gojosfling

[gojosfling]

like pretty much everyone else who has watched sinners it is safe to say i have a bit of a thing for Remmick lmao

so i’ve been writing a little nsfw one shot with him and a reader who has some curse in her bones and a mind filled with fog— she meets him in the dead of night, nosferatu style, and the opening goes a little something like this:

the faint crackling of branches and dried-up leaves beneath your damp feet is the only sound that pierces (through) the fog— dense and clinging— that seems to be drowning your tired mind. cold winds nip at your bare arms, serving as an anchor against the pull of sleep and mist. they tether you to reality, though now, that’s little more than a concept in the state you reside in.

the woods are still.

but they breathe.

A gentle rhythm. croaking and rolling, almost like a singular organism, more alive at night than it dares be by day.

your eyes betray you.

lids heavy and slump, your view blurred by thick, curling lashes—not that it matters. you reckon you wouldn’t be able to see much anyway, not in the midst of all this dark.

and besides,

you are asleep.

at least, that’s what you tell yourself.

yet, you move.

onward, toward a place unknown.

your body moves of its own accord, out of your hands. it is the air, really—the way it whistles through the trees. like a guide, it carries you forth. you drift, but you do not float… not quite. twigs still tickle your toes, reminding you that you are, at least, close to solid ground.

your mind is worth even less than your eyes. it is filled with cotton—a thick, pressing feeling coming in from all sides. you hear whispers, maybe. feel a call, perhaps. but certainly, there is a pull in your gut. Something like a string, dipped in the likes of destiny, that runs through you. loosely tugged, drawing you ever inward. towards the center. the belly of the woods.

and then suddenly—

wood.

the sudden solidity beneath your feet sparks something in you. the sunken creaks beneath you are familiar, every step—even to your drowning mind.

your soles land, softly, on a porch.

“Well now… ain’t I just the luckiest soul this side of the Delta.”

the sound of a voice—soft and sulky like honey, yet deep and low, like a hum—snaps you out of this trance-like state. your eyes are finally allowed to blink.

once. twice.

the veil lifts. your vision sharpens. your breath catches.

you have woken.

though now, you begin to wonder wether you were truly asleep.

the mist pulls back, thinning at the center. the trees part, unraveling like ribs, expanding with breath. the subtle outline of a structure reveals itself.

it’s shaped like a house.

surprisingly crisp around the edges—too clean for the wild that surrounds it. it’s simple. quite elegant even. something you might expect on the white side of town. unexpected, this deep in the woods that circle the Mississippi Delta.

but the foundation looks wrong. feels wrong. the wood is old. soft. sour and hollow—like one good blow might bring the whole thing crashing down

it looks like a house.

but it certainly doesn’t feel like one.

and before better judgement has a chance to settle, a sharp sting blooms across your legs.

you look down.

thin cuts all over your sticky legs where a night gown could not reach. the black fabric clings to waist and thighs instead, wet with sweat and the heavy humidity of a southern summer. the scratches are shallow—nothing deep enough to scar.

you are bleeding nonetheless.

and around here, thats enough to draw attention.

you’re starting to wonder how you even made it this far out without something catching your scent. then again, you don’t know what still waits behind you in the dark—

or worse, what lies ahead.

right now, at the foot of some house, deep in the darkest part of the woods—you should be scared. terrified, really. to be lifted out of your own bed in the dead of night, carried through soil and sulk.

however, another feeling fills your body. something warm. burning. thick. it runs deep—blood deep. like a sensention passed down through the marrow.

it feels familiar.

similar to what your mother used to make you pray against in church and out of it.

similar to the sensation aunt Annie’s tried to push down with burned fingertips and oiled charms.

maybe you should be worried. probably. but it feels too good. and you’re too far gone to care.

whatever it is, has been waiting for you.

and so have you.

you inch closer to the door, and your feet melt into the soft, tired floorboards. the house grunts and coos in response. it’s as if it’s begging you to come closer.

the front door hangs slightly ajar—darkness spilling from the slip. a darkness filled with sounds so void, they seem to be coming from deep below. from those that are no longer among us. they chant and hum melodies, though their voices clearly miss soul. and you stop, the fear getting to you at last.

that’s when you hear that voice again - soft, warm, but with the slightest hint of desperation now:

“Well dear, no use in being shy now. Come on in.”