dxmurewrites

[dxmurewrites]

Close Call

lil smutty one shot

pairing: Sir Jimmy Crystal x Reader

summary: So no head? Jk there's head. Jimmy takes out an infected who gets a little too close for comfort, and you wanted to thank him for his help.

a/n: I regret nothing. Jack O'Connell could make a dropped meat pie look good.

unedited because it's 3am and I wrote this on my phone

warnings: post apocalypse, language, cult mentions, established relationship, power imbalance(?) seeing as Jimmy probably has a god complex, sexual tension, pet names, mentions of blood and infected people, degrading terms, possessive behaviour, oral (m!receiving), cum eating, swallowing, hair pulling, gagging and spit, in public (but no one is around.)

let me know what you think!

____________________

It shouldn't have been attractive. 

It really shouldn't have been attractive. 

Good lord why was this so attractive. 

“You with me?” Jimmy interrupts your thoughts, turning his attention from the path ahead to you briefly. “You’ve been too quiet, it's worrying' me.”

“I’m alright.” How do you politely say that you want him to stop his stride and take you against a tree?

“Y’sure? If it’s about what happened back there, don’t think too much ‘bout it, shit happens."

An infected had snuck up on you. Jimmy had insisted you try and prove your worth to the group by taking down some infected on your own. He knew you were capable, but you had expressed to him that there was some worry. It alarmed you that the other Jimmy's might think you received special treatment due to your closeness to the leader of your little clan.

An infected had stalked you the entire run, having made no noise until it's blistered hands were inches from your flesh. It would've gotten you too, had Jimmy not been right behind it with his spear.

You hadn't even realised Jimmy had followed you as well, thinking he sent you out into the unknown alone.

It should’ve alarmed you that an infected had gotten so close, that he had been following you without making a sound. But it didn't. It made you feel good.

Protected. Cared for.

Wanted.

The leader had told you that he couldn't let his favourite out unattended, that he wasn't going to let you be snatched up by an infected or another group. You belonged to him. The very idea of someone else's hands on you made him seethe.

It should've worried you. The possessiveness of it all. The idea of being his property.

But it didn’t.

God.

It turned you on.

It made you feel hot.

He had protected you without a second thought. Without hesitation. He left the safety of your community to follow after you alone, slaying an infected. If it were anyone else, he would've let the infected kill them, make an example out of them for being foolish and unaware of their surroundings.

Jimmy would've made sure everyone knew that ignorance wasn't allowed here. You either used your brain or lost it.

And yet he walks just a metre away from you, his hand on his sharpened spear as he scans his surroundings for any other threats. His gaze would land on you every now and then, making sure you were following behind him.

You waited for him to berate you, to call you every name under the sun for letting a sick one get too close - and yet, no words came.

When the infected had fallen to the ground in a bloodied clump, his weapon on the ground beside it - his hands were immediately on your face, pulling the loose strands of hair from your forehead in an attempt to see your eyes.

He had tilted your chin upwards in a firm grip, making sure the whites of your eyes weren't changing. The coldness of his rings had sent goosebumps across your skin, a warm heat in your cheeks.

The air had left your lungs at the action. There wasn't any time to even thank him for killing the infected, to ask him what he was doing there. His lips met yours in a surprisingly gentle kiss, his hands still gripping your chin before he pulled away, resting his forehead against yours.

He said your name in almost a warning tone, his own little way of telling you that he wasn't happy about your cluelessness, but he wasn't mad either.

You whispered you were sorry, and his lips tightened in a frown, his eyebrows furrowing almost in an inner turmoil. "I know you are," he told you, his right hand gliding from your jaw to the back of your neck. "You're lucky, aren't you dove?"

"Yes sir," you nodded, feeling the grip of his fingers against your neck. It wasn't rough, just enough to know that there was some frustration there. "I will do better next time."

Jimmy tutted. "There's not going to be a next time," he shook his head, grinning and showing off his jagged teeth. "You're not going out again alone, you're no good to me dead."

A frown graced your lips, feeling defeated. This hunt was to prove yourself, to prove to the others that you could protect and serve the community. "But-"

He shushes you again, almost like scolding a child. "I know you can do it," Jimmy pats your cheek. "But I don't want you out here, no by yer'self."

He cared about you. In his own little fucked up way. Patting your cheek again, he had tipped his head towards a beaten track, urging you to start moving. So here you were, following behind him in a slow stride, careful not to step on any loud branches or twigs in your path.

You gripped your spear in your hand, watching as Jimmy's blond hair swung behind him as he walked. He was so confident, so sure of everything.

Yeah, you were going to hell.

God, you needed him.

Home was half an hour away, and you still had a few hours of daylight left.

“Seriously,” Jimmy stops in his place, turning around to point his finger at you. “Say somethin’, you do dumb shit when you're this quiet."

If it were anyone else, you would've protested the jest, name called the assailant to no end. But you couldn't do that with him. "I'm okay," you shake your head, twirling your spear in your hand nervously as you stopped your steps beside him. "I just don't want to bring any attention to us s'all."

He grunts, his head tilting as he eyes you. He says your name. "I want you to speak, and I want ye to tell me what you're thinking so fucking hard about."

His accent came out a little rougher, an indication that his frustration was growing. Jimmy could read you like a book. Every little quirk, every little noise or lack thereof. He knew. Of course he did.

Jimmy fucking Crystal knew everything.

“I don’t know how to word what is in my head." You admit, squeezing your spear as you turn your gaze away from him, choosing to focus on some flowers in the distance. Intimacy wasn't new to you, having fooled around with Jimmy before.

The issue was that initiating it all was new to you. He was always the one who would start it.

It was better that way. Initiating sex or any form of intimacy was intimidating to you. Unheard of, in your little world. But Jimmy could read your little hints, your lingering gazes, and would do the rest for you.

You see him whip his head around in the corner of your eye. His blond hair blowing in the breeze around him as he stabs his spear into the dirt. “If it’s about what I did before, I've already told you to forget about it," he walks towards you, reaching out to grip your elbow. He hated when you didn't look at him, when your attention was elsewhere. "Talk to me dove, tell Jimmy what's troublin' you,"

You shook your head, and Jimmy raises his eyebrow at the refusal. His hand slid down your arm before his fingers rest against your own, turning your palm over. His other hand reaches up to grab your spear, letting it fall to the ground. "Don't make me ask again."

“I want to suck you off.” You force out, your lips in a tight line as Jimmy's eyes widen in shock, his face instantly relaxing upon your words. He wasn't used to hearing such vulgarity from your lips, not unless his tongue was already between your thighs or his dick was stuffed inside you.

“You’ve been quiet this entire time because you want my cock?” He questions, adjusting the way he was standing. Your words immediately started to affect him.

You nod, beginning to play with his rings as he exhales loudly. “Sorry Jimmy.”

“Sorry? You're sorry for wanting to touch me?" He chuckles as you nod once, his fingers entwining with yours to stop your absent touching of his rings. "You want to wrap those pretty lips around me?"

You were worried he would've been annoyed, that your mind was focused on him and not your surroundings, but you nod again, feeling almost ashamed.

He inhales sharply, looking around once more at your surroundings. The sound of birds echoed in the distance, other little creatures scurrying about. It was a good sign, seeing as animals would vacate areas at the first signs of infected.

"You are just so cute, aren't ye," he says. "Acting shy like you didn't just say you want my cock in your mouth, fuckin' look at ye'."

It would've felt humiliating coming from anyone else, but Jimmy loved this, loved how shy you were. It made him feel even more in charge.

His touch is soft again, removing his fingers from yours as he moved even closer to you, crowding you. "Go on then," he murmurs, nodding to the grass beneath you. "ye want me, ye can have me, right here."

You knew better than to make him repeat himself, so you nod, kneeling slowly to the ground in front of him. It should've worried you, being so exposed outside of the safety of your four walls and your brethren.

But you trusted him.

Had faith in him.

Jimmy inhales again, his blue eyes darkening as he takes in the vision of you. He tuts once more, his hand coming out to pull some hair away from your eyes as he coos, looking down at you between his legs.

"So good for me," he says softly, continuing to play with a strand of your hair, and then his hand moves down slowly, touching your jaw in a gentle but assertive way. His thumb strokes your cheek as he brushes the edge of your lip, his tongue clicking as you preen at his touch. "You're just so sweet, so thankful, aren't you?"

You nod, your words failing you. The coolness of his rings against the softness of your cheeks made the skin on the back of your neck rise, and you waited for further permission to continue. It may have been you to initiate something for once, but Jimmy was in control.

He was always in control.

"Tell me what you want to do again," He orders, his thumb running along your bottom lip. "Use your words." "I want you in my mouth." You reply almost instantly, letting him press his thumb between your lips, sucking on the digit gently. Jimmy hisses slightly, and you would've missed it had his jaw not tightened as you stared up at him.

"My good girl," He says softly, the emphasis on my not being lost on you. "S'all you now, take what's yours."

With his permission, you reach up with shaky hands, running your fingers gently over the tent in his tracksuit. He hums as you look up at him with your eyes hooded, eyelashes batting and he would've made another quip had you not pressed harder against his growing cock.

You unzip his pants, pulling them down to his thighs before his boxers follow behind. His cock stood to attention almost immediately, and your mouth watered, seeing the swollen tip flush against him.

Licking your lips in anticipation, Jimmy wanted to comment on the innocent gaze you gave him, how it was such a stark contrast to what you were actually doing . What you were doing for him.

In your position, he was reminded of those who would pray before him, those in your community that sort his protection. He would have you on your knees everyday if you let him, but prayers wouldn't be spoken.

You sat with your knees apart, trainer covered feet pressing into your behind. It was a big difference to the comfort of your bedroom, or the lush carpet in Jimmy's grand room, but it wasn't unwelcome. Resting your hands on his thighs, you reach forward, placing a soft kiss on his skin before working yourself towards his cock, just the small of amount of teasing that he enjoyed.

Grasping the base of his cock with your hand, you place a sweet kiss to the tip, smiling to yourself as you hear the man above you groan.

Spit gathers at the front of your mouth, and you wrap your lips around his tip, letting it dribble out and onto him before taking him further into your mouth.

Jimmy groans louder upon feeling the heat of your mouth and the weight of your tongue. His cock twitches between your lips, your name leaving his own like a growl, sending heat to between your thighs. He wounds both of his hands into your hair, but he doesn't rush or push you further, doesn't grip roughly, letting you set the pace.

He was confident enough that he had trained you accordingly, that you already knew what he liked.

You did. He liked the build up just as much as he enjoyed fucking your mouth with earnest. It always depended on his mood that day, whether or not he wanted to use your pretty little holes to his whim or if he wanted to take his time. Jimmy was anything but picky.

Without thinking any longer, your hand wrapped around the base of his cock, feeling its thickness as you slowly began to stroke him. He released a low, appreciative sigh at the combination of your hot mouth and your soft grip. His thighs tensed under your touch.

Your eyes met his through hooded lids once more, lowering your mouth to take him in further. The stretch of him filled your mouth as you went deeper, feeling his hardness slide against your tongue. You kept going until you felt his tip reach the back of your throat, the unruly hair on his pelvis brushing against your nose. His shudder, name on his own tongue like a prayer, sent a thrill through your body as you adjusted the way you were kneeling, pressing yourself impossibly closer to him as he twitched inside your mouth.

As you set a familiar pace, Jimmy starts to make guttural, broken sounds that sounded like music to your ears. Each little sound urged you on and his grip threaded in your hair started to tighten. Your nails slid down his thighs, feeling the muscles beneath your fingers as he shuddered again.

With your tongue following a vein, the blond man moans, his head falling back as he breathed loudly. "S'good," He sighs, his hips stuttering and thrusting a little. The action causes you to gag, and he pats at your head. "You can take it, such a good little thing for me."

With one hand still supported on his thigh, the other continues to stroke at what doesn't fit in your mouth. His hips involuntarily thrusts again, and you continue your movements, breathing through your nose as you focus on his taste.

"God, you love this don't ye?" His groans filled the area, which should've worried you, but with his salty taste and the wetness between your legs, you didn't care. "Fuckin' made for this."

Jimmy moves one of his hands from your hair, cradling your cheek in a tender gesture as he looked down at you with a lustful, but soft expression. "My pretty girl," He coos, caressing your cheek. "Ye look so good like this, would have you on your knees like this everyday, stuff all your little holes full."

You couldn't help the moan that left your throat, vibrating around him. He grins through it, trying to hide how your little sound had sent a chill down his spine. "You'd like that hm?"

His head fell back once more, unable to hold back a guttural growl as you continued with your lips on him, feeling his cock pulse and grow impossibly harder against your tongue.

His hips instinctively forward, wanting to feel more of your mouth as your tongue traces the underside of his cock, the drag of his foreskin making the action easier for you. He shivers again, muttering your name over and over as he moves the hair from your face almost lovingly.

“Look at me dove,” he urged, tugging at your hair again to tilt your face up. Your lips were puffy, your chin coated in your spit, tears glazing your eyes. He stared in awe, content with how easy it was to get you drunk on his taste, on his cock. “Fuckin' perfect.”

It almost sounded like whines from his throat, and he thrusts harder into your mouth, causing you to gag audibly around him. You hear him mutter a 'sorry love', and the words caused your chest to flutter.

More praises follow, your name sounding so sweet on his lips, a vision to your eyes as your saviour almost whimpers as his release builds closer. His balls tighten, and your lips squeeze tighter around him, and his fingers clench in your hair as his body tenses hard. "Just like that," he swears, his chest heaving as his golden crucifix glistens in the sunlight. "Fuck f-fuck."

Jimmy didn't have to say where he wanted to cum. If you were giving him a blowjob - it was a given that it would be down your throat. Although, in his filthy nature, he did enjoy shooting his load over your face every now and then if he felt you had been bratty. He wasn't a fan of waste, and that meant his cum too. Seeing you covered in him felt like his own little way of reminding you just who you belonged too.

Spurts of thick, salty cum paint the inside of your mouth, the jerks of his hips causing his shaft to continue thrusting in-between your lips, and he curses as you swallow around him. You continue to suck softly, being sure to clean up and remaining seed that spilled from your mouth.

Jimmy pulls out of your mouth, slowly tucking himself back into his boxers as he pulls his pants back up around his waist. Before you can do it yourself, he's reaching down, holding out his hands for you to take.

You do so, your smaller hands resting in his as he helps you stand on shaky legs. Once again, you avoid his gaze, instantly feeling shy over what you had done in such a public setting. Jimmy swipes a finger against your chin, a little trail of cum having spilled onto your skin. He presses his thumb into his own mouth, before he guides your gaze back to his.

"Ye feel better now dove?" he asks you, and you nod, smiling at him, cheeks warm and lips sore.

"Yes sir," you probably looked like a right mess - lips swollen, cheeks tear stained and hair tussled more than the vines that covered the houses in the village. But Jimmy loved it. Loved how much you enjoyed pleasing him. He loved you in his own peculiar way. "Thank you."

He scoffed, wiping your cheeks of any remaining tears before he begins to walk away towards your previous path. He stops once more, noticing you're not following him. "Ye want me to fuck ye now huh?"

You shake your head. "Just a kiss."

Jimmy's eyebrows furrowed, but he shrugs, waiting for you to step forward again, stepping on your tip toes as you press your lips against his. He sighs into your mouth, his tongue pressing in to taste himself. As he steps away, he rolls his eyes playfully at your smile.

"Stop actin' like that," He grabs at your shoulder gently, pushing you ahead of him this time. "You came out here for a hunt and left with cum in ye mouth."

"So did you." You rebut, and his wags his finger at you in warning.

[dxmurewrites]

changed my name on here from Fookinfandoms to dxmurewrites! I’ve had demure in my name since 2012, seems fitting to have it on this account too :)

Bear with me whilst I fix my masterlist and everything!

[dxmurewrites]

Writing for Jimmy Crystal when he’s based on a nonce is an interesting idea. You’re definitely American.

I’m not American and I know who Jimmy Savile is, try again!

[dxmurewrites]

It's my goal to write positive yet unhinged comments on people's fics and I haven't been that successful. There's only so many ways you can say someone has sold their soul to the devil before it becomes blasé. Any ideas?

[dxmurewrites]

sorry the faces of every man ive ever killed just flashed before my eyes was that a yes or a no to butt stuff

[dxmurewrites]

ever since i was a little girl i knew i liked problematic tropes

[dxmurewrites]

Do I really want to write Jimmy Crystal smut

[dxmurewrites]

Let’s Be Pals

one-shot(?)

Sir Jimmy Crystal x Reader

summary: You left Holy Island with your nephew Spike, not wanting him to be on the mainland on his own. With your sister now gone, he’s the only family you have left, that is until you come across a tiara wearing stranger.

a/n: Obviously ‘you’ as the reader are Scottish, given where we are in the film. This was just a random little thing I thought about and decided to write. I will sooooo delete this if his character ends up being incredibly irredeemable. Also in true me fashion, watch me turn this into a part one and part two. And the fact I’m writing something for this mf before Remmick, lord.

Not edited.

warnings: canon-typical violence (infected), blood, coarse language.

please let me know what you think! unless it’s to be mean, then die. likes and comments mean the world!

“Why did you stay with me?”

His voice is soft, surprising you yet again. Spike had been quiet for a few hours now, the young man still wondering over whether or not his decision to stay on the mainland was the right choice.

You turn to look at him, your eyebrow raised. “Hm?” The two of you had found a spot on the side of a decaying road, cooking a fish over a fire. “What’ya mean?”

He prods the fish with a stick again, turning it over the fire. “You should’ve stayed home,” Ah, here it is. “You didn’t have to stay with me, I would’ve been fine on my own.”

Shrugging, your back rests against a large rock as you watch him continue poking your dinner. “I know you would’ve,” Your hands play with the ripped fabric on your pants as you speak, your eyes scanning the environment every now and then. A machete pokes at your thigh, the large knife resting in its holster. It was uncomfortable in this position, but you knew better than to take it off. “Maybe I just wanted to enjoy the sights too, ever think of that?”

Spike turns to you with a blank expression, causing you to grin. Eventually his own lips tilt in a smile, and he rolls his eyes.

Twelve.

He reminds you of Isla in every way. She’s been gone for 28 days now, but deep down you knew she had been gone for awhile. When her mind let her, she was your older sister, the one who helped raise you after dad passed. The one who would speak of the mainland and how it was before the rage virus took over.

When her mind became clouded, you weren’t her little sister anymore, you would be mum, or nan, sometimes even calling you Spike.

You sniffed, bringing yourself back to the present. It didn’t matter, she wasn’t suffering anymore.

“You’re my blood Spike, where you go, I go,” Your elbow reaches out to nudge him as he nods reluctantly, feeling guilty for bringing you along. “I watched you be born lad, no way in hell would I let you go explore this shithole without me.”

“You were a kid when I was born.” He answers in a matter of fact tone, causing you scoff.

“Eighteen, thank you very much,” You begin to stand, stretching out your arms as you once again begin looking around, watching the two points of entry on the road. “Was about time your ma popped you out too, I was getting bored having no friends.”

“I was a baby.” Spike’s eyebrows furrow and you grin, shrugging again.

“Only new people we got on the island were babies Spike, if I wasn’t doing hunts - I was babysitting you.”

He nods again. You’d done countless trips to the mainland, being one of the top archers on Holy Island. The groups became smaller and smaller as more people stopped coming back, and eventually the hunts became just you and Spike’s dad, Jamie.

It was isolating in a way. You had been just a baby when the virus took over, having grown up on the island with your dad and sister before his passing shortly after. Some kind people took you both in, you both grew up, Isla married Jamie and started their little family as you shared a house with a different older couple.

You were surrounded by people, surrounded by a community that cared.

And yet, there still felt like there was nothing for you. Surviving was the goal in the end, but living felt nearly impossible. Majority on the island had already found their special place in the world, found their special someone.

It’s why you took up the hunting role as soon as you were old enough. Getting to see the mainland, exploring what once was, running into the odd village here and there. It kept you sane, even if the infected kept you awake at night.

As if hearing your thoughts, a shrill from an infected echoes off the rock walls around you. Immediately your hand reaches for the bow that rested on the ground, the other reaching for the quiver beside it, strapping it onto your back.

Spike stands as well, his gaze looking everywhere for the cause of the sound. “Should we move?”

You hold up a finger, telling him to wait. “We need to see which direction it came from,” You answer softly, reaching back to grab an arrow, nocking it, waiting for what’s to come. “No point running if we don’t know where it is.”

He nods, swallowing his spit as he readies his own bow. You look around again, hearing another shrill. The sound bounces around the rocky terrain, but eventually the body of an infected running from the west greets you.

So much for dinner.

The naked man sprints upon spotting you, his arms flailing around as he screeches. “We can take it.” Spike nods at the bloodied creature, and you shake your head.

“When there’s one there’s more,” You line up your shot, waiting for the infected to lift his head as he yells again. You release, and the arrow goes flying, landing in its forehead. “It was too loud, more will come.”

More sounds can be heard, one of them sounding almost like laughter.

A cheer.

More infected begin running in from the end of the road, and you grab Spike’s shoulder, pushing him forward to the east. “Go,” You push him a little harder, urging him to move. “We’ll flank them down, just like we practiced yeah?”

He nods with a shaky head, anxiety evident in his eyes as he grabs his bag, beginning to run in the direction you wanted. You take another infected down, a woman, and she falls roughly to the surface, tripping another.

Running after your nephew, he takes another infected down as you catch up to him, waving him forward to follow you. The two of you run side by side, occasionally turning around to take down more infected. Your thighs burn at the action, not having ran this much since your encounter with an alpha a few weeks ago.

Your stomach drops as you’re met with a face full of boulders. The screams of infected echo behind you as you search around for another exit, but the only way through is over. Grabbing Spike’s shoulder again, you begin pushing him towards the rocks, tilting your head towards the next step.

“C’mon lad! Up and over,” He’s got two feet on the first boulder as his eyebrows furrow, watching you intently. “Move Spike! Start climbing!”

Turning around again, you notice more of the infected beginning to follow after the first group, the numbers having doubled. Lining up another shot, you take one down as another falls limp behind it, Spike having killed the other.

“I’m not leaving you!” He yells, reaching back for another arrow.

“Am not arguing Spike,” Your words come out almost like a growl, wanting nothing more than to protect your nephew. “Climb, now!”

He jumps down beside you, and if there was time, there would’ve been a few coarse words leaving your lips. The boy shoots down another, the arrow landing in its throat as it gurgles and pummels to the floor.

The two of you continue, pushing back until your feet touch the rocks behind you. The infected just kept coming, the sick ones just following the screams of others for a chance of food.

Reaching back, your fingers flail around for another arrow, and your curse, realising you were out. Spike had a few more to go, and you throw your quiver to the ground, the bow following with it as you unholster your machete.

Spike’s eyes widen, and you press forward in an attempt to keep him behind you. “Spike,” you urge, turning your head slightly, keeping your eyes on the handful of infected continuing their run towards you both. “Please climb, now.”

You would never forgive yourself if something happened to him. Isla and your dad would be screaming in heaven at you for endangering him in any way.

“You’re out here because of me,” The twelve year old answers, his hands shaking as he nocks another arrow. “Where you go, I go.”

The wee bastard repeats your words from earlier, and you give him a tight smile, nodding once. “Alright, but if I do a really cool self sacrifice, ye better make sure your arse is over those rocks before I turn.”

He grimaces at the thought, and you don’t have time to reply, an infected lunging for you with a cry. Turning just in time, it falls against the boulders, and it’s about to lunge again when you strike, your machete reaching between it’s eyes.

Kicking it away, you begin charging forward, meeting the other in the middle. Swinging the large blade from the side, it hits the infected in the neck, the blood spraying around as you hide your head behind your arm, being sure to not get any in your eyes or mouth.

The cycle repeats a few more times, other infected being taken down by the tween behind you, but like clockwork, more begin to show up, clumped in twos or threes.

Jogging back to your nephew, he points out that he’s nearly out of arrows himself, and you frown, gripping the machete in your hand as you look back to the road.

There’s no way the two of you would be able to take them all down.

An arrow whizzes past you as Spike kills another infected, and a loud whistle from above brings your attention elsewhere.

Instinctively, you stand in front of Spike, finding a group of non infected standing around you two above on the hills.

They’re all blonde, holding various different weapons as they eye you both with grins.

Are those fucking tracksuits?

“Wonderful shot!” The man in the centre yells out, his knee bent against a rock as he grins. Gold jewellery stands out amongst his black and white track suit, rings adorning his fingers as he points down at the infected. “Mind if we step in?”

Your eyes narrow at the man, confusion evident in your features as the grip on your machete tightens. Blood drips from the tip as you hold it up towards the oncoming threat. “By all means!”

His grin grows, and the people around him begin chuckling, bouncing around as if they were eager to help.

“Hold.” He holds up his finger, eyeing the naked and bloodied people running towards you two.

They begin getting closer, too close for comfort, and your chest begins to ache in fear, stepping in front of Spike again with your machete raised. “Any fucking day now!”

The man’s head tilts as he chuckles, repeating the word. “Hold.”

You growl in frustration, walking forward and ready to strike at the infected that charges ahead at you. It’s head had just started flying through the air as you hear a swift and sharp ‘fucking go.’

Blond hair begins whipping around the site, the people from above flying down from the rocks with their large sticks. Some flip from their positions, landing near you as they begin attacking the infected, laughter filling the air as they smile from ear to ear, enjoying the kills.

Stepping back, you and Spike let the group take the remaining infected out, watching with furrowed eyebrows and confused expressions over what you’re both witnessing.

By the time the last one’s dead, the remaining member of the group, the one who had done all the talking, climbs down, joining the rest.

He walks towards you with a swagger, his eyes unashamedly looking you over. The grin doesn’t leave his lips, and he chuckles once more.

Is that a fucking tiara on his head?

“Well aren’t you just a sight for sore eyes,” He whistles again, his gaze never leaving yours. “That was some fine shooting before, real nice.”

You just nod, choosing to ignore the first part of his sentence and using the time to catch your breath after the ordeal.

He wasn’t ugly by any means, quite the opposite, but there was something about him you couldn’t put your finger on. Maybe it was the fact that everyone around him had the same hair, or it was the tracksuits, either way, you had to be careful.

“Jimmy Crystal,” The stranger holds his hand out, the grin growing as he tilts his head, waiting for your reply. “And you are?”

“Grateful,” Is all you say, nodding towards Jimmy and his group. “Thank you… For uh, helping us.”

He pulls his arm back, but he doesn’t look annoyed by your dismissal, if anything, he’s more intrigued. He shrugs nonchalantly, looking at the dead infected as if they were a mere inconvenience. “No worry, couldn’t turn down a damsel in distress and her little lamb.”

He lifts his chin towards Spike, who still stood behind you. “What about you little man? That was quite some shooting coming from you too, your ma teach you that?”

“She’s not my… she’s not, this is my aunt,” He tells Jimmy your name, and you turn slightly, giving your nephew a look as if to say ‘really?’. He ignores you, keeping his attention on the blond man in front. “I’m Spike.”

“Spike,” Jimmy repeats, before his eyes lock in on yours once more. He repeats your name, slower than Spike’s, nodding as if giving his approval. “S’good thing seeing other families out here, don’t see it much nowadays.”

Families? Apart from the hair, his group didn’t exactly look related, but you kept your mouth shut. Shuffling awkwardly on your feet, you realised you were still gripping your machete.

“I think you two need somewhere to rest yeah?” Jimmy claps his hands together, reaching out again with an outstretched hand towards Spike this time. “What’ya say, let’s be pals.”

Spike shakes his hand before you can protest, and the young man looks up at Jimmy with a worried expression. “My aunt’s been on watch the last few days,” You say his name in warning, hating that he was giving these strangers information, but he continues. “We just need somewhere where we can sleep for a few hours.”

“We’re fine Spike,” You butt in, raising a hand towards him, but he shakes his head, clearly still feeling guilty for your lack of rest and food. “We’ve thanked them, that’s all we can do.”

“Nonsense,” Jimmy snorts, his gold chains and crucifix swinging around his chest as he hunches over to face Spike at eye level. “You’re a good lad looking after your family, that’s the kind of people we like around here.”

Jimmy stands once again, walking closer to you as his grin softens, a softer smile on his face as he holds his hand out for the third time. “Come with us,” He says your name carefully, as if you’d strike him down for saying it. “Ye don’t know us - sure, but for Spike’s sake, let the boy have a rest… even if it’s just for a little bit, I think you both need it.”

Truthfully, you did. The fatigue was growing stronger, and you’d be no use to Spike if you couldn’t keep your eyes open. You knew he was just trying to find a way to make you agree, but there was still that lingering feeling of the unknown.

It was obvious you didn’t have supplies worth taking, and truthfully why would they bother saving you both just to kill you later?

“Okay,” You answer softly, seeing Jimmy’s eyes light up at your response. “But we won’t be staying long.”

The blond man raises his arms in defence, nodding before he pressed his hand to his chest. “Knowing such a beautiful creature such as yourself will be safe under my roof, I can die a happy man.”

You raise your eyebrow at him, before turning to Spike for a moment. “Can you go collect our arrows?”

The boy nods reluctantly, walking off to retrieve any that were still intact. You watch him for a second before looking back to Mr Crystal.

“You’re quite the character, aren’t you?” You ask, and he laughs loudly, almost proudly at the term.

He shrugs, answering you in between chuckles. “Not sure what ye’ mean?”

“You’re wearing a fuckin’ tiara,” You point towards his head with your free hand, before waving your finger towards the rest of his attire. “Not to mention all this.”

“You like?” He quips, and the words almost make you smile, almost, but it was enough for him to notice the subtle change in your face. “Yeah you do.”

Scoffing, you turn your attention back to Spike, who was busying himself a few metres away, pulling more arrows out of the dead infected.

“I meant what I said before, you’re quite the beauty aren’t ye?” Jimmy continued, and you scoff once more. “Not trying to be weird, just think we all need to spread the love around a bit more yeah?”

“I think this country has done enough spreading shite around,” You retort with a chuckle of your own, watching as Jimmy seems pleased at being able to get something other than reluctance out of you. “But thank you.”

“Don’t thank me love, it’s true,” He pats your shoulder gently. “We’re gonna be great pals you and I, I can just feel it.”

Strangely enough, you could feel it too.

[dxmurewrites]

Put me in your shopping cart and take me with you while you buy your groceries.. you dont have to buy me anything i'll just watch. But i wouldnt refuse a snack or a treat...

[dxmurewrites]

she gets it

[dxmurewrites]

[dxmurewrites]

that’s between me and my delusions

[dxmurewrites]

𝐇𝐞𝐥𝐝 𝐁𝐲 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐃𝐞𝐯𝐢𝐥'𝐬 𝐆𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐥𝐞 𝐇𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐬

𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 | Remmick x Fem!Reader

𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 | You had been taught from a young age that your body was a vessel for sin. You pray. You obey. You repent for desires you've never acted on. Until one night, something old and unholy walks out of the swamp. Remmick doesn’t ask for your obedience. He simply asks for you.

𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 | 12,353 (I'm incapable of writing short fics anymore stg)

𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 | Mature Content-Explicit Descriptions Of Sex | Religious trauma, Shame-based upbringing, Mentions of blood, Vampire themes, Slight power imbalance (handled with care), Typical historical sexism, Horror themes, Smut: PIV sex, Loss of virginity, Period sex, Biting/marking, Worship kink, Oral(fem!receiving), Fingering, Begging/dirty talk, Dom/sub themes, Blood kink.

𝐀𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫'𝐬 𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐞 | This is the freakiest shit I've ever written and I love it. I may have gotten a bit carried away, but I was a vampire slut as a teenager so this was like going back to my roots! It might seem a little drawn out, but I promise you it's worth it.

masterlist

“LORD, IF THERE BE ANY WICKED THOUGHT IN ME, CAST IT OUT.”

Knees sunk into warped pine, you knelt before the pulpit. Rigid spine drawn upwards like penance carved into posture. The chapel groaned with age beneath you, floorboards moaning like the ribs of something half-dead. Still, you didn’t move. Not when your knees screamed. Not when sweat slicked down your back. 

Pain, after all, was a righteous offering. 

Beyond clouded glass windows, Mississippi’s summer pressed its damp mouth to the world. Cicadas shrieked into the thick air—bold and blatant. As if even God’s smallest creatures knew no shame. 

But you did. You’d learned it young. 

At thirteen, the blood had come for the first time. Bright and damning, soaking through linen drawers like spilled sin. Your mama had wept into her handkerchief, Bible clenched to her chest.

Your daddy made you sleep in the shed out back that night. 

“You’re unclean now,” Mama had said. Her voice gentle as cattails blowing in the wind, but no less firm. “The devil speaks through blood like that.”

Since then, your body had become something separate from your soul. Something threatening to it. Something to be managed.

And so, you managed it. 

You scrubbed every corner of yourself with lye and scalding water, rubbed lavender oil behind your ears and under your arms to keep the scent of you polite. You covered your chest tight beneath your high-necked dresses and crossed your ankles even in sleep. You swallowed down every tremble, every heat that rose under your skin when you caught sight of a man’s hands. Thick-knuckled and dirty from work, veins like roots. 

When the wicked thoughts came—as they always did, uninvited and slow—you banished them with prayer. Over and over until your throat went hoarse and your vision blurred. 

Lord, make me clean. Lord, make me still. 

You learned to live inside the rhythm of denial. Every dish was washed with precision. Every verse memorized and recited without fault. Every smile measured, every word weighed. Even your silence was studied. Measured like sugar for a pie crust. 

Your daddy called you his “God-fearing girl.”

The town called you sweet. Gentle. A lamb.

But none of them heard the screaming behind your ribs. Still, you stayed soft, obedient. 

You turned your eyes away from boys who looked too long. You flinched when your daddy’s voice turned thundering at the pulpit, screaming about Jezebels and harlots and fire licking at the feet of women who let their hips sway too loose. 

Sometimes you wake in the middle of the night, thighs damp and heart racing, some dream fleeing your memory like smoke. The shame that followed was near biblical. You would kneel in front of your window and pray ‘til sunrise, whisper to the floorboards so Mama and Daddy wouldn’t hear. 

Still, deep in the belly of you, a wanting took root. Not loud, not crude, just hungry. Starved from being ignored so long.

That hunger frightened you more than Hell.

The sun had just begun to sink when you uncurled from the floor, joints stiff, knees aching with the kind of pain that settles deep and stays. Your dress clung damp to your back. The chapel had been empty when you arrived, and now as you left, it remained the same. The air still, dust dancing lazily in halos through fogged glass. 

Stepping outside felt like surfacing from deep water. The humidity met you like breath on your skin. Thick, and warm, and a little too familiar. Your shoes pressed down the dirt path in soft grinds on the pebbles, the hem of your dress sweeping across your ankles. 

Home was only a half mile away. Past a narrow field, and through the grove of pines your daddy always said was cursed. “Too quiet,” he’d muttered once. “Ain’t right when the trees don’t even sing.”

You never asked him what he meant. You were taught not to question the wisdom of men like him. 

The cicadas faded as you reached the edge of the trees. The air shifted, cooler now, like something had drawn the heat out of it. There was no wind. No hooting owls, no coyotes yipping, no chirping of crickets. The absence of all nighttime sounds. 

You paused.  

The setting light had gone strange, pale silver-washed, as though the sun had dipped too fast beneath the horizon. The shadows stretched longer here. Almost deliberate in their reach. 

It was then that you saw him. 

He stood beneath a drooping cypress, half swallowed by the gloaming. At first you thought he might’ve been carved from the tree itself—so still and rooted. But then he moved. Not like just any man, not exactly. Not with effort or weight in his steps. He simply shifted. Like water finding the shape of a new vessel.

Your breath caught in your throat. 

His eyes, too pale to be safe, met yours across the thinning distance. He looked like some creature out of folklore. The kind from tales whispered between women who’d seen too much and men who drank too late. Broad, sharp-jawed, dressed in a white and blue striped button-down with a pair of suspenders hitched over his shoulders. His sleeves were rolled, revealing forearms etched with faint old scars, and the collar of his shirt hung open—loose, like he’d never worn a buttoned thing in his life. 

He had no hat, no weapon, not even a smile. 

You should’ve run, but your feet stayed cemented to the gravel, fists tight in your skirt.

He didn’t speak right away. He just looked at you like he knew the trance you were under. A muscle feathered in his jaw. Not with tension, but curiosity. Amusement, even. And when he did speak, his voice came low and smooth, like creekwater over stone. 

“Didn’t mean to scare you,” he said, mouth curving up in the sort of smirk Mama warned you about. “Didn’t think anyone’d be out here.”

Your lips parted and then sealed shut again. You took a half step back, careful not to trip over the hem of your dress. 

“I didn’t mean to disturb—” you began, but his head tilted just a fraction. 

“You’re the preacher’s girl, right?” he asked, eyes narrowing with delighted focus. 

You nodded, barely. “Yes, sir.”

He huffed a sound that wasn’t quite a laugh. “No need for ‘sir’; I’m not that respectable.”

Silence stretched between you. Even though you’d been raised on the belief that it wasn’t polite for girls to talk too much, you wanted to fill the quiet. Spill your voice into the cracks. Your pulse throbbed in your throat before you rounded up the courage. 

“You shouldn’t be out here this time of night.”

“Neither should you, preacher’s daughter,” he drawled, a flicker of something dark and knowing curling the corner of his lips. “But here we are.”

He didn’t look like anyone from town and certainly didn’t talk like one. None of the townsfolk would’ve spoken to you the way he did. Unguarded and heedless of who you were. No, he wasn’t from around here at all. And yet…nothing about him seemed inherently strange. Just out of place. Like he belonged to a different world that had nudged its shoulder against yours for a moment, just long enough to make the air odd. 

He rocked back on the heels of his feet, like he was settling into the moment, not at all eager to leave it. “Didn’t catch your name.”

Giving out your name to strangers never seemed like a good idea to you. It felt wrong just to hand it out, especially not to spooky men alone in the woods. 

“Don’t think you need it, mister.” Your words are nearly swallowed by the blood rushing in your ears. 

That smirk returned, subtle and crooked and ruinous. “Suit yourself.”

His voice curled around the words like telling you he’d figure out your name anyway. Whether you gave it to him or not. And maybe he would; in a town as small as this, everybody knew everyone. 

He took a step forward. Not as a threat, not even boldly. 

The breath in your chest locked up tight anyway. Your ribs caging something suddenly wild and very much awake. Heat pricked at your cheeks, and shame rose in your belly like smoke curling from a chimney. You didn’t know this man, but the shape of him, the sound of him, felt like something your body recognized before your mind could catch up. 

You were both terrified and enchanted by him. 

“You always walk this way alone?” He asked.

You glanced away from his thralling eyes, throat going bone dry. “Ain’t usually anyone else out here.”

“You’re a peculiar thing,” he chuckled, pointing a wagging finger at you. 

You stiffened. “Why d’you say that?”

He shrugged, hands tucked lazily in his pockets. “I’ve been ‘round town awhile. Seen enough to know who stares down their nose and who just keeps their eyes down.” He fixed you with those keen eyes, turning up his nose almost like he was sniffing. “But you look like you’re tryin’ not to see at all.”

You sucked in a breath. You could feel your heart banging around inside you, like it wanted out.

This was wrong. 

Not just him, but the way the trees leaned in like they were listening, the way your skin felt charged under your dress. You could hear it echoing in your skull, how your name would sound rolling off his tongue if you’d chosen to give it to him. 

You didn’t even realize you’d taken a step back until your heel slid slightly on gravel.  

“I should get goin’,” you said quickly, the words tumbling out like water breaking through a dam.

He didn’t stop you as you danced around him. 

“Sure,” was all he said, amusement bending his voice. “Don’t let the woods eat ya on the way home.”

Your pace started out slow, but you could feel him behind you. Something made you look back. 

He’d moved back to where you first saw him, there under the swaying cypress tree half devoured by dusk and shadow. He stood just as still, only now his head was tilted the slightest bit. Like he was listening to something distant or savoring something close. 

When he caught you glancing at, him he grinned. Wickedly. Like he knew something you didn’t. Like he’d caught a glimpse of the crack in your pious little shell and was toying with the thought of prying it open.

The moonlight caught his eyes, or maybe it wasn’t the light at all. For just a moment, they flashed red. Not bright. Not like fire. But like crimson blood. It was just a glint, sharp as wet teeth in the dark. 

Your breath hitched as you took a step back, your eyes still on him. Then another until your pace quickens into something just shy of a run. 

He watched you leave, that grin widening as you stumbled through the brush, skirts snagging on twigs, heart pounding like a hymn sung too fast. He didn’t chase after you, but he drank in your fear like it was fine whiskey. 

You could almost hear that smile taunting you. Ain’t you lucky I let you go?

YOU DIDN’T WALK HOME NEAR THE GROVE ANYMORE.

You took the long road instead, through rows of dry fields and along the ridge where wild blackberries grew. 

But no matter how hard you tried to avoid it, you still saw him. 

Not fully at first, just a shape in your periphery. Standing motionless at the edge of things. Watching the horizon as though he had all the time in the world to wait for you to come to him.

You never stopped when you saw him; never spoke to him. You kept your eyes forward and your mouth shut. But your palms went damp against the cotton of your skirt, and your heart slammed into your ribs. 

You hadn’t slept that first night. 

You stayed curled under your quilt, ears straining at every creak in the house. You told yourself it was just wind on the windows, just the groan of old nails in old wood. But deep down, you knew better. 

Because the next evening, he was there again—this time down by the riverbed. 

You’d gone to fetch water just as the dark came on, trying to outpace the setting sun, but when you reached the bank, he was already there. Sitting on a fallen log like it was a church pew, skipping stones across the slow-moving current with easy, idle flicks of his wrist. 

He didn’t speak, but he didn’t really need to. 

You could feel his gaze on your back the whole time you filled the pail, like fingers dragging down the slope of your spine without ever touching skin. When you turned around, he was gone. 

You blinked once, twice; nothing but empty woods and water rippling in dusky light. The pail trembled in your hands the whole way home. 

By the third night, you started to wonder if you were going mad. 

You didn’t tell Mama or Daddy. You couldn’t. What would you even say? That some pale-eyed stranger was haunting the dirt roads and riverbeds. Staring like he could see every wicked little thought you’d tried so hard to drown.

No. 

That would only earn you a slap and a verse from Leviticus. 

So you stayed silent, but you didn’t feel safe. 

Especially not the fourth night when you saw him outside your bedroom window. 

It was just past midnight; the house had gone dead quiet hours ago. The air was heavy with heat and thunder-stillness. You’d risen from bed to press your forehead to the glass, the way you always did when your dreams left you flushed and frightened. The nighttime sounds had gone silent again. 

And then he was just there. 

Standing at the tree line just beyond the garden fence. Unmoving and unblinking. Lit only by the moon in the same striped shirt, the same loose collar, his hands in his pockets like this was nothing unusual. Like he belonged right there. 

You didn’t scream or dash away from the window. You just stared because a part of you had been expecting this. Dreading it and needing it in the same capacity.

His head tilted again, same as before. Curious. Amused. That slow, knowing smirk unspooling like thread across his mouth with those razor-sharp teeth as the needle.

 A chill slid down your spine like the slow crawl of a water moccasin, cold and coiling. Your heart jittered wild in your chest, beating like a grasshopper’s wings. Part of you screamed to look away, but some buried piece of you—that part the prayers never reached—couldn’t drag your eyes from him. 

You hoped he wouldn't see the internal tremor of your bones, but you knew he did.

He just watched you, like he was trying to decide whether to devour you or let you rot sweetly on the vine. The air felt thick with something unholy. Then from the darkness, a sound soft and low and syrup-slick. 

A laugh straight from the depths of Hell. 

He moved then, pushed himself from the fence post like it cost him nothing, the slow drag of his boots through the grass loud enough through the closed window. The garden seemed to hush around him; even the insects ceased their chattering. 

The moonlight reached for him as he stepped forward, bent toward him like it knew him. Like it’d been waiting to kiss his skin. 

You’d heard plenty of stories in church warning folks about demons who walked only in the dark and wore man’s skin like a borrowed coat. You’d never put much stock in them. 

But now?

Now he was standing in your garden, eyes burning like embers and teeth too sharp, framed by a mouth that smiled like it knew the taste of brimstone. 

He was beautiful in the way demons often were depicted hunting for mortal souls. Terrible and magnetic and full of ruin. 

And every bit of him seemed to say just one thing.

Come closer, little lamb. The door’s already open.

You didn’t remember unlatching the window. Just that your fingers were already there, trembling against the iron hook.

It groaned softly as it opened, just enough to let the air in. Enough to let him near.

He was closer now, no longer by the fence but halfway through the garden, where your mama’s tomato vines curled up splintering stakes. His boots were sunk into the dew-dark earth, but he moved like something that didn’t need to touch the ground to get where it was going. 

When he made it to the window, you gripped the sill to steady yourself. 

“Why you tormenting yourself like this?” His voice was whisper quiet, but it slithered right under your skin like smoke through a crack in the floorboards. You flinched but couldn’t bring yourself to move away. 

“What d’you mean?” Your voice sounded so small in this moment. 

He stepped closer still, until he was just beneath the window. His hands stayed in his pockets, body loose with an ease you’ve never seen another person possess. But his gaze was the only restless thing about him. It was fixed on you shining bloody, sharp, and starving.

“Lookin’ at me like that,” he murmured. “Pretending I’m the one you’re still scared of.”

Your throat worked around the thickness gathering there. 

“I don’t—I was just—” You broke off. Words slipped through your fingers like running water.

He tilted his head in that slow, animal way. “Oh, darlin’” And then with a quick click of his tongue, he frowned at you, like it saddened him that you couldn’t see the way he did. “You ain’t really afraid of me.”

The thought made your stomach twist. “I am,” you said too fast. 

“No, darlin’. You’re afraid of what you feel when I’m close. That heat in your belly. That little pulse in your throat. You were raised to call that fear.” He leaned forward just a hair, voice going lower. “But it ain’t.”

Your eyes stung as you blinked the emotion away. “You don’t know me.”

“I know enough.” 

He looked at you like something half-ripened and trembling on the vine. A peach not yet plucked, but splitting at the seam just the same. 

You turned your face slightly, ashamed of how badly you wanted to hear what he might say next. The window creaked as you pushed it open a little more. Not to get closer to him, but to let in some more air. That’s what you told yourself.

His eyes followed the movement. “You ever ask yourself why I keep comin’ back here?” He asked. 

You couldn’t find an answer. 

“You think I hang around ‘cause I like the scenery? The garden?” His mouth carved, those fangs of his poking out. “It ain’t the tomatoes bringin’ me, sweetheart.”

You pressed a hand to your chest, as if you could calm the racing in it with sheer will. “What are you?” you whispered. 

He smiled wider but didn’t answer. “Why’d you open the window tonight?” He asked instead. 

That struck something deep in you. A place none of your daddy’s sermons had ever managed to reach. You just stood there, bare feet on old wooden floor, moonlight kissing your cheekbone, your heart loud enough you were sure he could hear it. 

Then, with his eyes fully shining crimson and his voice softer than breath, he spoke with a flicker of something ancient. “Come outside.”

The words hit you low in the belly. And for a split second, you almost did. Almost pulled yourself over the sill without a second thought, like a girl in a folk tale about to be taken by the monsters lurking in the woods. 

But you didn’t. Something made you stay where you were, clinging to the windowsill like it was the edge of the world. Or the edge of your sanity. 

“I can’t,” you whispered. 

He watched you a moment longer, the red glow fading from those unnatural eyes. He nodded just once, like he expected that response from you. His grin lingered as he turned away. 

“That’s alright,” he said. “You will, or either I’ll hang ‘round long enough for you to invite me in.”

He seemed to blink out of existence then. There one minute and gone the next. With his presence no longer holding you in thrall, you stepped back from the window like it had burned you. Heart hammering all the way up your throat as you slammed the window shut. You dropped to your knees without thinking, palms slapping the floorboards, breath coming entirely too fast. 

You prayed, but not out of devotion; out of desperation. 

But no amount of prayer could vanish the image from your mind. 

His face in the moonlight. 

That devilish grin. 

The way his preternatural eyes seemed to strip you bare without even trying.

It was demeaning how intense the thought of him felt, how vivid it was. How warm. He’d crawled under your skin like a fever and made home there. Uninvited and relentless. 

And worse, it was disgusting to want like this. To fantasize in such a way about a man you’d only spoken to twice. One who you knew nothing about. A man who might not be a man at all. 

Because what you’d seen…the flash of red in his eyes, the fang-like teeth, the way the light didn’t touch him, the stillness that came with him that felt wrong in a world always rustling. 

You were certain he wasn't human. 

And still, he’d become the subject of every dark corner of your mind. 

Your nightmares, yes—those came first. Dreams of him dragging you into the woods, tearing into you with those monstrous canines.

But the fantasies came after.

Sinful ones that had your fingers curling in your sheets. Your thighs pressed tightly beneath your nightgown. The shame bloomed fresh each time when you saw the sunrise and realized your soul hadn’t been struck down for the things you let yourself imagine.

You hated it. 

You hated him.

You hated yourself most of all.

And yet, even as your knees ached and your lips whispered psalms too fast to understand, a single, damning truth settled at the base of your spine like a stone.

You weren’t praying for him or even the thoughts to go away. Because in the most blasphemous parts of yourself, you enjoyed this.

The night after he visited the window, you dreamt of him. 

He came not through the door, but through the trees. Born of shadows and honeysuckle, and grinning beneath the weight of the moon. His presence pulled the night close, like even the dark bent towards him in reverence. 

The grove bloomed around you, but it was wrong. Cyprus roots split the ground like vines. The air was thick with humidity and the heavy, heady scent of sweet rot. Moonlight filtered through the branches, pale as spilled milk, and everything was silent, as if the world held its breath. 

You stood barefoot in the middle of it all, nightgown clinging to your thighs, the hem damp. The trees whispered in a language your bones seemed to know. There was no wind. 

Then he appeared—just was, suddenly—behind you. Closer than your shadow. 

One hand came to rest on your hip, the other brushing your hair aside, fingers cold but careful, like he was unwrapping a relic.

“You ain’t a saint. Not a sinner neither.” He breathed, voice like molasses poured slow. “Just a…sweet-blooded thing.”

You couldn’t speak. You wanted to, but no words made it free before they died in your throat. Your body pulsed with some kind of rhythm not taught by sermons, but by earth, bone, and blood. His hands roamed without urgency, touching you like something holy, as he hummed low with his sinner’s breath. 

Your knees gave out when his hands wandered too close to between your legs. He caught you holding your weight up with one arm. He lowered his mouth to your throat, inhaled, and sighed like he’d come home. 

And then—

Then the woods split with light, hot and blinding, and his eyes—pale as salt, rimmed in red like dying coals—met yours for a single, damning moment.

You woke with a sharp gasp violent enough to cut through the air. You shot up in bed, heart galloping and skin clammy. The dream clung to you like moss, heavy and damp. 

You felt it before you even looked. 

The wet heat between your thighs and the ache low in your belly. The blood smeared across the sheets like rust on Sunday white. 

You didn’t scream.

You just wept. 

Curled into yourself on the stained bedding, rocking like you had done as a child during storms, when thunder shook the windowpanes and Mama told you to hush. That the rumbling was just God. 

You buried your face in your hands and whispered like a sinner at the feet of the Lord. 

“I didn’t ask for this.”

But somewhere, somehow, you knew you had.

THE NEXT MORNING BROUGHT YOU NO MERCY. You woke in a fever of shame, the sheets damp and streaked rust-red. 

You’d barely stripped them from the bed and gotten them to the basin when your mama walked in, face already drawn with suspicion. She stopped short when she saw the washboard and the clear water turning pink.

Her mouth flattened. “You ain’t due,” she said simply, but it wasn’t a question. 

You kept your eyes on the suds, hands starting to shake as you scrubbed harder. 

“You been temptin’ something,” she murmured, voice gone cool and critical, like a snake easing through garden grass. “Lord sees everything, and so does a mother.”

You didn’t answer; you didn’t need to. Nothing you said would’ve made a difference. 

By noon your daddy knew. She’d told him in hushed tones over the breakfast table, her words laced with worry and faithful dread, her hands trembling around her coffee mug. 

The blood was a warning, she said. A sign that the devil was whispering, and her daughter was startin’ to listen.

The preacher’s face went hard as wood. There was no screaming, no belt. Just that look, and that was always worse. 

He sent you to the chapel before lunch, said it was time you remembered what it meant to be clean. Pure. God’s own daughter, not some wild thing led by flesh and fever. 

So you knelt all day.

Until your knees throbbed and your spine locked straight, until the air inside the church went stale and sweet from summer heat, and your throat was hoarse from whispered pleas.

You weren’t allowed water or allowed to sit. 

Just kneel, pray, repent. 

By the time evening came, your whole body ached. But the ache inside was louder. A low, relentless pulse that no prayer could silence.

When your daddy finally opened the chapel doors and sent you home, you walked like a ghost through the dusk, eyes empty.

You didn’t try to sleep that night. You knew it would be no use. So, you sat on your bed and waited. Waited because you knew he’d be out there. 

And when the animals fell quiet, when the breeze turned cool and still, and the moonlight poured soft and white through your curtain like cream in a glass, you knew. 

He’d come back. 

He wasn’t at the window, though. He’d gone to the tree.

The old white oak out front, the one your great-granddaddy planted with his own two hands nearly a century ago. Mama always called it the family’s spine. Said its roots ran so deep it could hold back Hell itself. Said it shaded the porch like a preacher’s hand. Protective and watching.

But tonight, it didn’t feel holy. Tonight it felt like it was aiding him, and he was anything but holy. 

You went out the front door before you could change your mind. Quiet as a fallen soul slipping out of confession, you opened it. The screen groaned on its hinges and snapped shut behind you.

The air outside was thick with the scent of honeysuckle and something faintly coppery, like blood in well water.

He leaned lazily against the oak’s trunk like he’d grown from it. Like he owned it. His sleeves were rolled, and his shirt rumpled. Shadows seemed to tuck themselves around his boots like hounds curling at their master’s feet. 

Once again, he let the silence simmer between you for a moment. If he was surprised you came out, he didn’t show it. 

You looked right back at him, jaw locked with some emotion that wasn’t quite courage. 

“I oughta tell you to leave,” you said, voice stifled but firm. 

He didn’t move. “Why don’t you?”

Your fingers knotted in the fabric of your nightdress. “Cause you won’t listen.”

That made him grin. “You’re smarter than you let on, preacher’s daughter.”

The night air wrapped tight around the both of you. The oak branches swayed without wind.

You stepped off the porch, slow like stepping into a grave you’d dug yourself. Dry leaves crunched beneath your feet as you got close enough to see his eyes already glinting that wrong shade. Like moonlight kissing iron.

He didn’t look monstrous tonight. Just wrong, like words spoken in reverse. 

You’d meant to confront him, to tell him to leave you alone. To make him. But now you stood before him, your voice softened like wax near flame. 

“Are you the devil?” It came out thin, breathy.

He let that sit in the air for a moment. A beat, then two. 

Then finally, “Would it matter if I was?” The words slithered straight down your spine.

You stared at him, heart thudding, lips parted, but no response seemed good enough. No verse, no warning, not even a whispered prayer. Because a part of you already knew. 

The devil in the pulpit wore rage and brimstone. 

The devil in the garden wore moonlight and a smile that made your knees weak. 

He pushed off the tree like he was just stretching his back, Like he hadn’t shattered your whole world view with those words.

You stood there like a deer caught by a hunter, bare feet in the loamy dark. The grass kissed your ankles, damp from the dew. The moonlight carved both of you into something unreal. Him all shadow and sharpened grin. You soft and lit from within like a lantern half-extinguished.

“You shouldn’t be here,” you whispered, but it came out too fragile. It didn’t sound like a protest; it sounded like longing dressed up in your Sunday best.

He stepped leisurely but with a certain deliberateness as the night seemed to part for him. “I ain’t the one who came knockin’, lamb,” he murmured. 

“I didn’t knock on nothin’,” you refuted. 

He looked at you through those searing eyes. “You came out the door, though.”

He reached you, then stood right in front of you. Close enough that you could smell the faint hints of aged cedar wood and burnt ashes and the unmistakable stench of blood. One of his hands lifted, slowly, to hover by your cheek. Not touching you yet, like he wanted you to touch him first.

“Tell me no,” he insisted.

Oh God, you should’ve. It was right there on your tongue, but you couldn’t get your voice to work. Not even as you felt a bead of sweat roll down your temple. From the heat, or fear, or something else you didn’t rightly know. 

Instead, you leaned forward like a sinner falling from the clouds of Heaven straight to the pits of Hell. It was just enough to let the tip of your nose brush his. Your breath caught in your throat, and you felt his exhale ghost across your lips like a curse. 

His fingers slid into your hair at the base of your skull and gripped. Not too tightly, but firm enough, as if testing whether or not you’d pull away. 

“Tell me no,” he provoked again, letting the sharp points of his teeth bare beneath a grin. “Go on, fight me.”

You did nothing. You said nothing. 

He chuckled. “Thought so.”

Then, before you could blink, he seized your shoulder with a grip like iron and spun you, swift and brutal as a summer storm. Your back hit his chest with a thud that knocked the breath from you, his body a wall of heat and muscle. 

One arm banded tight around your waist, the other clamped low on your hips, unyielding and possessive. Like he meant to etch his touch into your skin, make sure no part of you ever forgot it. 

You gasped, a soft, startled sound that was half swallowed by the night.

His breath dusted along your cheekbone, slow and scalding, as his hand slid up—up—to your throat. Not squeezing, just resting there. As if to remind you how easily he could. 

He leaned in, lips brushing the shell of your ear. 

“That noise?” he hummed, voice with a growl like thick honey. “Ain’t even half of what I’m gonna have you singin’ for me.”

Then his mouth was on yours.

It was rough, yes, but there was an underlying horrible delight in it. Like he was savoring a ripe apple from the Garden of Eden itself. 

He kissed you like he was committing sacrilege. It wasn’t tender or kind; it was sin made flesh and pressed to your mouth. Heated like he wanted to scorch your skin, ruin your body and soul alike. 

You whimpered into it before you could stop yourself, shame and want bleeding into each other. Becoming something you couldn’t tell apart from the other. His other hand came to rest at your waist, splayed over your hip like it belonged there. Like he’d known the shape of you long before you’d met, long before you were even born.

You were shaking, not from fear, but from the weight of everything you’d been told you must never want. 

He kissed you like he already owned your hunger. And maybe he did. 

Because when his lips left yours and trailed down the edge of your jaw, you tilted your head like you’d done it a hundred times. Like your body recognized him, even if your soul still hadn’t caught up. 

“You feel that?” He whispered against your neck. “That ache in your belly?”

You nodded before you realized you were moving. 

“It ain’t shame, sugar. That’s you wakin’ up.”

His tongue brushed your skin, and you whined, the sound catching on the back of your throat. You should’ve slapped him. Should’ve fled. 

But instead your fingers reached up to curl into his hair. 

You were dizzy. Drunk on the darkness and whatever he was made of. Your thighs pressed together as if they could cage the heat rising between them. As if they could quiet the throb that started the moment he touched you. 

“You know I can smell it, right?” He said, drawing back just enough to look you in the eye. “The blood dripping outta that pretty cunt.” His thumb swiped the corner of your mouth. 

A ragged gasp ripped out of you, loud and trembling, like it’d been wrenched from the bottom of your lungs. Heat flooded your cheeks—hotter than Hellfire, hotter than a July sun. You tried to turn, wide-eyed, unsure if you’d even heard him right. But his hand stayed steady at your throat, a quiet pressure that kept you still. Anchored in place like a lamb frozen before the slaughter. 

Your breath hitched again, this time rougher, rougher than the words he’d just spoken.

No one had ever spoken of your body like that. As if it weren’t sacred in the way of being a temple of God’s creation, but sacred in the way of what being his would feel like. What being hungered for felt like. What being known felt like.

Your whole life had been Bible verses and closed doors and whispered warnings. And now here was this…creature, saying the unsayable, grinning like he’s torn a veil straight off Heaven and made you look at what was behind it.

“You gonna let me taste?” His voice sang into your ear, raspy and filled with near giddy enthusiasm. 

“W-what?” The word barely made it out, brittle and panting, like it didn’t belong to you at all. Your head was spinning, thoughts colliding like thunderclouds. You weren’t sure if you’d imagined what he said, if the world was tilting, or you were simply losing your mind. Everything inside you recoiled and leaned in at the same time, like a moth drawn to flame. 

“Just a little taste. It’ll be good, I promise.”

His words slid across your skin like velvet and barbed wire. You felt them in your chest, in your belly, in the places of your body that remained unexplored. The world has gone too quiet around you. The branches, the air, your own breath. 

You froze in his arms. Not from fear, but from the nearness of the house just behind you, your parents asleep in their bedroom not twenty steps away. From the raw ache between your legs. From the heat twisting inside you and the shame curling around it like ivy. 

You wanted him. 

God help you; you wanted him.

But not here, not in the front yard. Not under your great-granddaddy’s tree. Not with the windows dark and your daddy dreaming just feet from where his hand gripped your waist like he had every right to.

Your hand left his hair to press against his chest. 

“I—” You swallowed hard. “No, I can’t.”

He went still. Real still. If you were a smarter girl, you’d be afraid right now. 

After a beat, he let out a low breath that sounded somewhere between a sigh and a chuckle.

“There she is,” he murmured, voice coaxing instead of mocking. “Little lamb has teeth after all.”

His hand dropped from your throat slowly, the other sliding away from your waist. He didn’t lurch back or scowl. He didn’t curse or shame you; he just let go.

“You ain’t angry?” You whispered.

He tilted his head, grin turning softer than what you’d seen before. “Nah, I’m not angry. ‘Cause you will say yes,” he said certainly. “One night soon.”

“Tomorrow,” you blurted out.

His brow lifted, one corner of his mouth ticking up. “Tomorrow?”he echoed, slow and teasing, like he wanted to roll the word across his tongue again just to savor the taste.

You nodded abashedly. “It’s Sunday. Mama and Daddy’ll be at evening service. I’ll stay home. Say I’m unwell.”

A smile bloomed across his face like the devil hearing a hymn warped just enough to suit him. “Well, now,” he drawled. “Ain’t you full of surprises?”

Your breath came fast, chest rising like the air had finally remembered how to move. 

“You’ll come?” You asked, quieter, like part of you still doubted he was real. That all this was just temptation stitched into a dream.

His eyes roved over you one last time. “You’ll be the one invitin’ me in.”

He took one more step back into the dark, the shadows seeming to reach out to surround him. He gave you a final crooked grin, then, like always, he was just gone.

The air sighed after him. The oak creaked softly, as if exhaling too. 

You stood in place for another moment, your heartbeat ringing like church bells in your ears.

Tomorrow.

 You’d spilled the word without thinking, without planning; now it hung in the shadows. Stitched into the air between the tree and porch. It felt inevitable, though. This moment, you, him. 

You turned toward the house, and the screen door groaned as you pushed it open. The hallway was still, lit only by the faint moonlight seeping through the kitchen lace. Your bare feet whispered across the floorboards, each one squeaking like they wanted to tattle.

When you entered your room, you didn’t go to the window. He wouldn’t be there, but he said he’d come back. And you believed he would. Not like a boy who was hungry and impulsive. But like something old and well practiced in the art of patience. 

As you lay in bed, quilt pulled to your chin, your knees ached from the chapel. But your lips were sore from his mouth. Somewhere beneath your ribs, a hunger had bloomed.

Because the devil in the garden hadn’t asked for your soul. Only your permission. And you’d given it.

MORNING CREPT IN SLOWLY AND SWOLLEN, HEAVY WITH THE SCENT OF RAIN AND YOUR DECISION. The sky outside hung pale and dull, as if the sun had second thoughts about rising. You stirred beneath your quilt, limbs stiff with ache, the ghost of his touch still clinging to your skin.

At the breakfast table, your movements were brittle, precise—a porcelain doll feigning breath. Spoon untouched. Biscuits going cold. You pressed a hand to your forehead, faking the flush of fever, and let your eyes linger unfocused on the woodgrain in the table like scripture too worn to read.

Your mama’s gaze was a blade behind her coffee cup. She eyed the tremble in your fingers, the pallor in your face. “You’re lookin’ a shade unwell,” she said at last, voice wrapped in thin linen concern, suspicion tucked neat beneath.

You didn’t look up. “Didn’t sleep good.”

The words rasped out like smoke from a chimney long gone cold.

You played the part through morning service, like a seasoned actress cast in her shining role. You wore your sickness like silk, light and convincing. Spoke only when spoken to. Let your eyes blur with imagined weariness. Folded your hands as if they weren’t stained with things that meant you’d burn in Hell. Sang the hymns like psalms of penance, though your mouth felt dry as ash.

When your daddy called for the wayward to rise, you stayed seated. When the prayer commenced, you bowed your head and kept your breath shallow. If they’d looked closer, they might’ve seen the lie curling beneath your lashes. 

But they believed you as easy as breathing. 

Easy as sin. 

By the time evening rolled around, you should’ve been in flames for how much you’d lied. But no lightning split the sky. No voice boomed from the heavens. Only the quiet nod of your father, the distracted sigh of your mother as she tied her shawl.

“A girl ain’t any good to the Lord if she’s too weak to stand,” your daddy said.

The words carried like a benediction, final and unquestioned. Your mama’s mouth twitched, tight as a drawstring purse, but she didn’t argue. Only adjusted her shawl and spared you a glance that lingered on your flushed cheeks. 

She left chicken broth simmering on the stove, the pot sweating like a guilty man in a prayer tent. “Don’t let it boil over,” she muttered, already halfway through the door.

You nodded, small and solemn as a lamb offered up on an altar.

The screen door clattered shut behind them, the sound sharp and thin in the warm hush of the house. A moment later, you heard the truck rumble to life, tires groaning down the gravel path like some beast being roused from its slumber. Then thick golden silence. 

The sun spilled sideways across the kitchen floor, the last light of it butter-yellow and dying. Shadows stretched long across the wood, and the house exhaled slow, as if even the walls knew what you were gonna invite in.

You sat at the edge of your bed with your hands folded tight in your lap. The lamplight fluttered beside you, casting the room in warmth and shadow. 

Your knees bounce once, twice, before you caught them with your palms. You swore you could hear the mantel clock ticking from the front room, but it could’ve been your ears ringing too. It grew louder with each passing second, like the calling of vultures as they circled a carcass. 

You shouldn’t have done this.

The thought passes through your mind as quickly as a hare. 

Any good girl would’ve known better. God-Fearing girls kept their windows closed at night and didn’t go out to have conversations with demons. They didn’t ache like this, in their bellies and bones.

Your window was closed, the front door too. He couldn’t come in unless you invited him. 

You could still stop it. You could still crawl into bed, hide beneath the hush of your parents’ God, and pray till your tongue went dry.

But the truth was, you didn’t want to pray no more. Not to a God who never answered you. Not to a god that was full of so much hatred and wrath.

You felt closer to the divine when he touched you. When he acknowledged the ache inside of you and didn’t shame you for it. When he decided your longing was his very own guitar string to pluck, then you ever felt when you cried out to God.

You wanted to know what it was like to be chosen. Not by God, but by the thing that watched you from the darkness like he wanted to devour you. You wanted his wickedness to ravage you. Let it seep into your soul and let you free.

But it still didn’t stop your fingers from shaking. Didn’t stop the thin sweat from blooming at your neck. 

The house had gone still. Too still. The kind of hush that settles on graveyards before storms. The kind you’d grown to recognize the last few nights. You could feel it building in your marrow. The pressure, the waiting. The dread that didn’t feel quite like dread. 

The clicking of the parlor clock bleeds through the walls, every second scraping against your skin like the bite of a distant insect. 

There was a knock.

Your breath caught, snagged in your throat like a fishhook. The room seemed to pulse with the sound. The wallpaper breathing. The floorboards holding their breath.

You rose like something called from a grave, unsure if it was your soul or your sin dragging you forward. Each step toward the door was heavy as a church bell. Your nightgown whispered against the wood floors, and every inch of you felt stretched—thin, lit from within like a lantern at the end of its oil.

You could feel the thrum of him through the wood as you reached the door. 

It looked the same as always—plain pine, white paint flaking at the edges, Mama’s lace curtain tucked in the window. But tonight, it felt like a boundary. A final veil between the life you were born into and the one you’d invited with your own trembling tongue.

You placed your hand on the knob.

“Lord forgive me,” you whispered, but you didn’t mean it. Not really. Because there was no salvation in what you were about to do.

Just surrender. 

The brass was cool under your palm, a mercy against the heat rising from your bones. You knew what stood on the other side. Knew he was waiting. 

You cracked it open slow like. The night spilled in like a secret, soft and damp and full of promise. 

He stood on the porch, the light catching on the edge of his smirk. He didn’t move, didn’t even shift his weight. 

He stood with the patience of something older than the air around you, something well-fed on the rituals of yearning girls and the sweet rot of their defiance.

The threshold hummed between you like a live wire. You could feel it. That old, bone-deep rule, the one no sermon ever spoke of, but every trembling child knew. Evil couldn’t cross unless you let it.

His eyes gleamed beneath the brim of night, catching what little moonlight the porch allowed. There was no white in them, no mercy, just a glint like storm-wet iron and the promise of undoing.

“Well,” he drawled, voice low and velvet-thick, “ain’t this a pretty picture?”

He took a breath, though he probably didn’t need to, and the porch boards beneath him groaned as if straining under the weight of something not entirely flesh. “I can’t come in,” he said, quiet, like the words were meant to be stitched into the air and left hanging there.

“I know,” you answered. All you needed to do was say the words. 

His lips parted, not quite a smile this time, but something softer, something that made your belly twist. “Then say it,” he said. “Say it proper, darlin’.”

A shiver ran up your spine, cold as baptismal water. You stared at him, at the way the shadows clung to his shoulders like a mantle, at the way the porch light dared not kiss his skin. You thought of all the stories your mama told, of blood and beasts and doors left ajar.

But you didn’t believe in fairy tales anymore.

You believed in what was right in front of you. 

So you parted your lips and let the words fall, soft as rain on a coffin lid. “You can come in.”

The moment you said it, the air seemed to shift. Like the house exhaled, or maybe it was you. Something unlatched inside, something old and hungry and no longer chained to the warnings of your father’s God.

He crossed the threshold without a sound. Not a step. Not a breath. He simply was there, inside. Closer than you thought he’d get.

Your lungs seized.

He smelled like blood still. You were beginning to think he always carried the scent with him. He leaned in close enough that your heartbeat stuttered.

“Thank you,” he whispered, voice all honey and hunger.

And then the door clicked shut behind him with the sound of something final. 

He didn’t jump on you right away, just looked around your home with seemingly curious eyes. His gaze moved through the house like a ghost tasting the air. Like he could see the prayers still stitched into the wood grain. Smell the repentance caught between wallpaper seams.

You watched him, chest tight, body wired with something above nervousness. He didn’t say anything else at first, didn’t need to. The hush between you was a thing with weight, heavier still for what was about to be broken.

His gaze found yours again, and in it was that same stillness he wore like a second skin—like he was made of waiting.

“Do you... want anything?” You asked, the words foolish, half-wilted on your tongue.

He stepped closer. Just one pace. But it was enough to draw the warmth from your skin and replace it with something cooler. “I already got what I came for.”

His voice slipped over your ears like dark silk. The space between you seemed to shrink, and you weren’t sure if it was his doing or your own. He raised a hand and touched the edge of your jaw. Just the pad of his thumb tracing the corner of your mouth, where your breath caught and held.

“Told myself I’d wait,” he murmured. “Let you lead.” His eyes dropped to your lips, then returned, gleaming. “But I’m a selfish thing sometimes.”

And before you could reply, before you could decide if you’d stop him, he bent forward and kissed you.

It was softer than you expected. So unlike the first time. There was no fire, no bloodlust. Just the aching press of mouth on mouth, as if he meant to read you by taste. Your hands curled at your sides, then rose of their own accord, fingers brushing the stiff cotton at his chest. His palm came to rest against the curve of your back, anchoring you in the middle of the storm you’d conjured.

You moaned against his lips, a sharp and involuntary sound, and he pulled back just enough to speak into your mouth, voice roughened with want. “Show me.” You didn’t ask what he meant. You already knew.

You stumbled backward down the hall, his mouth never far from yours, hands on your waist like a brand. He followed you with that inhuman stillness, that predator’s grace. Each step was made not of footsteps but of intent.

And when the bedroom door groaned shut behind you—

He turned you with fluid, startling ease, hands firm as iron as he swept you off your feet. You gasped, instinctively clinging to him, arms locking around his shoulders. Your legs, guided more by instinct than thought, wrapped around his waist as though your body already knew what to do. The world tipped, spun, and all you could feel was the press of him, his hands, and the dizzying pull of gravity undone. 

Lowering you down to the linen sheets of your bed, he moved like judgment falling slow from Heaven. His hands hiked the hem of your nightgown up your legs, bunching the fabric like offerings at the feet of an altar. The mattress beneath you was soft, rich with rot and temptation. 

He positioned himself between them, a serpent coiled in the garden, barring any retreat. One hand dropped to the inside of your thigh, fingers trailing higher like a creeping passion vine. You felt yourself relax into the sheets, widening the passage of your legs for him without even meaning to.

He watched you earnestly, like you were the only holy thing he put faith in. His hands reached for the soft cotton of your panties, like he was peeling back a church veil, uncovering something too sacred for daylight. When he pulled the fabric aside and leaned in, he let out a moan like he was breathing in sin straight from the source. 

A sound rumbled from his chest, low and devout. “Oh God almighty,” he near groaned, voice thick with awe and hunger. “Ain’t you a sight, darlin’.”

In a flash, your panties were off, and you were exposed to him, the night air, and God Himself. You knew you should've been embarrassed; the shame should’ve been eating you alive. But even with your bleeding center, raw and red as a dogwood bloom in spring, all you can do is look down at the demon between your legs. 

By the lord, he’s drooling. Thick spit glistening on his chin, dripping slowly like sap from tree bark. His eyes were lit with hunger that bordered on worship.

You’d been taught since the first time you bled that it was a curse. That it made you unclean. A doorway for devils, a mark of Eve’s sin carved fresh each month into your flesh. Mama said that blood like that was how the devil spoke. That it had to be washed out, silenced with scripture, buried beneath cotton drawers and long skirts and locked knees.

But here he was, salivating at the sight alone, eyes blown wide as if your body’s bleeding was the beginning of a gospel only he could read.

That’s why when he said, “You smell so sweet, darlin’. You gonna let me taste you?”

You nodded, “Yes.”

His mouth is on you in an instant. 

You nearly let out a scream, but your continued piousness stitched your lips shut. Your fingers twisted into the blankets instead, clenching around them until your bones hurt. He licks a stripe up your center, pressing harder against the top where something shoots hot white spikes down your spine.

Stars blink in and out of view behind your eyelids like fireflies caught in a mason jar. His mouth moves slowly, like easing into cold creekwater. He leaves little licks on that tender bud of nerves at the apex, drawing sounds from you like spirits from a grave, keening soft in the back of your throat. His mouth feels like the first warm rays of a new summer sun breaking through the clouds as his tongue glides up and then rolls over that button. He presses a sugary sweet kiss to your slit, hands prying open your legs as wide as they’d go. 

Turns out, that sweetness of his was just borrowed time—grace before the ruin.

He growled into you, like something pulled from the floorboards of the church, thick with rot. Then his wickedness grins, all teeth and no mercy. He grips your hips tight, nails sinking into your flesh like marks left by the devil making a covenant. His tongue works you over with near evil intent. He consumes you like it’s the only desire he’s ever had, gulping down every drop of your essence like it’s a sacrament. Like you’re the altar and he’s been starving for centuries. 

Your legs shake in his hold as the moans you’re holding back threaten to spill out, scattering like dandelion seeds caught in the wind. When he moves to suck on that delightful spot, again you can’t help but cry out, “Oh God!”

The snarl that tears from his throat thrums through your core, like a storm shaking the rafters. When you glance down, you’re met with eyes glowing the color of fresh blood spilled on altar steps. Feral and lit with something not of this world. A predator’s gaze.

“No name you should be sayin’ but mine,” he growls, voice rough as bark and twice as deep. “Remmick, sweetheart. That’s all you need.”

“Remmick,” you say breathlessly, testing how his name rolls from your tongue. Like the strike of a match just before it catches fire.

He hums low in his throat. “That’s right, baby,” he said before his face disappeared inside you once again. 

Something warm is coiling in your lower belly, winding you up like a pocket watch about to snap. Each swipe, each roll of his tongue, has that feeling growing tighter and tighter. Your voice pushes past your mouth in quiet cracks. 

It’s so wrong, downright wicked, what he’s doing to you. Wrong that you’re lettin’ him, wrong still that you don’t want to stop. Can’t even bring yourself to think about stopping, not when it feels like this. Like salvation dressed in silken sin. How can something born of such pleasure be damnable?

It surely doesn’t feel like Hell. It feels like Heaven’s front porch, and you’re laid bare beneath a man that knows every secret you swore to bury. If this is damnation, then maybe it’s always been stitched into your skin. Maybe Remmick’s touch ain’t dragging you down… maybe it’s just showing you where you already belong.

That thought should scare you senseless, but you can’t feel anything aside from him drinking from you so deeply, like he’s trying to crawl inside of you.

He speeds up his ministrations, his tongue raking across your core, licking all the way up to that sweet spot. You gasp as a fire begins to accompany the ringing coil in your belly. His mouth is so warm against you, laced with carnal motive. Everything sounds so soaked down where he works: the glide of his tongue, the quell of your blood, and the wetness from your arousal. 

He’s done being slow; he’s done teasing you to death. The unhurried air about him is gone as he devours everything your cunt gives him.

“Damn,” he groans against you, lips moving to kiss the inside of your thigh. “Never tasted anything quite like you.” Then, quicker than you can draw a shaky breath, there was a small sting. A sharp and sudden feeling, like the prickle of a thorn. You felt his fang split the sensitive skin, felt the warmth of your blood bloom from the cut. 

Remmick chuckled low, the sound curling around you like smoke. “My bad,” he drawled, voice thick with mock apology. “Sorry, darlin’.” But the glint in his eyes betrayed him; it hadn’t been an accident, and you both knew it. Before you could answer—not that you had the breath to—he dipped his head again, tongue darting out to lick the trail of blood. 

His eyes flash for a split moment, and a rumble of pure animalistic satisfaction comes from his chest. He redoubles his efforts once his mouth is back on your center. 

You're shaking all over now, barely able to conceal your growing cries. You slap one hand over your mouth, the other going to fist in his hair.

His tongue focuses on that bud, circling over it with obscene faithfulness. Your fingers in his hair pull without meaning to, making him shudder between your legs, moaning into you like he wants you to rip the strands from his scalp. 

Remmick moves his attention lower, to the entrance of your very being. His tongue delves into that passage, thrusting deep enough it had your back arching off the ground. His nose nudges your bundle of nerves in time with the press of his tongue. 

That coil in your lower belly threatens to give. Fireworks burst in your vision as his mouth stays locked in that position. Thrust, nudge, thrust, nudge. Even as your hips begin to rise up to meet him, he holds you still with his arms bolted around your thighs. 

You squeal behind your palm, tears pricking in your eyes as the feeling that’s been building burns through you. Like the holiest Hellfire merged together by your coupling. It races across your every nerve ending, Remmick groaning when he feels you clench around his tongue.

And he doesn’t stop, not when your thighs close around his head. Not when your hand in his hair tries to pull him up. Not when you whimper his name to get his attention. 

He keeps running his tongue over you, cleaning up every drop of blood, and your arousal. When he finally does move away, raising his face to look at you, he’s an absolute mess.

The silence that followed was a different kind of divine. 

The kind never heard in churches, but in the hush of a forest after a storm. Not peaceful, but the aching stillness of something changed. Something that was never coming back. 

You laid curled in the mess of it, linens beneath your back, the ghost of him still between your thighs. Shame and satisfaction bleed together in your bones. 

Your body was still trembling as Remmick leaned back on his heels. His hands smoothed up your thighs, calming the shaking even if he didn’t mean to. His eyes no longer glowed red, but they hadn’t dulled either. They watched you like a man who’d found God in a place no one else thought to look.

“Well now,” he said, voice lowly laced with honey. “Look at you.”

You flushed, turning your face into the crook of your arm, ashamed of the tears still clinging to your lashes and the heat still pooling between your legs even after everything. Your body felt unfamiliar, like you’d been rewritten. 

Remmick chuckled, soft and smug, but not unkind. “Didn’t think you’d come apart like that. Thought I’d have to work harder.”

You shot him a look then. Half glaring and half gawking at him. 

He grinned wider, teeth white but not sharp now. “Ah, don’t give me that face. You should be proud, sugar. That was a kind of worship, what you just gave me.”

He reached for you, slow as syrup spilling from a spoon, hands sliding over your hips. You flinched under his touch from sensitivity, your skin feeling fuzzy with little aftershocks. And your body, the traitorous thing it was, arched into his palms like a flower reaching for sun.

“We ain’t done,” he said, voice curling low in his chest. 

Your breath caught when he dipped to kiss your belly. Once. Then again. Moving higher as he went, his lethal canines scraping along your flesh. 

You glanced down to look at him, gasping when you see what’s now decorating your stomach. Bloody kiss marks are smeared across your skin. His messy face making you stained right along with him. 

Remmick smiled against you, eyes flickering up to meet your stunned expression. “Let me ruin you proper,” he whispered with soiled lips. 

He moaned into you, eyes still locked on yours as he slid a hand between your legs. One of his fingers pressed into that passage, same as his tongue had done moments ago. 

You gasped at the foreign feeling, head pressing back into the pillow.

“Nuh uh,” he scolded. “Look at me, sweetheart.”

You do without hesitation, eyes darting back down as if beguiled. His mouth continued to press kisses to your belly while his finger worked in and out of you. Your breath began to quicken again, sparks of that fire reigniting. He added a second finger, making you whine at the intrusion. But it wasn’t an awful feeling; it was strange but satisfying. 

“Remmick!” You cried out when he curled them upwards, pressing against something that brought tears to your eyes. He kept that movement up once, twice, and three times before you went to close your legs around him. A pathetic few tears spilling over. 

“Oh, darlin’.” He cooed, prying your legs back open. He moved then, body stretched over yours, chest brushing yours with each breath he didn’t need to take, his weight settling on top of you. 

You shivered as you sniffled, caught somewhere between the aftershocks and the ache for more. 

“Shh, sweetheart,” he murmured, brushing his nose against your cheek. “I know what you need. I know how to help.”

One of his hands slid into your hair, fingers gliding through the strands with a sweetness you hadn’t expected. He stroked along your scalp, petting you like something precious. Like you hadn’t just let him defile you beneath your daddy’s roof. Like you weren’t still marked by his mouth and your own undoing.

“You want me to help you?” He asked, a certain amount of smugness dripping into his tone. 

You gave a soft, half-broken nod. 

That was all it took for him to rip your nightgown over your head. You had no time to be concerned for your modesty, because he was already fumbling with his belt, unbuckling and unzipping in a haste that was almost reeling. He tore the suspenders from his shoulders, shoving his trousers down before working on his shirt. Before you could fully prepare yourself, he was back over you. Your naked bodies perfectly aligned with each other. 

“Ain’t no sense in drawin’ it out,” he spoke against your throat, voice thick and taut with something close to hunger. “Cunt’s already beggin’ f’me. 

His hips rocked forward, not yet inside but threatening, the hard press of him sliding along the heat of you. You gasped, legs twitching to close around him, but he growled—low and guttural—grabbing your thighs and spreading them wider, anchoring them with his own. 

“Promise it won’t hurt too bad,” he said, kissing the corner of your mouth, gentler than he had any right to be.

Your fingers clutched at his back, at his arms, nails catching skin, but he didn’t flinch. If anything, it made him press in harder, dragging the thick length of him through your slickness with a hiss through his teeth.

“God,” he muttered, head dropping to your shoulder. “You’re soaked for me. Didn’t think you could get sweeter, but damn.”

Then, with no further warning, he pushed inside.

The air left your lungs in one shattered breath, back arching off the bed as the stretch burned through you. He filled you in one steady thrust, rough but precise, like a man who knew exactly what he was doing and didn’t see the point in waiting.

“Remmick—” you whimpered, voice high and caught between a sob and a moan.

“I know, I know,” he rasped, pressing a kiss to your temple even as he drew back to surge forward again. “It’s hurting so good, ain’t it? But you can take it. You will take it.”

He set a hard rhythm, driving into you in a way that’d leave you sore later on. You swore you could feel his craving wrap around you with each thrust, tight and invisible, choking out everything else. Your hands had started fisted around the sheets, knuckles bone-white, but now they raked up his spine, wanting just to feel him. His muscles jumped beneath your touch, a tension coiled tighter than wire. 

With your hands occupied, your moans and cries were free to float through the air. Remmick’s hold on your hips allowed him to pull you into him. He did so roughly, as if to remind you where he was, what you’d let him do. 

An especially harsh snap of his hips had you sucking in a stuttering breath. It felt like you were being split apart, like a log sliced through with an axe, but it was the most divine thing you’d ever experienced. He made love to you deeply enough that it felt like he was caressing your soul.

Remmick is groaning and panting above you, seemingly losing his own composure right along with you. Cock pressing into you as one hand moves from your hips to between your bodies. His fingers find that bud again, pinching and teasing it until you were crying again. 

“Keep crying, sweetheart,” he moaned into your neck. “Y’tears are just as sweet.”

You shuddered at his words, tears still spilling, core clenching around his length. He grunted at the increased tightness, breathing deeply to steady himself as he drove inside of you with more urgency than before. His tongue darts out to lick up your throat before sucking a mark there. His fangs teasing their sharp edges over the sensitive skin. 

“Remmick, I…” Your damp eyes rolled back as a loud moan interrupted you. The incessant movement of his hips made it hard to form a coherent thought. Along with his fingers swirling your bud with faster and faster motions. Your body quivered as you felt that fire build up once more. 

“You gonna cum again so soon?” He chuckles, basking in the control he’s got over you. 

“Yes, please,” you can’t help but plead. 

His eyes flash that dangerous crimson, fangs bearing as he grins down at you. He picks up his pace, all but battering his cock into you. He still works his digits over your bud, overwhelming you with the onslaught of feelings. 

Your belly coils tighter and tighter like before. That warmth bubbling within you, begging to boil over. When it finally does, it’s the most violent thing you’ve experienced. It burns but in the most euphoric sensations, making you clamp down around him as you nearly scream his name. 

Remmick paws at you, movements faltering just a bit. He moves your legs higher up on his waist, letting himself sink deeper inside of you. Stars blink in and out of your vision; you whimper as you feel him invade every corner of your being.

His moans become more frequent, more loud. His hold on you becomes more bruising with each sharp thrust. Watching him lose even a piece of his control seems to draw out your release. You clench around him again, making an almost pained grunt leave his parted lips. 

“I need—” he mumbles barely audibly before he’s slicing a fang along your neck. That small, recognizable sting blooms across your skin again as he splits it open. Hot blood flows down your throat, but he’s licking it up before covering the cut with his mouth. 

He sucks your blood from the wound, still slamming into your center. It only takes a few more before he freezes, a deep moan reverberating against your skin. Warmth seeps into you as he finishes. 

You both remained still for a moment. The room smelling of sweat and sin, like a baptism gone wrong. Every shuddering breath you took felt like it snagged on something unseen, a seam torn open and left to bleed. 

Your body trembled beneath him, limbs slack, soul aching in the hollows where his name had carved itself. There was a warmth between your legs that wasn’t all yours and a dull sting at your throat that pulsed in time with your heartbeat. His mark. His claim. And you had let him do all that and more. 

Remmick collapsed beside you, not with the grace of shadow, but with the slow, satisfied sprawl of something fed full. One arm draped heavy across your waist, anchoring you in place like he feared you might float away.

Neither of you spoke for some time, only breathed each other in. The tip of his nose brushing against your temple as if he needed to memorize the scent of you post-ruin.

Then his voice came, low, rough-edged, and tender, like gravel soaked in molasses. “You alright, lamb?”

Your throat was too raw for speech, so you just nodded, once or twice, eyes fluttering closed.

He shifted, careful this time, easing the tangled linens higher to shield you. His fingers found your hair again, dragging through it in absent strokes. Not with lust now, but with reverence. Like you were a song he hadn’t heard in a long time.

“You’re shakin’,” he murmured.

“It’s a good shake,” you whispered back.

He grinned as he kissed your shoulder with blood stained lips.

You turned your face into his chest, where his heart didn’t beat but his warmth still lingered. “I don’t know who I am anymore,” you confessed.

He curled around you like the dark curling around a dying candle. “That’s alright,” he assured. “Reckon you never liked who you were before anyhow.”

You couldn’t think about how he was probably right. Couldn’t think about how at some point he’d have to leave. Maybe never come back. You didn’t want to think about going back to normal preacher’s girl life after this. After him. 

Even if it meant your soul was damned, you didn’t care much. You just wanted to be his, not saved, but his.

Outside, the cicadas sang like mourners, but in his arms, you knew salvation. Not the kind Heaven promised, but the kind that came with being held in the devil’s gentle hands.

﹙taglist﹚ @001-side

Listened to Ethel Cain on repeat while I wrote this.

[dxmurewrites]

you need to remember to blog with your pussy first and brain second

[dxmurewrites]

I can’t get over his claws..

[dxmurewrites]

Me after reading the most mouth watering, Coochie drenching , finger licking, toe curling fanfic ever



[dxmurewrites]

if you wanna hear remmick clearly recite the Lord’s Prayer in his Irish accent here you go lol