killjae - Tumblr blog

killjae · 20 days ago

Text

YAAAAAY

i don’t want anybody else

ft. rafe cameron x fem!reader

tags. age gap, babysitter reader, obsession i guess, ooc, mommy issues, mentions of slut shaming n misogyny, controlling rafe so nothing new, mentions of rape, angst, character study low-key, mention of smut

note. hai.. finished s4 today. sorry if anything is wrong i literally started the show like 5 days ago i think this is so overdue for my angelic mutual who this fic is dedicated 2… very disjointed towards the end ignore any typos or mistakes ab canon lore LMFAO unedited … feedback n rbs always so appreciated :3 was meant 2 be smut but I got bored LMFAO.. title from genitorturers song..

Having a crush on his childhood babysitter is probably the most normal thing Rafe Cameron has ever done.

You were fifteen and he was five. You had braces and a pierced nose, and you never really paid attention to Rafe unless he was bleeding or breaking a bone. Which coincidentally he learned to do a lot. He tripped down so many stairs for you.

You had a boyfriend that he bit for kissing you on his couch. Well. Rafe’s dad’s couch, but that’s, like, the same thing.

You didn’t get to have a sweet sixteen, but you did come to his sixth birthday party with a fisher-price kitchen set. Rafe found great interest in the plastic knife that came with an airbrushed piece of toast. He asked to marry you after everybody went home and you were tossing paper plates into a garbage bag because his dad asked you to clean up.

He used his mom’s ring and everything. He wasn’t allowed to touch mom’s stuff, but he did for you—And Sarah, of course it was fucking Sarah, she’s been a snitch since the day she was born, ran off to tattle on him.

“Aw, Rafey.” You ruffled his hair like a dog. “You’re so sweet.”

Sweet.

He was sweet.

(Being put in the naughty corner by dad after you left didn’t even ruin his night.)

You were the only consistent thing in his life. The only one that didn’t leave or change or shift affections. You came every Monday, Tuesday, and Friday after school like the sun. You told him his little-boy shampoo smelt good, you didn’t mind when he pulled at your clothes with sticky hands unlike Rose, you didn’t tell dad when he made Sarah cry, and you let him hold your hand, because even back then, he couldn't not be close to you.

When he was seven one of the older boys at school called you a skank, none of his friends heard, but Rafe did. It rang out in the playground like a gunshot, and for the first time his teachers brought up his ‘anger issues’ and ‘antisocial behaviour’ to Ward.

After school, you came over, didn’t mention his bruised knuckles or the little pout on his face.

You just said: “Wanna see something cool?”

He nodded which prompted you to lift your tank top.

Rafe covered his eyes, and then he peeked through the gaps in his fingers.

“I’m not showing you my boobs, idiot!” You laughed. “I got my bellybutton pierced.”

And Rafe, at just seven years old, looked at the offending piece of jewellery and thought: skank like it was a diagnosis. He didn’t really know what it meant, just that the boys at school meant it in a bad way, and that he was feeling a bad thing in his chest like he did when dad let Sarah pick the movie on movie night, like he did when he saw mom in hospital, like he did when dad married Rose.

The bad feeling he felt after he stole your cheetah-print thong and stashed it in his pillowcase. The bad feeling he felt when he told dad what he saw you doing with that boy in the guest room. The bad feeling he felt when you got fired. He watched through the banisters as Ward gave you a stern talking to and you cried and said sorry a lot.

And then you turned eighteen and you left for college. You didn’t say goodbye. You had a goodbye party, but Rafe wasn’t invited, and he took that very personally. Even when it was explained to him a handful of times that it was for teenagers and grownups.

Here’s the thing, just because you toss an old toy out, it doesn’t mean you can’t miss it from time to time. And fuck. He missed you everyday for six years.

Rafe missed you at ten when the new babysitter didn’t have hair as nice as yours or skin as soft and cotton candy-scented as yours. She didn’t let him watch Jeepers Creepers 1 or 2. At eleven when he got sent to the counsellor for drawing boobs in the margins of his schoolbook - they said he had issues with boundaries. At twelve when he wet the bed again and dad looked at him funny. At thirteen when his voice finally broke. He missed you at fourteen when he did his first line off the counter in the boys bathroom, it hurt so much he thought he was dying, his nose was bleeding, and all he wanted was you so he did another line.

You came home a week later. Older, but not any taller, well-travelled, a tattoo in a foreign language on your hip, a ring on your finger.

“Holy shit, you’re so big now!” You smiled up at him. “Gosh, you were like up to my hip before, how old are you now? Like thirteen? Fourteen?”

What grade are you in? How’s Sarah? Shit, Wheezie must be like in elementary now, she was a toddler the last time I saw her. You still bad at math? Are you guys still living in the Tannyhill place?

The whole time you talked Rafe wondered if you would still catch him if he threw himself down a flight of stairs, even at this age, at this size. Would you take care of any self-inflicted splinters? Would you still wipe his ass if he asked?

“What’s that?” He asked, not impolitely, bluntly, pointing at your shiny ring.

“Oh, this?” You smiled at him again, differently this time, in a way he couldn’t quite pinpoint. You smiled at everyone when you were younger, mostly boys your age, maybe that’s why it was so easy to call you a skank. “From my fiancé actually—I met him in Thailand, we stayed in the same hostel, he said he'd meet me back here soon, it’s a whole thing.”

He wanted to say something mean. Call your boyfriend a loser, ask if he had a job or a real degree, if he knew how much of a skank you used to be.

Rafe said none of that, he retreated when his dad came over to greet you, give you a big hug, welcome you home, congratulate you on the engagement.

“Look at you, god, you got so pretty,” Ward said, like he hadn't kicked you out of his house all those years ago, “lucky, lucky man wherever he is.”

Wherever he is may he fucking die. May an earthquake or a flood or some natural disaster sweep him into the ocean so he can never find his way back to you.

Nothing goes Rafe’s way so your fiancé arrived, and he was fucking great. He was a really, really nice guy. Even for a Pogue. He knew how to bartend, he made everyone laugh, and he had cool stories about tropical places.

You got married three years later. When you had enough money for a wedding. Rafe was seventeen. If he was eighteen maybe it would’ve gone a little differently.

Rafe Cameron, Kildare County’s most eligible bachelor; pedigree, privileged, and poisoned. Money wouldn’t be a problem with him.

“I’m so glad you came,” you cooed to Rafe, gave him a great big hug, pet his head. “Rafe asked me to marry him once,” you told your husband, “it was so cute, his ring was even nicer than this one, he got down on one knee and awww—“

It wasn’t a fucking joke.

Rafe was serious then and serious now.

By the time Rafe was eighteen, you and your husband were on a ‘break.‘ You took off your ring when you came to the bar all the way over in Figure Eight. You talked to other men. They paid attention to you because you had nice tits, and Rafe would know because he liked them first. He liked them before he even knew why he liked them.

“Rafe?” You tapped him on the shoulder, he was sweating through his linen button-up. “What are you doing?”

“What?” He blinked at you, glassy-eyed. “Nothing.”

“Rafe,” you warned like you used to when he wouldn’t go to bed on time, when he climbed on the kitchen counters, “what are you doing?”

Are you using something? Rafe. Look at me now. C’mon. Did you drink or is it something else? You know you shouldn’t be here, right? Who let you in? Rafe, who let you in? Please, tell me.

The lights got too bright, everything was pulsing and burning. “Why do you… Why do you care?” He breathed out, a rivulet of sweat taking the path down his nose, fists balled up by his sides.

“Why do I care?“ Your voice broke in your throat, angry, and maybe a little bit heartbroken. “Rafe, are you kidding me?” You cupped his face and it made him so upset, somerhing inside of him burned as if you’d put his heart in a kiln. “Go home.”

“No,” he scoffed, childish and bitter, elbowing you off of him.

“Rafe, listen—“

“No, you listen.” He shoved you back, got a rush from the way you looked up at him like he’d struck you. “I’m not… I’m not a little kid anymore, okay? You can’t just tell me what to do.”

“You sound a lot like a little kid right now, Rafe,” you bit back, chest rising and falling like you were really mad.

You were mad at him.

“Well,” Rafe said, blinking hard, “well, I’m not.”

He was taller now, bigger, older, and he needed you to see it—He needed you to understand that there was nothing that any other man could do to you that he couldn’t do too. Touch you. Fuck you. Love you. Use you. Dump you. Break you.

“C’mon, let me take you home,” you murmured, placating him with a gentle hand on his back, rubbing back and forth. Muscle memory.

You used to put him to bed that way.

“What would your dad think if he saw you like this, huh?” You settled him into the passenger seat of your beaten up car, fastened his seatbelt like you used to. He remembered pretending to fall asleep so you would carry him inside. So he could feel and smell and touch you for just a little longer.

“Don’t care.” Rafe shrugged, sullen, defiant. He looked out the window, jaw tightening.

The porch lights turned on when you pulled into the drive, and no one was there waiting up for him, no warm family welcome. If Sarah was ten minutes past curfew dad would send out a fucking search party.

You untied his laces like he was five again, put an arm around his waist when he sagged into you, took him upstairs, sat him on the edge of the bed, got him a glass of water. Like fucking clockwork. Like you were so used to taking care of him—You’d been gone for so long and you still knew what he liked.

He slumped back into the pillows you fluffed up and caught a glimpse of something he probably wasn’t meant to see in the glow of the lamplight.

You were bent over grabbing your purse, dress riding up - no underwear at all. The dress was a concern to Rafe in the first place, too sheer, too short—But this—This is when Rafe grasped that truly and honestly you were a skank.

You didn’t respect yourself, so who was gonna to do it for you?

It certainly wasn't going to be Rafe.

“Oh no.” You sprung up, tugged on the hem to do last minute damage control even though he had seen it all and his silence confirmed that. “Oh no, oh god, I’m so sorry.”

Your eyes were so wide. Mortified. Terrified that he would snitch to his father once again. Get you in trouble for being so lonely and open.

“Oh, Rafe, god, I’m so—I’m really sorry.” You edged towards him, toeing over that imaginary line when you sat on his bed. “I wasn’t even thinking.”

Rafe shrugged like his palms weren’t clammy. “You think I haven’t seen one?” One what? A girl? A pussy? A tit? His heart was going a million miles per second.

“I don’t know! I don’t want to think about that!” You reached your hand out and then retracted it. “I’m sorry, okay? I’m gonna go, you should go to sleep.”

“No,” Rafe said quietly, and then louder, firmer, “no.” He took your hand, squeezed, and then let go of your fingers to grasp your wrist. He didn’t want to hold hands anymore, he wanted to keep you like a balloon, tightening his grip so you didn’t float away.

“Hey, what’s up?” You asked softly, and see—This is all that was wrong with you.

You were looking at him like he was still five and scared of monsters under the bed, like he couldn’t sleep without a nightlight.

“You think…You think I haven’t seen a girl before?” His voice shook as he spoke, a divot forming between his brows as frowned at the lines on your palm. “I’ve seen tons—I’ve, I’ve fucked them all, okay? I could fuck any fucking girl I want—“

“Okay, okay, Rafe, I’m sorry,” you laughed, a little taken aback, still not taking him seriously, trying to defuse his anger, rock him back to sleep by dismissing him, “I know you’re not a kid anymore, but you still are little to me—“

“No, no, no, no.” Rafe shook his head frantically, hair falling in his eyes, he took your other wrist, squeezing both of them tight enough to feel your quickening pulse. “Let me speak—Let me fucking speak.”

You blinked at him. Lips parted. Eyes wide. And you must’ve finally got it. That he could do whatever he wanted to you now. He could hold you down, cover your mouth if you tried to scream.

“I’m not little, I’m not little, I’m not,” he murmured feverishly, “look at me.”

You looked away so he grabbed your face and when you flinched Rafe found himself liking it. Gave him a better rush than any fucking drug.

“Look at me,” he repeated lowly, one big hand gripping your jaw so hard it must’ve hurt, “fucking look at me, I’m not little anymore, you know that?”

You nodded quickly, breathlessly.

“Tell me you know that.”

“I know, Rafe…” You said meekly.

Surrendered.

And it sounded so fucking nice.

You looked so beautiful with your shoulders up by your ears like a spooked cat, fingers twitching in your lap ‘cause you didn’t quite know what to do with them.

“Good...” Rafe nodded slowly, and then he didn’t quite know what to do with himself. “Good.”

He was eighteen and a half when you let him fuck you. You let him push you against the wall and mouth at your throat and you pulled his hair instead of petting it. He groaned so low - all the way in the back of his throat like a dog - it rattled your teeth.

You’d given up on correcting people anytime they called him your boyfriend by the time he was nineteen. Rafe started showing up everywhere. Work. Your apartment. To the bar. To girls nights. Family events. That way you had to acknowledge him, he wasn’t just a kid you could brush off anymore.

He’d gotten too big, too loud, being clingy wasn’t cute or charming anymore like it was when he was six. It was ‘fucking creepy’ and ‘obsessive’ apparently.

Tonight you’re going out for drinks with ‘coworkers’ so naturally Rafe goes and gets in a fight outside Barry’s place with a junkie twice his size. He comes home with a bloody nose and watches you watch him in the bathroom mirror as you put your makeup brush down.

“What is that?” You sigh, shoulders sagging. Before, taking care of Rafe was your duty, now it’s just a chore.

“What’s it look like?”

“You got into another fight.”

“Mm.” He shrugs. “So what?”

“Hm.” You shrug. “So, I think you’re being a dick—I think you’re fucking...” You trail off, shaking your head. “Clean up and get out, okay?”

Rafe throws his hands in the air. “Say it. Go on. I’m fucking crazy, right?”

“I didn’t say that, Rafe.”

“You were gonna say that—I can fuckin’ tell, I’m not, I’m not stupid.” He gets all up in your face, and you’ve gotten so used to it you barely flinch.

You reach out and brush your thumb over his cheek. He’s five again. “You wanna scream at me, Rafe? You wanna cry? Break something again, baby?”

He doesn’t answer. Blinks a lot. Breathes too fast.

“You wanna hit me? Hurt me? Scare me so I never fucking talk to anyone? You want me to stay inside like some fucking prisoner?” You’re talking to him so quietly, softly almost, like he’s just shown you a drawing you’re going to stick to the fridge. “Go ahead, do it.”

Rafe’s mouth opens like he might. Like he really might do all of it.

But he doesn’t.

“Poor baby,” you coo, patting his sweaty cheek, “you’d lose your mind before you let me go.”

#rafe cameron x reader #rafe cameron smut

324 notes · View notes

killjae · 1 month ago

Text

OUHHH THIS IS BEAUTIFUL… Please.. More black readers

🔞He does NOT play about her🔞

#remmick #remmick x reader

189 notes · View notes

killjae · 2 months ago

Text

reminded of when i got a little popular for a leon fic and then got weird asks after … eventually getting burnt out and not posting anymore fics im still alive guys I PROMISE

#smut #tumblr girls #leon kennedy fanfic #rant

2 notes · View notes

killjae · 2 months ago

Text

sorry this just kills me.. how is that comparable in anyway to shipping the one person remmick tries to colonize so he can see his ancestors? he’s not colonizing preacher’s daughter READER because it’s literally a written relationship.. he doesn’t have malice intent of racism unless written?

while in sinners he’s colonizing the delta with vampirism doing the same thing that happened to his ancestors as a victim of oppression, he becomes the oppressor. it just seems weird to ship sammie with his colonizer it’s like shipping pocahontas with that white man.

but that’s just my take as an afrolatino. i don’t do discourse im in my own little world

“I done ship Sammick it’s racist”

*looks inside their account, there’s a lot of Remmick x preacher’s daughter*

THAT IS LITERALLY SAMMICK THE LONG WAY

#remmick

144 notes · View notes

killjae · 2 months ago

Text

meeeeeee

#not mine #nostalgia

7K notes · View notes

killjae · 2 months ago

Text

SANCTIFIED LIES | REMMICK X F!READER | PART ONE

synopsis: they say the devil drinks blood and hides in the woods just past the burned-down church. But you know better, the devil wears charm like cologne. The devil has hands that once pulled you from a fire. The devil kisses like he remembers every version of you and mourns each one. You should run. When he looks at you like you’re the last beautiful thing left in this godforsaken town, the hate dissolves on your tongue, and all you can taste is the ghost of his mouth sweet with lies.

18+ mdni, mentions of the KKK & racism, remmick has a saviour complex, explicit sexual content, blood play, predator & prey, vampirism, biting, rough sex, southern gothic erotica, reader is a hoodoo practitioner, manipulation, swearing, spit kink, dirty talk (remmick knows how to talk a girl through it), oral, face fucking.

The fires started slowly: a tiny house, a sharecropping community, then the fields that once paid your granddaddy’s bills. Folks say it’s the heat, the drought, or maybe God has come down to smite what’s left of this cursed parish. But you know better. You’ve seen how the flames dance, too clean and precise. The way they lick up walls like they’re searching for something. You’ve felt him near before the smoke even rises. Remmick never leaves soot on his boots or ash on his collar. No, the devil here walks like a man, smells like cedarwood, and falls from grace. And whenever you hear the sirens wail, you wonder if it’s your turn to be saved or sacrificed.

You woke up in the middle of the night to the smell of thick smoke being carried in the humid southern air. The covers clung to the perspiration that coated your skin as you threw them off your body to the side. Looking out the window, the night sky pulsed orange and red. Down the road, you could see your neighbour’s house lit up like a lantern, flames dancing greedily along the porch beams. You could hear the screams, muffled at first, but their pleas grew louder to a high shrill, then nothing at all—just the crackle of fire swallowing wood, bone, and memories.

The Klan must have struck again. Nothing felt real, and everything looked straight out of a fever dream. You stumbled out barefoot with a heart thudding against your ribs like a warning, but you already knew you were too late. The land around you, once quiet, now reeked of smoke and heavy sorrow. Cotton fields looked like little ghosts in the distance, and the countryside plantations were still fresh, a cruel reminder that nothing ever really changes in the Mississippi Delta.

There he was when you looked off to the yard's edge, past the gnarled oaks and overgrown cotton fields. Remmick was watching, shirtless and still as death, a hunter stalking his prey, awaiting the perfect time to strike. You squint your eyes to see if your sight has tricked you. Searching for any signs that may relieve the unease in your spirit. The longer you looked, the more wrong he felt. A single White man observing from a distance the Black community of sharecroppers. The breeze shifted around him, and the cicadas fell quiet in his presence.

You'd heard all of the stories from your mama and other kinfolk. The tales that are whispered after baptisms and buried deep beneath the guise of our hymns that we hum. They were about things that wore the shape and skin of a man but walked in the shadows, older than time as we know it. Things that couldn't cross salt and garlic or enter uninvited. You don’t know how long you’ve been out there, but you can sense it. It’s been a while since the crowd started to disperse and return to their four-walled sanctuaries. You took note of the death looming around from the devastating fire and returned to your grandmother’s home. Someone will see to it shortly.

You pressed your hand against the door frame, stilling your heart as you locked up again for the night. However, you could still feel him, similar to a weight in your chest. He wasn’t just watching; it was a silent warning, and you were sure of it. But fear didn’t come easily to you. Not since you were twelve when your grandmother taught you how to boil bones and speak to your ancestors for guidance. Before she passed, she handed you an old silver key that opened a crawlspace under the floorboards and taught you, “Whatever walks through that field, baby, don’t let it catch you unarmed.”

You lit the lamp and sat down at the table. Your bloodline blessed you with prayer and ash. Your hands moved gracefully, pulling all the things you would need close. Dirt from your mother's grave, a twist of black thread, and dried petals from your grandmother's rose water jar. The wind whistled low and strange, the tide of grief kissing the grounds of your yard. In the distance, you could hear the firefighters put out the resisting flames, but the souls of the house were long gone by the time they’d arrived. Outside, Remmick hadn’t moved from his hiding place. He was waiting for the night sky to be the darkest and the moon to rise at its highest.

Suspicion is useful when you know how to wear it correctly. It was armour under a nightdress. You crushed the grabbed items, binding them together with a pinch of grave dirt and spit. The words came next and rolled off your tongue in your grandmother’s voice. Protection charms don't work if you whisper them scared. You could feel him coming closer now. The land between you was shrinking, inch by inch.

Remmick wasn’t just a man. You knew that long before tonight. A man didn’t pull flame from bone or walk through housefires without smoke in his hair. You were just a girl then, wide-eyed and disobedient, pretending to sleep but watching from behind the simple linen curtains. Your grandmother had told you to shut your eyes, say your prayers, and rest. But you didn’t listen. And now, all these years later, you’re sure he was the one who started it. A man didn’t make the living restless every time he passed by. After the fire, the whole street wore silence like mourning clothes. The house was gone, nothing left but blackened wood and the smell of something far worse than ash. Nobody talked about the screams. Nobody talked about how the fire danced, moving faster than any flame had a right to. They sure as hell didn’t talk about the figure that walked calmly into the flames, then vanished before the sirens arrived. It had seemed like you were the only one who had remembered what that White man looked like emerging from the flames with blood smeared across his mouth and dripping down to his chest.

Uncertain about Remmick's intentions and unwilling to discover them, you secured the charm bag firmly around your wrist. Searching through the jars in the kitchen, you found garlic and ate two cloves. The unliving had begun to walk among us, and we could no longer hide. It was time to expel the evil, even if it was just you. You were tired of running, navigating through the world with a bent head and pleading hands to the White man who constantly undermined you and spat at your feet. That’s when the knocks came, and it wasn’t at your door. Remmick dragged his claws across the window pane, and the thin glass threatened to crack under the pressure of his touch. His shadow loomed from the moonlight, causing his figure to appear on the curtains. You didn’t even think to peek in the corner, in anticipation that he might try to break it open.

Your breathing turns shallow as you try to think of a plan, but your mind remains blank. There was nowhere to run. Remmick was goading you, seeing what he could get away with before you met your endpoint. He was now on the roof, and the only hint of his footsteps echoing above your head was the ceiling, rickety and creaking under his weight. He was on your Mama’s roof. The haint blue paint covered the front porch, and Nana believed any protection against haints was reasonable. However, you weren’t sure Remmick was a haint, although he seemed restless towards achieving a goal. The problem is that you didn’t know what he wanted. Too afraid to think of what was worse, an aimless monster or a trained predator seeking his prey.

A tiny rock shot through the wooden door like a bullet, grazing the side of your cheek and drawing a surprised yelp out of you. The hot, stinging sensation was immediate. An inch further to the right, and it would've been over for you. You felt the blood trickle down your face.

As if it summoned Remmick to move closer to the edges of the house, he yelled out. His voice is gravelly and urgent with an Irish rasp. “Didn’t mean no harm, just wanted a word, is all. Could we have a talk, yeah?”

You paused before opening your mouth, “S’alright, it's a tad bit too late to be chattin' up strangers.”

When he walked up on the sea blue porch, Remmick made it known that he ain't no regular haint. He was something far more sinister. “We both know i'm not no stranger, now do we?” His voice was almost amused, like he savoured the truth you’d tried hard to forget.

You couldn't answer. Your throat had run dry, and your joints signalled you to run, but your feet stayed rooted to the wooden floor. The porch screeched, and then you saw him peek his eye in the hole he had created in the door.

“Ain’t no need to be afraid now,” he said softly, eyes flicking to the blood still drying on your cheek. “Let me in, sweetheart. Just for a minute.” Remmick’s smile wasn't welcoming, and it was calculated and waiting. “I got all night. But you and I both know… It’s easier when you open the door.” The porch boards groaned beneath his weight as he reached the last step.

“Say yes, and I swear I’ll be gentle.”

The mojo bag pulsed at your wrist like a second heartbeat. He couldn’t cross the threshold unless you let him. And he knew it. Still, he lingered with a purpose. Remmick let the silence stretch for a breath too long, then slipped a small silver flask from his pants pockets. Without breaking eye contact from the makeshift peephole, he popped the cap and poured the liquor steadily across the porch boards, spraying it across where your grandmother used to set out sweet tea and protection jars.

The sharp scent of whiskey hit the air like a warning, and he took a swig of the last drop before putting it back.

“You know, back in the old days,” Remmick murmured, striking a match against the wooden panels,

“Folks didn’t wait for witches to come out polite.” The flame flared, gold and hungry. He held it close to the wood, just long enough before continuing. “They burned ’em. Said it cleansed the sin. Said it set the spirits free, same thing I overheard you, Mama, chat about.”

He leaned forward, flame dancing in his eyes. “But me? I wanna talk.” He flicked the match to the side onto the grass, not lighting the porch yet.

But the threat still stood, “open the damn door, girl. Or I’ll let the fire do the askin’.”

You yanked the door open with rage fresh on your face and fury hot in your belly. “Yah, do you think fire scares me?” Your voice was sharp like a knife, waiting to gut whatever it came in contact with. This porch held sacred memories, your grandmother's humming and Sunday prayers. Stepping close to the doorway, close enough for your shadows to meet.

The way Remmick looked at you like you were some missing piece he’d been hunting for across lifetimes made your skin prickle. It was in his eyes that had seen too many wars, too many deaths, too many rituals performed by candlelight and blood.

“You think I’d come all this way just for talkin’?” he asked incredulously. “You got what I need, girl. Somethin’ old and powerful.”

He tilted his head, gaze dragging over the mojo bag tied to your wrist with a knowing curiosity, “Your blood carries a name older than yours. And I reckon your ancestors know mine.” A cold wind pushed through the trees, and somewhere, something howled.

You yanked your mojo bag tighter on your wrist, heart pounding but unwavering. “You ain’t the first devil to knock on this porch, Remmick. And you sure as hell won’t be the last.” If you didn't have your grandmother’s house, you had nothing. Your siblings didn’t stick around for long after her heart ran out. But you stayed, gave her the best burial that you could manage out back. You wrapped her in linen and laid her to rest beneath the willow tree out back, the one she always said hummed when spirits passed through.

The Mississippi Delta was your home. All that you've known. Remmick won’t be able to run you out that easily. You’d be damned if he lit your grandmother’s house to nothing but ash, the same way they burned every proof that a Black woman ever owned anything worth keeping.

Every board held a prayer. You could still hear your mama’s voice humming “Wade in the Water” when she hung herbs to dry.

“I was born on this land,” you said, voice low. “My mama picked cotton ‘til her fingers split. My grandmama kept a roster of every lie the white folks told. They worked this dirt, prayed over it, and died on it. And now you think you gon’ scare me off it?”

“I ain’t here for no quarrel… unless you make me earn one.” Remmick took one step towards you, stopping short of the doorway, as if it pained him that he couldn’t maneuver his body through. You took a step back in return, more instinct than fear, but he noticed.

“I remember this place,” he murmured, glancing toward the willow tree. “Your grandmother used to have a heap of rituals for protection, she said. Against things like me.” You felt the chill curl around your spine.

“She knew you?”

Remmick smiled then, slow and humourless. “Knew of me. Your kin have been dancing with shadows longer than you think.”

“You got her eyes, y’know,” he said. ”That fire in your veins? Your foolish heart? It was hers before it was yours.” He crouched, letting his fingers play with the pool of liquor that he spilled. “Precious blood runs in you,” he said, voice dipping low like a secret. “Same as hers. Same as the ones before her.”

You tried to let the words digest, but your mind has yet to wrap its mind about how a man who doesn’t look a day over thirty knew your bloodline. “Blood that doesn’t just call spirits... it bends ‘em. Breaks ‘em. Feeds ‘em.”

“That’s what your grandmother never told you, right?” His voice softened, almost pitying. “She shielded you as best she could. Wrapped you in prayers and grave dirt. Hid you from the ones who’d drink you dry just to taste a little of that power.”

You didn’t move, didn’t breathe. “But me?” He tapped his chest with two fingers. “I don’t wanna bleed you, baby girl. I want to build with you. You and I could own every acre from here to the Gulf.” He grinned, wide and wolfish, like he could already taste it. "All you gotta do is let me in."

“I ain’t born yesterday, you ain’t welcome ‘round these parts.” You stated.

He got up to his full height, towering over you. His pupils flashed red for a split second. “You ready to burn with me, baby girl?” In a flash, before you could blink, he got out his pack of matches and lit one. Remmick struck the match against his boot. A hiss, a flare of orange, and then he pressed the little flame to the porch rail. The old wood caught instantly, hungry after so many dry seasons. Flames licked upward, low but fast.

Your rage was insurmountable, but something profound inside you shivered awake. The air around you shifted, thickened, heavy with the copper scent of stirred magic. The flare that had just begun to spread stuttered. The wood blackened but refused to break. The fire coiled on itself, guttering, whining that it's been trapped.

Remmick’s eyes narrowed, watching. “There it is,” he said, a rough purr. “Knew you had it in you.” As he stepped back from the smouldering porch, the matchbook dangled from his fingers.

“You ain't just your grandma’s girl,” he murmured. “You're a goddamn birthright walking.” You barely heard him. The power in your body pulsed once, twice, a rhythm as old as the Delta itself. And though the fire still flickered at your doorstep, it did not touch you. The fire roared where Remmick had pressed it to the porch rail, growing faster than it should have. The flame that stuttered moments ago now surged, as if your blood had called to it, but you hadn’t meant to, and you didn't know how.

Your heart slammed against your ribs. If you stayed at your grandmother’s house, the last piece of her you had would be transformed into nothing more than the dirt and ash that filled your mojo bags.

A harsh sob broke from your throat as you yanked your bag tighter and slammed the door shut before charging out the back door, sprinting off and taking that last leap into the heavy night. Behind you, the fire roared louder, and somewhere in the crackling din, you swore you heard Remmick laughing triumphantly.

The ground shivered under your feet as you ran, and the willow tree at the back of the yard, which was your grandmother’s grave, hummed as you sprinted past it. Before you felt him creep up behind you, you barely made it off the land and already stepped into a current too strong to fight. The fire behind you spat and snapped, the light throwing his silhouette in sharp, devilish relief.

"Thought you could outrun it?" he drawled, voice like velvet dragged over gravel. "Outrun me?" He pushed off the tree, slow and sure, that lazy grin stretching across his face, it was hard to ignore how tempting the Devil looked then. There was a hunger in his eyes that was dark and sharp; he was a man stepping up to claim something he’d already marked as his. Remmick moved with a raw, predatory grace, the kind of man who didn’t need to chase.

Broad shoulders strained the worn fabric of his shirt, with sleeves rolled to the elbows, exposing forearms dusted with old scars and new sins. His jaw was sharp, stubbled, and dangerous, and that mouth was full, crooked, and parted just enough to flash the sharp gleam of his elongated canines. Lord, his eyes burned with something hungrier than lust, pupils blown wide, rimmed in a glow that no mortal could ever have.

"You can feel it, can’t you?" he said, closing the distance in unhurried strides. There was magic in your blood, old and defiant, and it screamed at you to ward him off, salt the earth he walked on, and spit in his wicked, beautiful face. But another part that knew loneliness, quivered toward him like a smoker starved for air. “Mmmm,” he said. “You’re overthinking, sugar.”

He stepped closer, the tip of one claw tracing lazy circles in the space between you. “Thinking gets you killed.” Before you could answer, he flicked the matchbook in his hand and tossed a lit match into the dry brush at the yard's edge.

Fire bloomed, crackling and eager, a rough circle hemming you both in. “Could you fucking stop lightin shit on fire?” He's destroying everything that he sees with his touch.

“You wanna run so bad?” Remmick asked, fangs fully bared, cruel and gleaming. "Let’s make it interesting." He licked his thumb, snuffed out the match he'd struck, deliberately never taking his eyes off you. "You've got ’til the count of three." The thrill of the hunt made Remmick excited.

The heat behind you pulsed like a heartbeat. Flames curled at the yard's edges, circling in toward the house but not touching it. They were waiting for his command. And in the middle of it all, Remmick stood like the conductor of some unholy symphony.

“Before we play,” he said in a low and sweet tone, “I want you to know what you agree to.” He circled you as he spoke.

“You run,” he murmured, pausing just behind your ear. “And I chase.”

You swallowed hard, and it felt like something was lodged in your throat. “If I catch you before the sun touches your porch, you’re mine. Fully. Not just your blood. Not just your gift. You.”

He came back around to face you, his gaze pinning you like a hand to the neck, not violent, just sure of its power. “No more hiding behind salt lines. No more prayers whispered in your sleep. You gone let me into that little heart wrapped in bones and grief.” He leaned in, forehead nearly brushing yours.

“And I’ll teach you what your grandmother never did. What your mama was too scared to face. I’ll open every locked door inside you and let the fire run wild.”

You shivered, despite the warmth licking at your ankles. “And if I don’t catch you…” He said, stepping back now, hands open like he was offering peace. “Then I walk away. No tricks. I won’t cross your land again, unless you ask for me.”

He gestured toward the tree line, just beyond the fence. The woods had never looked so dark.

“But,” He tipped his head, “You’ll never make it ‘til dawn.”

It took everything in you to turn your back on him and map out a plan, because your survival depended on it. Even if you didn’t make it past dawn you were going to try your damn hardest to put up a fight. Wasting your breath on conversation wasn’t going to make him spare you.

Behind you, Remmick’s voice followed, "One..."

part ii | taglist | @marley1773 @iheartamora @childishgambinaax @klssngss @remmickcherie @sinnersappreciation

#sinners movie #smut

872 notes · View notes

killjae · 2 months ago

Text

#someone sedate me

13K notes · View notes

killjae · 2 months ago

Text

i want that irish cock so bad 😭😭😭😭😭😭

Upon the Scarlet Altar

one-shot

Remmick x fem!reader

summary: On a night when the moon hangs low and your body bleeds for him, he worships you the only way he knows how: on his knees, mouth between your thighs, feasting like you’re the last taste of warmth in a world gone dark. But in his arms—cold as the grave—you find a different kind of fire. One that never dies.

wc: 4.1k

a/n: AHHH you guys—I’m seriously losing my mind right now. Mercy Made Flesh hit 1.7K notes in 72 hours and I’m just sitting here clutching my pearls and screaming into the void like !!! thank you SO much for all the love, thirst, and pure unhinged energy you’ve poured into my fic!! this fic is lovingly (and hornily) dedicated to @oc3anbxbyxoxo who requested remmick eating reader out while on her period!! and, as always, thanks to my number #1 pookie Nat @kayharrisons for beta reading!!

warnings: vampirism, bloodplay, oral sex (f!receiving), period sex, vampire x human, worship kink, possessive undead love interest, overstimulation, blood drinking, body worship, monsterfucking (soft), southern gothic setting, mild dubcon tones (power imbalance), religious/sacrilegious language, explicit sexual content, knife-edge tenderness, unholy devotion, mutual obsession, sex as ritual, canon-typical vampire violence (implied)

likes, comments, and reblogs appreciated!! please enjoy!!

The moonlight spills across the cold stone floor like spilled cream, pale and thick, stretching all the way to the foot of Remmick’s bed. You don’t knock when you enter. You never have to.

He already knows.

He’s there, seated at the edge of the mattress like he’s been waiting all night—shirt half unbuttoned, sleeves rolled to his forearms, his hair a soft tangle from too much pacing. There’s a gleam to his eye that hadn’t been there yesterday. Something feral. Something starved.

His nose twitches before his lips curl.

“You’re bleedin’,” he drawls, voice like bourbon left too long in the sun. “C’mere, sugar.”

You close the door behind you. You should be embarrassed. You’re not wearing anything underneath the long black slip you call a nightgown. Not tonight. The silk clings to your thighs, sticking just slightly with each step.

He’s watching. Always watching. Like he’ll die if he blinks.

By the time you reach him, he’s already reached for your hips, already dragging you between his legs. His hands are cold. They always are. But they warm quickly when they cup the back of your thighs and pull you forward until you’re straddling his lap.

“Could smell you from the hallway,” he murmurs against your mouth. “You don’t know what that does to me.”

“Then show me,” you whisper.

His eyes flick up. Crimson. Blazing.

Ravenous.

And then he lays you back.

The mattress dips under your weight, the room heavy with the scent of old wood, candle smoke, and something darker now—something copper-sweet. His breathing doesn’t hitch, doesn’t falter. But it deepens. Slows. Like he’s savoring every second before he lets the hunger off its leash.

Remmick’s palms press to the inside of your thighs, spreading you open like a prayer. His voice, low and reverent, ghosts over your skin.

“Goddamn,” he breathes, thumbing the edge of your nightgown up, baring the soft heat of your core. “Ain’t nothin’ in this world tastes as good as you do when you bleed.”

The shame you thought you might feel never comes. There’s only heat, only want, only the obscene pulse in your stomach as he lowers his mouth with something like worship painted across his face.

“Y’ain’t scared, are you?” he murmurs, his lips brushing the crease of your inner thigh. “’Cause I’m real hungry, darlin’. Real fuckin’ hungry.”

You shake your head, your voice a whisper. “No.”

His grin is all teeth.

“That’s my girl.”

And then his tongue slides over you—slow, deliberate, impossibly soft. He groans like he’s been starving, the sound deep in his throat, his arms locking around your hips to hold you still as he buries his face between your legs.

You cry out.

The first lick is hot and sinful, laced with something carnal and wrong, the wet glide of his tongue tasting the blood he craves, the slick that coats you. He doesn’t tease. Doesn’t build slow. He devours—growling against your cunt like it’s the only meal he’s ever needed.

“Christ,” he moans against you, lips already wet with it, tongue circling your clit with obscene precision. “You’re sweeter’n sin like this.”

Your fingers fist in his hair. You’re trembling. The sheets are damp beneath you from your own sweat, from the way your body shudders every time he moans into you like he lives for this.

And maybe he does.

Because Remmick doesn’t stop.

Not when your legs shake. Not when your thighs try to close. Not even when you gasp his name like it’s a lifeline. He keeps going, mouth locked to your cunt, tongue sliding deeper as he feeds and worships all at once.

“Gon’ give you everythin’,” he mumbles, voice thick and slurred with lust, lips slick. “Gon’ make you cum so hard you forget your damn name.”

You already have.

Your back arches, spine bowing off the bed as the wave crests—hot, thick, electric. His name spills out of your mouth in pieces, broken syllables caught between breathless moans, and he drinks it in like it’s part of the offering.

Remmick doesn’t let up.

Even as your hips buck, even as your thighs tremble violently around his head, he holds you down, strong hands keeping you spread and helpless beneath him. His tongue flicks against your clit with punishing precision now, coaxing you past the edge and straight into ruin.

Your vision whites out.

Pleasure burns—too much, too good, a drag across nerve endings that should’ve long gone numb but haven’t, not under him. Not under the mouth of a man who’s been alive for centuries and still claims you as the sweetest thing he’s ever tasted.

He groans again, loud this time, the sound vibrating through your cunt like a sin. You don’t realize you’re crying until he pulls back slightly, lips flushed red and glossy with blood and slick. The sight should be terrifying.

It’s fucking gorgeous.

“Look at you,” he rasps, dragging his mouth up your body, a smear of crimson trailing from your inner thigh to your hip. “So damn pretty fallin’ apart like that.”

He licks his lips, slow. Lingering.

“Could stay between these thighs all night, baby. Might just do that.”

Your breath stutters when he leans in, mouth brushing the shell of your ear. His voice is thick with lust, but there’s something else now—something dark. Territorial.

“Ain’t gon’ want nobody else’s blood, y’hear me?” he whispers, one hand cupping your throat, thumb brushing your pulse. “Ain’t nothin’ sweeter than you when you bleed for me.”

You whimper, your body still trembling beneath him.

And Remmick smiles.

Because you're not scared.

You're in love. In lust. In ruin.

The room is quiet now, save for the rasp of your breath and the low hum of Remmick’s satisfaction as he lays against you, one arm heavy across your waist, his nose nuzzled into your neck like he can’t bear to be even an inch away from your pulse.

You’re boneless, ruined—your legs still trembling slightly as the aftermath rolls through you in warm, dizzy waves.

But he’s calm. Too calm.

Like a beast that’s fed and now lies curled around its prey, not because it’s lost interest—but because it’s claimed you.

His fingers trace idle circles over your belly, smearing faint streaks of blood he hasn't bothered to wipe away. He hums low in his chest, then murmurs against your throat:

“Y’don’t know what you’ve done to me, do ya?”

You don’t answer. You can’t. Your mouth’s parted, your tongue dry, your body still fluttering in the places he touched and tasted.

He presses a kiss just beneath your jaw, then another, lower—his lips dragging slow.

“You come to me bleedin’ like that,” he drawls, voice syrupy and warm, “an’ expect me to behave?”

You feel his smirk as he speaks against your skin.

“Darlin’, you ain’t just mine. You’re marked. Body knows it. Blood knows it. Every time you ache, every time you get that little twitch in your thighs thinkin’ ‘bout me…that’s me callin’ to you.”

You swallow hard.

He pulls back just enough to look at you, those crimson eyes soft now, almost tender—but still burning. Still dangerous.

“I ever catch somebody else smellin’ you like this…” he shakes his head slowly, almost pitying. “They won’t get the chance to learn from their mistake.”

He says it like a promise.

And then softer, almost lovingly:

“Gon’ take real good care of you. Keep you right here where it’s safe. Keep that sweet little body fed, fucked, and mine.”

You blink up at him, dazed and flushed.

He brushes a knuckle down your cheek, then presses his lips to your temple like you’re something precious. Holy, even.

“Rest now, sugar,” he murmurs, voice velvet-dark. “We got all night.”

Steam curls like spirits from the clawfoot tub as the water runs, hot and fragrant with crushed rose petals and herbs from the garden out back. The scent is earthy, grounding—lavender, rosemary, and something darker beneath it. Something that smells like Remmick.

He’s at your side, one hand steady on the small of your back as he helps you into the water like you’re made of spun glass.

“You’re shakin’,” he murmurs, voice quiet now. Slower. “Let me fix that.”

The warmth envelopes you, and you sink into it with a sigh, limbs limp, head tipping back as your body adjusts. The blood between your thighs has already begun to dilute in the bathwater, but he doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t look away. If anything, his gaze softens.

Remmick kneels behind the tub and rolls his sleeves higher. He dips a cloth into the water and begins to wash you gently, reverently, careful around your thighs, your breasts, your throat.

Like he’s memorizing every inch of you again.

“Still can’t believe you walked into that church that night,” he says, the hint of a smile in his voice, low and fond. “All that fire in you, all that fury. Lord, you had no idea what you were walkin’ into.”

You remember.

You’d been eighteen. Hungry. Lost. Sleeping in the loft of the abandoned chapel on the edge of the forest because the shelter was full and the weather had turned. You hadn’t known the stories were true—not until you’d come face-to-face with the man who didn’t cast a shadow, who stood at the altar after midnight like he’d been waiting for you.

Remmick had looked at you the way God might’ve looked at Eve: not with shame, but with curiosity.

And then with hunger.

“I should’ve run,” you whisper.

He hums. “You did. I let you.”

You’d run through the woods, blood pumping so loud in your ears you could hear your own pulse. He hadn’t chased you—not right away. He’d let the fear bloom, let it take root, let you come back on your own.

You hadn’t been able to stay away.

Maybe it was the way he spoke. Or the way he looked at you. Or maybe it was the way the nights weren’t so cold when he was near.

“I didn’t want you to be afraid,” he says now, dipping the cloth to run it between your legs, slow and careful, like he’s cleaning a wound.

“I was,” you say. “But not of you.”

Remmick nods. He knows.

You’d been afraid of needing him.

And now look at you—body bare and pliant in his bath, flushed from orgasm and bleeding in his water, letting him touch you with those old, cold hands like they’ve got the right.

Because they do.

“You were too damn young,” he murmurs after a beat, brushing your hair back from your forehead. “But you looked me in the eye like you’d seen a thousand winters. Said you weren’t afraid of no man, no monster. Only the ones who pretend they ain’t.”

You smile faintly. “And you never pretended.”

His eyes darken.

“I told you what I was. What I needed. And you still chose to stay.”

You open your eyes, tilting your chin toward him.

“I still do.”

He leans in and kisses you then—not hungrily, not with possession, but reverence. Like you’re sacred. Like he’s praying with his mouth.

And in a way, he is.

Because Remmick never asked for salvation.

He found it anyway.

In you.

The water laps gently around you, soft and warm as skin, swirling faint pink around your hips. His kiss is slow—an ache, a promise, a tether. When he finally pulls back, your lips are damp, parted, breathless, and Remmick is just watching you.

Like he always does.

There’s something about the way he looks at you. Not just hunger. Not just obsession. It’s deeper than that—like he’s memorizing you, like the sight of you is the only thing anchoring him to this wretched earth. Like if he stopped looking, the centuries would catch up to him and pull him down to hell where he knows he belongs.

But not yet.

Not while you’re here. Not while your blood is still warm and your body still pliant and your soul still just out of reach.

He brushes the edge of the cloth over your collarbone next, then your shoulder, dragging it across your chest with trembling restraint. There’s a smear of blood on the side of your breast—his doing—and he wipes it away with the gentleness of a man afraid to break the thing he worships.

“You’re somethin’ holy to me,” he murmurs, low enough it sounds like it’s more for him than you. “Somethin’ sacred.”

You swallow, your throat tight, heart tripping over itself in your chest.

“No I’m not.”

He smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Maybe not to the world. But to me? You’re a goddamn miracle.”

You can’t speak. Can’t move. All you can do is feel as he pours warm water over your shoulders, cupping the back of your head like he’s baptizing you in blood and roses.

“First time I saw you,” he says, “I thought I’d finally gone mad. Thought I was seein’ a ghost. You walked right through that broken door, moonlight at your back, lookin’ like vengeance and salvation in one breath.”

He sets the cloth aside.

“You didn’t flinch when you saw my teeth. Didn’t cry when I told you what I was. You just looked at me with those big, tired eyes and asked if I was gonna kill you.”

You remember that night. You remember the way your voice hadn’t shaken, even though your knees did. The way his eyes had gone wide—startled, not by your fear, but by your lack of it.

He laughs softly now. “And I told you, didn’t I? Told you I don’t kill what I’m fixin’ to keep.”

Your breath catches.

“Remmick…”

“I meant it,” he whispers, pressing a kiss to your forehead, to your temple, to the crown of your head. “Meant it then. Mean it now. You’re mine. And I ain’t ever lettin’ you go.”

Your fingers curl in the water. His arms wrap around your shoulders, pulling you gently against his chest, the sound of his dead heart silent beneath your ear.

But it feels like it’s beating.

Only for you.

Only here.

The water’s gone tepid by the time he speaks again.

“Time to get you outta there, sugar,” he drawls, voice velvet-thick. “Before I end up joinin’ you.”

He stands, boots echoing soft on the old tiles, and leans over the tub to scoop you into his arms. It’s effortless—like you weigh nothing at all. Your wet skin presses to his chest, and the chill of him—cold, corpse-cold—sinks straight into your bones.

But you don’t flinch.

You never do.

Because even if he doesn’t have blood that pumps or a heart that beats, there’s warmth in him still. In the way his arms hold you like you’re breakable. In the way his mouth brushes your temple like a promise. In the way he carries you through this crumbling house like you’re something he’d go to war for.

You cling to him out of instinct, arms curling around his neck as your cheek rests against the hollow of his throat. It’s icy. Still. But it’s home.

“I got you,” he murmurs, “Always do.”

He steps out of the bathroom and into the dark hallway of the house you’ve come to know like a second skin—your house now, though no one but the ghosts know it. The floorboards creak beneath his slow steps, the wallpaper is peeling, the chandeliers are draped in cobwebs like mourning veils. The wind outside presses against the windows like a lonely thing begging to be let in.

But here, in his arms, even cold, you feel untouchable.

You bleed against his skin.

It’s not until you reach the bedroom—your shared bedroom, with the worn four-poster bed and the rotting wainscoting and the lace curtains yellowed with time—that he speaks on it.

You feel the pause in his chest before the low, filthy rasp leaves his lips.

“Leakin’ all over me, sweet thing,” he mutters with a smirk, voice dipped in reverence and filth. “Leavin’ a trail like you want the whole damn forest to follow your scent home.”

You suck in a breath. The heat in your belly curls tight again.

He sets you down on the edge of the bed, your thighs parting on instinct, your slick skin sticking to his shirt, to the old quilt beneath you. The blood between your legs is thicker now, heavy. He watches it, eyes dark as pitch.

“Lord have mercy,” he whispers, dragging the back of his hand up your inner thigh just enough to catch the wet. His fingers are cool—unnaturally so—but they don’t make you recoil. They make you burn.

“You’re drippin’ for me. Bleedin’ like you want me to taste you again.”

He leans in, teeth grazing your ear.

“You know what that does to a man like me? That warm, dark sweetness runnin’ down your thighs? Ain’t nothin’ on God’s green earth tastes more like heaven than that.”

You shiver.

Not from fear.

From need.

He presses a kiss to the side of your neck, then another to your shoulder.

“Don’t you worry, baby,” he murmurs, voice so low it sinks into your skin like wine. “I’ll get you cleaned up again. Real slow. Real good. Might just make you bleed a little more while I’m at it.”

You tremble under his touch.

And Remmick smiles.

Because he knows you’re already his.

He kneels.

Doesn’t say a word. Doesn’t need to. You can feel it—what’s coming. The weight of his stare between your legs, the way his cold hands slip beneath your thighs and spread them wider, wider, until you’re completely exposed to him in the dim, flickering candlelight.

His fingers drag slow along the inner swell of your thighs, smearing blood and slick across skin like paint. His mouth parts.

“Christ almighty,” he breathes, voice reverent, his accent rougher now, more ragged. “Look at this mess. Look what you do to me, girl.”

He kisses the inside of one thigh—cold lips on burning skin—then the other. He doesn’t go for your pussy yet. He lingers. Worships. Drags his tongue along the seam of your thigh where the blood’s heaviest, groaning low and obscene as he tastes it.

He licks it up like it’s the finest thing he’s ever touched.

“Could spend hours down here,” he rasps, voice already wrecked. “Feastin’ like you’re my last goddamn meal.”

You whimper, hips twitching, your legs threatening to close—but he doesn’t let you.

“Uh-uh,” he warns, using his strength with ease to keep you open. “Don’t hide from me now. Not when you’re bleedin’ for me like this.”

His mouth finally descends on your cunt.

And this time, he takes his time.

The first pass of his tongue is so slow, so deep, it makes your eyes roll back. He licks a long, deliberate stripe from your soaked entrance to your clit, tasting everything—blood, arousal, need—and moaning like it’s divine.

His tongue flicks against your clit, again and again, featherlight but maddening. Then he shifts—mouth flattening, sucking, lapping at you with wide strokes of his tongue like he’s trying to ruin you.

And god, he is.

You fist the sheets, back arching, mouth open in a silent cry as he moans against your cunt, the vibrations shooting straight through your core. Your blood coats his mouth, his chin, his lips—but he doesn’t care. He relishes it. His hands grip your thighs tighter as he buries himself deeper, tongue fucking into you like he’s trying to crawl up inside and live there.

“Fuck, baby,” he groans between strokes, pulling back just long enough to pant against your slit. “You taste like heaven and sin all at once. Never gonna get tired of this. Never gonna stop wantin’ it.”

He slides a cold finger inside you—then another. Your body clenches hard, the contrast of his freezing hand and warm tongue almost too much to bear. But he knows your body now. Knows exactly how to curl his fingers, how to suck your clit while his tongue and hand move in tandem.

You start to shake.

Your vision blurs.

You cry out, your orgasm building harder than the last, pressure curling, snapping, about to break—

And he doesn’t stop.

Not when you start to sob his name.

Not when your thighs tremble and spasm against his shoulders.

Not even when you cum, shattering hard enough to see white behind your eyelids, your body jerking beneath his mouth like you’re being ripped open.

He keeps going.

Sucks your clit through it. Licks up every drop of blood and slick. Fingers you slower now, more gently, like he’s helping you ride it out instead of trying to end it.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, kissing your swollen cunt. “Gave it all to me, just like you’re meant to.”

You’re ruined.

Your chest is heaving, your limbs loose, soaked through and aching, and he’s still between your thighs, still worshiping, still tasting like he’ll never get enough.

And maybe he won’t.

Because you’re bleeding.

And he’s starving.

Your breath hitches—caught somewhere between a sob and a moan—as your legs twitch from the aftershocks, thighs sticky with blood and saliva. But Remmick’s still there.

Still devouring.

Still worshipping.

His tongue moves with aching tenderness now, lazy, slow—almost teasing if it weren’t so reverent. He licks through the mess he’s made, lips parting to mouth at your folds like he’s kissing your mouth, not your cunt. Like every inch of you is sacred.

And even as your hips jerk, trying to pull away—too much, too sensitive—he doesn’t let you go.

“No,” he murmurs, voice low, steady, commanding. “We’re not done yet, sweetheart.”

He pins your hips with those cold, strong hands, mouth descending again.

You cry out, thighs shaking violently, the sensitivity blooming into a new kind of agony—pleasure twisted at the edges, electric and sharp, making your toes curl and your spine bow. The room is spinning. Your pulse thunders in your ears.

But he’s soothing you as he ruins you.

“Shhh,” he breathes against you. “I got you. Just take it. Lemme taste every last drop you’re willin’ to give me.”

You feel your body trembling apart for him again, your stomach clenching, heat pooling low and impossibly fast.

Remmick’s voice is almost gentle now, slurred with arousal and reverence as his tongue drags across your clit.

“Don’t you go hidin’ from me, baby. You know I’ll chase you down.”

He kisses your cunt again, tongue flattening and lapping, nosing against your entrance where your blood is still fresh, still dripping slow. He moans deep in his throat like it’s a vintage he’s been saving for decades, like this moment—this mess between your thighs—is a gift he doesn’t deserve.

And god, the way he sounds when he speaks between strokes—

“Your blood’s hotter’n the devil’s breath tonight.”

Another lick.

“Tastes like lust. Like pain. Like home.”

Another.

“You were made for me, girl. Built to bleed for me.”

Your body coils tighter and tighter, the pleasure sharper now, no longer soft or slow—it’s demanding, relentless, fire at the base of your spine.

And he feels it.

He moans against you as you cum again—louder this time, messier, your entire body going rigid under him as you fall apart a second time, writhing as he holds you open and takes it all.

You’re crying now, softly, not from pain but from being so thoroughly undone.

From how deeply he sees you.

How completely he wants you.

When he finally pulls back, he’s soaked. Lips red, chin slick, eyes glowing like coals. He kisses your inner thigh, then your knee, then the scar on your ankle he once asked about and never brought up again.

You’re limp beneath him, panting, ruined.

And he looks so fucking proud.

“That’s my girl,” he whispers, crawling up your body. “My perfect, filthy little thing.”

He settles beside you on the bed, pulling you into his arms, curling your spent body against his cold one—and somehow, you feel warmer for it.

He presses a kiss to your temple, then your hairline, then your shoulder.

“Sleep now,” he breathes. “Ain’t no one ever gon’ touch you but me.”

And as your eyelids flutter closed, muscles aching, pulse slow and full, you realize this is what he’s given you—what no one else ever could.

Not warmth.

But safety.

Not love.

But devotion.

And in a house filled with ghosts, buried in a forest that forgot its name, you fall asleep knowing you’ll never be alone again.

Not as long as Remmick walks the earth.

Not as long as he’s hungry—and you’re his.

#sinners 2025 #remmick x reader

5K notes · View notes