

“But I swore an oath,” he continued, steel creeping back into his tone. “To protect you. To protect this crown. That oath does not bend because I…” He stopped himself.

Because I want you.

He swallowed.

“So go back inside,” he finished, firmer now. “Before we both forget what we are.”

His words settled between you like iron.

Duty. Oath. Crown.

All the things meant to stand taller than either of you.

You searched his face, looking for the wall he kept rebuilding between you. It was there. It always was. But now you could see the cracks in it. The strain in his jaw. The careful distance he forced into his stance.

You hated it.

Hated the way he could stand inches from you and still pretend this was nothing. That you were nothing more than another post to guard.

“Before we both forget what we are,” you repeated quietly. Your hand lifted before you could think better of it. Not touching. Just hovering near his chest, close enough to feel the warmth of him, the rise and fall of his breathing. “What are we, then?” you asked.

Not princess. Not knight.

Just two people standing too close in the dark.

His breath hitched. Subtle. Barely there. But you felt it.

He didn’t step back.

He should have.

Instead, his hand came up, stopping just short of your wrist, like he meant to push you away and couldn’t quite bring himself to make contact.

“Go inside,” he said again, quieter now. Rougher. Less command, more plea.

Your heart pounded so loudly you were sure he could hear it.

He wouldn’t touch you. He wouldn’t cross the line. Which meant the choice… was yours. You leaned in just enough that your voice brushed his throat.

“Make me,” you whispered.

The words were a spark in a room full of gunpowder.

Remmick went still. Not relaxed. Not calm. Still in the way a drawn blade holds still before it strikes.

His pupils widened, swallowing the color from his eyes until they were almost black, reflecting torchlight and the defiance burning across your face.

For a heartbeat, he didn’t breathe.

Then his hand moved faster than your eyes could follow.

In an instant, his gloved fingers twisted into the silk at your waist, anchoring you in place, his other hand slamming against the stone beside your head with a bone-jarring crack. He leaned in, close enough that your breath tangled together, the scent of cedar, cold rain, and steel filling your lungs.

“You think this is a game,” he growled, voice raw, fraying at the edges. “To see how far you can push me?”

His gaze dropped to your mouth, then dragged back up like it burned.

“I have spent years learning how not to touch you,” he said, quieter now, the admission almost breaking. “Years pretending I do not hear your heartbeat through those walls.”

He pressed closer, not crushing, but close enough that the heat of him chased away every trace of cold.

“If I cross this line…” His voice faltered, the first true crack. “There is no going back for me. Not to duty. Not to restraint.” A breath. Heavy. Uneven. “I would tear this kingdom apart before I let them give you to someone who sees you as nothing.”

You didn’t pull away.

Your back pressed to the cold stone, his body heat wrapping around you like a second skin, your pulse racing so hard it made your ribs ache. For a moment, the world narrowed to the sound of his breathing, the tension in his grip, the war written plainly across his face.

Years. He said years.

All that time you thought you imagined it. The glances. The silence. The way he always seemed to appear before you even called.

Your hand lifted, slower than his had been, giving him time to stop you.

He didn’t.

Your fingers settled against his chest, feeling the frantic rhythm beneath leather and discipline.

"Let it burn, then," you whispered, the words raw against his mouth. “Let the stone crumble. Let the crown roll into the dirt.” Your grip tightened.“I am being sold, Sir Remmick. Auctioned like a prize mare to a man who will not even bother to learn the color of my eyes before he lays claim to me.”

A low, guttural sound—half-growl, half-shuddering groan—vibrated through Remmick’s chest, rattling the very steel he wore. His restraint didn't just crack; it vanished. His gauntleted hand at your waist tightened, the cold metal anchoring you to him with a territorial force that lifted you slightly until your toes barely grazed the floor. He dropped his head into the crook of your neck, inhaling sharply as if the scent of you was the only thing keeping him tethered to the earth.

“You have no idea,” he rasped, voice frayed raw, “how many times I’ve imagined tearing apart the men who speak of you like you are something to be traded.”

His breath burned against your throat.

“How many nights I’ve stood outside this door reminding myself I am meant to guard you… not want you.”

He pulled back then, eyes blazing, not claiming but unraveling.

Then, with sudden, decisive movement, he reached past you.

The heavy iron handle of your bedchamber door turned with a click that echoed down the corridor like a judge’s gavel.

He didn't say another word. He simply steered you back into the darkness of your room, his massive, armored frame silhouetted against the guttering torchlight of the hall for one final heartbeat. Then, he reached back and shut the door.

The heavy iron bolt slid home with a resonant, bone-deep thud—a sound of finality that signaled the end of the Princess, the end of the vow, and the beginning of whatever was about to happen between these four walls.

But as the silence of the room swallowed them, Remmick didn't just move; he came undone.

The sound of his armor hitting the floor was deafening—a chaotic symphony of clattering plates and heavy leather. He tore at the buckles with a frantic, predatory energy, his gauntlets thudding onto the rug, followed by the heavy weight of his breastplate. He was shedding his skin, discarding the King’s colors until he was nothing but a man—a man who had been starving for the woman standing in the center of the shadows.

He crossed the remaining distance in a single, prowling stride.

“You want the ruin?” he growled, voice low and dangerous, vibrating through the air between you.

He didn’t wait for an answer. His hands found you — not frantic, not fumbling — but decisive. One at your waist. The other braced against the bedpost beside your head as he backed you toward it, until polished wood pressed firm against your spine.

“You think I do not know what I am risking?” His breath was hot against your cheek. “You think I have not measured this fall a thousand times?”

His thumb flexed at your hip, barely there, barely restrained.

“You asked me to burn,” he said, softer now, more dangerous for it. “So understand this.” He leaned closer, close enough that your mouths almost touched. “If I touch you the way I have dreamed of touching you… there will be no knight left in this room.”

With a slow, decisive tug, he hiked the fabric up, his knuckles grazing the sensitive skin of your thighs. The contrast was a shock to the system: the cool night air hitting your skin, followed immediately by the searing, possessive heat of his palms that stole your breath.

He leaned in, his nose brushing against yours, his breath coming in ragged, uneven hitches. His fingers moved with a deliberate, torturous slowness, tracing the line where your stockings met your skin, teasing the edge of your resolve.

"Tell me," he rasped, his thumb circling a spot that made your vision blur. His dark eyes were fixed on yours, demanding every ounce of your surrender. "Tell me what you want, Princess. I want to hear you break. I want to hear you beg for the man you chose over your crown."

The air in the room was thick, charged with the scent of discarded iron and the raw, heavy musk of a man who had finally stopped pretending.

"I want you," you breathed, the words a jagged confession that had been clawing at your throat for years. Your hands, trembling but certain, found the damp cotton of his tunic. "I have only ever wanted you. To hell with the crown. To hell with the King."

Remmick paused, his large, callous-roughened hands still gripping your thighs, his knuckles white against your skin. He looked up at you, his steal blue eyes searching yours with a searing intensity that felt like it was stripping your soul bare.

"Are you sure, Princess?" he exhailed, his voice a low, warning growl. "Because once I start, I’m not stopping. There will be nothing left of that girl they're trying to sell."

You didn't answer with words. You curled your fingers into the front of his tunic and hauled him toward you, a silent command for him to shut up and take what was already his.

When the kiss broke and finally looked at you, there was no knight left in his eyes. Only a man who had chosen you.

A wicked, predatory smile pulled at the corner of Remmick’s mouth—a look of pure, unadulterated triumph. He wouldn't hesitate again.

He drove two fingers inside you with a sharp, possessive depth that stole the air from your lungs. Your head hit the bedpost with a soft thud as your back arched, a broken sound escaping your lips. Before you could even find your rhythm, he added a third, his hand moving with a ruthless, expert precision that made your vision spark white.

The friction was relentless. He began to pump his fingers in and out in a steady, demanding cadence, the thick muscles of his forearm flexing with every thrust. You could feel the deliberate stretch of your walls, the slick, tight heat of your body struggling to accommodate the invasive breadth of him. Each time he withdrew almost to the entrance before plunging back in to the hilt, it felt like he was re-mapping your very anatomy, claiming every inch of the "ruin" he had promised.

"Remm—"

"Yes princess?" He looked up at you, and the sheer force of his gaze was enough to pin you to the headboard.

His eyes were a devastating, crystalline blue—the color of a frozen lake just before the ice cracks, or the heart of a lightning storm trapped in a human skull. They were terrifyingly bright against the dark, jagged scars on his face and the charcoal smudge of his lashes. In the guttering torchlight, they seemed to glow with a predatory intelligence, tracking every flinch of your muscles, every frantic hitch in your breathing.

"Fuck—I—" You couldn't speak even if you wanted to. The world was narrowing down to the rhythmic, heavy stretch of his three fingers and the icy fire in those eyes.

He chuckled, a low, dark vibration that rumbled in his chest and echoed in your own. He didn't look away, not for a second. He watched the way your pupils dilated until the gold of your own eyes was nearly swallowed by the black, his blue gaze burning with a terrifying, triumphant heat. He was memorizing you—shattering the Princess and worshiping the woman beneath, all while his hand continued its ruthless, expert work.

"Will he ever make you lose control the way you are right now?" Remmick rumbled against the sensitive skin of your neck. He felt the frantic pulse of your body against his hand, the way you were already melting for him. "I've barely touched you, and you're already mewling my name into the dark."

He shifted, his thumb finding the center of the storm and pressing with a rhythmic, devastating pressure that made your knees finally give out. The smile on his face turned into something darker, something that promised you would never be the same again.

But when he withdrew his hand, the sudden absence made you whimper—a small, broken sound of loss that seemed to echo in the hollow silence of the room. You reached for him, your fingers curling into the rough fabric of his tunic, pulling him back toward the bed.

"Don't stop," you gasped, your voice trembling with a raw, jagged hunger. "Remmick, please... I want more. I want everything. I don't care about the crown. I just want you."

The admission was the final spark in the room full of gunpowder. Remmick let out a predatory growl, his crystalline blue eyes flashing with a sudden, violent intent. He didn't make you wait.

He hooked his arms under your knees and tossed you back onto the center of the bed. You hit the silk sheets with a soft thud, your hair fanning out like a dark halo against the pillows.

Remmick stood at the edge of the mattress for a heartbeat, his massive frame silhouetted against the moonlight. His hands went to the fly of his breeches, and as he began to stroke himself, his gaze raked over you with a terrifying, reverent hunger.

"Gods, you’re beautiful," he rasped, the words sounding like a prayer and a curse. His eyes lingered on the frantic rise and fall of your breasts, the flush creeping up your neck, and the sheer, undone desperation on your face. "So hauntingly beautiful, and not a single inch of it belongs to that Prince."

He lunged forward then, his large, calloused hand snapping around your ankle like a brand. With a single, effortless tug, he hauled you to the edge of the bed and hoisted your leg over his broad shoulder.

The position was raw, exposing you completely to the cool night air and the scorching, sapphire heat of his gaze. He didn't say another word. He was done worshiping from afar. He was moving in for the kill.

"Look at me," he commanded, his voice thick with a hunger that could level cities. "I want you to remember this when you're standing at that altar. I want you to feel me in your bones every time that man looks at you."

Then, he drove into you.

It was a devastating, soul-cleaving slide that filled the aching void you’d been carrying for years. You let out a strangled cry, your head snapping back against the wood of the bedpost, your fingers clenching the fur sheets beneath you. He didn't hold back; he fucked you with a desperate, untamed ferocity, his body a heavy, rhythmic weight of muscle and heat.

The sound of his skin hitting yours and the ragged, animalistic gasps for air were the only things filling the room. He was a force of nature, a storm that was tearing through everything you were supposed to be, leaving only what you truly were: his.

"Tell me," he rasped, his pace turning ruthless, his hand coming up to cup your jaw, his thumb forcing your chin up so you had no choice but to meet his gaze. "Whose are you?"

"Yours," you sobbed, the word breaking over the frantic rhythm of his heart. You arched your back, your nails drawing shallow red lines down his shoulders as you surrendered every ounce of your pride to the man who was currently dismantling your world. "I'm yours, Remmick. Only yours."

The admission seemed to fuel the fire in his veins. He didn't just hear the words; he devoured them.

"Good girl," he growled, the praise low and dark, vibrating through your entire body. It was the only reward you needed, a verbal brand that felt just as heavy as the weight of him.

He didn't stop there. As the peak of the storm finally gathered, a tidal wave of sensation that threatened to pull you under, Remmick leaned down. His hand gripped the back of your hair, tilting your head back to expose the delicate line of your throat to the moonlight.

You shut your eyes and tilted your head, giving him access.

His teeth sank into the tender skin where your neck met your shoulder, a sharp, possessive claim that made you cry out in a mix of pain and pure, unadulterated pleasure. It was a mark that would bloom into a dark bruise by morning—a jagged purple shadow that no silk collar or royal jewels could ever truly hide.

But Remmick wasn't finished. He didn’t pull away entirely; instead, the relentless pace of his hips slowed, shifting into a torturous, grinding friction that made your breath hitch in a new kind of agony. He stayed buried deep within you, his weight a heavy, grounding comfort, while his hand slid down between your bodies, his fingers sure and steady.

His thumb found you again, moving in slow, agonizingly perfect circles. It wasn't the predatory aggression from before; this was deliberate. Calculated. He was watching your face in the moonlight, tracking the way your eyes rolled back and your lips parted in a silent plea.

"Please," you whined, your fingers tightening in his hair, pulling his head back down to you. "Remmick, I—I can’t. I’m right there. Please let me."

"Let you what, baby?" he murmured, his voice a low, gravelly vibration that felt like velvet against your skin. He didn't stop the circles; if anything, he made them smaller, more focused, driving the sensation straight to your marrow. "Tell me exactly what you need."

"I need to cum. Please."

"Then do it," he commanded, his thumb increasing the pressure just enough to make your vision blur. "Do it for me. Just feel my hand. Feel how much I have you."

He talked you through it, his voice a steady, dark anchor as the tension in your lower belly coiled into a tight, vibrating wire. "That's it, sweetheart. Give it all to me. Break for me. Let me feel every bit of it."

When you finally shattered, it was a physical collapse—a blinding, white-hot release that had you sobbing his name into the crook of his neck. Your muscles clamped around him in tight, rhythmic waves, and the sound of your undone, messy breathing filled the room.

Remmick didn't wait for the tremors to fade. The sound of your surrender was the final blow to his own restraint. He let out a low, guttural growl, his fingers digging into your hips—marking your skin there, too—as he drove into you one last time, deeper than he had all night. He held himself there, his forehead pressed against yours, his teeth bared as he came inside of you with a force that made his entire muscular frame shudder.

Still he didn't pull back. He wanted to feel every part of you as you shook beneath him, so he stayed anchored within you, his breath hot and ragged against your skin, while the heavy silence of the room settled over the discarded armor and the beautiful, scorched-earth ruin you had both embraced.

The quiet was heavy, thick with the scent of salt and the iron of his discarded suit. Slowly, Remmick withdrew, the loss of his heat leaving you shivering against the damp sheets.

He didn't say a word as he crossed to the washstand, his movements still possessing that predatory grace even without the steel. He returned with a damp cloth, and with a tenderness that felt almost more dangerous than his ferocity, he began to clean you. His large, calloused hands moved over your skin with reverent care, lingering on the curves he had just claimed as his own.

When he finished, he turned to the heap of black plate on the floor. You watched from the tangle of furs as he began the grim task of putting the Knight back on. It was a slow, rhythmic ritual—the clink of the greaves, the snap of the leather straps.

Driven by a sudden, desperate need to be near him, you tried to slide off the bed. You wanted to help him with the heavy buckles of his breastplate, to feel the heat of his skin one last time before it was encased in ice.

But the moment your feet hit the rug, your knees gave way.

A soft, startled gasp escaped you as you gripped the bedpost to keep from collapsing, your legs feeling like water, trembling and utterly spent. Remmick was there in a heartbeat, catching you around the waist before you could fall. A dark, wicked glint returned to his eyes as he took in your disheveled state and your shaking limbs.

A slow, triumphant smile spread across his face—the look of a man who took immense joy in the physical evidence of your undoing.

"Going somewhere, princess?" he rasped, his voice a low, vibrating purr of satisfaction. He didn't just help you up; he held you against his chest, letting you feel the renewed strength in him. "You aren't going anywhere tonight. Not with those legs."

He easily swept you back into the center of the bed, tucking the heavy furs around you as if you were a precious, stolen treasure. He finished cinching his armor, the familiar, cold silhouette of the "silent protector" returning with every piece of metal. Once the last plate was locked, he leaned over the bed, his shadow looming large and lethal in the moonlight.

He reached out, his thumb grazing the dark, angry bite mark on your shoulder—the mark that would serve as your true crown from now on.

"Remember my promise," he whispered, his eyes obsidian and territorial through the darkness. "No one else touches this. You are mine, and I will burn this entire kingdom to ash before I let that Prince claim a single inch of what I’ve marked. Rest now."

He stepped back, his presence once again a pillar of iron. With one final, soul-searing look, he slipped out of the room. The bolt slid back into place from the outside, and as you lay there in the dark, the only sound was the rhythmic, heavy tread of your shadow returning to his post.

You lay there in the dark, the bite at your neck throbbing in time with your pulse, the sheets twisted around your legs like the wreckage of something sacred.

He would burn the kingdom for you.

You knew it.

And as you pressed your fingers to the mark he left behind, feeling the heat of it beneath your skin, a strange calm settled over you.

If the world demanded you choose—Crown or him. Duty or ruin.

You already knew your answer.

Part 2>