#I keep forgetting to do these tag things...

[ice-man-goes-bwoah]

Thank god someone else sees the potential of remmick’s sub side bc 👀 that man has been looking for connection for centuries - if you were kind to him I think he’d be putty in your hands and it would be glorious. I’d love for you to explore this in your writing - I know you’d kill it and leave me screaming into a pillow haha

Let me be soft with you||Remmick x reader

Summary — remmick has never known an act of kindness in his life until he met you.

Warning smut dom!reader sub!remmick p in v reader rides remmick

Word count—1017

A/n— I LOVE SUB REMMICK AND I NEED MORE

Tagging @abriefnirvana @fuckoffbard

The wind outside howls, brushing dead leaves across the rotting windowsill. The cabin creaks around you—old wood, brittle bones, shadows so thick they feel alive. This place is half-forgotten, sunken into the ribs of the forest like a wound no one wants to reopen. No one comes here. Not anymore.

Not since he made it his own.

You shouldn’t be here.

And yet, Remmick can’t look away from you.

You’re warm. Real. Grounded in a way that mocks the rotting walls and the ghost-thick air. You stand there like you belong, unshaken by the stink of old blood or the teeth of the cold. All soft curves, steady breath, and those kind, quiet eyes that haven’t flinched once—not even when you stepped over the threshold and saw him bare-chested, blood-drenched, wild-eyed.

“You should’ve run,” he rasps, back pressed to the wall like he thinks you might burn him. “Should’ve screamed.”

You tilt your head, like you’re studying a puzzle rather than a predator. “Why would I scream? You haven’t hurt me.”

His jaw flexes. His fingers twitch. There’s blood dried like rust across his collarbone, a streak of it trailing down toward the edge of his sternum. The chain around his neck catches the firelight—dull gold, heavy. Worn not for style, but like penance. Like ownership.

“You don’t know what I am,” he growls. There’s something raw under it. Not menace—shame.

“I do.” You step closer, slow and sure. “And I think you’re tired.”

He flinches like you slapped him.

It’s the kind of answer he doesn’t know how to fight. Not judgment. Not fear. Just truth, laid bare between you. And you, offering it so gently he could scream.

“I’ve done terrible things,” he mutters, voice fraying.

“I know.”

You’re right in front of him now. He could reach you. He could snap your neck. Drain you. Feed on you until the blood runs down his chin. But he doesn’t move. His hands stay clenched at his sides, trembling with effort, nails biting into his palms.

You press your palm to his chest.

His dead heart stutters. Not a beat, not life—but something. Recognition. Longing. Ache.

“You don’t scare me, Remmick.”

And something inside him—something old and ruined—breaks.

He doesn’t remember his knees hitting the floor. Doesn’t feel the pain of it. Just the cotton-soft thump of surrender as he folds, head bowed, hands gripping the hem of your shirt like it’s the only thing keeping him upright. His forehead presses into the warmth of your stomach, desperate, reverent.

“Please,” he breathes, voice so quiet it trembles. “Don’t be cruel.”

“I’m not,” you whisper. Your fingers find his hair, slow and soothing, and his whole body shudders like the simple touch is too much. “Let me be soft with you.”

He makes a sound—low, ragged, almost animal. A wounded thing trying not to bleed out in front of you. It tears out of him like a confession. Like a prayer.

You don’t stop. You hold him through it. You let him kneel. You let him need.

“I’m not good,” he says, mouth still pressed to your belly like he’s trying to hide in you. “Not clean. Not… worthy of this.”

“You don’t have to be good,” you say, gentler still. You tug on his hair, tilting his head up until his eyes meet yours—stormy, wide, afraid. “You just have to be mine.”

His breath catches.

God. He wants that.

He wants to belong. To be claimed, even if he doesn’t deserve it. Wants to forget every name he’s ever taken, every throat he’s ever torn open, every night he’s spent drowning in the dark and trying not to feel.

He surges forward, hands sliding up your waist like he’s starving for you—and you let him. You don’t flinch, don’t falter. You hold his face in your hands, and he leans into the touch like it’s holy.

Like you’re holy.

Like if he lets go, he might never find this again.

You guide him to the bed.

He goes willingly, crawling back on the creaking mattress while watching you with wide, desperate eyes. You undress without shame, your full body bathed in the flicker of firelight—and he stares like he’s witnessing a miracle. Not hunger. Worship.

“You’re beautiful,” he breathes.

You smile. “You always look at me like that.”

“Because it never stops killing me.”

You climb over him slowly, pressing him down. His breath catches when your thigh settles between his legs, when your weight blankets him. He doesn’t feel crushed. He feels safe.

“Is this okay?” you ask, fingertips brushing his cheek.

He nods, too fast. “Please. I—I don’t want to think. Just tell me what to do.”

You kiss him. He sighs against your lips like he’s never been kissed soft before. Like the world always demanded he take, and you’re the first to give.

“You don’t have to do anything,” you murmur, grinding your hips just slightly. His head thumps back. “Just feel.”

He’s already hard beneath you, hips jerking helplessly, chain cold against your chest as you lean in. You drag your lips down his throat, over the metal links, to the spot above his unbeating heart.

When you rock your hips again, he moans.

“You’re so good for me, Remmick,” you whisper. “So sweet like this.”

His eyes flutter shut. “No one’s ever called me sweet.”

“Then they weren’t paying attention.”

You ride him slow, holding his wrists above his head, letting him tremble under you while his thighs shake and his whimpers fall like prayers. The praise is steady, like rain—washing him clean, softening him where he thought he was stone.

“You take me so well.”

“You’re doing so good.”

“You’re mine, baby.”

“Yours,” he gasps, tears slipping from the corners of his eyes as his orgasm builds. “Yours, yours, please don’t stop—”

You don’t. You stay with him through the high, through the cries and shudders and pleading. When he comes, he falls apart completely—back arching, mouth falling open in silent reverence, body shaking as you ride him through it, gently coaxing him to give more.

And afterward, when you lower yourself to lay on top of him, he wraps his arms around you like a lifeline.

“I don’t deserve you,” he murmurs, voice hoarse.

“You deserve everything,” you whisper back. “Especially this.”

You stroke his hair until he falls asleep.

For once in his long, dark life, Remmick dreams of peace.

[arkaiveofurown]

you got drunk and seduced him

Pairings: Zoro x Reader, Ace x Reader, Law x Reader, Sanji x Reader

You had too much alcohol, so you decided to have a little fun.

Word Count: ~500 - 1,000 words

tag: suggestive

my masterlist here ♡

——

Zoro

The Thousand Sunny rocks gently on calm waters, the afternoon sun baking the deck as you sprawl on a crate near the training area, a jug of cheap booze in hand.

You’ve been tossing back shots for the better part of an hour, watching Zoro slice through the air with his swords, sweat glistening on his scarred torso.

That single-minded focus, the raw power in every swing, the way he grunts with effort—it’s doing things to you, things the alcohol only amplifies.

You’ve always liked pushing his buttons, seeing how far you can take it before that gruff exterior cracks.

And right now, with your head spinning and inhibitions gone, you’re ready to say some downright filthy things to the Swordsman of the Straw Hats.

You stand, wobbling a bit, and stride over just as he sheathes Wado Ichimonji, wiping his brow with the back of his hand.

“Oi, Zoro,” you call, voice thick with liquor and intent, stopping close enough to smell the salt and steel on him.

He glances over, one eye narrowing, already sensing trouble.

“What?” he grunts, short and sharp, but you just grin, leaning in so your words are for him alone.

“Y’know, I’ve been watchin’ you swing those swords, and I can’t help wonderin’ how good you’d be at handlin’ somethin’ else. Bet you could fuck me so hard I’d forget my own damn name, huh? Slice right through me with that big, hard—”

His face goes from annoyed to stunned in half a second, mouth dropping open before he snaps it shut, a rare flush creeping up his neck.

“The hell’s wrong with you?!” he barks, but there’s a roughness to his tone that wasn’t there before.

You laugh, low and dirty, stepping closer.

“C’mon, tough guy, don’t tell me you ain’t thought about it. Pin me down, cut loose— I’m ready for ya.”

Do you think he’ll bite, or just swing a sword at you to shut you up?

Zoro’s grip tightens on the hilt of Shusui, knuckles whitening, and for a moment, you think he might actually draw it just to scare you off.

But his eye locks on yours, burning with something that ain’t just anger, and he steps forward, towering over you.

“Keep talkin’ like that, and you’re gonna regret it,” he growls, voice low enough to send a shiver down your spine, the heat of his breath close as he glares.

You don’t back down, tilting your chin up defiantly, your smirk daring him.

“Make me, Zoro. I fuckin’ dare ya.”

The air between you crackles, thick with unspoken challenge, and his hand twitches—not toward the sword, but toward you, hovering just an inch from your arm as the Sunny’s deck creaks under the weight of the tension.

——

Ace

The deck of the Moby Dick sways under your unsteady feet, the salty tang of the sea mixing with the sharp burn of rum on your tongue.

Lanterns swing overhead, casting golden flickers across the weathered wood as the Whitebeard Pirates roar with laughter, their voices a chaotic melody against the crashing waves.

You’ve had one too many, the warmth of the alcohol buzzing through your veins, making your skin prickle with reckless abandon.

And there he is—Portgas D. Ace, lounging against the railing, shirt half-unbuttoned, his freckled chest glistening with sweat from the humid night air.

That cocky grin of his, the way his dark eyes glint with mischief under the brim of his hat—damn, it’s doing things to you.

Why not play with fire tonight?

You stumble forward, a sly smile curling your lips, your heart thumping like a war drum as you close the distance.

“Hey, Ace,” you purr, voice low and dripping with intent, “you look like you could use some company. Or am I too hot to handle?”

His brow quirks, that grin widening as he straightens, clearly intrigued.

Oh, this is gonna be fun.

You sway closer, the rum making your movements bold, your hand brushing against his bare arm—skin on skin, electric.

His muscles tense under your touch, and you can’t help but linger, fingers tracing the edge of his tattoo, the black ink stark against his tan.

“You know,” you murmur, leaning in so your breath ghosts over his ear, “I’ve always wondered how much heat you can really take. Care to test that with me?”

Ace lets out a low chuckle, the sound rumbling through his chest as he turns to face you fully, his gaze locking onto yours with an intensity that makes your knees weak.

“You’re playin’ a dangerous game, darlin’,” he drawls, voice rough like gravel, but his hand finds your waist, pulling you just a fraction closer.

The heat of his palm sears through your thin shirt, and you press yourself against him, chest to chest, daring him to push back.

Your fingers slide up his neck, tangling in the dark waves of his hair as you tug lightly, whispering, “I like danger. Don’t you?”

His eyes darken, a flicker of raw hunger flashing through them, and you know you’ve got him hooked.

But then, in a swift move, he spins you around, pinning you against the railing, the cool wood digging into your back as his body cages yours.

“Keep teasin’ me like that,” he growls, lips hovering just above yours, “and I might just burn this whole ship down.”

Your breath hitches, the tension crackling like wildfire between you, and you can’t resist reaching up to graze your nails down his chest, feeling the rapid thump of his heart.

What now—do you push him further, or let him take the lead?

——

Law

The Polar Tang’s dimly lit mess hall hums with the quiet clinks of mugs and the low murmur of the Heart Pirates unwinding after a long day.

You’re sprawled at a table, a half-empty bottle of sake in hand, the buzz in your head making the submarine’s steel walls feel less claustrophobic.

Across the room, Trafalgar Law leans against the counter, his sharp eyes scanning a medical text, completely oblivious to the party—or to you.

That stoic, calculating demeanor, the way his long fingers turn a page, even the damn spots on his hat… it’s infuriating how much you want him.

You’ve had enough of his cool detachment tonight.

With a smirk, you slam your bottle down, the noise cutting through the chatter, and decide it’s time to rattle the Surgeon of Death.

You stagger to your feet, the sake sloshing in your system as you saunter over, hips swaying with purpose.

“Captain,” you drawl, voice dripping with mischief, stopping right in front of him.

Law’s gaze lifts, those piercing gray eyes narrowing as he takes in your flushed state.

“You’re drunk,” he states flatly, already turning back to his book.

Oh, hell no. You’re not letting him dismiss you that easily.

With a daring grin, you reach for the hem of your top, peeling it off in one fluid motion, leaving you in just your bra—black lace, clinging to your curves.

The cold air of the sub hits your skin, but it’s nothing compared to the heat in your core as Law’s eyes snap back to you, widening for a fraction of a second before his jaw tightens.

“What the hell are you doing?” he growls, voice low, but you catch the faintest flush on his tattooed neck.

Leaning forward, hands braced on the counter beside him, you let him get a good look, your smirk wicked.

“Just givin’ you a reason to pay attention, Doc. Wanna check my vitals now?”

His fingers twitch around the book, and you swear you see a crack in that icy facade—will he snap, or keep playing the untouchable captain?

The room’s gone quiet, or maybe it’s just the blood pounding in your ears as you hold his stare, daring him to react.

Law slams the book shut with a sharp thud, his voice a dangerous whisper.

“You’ve got no idea what you’re starting.”

But he doesn’t move away, doesn’t call for Bepo to drag you off.

Instead, his gaze drops, lingering on the swell of your chest before flicking back to your face, a storm brewing in those eyes.

You tilt your head, tongue darting out to wet your lips, pushing him further.

“Then show me, Law. I’m all yours to dissect.”

His hand shifts, inching toward the hilt of Kikoku propped nearby—not out of threat but pure instinct—and you feel the air thicken, your skin prickling as you wait for his next move…

His long fingers hovering just above the blade’s grip.

——

Sanji

The kitchen of the Thousand Sunny smells of fresh herbs and simmering broth, a late-night sanctuary where Sanji works his magic.

You’ve wandered in after a few too many drinks with the crew, the buzz in your head making you bolder than usual as you lean against the counter, watching him chop vegetables with that effortless precision.

His blond hair falls over one eye, cigarette smoke curling lazily in the air, and damn if he doesn’t look good in that apron.

You’ve always known how to push his buttons—he’s a hopeless romantic, after all—and tonight, you’re in the mood to be his muse.

Swinging your legs playfully, you lean forward, letting your voice dip into something sweet and teasing.

“Sanji, darling,” you coo, drawing out the words as you twirl the bottle in your hand, “you always make such a fuss over Nami and Robin, but what about me? Don’t I deserve a little of that special treatment?”

His head snaps up, eyes wide behind that blond fringe, and the cigarette nearly falls from his mouth as he stammers,

“M-my lady, of course, I—anything for you!”

You hop off the counter, closing the distance, and pluck the cigarette from his lips, taking a slow drag before blowing the smoke right in his face with a wicked smile.

“Then how ‘bout you serve me somethin’… personal? I’m starvin’ for a taste of you, chef.”

His face turns beet red, hearts practically popping in his eyes, but there’s a nervous swallow as you press closer, your hand brushing his apron.

On the other hand, Sanji’s no fool—he knows when he’s being played with, doesn’t he?

He recovers fast, a suave grin spreading as he sets down his knife, turning to face you fully.

“Ahh, my sweet, you wound me with such temptation! But I am at your service—name your desire, and I’ll whip it up!”

His voice drips with flirtation, but you see the way his hands fidget, the slight tremor in his fingers.

You step even closer, your chest brushing his as you murmur,

“I want the main course, Sanji. Hot, messy, and all mine.”

His breath catches, eyes darting to your lips, and for once, the smooth-talking cook seems at a loss for words.

The pot on the stove bubbles over with a loud hiss, steam rising, mirroring the heat building between you as his hand hovers near your waist, hesitant but oh-so-close to touching.

[imnez-daydreams]

yippee second remmick fic that i stumbled upon and i finally know what he looks like haha. yes i'm reading another remmick fic despite not having watched the movie. don't look at me like that. the warning tags already tell me i'm gonna EATTTT this up, lets dig innnn !!

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

okay i'm already SO seated. shirt unbuttoned, rolled up sleeves, tossled hair. hehehe.

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

ooo thats such an interesting description for how a voice sounds like ! also "sugar" pet name mmm.

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

as if reader is remmick's lifeline, or that he thinks reader will disappear if he takes his eyes off for even a second.

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

“Then show me,” you whisper.

His eyes flick up. Crimson. Blazing.

Ravenous.

And then he lays you back.

soo weak for when the character says "you don't know what you do to me" ajshsjd. and the way you portray his hunger so well with just a few words ughh.

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

...

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

AAA im so feral over religious themes. like a prayer ?? reverent ?? worship ???? these scratch that itch so good.

“That’s my girl.”

bouncing around the walls of my room. need remmick and i've only known him for 5 minutes.

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

listen i'm exposing my depravity on main but omg remmick saying that reader tastes sweeter than sin PLEASEE vampire eating out reader thats bleeding i'm. i'm so normal.

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

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

heyy i called the lifeline thing :D ! the line about remmick feeding and worshipping umfff. like he's not doing this just to take, he's giving to reader. giving his devotion, doing it as an act of prayer. and the way remmick is drunk on lust mmmmmm.

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

"It’s fucking gorgeous."

reader jus like me fr because i love my men covered in blood.

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

so weak for this possessive, drunk on lust man. also i love the way remmick's speech is written by rosie. i have no movie/plot knowledge but it seems uhh southern ? and of the old world ? but his dialogue flows so naturally when i read it.

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

plsplspls. like i said i'm weak for this saying aaaaaaa.

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

You feel his smirk as he speaks against your skin.

he's so hot. rosie's writing of him is so hot.

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

that passionate yet delicate reverence ughhh. remmick being so soft with reader, treating them like something holy, his intense acts of devotion towards them.

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

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

"Like he’s memorizing every inch of you again."

:"(( remmick being so soft and sweet with the aftercare, taking in every detail of reader to safekeep in his mind. the imagery of his vampire that harbours a violent nature, softening his gaze and touch for the only one that keeps his dead heart alive, his silent heartbeat pumping.

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

"Because Remmick never asked for salvation."

"He found it anyway."

"In you."

on the floor because of the religious imagery. this is sooooo so beautiful. wanna eat rosie's writing.

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

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

remmick barely being able to hold back his desires. him being oh so careful with reader because they are the source of his devotion.

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

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

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

i don't even know how to expand on rosie's writing because its genuinely already so breathtakingly beautiful. the religious imagery goes crazy. baptizing reader in blood and roses ?? vengeance and salvation ???? gahh i'm gonna have rosie's writing still in my mind days from now.

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

"But it feels like it’s beating."

"Only for you."

i called this too !! hehe so giddy.

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

HELLOO ??? reader being something remmick would go to war for ????????

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

"sweet thing". i'm dead.

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

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

He leans in, teeth grazing your ear.

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

rosie how about YOU have mercy on ME how am i supposed to be normal reading those paragraphs PLEASEEE. i'm so so weak in the knees with how you write remmick. how weak he is for reader.

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

on the floor. what. look at what you do to me ????? rosie how about look at what your writing does to meeEEeeeE.

im going INSANEEE over these last paragraphs my brain is literally mush i can't analyse anything anymore. rosie what have you done to me.

last meal. bleeding especially for him. divine. crawl up inside and live there. taste like heaven and sin. knows your body now. "good girl". still devouring, still worshipping. aching tenderness. sacred. "sweetheart". made for him. "thats my girl". "my perfect,  filthy little thing"

27 injured, 14 dead. i'm shaking the bars of my prison cell. i'm so feral over rosie's writing.

ROSIE !!! this was. so fucking fantastic i'm really sorry my rambles suck and aren't worthy of truly analysing your work. genuinely this was amazing !! like the smut was wonderful but the meaning and devotion beyond it all was soooo breathtaking. you've blessed my eyes. i'm gonna stalk your page now and devour the rest of your remmick fics !! thank you so so much for writing him, you are incredibly talented. giving you forehead kisses muaks !!

Upon the Scarlet Altar

one-shot

Remmick x fem!reader

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

wc: 4.1k

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

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

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

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

He already knows.

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

His nose twitches before his lips curl.

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

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

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

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

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

“Then show me,” you whisper.

His eyes flick up. Crimson. Blazing.

Ravenous.

And then he lays you back.

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

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

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

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

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

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

His grin is all teeth.

“That’s my girl.”

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

You cry out.

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

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

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

And maybe he does.

Because Remmick doesn’t stop.

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

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

You already have.

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

Remmick doesn’t let up.

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

Your vision whites out.

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

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

It’s fucking gorgeous.

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

He licks his lips, slow. Lingering.

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

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

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

You whimper, your body still trembling beneath him.

And Remmick smiles.

Because you're not scared.

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

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

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

But he’s calm. Too calm.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You feel his smirk as he speaks against your skin.

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

You swallow hard.

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

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

He says it like a promise.

And then softer, almost lovingly:

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

You blink up at him, dazed and flushed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Like he’s memorizing every inch of you again.

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

You remember.

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

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

And then with hunger.

“I should’ve run,” you whisper.

He hums. “You did. I let you.”

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

You hadn’t been able to stay away.

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

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

“I was,” you say. “But not of you.”

Remmick nods. He knows.

You’d been afraid of needing him.

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

Because they do.

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

You smile faintly. “And you never pretended.”

His eyes darken.

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

You open your eyes, tilting your chin toward him.

“I still do.”

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

And in a way, he is.

Because Remmick never asked for salvation.

He found it anyway.

In you.

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

Like he always does.

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

But not yet.

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

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

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

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

“No I’m not.”

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

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

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

He sets the cloth aside.

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

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

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

Your breath catches.

“Remmick…”

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

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

But it feels like it’s beating.

Only for you.

Only here.

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

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

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

But you don’t flinch.

You never do.

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

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

“I got you,” he murmurs, “Always do.”

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

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

You bleed against his skin.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He leans in, teeth grazing your ear.

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

You shiver.

Not from fear.

From need.

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

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

You tremble under his touch.

And Remmick smiles.

Because he knows you’re already his.

He kneels.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His mouth finally descends on your cunt.

And this time, he takes his time.

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

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

And god, he is.

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

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

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

You start to shake.

Your vision blurs.

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

And he doesn’t stop.

Not when you start to sob his name.

Not when your thighs tremble and spasm against his shoulders.

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

He keeps going.

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

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

You’re ruined.

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

And maybe he won’t.

Because you’re bleeding.

And he’s starving.

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

Still devouring.

Still worshipping.

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

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

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

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

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

But he’s soothing you as he ruins you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Another lick.

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

Another.

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

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

And he feels it.

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

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

From how deeply he sees you.

How completely he wants you.

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

You’re limp beneath him, panting, ruined.

And he looks so fucking proud.

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

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

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

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

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

Not warmth.

But safety.

Not love.

But devotion.

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

Not as long as Remmick walks the earth.

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

[littlelamy]

your day had been a parade of powdered wigs and drooling mouths. one by one they lined up—lords and sons of lords, limp-limbed and overperfumed, every one of them staring at your tits instead of your face, reciting lines their mothers made them memorize. “your beauty rivals the moon.” “you’d make a fine wife, princess.” “your hips look strong enough for sons.”

you smiled, curtsied, even laughed when they made jokes that made your stomach twist.

and all the while, rafe stood silent at the edge of the hall, arms folded tight across his chest, eyes dark as thunderclouds. you could feel the heat of his gaze even through the silks. but he didn’t come to you or save you from your misery—not until it was over and you were left alone in your chambers, throat sore from pretending to be sweet, hands shaking as you pulled pins from your hair.

“you didn’t like them,” he said from the doorway, quiet.

you turned, robes sliding down your arms, curls falling wild around your face. “what gave it away? the part where i almost vomited when lord routledge said my voice reminded him of his favorite milk cow?”

“you shouldn’t have to stomach that.”

“but i do.” your voice cracked on it, just barely. “i’m the daughter of a king. but apparently, my future belongs to the highest bidder with a functioning cock.”

rafe crossed the room in two strides. “forget that.”

you blinked at him with doe eyes, confused on where this is going, “you’re not supposed to say that to a princess.”

“then punish me then,” he said, cupping your cheek. “tie me to your bedposts and make me beg for your forgiveness.”

your laugh was a weak, shaking thing. “i don’t want you to beg.”

he kissed your forehead. “then let me gift you.”

you didn’t argue when he dropped to his knees. he pushes your robe down slow and careful, kissing each inch of bare skin he uncovered like it was sacred. “my star,” he whispered against your thigh. “my heart. my furious, radiant highness.”

you leaned back onto the bed, heart hammering. “rafe…”

he parted your legs and looked at you like you were something divine. like he'd bleed for the chance to taste you.

“you’ve been good all day,” he murmured, dragging his mouth up your inner thigh, teeth scraping. “let me make it better...let me ruin you, my sweet.”

your breath hitched as his tongue slid between your folds—slow, teasing, a filthy kind of devotion in the way he moaned like he’d found the cure to every wound in the world. he licked like he meant it, nose brushing your clit, hands wrapped around your thighs to keep you right there, trembling and gasping.

“you taste like honey,” he groaned, lips slick, voice ragged. “i should stay here forever; between my princess’ leg.”

your hands tangled in his hair, tugging. “rafe—oh gods, rafe—”

he sucked your clit hard, making you scream, and then soothed it with lazy licks that had your thighs shaking.

“shh,” he whispered, tongue flicking faster. “you’re not leaving this bed until i’ve made you forget every bastard who looked at you today.”

and he did; you were still trembling when he finally climbed up beside you, pressing a kiss to your temple, his face sticky with you and pride.

“better?” he asked, lips curved against your hair.

you turned, curled into his chest.

“tie you to my bedposts tomorrow,” you murmured. “i’ll make you beg then.”

he laughed—low, warm, wrecked. “can’t wait, your highness.”

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[somemismatchedsocks]

1.5k!!???!?!?!?!? THANK YOU GUYS!!!!!!!!!!!

You guys are so great and oh my god ahgfadghjgha thank you y'all are so amazing !!!!!!! I thought I would do a fun little event if anyone wants to participate :]

Draw your OC with Kaiko! And put him in a fun place to hang out! That's it! easy peasy!!

🌟RULES🌟

Obviously no AI, tracing, stealing. Be a good human.

No date of completion!!

Keep it sfw (also obvi)

uhhhh yeah. That’s it. Clear png of Kaiko :D

HAVE FUN!!! AND DON'T FORGET TO TAG ME!!

(Example under cut if I’m awful at explaining things and I have confused you)

[my-secret-shame-but-fanfiction]

Hear me out

Blue gets a new girl in the club, but she's so gorgeous he forgets how to breathe

He can't imagine her entertaining guests, the thought just makes his blood boil. All he can think about is having her to himself, under him in bed, on his desk (or any flat surface really), on her knees...

Or better yet, on his knees, worshipping her with his mouth like the desperate little bastard he is for her.

Do with this information what you will heheheheh

You have destroyed me, thank you.

Face Down, Ass Up

Blue Jones x afab!Reader • Rating: 18+ pals • Masterlist• ao3• want to be tagged? | request info • buy me a coffee? •

Warnings: Dubious consent because of power dynamics, Blue is a bit rough at first/forceful but there is clear consent, oral sex, coming in trousers, swearing, not beta read, please let me know if I've missed a warning.

Word Count: 862

Blue pushes you back against his desk harshly, the heel of his hand pressed firmly between your shoulder blades. 

You let out a little gasp, barely managing to cushion your fall with your arms as your chest collides with the wood. Your air escapes your lungs with a grunt, Blue’s papers messing up and flying to the floor. 

“Blue-” You start, panic sinking its teeth into your chest and liquefying your mind. You’d barely been here a week, and already you’ve heard plenty of stories about his temper. About the horrific things he’s done. You had no idea why you were on his radar, let alone his bad side. 

“Shut the fuck up.” He snarls and you bite your mouth closed. 

He keeps his hand on your back, pressing you down and pinning you in place as he hikes up your skirt and grabs hold of the waistband of your underwear. 

You want to squeeze your legs together, to fight back. But you know that won’t lead anywhere good. 

He yanks your underwear off, moving back a fraction as he pulls them off your legs and then pauses before he kneels down.

Your own heartbeat echoes in your ears, overshadowing any other sound. 

When the tips of his fingers lightly touch the back of your right thigh, you jump. He traces a little higher, gentle and soft, before his lips ghost over your leg, following the path of his fingers. 

You swallow, tense and he sighs quietly. 

“You don’t have to shut up,” he whispers, darting his tongue out as he moves higher. “I’m sorry I said that.” His voice is thick, heavy and wanting. But the apology is more than enough to give you pause, to make you still in shock. 

He lightly nips at the swell of your ass as he runs his warm hands up your legs and then squeezes the back of your thighs, pushing them wider. 

You move when he urges you to, despite the nerves in your stomach. 

Blue groans softly, his cock quickly hardening at the sight of your bare pussy. “Fuck.” 

You swallow, practically holding your breath. 

He pauses, shifting his weight a little. His hot breath hits your skin and makes you shiver. Blue slides his fingers higher, just on the very edge of your thigh and then stops. 

“Let me taste you.” 

The words just don’t make sense the first time you hear them. 

“Please?” He presses his forehead to your skin, his voice so low it is barely above a whisper. “Please?” He repeats. 

Your brain nearly short-circuits. Even in your brief time here, you had never heard of Blue Jones asking for something he wanted. Let alone begging. 

“I…” Your voice is small, uncertain. Blue doesn’t interrupt, doesn’t move, just gives you space to answer. “You… can.” You finally say and he whines. 

“Thank you.” He slurs and dives forward, lapping at your folds and sinking his tongue inside. 

You gasp in surprise, jolting a little, your legs instinctively going to close. But Blue spreads his left hand over your inner thigh and keeps you open as he works you over with his tongue. 

He moans, his eyelashes fluttering as he tastes you. His sounds grow louder and louder with every flick of your clit. 

He pushes his tongue in deeply, using the thick muscle to massage your walls as he snakes his right hand around to rub gently at your clit. 

You squirm, grabbing hold of his desk as he works you over, sinks his tongue in deeper like he wants to taste every single part of you. Pleasure twists in your stomach, mixing with your adrenaline to push you higher and higher impossibly quickly. 

“Blue, fuck,” You hiss, trying to hold back your moans and failing. 

He growls in response, fucking you harder with his tongue and making you scream. His fingers rub faster, using his own saliva as he circles your clit one way and then the other, paying attention to every little sound you make, the smallest movements to rush you closer to your peak. 

You push back into the heat of his mouth and he groans approvingly, his cock throbbing, your slick filling his mouth. 

“I’m, I’m…” You swallow, squirming against him desperately. Your orgasm on the very edge of your senses. Your blood sings, your body screaming for more as he keeps playing you to his own tune. “Blue!” 

You scream as you come, your muscles tensing and shaking. Pleasure burns along your nerves, leaving ashes in its wake and robbing you of any other thought. 

Blue cries out as your walls flutter and squeeze his tongue, your bliss overwhelming him completely as his balls draw up. He comes with a whine, spilling into his trousers and shivering. 

He keeps stroking you, prolonging your orgasm until you start to relax and then slowly comes to a stop, moving his face back. Your slick and his saliva coating his chin. 

Blue stands up quickly, his own legs weak, a dark patch forming on his dress trousers. He leans forward, pressing his chest to your back and kisses your shoulder softly. “You make the prettiest sounds.” 

Thank you for reading!

Taglist:

@pleasurebuttonwrites @raven-rk @campingwiththecharmings @lonelyisamyw-0love @romanarose  

@steven-grants-world  @blushingrn @to-be-a-sunshine  @angel-of-the-moons @minigirl87

 @lunar-ghoulie @silvernight-m @autismsupermusicalassassin @reallyrallyauthor @basicalyrandom

@alwaysmicado @spxctorsslxt @novarosewood @hammerhead96  @mylittledelulucorner

@queerly-anxious  @swiftiegirliepop @oscarssimp  @eternallyvenus @lounilu 

@pigeonmama @iolaussharpe-24 @chaithetics @sub-aro @faretheeoscar

 @queerponcho @twwcs @ingoldthewizard @ominoose @ierofrnkk

@have-you-seen-my-sanity @missdictatorme @musicalnacho @buckyssugarchick @lemonzestinmydrink 

@sonotpractical @junggoku @julesonrecord @heavydirtysoulsblog

If you'd like to be taken off the tag list please let me know here

[cheeseatlantic]

SANCTIFIED

The church is quiet.

Too quiet.

Not the kind that invites peace, but the kind that feels like it’s holding its breath—like the walls know what’s about to happen and they’re choosing silence over judgment.

You shouldn’t be here.

Not like this. Not with him.

But the air is thick with incense and heat, and Simon Riley is looking at you like he’s already said a thousand Hail Marys and none of them worked.

His mask is half-off, the lower half of his face visible—cut jaw, bruised mouth, the cigarette he flicked out at the door still clinging to your taste.

“You’re late,” you whisper, breath ghosting like smoke in the cold chapel.

He steps into the shadows near the altar, boots loud on ancient stone. “Forgive me.”

“Do you even believe in forgiveness?”

Simon doesn’t answer.

He doesn’t have to.

He’s already in front of you, gloves off, hands rough as sin itself. He touches your throat like he’s blessing it. Or damning it. Maybe both. His thumb runs down your pulse.

“You came dressed like that on purpose,” he says, voice like gravel dragging across velvet.

You glance down—tight black clothes, no armor of modesty, just skin and intent. You let him look. Let him devour you with those hollowed-out eyes, like you’re the altar and he’s about to kneel.

“I came for you.”

That makes him pause. For a heartbeat. Maybe two.

Then—his hand fists in your shirt, and you’re being dragged back into the confessional.

⸻

The wood creaks.

Old, splintered, warped from centuries of whispered sin. It groans under the weight of what the two of you bring inside. He doesn’t sit on his side. He doesn’t keep distance. He pushes you into the tiny, dark booth, follows close behind, and the door clicks shut with the finality of something biblical.

“You gonna confess?” you ask, lips almost brushing his.

Simon’s breath is hot. Whiskey-scented. War-tainted.

“I don’t come here to be clean.”

He drags you down onto the bench. The space is too small, too tight, bodies pressed together like prayer beads clutched in desperation. His hand cups the back of your neck, firm and demanding.

“You think He’s watching?” you ask, voice a ghost.

Simon growls low. “Hope He is.”

And then his mouth is on yours—bruising, claiming, all teeth and tongue and violence disguised as worship. You clutch at his shirt like salvation, pull him deeper like the abyss has room for one more.

⸻

The stained glass above you casts red light through the booth.

Bloodlight.

Simon’s dog tags clink against your chest when he shifts, and for a moment, you forget how to breathe.

He kisses like he fights—hard, relentless, without mercy. His hands are on your hips, dragging you into his lap like you belong there, like he’s trying to fuse you to him. He groans against your throat when your teeth catch his skin.

“Fucking hell,” he mutters.

“Wrong place,” you breathe.

He huffs a dark laugh. “Exactly the right place.”

Because there’s something divine in the desecration. Something holy in how filthy this feels.

He palms your ass, grinds you down against him like the friction might absolve him. Like maybe if you moan for him loud enough, the saints in the glass will cover their eyes and leave him be for a night.

You arch under him, panting, sweat prickling your spine.

“Say it,” he commands.

“What?”

“That you want this.”

Your head thuds back against the wood.

“I want this.”

Louder. Bolder.

“I want you.”

He groans like that’s the first honest thing he’s heard in years.

⸻

You don’t know how long you stay like that, half-unmade, biting your tongue to keep quiet as his hands press reverence into your thighs, your chest, your hips. But the confessional smells like sex now. Like skin and sin and smoke and Simon.

He presses his forehead to yours afterward, panting.

“You ruin me,” he mutters, like a confession.

“No,” you whisper back. “You came ruined.”

He doesn’t deny it.

⸻

You exit the booth first.

Your lips are swollen. Your clothes are rumpled. The crucifix above the altar seems to watch as you pass, but you don’t bow your head. Not this time.

Simon follows a moment later, still masked, still unreadable—but his hands tremble when he lights another cigarette in the entryway.

He doesn’t look at you.

Just says, low and worn, “Same time next Sunday?”

You nod once, smile sharp.

“I’ll wear less.”

He stares.

Then smirks—wolfish, unrepentant.

“Good.”

didnt feel like going into deep smut today. sorry.

[laura1633]

It makes me laugh so much that blogs that used to like Lando, now switch sides as well with all his comments.

I know drivers say a lot of stuff in the heat of the moment, but with Lando it's EVERY SINGLE TIME. For me it was over, when he threatened ending the friendship with Max if Max didn't apologize to him. I've had such a person in my personal life, it was hell. If you ever did something that wasn't what they wanted/liked, our friendship was threatened. Once again, heat of the moment, I get that to a certain degree, but these thoughts have to swirl around somewhere, saying such things don't come out of the blue, unexpected. It just showed me that Lando isn't the nice and caring person he's trying to portray.

Lando also has the uncanny ability to make a cooldown room and podium ceremony uncomfortable as hell when he was wronged in his eyes (aka if he doesn't win).

I know Max doesn't care and won't stop being "friends" with Lando, but oh, how I wish he would.

Btw, Laura, do you think we'll see an implosion of Landoscar?

Guys this is an anti post and I have tagged it as such, I have also put my thoughts under the cut. Know that I will not be consistently anti posting but post races I will have my little say and then try and let it go and concentrate on Lestappen.

And I have seen negativity about anti tags but I think its fair to use them so that people can filter these type of things out.

Yeah I have noticed that too anon! I have tried my best not to overly anti post. I have quite a few anti lando asks lately that I have wanted to respond to but decided to just leave it but over and over again he says the most infuriating things. 

I think I might be the same as you in terms of when it was all over for me because that comment he made was also around the time I blocked all the LN tags so I didn’t have to think about him. 

Heat of the moment in the car I understand so I always let that slide a little because they are under immense pressure. After the race my tolerance for what people say lowers because whilst the adrenaline is still pumping I think you have the time to pick your words more carefully. 

If I were to compare the way Max has spoken about Lando and how Lando has spoken about Max it is a world of difference! The maturity levels do not match up. 

What I dislike most of all is how we are expected to have a lot of sympathy towards Lando for the anti comments (and yes I agree we shouldn’t be going online and sending abuse) but I truly believe that he himself happily plays up to the press the narrative that Max is too aggressive knowing full well the hatred Max has received over the year and believing the press will lap it up and run with it.  I can not stand the ‘he is the bad guy’ and ‘I am the victim’ narrative.

Yesterdays comments about Max not racing smart annoyed me so much. I genuinely think he wants Max to just let him past because he has the fastest car. It feels like someone who has never been told no and just stomps their feet when people do not do what they want. I also do not rate his overtaking skills at all - we have seen it a lot recently against Max, Charles and Lewis who were all able to keep him behind much longer than the car difference should have allowed them to and showed the difference in quality. 

I used to rate Lando as he pulled in consistent results but right now he is only winning because he is in the fastest car because lets not forget that he needed a championship winning car in order to even win a race.

I don’t really know too much about what is happening with Landoscar. As a ship, if the battle turns toxic I still expect people to ship them because we have seen that with ships in the past. In terms of their in real life ‘relationship’ a championship battle surely will have an impact. I think right now as Oscar has the upper hand he will just be quietly getting on with things but there is no way Lando will be happy with coming second (which is fair, they should not want to be second!) If Lando starts giving Oscar the treatment he gives Max in the press that would be very interesting!! 

[dennydraws]

Le Tag!?

Last Song: Indila - Love Story I've recently discovered this song and the piano version has been living in my head for a while now. I occasionally replay it at work while imagining fluffy scenarios... :")

Favorite Colour: Pinks forever!

Last Book: Mamnik ... a Bulgarian author book which I really, really wish it would get an EN translation some day cause it was such a good thriller mixed with slavic mythology!

Last Movie: Sonic 3 (It was so good... T^T)

Last TV Show: Severance Season 2 (I'm still watching it!)

Sweet/Spicy/Savory: Savory and Spicy! Ironically, I'm not a sweets person :D;; Very little sweet does the trick for me.

Last Thing I Searched for Online: ... Suikoden 1 recruitment guide cause I forgot where Maximillian and Sanchez show up.. :D;;;;

Current Obsession: SUIKODEN!!! Replaying my childhood faves which shaped me as an artist and writer is a big thing for me. Seeing the series being revived makes me hopeful that I may in fact see answers to some questions! I'm at the final boss of Sui1 and I'm so happy with the love and care the remasters got...

It also made me look through old drawings I did as a kid. Back when I had just finished Suikoden 2 for a first time and I immediately went to make some OCs and write a story inspired by the game and to this day I consider it one of my most beloved works xD; It's been...well, about 20+ years now, I want to redraw some of them and re-read my notes. Obviously my writing was what you'd expect from a 15 year old but it's still near and dear to my heart. Maybe I'll share some of the redesigns when I get to them... :'D;;;

Looking Forward To:

Starting Suikoden 2 this weekend! My fave game ever... T^T

Redrawing some old characters! I'm hungry for traditional arts! And I bought some copic ink refills cause some markers started to give in...after over 5 years no less.

Walking more now that the weather is getting better! I've been thinking to try listening to audiobooks cause I have about 40 minutes walk to work every day :D;; and I rather listen to something better than cars passing by.

Sketching Chapter 16 of The Sneric Comic... with Suikoden into my hands, I may take a bit to get back into the head space for it again but I'm excited to resume it cause next chapter is so satisfying!

---

Tagged by: @spotofmummery Thank you, friend ~

Tagging: @pjarox @sunnyluma @luridel @celestialspark @yoiku Anyone who wants to go for it!

[practicecourts]

Hi @jamesunderwater & @neverenoughmarauders

thanks for tagging me and thanks for suggesting this amazing game!

I think there might be so many more that I could highlight with this game so perhaps we just keep it going ;-) From @petals2fish's fic Only Nineteen (she has written so many wonderful Jily stories, I picked the last lines of a rather angsty/thoughtful fic but her jily is still so hot and bothered for each other as well as very much alive ;-)

Lily watched James’ eyes shine from the fresh tears he had held back. He still had the boyish charm to his handsome face that she’d fallen for in fourth year. “I love you,” she told him gently. “I love you, more.” They were only 19. Fighting for themselves, fighting for their baby, and fighting for peace. Love preservers, and even though she felt like the world was still crashing down, love makes life worth living. 

From the absolute ruler of angst (and also capable of fluff I know i know) @jamesunderwater I picked a few lines from Dead to me. I could have picked so many lines. but I finally chose a conversation in the Infirmary when both James and Lily are there. Maybe theses lines so singled out are nothing special but the amount of feeling james has created for these characters (and the level of pain they go trhough, don't even get me started on the last chapter(s) i've still to read the last posted one. these lines also sum up how well the dynamics between these friends are brought to life in this fic. Can't recommend enough. (just don't forget tissues)

The girls glanced at one another, but it was Mary who spoke up. “She wanted to know if we knew anything—y’know, about what could have gotten Lily so upset.” She glanced down at her roommate, her face deeply sad. “And?” “And, it’s none of your business,” Dorcas countered, glaring at Sirius. “Fuck me, it was just a question.” Remus stayed in Pomfrey’s office for nearly twice the time Mary, Marlene, and Dorcas had. James tried to ignore this. He was itching to bounce his legs, to do anything at all to be out of this situation. So Lily confided in Remus, so what? He didn’t care. So Remus was allowed to care about her, but James was just like Snape for claiming to give a shit? He didn’t care.

I could also have copied the whole chapter about the flies with and without wings... the letters... it's all so well done!

for the third "lines" I'd like to ramble about a certain phone call a certain James Potter makes with a certain hung-over Lily Evans from a fic you can't read at the moment (unless I'm mistaken) by @formerlympp, but that conversation (from James's POV) has my heart so I can't not mention it.

But for the game I'm posting lines from Up In Arms

Mary truly was a bad influence. ....

“Uh-huh. Best arms?” “Er—what?” Lily asked with a laugh, wondering if she’d over poured her latest drink. “Did you say arms?” Mary rose onto her elbows. “Yes, arms.” Lily straightened, picked her drink up from the bedside table, and took a sip. “I hadn’t given it much thought, to be honest.” “Oh, come off it! You’ve been lying this entire time, Lil, just admit it!” “Lying? About what?” “All of the blokes you named aren’t your first choices! They’re all your second choices at best. You can’t deny it when it comes to arms though, so don’t even try.” “I–! Err…”

also... can't forget to mention @chdarling

and adding a few lines from her amazing TLE story of my favourite character and favourite chapter (although if completely honest most chapters of Dark Marks have stolen my heart.

“Daddy,” she said, and her father looked up from his Bible, smiling. “Do you ever wish that I wasn’t…that I was different from the way I am?” Her father frowned “The way you are?” “You know. Magic.” “Now why would I wish a thing like that?” Lily sipped her tea and gazed around at the books that lined the walls, the desk, the floor. “It can’t be easy for you, having a witch for a daughter.” “Nonsense,” said her father, busying himself with the teapot. “And the Bible has some pretty choice words about witchcraft and the suffering of it. ‘Thou shalt not,’ I think it says.” Her father poured a blossom of milk into his tea and gave it a little stir. “The Bible also suggests that shellfish is an abomination, but your mother used to make a very nice prawn cocktail of which I remain dearly fond.” Lily rolled her eyes. “Daddy. I’m being serious.” “As am I.” He took a sip of the tea and regarded his youngest daughter with a gentle gaze. His pastoral gaze, Lily would’ve called it in other circumstances. “The way I see it,” he said, “‘magic’ is just another word for miracle. And you, my darling daughter, have always been a miracle.” He patted her arm. “So no more of this sorrow. Remember your Romans 9:20.” “Remind me.” “'But who are you, O man, to answer back to God? Will what is molded say to its molder, ‘Why have you made me like this?’ You are a gift, my love, just the way you are. Never doubt it.”

so I guess this means I'm tagging @formerlympp, @chdarling, @petals2fish and @jamesunderwater (with zero pressure) to play this wonderful game!

A different kind of tag game?

Hopefully people are keen and @annabtg, @tedwardremus and @jamesunderwater aren't going to kill me for picking them.

I wanted to highlight something of their work that did something to me, and I am hoping at least one of them picks up the ball from here. I want this to be low pressure. It's not necessarily about favourite lines or passages (which dear lord how to narrow that down - there are too many good writers and fics?!). It's more about recreating a bit of the last line / WIP snippet logic with other people's works.

I wondered whether to flag spoilers as two of them pull lines from towards the end, but I wouldn't actually call any of this spoiling. If you read To Shine a Light of Truth, and don't know how it ends, you haven't read the books.

The Chaperone by @annabtg

"Too magic for Petunia, too Muggle for Hogwarts."

Eight words that have stuck with me, to the point the idea manifested itself in one of my fics, something I only realised a couple of months later, re-rereading it.

An Unexpected Ally by @jamesunderwater

Lily Evans had yelled at him, just like always.

I mean I've said it before, this fic broke me. It just did. Obviously, it's a little personal.

To Shine a Light of Truth by @tedwardremus:

There was no obituary in the Daily Prophet. No statement from the Ministry. Just another name gone missing. A whisper in dark rooms occupied by people hiding in a war that was all but lost.

Perfect All Quiet on the Western Front (one of my FAVE novels). It was the most perfect ending to this most perfect fic. And speaking of influencing, Benjy is now a journalist in my story too. I can't not picture him like that after this.

[teethlordd]

Warm him up (plus an older drawing of Kremy in a 20s zoot suit, which is very fun to say)

[weirdglassthing]

LOA Shiptober Day 4: How They Met

October content month was ambitious..

This one took me. Shockingly long. Whoops! I’ll probably end up jumping around the prompt list and it might extend into November 😋

I’ll try to do day 31 on the actual date of Halloween though 🫡

[welcometogrouchland]

(ID in alt) I literally said I was gonna post this month's ago and then never had the wherewithal to describe it and so I didn't Lmao (said with pain). But since I'm thinking of opening my commissions I figured I should remind ppl that I. Yknow. Can draw.

Lots of Steph here (I had major art block making all of these and my brain worms for her kept me going) + some sprinkles of stephcass for Cass nation to enjoy!

[bananacat76]

ain’t nothin gonna break their stride….!!

[literallyjustforlurking]

Being told you were not supposed to be born and you're meant to die has an effect on a child.

Look I'm not saying that the little three (Thalia, Percy and Nico) being told that they were supposed to die and that they shouldn't have been born affected them but I wouldn't be suprised if it impacted their self worth.

Like none of the really try to survive combat. Do they try to win? Obviously, people die if they lose, but if they survive the fight? Well that's secondary.

I'm just saying that while none of them are activily suicidal they are all at minimum passively suicidal.

[dismas-n-dismay]

Over and Over - Rio Romeo ur not telling me she didnt think of the first time she met falin and her beauty as she recreated her in that same image of purity and kindness, piece by piece get out of here