In the Sinners Land - Remmick x (Y/n)
Description: A remote chapel. A storm. A man who is not a man. When (Y/n) opens the door to a stranger soaked in rain and shadow, she knows something is wrong. But it’s not just the forest whispering anymore—it’s him. With a smile like a secret and eyes full of old sins, Remmick isn’t here to be saved. He’s here to collect. Warnings: Contains depictions of religious trauma, graphic violence and gore, implied sexual violence, supernatural and psychological horror, stalking behavior. Reader discretion is advised.
The chapel stood at the edge of the world.
Or at least, that’s how it felt to (Y/n).
Tucked miles away from the nearest whisper of civilization and buried deep within the gnarled bones of the forest, the crumbling church sat like a forgotten monument—its white paint peeled like old scabs, the bell tower bowed as if in shame, and ivy wrapped around its frame like veins around brittle knuckles. Her father used to call it “God’s land.”
But to (Y/n), it didn’t feel holy. It felt abandoned. Forgotten by heaven.
Remembered only by something darker.
She’d known that feeling since she was a child. The dreams had always come—slithering through sleep like smoke under a door. Dreams of trees whispering secrets in tongues older than time, of shadowed laughter, and a man standing just beyond her vision. He smiled like a wound. His eyes were slick and endless like spilled ink, and he always lingered at the edge—never speaking, never moving.
She never told her father. He was a preacher of hard truths and harder fists. A man with scripture in his mouth and judgment in his hands. There was no room for nightmares in his version of faith. No space for daughters who saw ghosts.
But lately, even the townsfolk had begun to murmur.
Not about dreams—no. About things worse.
Villages going silent overnight. Homes still warm, but empty. Livestock found hollowed and brittle, drained and curled in on themselves like forgotten fruit. The only things left behind were the smell of iron and the certainty that something had passed through.
They called it the devil.
A man cloaked in charm and tar. A voice sweet as honey and a heart blacker than pitch.
And he was coming.
When she asked her father about it, he didn’t flinch. Didn’t even look up from the fire.
“He’s already come once,” he said, low and quiet. “And he’ll come again. That’s the nature of debt.”
(Y/n) didn’t understand.
Not then.
Not until the storm.
The sky split in two the night he arrived.
Lightning carved through the clouds like claws. Thunder rolled after it like distant war drums. Rain crashed against the chapel’s stained-glass windows, wild and relentless, as though trying to drown the light from within.
(Y/n) knelt by the hearth, coaxing the fire higher, her linen nightgown trailing like mist along the stone floor. Shadows stretched long across the worn wooden pews behind her. The smell of ash and damp filled the air.
Then—three knocks.
Slow. Heavy. Too calm.
She went still.
No one came this far. Not during a storm like this. Not unless they were desperate. Or sent.
Her hand hesitated over the iron latch. Her breath caught in her chest. She told herself not to answer. Told herself it was nothing. Just the wind. Just noise.
Then it came again.
Three more knocks.
Measured. Intentional. Confident.
She cracked the door open.
And there he was.
A man stood on the threshold, haloed by the storm. His coat clung to his broad frame, soaked and heavy, the hem dark with red clay. Rain sluiced down his curls, plastering them to his forehead. A satchel hung off one shoulder. His boots were thick with travel and time.
He looked like he’d been walking for miles. Or years.
But he didn’t look tired.
He looked certain.
What unsettled her most wasn’t the sight of him—it was the feeling. Like she was seeing something that didn’t belong to this world. Or any world. Something that knew her name, even if it hadn’t said it yet.
His eyes were dark. Gentle. Too gentle.
The kind of eyes that studied you like they’d already dreamed your ending.
“Evenin’, darlin’,” he drawled, voice slow and warm, soaked in Southern ease but carrying something deeper—older. It curled through the air like incense. “Storm’s turned the road to hell itself. Thought I might ask for a little shelter. Just for the night.”
She didn’t move. Didn’t open the door any wider.
“You’re not from the village.”
Her voice didn’t shake. But her grip on the door was white-knuckled.
He smiled, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “No, ma’am. Not anymore. But I’ve… seen this place before.”
He looked past her then—just briefly—into the chapel behind her. His gaze lingered on the walls, the fire, the pews—like he was remembering something. Or checking if something was still there.
It made her stomach turn.
“You been here before?”
His head tilted slightly.
“Not in any way that counts.”
That answer unsettled her more than a lie.
Rain surged harder. The trees groaned like something alive.
He shifted on his feet but didn’t step forward. He didn’t try to force his way in. He just waited—for her to decide.
“I wouldn’t ask,” he said, voice softer now, “if there was anywhere else nearby. But the storm’s not lettin’ up, and I’m soaked through. Thought I saw a light… figured it was worth knockin’.”
She didn’t open the door farther.
But she didn’t close it either.
His eyes searched hers—not pleading. Just watching. Knowing.
That was what made her skin crawl.
The way he looked at her like he already understood how she moved. How she’d say no—and still open the door anyway.
“You sure you’re not lost?” she asked quietly.
The corner of his mouth twitched.
“No, darlin’. Not lost.” He tilted his head. “Not anymore.”
She didn’t know why she did it. Maybe it was the way he said it. Maybe it was the storm howling behind him like it had teeth. Maybe it was something older. Deeper.
She let the door fall open. Just enough.
He stepped inside. "Thank you darlin' ." he said softly. (Y/n) only nodded, unsure why her throat had gone dry.
The rain didn’t follow him. The fire popped behind her as the air held its breath. He moved toward the hearth, the firelight catching on his wet coat and the faint gleam of something old beneath his shirt collar—something that looked like silver, or bone.
And (Y/n), standing alone in the doorway with the storm shrieking behind her, couldn’t shake the feeling that she hadn’t let a man in.
She’d let something else in.
Something that had been waiting for this moment far longer than she could imagine.
He moved like something not entirely made of flesh—fluid, too quiet, too careful—casting shadows that didn’t quite follow the laws of light. His coat hung heavy on the hearth, water still steaming off it in curls, smelling of ash and distant storms.
(Y/n) watched him from across the room, arms folded over her chest. She didn’t sit, only came to fetch a mug of tea for the “guest”.
The fire popped in the hearth, casting long shadows across the chapel walls. Rain hissed against the stained glass. Outside, the wind screamed through the trees like something angry had been loosed.
Remmick sat with his back to the blaze, steam rising off his coat. His boots were still wet, dripping onto the stone floor, but he didn’t seem to mind. He held the mug she’d given him like it was something sacred—fingers long and pale wrapped around the chipped ceramic, the faint gleam of something bone-white glinting beneath his collar.
She hovered by the edge of the pews, arms folded tight over her chest, keeping her distance. Watching him.
“Quiet place,” Remmick said after a moment. His voice was smooth, low, like whiskey left out in a storm. “Smells the same. Cedar and ash. You burn lavender in here?”
She didn’t answer. He smiled a little. Not mockingly—just patient. “Your da always did like a little peace with his prayer. Still preaches, then?”
Her eyes narrowed. “He’s sick.”
“Ah.” Remmick gave a soft nod, almost respectful. “Shame, that.”
He sipped the drink, watching her over the rim. “But you’re tendin’ to things now, I reckon.”
“May I ask your name,” she said, ignoring that.
He smiled again, wider this time. “Remmick.”
“Just Remmick?”
“Just for you, love.”
She frowned. “That supposed to mean something?”
“Supposed to mean I’m bein’ honest,” he said, tone light but laced with something harder underneath. “Far as it goes.”
“You told me you’re not from the village.”
“No, ma’am.”
“You passing through?”
He hesitated. Just a beat. Then: “You could say that.”
She stepped closer, slowly. Her voice lowered. “You came from the woods. You weren’t passing anything.” Remmick chuckled, low and warm. “Ain’t you sharp. Thought I might ease into the truth a little gentler.”
“Try,” she said flatly.
He looked amused. Touched his heart with mock gravity. “Well, if you insist. I came knockin’, didn’t I? Brought no storm with me. I even said please.”
“You said ‘thank you.’”
“Manners all the same.” Silence stretched between them. The fire cracked again.
She took another step forward. “You’re stalling.”
He looked up at her then, really looked. His eyes were dark, fathomless, with a strange light flickering just behind them. The smile softened.
“Wouldn’t you?”
“What do you want?”
Remmick sighed and set the mug aside. He didn’t stand. Just leaned forward, forearms on his knees, fingers loosely laced like a man about to deliver a sermon or a sentence.
“I came to collect a debt.”
Her stomach tightened. “What kind of debt?”
“Old kind,” he said gently. “Promised kind.”
Her voice turned sharp. “To my father?”
He tilted his head, gave a slow, almost fond nod. “Aye.”
She frowned. “He’s a preacher. What kind of business could a preacher have with a stranger like you?”
That got a soft chuckle out of him—low, amused, almost fond. “Oh, darlin’...”
“...a man can preach from sunup to sundown, wear the collar and call down heaven... but that don’t mean he don’t have debts. You know better’n that, don’t you?”
She said nothing, but her stomach curled tight.
Her throat tightened. “That’s not an answer.”
He leaned back in the chair, stretching his long limbs, fingers interlaced across his stomach like he had all the time in the world. “Ah,” he sighed. “But it’s the right kind of answer.”
“That’s not possible,” she said, shaking her head. “You’re not even— He wouldn’t—”
Remmick’s eyes didn’t leave hers. “He would. He did.”
“You’re lying.”
“I wish I were.” She stared. The firelight danced across his face, catching on the curve of a silver chain around his throat. She hated how calm he sounded. Like this conversation was just part of a script he'd memorized long ago.
“What are you?”
The smile slipped from his face.
For one long second, his expression emptied. Not angry. Not smug. Just… quiet. Like something ancient inside him had turned its face away.
Then the smile returned—slower this time. Warmer. Almost sad.
“I’m a man who keeps his promises,” he said, the Southern lilt thicker now, the vowels dragging with old weight.
She studied him. “That’s not what I asked.”
“No,” he agreed softly. “But it’s still true.” She stepped closer and finally sat across from him. Not close. But close enough to see the way his pupils didn’t quite move like human eyes should.
“You keep dodging.”
“And you keep askin’ questions that might make you lose sleep.”
She leaned forward. “I think you want me to ask.”
The smile froze. Just for a breath.
Then he picked up his cup again, turning it once in his hands. “You’re clever,” he said quietly. “He said you would be.”
“Who?”
He looked up. Straight at her.
“Your father.”
Her heart stuttered. Her mouth went dry.
“He told me you were strong. Stubborn. Faithful.” His voice softened. “Didn’t mention the fire in you, though. That... that part’s yours.”
She swallowed hard. “He doesn’t talk about me.”
“No,” Remmick said, shaking his head slowly. “He don’t talk much about anything anymore.”
The fire dipped. Or maybe just the light.
It felt like the room was listening.
“Why now?” she asked, her voice no louder than a breath. “Why come now?”
He watched her over the rim of his cup, his eyes darker than pitch. “Because,” he said, setting it down, “he’s not here.”
The weight of the words made her spine go cold.
“You waited until he was away.”
“No,” he murmured. He rose from the chair with slow, unhurried grace. “I waited until you were alone.”
She stood too, heart hammering.
“You’re not here for him,” she whispered.
He didn’t answer.
Didn’t need to.
Something old shifted behind his eyes.
She felt it in her bones. The dreams. The whispers. The name she never learned but always knew.
“You know me,” she said.
His gaze found hers and this time, it didn’t look away.
Not her name. Not her face.
Her.
He took a single step forward.
“I’ve known you since your first breath, love,” he said, voice like thunder behind silk. “Known you long before you learned to pray.”
She backed away.
“You’ve been waiting.”
“I’ve been patient,” he said, his accent thick now—Southern drawn through Irish peat and blood. “That’s a whole different sin.”
And with that, the fear bloomed. Fully. Awfully.
Like a mouth opening, almost like something ancient was calling her home.
She smartest thing she could do was turn around and run out the old door.
Branches clawed her skin, tearing the nightgown into ribbons. Mud sucked at her feet like hands dragging her down. Her lungs burned, throat raw from screaming—but there was no one to hear. No one left but him.
And he was coming.
Not fast.
Not yet.
The trees held their breath. The storm above howled—but the woods themselves were quiet, listening.
Hunting.
Somewhere behind her, a twig cracked. A sound so soft it might’ve been nothing—except her body knew better.
She bolted again, crashing through the undergrowth, slipping on wet leaves, skidding down a slope. Her bare knees slammed into rock. She gasped, blood slicking down her shin.
She didn’t stop, she couldn’t.
The chapel—her mind clung to it like salvation. A ruin now, but holy once. Her father’s sermons echoing through the rafters. If she could just make it there—
“Little dove…”
His voice floated through the storm. Gentle. Mocking.
“You know better than to run in the dark.”
She spun wildly, heart hammering. Nothing but trees. Fog curling like fingers around the trunks.
Then silence again.
"Hide. You have to hide." (Y/n) thought to herself.
She dropped to her hands and knees, crawling into the hollow beneath an old oak, body trembling, blood smearing the bark where her leg dragged behind her uselessly.
She pressed a hand over her mouth to muffle her breathing.
Too loud. Too fast.
The rain fell in sheets. The thunder rolled on.
But then—
Footsteps.
Slow. Measured. Mud-slick boots crushing wet leaves just beyond the tree line.
“That’s it, sweetheart. Tuck yourself away.”
She froze. He couldn’t see her. He couldn’t—
“I like a girl who makes me work for it.”
She whimpered, too quiet to be heard—she thought. But the footsteps stopped.
“There we are.”
A pause.
“Found you.”
The roots tore as he wrenched her from the hollow like a rabbit from its den. She kicked. Bit. Fought. Nails clawing his face.
He only laughed.
Not angry.
Thrilled.
She struck him hard as her elbow connecting with his jaw. His head snapped to the side.
But when he looked back, he was smiling.
“Ain’t you just full of fire.”
He shoved her against the tree. Her skull hit bark. Stars bloomed in her vision. The woods spun.
“I like that,” he said, voice low, his accent curling warm and wicked against her cheek. “Means your blood’ll be dancin’ when I take it.”
She tried to scream.
He silenced her with a hand, cold as marble, pressing over her mouth.
“Hush now,” he whispered. “You’ll wake the dead.”
And then he was carrying her.
She kicked and flailed, but he held her like something claimed. Dragged her through the trees until the broken chapel rose from the storm like a mausoleum.
He threw her down onto the stone floor.
She tried to crawl but her leg gave out. Blood pooled where her thigh was cut open. The wind screamed through the broken rafters.
He crouched beside her.
“Look at you.”
She didn’t.
He gripped her chin, forced her to face him.
His eyes glowed faint red—not bright, not cinematic. Faint. Smoldering. Like embers under ash.
“Do you know,” he murmured, brushing blood-matted hair from her temple, “what you look like right now?”
She sobbed, teeth chattering.
“Like an offering.”
He pressed her down.
Not fast nor violent, just a final show he was giving to no one but himself.
His weight crushed her against the cold stone. His breath ghosted over her collarbone.
“Please…” she whispered.
“Oh, dove’.” His smile was tender. “You were never gonna be saved.”
He pinned her wrists above her head. Fingers like iron. His body slotted over hers, deliberate, intimate, unbearable.
“You reek of faith,” he said, dragging his nose along her jaw, breathing her in. “Of prayer and purity and shame so thick I could drink it before I even touched you.”
She turned her face away. He leaned closer.
“And I ain’t even gotten to the good part yet.”
Then his mouth opened, fangs bared, breath cold, lips brushed against her throat.
And he bit.
Pain exploded. She screamed, back arching, wrists twisting uselessly in his grip.
His growl vibrated through her ribs.
Blood poured into his mouth, and he moaned, slow and guttural—like he'd been starving for this. Like she was water after a century in the desert.
And maybe she was.
Because in that moment, he loved her—in his way.
Dark. Twisted. Ruinous.
He drank not for need, but for communion.
And he felt her soul with every pull. Innocence. Terror. Fury. Desire. It bled into him like wine into a white cloth. Permanent. Staining.
Pain bloomed—sharp, unbearable, intimate. Her back arched against him, a cry torn from her lips. He drank like a man possessed, growling low in his chest as her blood spilled down her shoulder, hot and wet.
Her head lolled. Her knees gave way.
Still, he held her close, cradled, like a lover might.
And when he pulled back, mouth slick with crimson, eyes heavy-lidded with dark hunger, he looked at her like she was divine.
“Fuck,” he whispered, reverent. “I could live inside you.”
He kissed the blood from her shoulder. Her throat. Her jaw. Lingering. Almost… adoring.
And then he lifted her.
Into his arms. Against his chest. Like she was already his.
“You ain’t dyin’.” His voice was soft now, but dangerous. “You’re comin’ with me.”
She tried to speak, but it was all too much pain, cold, the storm howling like wolves outside her skull.
He looked down at her as she shivered in his arms.
“You don’t get to die tonight, little dove.” He grinned, slow and blood-streaked. “You get to learn what it means to be kept.”
And then they were gone, swallowed by the night. The woods fell still.
And in the chapel, broken, empty and abandoned, the rain whispered secrets through the rafters.
Because heaven had never come for her.
And now, hell wouldn’t let her go.