#what's up armadillo | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

forlix · 2 years ago

Text

· . ˚ 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐡𝐚𝐛𝐢𝐭𝐬 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐞

— the little mannerisms you pick up from the members of stray kids over the course of your relationship.

words・3.7k / pairings・ot8 x gn!reader / genres・fluff, humor, borderline crack, intentional lowercase, established relationship(s) / warnings・minsung’s are suggestive, touch of anxiety in felix's, jeongin's is lowkey gross LMFAO

a/n・massive shoutout to @/http.dwaekkii on tiktok for their edits about the boys' habits, which i consulted for chan, changbin, seungmin, and jeongin (and to @astraystayyh for beta reading hehe. what would i do without u). these were sooooo fun to write, hope u guys enjoy (｡˃ ᵕ ˂ )

chan + getting shy easily. poor thing gets embarrassed so quickly as it is. throw you into the mix and it’s just critical hit after critical hit. defense lowered. no health potions left. he folds like a lawn chair with a massive smile and a whiny “stooooop” every time you say something even remotely affectionate. the habit is adorable, and you love it to pieces.

but you like poking fun at it even more. “god forbid i find my literal underwear model of a boyfriend attractive,” you’d say, or something along those lines, which of course only triples his embarrassment and on more than one occasion results in him starfishing on your kitchen floor, his hood pulled over his face.

fast forward however many months. he’s still the worst compliment-receiver you know, but you discover one arbitrary afternoon that it’s rubbed off on you.

the two of you are cuddled together on the living room couch in your usual fashion, your legs thrown over his thighs and his hands tracing absently over your shins as you relay to him something you overheard on the subway. the conversation is painfully normal. you’re almost bored. you pause to take a breath, and he murmurs, out of nowhere, in the dreamiest tone: “so damn beautiful.”

“wha—huh? what is?”

“you. your voice, your face, everything. i‘m lucky.”

your expression of bewilderment persists for around ten seconds, and then slowly, so slowly, you begin to sandwich your head between your knees, balling yourself up like a spooked armadillo. chan wonders if he should call an ambulance.

“love?” no response. “what, uh, what’s happening right now, exactly?”

no response. no response. then, hoarsely, “you can’t...say shit like that��randomly.”

he notices two things after that. one, your skin is burning hot enough to fry something upon, and two, you’ve formed a fist in the fabric of his hoodie, which you only do when you’re pretending to be annoyed at him. the puzzle pieces fall into place, and he starts grinning like a madman.

“you’re…embarrassed?”

the guttural groan you emit is more than enough of an answer, and the cute aggression that overcomes chan is fucking debilitating. he wraps his arms around you and hauls you entirely off the couch and onto his lap, littering kisses over your face until it finally resigns into a matching smile. all intent to continue feigning grumpiness erased with the drop of a hat. you drape an arm over his neck.

“you’re so good to me, channie,” you sigh helplessly. “i love you.”

“love you more, baby.” he imprints these words directly upon your lips, then pulls away, giggles. “that was very me of you, by the way.”

“i know, right? i was just about to say.”

minho + butt touching. it’s quite simple, really. if lee minho is within proximity of someone’s buttocks, he will, as he lives and breathes, make it known. will it be a coy little swat or a yelp-eliciting, full-bodied grab? nobody ever knows, not even him. the unpredictability is what makes it exciting.

but it takes a while before this starts applying to you, because the way minho touches you is…different. doting. there’s no other way to describe how he always holds the nape of your neck while kissing you, how he rests a hand against the small of your back whenever he leads you somewhere, how during the nights you can’t sleep he guides you to the place on his chest where he knows his heartbeat is loudest. he even drags you into his trademark headlocks the same way one would hold an invaluable treasure. he’s so obsessed with all of you that he never thinks to pay just your butt special attention (though it is, indeed, a special butt).

you take it into your own hands. literally.

you don’t know what prompts it—maybe you’ve simply seen minho slap his members’ asses one too many times, or maybe you’re still thinking of the specific time minho slapped changbin’s ass in passing and it fucking echoed, or maybe minho just looks especially fine in this practice outfit, a skintight tee and washed sweatpants that hug him in all the right places—but you feel a new urge today as your boyfriend swings his duffel over his shoulder, circles around the kitchen counter.

he puckers up as he nears you, silently requesting his goodbye; you give it to him, relishing for a moment in the familiar, soft plush of his lips beneath yours. then he pulls away and turns to leave, and your hand acquires its target.

“go get ‘em, tiger.” thwack!

minho jumps a foot into the air. clutches his pearls and his left butt cheek. becomes the splitting image of that perplexed blonde lady surrounded by geometry.

but when he turns around to stare at you, the smirk melting across his face betrays how he really feels about what you’ve just done. good. really good.

you, meanwhile, look genuinely confused. “it’s like it moved on its own.”

minho beams. steps towards you daintily, intentionally, like a cat catching sight of a laser beam. brings a hand to your hip, murmurs, “that’s what we’re doing now?” kisses you again, for longer this time.

you fully foresee his fingers wandering to your ass to give it a gentle squeeze, but you reach up to cuff his shoulder when it happens anyways, and his laugh vibrates against your mouth. it seems you’ll be reaping what you’ve sown from now on.

(good luck.)

changbin + the Cackle™. yes, you said something exceptionally funny. yes, you expected changbin to find it funny too. but you couldn’t expect the godforsaken noise that left his mouth as he threw himself straight into the tree planter behind you.

your mind spun with frantic questions as you helped him out of the dirt. had the spirit of spongebob just usurped his vocal cords? were you on a date with the wicked witch of the west? most importantly—

“are you well?” you sputtered, which only made him laugh harder and his laugh so much crazier, so you started laughing, too. and you were goners, falling over each other until you’d been reduced to watery eyes and sore cheeks, your giggling interrupted only by the sound of you slapping his thigh every so often, heartily enough to reverberate around the little park in which you concluded your second date.

that’s how you fall for seo changbin: laughing. with a reckless, breathless abandon you didn’t think possible. stumbling across empty sidewalks, spitting noodles across dining tables, begging for mercy on studio couches. wrestling under tear-stained comforters, starting (and re-starting) silly stories, huffing into beaming kisses. the list goes on.

you never quite get used to that chortle of his, too busy enjoying its insanity to notice how your own chuckles grow shorter and shriller, how they gradually develop an edge like the chittering of a forest dweller.

you complete your transformation on your ninety-eighth date.

no, changbin doesn’t say anything exceptionally funny. no, he doesn’t expect you to find it exceptionally funny, either. he expects least of all for you to fold over the kitchen island and start cackling like cruella de vil on helium.

jisung turns around from his seat on the couch. chan’s footsteps come to a halt as he emerges from the bathroom. both of them have fear in their eyes as they witness your undoing.

the only thing on changbin’s face, though, is unfettered delight.

“b-baby,” he sputters with a growing smile. “are you—”

you lift your face off the marble surface and turn to face him. the entirety of your forehead and the point of your nose is covered in flour. you blow a cloud of the stuff out of your mouth like a dragon awoken from slumber.

he loses it.

the two of you make your way onto the floor in slow motion, ending in a tangled heap against the side of the counter. changbin tries to clean off the flour and smears it all over your cheeks instead. you are zero help whatsoever, smacking his bicep like that’ll help you catch your breath. your synchronized, diabolical laughter reaches every corner of the apartment. your happiness reaches every nerve ending.

chan and jisung look at each other and sigh. jisung takes a video.

hyunjin + side-eyeing. this man is so god awful at controlling his face, bless him…and DAMN HIM.

on one hand, you love how in tune with his emotions he is, how confidently he puts them on display. and you love your synergy. you come closer to believing in soulmates every time you glance his way and discover your exact feelings written all over his features; it’s a special type of happiness, sharing a brain with your favorite person in the world.

on the other hand, you think there’s a time and place for candor, and he tends, well, not to think at all. during many a precarious situation, you’ll catch him wearing an expression so transparent that he might as well arrange the words THIS IS STUPID AND I HATE ALL OF YOU over his head in neon lights. cue a dig of your heel into his toe, a hiss of pain cut short by your piercing glare. if you’d known ahead of time that dating hwang hyunjin would have you doing so much damage control…you’d still date him, let’s be real. but you do get stressed at times.

the night the tables turn, you’re at a celebratory dinner for your coworker’s birthday. small caveat: you can’t stand her. she’s the type to spontaneously combust if she goes two minutes without talking about herself. certainly doesn’t help that she’s downing champagne like water, and her lips are looser than ever.

hyunjin comes with you, fortunately. or not. he spends the whole evening trying so hard not to laugh: snorting into his bread, excusing himself to “cough.” you think he actually starts doing breathing exercises at some point. you’re so, so grateful that he’s here, but you’re also deathly afraid that he’s gonna bring out those neon lights in front of your entire office.

then, she flirts with him.

from the opposite end of the table. perfectly wasted but still knowing perfectly well that he’s yours. the whole patio goes silent. hyunjin’s jaw hits the table.

your fork clatters to your plate.

FUCK time and place.

the side-eye you give her is devastating. truly masterful. your brow furrows. your eyes turn to slits. your gaze does the up-down-up of unadulterated incredulity. hyunjin recognizes the motions straightaway and starts smiling so hard his whole face hurts.

you take your boyfriend’s wrist and stand up. he follows suit. you don’t say a thing as you leave the restaurant, and you don’t have to. the intensity of your disdain was more than enough; anything more and she might’ve started crying.

once you’re on the curb outside, hyunjin pulls on your interlocked hands, brings you close. his lips brush against the shell of your ear. you hear laughter and his smirk in his voice: “you might be the sexiest person on earth."

jisung + how he applies lip balm. that han jisung is the pioneer of modern day babygirlism is the worst kept secret in the world. that han jisung applies lip balm the riveting way he does, however, is unknown even to you. until one morning.

you pop into the bathroom and make your usual beeline for your toothbrush, only to end up motionless in front of the sink, staring. jisung is a bit off to the side, hair pinned back by a cinnamoroll headband, eyes glued to his phone, hand holding a tube of chapstick that you can actually see getting shorter in real time. he looks so pensive, so concentrated. how long has it been since he last blinked? you’ve half a mind to pull out a stopwatch.

finally, he rubs his lips together, recaps the chapstick, and makes eye contact with you in the mirror. a smile crosses his face, equal parts confused and amused.

“baby, your mouth is open.”

you close it. then you open it again, and your words come out in a barely-contained laugh: “what on earth did you just do?”

“what do you mean?”

“the—” you point at his mouth, then do your best impression of an elementary schooler trying to color inside the lines. “—that.”

jisung looks aghast. “that was LIP BALM.”

“no, i know what it—you’re so—i meant, why do you apply it like that?”

jisung continues to look aghast. “like what?”

“like you’re one of socrates’ prized pupils and the answer to the universe’s formation lies at the bottom of—” you step in close, reach into the pocket of his sweatpants. “—this tube!”

it might be the craziest thing you’ve ever said to him. he bursts into laughter, the kind that leaves him no recollection of what he does with his limbs, and when he can see straight again he discovers he’s pressed you gently against the counter. his fingers latched around the hem of your top, his grin inches away from yours. can’t stay away from you to save his life, this one.

“do i actually?”

“yes! holy shit, it’s so cute.” your arms circle around his neck, also without an ounce of thought, also through a fit of giggles. “no way you’ve always done that, right?”

“i don’t know. i’ve never thought about it.” a pause. a tilt of his head, with purpose. “am i…doing it wrong?”

the question is a trap and you realize it too late. your gaze drops from his eyes to his lips—a ray of sunlight glistens off the pink plush like a paid actor—then back to his eyes. let’s find out.

you lean in. so does he. and his mouth tastes and feels like melted fucking sugar. it’s such a pleasant surprise that you actually moan, and he chuckles against you. lifts you onto the edge of the sink. your mind really goes empty after that, save for one thought. i have to start doing that.

felix + checking his own pulse. you saw it from afar, the first time.

he stood by the stage’s entrance just before curtain up, pointer and middle finger pressed against the side of his neck. eyelids sealed closed, chest heaving. you tilted your head, puzzled. worried. then the concert began, and you pushed the image to the back of your mind.

it returned to the forefront right before bed.

“you do it when you’re nervous?”

“yeah. forces me to ground myself. turns off the world for a bit.” the hand rubbing circles into your back paused. “wanna give it a go?”

“what, checking my pulse?”

“mine.”

you lifted your head off the pillow. felix took your hand from where it sat upon his ribs, isolating two fingers and nestling them over his jugular. his quickened heartbeat pressed into your skin like the world’s gentlest tattoo.

the sixty seconds began and concluded in total silence.

“well?” he whispered.

“ninety-three,” you answered, lightheaded from the sheer intimacy of it all. “you’re nervous right now?”

“something like that,” he hummed. pulled you down, kissed you deeply. there were no more words exchanged that night.

the habit surfaced more than you knew. while driving to visit your parents. after a stupid argument with a bouquet of flowers tucked beneath his free arm. you started doing it for him in the times he couldn’t, and he’d cover your hand with his own and kiss the top of your head silently, gratefully.

two years have passed since, and you’ve vanished from the dinner table.

felix asks the nearest waiter for directions to the restrooms. you don’t notice when the door swings open, unmoving in your spot over the sink, your pointer and middle finger pressed against the side of your neck.

his hand finds your hip. you let him turn you around and bring you to his chest; he glances at the crystalline droplets studding your lashes and falling from your cheeks. his eyes convey what his mouth doesn’t need to, not anymore.

let me.

you do.

his fingers replace yours the moment you drop them from under your jaw, the movement like clockwork. he counts your every heartbeat with unblinking concentration, his heart growing heavier the higher the number climbs.

the sixty seconds begin and conclude in total silence.

“well?” you whisper.

“hundred and six,” he answers. to his confusion, a smile pulls at your lips.

he wonders if it’s a trick of the bathroom lights when he sees the tiny box you pluck from your pocket, but there’s no mistaking the reality of the diamond ring that sits behind its open lid.

the earth slants under his feet.

“crazy.” you giggle through your tears, run your thumb over his cheekbone. “that’s how many years i want with you.”

seungmin + poking eyes(?) he’s hardly touched puppym when your voice is slicing through the living room air like a fucking beyblade.

“KIM SEUNGMIN, UNHAND HIM THIS INSTANT.”

do you have a sixth sense just for this? he throws his hands up in exasperation. “he’s literally me. i’m allowed to do whatever i want with me.”

“he’s not you, he’s our son.” you pop out of nowhere to swipe the plushie from over your boyfriend’s shoulder. “my son, if you keep this up.”

“just say you hate me and my preferred avenues of self expression.”

upside-down, he watches you dust off puppym’s face and smooch his forehead with a tenderness that makes seungmin unhappier than he lets on. you then tuck him into your jacket pocket. the little shit’s expression looks strangely smug poking out of its cotton capsule.

“i’m asking you to not gauge his eyes out, not to deliver me the holy grail,” you say. “you’ll survive.”

but then he feels your hands on either side of his face, and you lean over him like the mj to his peter, leave a kiss on the space between his eyes, too. he has zero say in the bashful smile this brings to his face.

“but why do you do that, seriously?” you mutter.

“i have no idea,” he replies. “but it’s fun. try it.”

“i’ll think about it.” you lean in again, and he nearly forgets what you were talking about in the first place when you kiss him on the lips this time. “okay, i’ve thought about it. no.”

“hate you,” he says despite the literal hearts in his eyes, and then you’re off to work.

puppym takes strikingly after his father. they have the same bangs. the same compulsively squeezable quality. the same little :3 that can only allude to sinister plottings. you’d be loath to admit that you sort of comprehend seungmin’s poking predisposition.

one night, seungmin falls asleep before you even finish your nighttime routine, and you spot in his peaceful, upturned face an opportunity.

you lie belly-down on your side of the bed. your fingers splay into a peace-sign in the air. your smile stretches further into a cheshire grin the closer you bring your hand. you’re just about to reach the ends of his eyelashes when—

“I KNEW IT!”

you almost catapult into the ceiling. then you try to make a mad dash for the bathroom. but seungmin shoots a hand around your wrist like he’s actually peter parker and pins you down before you so much as take a step. your only remaining option is to sulk about your foiled plans. (and blush, because, well, you’re under him.)

“amateur,” he tsks. “you gotta test my breathing to make sure i’m asleep first. shit’s foolproof.”

you blink at him for a few seconds. his words finally click.

now you almost catapult him into the ceiling.

“HOW MANY TIMES?”

jeongin + eating food in one bite. so you might be an instigator.

“hwuck,” he grumbles around the whole ice cream cone in his mouth, face scrunched up in a brain-freeze-induced wince. “ayee ith waz a bah iyeah.” (translation: fuck, maybe this was a bad idea.)

“you got this. just take it slow,” you urge, except he’s stopped moving and speaking and closed his eyes as if he’s descending into a deep sleep. you’re actually concerned for about two seconds, and then his jaw begins to oscillate leisurely like an elderly cow in his favorite pasture. false alarm.

after some time, he swallows, beams. “so am i the fucking best or what.”

“yeah you are,” you echo, and he swings an arm over your shoulder, plants a chocolatey kiss on your temple. the two of you celebrate his daesangs with less enthusiasm.

“when are you doing that with me, by the way?”

“the one-bite thing?” he nods. “mmm, coaches don’t play.”

“mmm, this one will.”

“doubtful.”

fast forward a few weeks and you, jeongin, and his younger brother are sitting cross-legged on the porch in his backyard. three full-sized oranges rest in the center of your makeshift circle. damn is yoon hard to say no to. (runs in the family.)

“the rules!” he declares. “eat the orange whole! first to swallow it wins! you can’t spit it out!”

you wait. “is that it?”

“yes!”

why was the delivery so grand?

jeongin places a fond hand atop his brother’s head. “i’ve brought you a new loser, yoonie. get excited.”

you feign an indifferent scoff, but jeongin spots the fire that ignites behind your eyes like that of an anime protagonist, the resolute grip with which you palm your orange. he smirks. he’s never known you to take trash talk sitting down. or sitting cross-legged on his porch.

yoon counts you off. “ready…”

“good luck, coach,” jeongin sings.

“shut up, pipsqueak.”

“set…GO!”

in amusing unison, you and yoon try and fail to fasten your teeth around even half of the fruit. jeongin, meanwhile, fits the whole thing into his black hole of an oral cavity and launches into that dumb cow impression again.

desperate times call for desperate measures.

you rip the orange from your lips. “yoon! your brother’s ticklish, right?”

both yang siblings’ eyes widen—the younger’s in growing delight, the older’s in impending horror.

the latter reacts first. “ay, ay, ay, ah ahes eh ooles!” (translation: wait, wait, wait, that’s against the rules!)

but the former moves first, and you’re right behind him.

jeongin weakens when the younger boy assaults his sides, crumples when you target the back of his neck, the sounds leaving his mouth getting progressively louder and somehow even less intelligible.

he eventually has to spit out the orange to avoid death by pulp going down the wrong pipe and spins around in indignation, wiping at his chin with the back of his hand. but his annoyance—

you’re back on the floor, gnawing hopelessly at the the orange again. “ih ih eawahin, ooh.” (translation: this is embarrassing, yoon.)

yoon replies, “huh?” (translation: huh?)

—dissipates, immediately.

🔖 (send an ask to be added)・@astraystayyh・@like-a-diamondinthesky・@fire-08・@starsandrqindrops・@txtxlz・@laylasbunbunny・@strayghibli・@nuronhe・@seungminsapuppy・@vivisoni・@skzms・@moon0fthenight・@sweetpickledjins・@svintsandghosts・@nhyunn ・@ur-boyfiend ・@liknws・@hotgorloikawa・@randomwimp ・ @automaticpersonabatpaper

8K notes · View notes

cnnxk · 1 month ago

Text

Right 'n Wrong

Remmick x fem! plus size! Reader

warning: smut, sexual themes, toxic dynamics, lowkey pussy whipped! fanon! Remmick, religious themes, blood kink, blood play, menstruation, cunnilingus

He scratches against your window pane on the night of your twentieth birthday.

You thought it was an animal at first. An armadillo or a possum. They’re common around the summertime, wreaking havoc on people’s yards, getting into garbage cans. But the more you listened, the more you realized that it sounded like the scratch of fingernails.

You had lifted out of your bed, white nightgown falling past your shoulders. The smell of the previous baked goods you had made earlier that day was still prominent— chocolate chip cookies. Your eyes darted to the curtains on your window. Wind blew through, making the fabric look like a pair of butterfly wings.

Your window was open.

You had left it that way because it was hot. Unbearably hot, the summer air humid and sticky. You felt a breeze blow through as the scratching resumed.

Your feet touched your wooden floors. You moved over to the window, your heart pattering in your chest.

“I know you’re there.”

The air is as still as crickets. The voice flows to you in a way that’s almost musical.

“Happy birthday.”

You feel something molten course through you. Of course, he had to visit now. Of all days on the past year that you’ve known your lover, he decides to show up on the one dedicated to you.

You turn to look at your bedside table, where the hands on the clock point to twelve forty three.

“Ain’t my birthday,” you replied. “Not anymore.”

He peers in through the opening, where your curtains refuse to meet. Red eyes stare down into yours— he’s always been taller than you.

“I got you somethin’.” He said, and you swallowed.

“What is it?”

He grins. Sharp, pointed teeth. You shiver.

“Gotta’ let me in if you wanna’ see it, darlin’.”

Any person reading this— whether you’re judging, or not judging— should know that it doesn’t matter that he asked. Because he’d find his way in, regardless. He’d trick you, threaten you, or he’d wait outside every night for weeks. You learned that the hard way, when you had turned him away from your door. At the time, he was a stranger. Now, he’s as familiar to you as takin’ in a breath.

“You can come in.” you murmured. Defeat, but also something else. Anticipation. Excitement. You weren’t sure.

The man hauled one meaty leg over the entrance of your window. Ducking his head under the glass, he landed gracefully on his other foot as he stepped inside.

“Don’t know why you don’t just use the door,” you said.

“I like to watch you,” and then, “You sleep real pretty.”

He admitted this so casually that it made you shiver. Of course, when you’ve been dead as long as Remmick has, not much is deemed taboo or out of bounds. But it still never managed to shock you to your core. You were always raised right— a church going girl, sayin’ please and thank you, always hovering instead of diving right in with strangers. Until him.

He reached behind him and pulled something out of his pocket. He dangled your present in front of you, the surface of it glinting.

"Jewelry," you opined. "Which person did you kill to get it ?"

He tilted his head. His eyes glinted again, this time playful.

"Didn't," he drawled. "Check the tag."

In his clutches, you couldn't see the piece of white paper that was pinching the gold chain between it until he held it out in his palm. 20$.

So he had bought it. And spent a pretty penny on it, too. The two of you agreed never to lie to each other, and you knew Remmick was the kind of man to keep his word. There was a chance he had stolen the money required, though. Either way, it was better than something he snatched off one of his victim's necks, covered in blood and gore. Better to steal some papers than steal a life. You accepted it.

His hand pushed on your shoulder, directing you to turn around. You did, lifting your hair off the back of your neck. His cold fingers grazed your jugular, and you could feel him sharply inhale.

"Beatin' like a drum." he murmured. You stayed silent, your eyes down on the floor.

You turned back around when the necklace was fastened. It was a locket, heart shaped with hinges. Easy to handle. You flicked it open, seeing that it was empty.

"You can put whatever you wan' in it. Figured you'd like to put a picture in there, or somethin'."

It was strangely human, the way Remmick uttered the words. Not nervous, but wanting to gain your approval all the same.

"Thank you, Remmick."

"Pleasure's mine, darlin'."

When he brushed passed you to sit on the edge of your bed, your face heated. You knew what was coming, you always did. But it never ceased to exhibit a reaction from you.

He licked his lips as he looked at you. Your gown was almost sheer, your hair disheveled. He liked that.

"Come here."

His voice was low and gravelly. You swallowed.

"And if I don't?"

He shrugged. "It's your choice," was it? "But if you're doin' this to act out, sweetheart, you know damn well what's gone' happen."

Your thighs hit the front of his knees as you neared. He wrapped you up in his big arms, his embrace tight. Possessive. His face found your belly. He pressed his nose against it, grabbing the pudge of your hips in his big hands. He exhaled sharp. Shoulders relaxing. Your fingers found his hair.

"Smell's nice in here." he said.

"I made cookies."

"Mm," Remmick murmured. You'd offer him some, but you knew he couldn't eat it. You also knew that it wasn't cookies that he was smelling.

His lips found yours as he hoisted you into his lap. His hands wandered, mapping you out. He was hungry, and you both knew it.

"What do you want?" it was bold, whispering all breathy like that against his ear. It was hard for him to keep control.

He growled. Not like a human, because that wasn't what he was. "You know what I want."

"You're right," you replied. "I do."

His teeth nicked at your bottom lip. Lifting up your gown, he groaned at the sight of your body. "My girl's so damn pretty."

He kissed your stomach, tongue tracing over one of your stretch marks. You didn't know why he was so obsessed with you, or your body, but he was. Complete and utter infatuation. His fingers hooked into the waistband of your underwear. In your haste, you hadn't realized that the fabric had been stained red.

"Lay down for me, sugar" he said.

You switched positions-- you laying down, him towering over you as he slid off his suspenders. You caught a glimpse of your bloodied underwear, and felt a bit of shame. But it was outweighed by the glorious sight in front of you. When Remmick's shirt was unbuttoned, your hands found his hips. Feeling them. Moving up to his chest, and then his throat. You liked his throat.

"Gonna get my fix," he looked up at you as he held both of your thighs apart. You were making a mess all over your clean sheets, and the both of you knew it. "'S that alright?"

You nodded. Braced for the pain that would melt into something that felt good, too good, for a person who was meant to be raised Christian. Raised right.

Now came the feast. The pleasure. Remmick's tongue flicked out, just barely, to lick up your cunt. You sighed at the warm, searing heat of his tongue. "As temptin' as the fruit of the serpent," he breathed against you. "Bleedin' so pretty."

When you had first let Remmick touch you, it had been embarrassing to have him between your legs during such an intimate time. In 1930s Mississippi, it was taboo to even mention menstruation. You knew it was normal, that it was a sign of your body being healthy. However, most men didn't think that. One morning, when Remmick was a stranger, shrouded in darkness and blood, he came crawling up to your door. He had begged you to save him. You had obliged. And you gave him a feast. Suddenly, you weren't so embarrassed anymore, and those feasts began happening every month. He had freed you, really. Gave you that feeling of your wings spreading-- for dedication to his feed, or devotion for the way you held each other? Perhaps both.

He licked these thoughts off of you as his claws sunk deep into the flesh of your thighs. Your head tilted back. You saw the popcorn ceiling above you ripple in the shadows. You were almost drunk off of Remmick's worship already. When I sink in my claws, he told you one time, I can give the victim a moment of raw, achin' pleasure. Makes 'em easier to hold down... easier to tear open.

That was certainly true, because you were immobilized from the syrupy sweet cloud that wrung your brain empty. Completely spread open as his tongue slurped up your heady slick and crimson blood. You heard Remmick groan, looked down-- your eyes nearly rolled back at the sight. His hips were grinding against the air, you could see the strain of his heavy cock through his trousers-- fuck, he was pretty. Beauty incarnated into the form of a monster. Those dark eyes looked up at you, pupils tinged red. He never strayed from your gaze as his tongue flicked strategically over your swollen nub, a hum leaving him as he saw how your mouth fell open even more.

"God," you breathed. "Remmick--"

He grabbed you, yanking one leg over his shoulder, and then the other. Your fingers curled into your sheets, and you could feel that they were wet.

"Leakin' all over the place," Remmick murmured against your cunt, as if he could read your mind. And he could. "Such a good girl, ain't ya'?"

Your brain was fuzzy. You whined, nodded-- good, good, good. You wanted nothing more than to be good for him. You pressed harder against his face. Your thighs enclosed his head as his tongue fucked in and out of your sloppy, swollen hole. You felt his nose rub up against your clit. Enamored, you chanted to him like a prayer, "Yes, yes, just like that, baby--" And he found what you needed, guided his mouth up, and sucked.

You could feel your insides drawin' up. Cunt throbbing, walls swelling. A sound left your mouth that was akin to that of an animal. You heard Remmick's deep southern drawl as you twitched.

'Go on, little girl. Cum on my tongue. Give me what I need--'

He was in your head. Speaking in his ancient language. You broke him down into pieces-- even with his other branch of communication. And it made you feel special. Needed. That last thought is what had you spilling into his mouth, your spend leaking out, your walls pulsating, squeezing. It made even more of your blood stream, and Remmick groaned as he felt the metallic hit his tongue.

Your mouth left the echo of whines and moans, your lover's name a song on your lips. When you came down, shaking, he was still there, gentler now, avoiding your clitoris to prevent over stimulation (though, in other moods, he wasn't above the idea of making you cry from it). He licked all around your hole, your inner thighs, your taint. Anywhere that his dinner lay. When he was stuffed-- like you would be, soon enough-- he moved away from his altar. He was covered in your essence; His chin and lips were stained red; you could see his teeth glinting in the light. You never understood how he managed to keep those from grazing your cunt. Practice, you guessed.

Remmick's thumb came up to your mouth, his body towering over you. You wrapped your lips around it, nails and blood be damned, and suckled. He let out a tiny chuckle, swallowing down the last bits of you that remained on his tongue.

"'M all better now."

"I'd like to think so, baby."

He grinned, kissing you-- blood didn't taste that bad as a human, when you got used to it. Underneath it, you could taste his spit. He had been drooling, and you licked at it lewdly, like an animal.

"I'm filthy," you divulged against his lips. "Disgustin' for needin' you this bad.." You always ended up confessing things to him. Some part of you hoped that it was against your will, and not your true self. But you knew you'd be lying if you said that his tricks weren't the only object of your attraction.

"Is that what you think?" He wasn't angry. He was curious.

You nodded. He felt the pull of your legs under his heavy frame as he trapped you under him. "I'm a sinner," you said. "this is wrong."

Remmick felt that hunger tug in him again. He liked the depravity of it all, and you both knew it.

"Then why's it feel so right?"

Fin.

#remmick #remmick sinners #sinners 2025 #remmick x reader #remmick fanfic #remmick smut #remmick oneshot #jack o'connell

618 notes · View notes