pathetic!needy! remmick who moans when you just start unzipping your jeans. not when you touch him, not when you say anything filthy—just that sound alone has him bucking into nothing, head tipped back, already blushing.
“you ain’t even touched me yet. fuckin’ hell, sweetheart…”
pathetic!needy!remmick who asks if he can beg. not if he can come. not if he can touch. he wants permission to fall apart first.
“lemme get on my knees. lemme earn it. please. i’ll be so good for you, i swear it.”
pathetic!needy!remmick who licks the spit off your fingers when you make him open his mouth. doesn’t question it, doesn’t flinch, just closes his eyes and moans like it’s holy.
“tastes like you. like heaven and hell all mixed up, darlin’. gonna ruin me, ain’t ya?”
pathetic!needy!remmick who cums from just you riding his face and pulling his hair, sobbing into your cunt while his hips stutter beneath you. and when you finally notice, he just pants,
“i’m sorry—i’m so sorry—I couldn’t help it, fuck—lemme make it up to you. sit back down. Please.”
pathetic!needy!remmick can’t stop leaking. the second he sees you in just your underwear, he's already staining through his boxers, cock twitching like it’s starving.
“fuck, look at me—look what you do to me. i ain’t even inside you yet and I’m fuckin’ weepin’ for it.”
pathetic!needy!remmick who moans when you slap him across the face and thanks you for it. red handprint blooming on his cheek and all.
“mmnf—thank you. thank you, darlin’. needed that. feels so good when you’re mean to me.”
pathetic!needy!remmick who cries when he comes. guttural, ruined sobs. whole-body shudder. you’ve left bruises on his hips, scratches down his back, and he still whispers through it,
“don’t stop, not done—please, gimme another—i can take it, fuckin’ wreck me, you own me, don’t you?”
pathetic!needy!remmick who is still hard. still. even after you’ve wrung him out three times—once with your hand, once with your cunt, once with your mouth. his cock’s a mess, red and swollen, twitching against his thigh. and he keeps trying to rut into the sheets like he thinks you’ll let him do it again.
“one more,” he pants, drooling a little where his face is smashed into the pillow. “c’mon, sugar. don’t gotta be nice. just fuckin’ take it from me.”
pathetic!needy!remmick who shakes when you press soft kisses into his jaw after destroying him, like it’s the gentleness that really breaks him.
“you love me or somethin’?” he says, voice ruined, cock twitching again like a reflex. “'cause I’d let you ruin me like that every night if it meant you’d kiss me after.”
angel’s notes! NNGGHHHHH fuck me. had to add my two cents here. ib: @somberomens "sub!pervert! remmick hcs" cuz she had the thots swirling around in my head. go read her hcs too!! lmk if u guys fuck w these kinds of hcs bcuz trust that i have wayyyy too many. muah!
preacher’s daughter!reader x remmick headcanons. MDNI (18+)
you never really liked music until you met REMMICK. every evening, you sit at his feet like a faithful pup, watching him strum his banjo under as the sky turns a lovely shade of bruise. the songs he plays for you aren’t the hymns you grew up listening to—those are replaced with irish folk songs that speak of longing and heartache, rebellion and freedom.
you don’t lie to him—because you know you can’t. REMMICK sees every filthy little fantasy that goes on inside your head. and being the attentive lover that he is, he acts on them.
REMMICK calls you his “sweet girl” more than your birth name. sometimes he lets slip, and gaelic rolls of his tongue: “a stór,” “mo chroi,” or “mo leanbh,”
you learned to fear your body the day you started bleeding. they told you it meant you were unclean, a temptation, a vessel for sin. REMMICK tells you otherwise. says your body is a vessel for pleasure, and proves it every time he spreads your thighs and dips his head. he loves it most when you’re on your period—drools for it, actually. claims that it’s the sweetest you ever taste.
you cried the first time (of many) he fucked you. not out of pain—no, but because it felt so good, and you liked it; all those years of sermons never warned you about missing out on that kind of sweetness.
once, you were told pleasure was a doorway to hell—now you live past the threshold every night, legs open, hands gripping the sheets. REMMICK never lets you forget how badly he wants you. you’ve woken up more than once to find his face nestled between your thighs. eyes gleaming in the dark, a leering smile full of teeth.
you used to get bruises on your knees from hours of prayer. now they bruise for other reasons. the good kind. you kneel at the foot of the bed, nightgown rucked up at your waist. the wooden floor bites at your skin with every thrust, but you don’t ever want REMMICK to stop. not when he’s hitting so hard that you see god. one hand tangled in your hair, the other flattened over your abdomen. “poor thing,” he licks a hot strip down the nape of your neck, and that’s when you start to tremble. “nothin’ holy about what you need, is there?”
𝐅𝐄𝐀𝐑-𝐈𝐒-𝐓𝐑𝐔𝐓𝐇 2025 — all rights reserved. do not modify, repost, translate, or plagiarise my content. ꕀ
ᴀ/ɴ: these have been floating around in my head since i saw the movie so it'd be an understatement to say just how excited i am to share them! for simplicity's sake i only wrote about one daughter but let's be real remmick would have like 4. i genuinely have so many more ideas than this so if i get a lot of traction i'm def doing like 5 parts. tried to go in a chronological-ish order! if imagining hot fictional characters as fathers is my favorite pasttime does that make me crazy? i don't do taglists personally, so just follow me if you want to be updated when i post c:
ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: none, enjoy the cutest vampire mass murderer as the most devoted father in the world! i even made the setting and time period very vague because i absolutely refuse to terrorize this adorable family.
part 2!
first and foremost, ʀᴇᴍᴍɪᴄᴋ could only be a girl dad. it is physically, spiritually, and cosmically impossible for this man to have sons. don't argue with me, argue with the universe.
from the start, ʀᴇᴍᴍɪᴄᴋ was incredibly attentive. if his baby girl so much as shifted lightly in her crib, he was already standing over her before you could even stir.
ʀᴇᴍᴍɪᴄᴋ insisted on skin-to-skin contact at every opportunity. didn't care if he had to stay still for HOURS. and he would too.
“she’s settlin’ her heart,” he'd whisper, “and mine’s the drum she’s gonna know first.”
ʀᴇᴍᴍɪᴄᴋ took her babbling dead seriously. would fold his arms, listen with furrowed brows, and nod as if absorbing the meaning of life.
talked to her constantly. about everything. you'd catch ʀᴇᴍᴍɪᴄᴋ engaging in full-on conversations with an infant.
“this right here’s nutmeg. we don’t touch that, ‘cause it’s strong. like your mama. now this is thyme. it teaches ya patience.” (he was very proud of that joke)
best believe ʀᴇᴍᴍɪᴄᴋ is singing to her if she won't go to sleep. real songs, not lullabies. low and soft. a little off key. a little too slow. and always with her name in the chorus.
if she trips over air, ʀᴇᴍᴍɪᴄᴋ's already crouched beside her like a medic on a battlefield.
“where’s it hurt, baby? show me. papa’s got you.”
ʀᴇᴍᴍɪᴄᴋ let her paint his nails. once. now it’s every saturday. sits there dead serious with one hand outstretched and the other holding a towel so she doesn’t drip.
says “gentle, baby” every time she pets a flower, every time she touches your face, every time she hugs his neck. because that’s how ʀᴇᴍᴍɪᴄᴋ taught her. love is gentle.
ʀᴇᴍᴍɪᴄᴋ never hid his vampiric features at home. she adores them. pokes at his fangs, tugs at his claws, stares into his eyes with not even a hint of fear. because there's no need to.
if she calls for ʀᴇᴍᴍɪᴄᴋ in the night, even once, he’s at her side with a glass of water, a fresh blanket, and at least four “ya okay, sugar?” before he even sits down.
when she gets sick, ʀᴇᴍᴍɪᴄᴋ holds her all night with one hand pressed to her forehead and the other on her back like he can make her feel better just by staying still enough.
do not ever ask ʀᴇᴍᴍɪᴄᴋ to discipline his daughter. ten minutes later, you'll find the two of them on the porch swing sharing a pint of ice cream and laughing like nothing happened.
“i talked to her,” he’d say, mouth full of rocky road (🤭). “we came to an understandin’.” they did not.
ʀᴇᴍᴍɪᴄᴋ is a constant bragger. constant. mentions her name in every single conversation, so avoid casually talking to him at all costs.
“my baby just got straight a’s. first grade, top of her class. can ya believe that?”
does not play when it comes to styling her hair. to learn, ʀᴇᴍᴍɪᴄᴋ sat on a little wooden stool for an entire afternoon under the careful eye of mama, focused like it was life of death. now he does them every sunday morning, and always ends with three sweet kisses.
“prettiest girl in the world. prettiest head of curls, too.”
ʀᴇᴍᴍɪᴄᴋ felt left out of not having a bonnet (literally made this :( face) so he wears one too. unironically loves it.
ʀᴇᴍᴍɪᴄᴋ always needs a picture of his family. first day of school, new dress, vacation, playing in the yard, doesn't matter. wallet’s full of folded photos and his side of the bedroom’s a shrine. framed memories everywhere. his girls, always.
y'all ain't never met a man who throws down in the kitchen more than ʀᴇᴍᴍɪᴄᴋ does. bakes, grills, fries, sautés, and seasons like nobody's business. he's been alive for over a millennium, so half the meals he makes have long been forgotten by the world. and of course he's teaching his baby girl all his skills.
girl ʀᴇᴍᴍɪᴄᴋ runs the pta like it's the navy. absolutely zero tolerance for slackers. despite his authoritarian, almost hivemindlike (🤭) style, every event and fundraiser ends up being a major success
he's never and will never miss a single recital, play, spelling bee, science fair, honor roll ceremony, or any other event involving his baby. ʀᴇᴍᴍɪᴄᴋ will fight his way to the front row if he has to, and records the whole thing with his favorite video camera. every tape is labeled, dated, and stored with care. if the house is too quiet, he'll be watching reruns.
ʀᴇᴍᴍɪᴄᴋ ends every night the same. “ya know who loves ya?” he asks, real low.
and she says, every time, “you do, papa.”
and he answers, “damn right i do.” with his hand over his heart.
a/n : a full one-shot is being brainstormed right now. i love when reader and remmick both love eachother very much while being hella toxic in the process 🧘🏾♀️
warnings mdni 18+ : mutual obsession, unhealthy relationships, toxic dynamics, dubiously romantic, jealousy as foreplay, manipulation as a love language, emotional codependency, territorial behavior, power imbalance, violence disguised as intimacy, unspoken ownership, marking (biting, scratching, bruising), stalking, oral (m! & f! receiving), creampie, crying during sex, overstimulation, rough sex, bloodplay, somnophilia, exhibitionism, lovers who would kill for each other
he’s possessive. you’re obsessive. and that’s what makes it work.
♱ sfw
⋆ he talks about you like you’re already dead—his, buried, long gone from the world. “ain’t no one else gonna want you after me.”
⋆ you go through his shit when he’s asleep. letters, journals, his dirty clothes. he knows. he leaves them out on purpose. sometimes he stashes a note inside—“hope you find what you’re lookin for, sweetheart.”
⋆ jealousy is foreplay. remmick looks better angry. tighter jaw, tighter grip. “what’d they say to you?” he asks. you lie on purpose.
⋆ you test him on purpose—flirting with strangers, going silent for hours—just to see if he’ll snap. the way his voice drops? worth every lie.
⋆ you refuse to let anyone else touch his blood. if he’s bleeding, it’s your right. you clean it with your bare hands, rub it between your fingers like oil.
⋆ he watches you sleep just to reassure himself you’re still breathing—still here, still tied to him, still ruined in all the ways he wants.
⋆ he likes when you cling. likes when you stare. likes when you obsess. it tells him you’re already too far gone to run.
⋆ sometimes he stares at your throat and imagines sinking his teeth in slow—pulling your heartbeat right into his mouth. he won’t kill you. but he likes knowing he could.
⋆ he thinks about locking you inside for a week—just so he can “break the fever” of you wanting to leave.
⋆ you know his schedule better than he does. you know the exact minute he lies about where he’s been.
⋆ you keep something of his in your purse at all times. a cigarette butt. a bloodstained cloth. a button from one of his shirts he didn’t realize you tore off.
⋆ when he sleeps, you touch his face like you’re memorizing it before a crime. you don’t blink. you barely breathe. you’re drunk on him.
⋆ you both have a talent for making each other cry. sometimes out of anger. sometimes out of overstimulation. sometimes because you both like the way the other looks when they’re breaking.
⋆ he hates when you cry—but only because he wants to be the reason you stop, not the reason you started. so he kisses your jaw and calls you selfish through gritted teeth.
♱ nsfw
⋆ you leave scratches down his back and smile when he hisses. you do it to mark—to claim, to make him remember you when he fucks his fist instead of you.
⋆ you trace the veins on his cock with your tongue just to watch him twitch. you do it before he wakes up. sometimes you do it when he’s pretending to sleep.
⋆ his favorite thing is dragging his teeth down your chest and not biting you. not yet. just enough to make your whole body shake, his tongue leaving saliva trails as he laps at your pulse and smirks.
⋆ after sex, he doesn’t let you move. he cages you in with his body weight, breath warm on your neck. he never lets you clean up after either. he spreads it over your thighs, pushes it back in with his fingers, says “keep it warm for me.”
⋆ you say “i love you” when he’s deep inside. not sweetly. like a threat. like a curse. like you’d kill him if he didn’t say it back.
⋆ you love when he fucks you angry. not rough—angry. hips snapping hard enough to bruise bone, hand wrapped around your throat, teeth dragging over your pulse because he’s this close to biting down. you cry, you shake, you taunt him to go harder.
⋆ you purposely get loud around other people—moaning too sweet, gasping too broken—just to hear him growl “shut your damn mouth” before shoving his fingers between your lips and fucking you harder to silence you.
⋆ when he goes down on you, you grab his hair and force his face deeper. he gets harder from the pressure. he moans into you.
⋆ sometimes you tell him “don’t finish inside” just to watch him ignore you and push in deeper, groaning like it’s instinct. you moan louder on purpose. “yeah—give it to me. fill me again.”
⋆ you use your tongue on his fangs. just to watch his whole body tremble. it drives him insane. he grabs your hair, half‑shoving you away so he doesn’t lose control. you kiss him anyway.
gif credits ♡
tags (if you have filled out the taglist form but you aren't tagged, the blog is not showing up ! try refilling it out) : @scannainscanrula @madkingcrowley @skankhvnt42 @bleedingsunlight @theabhartachsbride @cherryxhaze @ceobuggy @iceemochaa @avidreader73 @valvalvalval-val @nlnny @croccy-hoes @h3r3t1c @mysticvi @sonnensche1n @saaficat0311-blog @heyylolitaheyy
his little dead heart, twisted as it is, still beats with romance you see... sings to you softly, writes songs about you — two, three… perhaps many
dances with you often, sweeping you into his arms with vigour. other times, when you dance alone, he claps encouragingly, with a sly grin on his face, eyes gleaming — teasing, adoring
sometimes, when he feels a certain way, he rests his head on your thighs, telling you tales of old Ireland. in those rare moments, he does not smile. his gaze drifts far away, his eyes holding centuries, and you don’t know why, but it’s one of the saddest sights you’ve ever seen
when remmick speaks to you? it feels as though his voice reaches deep into some forgotten part of your soul, awakening something old and hidden. he really has his way with words, and they touch you every single time
watchful, observant, but carrying himself at ease at the same time. sometimes it’s hard to see what’s going on in his head (which is part of the spell if you ask me..)
well, all his cool vanishes when you two are apart. he loses himself completely, especially if the day tears you from him. he aches — the yearning is wild, restless, almost unbearable
despises separation, truly hates it when you leave. he would rather you stayed by his side always. please stay, please stay — he can’t lose yet another thing he holds dear
when reunited, he holds you close for a long time, face buried in your neck, breathing you in. oh, god
knows when your heart is heavy, he just knows. always. and he will do everything he can — with charm, with wit, with tenderness — to draw a smile from you
he laughs at most things, never taking life too seriously… except when it comes to you. when he met you, he discovered he could still care for something more than dreams of the past
a traveller, an adventurer’s spirit trapped in the cage of his own body. he longs to show you the wonders of the world, and if you desire it, he will lead you anywhere — even to hell’s gate
gathers wildflowers for you wherever he goes, arranging them carefully into thoughtful, beautiful bouquets. he presents them with a gallant bow (and that fucking smirk of his)
you press the flowers close, wishing you could keep them forever
speaking of forever… if you are mortal, he cannot allow it to last. whether you wish it or not, he would turn you. perhaps not immediately — but in the end, he could not endure the thought of eternity without you, and he wants to taste you so so much... even if you hated him for it, he would rather face your hatred than your grave
would be very gentle when turning you, despite the fact that the taste of your lovely blood makes him go crazy
compliments you endlessly, with words and with glances that leave no doubt of his devotion. there is love in those eyes, pure adoration, he kisses the path you walk on
very playful overall — in love, in life... in bed, where he shifts easily between treating you like the highest goddess or like a sinner, depending only on your whispered command
and how many times has he led you into dark waters under the pale moonlight, both of you naked, your hand in his, his eyes reflecting the light of the moon and stars in that twisted kind of way — but it doesn’t scare you, it draws you in. his hair damp from water, his grin sharp, his grip firm — nights like this are etched into your soul for eternity (same goes for him, I believe)
you live free, and despite the fact that you are basically dead, you’ve never felt more alive
︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵
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gods, sinners is something else (I would engrave it to my soul if I could)
warning(s): nsfw, mentions of blood and death, mentions of sex, mdni.
- You and Remmick aren’t “technically” married according to the law but because of the circumstances of his vampirism and you being human and all, you consider yourselves to be married to one another regardless.
- Remmick lives in the house you inherited from your parents. Your older sister, Tallulah, moved out after getting married herself so the house is your and Remmicks.
- You deal with vampire hunters every other weekend so you’re used to Remmick coming home, covered in blood, being cheeky about it, before hunters come knocking on your front door. You had to negotiate with them that whatever Remmick did, he did so to survive and that he won’t hurt you.
- You store blood in your refrigerator some days if you have the time to do it. Otherwise, Remmick will just hunt on his own and come back before sunrise. Though he’d prefer warm, fresh blood, he’ll happily drink yours.
- Remmick, unfortunately, makes messes on the floor boards, curtains, tables, and clothing whenever he comes back from a hunt. So, you have to clean it up yourself. Though he’ll come and help you clean since he feels bad about it.
- You make him new clothes so he won’t have to steal them from his victims. He always loves them since they you made them, of course he’d wear them and that he won’t have to scavenge for torn up clothes or shoes anymore.
- You can never get chores done when he’s around the house. Remmick is such a tease that he’d rather he please you rather than do mundane things. Which he says can be finished later.
- “Darlin, do them dishes later. I want you to ride me like a cowgirl.” “Remmick, the dishes need to get done.” You always give into him, and the chores definitely get done later.
- Trying to patch him up from when he gets caught in the sun by giving him some of your blood. The angry, red welts healed right before your eyes as you feed him your blood. You just wished he was more careful, less reckless. In fear that you’ll lose him overnight…
- Remmick loathes the fact that he can’t be outside in the sun with you whilst you did your chores so you opted to take photographs of the sun at different stages of the day just for him. He jokes, saying that he’d really like to see the sun one last time, but he secretly loves the photos you took.
- Remmick would kill for you. No, literally. He’ll kill anyone that does you dirty. Like the local priests, the police, the men who catcalled you, the grocers, the women who gossiped about you at the salons, the skeezy guy who tried to hit on you at the bar. You tell Remmick it’s not that big of a deal, people talk but he does it anyways.
- Fights between you are rare but they do happen. It can range from small things like the mess on the floor to big things like communication issues or ever jealousy. Remmick will never let you live it down but you got so jealous of the mom of three for flirting with him outside the bar. You both got into a fight about it and you barred him from the house. Therefore, he needed to be invited back into the house. You didn’t talk to him for days and he bugged you about being let back into the house.
- “C’mon darlin.’ Let me back in. That mom ain’t mean nothin’ to me. You the only one I love.” “She may have had a nice ass but it don’t compare to yours.”
- He played his banjo and harmonica out of tune on purpose and on the roof. Still asking to be let back in. You end up caving and you let him in. And both engaged in kinky, nasty, bloody sex. All night long.
- Everytime Remmick goes out to feed, he annoys the hell out of you with the persons shared memories. From voice changes, accents, languages, and sex. You hate to admit it, but it secretly turns you on.
- You and Remmick talk about you being turned but you normally turn it down. You always think more about the downsides of turning into a vampire like not being able to see the sun anymore, watching your friends and family grow old without you, witnessing the world go on without you. Though you and Remmick come to an agreement that if something were to happen to you where you were on deaths door, you’d let him turn you. If not, you asked that you simply grow old. He understands.
- He feels guilty about the fact that you can’t have kids with him. You definitely wanted them after Millie was born but because of the circumstances, it’s simply not possible. He did offer to turn a child so you can “adopt” them. Then you can be a family together. But you tell him it’s not a great idea.
- If Remmick dies before you, you at least get whatever he has in his pockets to make sure he takes care of you even in death….literally four gold coins.
- You’ve never heard his real accent before and you goad him, asking him what his actual accent sounds like. He can never understand why you want to hear it so badly, he’s so old that his “real” accent slips back into the Southern Drawl because that’s what he’s used to. When you finally hear it, you didn’t believe it was real at first but it drove you crazy. It made you love him even more. You wished he spoke in his Irish accent more but you still love him, Irish or Southern. Remmick was still yours.
- You’ve only seen his true form twice. Once when he was getting home early one morning and another time when he was in a frenzy after having not ate in a while. You were scared at first, but he reassured you it was still him. He let you examine his claws and see his scarlet red eyes one night. Yeah, he was still your stubborn husband. Even in a different form.
- Remmick was also incredibly hesitant to have sex with you, let alone hold you in this form but you encouraged him to. You wanted him. He needed you. You gathered you loved his vampiric, monstrous form over the man you’re used to seeing. Especially in the bedroom.
- Remmick doesn’t sleep anymore. So, he just lays in bed with you. Your head on his chest, listening to his breathing and allowing him to caress your body to bring you closer to him.
- “Ya have no heartbeat, Remmick.” “Darlin,’ it hasn’t beat in centuries.”
- He says he’ll give you his heart from his chest as he no longer needs it to survive. He actually does this and manages to cut it out of him and puts it in a jar before giving it to you as a gift. To be honest, you were…shocked that he really did this but if it wasn’t a gesture of your love then you don’t know what is.
- He gives you gifts he finds from his victims like jewelry, clothes, shoes, handbags, even body parts. Which you refused to accept, as you told him it was inappropriate to give you such things.
- Remmick sings you songs and tells you stories of Ireland. They’re not very nice stories but you like to know where he came from originally. It’s like you’re being transported to a different time and place whenever he recounts these stories to you in vivid detail.
A/N : I love this man so much I had to do a Headcanon list of things I THINK that are canon to him, if you don’t think so you. Do not have to read it and just scroll! But I hope you enjoy my husbands HC
Challenges Turned Sweet
His hunger is managed through discipline and your willing offerings, strengthening trust. He might hunt animals or use other means when needed, always prioritizing your safety and comfort.
Jealousy of your daylight world is minimal because he loves hearing your stories from it—making him feel connected rather than excluded.
Strength difference means gentle manhandling in affectionate ways: carrying you effortlessly, shielding you with his body, or holding you mid-air during playful moments.
Feeding & Intimacy
Blood-sharing is deeply intimate and consensual—never forced. He asks permission every time, eyes glowing softly as he bites with utmost care. Your blood tastes like life itself to him.
He gets lightheaded with affection afterward, holding you close while your heartbeat syncs with his (slower) one. Sometimes he lets you taste his blood in return—giving you flashes of his ancient memories, turning it into a shared dreamlike bond.
Your warmth fascinates him. He loves pressing his cool skin against yours, especially during hugs or lazy nights. “You’re my sun I can finally hold,” he murmurs.
The Eternity Question
He never pressures you to turn. Instead, he woos you with the beauty of forever only if you show interest: describing eternal nights of music, travel, and building a chosen family together. “I’d wait lifetimes more just to have this time with ya as ya are.”
Until then, he treasures every gray hair, laugh line, or sign of aging as proof of the real, breathing life you bring him. If you eventually choose to turn, it’s a joyful, mutual ceremony—celebrated with song and blood.
Human Warmth Kink
He’s obsessed with how hot and soft you are compared to his undead body. He loves pressing his face between your breasts or against your stomach just to feel your warmth, then sliding into you slowly so he can savor the contrast. “You burn so beautifully for me…”
Positions that let him feel your pulse: missionary with your legs wrapped tight around him, or spooning where he can cup your breasts and grind deep while nuzzling your neck.
Strength difference = effortless manhandling done lovingly—lifting you onto his cock while standing, holding you against a wall for slow, deep thrusts, or keeping your hips pinned while he devours you.
Feeding During Sex
Gentle bites along your inner thighs, breasts, or throat while he’s inside you. He times them with your orgasms so pleasure spikes with the slight sting. Your warm blood rushing into his mouth while your walls clench around him is pure ecstasy for both of you.
He’s careful with volume—never weakening you too much. Post-feeding, he holds you close, letting his cool skin soothe any marks while your heartbeat steadies against him.
Blood & Period Worship
he absolutely eats you out on your period with zero hesitation or disgust. To him, menstrual blood is rich, potent, and full of your life force. He’ll bury his face between your thighs during your heaviest flow, fangs grazing gently while his tongue laps slowly and thoroughly, savoring every drop like fine wine. “Nothin’ sweeter than ya when you’re givin’ me this, darlin’… let me drink from the source.” Low, reverent growls vibrate against you as he makes you come again and again, cleaning you completely with his mouth. He finds it intimate and nourishing, not messy.
Afterward, he’ll kiss up your body with blood-stained lips, sharing the taste in deep kisses so you can feel how much he craves you. No shame, only adoration—your cycle becomes something he looks forward to as extra bonding time.
When You’re Overwhelmed / Multiple Orgasms
He would say things like ‘Shh, I’ve got ya. One more for me, darlin’. I know you can — you’re doin’ so well, shakin’ and creamin’ around me like this. My strong, pretty thing.”
After you squirt or make a mess: “Messy girl… but look how gorgeous ya are when you let go. All that for me? You honor me, love.”
Manhandling / Strength Praise
Holding you up against a wall: “Wrap those legs around me tighter — yes, just like that. Takin’ my cock so deep while I hold ya… my perfect, weightless darlin’.”
“You’re so small and soft in my hands, yet you take me so well. Brave little human lovin’ a vampire like this. Breaks my dead heart wide open.”
Aftercare
He stays inside you for a long time, just holding you close while his cool body cools your overheated skin. Soft kisses on your forehead, eyelids, and bite marks. “Shh, easy now… you did so well for me.”
Gentle rocking and humming old Irish lullabies or slow blues against your neck, letting the vibrations soothe you while your heartbeat steadies against his chest.
He wipes you down with cool, damp cloths (or his tongue if you’re comfortable and it’s period/blood play night). Thorough but tender—especially between your thighs, kissing every mark he left. “Look at ya… all flushed and marked by me. Beautiful.”
He checks every bite: licking them closed with his healing saliva, then pressing cool fingers or lips to any bruising from his grip. Vampire strength means he’s extra careful not to leave you too sore.
