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The fallen tree Remmick finds himself sat on pokes him uncomfortably.
He’d expected the woman, and he’s never wrong. She’d been so protective of the juke joint, who else would they send out here but shared blood? That’s who Remmick would’ve chosen, at least. But, if he’d already been in the juke joint, he wouldn’t have had to rely on this woman. And yet, out steps a man. One of the twins, a handsome fellow, the only one of the two to nod along to the tune of Remmick’s banjo. The stars have aligned, and Remmick looks to the sky to thank them.
“You two go on now, make yourselves scarce,” He stands from the fallen tree with an interest that shoots through him. His gaze refuses to leave the man standing before the juke joint now, glancing and searching and looking for him, “I’ve got this one. He’ll be sure to let me in, I just know it.” They don’t question him, they feel him enough to know his certainty in the matter. The curiosity of this man will be his uprising.
Eyes find Remmick’s own, they drag over him before the man’s stalking towards him. “Good evening, sir,” Remmick calls to him with his best smile. He settles his banjo on his back and loops his fingers around the strap across his chest. The man walks at him with purpose, a toothpick hanging from the corner of his mouth, a hand disappearing into his suit jacket. Remmick would say he’s more than intrigued as he opens his mouth to ask, “Changed your mind?”
“Well, hold on now. Where’s your lil’ klan buddies?” The man mutters around the pick, eyes now darting everywhere surrounding Remmick. He scans the roads, even going as far as to watch the movement coming from the trees surrounding them. It’s the wind, Remmick knows it’s the wind, but he doesn’t say that. The last thing he wants to do is outright suggest the man is an idiot. Instead, his jaw clenches at another horrid accusation.
He can’t exactly read this twin, all he can see in that brain of his is the pretty white woman from the club, his family. His lover. The other twin was obvious about his intentions and his thoughts on Remmick’s gang, his ways of thinking fluid and forceful. This one’s simply repeating what the other had assumed. Though, he wouldn’t be out here if he’d truly believed Remmick was a klansman. He’s out here against his brother’s wishes because Remmick’s intrigued him.
“Really, sir, we just wanna play some blues with you all,” Remmick gives a sheepish smile, “We ain’t own no white hoods. All’s we got is empty stomachs, money to spend, and instruments to play.”
“Where they at?” The man asks again.
“Did what you asked, went on into town.” Remmick shrugs.
“And you? Why you ain’t gone with ‘em?” The man points the toothpick accusingly at Remmick now, the gold glimmer to his smile meant to be a warning. Only, Remmick finds it more appealing than he does terrifying.
“If I’d’ve gone with ‘em, then I wouldn’t be out here to greet ya,” Remmick replies easily, “And that would just be rude, sir. My mama ain’t raise me as such.” That comment catches Stack’s attention.
The man smiles at that, he smiles more than his brother. Their first meeting at the door was enough to tell Remmick that he’d stolen all the muscles it takes to grin when they’d shared a womb. “What’s your name again?” He asks Remmick with that smile on his lips. The question is empty, Remmick made quite the impression for a man to have forgotten his name so quickly.
Remmick can see it in his head, how the name circulates boldly over the woman’s now faceless figure, how this man’s guessed even the spelling correctly with just one mention from Remmick’s lips. He knows Remmick’s name, has memorized it, but only chalked Joan and Bert down as ‘lil’ klan buddies’. Something in Remmick’s chest swells with pride, he’s stuck in this man’s head with only one introduction and a silly song.
Still, strictly to continue their conversation, he says, “Remmick, sir.”
“You hungry, Remmick? Could probably find you somethin’ to eat.” He looks back to the joint where the large fellow at the doors staring over at them. Sidestepping only slightly, he covers the man’s view of Remmick, protecting him.
He’s hungry for something, that much is true, but he doesn’t think his starvation is caused by the blood pumping through this man’s veins, “That’s awfully kind of you, sir.”
“They call me Stack.”
Stack. They call him Stack. Remmick wonders awfully if by the end of the night he could get Stack’s real name out of him, like some game only he’d know they’re playing. Maybe before he bites into Stack’s neck, copying those memories and knowledges to his own head and getting the name anyway. He wonders if Stack would just tell him if he were to ask. Is he that deep in the man’s head to get away with such a question? One look and Remmick knows the answer to that.
“What’s your mama call you?” Remmick asks, adding a small tilt to his head, a cock to his hip.
“Elias,” Stack says, too easily.
“Elias, beautiful name,” Remmick quips, taking in the sudden spike of the man’s heartbeat at the murmur of his name. Oh, he likes that. He likes when Remmick announces him as so,“Well, it’s a pleasure to meet ya, Elias.” Another for good measure, another tick to Stack’s heartbeat, and another step in the right direction for Remmick.
How easy it would be, to overpower this man and gain his knowledge at this very instant. He could bite the man, turn Stack to be his own, and be done with it. He gains knowledge and a way into the juke joint. But, this, whatever this is, it’s just so much more fun. Remmick could easily blame it on the collar of Stack’s shirt, sealing it off from sharp teeth (even though the material would easily rip under his teeth).
This way, if Stack’s suggesting what Remmick highly believes he’s suggesting, fingers plucking buttons open won’t seem so shocking. “You really ain’t gotta fear me, sir,” Remmick laughs something light, eyes averting to Stack’s hand still disappearing into his suit jacket. He’d seen the blade, a fashionable thing but, still lethal for any normal person. Remmick is not one of those people. Still, he’d rather Stack not stab a hole into such a nice shirt.
“I ain’t ‘fraid of you,” Stack says, pulling his hand back, “Just curious.”
Remmick likes them curious, “What’s to be curious about?”
“If you still wanna come in or not,” Stack mocks his shrug.
“Don’t think your brother would take too kindly to that,” Remmick mutters, “And I don’t wanna cause no problems.”
That seems to tick something in Stack’s gut, “Don’t need his permission, it’s our joint, ain’t just his.”
He can’t give in too easily as much as he’d like to follow Stack to the ends of the Earth to cause more mischief, one misstep and Remmick’ll lose him forever, “And your lady? Don’t think she’d like it. What’s hers is hers.”
“You talkin’ ‘bout Mary,” Stack scoffs, “She ain’t my lady.”
“Yet, she’s family,” Remmick tries not to let the sneer of the word show too much on his face, but he feels he might’ve failed, “Sounds complicated, funny how that works.” Remmick runs the pad of his thumb across his bottom lip, and what’s left of his heart stutters when Stack watches the movement with intense eyes.
Stack nods at him, looks back towards the joint before trapping Remmick back in his heavy gaze. “We got catfish, you like catfish?” Stack takes fluid steps back, expertly avoiding the accusation on Remmick’s part. He keeps those eyes of his on Remmick while also leading them back towards the juke joint. A game of cat and mouse where Stack doesn’t know he’s the mouse and Remmick’s content enough with him believing he’s the cat.
“I like all kinds of fish,” Remmick takes steps towards him, finding himself grinning without having to fake the act. This man, this Stack, playing with him like this, it sends a bolt of electricity through him that makes him feel alive. He hasn’t felt his heart beat in centuries and yet, right now, Stack’s is strong enough for the both of them to live off.
“That right?” Stack’s teasing him, his eyes freely dragging over the entirety of Remmick now as he continues to walk backwards, “What else you like?” He times it perfectly enough that Remmick can’t begin to think of an answer before they’re nearing the front door.
“Stack,” The large man at the door calls over the music of the joint. He looks at Remmick before he casts not so subtle wide eyes at Stack again, “Ain’t Smoke said—.”
“Don’t matter what Smoke said, I said he’s comin’ in,” He looks to Remmick then, a hand firm on his shoulder. Proudly and firmly, he says, “You comin’ in.”
It’s all the invitation Remmick needs, the glass wall before him almost melts away and the only heat around him is replaced by Stack’s hand moving down his back before being stopped by the banjo from going any lower. Only a few steps into the juke joint and Remmick already feels lightheaded with the scent of churning blood, the sound of music, the heat of bodies grinding. He turns, forgetting his bearings, and colliding solidly into Stack’s chest.
He’s quick enough on his feet to make a show of sliding his face next to Stack’s, playing it off as just trying to get close to the man so he can whisper, “Got a place where I can retune?” Stack, who looks to see right through the bullshit, nods before sliding a hand over Remmick’s back again, guiding him to what looks like a storage room.
“This work for you?” He asks after Remmick’s entered the room, shutting the door to showcase how muffled the music becomes. That or making sure Remmick knows no one can hear them in here. It wouldn’t be much help, he always rips at the vocal cords before anything else.
He tilts his head at Stack, smiling fondly, “Just lovely, Elias, thank you kindly.”
“Been playing long?” Stack asks.
The question tickles Remmick, “Could say that, feels like I’ve been playing for decades.” He looks up to find Stack watching him intently, the movement of his fingers on the strings, the positioning of the banjo settled against his stomach. Remmick makes sure to give the man a show. Shifting to remove the banjo from his shoulder, he turns to place it on a stack of crates. Though it’s improper to tune such an instrument this way, he does it solely so Stack has an open view of his body.
After that it doesn’t take long, Remmick knows the body of a lonely man, and he knows what makes it tick. He’s practically offering himself up on a plate, and Stack seems to be just as hungry for it as Remmick himself is. His ears pick up on tentative steps, nervous shifting, calm breaths before Stack is right there behind him. Remmick forces himself not to close the gap, working blindly on his banjo’s string before Stack’s hands finally find him.
Stack, with his body flush against Remmick’s backside now, asks, “This alright?”
“More than,” Remmick whispers, basking in the warmth Stack gives him. He can let himself have this, after lonely years void of touches and sensual words whispered in waiting ears, he can have this before building his sense of community. His family, a family Stack will be part of. He’ll give himself that, he’ll give himself Stack. Though, he’ll have to remind himself to make quick work of that ‘Mary’.
Remmick turns against the man and props the banjo off to the side. He leans back onto the crates that dig uncomfortably into his back now, “That door have a lock?” He asks, nodding his chin at the door Stack now has his back to, “I take my tunin’ real serious, Elias. Can’t have people just walkin’ in and outta here all willy-nilly.” The words can only be whispered between them.
“Nah, we can’t have that,” Stack’s grinning at him again, and Remmick almost regrets his words because the warmth that is Stack leaves him promptly. He enjoys the view that is Stack, shrugging out of his suit jacket before making it to the door, locking it, and hanging his jacket on a stray nail protruding from the wall. A sophisticated fellow with a tailored to fit suit, while Remmick’s left wearing the clothes of his newly turned family.
He’d like to wear Stack’s shirt, to smell him at all hours of the day.
Remmick’s only just begun thinking of ways he can bite Stack, drink him up without spilling a drop of blood on that shirt, before he’s lost himself. He might’ve gone too deep because suddenly Stack’s in his space again saying, “You droolin’.” Though, he doesn’t sound at all that disgusted. If anything, he seems more infatuated by this newfound knowledge. Everything about this man excites Remmick, from the golds of his teeth to the shine of his shoes.
“Am I? Sorry ‘bout that,” Remmick says, bringing a hand to his chin in an attempt to salvage his look and sanity. Though, before his fingers can reach his face, Stack’s hand is encircling his wrist. The man leans in with intent when his other hand grips roughly at Remmick’s chin, tongue darting out flat to lick up Remmick’s chin before easily dipping into Remmick’s mouth with a ferocious kiss.
He tastes himself on Stack’s tongue, he feels the rough palm of Stack’s hand still on his willing wrist, Stack’s other hand sliding down his neck, squeezing. All of these things paired together sends an exhilarating shiver up Remmick’s spine. He feels alive with the realization that he must have Stack. The sense of marking overtakes him, the need to remove his mouth from Stack’s own and bite into his neck. He wonders if his blood tastes as sweet as his tongue does, there’s only one way for him to find out.
But, first, Remmick must peel himself away, and he can’t find it in himself to do that.
He’s caught up in the man’s lips on his, how drastically different it feels to be wanted after so long. Overwhelmed with it, he finds himself clutching desperately at Stack while trying not to break the man’s arm under his grasp. He can and can’t breathe all at the same time, his brain’s overrun with Stack, Stack, and more Stack. Stack’s hand on his neck, Stack’s lips against his, Stack’s dick growing hard against his thigh.
Stack smells so good.
Too busy drowning in everything Stack related, Remmick gets whiplash when he’s suddenly turned around and shoved down against the stack of uncomfortable crates he’d once been leaning against. “Tell me to stop and I stop, understand? Don’t wanna hurt you,” Stack grunts, his hands find their way to the front of Remmick’s pants. He bites, licks, pants against the back of Remmick’s neck none too gentle, pulling at the man’s zipper to free him before he’s hurriedly shoving pants down ready legs.
Remmick would never dream of saying such a thing, of asking Stack to stop. He’s more than grateful when spit from Stack’s mouth is all he gets. He wants it to hurt, wants to feel all of Stack sinking into him in a slow and brutal pace. And, that’s precisely what he gets, Stack lining himself and pushing into him with a beautiful ease. Remmick can only find it in him to ask for more once Stack’s bottomed out, but the words can’t seem to make it from his brain to his mouth.
When Stack pulls out to thrust back in, Remmick sees stars. Punched from his throat come sounds he’s never heard before. “Sound like an angel, baby,” Stack grunts with the building of his thrusts, Remmick can practically hear the grin on his lips, “You ain’t never been fucked like this, huh?” He sounds cocky, Remmick usually hates cocky men. But, on Stack, it sounds heavenly.
The mouth on this man should be throughly examined. It sends chills over Remmick’s body. Stack repeatedly hits a spot inside him that he’s long forgotten. A spot that forces choked groans from Remmick’s throat. He clutches at the crates, leaning down to press his forehead to them, surrounded by the muffled music of the juke joint. This is the best he’s ever felt in a long time, he almost believes this is the best he’ll ever feel, that he’ll never grasp this feeling in his gut again. Something that’ll only become a fact if he doesn’t turn Stack.
He must turn Stack.
His knees buckle and Stack holds him, “I got you.” He’s pressed against Remmick again, whispering into his ear without missing a single beat of his hips. His hands travel across the expanse of him, one dipping down his stomach, the other crossing up his chest and over his neck. He almost feels as if Stack’s grown twenty hands within ten seconds, he feels the man everywhere. In his stomach, in his heart, in his brain, in his lungs. Stack envelops him entirely.
“Coinneoidh mé go deo thú,” Remmick moans, his brain only thinking in Gaelic because it’s easier. He forgets why he’s here, a plan he’s meant to execute, the music from the joint muted with the beating of Stack’s heart in his ears. His brain turns to mush when Stack’s hand slides from his stomach and takes him in hand. Roughly, he pumps Remmick’s dick once, twice, forcing him to come down the side of the crates before he’s being pushed down against them again.
“Don’t understand ya, but, ‘m close,” Stack mutters, hands on Remmick’s hips, bracing him, telling them both of his exact intentions. And, Remmick wouldn’t have it any other way, he yearns for Stack to paint him from the inside out. Thankfully, that’s what he intends to do, fucking into Remmick with no such remorse, harder and harder until he’s stilling completely and filling the man beneath him.
Stack’s more of a gentleman than he leads on, dragging Remmick’s pants back up trembling legs for him before he’s stumbling away. “Lemme get you that plate,” He’s sighing, content, barely finished with tucking himself away when Remmick, who's barely pulled his suspenders back up, turns to look at him. He’s hungry, sure, but, not for catfish.
His senses are coming back to him, and he can vaguely hear Mary’s voice. It’s what propels him forward to grab for Stack’s wrist, a feverish fear running through him that Stack would return to Mary. Remmick’s hand on his wrist stops all that from happening, “Wait a minute, darlin’, I wanna taste you again.” He kisses Stack with a different kind of earnest, yearning to commit to memory how his body feels still warm pressed against him before Remmick robs that of him.
He’s salivating again, he knows it, but he’s not sure if it’s because of the pumping vein he’s found with the tips of his fingers on Stack’s neck or the man’s hands on his hips. His kisses have trailed off to the side where that pulsating vein calls to him.
There’s nothing more to do than bite down, so, Remmick does just that. Locking his jaw and his grip on Stack’s shoulders when the man struggles against him, sending them stumbling into the wall. He decides against ripping out Stack’s vocal cords, seemingly unable to bring himself to do anything apart from press a flat palm over his mouth. He’d never be able to forgive himself for ruining that silky voice of Stack’s.
Slack against him now, he lowers Stack softly to the floor. It doesn’t take long, this transformation from human to being, so he waits. “Shoulda sent your lady out, Elias,” Remmick tells his sleeping form, fingers trailing up his still arm. If he were alive, there would be goosebumps there. The skin of his neck begins to knit together where Remmick had gotten ahead of himself at just the sound of his voice.
Two things have become true within the span of five minutes. The first being he’ll keep Stack forever. And the second, which is such a pity, he’d ruined Stack’s shirt.