Ich bin ein Jäger
Pairing(s): Remmick (Sinners) x Fem! Augustine Vampire! WOC! Reader
Crossover: TDV→Sinners (Reader has no prior knowledge of anything in the TDV universe. Just someone who is an Augustine Vampire.)
cw: graphic scenes (violence) Age gap (Idk who would be older), Stockholm syndrome???
Rating: 18+
Add-ons: AFAB reader, no use of Y/N, one-sided pinning?
(Not Proofread)
WC: 10.4K
Pt. 2
It’s a small town. To be expected is all the eyes on him as he enters a church. A white man (Not that the ‘real’ white people agree that he is a white man, but that’s neither here nor there.) in church, the pressure felt like he’s not supposed to be here. But all people will be his people. So, for now, Remmick ignores it..
This is a church and all are welcomed, that is what is preached. Especially on this night.
Christmas.
Only time he gets to enter a church without burning alive. Only time he gets to hear the words that remind him of home. (Even if they’re not in that exact order.)
Remmick is looking at the pastor. He knows this pastor. A good man, with a good wife and their precious little daughter who doesn’t seem to like this church very much. His eyes shift to you. Your leg is bouncing. It bounces through the entire sermon. Your eyes never left the cross. Not even as the church ended. (Though the longer Remmick looks at the cross, the stranger it looks. Its end is jagged and splintered.)
A man approaches Remmick. Remmick gives a smile. The smile returned. After all he did save the man, and he was invited to this gathering. Then comes the pastor. Again Remmick smiles. He greets the pastor. A good frim shake, then a softer grip on his wife. Then comes you. Pretty little smile on your face.
Maybe you’re just being polite. It’s expected of you, after all. Expected of your people. Because if you dare to push back when someone steps on your neck—They’ll only press harder and eventually they’ll break it. (What does the death of a woman of color mean to the white man?) And just looking at your neck, well, it don’t look like it’ll take much to break.
“Hi.” You extend your hand to him and he gladly takes it. You’re warm, like all people are.
“Hello.” He returns your greeting and almost as a reward, you give him your name. In thanks, he gives you his. It isn’t long before he’s ushered away from you and instead taken to others as they offer to share their food with him. Food that they have labored to get. Worked for days in the sun (What he wouldn’t give to feel the sun again and it not burn him as if he ain’t trying to alleviate the burden his people faced—the burden your people now face.) to get this meal on the table.
He sits at a table between two men. Remmick knows he looks out of place, but what does it matter?
Before anything Remmick smells the food.
Can’t have no garlic.
He takes a bite. Don’t taste like anything. Not to him, but when he looks up as he’s chewing he sees you eating with a smile on your face enjoying the food.
Everyone is smiling. Laughing. Sharing stories and food like it’s enough to keep the world from collapsing. (But it’s not. But what he can deliver is enough.)
Remmick knows it’s not enough to simply have this. He knows it’s not. Just like he knows your daddy is struggling to pay the bills. Just like he knows your mother is struggling to keep her store afloat. Just like he knows the man next to him is struggling to meet his quota. Just like he knows the woman across from him is crying herself to sleep every night because her husband is out fucking whores and the man fucking the whores? Well, Remmick knows he does it because he can’t stand his own life.
It’s no way to live.
And you? Well he knows you too. He knows you hate going to church. He knows you hate humid heat. Knows you know about your family’s troubles — and he knows you’re going to try and fix them.
Though how? Remmick has yet to find out. Maybe you’ll pawn that ring of yours on your hand. Pretty little thing. Jewel catches every bit of light in the room. Looks expensive. Too expensive. Where’d you get a ring like that, anyway?
He doesn’t know. Not yet.
You’re talking to a man next to you, but your eyes keep finding him. That little game he likes to play sometimes. See who'll look the longest. Remmick always tends to win that game. And he does with you. Over and over again until the night starts to thin. It’ll be morning soon. He’ll have to head to his house soon. (Not home. Home is across the sea. Home is long gone.) A temporary place.
A few people pass Remmick on the way out. Some nod. Some just look.
No one says his name.
And then he sees you again.
You’re standing by the window now, arms crossed, eyes still on that damn cross up front — even from here. Your ring taps the side of your elbow, soft and steady. Like a clock.
He stands.
Walks slow.
He doesn’t speak right away. Just stands beside you and looks out the same window.
“Did ya’ like it?” He heard you mumble beside him. He turned to you and you had a small soft smile on your face.
“I did.” You smiled again looking up to the cross once more. The light caught your ring.
“I’m glad. Everyone should have the chance to enjoy the lord on this day.” That confused Remmick. “No matter who we are. Don’t you think so?” You were now smiling at him again. The confusion sat with him. You didn’t like church.
“I do.” It was all he could say before you walked off.
“Well then, have a blessed night.” You left with your parents before he could say anything more.
…
The next time Remmick sees you, it’s through a window. You’re there, talking to the man from Christmas eve. The sunlight makes your skin shine. You shine almost as much as the ring on your finger.
Then you motion to his house. Remmick’s ears perk.
“I heard the white boy is living over there.” You whispered to the man next to you. The man only scoffed.
“Reckon all them white folk gon start comin’ here?” Remmick kept his eyes on you. You simply looked away from his house and faced the sun letting it warm your skin, or so he can imagine. He hasn’t felt the sun in centuries. Not without it blistering him raw anyways.
“God’s plan I sus’pose.” Maybe Remmick didn’t know you. Least, not as well as he thought.
“The devil and the white man.” Remmick could only smile at the man’s words. “You afraid of the white man? The devil?”
You left Remmick’s sight, though he could hear you clear as day. “I don’t fear the devil.”
“You a God-fearin’ woman, then?” The man asked. As you both walked further and further, Remmick strained to hear your answer. Though in the end, he was left to speculate cause Remmick never heard your answer. He wonders what you’d do if you ever saw the devil. Many say they don’t fear the devil. Well…the devil's never come for them. But Remmick knows the devil. It came for him and his people, and now, they’re after yours. The devil that wears a pointy white hat preaching that all men are equal, but some are more equal than others.
Well since he never heard you answer, it'd be best if he went to find out himself.
And so he does. It’s night when he walks. And you — you live deep on the southside, damn near the bayous. The kind of place where the roads narrow to dirt and gravel, and the streetlights don’t bother shining. The air is thick out here. Heavy with swamp heat and cicada buzz. Spanish moss hangs like old ghosts from the trees, and something unseen slinks through the reeds just off the road.
Strange for a pastor to be so far from his flock.
Remmick steps up the creaking porch steps. Peeling paint, warped boards. A porch swing sways slow, like someone just left it. He raises his fist and knocks. Once. Twice. Three times — a pattern made for stories that never end well.
(But not his story. For what he brings is salvation)
Again, his ears listen. He hears your voice from inside. Tired, but clear. “I got it, Daddy.” How trusting.
The door opens with a soft scrape of wood on wood.
You’re there, framed by the crooked doorway and warm house light spilling out behind you. A yellowed hallway. Faint smell of oil and iron and old Bible paper. And you — in a robe, hair tied, lips bare.
“Hello,” you say.
Remmick’s eyes go straight to your hand. That ring again. Big and bright, even under moonlight.
“What are you doing out here? This late at night?” Your tone is different. None of that sweet Sunday warmth. No church politeness. No false softness. You’re not smiling either.
Yes. Maybe Remmick didn’t know you.
“Thought I’d come by and say hi,” he answers. “Ain’t seen you since Christmas.”
“That so?” Your brow lifts — and there’s something sharp in your voice now. Like a blade kept just under the tongue.
“It is so.” He waits. Wonders when you’ll let him in. Night hums around you both — crickets and frogs singing their ancient hymns.
You open the door a little wider and lean against the frame, arms crossed under your chest. An invitation, maybe. “Couldn’t’ve come to see me during church?” you ask.
Remmick tilts his head, lets that wolf’s smile tug at the corner of his mouth. “You were so nice the first time,” he says. “Figured — why wait?”
You smile back. He can’t figure out if it’s nice or not. “This late? Had my daddy opened the door, you'd have been shot, boy.”
“Guess I should count myself lucky then,” Remmick says, still smiling, “that it was you who opened the door.”
You tilt your head at that. The porch light flickers once, as if considering going out. A moth bats against the glass like it’s trying to warn someone. You don’t move from the doorway.
“Guess you should,” you say, voice smooth as molasses but with something else underneath. “But I think your luck’ll run out sooner or later.”
You step just an inch closer—not enough to close the gap, not enough to invite, but enough to make him wonder what you’d do if he tried to cross the threshold.
“Now best run along,” you say, your voice quieter. “’Fore my father finds out there’s a white boy on our porch.”
The word white hangs in the air between you, sticky and heavy. Out here, it don’t just mean skin—it means history. It means ghosts with badges and fire, it means burnt crosses and blood-soaked soil. Remmick knows what it means. He remembers.
He could linger. He could lean in and say something slick. But there’s something in your eyes that stops him. Not fear. Not even hate. Just knowing.
He takes a step back, slow. Tips an imaginary hat like he’s leaving a saloon. “Wouldn’t want to overstay my welcome.”
“You already did,” you reply, soft and if he’s not hallucinating, playfully. You shut the door before he can say another word.
Behind it, he hears the faint sound of your footsteps—bare feet on old floorboards. Then the click of a lock sliding into place.
Smart girl.
He stands there for a moment longer, staring at the door, then turns and walks back into the swamp-dark night. The heat wraps around him like a second skin. The moss above sways in the still air like something watching.
Remmick’s smile fades.
No, he didn’t know you. But now, he wants to.
And so he does.
The next time he sees you, he’s sitting under a magnolia tree, its wide, waxy leaves rustling just enough to remind the world that the air still moves. He’s fine-tuning his banjo, the old wood resting against his thigh like an old friend. It’s sunset—the sky bleeding gold and peach, the kind of light that makes everything look softer than it really is.
The sun isn’t touching him—not directly—but still, he feels the phantom burn along his skin. Like a memory that lives in the muscle. Like his body knows better than to trust the light.
He ain’t welcome here. Not really. Not by the living, and certainly not by the dead that linger in these woods, these fields, these old bones of a town.
And yet, here you come.
You’re walking slow, arms tucked behind your back like a schoolgirl with a secret. You don’t look right at him, but he knows better. You’re watching from the corner of your eye, just enough to let him know you see him—but not enough to let him see you.
He plucks at a string. Then another. Then another. A lazy little tune. Just testing the cords.
The sound hums low and warm, curling through the air like smoke from a porch cigar. Notes hang between you like fireflies blinking on for the night.
You still haven’t said a word. But you’re not walking away either. That’s something. He plays a little more.
“Can you sing?” Finally, you turn your head to him, but your body stays angled away—like even your shadow doesn't know what to make of him yet.
Remmick stands. His eyes flicker to the horizon where the sun is hanging by its last thread. The final golden gasp before night swallows it whole. Finally, those cruel rays are low enough he can risk a step. So he does.
Just a little one.
The moment his foot touches the edge of light, his skin hisses. A soft, mean sound like bacon grease popping in a cast iron pan. He flinches, but he walks. Toward you.
Can you hear it? Can you smell the faint scorch of flesh? He’s burning just walking to you.
“Just a little,” he says, and his voice is steady even if his body isn’t. “Can you?”
You turn your head away. “I never cared much for music,” you reply. “So no. I can’t sing.” It’s the kind of thing said to shut a conversation down. But you don’t leave. You don’t walk away.
Remmick catches that.
He nods, slow, and looks at the road behind you. The way the shadows are getting longer. The way the trees whisper louder as the night gets closer. “Let me walk you home,” he offers.
There’s nothing syrupy in his voice. No charm. No flirt. Just the plain weight of the offer.
He watched as your eyes trail his face. From his eyes down. You’re trying to hide it. After all, a girl like you with a man like him? Well, for others, it just wouldn’t do.
(Or maybe you were just looking at his skin. The skin that is currently healing from the burns you caused.)
“You get sunburned?” Your eyes are trained on his collar bones. “I don’t see you out in the sun much. Your kind ain’t meant for it.”
He grins. The kind of grin that doesn’t show teeth. “You’re right. Sun don’t like my kind much. It’s dark now. I’ll take you home.”
You shake your head, but the corner of your mouth lifts. “My daddy wouldn’t like it.”
“I reckon he wouldn’t.” You don’t say yes. But you start walking—and you don’t stop him when he falls into step beside you.
The night rises around you both, thick with crickets and the far-off hum of cicadas. And the burn of the sun is gone, Remmick doesn’t feel the burn.
Just the quiet.
And your footsteps, steady in the dark. Then he hears it. Faint screeching off in the distance—too sharp, too wet. The kind that clings to the bones. The vultures. Always nearby. Always waiting. He calls them his shadows, though they ain’t loyal. Just hungry. Well, it’s a bad night for them. He ain’t gonna kill you—least not yet.
(It’s too bad he never thought they were there for him. Though why would he ever think that?)
Not when he still ain’t gotten his answer.
The path ahead twists like a snake through the tall grass. Eerily silent, save for the screeching. No crickets. No wind. Even the trees seem to be holding their breath. He looks to his side—
You're gone.
Remmick stops cold. No one leaves him without him knowing. No one just slips away.
A hiss cracks the stillness from his right. He turns.
There’s a feeling, deep and primal, starting to claw at his insides.
Before thought can catch up, his left leg jolts back on instinct— Snap.
He looks down. A gator. Biggest one he’s ever seen. Thick-scaled, eyes yellow and slick like oil. The air reeks of rot and mud. It hisses again, low and mean.
Remmick backs up, slow, cautious. But the thing lurches forward, jaws snapping inches from his foot. Animals don’t attack him. They bark, they hiss, they flee—but they don’t dare come close.
Not ever.
Another snap. It lunges. Remmick stumbles, his boots losing grip on the moss-slick path. He goes down hard, the earth cold and wet against his back.
The gator charges.
Though just before Remmick could flash his teeth, there you were. Grabbed the gator by its tail. It hissed at you before turning around and running away.
“You alright?” you ask, voice low. Where you came from, he didn’t know. How you got here without him hearing, he couldn’t say.
But your chest is rising fast, and your eyes are wide, shining in the dark. The moonlight catches on your ring again, that jewel blazing like a second eye. He nods slowly, still on the ground, mud soaking into his shirt. “Yeah. I’m alright.”
But what he doesn’t say is— He’s never seen anything like that before. Not from a person.
“I didn’t see it,” Remmick said quickly, getting to his feet. “Where’d you go?”
“Oh, I saw a flower just a few steps back,” you said casually looking down. “Guess you didn’t hear me stop.”
“I didn’t,” he admitted, scanning the path behind you.
“Look,” you said, lifting the bloom between two fingers. You held it up—a red hibiscus, full and blooming like it had something to prove.
“It is pretty,” Remmick said, glancing from the flower to you.
Your brows furrowed, and your eyes drifted to his hands. “Did you hurt yourself?” you asked, voice tinged with concern.
Remmick looked down. One hand had a gash in it, smeared with blood and dirt. “Guess I…” he started, then looked to his right—You weren’t there anymore.
“Did,” he muttered, blinking. Then he turned left—There you were. Smiling.
You’d just been on his right.
“Let me help you,” you said softly. Your eyes stayed lowered. In the dark, they looked almost black and he swears he hears your veins pumping blood faster than he’s ever heard. It almost sounds like porcelain cracking.
“Did you always have that purse?” he asked, eyeing the little blue thing at your side.
“Yes,” you replied, almost laughing at him, the corners of your mouth twitching. “Here,” you said, stepping closer. You took his hand. You were warm. Still human-warm. But you smelled like fresh blood. Clean. Bright. Familiar in a way that made his fangs ache.
From your purse, you pulled cotton and gently dabbed at his wound. He’d have been healed by morning— But you’d never been this close before. And he’d never smelled anything like you.
Got him droolin’.
After you cleaned his wound, you moved with careful, deliberate ease—tucking the bloodied cotton back into your purse, the soft crunch of the material the only sound for a moment. Then came the bandages, pulled from some inner pocket like you’d done this before. You wrapped them around his hand, gentle but firm, your fingers warm against his skin.
Remmick licked the side of his mouth, wiping away what drool he could reach. “It’s a nice ring,” he said, voice low.
You pulled back slightly, your eyes flicking down. He watched you turn your hand, examining the jewel like you hadn’t noticed it before. “Yeah,” you said, tone light but layered, “an old friend was kind enough to give it to me.”
Your gaze met his, and for a split second, he could’ve sworn the whites of your eyes weren’t white at all—but tinged red, like veins swelling just beneath the surface.
“That, and she owed me a couple of favors,” you added with a smile, one that was more teeth than kindness.
Then your hand lifted—slow, soft, deliberate—and you wiped the edge of his mouth where he’d missed the drool. It was an intimate gesture. Too intimate.
Maybe if Remmick had been paying attention, he would’ve noticed the strange way your fingers lingered just a second too long. Maybe he would’ve caught the lack of sound you emmit. (Humans make all kinds of sounds.) Maybe he would’ve known that humans are supposed to be cold when they sweat, but you’re always warm, no matter how much your body sweats. (Though, has he ever seen you sweat?)
But he wasn’t paying attention. He was watching your eyes, trying to remember what they looked like the first time he saw you. Now your pupils were dilated. Then they weren’t. Then they were again.
Over and over, your pupils changed sizes. A flickering pulse. Like they were breathing. Like something was watching him from inside you.
“Well,” you said, breaking the silence, “I’d offer to walk you home, but…” — you turned your gaze toward the glowing windows of your house — “I have a curfew. And technically, you just walked me.”
Remmick chuckled, licking his bottom lip again, eyes still trained on you. “I’d never ask a lady to walk me home.”
You stepped up onto your porch, your weight light against the old wood, but before opening the door, you turned back with that same strange smile. The kind that made his stomach feel like it was turning over slow in his gut.
“Well, goodnight, Remmick,” you said softly.
“Goodnight, m’lady,” he returned, tipping his head just slightly.
You paused, hand on the doorknob, then added, “Watch out for them gators on your way home. Good rule of thumb—watch for the vultures. If they’re around, chances are something aiming for you is too.”
Then the door closed, and Remmick was left alone on the porch. He knows the rules well. He’s the reason why the rule exists.
…
You’ve been walking around with someone new. Someone like you. Remmick doesn’t say anything. He just watches.
You’re out every night.
Fancy that. Preacher’s daughter out every night, and with someone you’re not supposed to be with.
Remmick doesn’t know where this new feller is from, but he doesn’t have a beating heart. It’s only confirmed when the man is smiling at him through your window. Familiar red eyes and long fangs smiling at him.
Remmick hasn’t gotten his answer from you yet. He don’t want you dead just yet. So up he goes on your porch steps giving three knocks, just like he did the first time. The man answers the door. He opens it halfway and leans on the frame, shaking his head slowly.
“If you know what’s best for you,” Remmick drawled, voice low and steady, “you’ll come outside.”
The man’s smile never touches his eyes. “No,” he murmured. “If I know what’s best for me, I’ll stay inside. Where you’re not allowed.”
Then, right before Remmick’s eyes, the red fades from the man’s irises, shifting—smooth and eerie—into a milky white.
Like bone. Like rot.
The man’s name leaves your lips—soft, questioning—and soon enough, you’re standing at the door with one brow raised.
“Remmick?” you ask, glancing between him and the man beside you. The pale, unnatural glow of the other’s eyes fades, shifting back into something more human, though they still don’t quite belong to him. He looks at you, head slightly tilted, waiting.
“What are you doing here?” you ask again, voice quieter now, laced with something unreadable. Before Remmick can answer, the man steps beside you, all too eager, and starts to usher you back inside.
Remmick steps forward, his tone harder than usual. “I think you should let me in.” Normally, he’d take his time, work his way around the rules with a little charm—but that man behind you looks ready to take your head clean off your shoulders. Probably will, too.
“Look,” you say with a smile, one that doesn’t reach your eyes, “I know we’ve talked a few times, but that don’t mean we friends. You gon’ get me in trouble. Can’t be in this part of town, Remmick.”
As you speak, your smile fades, slowly, piece by piece.
“Now you ain’t gotta—” the man beside you begins, voice low and agitated.
“Go inside,” you cut in, voice firm, but you never look at him. Remmick watches as the man lingers. From behind you, he catches the snarl stretching across the man’s face—fangs glinting in the dim porch light, a string of drool slipping from the corner of his mouth. The man holds Remmick’s gaze for a beat longer, flashing one last jagged smile.
Then he turns and slinks deeper into the house.
“Look, I know you don’t much like my kind—me being white and all—but I really do think you should—” Remmick started, his voice low, edged with urgency. He turned back to you, his smile gone. All that was left was a plain, pleading expression. A silent beg for you to let him in.
“What?” you snapped, cutting him off. Your brows drew together, your tone sharper now. “It’s not about you being—” You stopped yourself, jaw tightening. You exhaled through your nose. “Alright then. Fine.”
You glanced toward the tree line, then back at him. Your voice dropped, the edge still there, but now it was weighed with warning.
“You can’t be out here right now, Remmick. The Klan ain’t too far from us. These woods have eyes.” You crossed your arms tightly over your chest. “I was bein’ nice the first two times, but you really have to go.”
Remmick didn’t move.
Didn’t blink.
Didn’t breathe.
Not for a long second.
“I’m not here to cause trouble,” he said, voice low. “But that man in your house? He’s not right—”
“I didn’t ask.” Then, slowly, without slamming it or snapping it shut, you closed the door in his face. The sound was quiet. Final. Remmick stood there a moment longer, staring at the wood grain, then turned and disappeared into the dark.
The vultures started circling again.
Turning on his heel, Remmick bolted toward the man you’d been speaking to that night—the first time he'd seen you together. It didn’t take much to con his way close enough. One slip of the mind, one slack moment in the neck, and Remmick had him.
He drained him fast, too fast. He didn’t have time to savor it or let the man ease into death. He needed him turned, and he needed it now.
He only hoped he wasn’t too late.
(A head was already hanging by a thread of skin.)
The man awoke with a gasp like he’d broken through the surface of a black river. Blood spilled from his mouth. His hands clawed at the air, confused and feral.
Remmick grabbed him, yanking him close, their foreheads pressing together. His voice was strained, shaking from urgency and the weight of too much stolen blood.
“Get in the house,” he ordered, “and kill the man in there.”
He let go, and the newborn vampire stumbled forward, but caught himself, his instincts kicking in quick. Off he went.
Remmick wasn’t far behind, keeping to the trees. His ears sharpened for signs of life, breath, movement—anything.
He heard you.
You were breathing hard. Annoyed. He could hear it in your exhale—like a tired sigh through clenched teeth.
Then came the knock. The turned man stood on your porch, calling your name in a voice full of false pain, begging for help.
Remmick watched from the treeline.
And maybe it was just the way the shadows moved—but your eyes looked darker now. Your cheeks, hollowed out. Something strange clung to the corners of your mouth.
Just before he could focus, really focus, you turned away. You opened the door. And let him in.
Not a second later, there was fighting.
Remmick strained his ears.
He could hear you. Yelling. Screaming. Pleading with someone—“Stop!”
Then a cry of pain.
But it wasn’t yours. And it wasn’t the vampire you’d let into your house.
It was his. The newborn.
Then your scream followed. Sharp. Guttural. Like you were being torn apart from the inside.
The back door of your house slammed open. A head rolled out.
Remmick’s breath caught as he saw his freshly turned vampire stumble after it, a stake driven clean through his heart. Behind him, you stepped outside—blood smeared across your arms, your dress, even your neck. From the treeline, Remmick could see your hands trembling.
You looked... lost.
Your eyes darted over the yard like they were searching for something, someone. Then, behind you, the vampire moved—clawed fingers outstretched, crawling toward you with his last breath.
“Move!” Remmick shouted, bolting from the trees. You didn’t. You stood frozen as the vampire’s claws sank into you. He heard the rip. The unmistakable sound of flesh tearing.
Remmick caught your wrist and yanked you away, pulling you both deep into the bayou. The vampire would die soon enough. That stake would see to it.
Branches cracked beneath your feet. Your breath came fast and ragged. You kept glancing behind you like you couldn’t believe what had just happened.
Finally, when you both stopped, panting under the thick night air, Remmick turned to you. “Your back,” he said, reaching for your shoulder. “Let me see—”
“No, no. I’m okay,” you said quickly, turning to him, your hands gripping your sides.
“Is it deep?” he asked, stepping closer, trying to look at your back.
You resisted. Surprisingly strong. Remmick narrowed his eyes and used just enough of his strength to turn you gently toward him. His brows furrowed.
Your back was clean—save for deep red marks down your spine. No torn skin. No visible cuts.
“See?” You smiled at him. Too easily. “It’s not my blood.” You turned away again, smiling wider. “Thank you, Remmick.”
But he had heard it.
He had heard the claws tear into flesh.
He’d heard it enough times over the centuries to know the sound. And what he’d heard back there…
That had been your skin.
But there was nothing on you. Nothing wrong with you.
Slowly, Remmick inhaled the air.
The blood—it smelled wrong. Stale. Old. Like dried rust left out in the sun. That scent clung to every vampire eventually, no matter how young or ancient. But on you, it didn’t make sense.
Because he couldn’t smell you. Not a hint of fresh blood. Not a whiff of that sweet, distinct heat that always made his teeth ache, that made the hunger curl hot behind his ribs.
You just smelled like something dead.
Old, rotten blood.
Remmick took a step back without realizing it. His eyes flicked over your face, down your arms, your legs. No cuts. No bruises. But his ears still rang with the sound of tearing flesh.
“You’re sure you’re alright?” he asked, voice low.
“Thanks to you, yeah, I’m alright, but…Remmick.” You looked to him. Looked to him with your doe eyes as if you suddenly realized his presence here didn’t make sense. Looked to him as if realizing someone just staked your friends. Looked to him as if you just saw a man be decapitated. “Oh god.”
Remmick simply stayed silent.
“What am I gonna do? Two men just died inside my house.” That’s where your mind went? Not the fangs? Not the blood? Not Remmick, who shouldn’t’ve been there in the first place?
S’alright. He’d take it.
“The police—oh god, the police.”
Slowly, Remmick reached out, patting your shoulder, shushing you gently as you stayed still. “Ain’t gotta worry about that. You can stay with me.”
You turned to him, one brow raised. “Two white policemen start lookin’ f’me. Two dead men in my house, my parents gone—and they find me in your house?”
Again, Remmick gave a soft shush. His hands moved to your shoulders, steady.
“Ya ain’t gotta worry ’bout all that. I’ll take care of it.” He rubbed your shoulder. Flakes of dried blood crumbled off your skin.
“Remmick.” You looked at him again. Firmer, maybe. Or maybe just tired.
“Said I’ll take care of it.” His hands slid from your shoulders to your cheeks. “Now you head on home. Pack some things. We’ll go.”
He stroked your cheek once, then looked toward your house.
You nodded slowly, still held in his hands.
Slowly, the two of you walked back until the soft glow of your porch lights cut through the dark. Just before you reached the yard, Remmick gently pulled you back, using his hand to block your view.
“Don’t look,” he murmured, voice low, shielding your eyes from the porch—where a head still lay and a body slumped, stake in heart.
Then again he was on the porch of your home. You opened the door and entered. Remmick stayed put. Just as you were half way in, he saw you turn around.
“What’s wrong?” You asked him. Under the porch light, Remmick could finally see just how soaked you were. Blood covered the entire front of your dress, dyed deep crimson. The fabric clung to your body, barely hanging on.
“Nothin’ just waiting for you to invite me in.” Instead of the grin he might’ve flashed at you any other time, Remmick checked himself. This wasn’t the place for a smirk. Not tonight. So he gave you the gentlest smile he could manage—something sweet, something safe.
“Ain’t you gentlemen, but my house is a mess. Think it’s best if you don’t see it.” Again you flashed him a smile before once more the door was shut on him.
Remmick was gettin’ real tired of this door.
…
Your scent returned to you eventually—once all that blood had been washed away. That sweet, unmistakable scent.
You slept through the entire day, and just like he promised, Remmick made the problem disappear.
(Though strangely enough, by the time he got there, all the questions that should’ve been asked… never were.)
Justice don’t run right here.
Remmick looked over at you—there you were, stretched out on his bed. The heat hung heavy in the room. Your nightgown clung to you like a second skin, and the thin sheen of sweat on your body caught what little light filtered into the house, making you glow.
“They come yet?” you asked.
Remmick shook his head.
You stared up at the ceiling, eyes dull. (Bored) Then you fell back on the bed. Remmick watched as your chest rose up and down. Swore he could hear your blood pumping, swore he could hear the slow beat of your heart.
“You want some water?” You hadn’t eaten anything. Hadn’t drinken anything either.
He watched as you turned your head slowly to him. “I wanna go home.”
“I’ll take ya tonight if you want.” Remmick offered, and slowly you nodded again before closing your eyes, sleeping once more and Remmick sat in his chair just looking at you.
All this for an answer. All this just to see what you’d do if the devil came a knockin’ on your door. See if you would turn to god. Hell, all those crosses in your home. By the time Remmick went to investigate the bodies, the only thing left was a singed cross.
He could just find out now. Maybe scare ya’ while you’re asleep. Slowly Remmick stands up. Your breathing is slow. He has to stop and listen. Breath so slow he almost thinks you're dead. But you’re not. A deep breath you take tells him you’re not.
He’s salivating at the mouth. Remmick smells you. A deep and long inhale of you. Fresh, sweet, blood.
There is a sound from you. Remmick looks down. Shit. You got him droolin’ all over ya. He wipes your cheek with the back of his hand. But your skin—it’s cold. Not just clammy. Cold like him. But you’re sweating, too. Humans sweat. Humans get cold. Remmick’s been dead too long, maybe he’s forgettin’.
Remmick stayed there, on his bed sitting down just inhaling your scent. It was nightfall. You’ve been absent for almost three whole days. Nobody’s come searchin’ for you. Not your mother, father, anyone. Today was Sunday.
You missed church today. Still not a word.
Guess this wasn’t the town he thought it was.
You move again and a light hits his eye. He looks down and it’s your ring. You still have it on. The band of the ring is silver and the stone is blue with golden specks. It’s on your middle finger. His hand slides under yours. Your fingers twitch, just slightly. Remmick freezes. Waits. You don’t move again.
Was it fake? Slowly the ends of his pointer finger elongated into a sharp claw. He was about to scratch the stone before you arched your back in stretch. Quickly he reverted his finger to a human one.
“What are you doing?” Your hand was still his and your brows were furrowed but the way you spoke was still laced with sleep.
Remmick looked at you with a smile. “Just lookin’”
“If you’re wonderin’ if it’s real.” You gently pulled your hand from his grasp looking at the ring. “It is. It’s lapis lazuli. Scratches easy. Lapis lazuli stones are considered the precious stones that ruled the sky and the seas or in other stories the stone combines the blue of the heavens and golden glitter of the sun. As such, it absorbs the sunlight.” You took off the ring and gave it to him.
Remmick held it in his hand observing the fine metal work. “That ones enchanted though. The friend that gave it to me? She was a witch.” Remmick looked at you. So much for a devoted christian. “Lapis lazuli is a rock. Nothin’ real special, but it’s what she requested. So I went and found the stone, which was hard. I was working on a limited time schedule.”
Why do you speak like that? Speak as if you’re older than you are. Remmick doesn’t know how old you are—after a while, that age of humans becomes irrelevant. Anyone under the age of 100 is young to him. You speak as if you’d have more years than what is visible on your face.
“But eventually, I found a rock and brought it back to her. She did her spells. I’d recite it, but it’s Latin and it was such a long time ago, can’t remember any more.” You shrugged. “Anyways, the spell was done and now it protects me.”
Ain’t god-fearin’ because of this ring? Ain’t afraid of the devil because of this ring? It’s laughable, but Remmick won’t laugh. We’ll see how well your ring puts up against him. “Protects you against what?”
“Curses put on me.” You stood up and Remmick remained on the bed. “Well—a curse, really. Bestowed on my kind, after we were given a gift of sorts.”
“Your kind? The words felt sticky in his mouth. The way you said it—so easily. Like the ones who'd step on your neck. Such a pity.
You simply nodded. “I suffered a long time under that curse. I was limited for so many years. That gift took something away from me, and I missed it.” There you go again. Talking as if you’re older. But you’re not. He knows you're not. “So I went out, and found someone who could fix me. I met my friend, though I don’t think she really thought of me as a friend like I did her, but she’s dead now, so don’t it matter much and in the end I s'pose she got even.”
“How d’you reckon?”
“Well she placed another curse on me.” You laughed sitting down in the chair he once sat at while he looked at you sleepin’. “It was worse than the first. She didn’t take anything away—just... enhanced what was already there.” You looked at him, and suddenly gooseflesh pricked up his spin. He knew that look. “It was hell. Year after year, I tried to break it. It just wouldn’t. Told me it was an eye for an eye. She helped me and I helped her.” You shook your head and Remmick was stuck on the bed listening to you.
“Old hag knew I’d live longer than her. I was young back then.” Still are. Still naive when you never ask him the questions you should be askin’. So why do you sound so old? Why do you sound as if you’ve lived lifetimes? As many as he had. “Gullible, if you will. I mean, why after all these years, I still gotta help a dead woman? Just ain’t fair.”
Remmick said nothing and you kept looking at him. Where does he know your look from? He knows it. He really does, but god it’s been such a long time, Remmick starts to forget faces. “Eventually though, I accepted it. Learned to live with it. Enjoy it even. In the end, I’m glad she gave me another curse—though I think it’s a gift now—maybe I did break it. Maybe I just like livin’ like this now.”
You gave a deep pause.
“It’s better.”
…
This damned door.
Remmick swears he could trace every chip in the paint with his eyes closed, just from how often he’s stood in front of it. The creak of its hinges, the uneven flake of old enamel—it’s all burned into him now. Yet here he is again, and here you come, opening it once more.
“Yes?” you ask, voice soft and languid. You’re backlit, the glow of your home curling around you in warm gold. Domestic light—safe, small, human. Remmick remains where the dark clings to him, just past the porch light’s reach.
“Came to say hi,” he says, flashing you that grin—the kind meant to be disarming.
“Hi,” you echo, a little smile curling at your lips as you lean against the doorframe. Casual. Inviting. That’s good.
“Hello,” he murmurs again, quieter this time, letting it linger in the air between you both.
“Is that all?” you ask, arching a brow. There’s a slight tease in your voice now, but your eyes flicker, cautious. Curious.
Remmick doesn’t answer. Instead, he steps closer, slow and sure, letting the threshold between you become the only thing left.
“What are you doing?” you ask, your voice dropping an octave—not quite nervous, but alert.
Then you take a step forward—just one—and it’s enough.
The scent hits him like a wave.
Fresh blood. Sweet, bright, and warm. How you manage to carry that scent with you, always just on the edge of being bitten, he doesn’t know. But it’s there, thick in his nostrils now. Remmick’s jaw tightens. His tongue presses to the back of his teeth.
“You’re salivatin’,” you say, cocking your head. It’s not accusatory. Just observant.
He wipes at the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand and gives you another grin—this one slower, hungrier.
“Just for you.” Slowly he feels his eyes glaze over, but all he’s looking at is your neck. His mouth is ajar just slightly and he can feel his venom drippin’ from the side of his mouth. Slowly but surely he leans in.
He can barely register your hand against his face again wiping away his venom. But just slightly, the move is enough to turn his head and his vision from your neck to your lips. Well, poison gettin’ in you one way or another.
His hand moved too fast for it to be considered human, but he doesn’t think you noticed seeing as your warm hand is still cupping his face. His hand held a tight grip on the back of your neck as he pulled you to him, kissing you, hard. His teeth clash against yours.
You’ll have to forgive him. It’s been a while since he’s really kissed anyone. He can feel as you nails scratch lightly on his scalp as you grip his hair pulling him closer to you. You feel so warm. So warm even on such hot and humid nights.
He feels his venom accumulating on his tongue, so he forces himself into your mouth. Your sound of surprise sounds wondrous. You gladly welcome him into you. His grip softens on your neck and both of his hands start to explore your back. Lower and lower creep but just before they can reach for what his body aches for you push him away.
The momentum of pushing him away sends you stumbling backward, feet dragging across the worn wood floor, until you’re safely behind the threshold—behind the invisible line that keeps him from you.
Remmick stands frozen on the other side, one foot still lifted, as if he could follow.
But he can’t.
He looks at you. Really looks. And there it is: his venom, glistening like spilled ink, trailing from the corner of your mouth. A small, damning shimmer.
Your hand flies up, trembling as you point at him. “No,” you whisper at first, then louder, firmer, shaking your head as if to shake him out of your blood.
“No,” you repeat, breath hitching, voice frayed. “I won’t do it. Do you even know what they’d do to you? To me?” You pause, chest heaving as though you’ve run a great distance. “No, Remmick. I won’t subject myself to that.” Remmick doesn’t flinch.
“Goodbye, Remmick,” you say. It lands cold. Then—just like before—you shut the door.
And again, he’s left outside, staring at the same damned wood. The lock clicks like a coffin shutting. Remmick doesn’t move. Just stands there, bathed in the hush of the porchlight and the slow creep of night. Crickets chirp.
He got his answer, alright.
You aren’t a god-fearin’ woman and you are afraid of the devil
And maybe what stings the most is—he thought you were braver than that.
But that’s alright. He was scared of the devil once too. But now that he’s got his answer, it won’t matter no more. He can save you. Make sure you never fear the devil ever again. Make sure you can do something with your life and it won’t be meaningless. You can be equal, and no man will be more equal than others.
He wonders what happens now. You’ve got his venom in you.
You should be dead—or dying—but you’re not. Not yet. He’s never left someone like this before. Never walked away with his venom inside them without finishing the job. Usually, it’s through a bite. That’s the way it’s supposed to go.
Well… first time for everything.
Remmick wipes the corner of his mouth with the back of his sleeve, smearing spit and venom across his skin. It glistens under the faint glow of your porch light.
He turns, about to step into the night, when something makes him look back. There you are, framed by the window. Watching. The light catches your eyes—wide, cautious, and just a little bit puzzled. Like even you don’t know why you’re still standing.
Remmick frowns. He doesn’t know either.
He raises a hand, then thinks better of it. Instead, he dips his head in a small bow, mock-formal, like he’s stepping away from a stage instead of your life. Turning on his heel, he walks off into the dark, boots crunching soft against the gravel path.
Still, he can hear you. Your breath, small and quick, just behind the glass. You’re watching him walk away. He knows it.
And depending on how this goes…
It won’t be long before you walk away too—with him.
…
You hadn’t been home when he tried to visit. There was disappointment in that. Maybe you did die and you just never woke up. He should’ve just killed you. Didn’t even need to be brutal. Just a snapped neck and you would have woken up 15 minutes later.
Such a shame. Off he goes then. Ain’t nothing here for him. That something he’s been looking for just isn’t here.
Another week passes. Then—three knocks. Firm. Familiar.
Remmick wakes with a start, the sun already high and hot. Midday. The time he hates most. With a crack of his neck, he drags himself to the front door, every step heavy. When he opens it, his widen in shock because there you are.
You’re radiant.
Standing on his porch in your Sunday best, sunlight kissing your skin. And in your hands—a pie, steaming faintly under its cloth cover. You smell like warm fruit and something sweet beneath it. Something alive.
Remmick squints at you, blinking against the brightness. Best to ignore your absence. “Wasn’t it you who told me this—” he gestures between the two of you with a loose hand, a smirk curling his lip, “—was a bad idea?”
“Well yes!” you cut in quickly, chipper, too chipper. “But you see, my mother sent me over with this pie. Said you haven’t been to church for some time.”
Your mother? He hadn’t seen her in a while. Though she was dead. Your father too. He cocks a brow. “Aren’t you supposed to be in church?”
Your smile doesn’t falter. “I attended in the early mornin’.”
There’s a beat. Then, you shift your weight, pie still in hand. “Now, this hot… may I come in?” The words land like a stone in his gut. You still have that sweet smell of yours. Means you’re not like him. Not yet anyway. You walk in sunlight. Your skin doesn’t smoke. Your eyes still shine. Still, he doesn’t say it. Doesn’t invite you. Just opens the door wider.
And just as he suspected—you step inside without pause, without hesitation. Indeed you’re alive and kickin’. The light clings to you as you cross the threshold, but it fades, like it can’t hold onto you in here.
Remmick watches the sun blaze through the open door behind you, then gently pushes it closed. He turns to look at you as you set the pie down on his table. “How are ya’?”
“I’m good. Left for a week. Had to do some stuff.” You sat down at the table and again. Just like the last time you were in here, he expected to feel a prickle down his spine. But instead you just smile looking up at him with a slight tilt in your head. You look happy. Real happy.
He steps further in, slow and careful, like he’s approaching something skittish. Dangerous.
You. You, sitting at his table like you’ve always belonged here. Like there hadn’t been venom between your teeth and rejection in your breath the last time he saw you.
“You look different,” he says, voice low. Testing.
“Do I?” you hum, resting your chin in your hand. “Maybe. I feel different, if only a little.”
Remmick studies you—really studies you. Your skin’s got color, warm and soft, kissed by sun and not a hint of pallor. Your eyes shine like they used to, but something hums beneath them now. Something older.
“You were gone for a week,” he says, circling the table, watching how your eyes follow him. “And then you show up on my porch in the daylight. Dressed for church. Smilin’ like you’ve been saved.”
You laugh, soft and musical, but there’s something sharp hidden in it. “Ain’t that what Sunday’s for?”
He doesn’t sit. He leans against the back of the chair across from you, arms crossed, still watching. Still waiting. “You said you feel different?”
“I’ve been thinking. Thinkin’ real hard.” You stand up just as Remmick is behind you. “But I still have doubts.” You smell stronger today and the heat radiates off of you today. Almost too human. Enticing nonetheless. His teeth hurt.
“Thinkin’ bout what?” He murmured as he bent down trying to smell you. Fresh blood. Your blood is young.
“Well…what happened last time…” You trailed off. Remmick was right again. You’re not old. Can’t be. Not when your voice sounds so young. Sounds so impressionable. Sound so naive.
Slowly, his hands settled on your shoulders, firm but gentle, like he wasn’t sure if he was holding you or holding himself back. He drew you close. Close enough that the scent of your skin curled into his lungs and stayed there. It made his gums ache—dull at first, then sharper, the way they always ached right before his teeth came out.
(Though he ignored the sound of vein pulsing. The sound as if they hadn’t been used in a while and were stretching to being used once more. The sound of porcelain cracking.)
You didn’t stop him. Not at first. Maybe you knew what was coming.
Just before his lips could brush the edge of your throat—just before the hunger overtook the man—a knock sounded, sharp and sudden.
You flinched. The spell broke.
You tore yourself from him in one clean motion, never once looking back as your footsteps pounded against the floor and disappeared down the hall. Back to your mother. Back to the light. Back to safety.
Remmick stood there a moment longer, hand outstretched, the ghost of your warmth still clinging to his fingers.
It was fine. Nightfall would come soon. And tonight would be the final night.
The sun sank like a coin into the horizon, the sky stained in shades of fire and ash. Remmick stood by the window, watching shadows grow long and lean. The ache in his jaw had not gone away. If anything, it had deepened—moved lower, down into the bones. A hunger that knew your name.
He’d waited. He’d been kind. Patient, even.
But patience was running thin.
And you’d been marked now—by his venom, by your choice, by something neither of you fully understood.
No more knocks. No more interruptions.
Tonight he wouldn’t wait for you to come to him.
He was coming to you.
And so he did.
Just as before, Remmick stood at your doorstep, cloaked in the hush of twilight. The porch light cast long shadows across the wooden floorboards, and the scent of honeysuckle clung to the air. But this time, when the door creaked open, you stepped out to greet him.
Your figure cut through the soft light—barefoot, loose nightdress, a curl falling out of place near your temple. You looked like you hadn’t slept, but you were calm. Maybe resolved.
“Your parents?” Remmick asked, his voice quiet, cautious.
“Gone,” you replied, arms loosely crossed over your chest, but not in defense—more like you were holding something steady inside you.
He nodded once, stepping a little closer. “What is it that you want?” he asked, voice lower now, earnest. “I’ll make it happen.”
You tilted your head slightly, a skeptical smile ghosting your lips. “What can you do?”
“I can take you North,” he said, the words slow, deliberate, thick with promise. “North where we could be free. You wouldn’t have to worry about a thing.”
The porch light flickered once. The air between you buzzed with something unsaid.
“You’d do that f’me?” you asked, gaze flicking to his, voice smaller than before.
“’Course,” he breathed. “Do anythin’.”
“But what if they—”
“You ain’t gotta worry ’bout a thing,” he interrupted gently. “I’ll handle it.” His hand lifted, rough fingers brushing your cheek. His palm was calloused, but the way he held you was almost reverent.
“Remm—” your voice cracked around his name.
Softly, he shushed you. “Shhh,” he whispered, his thumb stroking just beneath your eye. Your skin wasn’t as warm tonight. That was alright. His hand lingered like he was grounding himself. “Just like I handled the last problem.”
There was a pause—one thick with knowing.
You looked at him. Really looked.
“Alright then…” you murmured, and a small smile touched your lips. You reached up, holding his hand in both of yours, delicate and sure. Then, turning slightly, your gaze flicked to the open door behind you. The threshold. The place where old lives ended and new ones might begin.
“Come on in, Remmick.”
And he did.
Slowly, Remmick crossed the threshold of your home. Each step he took felt heavier with meaning, soaked in anticipation. A grin stretched across his face—feral and proud—as he watched you move through the soft amber light of the kitchen, your silhouette framed by fluttering gingham curtains and the muted hum of a quiet house.
His eyes wandered along the walls. Old walls, wilted dried herbs. Then his gaze landed on another cross. This one wasn’t ornamental. Its angles were too sharp. Too precise. The bottom point gleamed like it had drawn blood before.
“Remmick?” you called from the kitchen, voice lilting, casual. Like this was any other day.
He hummed low in his throat, not trusting his voice. Not with what was coming.
Let’s see what your little ring was good for.
His eyes darkened and glazed over, vision sharpening until the fibers of the wood under his boots became crystal-clear. His shoulders drew back with a crack, his body shifting. Bones lengthened in his fingers, joints grinding as claws pushed through skin with an eager, slow stretch. His ears twitched, catching the creak of a cooling kettle, the soft rustle of your clothing. But nothing else. No heartbeat. No breath. Still, so still.
Strange.
Then the ache came. That sweet, gnawing pull in his gums as his canines extended, tearing just slightly at his lip. The rest of his teeth followed suit—each one honed to a razor’s edge.
God, it felt good.
“When was the last time you ate?” you asked suddenly. Your back was still to him, your hands fussing with something at the counter—tea leaves maybe, or pie slices.
His eyes flicked to your ring. It didn’t glow. Didn’t burn. Didn’t stop a thing.
But then again… maybe it was never meant to.
“A while ago,” he said, voice a rasp, thick with desire. He took a step forward, almost salivating. “Haven’t eaten proper since… well. Since your friend.”
He didn’t need to say which one. The silence that followed named her for him.
“So you’re hungry?” you asked, still without turning. Your tone was measured, smooth like syrup.
“Starvin’,” he growled, claws flexing.
“That’s good.” You turned. Slowly.
He bared his teeth fully now, ready to savor the shock on your face. But what he saw made something shift in his gut.
Your eyes did widen at first—but only slightly. There was no scream. No flinch. Just the ghost of amusement curling at your lips. And then… you smiled.
Not in fear.
In recognition. And Remmick’s claws twitched again—but this time, not from joy.
He didn’t like that smile.
Not one bit.
Then came the sound.
That sick, wet stretch of muscle tearing and reforming. The kind that always reminded Remmick of leather being pulled too tight—followed by the sharp snap of bone shifting just beneath skin. He knew that sound. Had heard it in the woods. Beneath moonlight. In his house. Only now… he knew exactly where it was coming from.
From you.
He froze, eyes locked on your face as something moved beneath your skin—quick, serpentine. Dark veins crawled up from your jaw like ink bleeding into paper, slithering under your cheekbones and reaching the corners of your bloodshot eyes. The whites of them turned red, slowly—almost deliberately—as if savoring the change.
And then, your smile twisted. Became something other. A grin, cruel and radiant, blooming with two sharp fangs that caught the light.
The grin that had lived on his face just moments ago? It was gone. Slid off like water on polished stone.
Now it belonged to you.
Remmick stepped back instinctively, his claws flexing in the air between you. Confusion struck first—then horror, slow and creeping. His lips parted, but no sound came out.
He watched you. He watched it—the creature you’d become. No… the creature you’d always been.
(That’s where he knew your face from that day. He had worn it so many times, though now it just wasn’t on him)
“Me too,” you whispered.
Note: Eh. Not my best work, but I wanted it out there. Took me forever to write💔
Pt. 2
To be added on Tag list: !(•̀ᴗ•́)و ̑̑/Gen Masterlist
