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having adhd and being a creator is like being on a timer. oh sorry you have this art idea? well you have approximately 12 hours to start it and 6 hours to finish the task or else you will lose interest and inevitably move on. oh you have an idea for a one-shot? well you’d better finish it in a day unless you want to banish it to your wips forever. ding dong bitch
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The dim, flickering glow of Zaun's neon signs bathed the room in streaks of pink and teal. It wasn't much-a dingy apartment tucked in the upper layers of the Undercity-but it was enough to keep you hidden from prying eyes. You sat on the edge of the worn-out couch, heart pounding, as Vi leaned against the wall across from you, her arms folded. Her piercing gaze pinned you in place, even from the distance. The room was thick with tension-not the angry kind, but the sort that simmered beneath the surface, begging to boil over.
"You've been staring at me all night," Vi teased, a smirk curling the corner of her lips. She pushed off the wall and took slow, deliberate steps toward you.
"What's on your mind, sweetheart?" You swallowed hard, your voice caught somewhere between your throat and your courage.
"You," you admitted, barely above a whisper. Vi raised an eyebrow, clearly not expecting the honesty. She was so close now that you could see the faint scar running across her cheek, the way her lashes framed those striking eyes. She crouched down in front of you, resting her forearms on her thighs, her face mere inches from yours.
"Say that again," she murmured, her voice low and rough.
"You," you repeated, louder this time. Her smirk widened, but there was something softer in her expression now -an unspoken vulnerability behind her bravado. Slowly, she reached out, brushing her knuckles against your cheek. Her touch was surprisingly gentle, given how strong her hands looked.
"You sure about this?" Vi asked, her voice barely above a whisper now. Instead of answering, you leaned in, closing the gap between you. Your lips met hers in a tentative kiss, soft and searching. Vi froze for a moment, like she was caught off guard, but then she melted into you, her lips pressing more firmly against yours.
Her hands found your waist, pulling you closer as she deepened the kiss. There was nothing rushed about it-just the slow, intoxicating exploration of each other. You tilted your head, giving her better access, and she took full advantage, her tongue sweeping over your bottom lip before slipping into your mouth. The taste of her-mint and something smoky-was enough to make your head spin. Her fingers gripped your hips tightly, almost possessively, as if she was afraid you might slip away. You let out a quiet gasp when she shifted, guiding you back against the couch cushions without breaking the kiss. Vi pulled back slightly, her lips barely brushing against yours as she caught her breath. HerHer half-lidded eyes met yours, and the intensity in them made your stomach flip.
"You're something else," she murmured, her thumb tracing circles over your hip bone. You smiled, your fingers tangling in her short, pink hair.
"I could say the same about you." She grinned, but it didn't last long. Her lips found yours again, more urgent this time. She kissed you like she had something to prove, her hands roaming up your sides, leaving a trail of heat in their wake. The rest of the world melted away-no danger, no fear, just Vi and the way she made you feel alive in a way you never thought possible.
Vi’s kisses grew slower but no less intense, like she was savoring every second. Her hands rested firmly on your waist, grounding you as her lips brushed against yours with a tenderness that contrasted the roughness of her usual demeanor. She pulled back just enough to look at you, her breath warm against your skin.
“You’re trouble, you know that?” she murmured, a faint smirk tugging at her lips.
“Pretty sure you’re the one with a reputation for trouble,” you teased, your fingers tracing the faint scar along her jaw.
She chuckled, the sound low and warm, before leaning in again, pressing her forehead against yours. Her thumb stroked the curve of your cheek, and for a moment, she just looked at you—really looked at you, as if memorizing every detail.
“You’re different,” Vi said softly, her voice carrying a rare vulnerability. “I don’t let people in, not like this. But you...” She trailed off, shaking her head slightly, as if the words were too much to say.
You reached up, cupping her face in your hands. “You don’t have to explain,” you whispered. “I’m here, Vi. I’m not going anywhere.”
Something in her eyes shifted then—a mixture of relief and longing. She kissed you again, this time slower, softer, like she was trying to say all the things she couldn’t put into words. Her hands slid up your back, pulling you closer until there was no space left between you.
The faint hum of Zaun’s neon lights filtered through the window, the only sound aside from your intertwined breaths. Time seemed to stand still as you melted into each other, the weight of the world outside forgotten.
Vi finally pulled back, her lips red and slightly swollen. She rested her forehead against yours, her hands still cradling your waist. “You’re dangerous, you know that?” she said with a grin, though her tone was lighthearted now.
You laughed softly, brushing a stray strand of pink hair from her face. “Guess that makes two of us.”
She smirked, leaning in to press a lingering kiss to your temple. “Yeah,” she murmured against your skin. “Guess it does.”
The two of you stayed like that for a while, wrapped up in each other, the chaos of Zaun just a distant murmur beyond the walls. For once, everything felt right.
contains: edging, mutual head, skips in a sub space, dominant reader, afab reader but gender neutral pronouns,
After a long day or work, you finally stumble into your house, kick your shoes off and setting them to lay next to the wall. You make your way to your room, slowly stripping before changing into some shorts and plunge into your bed.
In the corner of your room, Skips watches you decompress, jealous of how betty is always able to touch you when you want to relax.
Skips walks up closer, Your face smothered ans covered by the pillows. You don't notice him until you shuffle to the side of your bed, reaching over into your bedside drawer to grab your toy.
"Oh fuck- you scared me Skips..." you laugh off, quickly hiding your toy underneath your blanket.
"You don't have to hide it love," You try to laugh it off when he offers–
"I could...help you.. if you want." He suggests, stepping forward, you take his arm, gliding him forward to you, putting your arms around him. "That would be much appreciated love." Skips looks away, nervous and realizing how close you two are. He feels your warmth, your heartbeats amd how much his was progressing. He places his hand on your cheek amd as you two share a kiss under the moonlight from your windows, you pull him in, he toppled over you, his hand keeping him up.
You laugh at each other and continue to kiss, feeling his lip piercings against yours. Quickly adding tongue, Skips deepends the kiss. His free hand slides over your stomach to your waist. You both shuffle back to the pillows, and as you start to undress him, his scarf, jacket, and shirt... You notice his bulge begins to peek out.
Skips looks down to where your eyes are occupied, getting embarrassed. "Er..."
"You're already hard for me?"
"Ah well-"
"Don't be embarrassed... that just means we're having fun."
Your hands unzip his pants, sliding them down, aswell as your shorts. He kiss your cheek, trailing down to your collarbone, and neck. You gasp out, his breath hot on your skin.
Skips' hands start to feel you up, wide-eyed, you lean into his touch, your nipples hardening. He begins to tease them, his eyes narrowing slightly. Skips feels his boxers getting tighter when he hears you gasp and your breathing getting harder with each touch of his. "Mnnh..."
"Let me make you feel good, penumbra.." Skips mutters out, his hand that was wrapped around you, now trailing down, making goosebumps along. Making you shiver, setting your other arm around his neck to pull him closer into a kiss. Using tongue, you two embrace each other, your bodies meshing into one another. Skips fingers slide into your panties, through your slick, feeling around to your bud. Your legs shuffling.
Skips' motions, creating a warm, fuzzy feeling within you. Feeling his finger caress small circles around your clit, making your breathing sharp, muscles becoming stiff with each touch.
He started to slightly nudge his boner against your leg, your free hand gently massaging the tip. His breath hitches when your thumb grazes over his tip. "You...agh–"
Wanting to get him to give you those sweet, sweet sounds you craved.
He groans out, when your hand slips into his boxers, feeling the warmth of his cock. You push him over, laying beside him. You watch him as your fingers start to wander up n down his shaft. Feeling the skin and veins across it. You lower yourself to his face to kiss him, muffling his gasps. He swallows you in, like he wamts to devour you.
Playing with his tip, you feel his stomach sink in, legs tensing as you palm his cock's head. Skips eyebrows raise and curl. Breaking the kiss, you spit onto your hand and begin to stroke him.
He moans into the kiss, reaching for your hand to speed it up, but you slap his hand away. "No touching." You demanded.
He quietly groans out, "fuck please.." His hips bucking up, attempting to create more friction, speeding up. You change up the pace to mess with him, pumping him from the thick bottom of his shaft. Slowly pumping up, all the way up to his head, cupping and teasing it all-round.
Skips groans out, whimpers escaping his mouth when you cup his head. "You're getting more sensitive, aren't you?" You tease him, watching his cheeks turn a muted yellow.
Skips bites his lower lip, trying to keep his composure. Which fails when you start to massage his balls with pumping his cock. But how could he? Your hands all over him, making him so important, making his body feel so good.
"Mnnhn...ah reader, oh wa-wait-" his lips quiver, legs shake, skips now realizing his lower stomach feels tighter, like he's about to be at the edge, so close...
Reader strokes up to the tip, suddenly ripping her hands away from his joystick. "Agh- wait no-no no why's you stop??" He whines, tugging at your silk sheets. You reposition yourself in between his legs, looking up at him, his heavy breathing, twitching cock, eager hands and oh so cute eyes. Eyes watery, like he'd cry if I didn't finish him off. He gazes into your eyes, pleading you to touch him again. Atleast graze over, fondle, and play with his little guy.
"Reader, please..." he whines, waiting for your approval. Instead, you leaned in... Giving him gentle kisses, deep and heartfelt. You feel each other's heartbeats connecting. Breathing him in, a slight wave of smoke, and tree bark filling your nose. He smells of fresh air, a nature scent.
His fingers lingering around your thighs, teasing you, as if to persuade you. "Please, what love?"
Your fingers curling around his shaft, daring to soothe his listful ache. Seeing him out of breath, begging for you to give him the same pleasure he gifted to you. In a way, it's pitiful. But sooo sexy.
"Love pl-..please.. touch me please..." His eyes narrowing down. "You make me feel...feel so..."
You kiss him again, shutting him up. Beginning to pump him, slowly up and down. Skip's moans fade into your mouth, muffled. His hands scrambles around you to hold you closer, reaching over to cup your ass. Feeling you up.
Part 2 later (if yall beg 😛) bcs a bitch has to post SOMETHING
Skips shows his affection by leaving little gifts for you in the dark corners of your house. If you don't notice them, he uses his energy and most of his power trying to reach over to the light so you can see them quicker.
Skips, who uses his power to turn on music on Telly, getting him to play your favorite genre, sometimes playing his own bands, or playing soft house music to get you up out of bed within your stuck there.
Skips, who watches you sleep to make sure you're safe. When you're all alone, covered in the dark, sometimes he'll sit next to you, or lay beside you. Sometimes he (in secret) will sniff your hair, or trace doodles across your skin. Hoping you'd wake up so you coudl mainly talk together at night.
Skips who'll write down bands or music he likes for you read later, to share and listen to together later.
thinking of remmick being a filthy freak stalker and flying up to sit in the tree outside your bedroom window when he knows you’re touching yourself
pulls his dick out of his pants to start gooning, frothing at the mouth just by watching you from the back. licking his lips while he’s stroking it, getting lusty eyefuls of how hard you’ve always slid your pussy up and down on a plethora of toys
you unknowingly impress him, cumming and creaming on all the girthy ones so easily. with how sharp his hearing is, he gets to pull on his cock listening to the sloppy sound of suction while you fuck yourself on it like a rabbit in heat
remmick’s loads always end up painting the branches and the leaves beneath him a milky white, cum dripping down the trunk like it’s tree sap
his eyes roll back as he lets out an honest to god whimper while he peered down imagining your hips going at it on him while you’re clenching down on it and ripping that chubby toy right out of you, slathered in your shiny slick that he just wants to help you lick clean forever and ever
every night, without fail he’s got his stupid suspenders shoved off his shoulders and his twitching cock out like usual, like some lonely perverted nocturnal hillbilly with his thumb squeezing and torturing the head while he’s biting down on his lip to stay quiet
he smells it when you’re ovulating, especially notices how you make yourself cum triple the number of times you regularly do, kinky and sweaty porn playing on your tv, flicking your clit while you glide the tip of your biggest dildo yet in your entire collection, teasing yourself at the needy brim of your hole
remmick recognizes the smell of desperation dripping off of you, wondering if he just knocked on your door tonight of all nights and offered to give you a better fuck than any of those toys you’ve bought if you’d be horny enough to say yes and take it
take him, throw him around, sit yourself down on top of his fucking face and grind and grind and grind until his mouth and his jaw is slippery with your cum
imagines you getting rough with impatience on him, not taking any teasing kindly before you take everything you want from him
your pheromones are crowding his senses, even from outside absolutely driving him insane
he slips all his dirty little fantasies from his imagination and projects them right into yours, infiltrating your subconscious with flashes of images from your porn selections but replacing all the dick you craved with his own, now raising his hips up and ruthlessly fucking his fist when you start to bounce your drooling pussy up and down that long, thick piece of bright pink silicone
yeah yeah. you’re really givin’ that pussy what she craves tonight. mmm, naughtiest girl I’ve ever seen. sure that toy ain’t too big?
he sees you flip your head up and briefly check your surroundings like you sensed the presence that lingered, weary with those cute eyebrows furrowed. but still not worried enough to stop circling your hips and riding your dildo
nah, nah you want it to bust you open don’t you? leave ya walkin’ funny? we all have desires, honey, just take ‘em all out on me
remmick’s dirty thoughts only get louder, piercing right through you and interrupting any other carnal thoughts that float around in your head. with a shit eating grin he keeps going, eager eyes set on you while his flushed cock bobs in his fist and practically snarls and growls for him to keep going
imagine I’m under you instead, baby. filling you up. I can feed you a real load of cum, better than that stick a’ rubber
you lift your hips until just the head is peaking inside then slam your pussy back down, giving remmick the sights and sounds of how hard you grip and tease
taunts you with a yeah, mmhm. I seen you use those things plenty a’ times. bouncing so damn fast on ‘em, thought I’d witness you breakin’ that damn bed. y’sure do know how to take dick when ya need it. not as innocent as you fuckin’ look. take ‘em real good. really really fuckin’ good
your hips go wild while his hand barely keeps up, pretending his own palm is your warm wetness while he breathes hard, still hoping to worm his way into your fantasies
massaging that pussy so good. she’s creaming. can see all the way from over here how those hips just won’t quit movin’… keep on—oh f-fuck, ride that dick, take all that dick, keep pretending it’s mine
remmick’s unoccupied hand goes to find a grip on one of the branches, white knuckling it the same way his busy hand is squeezing down the girthy, sweaty base, gasping at how fast his balls are now scrunching up, so filled up and ready for you
you’ve scrunched up your own toes while speeding up your tempo, toy now filthy with the evidence of your milky juices
like a prayer of manifestation, he only focuses on you as he’s shooting ropes and ropes of thick cum right outside your window, stray drops splattering on the side of your home. his glowing red eyes never leave your hole as you’re gaping wide after letting the toy gently slip out onto the bed, messy and tired
one of these nights, you’ll be invitin’ me to come on in and be your new fucktoy. you can take advantage, ride this dick all night if ya have to. it’ll feel a whole lot better than that rubber piece of shit, won’t it?
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summary: in the humid belly of the night, you flee through the wild woods, breathless and bleeding, chased by a monster dressed in the skin of a man, and when he inevitably catches you, it's not to kill, but to keep. What follows is neither rescue or ruin, but a slow, savage claim written in blood, hunger, and heat.
wc: 8.1k
a/n: for this request, where anon wanted me to lean into Remmick's more monstrous side. My inbox is always open if anyone wants to submit more! also, thank you all so, so, so much for all the love, support, and general positivity you've all shown my fics lately—it genuinely means more than I can even put into words. I'm still blown away by the responses my fics have gotten in the last week, it warms my soul to no end every time I think about it <3 also have to credit axelboneboy for putting the idea of Remmick with a forked tongue in my head
warnings: heavy dubcon, dead dove: do not eat, blood kink, period sex, heavy breeding kink, monsterfucking, possessive behavior, coercive control, demon x human dynamics, religious imagery, breeding/ownership language, filthy talk, cockdrunk reader, forced orgasm, restraints/restraint kink, forced captivity, manipulation, southern gothic horror, explicit sexual content, obsession, violence, rough sex, blood play, dark romance, somnophilia undertones (reader too weak to consent properly)
likes, comments, and reblogs appreciated!! please enjoy!!
M I N D T H E T A G S
Your breath saws raggedly through your throat as you run, legs scraping through the underbrush, branches slashing at your arms, the wet slap of mud against your calves. Your shoes are long gone, lost somewhere back on the splintered path—the soles of your feet raw and stinging with every frantic step.
Your dress, once a soft, homespun cotton in faded butter yellow, clings wetly to your skin, torn at the hem, heavy with damp earth and blood from shallow scratches. The thin petticoat underneath is ripped, the neckline torn where it caught on a low-hanging branch. Your bare legs gleam with sweat and dirt under the fevered gaze of the blood moon. The rough, hand-stitched seams bite into your skin with every frantic movement.
Behind you—
Footsteps.
Heavy, deliberate.
Not rushing, no.
He doesn't need to rush.
The blood moon glowers overhead, a bruised red eye in the sky, bleeding sickly light through the skeletal trees. The mist writhes around your ankles like grasping fingers, every breath clogged with the sour, choking scent of wet moss and rot. The forest feels alive—the cypress trees hunching closer, the swamp water sloshing in unseen black pools, the night thick with the buzz of unseen insects and the sticky slap of humidity against your skin.
You tear through a thicket, thorns slicing your thighs, the pain sharp but distant beneath the roaring panic. Your dress snags again—this time you rip free with a sob, fabric tearing in your frantic escape. You don't stop. You can't stop.
Your lungs burn. Your heart pounds a frantic, desperate rhythm against your ribs. Your hands are scraped raw where you shove branches aside. You don't know where you're going—only that you have to keep moving.
You think for one stupid, precious second that maybe you've lost him.
Then you hear it—
A low, rumbling chuckle.
The sound rolls across the mist like thunder, like a beast amused by the futile thrashing of its prey.
You shove yourself harder, feet slipping in the mud, the trees spinning in dizzy circles around you.
You should have listened.
The warning plays in your mind now, mocking and merciless—the old women in town, whispering in the feed store, their wrinkled hands making frantic crosses over their chests.
Don't go out on the blood moon.
There's something that walks these woods. A devil dressed in skin, hunting for its next meal.
You had laughed it off. Old wives' tales. A story to get unruly children to behave. Of course you didn't believe it...
Not until the heavy footsteps started following you.
Not until the woods seemed to shift, herding you deeper and deeper.
Not until the laughter—low, rich, and terrifying.
Your foot catches on a root hidden beneath the mist. You go down hard, the impact knocking the air from your lungs. Dirt and dead leaves cling to your palms as you scramble up, only to be yanked backwards by an iron grip around your ankle.
A scream rips from your throat as you're dragged across the ground, nails clawing uselessly at the earth, the taste of dirt and blood thick on your tongue.
"Well, lookie here," a deep, amused voice drawls from the shadows, thick with a Southern slur, soaked in heat and hunger. "Thought you could outrun me, lil’ hare?"
You kick, thrash, cry but—but it's useless.
He steps into view.
For the first time, you see him. Truly see him.
Broad-shouldered, wrapped in the kind of strength that speaks of old blood, of violence written into the bones. His bangs are slick with sweat and sticking to his forehead, catching the moonlight in glints of silver and soot. His mouth is a slow, cruel curve, teeth flashing when he smiles—serrated and sharp, dangerous in their promise.
And his eyes—
God, his eyes.
Deep, burning red, like fresh blood spilled on freshly fallen snow.
They glint at you through the mist, pinning you in place, drowning you in a voracity so raw it almost hums against your skin.
You whimper, trying to crab-crawl backward, but he just tilts his head, slow and mocking, one hand reaching lazily down to wrap around your ankle again.
"You run real pretty," he murmurs, accent thick and sweet as sap dripping down the bark of a Maple tree, "but you ain't got nowhere left t' go, sugar."
The gnarled woods close around you, the mist swallowing your pitiful cries, the trees bending low to listen.
And the monster—
The one you were warned about—
Grins as he pounces.
The world spins in a dizzy, mud-slick blur as he crashes into you, the full weight of him knocking the breath from your lungs. His hands are everywhere—rough palms sliding up your trembling thighs, your waist, trapping your wrists above your head with a grip so strong it aches.
You thrash, wild and panicked, but it’s like fighting against a landslide.
Every frantic buck of your hips, every desperate twist of your wrists, every teary plea for help, only seems to amuse him further.
He straddles you easily, his thighs like iron on either side of your hips, his body radiating impossible heat. His breath ghosts over your neck—slow, savoring—and when he inhales, it’s with a deep, shuddering drag, as though he’s drinking you in.
You go still.
Frozen.
A scared little rabbit under the paw of a hungry wolf.
Slowly, he lifts his head, and when your eyes meet his, your heart lurches sickly into your throat.
Those eyes—
Red as the blood moon above.
Glowing, starving.
The corner of his mouth curls, a slow, predatory grin, delighting in your overwhelming fear.
"Y' smell it, don't ya?" he murmurs, low and thick with appetite. His nose brushes the curve of your neck, inhaling again, greedily, his voice gone almost reverent. "Sweet lil' thing...bleedin' just f'me."
Your stomach turns over, nausea and terror twining like barbed wire.
He slides lower, his body pressing yours into the soft, damp earth. You can feel every strong inch of him—the way the metal of his belt buckle digs into your hip, the way his thigh muscles tense against you like a coiled predator savoring the final moments before it goes in for the kill.
His nose trails down, brushing the hollow of your throat, the dip between your breasts—slow, agonizing, torturous.
You try to pull away—
He growls.
Not a human sound.
Something low, rattling. Monstrous.
His hand tightens around your wrists until your bones creak. His other hand snakes between your bodies, grabbing your skirt—what's left of it—and dragging it higher, baring your thighs to the muggy night air.
"No use runnin' now," he says, almost gentle, as if talking down a skittish animal. His accent thickens, each word dripping slow as syrup, artificially sweet. "Gotcha all laid out pretty...just how I like ya."
You whimper, twisting helplessly, but he just chuckles deep in his chest, the sound vibrating against your ribs.
And then he goes still.
For one terrible, breathless second, he freezes—nostrils flaring, whiffing deeply, body tense as a drawn bowstring.
His gaze drops between your legs—to where your petticoat is soaked through, a dark, spreading stain betraying you to the night.
The change is instant.
A groan tears from his throat—raw, guttural, almost pained—and when his eyes meet yours again, they're molten red, desperate, devouring.
"God Almighty," he rasps, voice cracking like dry kindling. "Ain't nothin' in this world sweeter than a bleedin' cunt."
You sob, humiliated, terrified, as he shifts lower, his body dragging down over yours.
One hand shoves your thighs apart—roughly, possessively—while the other pins your wrists like shackles above your head.
"You don’t even know," he murmurs, almost tender, mouth ghosting over your inner thigh, his breath scorching hot, even in Delta’s sweltering humidity. "Don't even know what you’re doin' to me, sweet pea."
You can feel it now—his mouth, open and panting against the sensitive skin of your thigh, the tremble in his hands as he fights the urge to tear you open like a cat stretched over a fresh kill.
He presses his face against you, inhaling, low and deep, the sound of it filthy in the night.
And then—
He licks.
Long, slow, obscene—dragging his tongue up the seam of your cunt through the blood-slick cotton, a helpless whimper shuddering out of you before you can stop it.
He growls in response—a sound of such raw, savage pleasure you feel it bone-deep.
"That's it," he croons against you, dragging his mouth over you again, harder now, more desperate. "Let me taste it, baby...let me drink ya down."
You shake your head weakly, gasping, tears kissing along your water lines, vision blurry.
He only laughs —low and delighted—and tears the soiled remains of your petticoat aside with a quick, brutal rip of fabric.
And then there’s nothing between you.
Nothing but blood, skin, and his appetite.
Your thighs quake against the rough spread of his hands as he forces you open wider, his breath scorching hot against the most vulnerable parts of you, the parts that have never known a man's touch.
For a moment, he just stares—a low, reverent rumble building in his chest, vibrating through the muggy, blood-heavy air.
You choke on a sob, trying to squirm away, but his fingers dig bruises into your thighs.
"Nuh-uh, sugar," he murmurs, thick with amusement, the sharp scrape of his accent dragging down your spine like a blade. "You gone run enough."
You feel the shift—
Feel it deep in your marrow—
When he leans in and lets his mouth part against you.
A soft, wet, sinful sound fills the air as he licks—
And not just with any tongue.
When he drags it up your slit, you feel it—the unnatural split, the way the forked ends flick and curl separately, tracing obscene patterns through the slick, blood-slick folds of your cunt.
Your whole body seizes, a ragged, fragmented noise spilling from your throat.
He hums low—pleased, greedy—and licks again, slower this time, letting the twin points of his tongue tease your clit, your opening, flickering back and forth in a rhythm that makes your back arch high against the dirt.
"Mmm," he groans into you, nosing deeper, breathing you in like he means to fill his lungs with nothing but your scent. "Ain't never had a taste so fine. Like honey drippin' straight from the comb."
Tears streak from the corners of your eyes and down your temples, hot and shameful. You wrench your wrists uselessly against his grip, but he just pins you harder, his hand tightening like an iron shackle around your wrists.
He pulls back—just enough for you to see the blood slicking his lips, his chin—
And the red gleam of his eyes as he smiles, wide and mean.
"You wanna know what I was fixin' t' do t' ya?" he drawls, voice syrupy slow, full of wickedness. "When I caught ya runnin', I thought I'd rip that pretty lil' throat open. Watch ya bleed out all soft an' sweet beneath me."
You sob—broken, desperate.
His smile sharpens.
"Still might," he says, almost cheerfully, leaning back in, his nose nudging your clit so softly it makes your legs jerk. "If ya don't play real sweet for me, darlin'."
The implication settles heavy as stone in your gut—brutal, absolute.
Be good.
Or be dead.
You nod, trembling so hard your teeth chatter.
He croons a soft, pleased sound, rubbing his cheek against your inner thigh like a cat marking its prize.
"That's my girl," he says, thick and low, tongue flickering out to taste you again—slower now, more savoring. "Gonna treat ya real nice if ya stay still f'me."
You do.
You have no choice.
And he devours you.
The twin forks of his tongue work you open mercilessly—teasing, dipping, thrusting, flicking over the swollen nub of your clit in relentless, devastating licks. The sensation is too much—too sharp, too wet, too filthy—and you sob against the onslaught, your hips bucking helplessly beneath his iron grip.
He groans against you—filthy, hungry—and the vibrations make your vision white out at the edges.
"You taste like a blessin'," he mutters into your cunt, grinding the words into your skin with his mouth. "Sweet lil' Sunday sacrament, all laid out f'me t' worship."
You gasp, legs trembling violently, as the first orgasm builds—fast and brutal, cresting through you with the same merciless inevitability as the hunter pressing you down into the dirt, refusing to let up.
You don't want it.
You don't want it.
You can't want it.
But your body betrays you—spasming against his mouth, a shuddering cry breaking loose from your throat as you come, helpless and raw, against the wickedly incessant flicker of his tongue.
He moans as if your climax is the answer to damnation.
When you finally sag against the ground, limp and wrecked, he rises up over you—his mouth and chin slick with blood and slickness, his chest heaving, his cock straining hard against the rough denim of his trousers.
And for the first time—
There’s something in his face that’s not just hunger.
Something softer—
Something almost awed.
"Didn't think," he says roughly, almost to himself, "you'd be this damn sweet."
He leans down, pressing his forehead to yours—a rough, possessive, almost tender gesture.
"Ain't lettin' ya go now, sweet pea," he whispers, voice cracking like a prayer. "Ain't never lettin' go."
His hands trail down your body—calloused, devout—and you realize with a sick, fluttering horror that he’s not finished.
Not by a long shot.
He’s only just getting started.
You’re barely aware of him moving—too dazed, too wrecked—until the earth suddenly tilts wildly beneath you.
He rises to his feet in one smooth, terrifying motion, hauling your limp body up like you weigh nothing at all. His arms lock around your thighs, hoisting you over his broad shoulder, your face bouncing helplessly against the curve of his back.
The rough weave of his shirt scrapes your muddied cheek, damp with sweat and the humid Mississippi night. His scent floods your nose—salt and soil, blood and musk, something darker, wilder, something inhuman.
You whimper—too weak to fight—as his hand slaps possessively against the back of your thigh, holding you steady like a trophy kill.
"Shhh," he croons, his voice a low rumble vibrating straight through the very marrow of your bones. "Ain't no good wigglin', sweet pea. Y'belong t' me now."
Your fingers scrabble weakly against his shirt, nails catching on the coarse fabric, but he just laughs—a low, satisfied growl that rolls through the mist like thunder.
He starts walking—long, lazy strides deeper into the woods—further from the safety of town, further from anyone who could possibly hear you scream.
The trees lean in overhead, their gnarled branches clawing at the blood-colored sky, the cry of the cicadas like a chaotic choir, being taken deeper into the ugly underbelly of the forest.
The swamp breathes heavy and wet around you, the thick reek of stagnant water and moss closing over you like a suffocating shroud.
You can't see where he's taking you.
You can barely think.
Only feel—the slow, relentless sway of his body, the iron strength of his arms locking you in place as you look at the passing blur of gnarled foliage and plant litter every which way you twist your neck.
And his voice—
Low, filthy, almost tender—
Whispering promises against the slope of your thigh, each word branding itself into your skin.
"Gonna keep ya," he mutters, almost to himself. "Chain ya up nice 'n' sweet...keep ya all soft an' wet f'me...pretty lil' plaything, made jus' fer me."
You sob quietly, the sound muffled against his back, not that anything other than things that go bump in the night would hear anyways.
He doesn't stop.
Doesn't waver.
Just keeps carrying you deeper and deeper into the black heart of the woods, where no one will ever find you.
Where you’ll be his.
Body and soul.
Whether you want to be or not.
The world sways sickeningly with every step he takes.
Your body hangs limp over his shoulder, the thin fabric of your torn dress sticking to your skin, soaked through with sweat, blood, and the sticky breath of the Delta night. Every time he shifts you higher, the calloused drag of his palm across the backs of your thighs sends a tremor through your aching muscles.
The woods are different here.
Deeper.
Darker.
The trees older, skeletal and gnarled, twisted into shapes that look unnaturally human in the bloody moonlight, the knots in the bark large and gaping like mouths frozen mid-scream. The air thickens, heavy with the reek of standing water, mold, the cloying sweetness of rotting flowers.
You choke on it—each breath a struggle, sticky and wet in your throat.
He walks without hurry, the heavy tread of his boots sinking into the soft, muddy earth. The mist clings low around his legs, swallowing the ground whole. Crickets scream somewhere in the black, distant and frantic, but otherwise the world is eerily, horribly still.
You try to lift your head, try to see, but it only makes your vision tilt crazily, a low moan of sickness rising from your gut, feeling the bile trying to crawl up your esophagus.
He chuckles—low and knowing.
"Easy, lil' thing," he drawls, one broad hand stroking up the back of your thigh like a man soothing a spooked filly. "Ain't no sense gettin' y'self all riled."
His bloody fingers trail higher—under the torn remains of your petticoat, brushing the damp, sticky mess between your thighs. He hums, pleased.
"Still drippin'," he mutters almost to himself. "Still sweet."
The mist parts ahead like a curtain—and then you see it.
The chapel.
Or what's left of it.
A crumbling ruin of warped wood and sagging stone, half-swallowed by ivy and moss. The windows are shattered, jagged teeth of stained glass glinting in the blood moon's light. The steeple leans drunkenly to one side, bells long since stolen or fallen.
It should have been abandoned.
It was abandoned.
But now—
It breathes.
The mist coils around its dirty white skeleton, hugging it tight, the trees bending low like penitents around a grave.
He shoulders through the warped doors, boots echoing hollowly against the splintered floorboards. The air inside is thick—choking with mildew, smoke, old blood, the slow, sweet rot of something long dead, something long past salvation.
He carries you down the nave like a groom bearing a bride—if the groom were a wolf and the bride a carcass.
In the very center of the chapel, where once an altar might have stood, there’s only a low, crude bed—little more than a frame of old wood lashed together with vines and rope, a soiled mattress bowed low in the middle. Chains dangle from the bedposts, dark with rust, heavy enough to hold an ox.
Your heart stutters against your ribs.
He stops at the edge of the bed and lets you slide from his shoulder like a sack of grain, dropping you onto the mattress with a grunt. The springs wheeze under your weight. You scramble weakly, trying to push yourself up, but he just watches—arms folded, a slow, wicked grin playing at the corners of his bloody mouth.
"Look atcha," he says, voice dripping slow and fond. "All scared and pretty."
You whimper, trying to scoot back—away from him, away from the bed, away from the chains meant to shackle you to the floor. To him.
He lets you.
For a second.
Then he moves—faster than you can track—grabbing your ankle and yanking you back down the mattress with a savage jerk that knocks the breath from your lungs, chuckling low and mean under his breath, smiling like a predator playing with its food.
He looms over you—all broad shoulders and hungry red eyes, his chest heaving, his hair sweaty and sticking to his face. The crumbling roof of the chapel overhead caved in like a skylight created by time and erosion, the moonlight streaming in creating a bloody halo behind his head.
You kick out at him, weak and feeble. He catches your other ankle, spreads your legs wide with ease, and pins them to the bed.
"Y'know," he says thoughtfully, almost conversational, "I ain't never done this before."
You stare up at him, wide-eyed, chest heaving.
"Usually," he drawls, slow and deliberate, your blood dark and drying to his jaw, teeth sharp and daggered like the canines of a beast. "I catch my prey...an' I tear it open. Bleed it dry. Toss what's left t' the buzzards."
His hands slide up your calves, over your knees, rough palms mapping the shivering muscle of your thighs.
"But you..."
His grin widens, sharp and wicked.
"You got somethin' special in ya, sugar. Somethin' sweet. Somethin’ addictin’.”
His hands move higher, pushing the torn hem of your dress up around your hips.
"Gonna make a pet outta you," he murmurs, almost worshipful. "Gonna keep ya chained up nice and proper. Keep ya fed, keep ya warm...keep ya wet and loose."
You sob, twisting against the hold he has on your legs, but it only makes him chuckle low in his throat.
"Not just a meal, no sir," he says, voice thick with something like wonder. "Ain't never turned a meal inta a pet before."
He leans down, his mouth brushing your ear, his breath hot and damp and hungry.
"Gonna fuck ya every which way," he whispers, each word sinking into your flesh like thorns pricking your skin. "Gonna break ya in nice and slow. Make ya forget y'ever had a name b'fore me."
You shake your head, tears spilling over.
He just laughs—low and delighted—and kisses your temple, obscene in its mockery of tenderness.
"You'll see," he croons. "Ain't nothin' sweeter than bein' wanted, sweet pea. Nothin' sweeter than bein' kept and cared for.”
He shifts, reaching for the chains.
You hear the clatter of iron against wood, the heavy clink of rusted links.
Your blood goes cold.
You realize—
This isn't a nightmare you can wake from.
This is your life now.
Your body.
Your blood.
Your soul.
All belonging to him.
And the monster smiles.
The chains rattle in his fists, thick and rust-bitten, heavy enough to feel like fate.
You kick again, heart thundering in your chest, but it’s nothing against him.
He grabs your wrist with one hand, slamming it down against the splintered wood of the bed frame. The iron cuff closes around your wrist with a brutal finality, locking tight with a groaning snap of the old metal.
You cry out—a broken, pitiful sound that nothing but the cicadas will hear.
He shushes you—a low, almost tender croon—as he grabs your other arm, dragging it above your head and shackling it too.
The chains clink as you struggle, the cold bite of them against your bruised skin making you tremble harder.
"There we go," he murmurs, stepping back to admire his work, red eyes gleaming under the dripping shadows of the ruined chapel. "All trussed up like a good lil' prize hog."
You sob again, humiliated, terrified—but he only grins, predatory and bright, his chest rising and falling with heavy, panting breaths.
Slowly, leisurely, he kneels over you.
His hands trail down your body—dirty palms leaving streaks of blood, sweat, and swamp filth over the ruined silk of your dress. He hooks his fingers into the ripped neckline and tears—a wet, brutal sound of fabric giving way.
Your dress peels open like fruit skin, baring your chest to the swamp-choked air.
He makes a sound then—not quite a growl, not quite a groan—something broken and devout.
"Goddamn," he breathes, one palm spanning your ribs, feeling your heart rabbit helplessly beneath the thin shell of bone and skin. "Y'look sweeter 'n a sunrise after the flood."
His thumb brushes one nipple, watching it harden instantly under the humid chill.
You try to twist away—shame burning hotter than the blood in your veins—but the chains rattle uselessly, locking you in place.
He chuckles, low and dark.
"Ain't no hidin' from me, sugar," he says, rough and sweet, dragging his knuckles down your trembling belly. "Ain't no shame neither. Y'was made fer this. Made fer me."
His hands find the bunched remains of your petticoat around your hips.
Slowly—cruelly slow—he tears the rest away.
Until you're laid bare before him.
Blood-slick, shaking, eyes wide and wet.
He stares at you for a long moment—drinking in the sight of you like a starving man at a banquet that hasn't been permitted to feast yet.
You can feel the weight of his gaze—heavy and hungry.
"Mmm," he hums deep in his throat.
"Prettiest lil' pet I ever seen."
He palms your thighs, rough thumbs pressing bruises into the soft flesh as he pushes your legs open wider.
You sob—mortified, helpless—but it only seems to please him more.
"Lookit that," he murmurs, dipping his head down, close enough that his breath fans hot across your cunt. "Still bleedin'...still so damn sweet."
And then—
The flicker of heat—
The twin points of his forked tongue lash out, slick and obscene, stroking along the weeping seam of your cunt.
You gasp—body jolting violently against the chains—a sharp, helpless cry tearing from your throat.
He groans deep, low and guttural, as he licks again—slow, deliberate—tasting the blood and slick pooling between your thighs.
He moves with maddening patience—the split tips of his tongue teasing either side of your clit, circling, flicking, taunting.
"You hear that?" he mutters thickly, rubbing his mouth over your cunt, tongue dragging up every inch of you. "Hear how messy y'are f'me, sugar?"
You can't answer.
You're beyond answering.
Your thighs quiver against his shoulders, muscles locking and spasming as he devours you—slow, relentless, merciless.
He pulls back only long enough to watch you squirm—your face flushed, your lips trembling, your hips jerking up helplessly as if chasing the wicked flick of his tongue.
"Poor thing," he croons, mock-sweet. "Y'bleedin', cryin', achin'...and ya still openin' them pretty legs f'me."
He laughs—low and pleased—and dives back in, feasting like a man who'd been starved for a hundred years.
You can already feel yourself unraveling—
Can feel it building again—
That terrible, traitorous heat coiling low in your belly, shame burning so brightly it tastes like iron on your tongue.
He tongues you deeper, forked tongue writhing against your soaked, blood-slick entrance, and you sob, straining against the chains as your body gives in.
You come—
Harder than before—
Your cunt clenching helplessly around nothing, your blood and slick gushing against his mouth.
He groans, hips grinding into the bed, rutting against the mattress like he can't stand it, like the taste of you is killing him.
He pulls back, panting hard, mouth and chin dripping in a fresh coat of crimson.
When he looks at you—
It's not just hunger.
It's possession.
"That's it, baby," he rasps, voice raw, shredded with want. "Give it all t' me. Ain't gonna leave nothin' behind."
You whimper brokenly, chains rattling as you pull uselessly at your bonds.
And then—
You see it.
Him undoing his belt.
The clink of metal, the low rasp of fabric sliding down heavy thighs.
His cock springs free—thick, veined, flushed red—already weeping at the tip.
Your mouth goes dry with terror.
He crawls up the bed like a predator stalking wounded prey, his glowing eyes locked on you, his smile wide and merciless.
"Gonna claim ya proper now, sugar," he says, his voice low and trembling with barely-restrained hunger. "Gonna fuck ya bloody, fuck ya dumb...make ya forget the whole damn world 'cept me."
You sob, head thrashing weakly against the mattress.
He just laughs—low, light, loving—as he fits the head of his cock against your slick cunt.
And pushes in.
The first push of him inside you is a shock—
Stretching, burning, splitting you apart on the thick, heavy drag of his shaft.
You sob, twisting against the chains, but he just groans guttural and filthy, shoving deeper with a slow, brutal roll of his hips that forces your body to open up for him.
"There we go," he pants, sweat dripping from his brow to your heaving chest. "Takin' me real sweet, ain't ya, darlin'?"
The stretch feels endless, unbearable—every ridge and vein of him dragging against blood-slick, swollen flesh.
Your body tries to resist, clenching tight, but he's relentless—grinding deeper, forcing himself past the trembling, fluttering grip of your cunt.
"You fightin' me," he groans, voice ragged with pleasure, "but ya can't stop it, can ya? Body knows. Body knows who owns it now."
Tears spill from your eyes, hot and helpless.
The chains rattle with every shuddering breath you take.
He leans down, pressing his forehead against yours, his skin sweaty and warm same as yours, trapping you together in the sticky, blood-sweet air.
"Y'made fer this," he whispers, voice breaking on the edges of worship. "Made fer me."
With a slow, grinding thrust, he bottoms out—buried to the hilt, your body stretched taut around him, trembling with the effort to contain him.
He doesn't move at first.
Just breathes—hard, shuddering—his cock pulsing hot inside you, his hands gripping your hips so tight you know you'll wear the bruises for days.
"Sweetest cunt I ever had," he murmurs, almost dazed, rolling his hips just enough to grind against the blood-slick walls of your cunt. "Sweetest thing I ever tasted."
You whimper, wrecked, overwhelmed.
He starts to move—slow at first, almost lazy, dragging his cock nearly all the way out before slamming back in with a wet, obscene slap of skin on skin.
The bedframe groans under the force of it. The chains rattle. The chapel breathes with the rhythm of it—an old, rotted cathedral witnessing your ruin.
He keeps his forehead pressed to yours, breath coming hot and ragged between clenched fangs.
"Fuck," he snarls, thrusting harder, grinding deep. "Ain't never...fuckin'...lettin' you go, sugar."
Each word is punctuated by a savage snap of his hips, driving you higher up the mattress, making the iron cuffs bite deeper into your bruised wrists.
Your world narrows to the brutal stretch of him inside you, the thick heat of his body pinning you down, the filthy grind of his cock dragging more slick, more blood from your battered cunt.
He groans again—a raw, broken sound—and pulls back to stare down at where your bodies meet.
Blood coats his cock, painting the base of it slick and glistening in the crimson moonlight.
He growls—a deep, vibrating sound—and slams in harder, hips jerking.
"Bleedin' all f'me," he mutters, awe bleeding into the filthy cadence of his voice. "Markin' me proper. Good lil' bitch, lettin' me ruin ya."
You sob—don't know if it's from the pain, the shame, the unbearable rush of something darker pooling low in your belly.
He leans in, dragging his split tongue up your throat—slow, languid—tasting the salt of your skin.
"Gonna fill ya up," he rasps, thrusting harder now, the rhythm getting ragged, desperate. "Breed ya good. Chain ya to this bed and fuck ya full every night till y'don't know nothin' but my cock."
Your hips jerk helplessly against him, legs trembling, blood and slick dripping down your thighs onto the ruined mattress.
He bites down suddenly—not hard enough to break the skin, but hard enough to bruise—right over the frantic pulse at your throat.
You keen—a high, broken noise—and the orgasm hits you like a lightning strike.
Your cunt clamps down around him, spasming violently, drawing a raw, broken snarl from his chest.
"That's it," he growls, fucking you through it, his cock thickening even more inside you. "That's it, dove, milk it. Milk it good."
You come undone—
Body locking, heart hammering, chains rattling—
As he drives you through wave after wave of brutal, bloody pleasure.
His rhythm falters—
Hitches—
And with a hoarse snarl, he slams deep one last time.
You feel it—
The hot, thick flood of him spilling inside you—
Coating your walls, mixing with the blood already slicking your thighs.
He stays buried deep—panting, shaking, his arms trembling where they cage you in.
For a long moment, the only sound in the chapel is the labored, broken gasps of breath—his and yours, tangled together in the hot, heavy dark.
He nuzzles into your throat, murmuring low, senseless things against your skin.
"My girl," he breathes, over and over, as if trying to convince himself. "My sweet girl."
You lie limp beneath him—wrecked, used, ruined—your body claimed in every way it can be claimed.
And somewhere—
Buried under the terror, the humiliation—
A dark, terrible heat begins to flicker in your chest.
You're his now.
There’s no going back.
And the monster—
The one you were warned about—
Whispers that maybe, just maybe—you don’t want to.
The world feels soft and hazy when he finally moves.
You’re barely aware of it—just a weak, blood-warm ache where your legs sprawl open, your wrists burning raw from the chains. Every nerve ending feels stretched thin, humming with the aftershocks of being wrecked and claimed and ruined.
He shifts over you—his cock sliding free with a wet, filthy sound that makes you flinch—and you feel the thick, sticky mess of blood and come seeping down your thighs.
You whimper weakly, body too used up to fight.
But instead of leaving you—instead of walking away like the monster you thought he was—
He stays.
He kneels between your ruined thighs, the broken mattress sagging beneath his weight, and for a moment he just looks at you—head cocked, hair wild and dripping sweat, red eyes burning.
Something like awe flickers across his face.
"Sweet lil' mess," he murmurs, voice thick, almost tender.
One large, calloused hand cups your knee—thumb stroking slow, idle circles into your bruised skin—as he leans in.
You feel the first press of his tongue before you can even gasp.
He drags that wicked, forked tongue up the inside of your thigh again, lapping at the blood and slick smeared there like it’s the finest ambrosia.
He groans deep in his chest, his hands tightening on your trembling legs to hold you wide open for him.
You sob—broken, humiliated—but he just keeps licking, slow and steady, cleaning you up like a beast grooming his mate.
"Can't waste none of it," he mutters between licks, his breath damp against your skin. "Every drop...mine."
You twitch beneath him, wrists jerking weakly against the chains, but there’s no strength left in you.
There’s no fight left at all.
He licks higher—over the tender, battered folds of your cunt—gathering the mixture of blood and seed with obscene thoroughness, his tongue darting deep, savoring every taste.
You shudder violently, a broken whimper escaping your throat.
He shushes you again—so softly, so lovingly it makes your heart twist.
"Easy, sweet pea," he croons against your skin. "Ain't hurtin' ya now. Jus' takin' what's mine."
His tongue splits and flicks, teasing your clit, making your hips jolt despite yourself.
"That's it," he murmurs, smiling against you. "That's my good girl."
When he’s satisfied—when every drop of blood, every smear of slick has been licked from your trembling body—
He pulls back, wiping his mouth lazily with the back of his hand.
He looks down at you sprawled out on the soiled mattress—swollen wrists chained, thighs open, skin sticky with sweat and tears—and his smile softens.
"Pretty lil' thing," he murmurs, reaching out to thumb the tear tracks from your cheeks. "Took it so good. Knew ya would."
You try to flinch away from his touch, but it’s pathetic—a trembling, fragmented twitch.
He hums low in his throat, pleased.
Slowly, purposefully, he reaches for the shackles binding your wrists.
For a sick, dizzy second, you think he’s going to tighten them—punish you for even thinking of pulling away.
But instead—
You hear the click of old iron locks giving way.
The weight of the cuffs falls from your wrists, leaving raw, angry bands of flesh behind.
You sag back against the mattress like a puddle of liquid bones and flesh, too stunned, too hollowed out to move.
He watches you for a moment—head tilted, red eyes gleaming—like a man admiring the final brushstroke of a masterpiece.
Then he moves.
He scoops you up with terrifying ease—one hand under your knees, the other cradling your back—lifting you like you're weightless.
You make a weak, pitiful sound against his chest, but he just hushes you—soft and sweet—pressing a rough kiss to the crown of your filthy, sweat-drenched hair.
"Shhh, baby," he croons. "Ain't gonna hurtcha. Ain't gotta run no more."
He carries you to the far corner of the chapel—to a weathered old pew tucked into the shadows—and settles down onto it, shifting you into his lap like you belong there.
Your thighs straddle his hips, your chest crushed against his filthy shirt, your legs dangling uselessly on either side of his body.
He rocks you—nice and easy—the way a man might rock a newborn calf.
And all the while, he talks.
Low, sweet, steady.
"Got a place fer ya," he murmurs into your hair. "Back in the bayou. Little cabin where nobody'll never find ya."
His hands roam lazily over your battered body—soothing, petting, possessive.
"Got a bed there," he goes on, voice almost dreamy. "Big enough to tie ya spread-eagle. Big enough t' keep ya wet and ready all the time."
You shudder in his lap—a broken, helpless thing—but he just rocks you harder, nuzzling into your neck.
"Teach ya how t' live on nothin' but my cock and my seed," he whispers. "Keep ya full, keep ya heavy...make ya forget the whole damn world but me."
You sob softly against his chest.
He smiles against your hair.
"That's it," he croons. "That's my sweet girl."
His hand slides between your thighs again—unhurried, filthy—and cups the used, swollen heat of your cunt, thumb stroking lazy circles into the mess he left behind.
You twitch helplessly in his lap.
"Always knew I'd find somethin' special out here," he mutters, more to himself than to you. "Didn't reckon I'd find my forever meal...my lil' blood-slick pet."
He presses his mouth to your temple—a kiss, obscene in its tenderness.
"Mine now," he whispers. "Mine 'til the river runs dry."
The chapel groans around you—old wood settling, whispering, watching—as he rocks you slowly in his lap.
You’re weightless against him.
Soft.
Malleable.
The chains are gone, but you’re no freer than you were before.
Your body has surrendered.
Your mind—
God help you—isn't far behind.
He hums low under his breath, a tuneless, lazy thing—some old hymn twisted into something darker. Something damned.
His hands roam over you without hurry—stroking your bruised thighs, cupping the raw stretch of your hips, smoothing down the arch of your spine.
One of his palms cups the back of your head, pushing your face against his chest, holding you there like a possession too precious to lose.
"You feel it, don'tcha," he murmurs against your hair. "Way y'body melts into mine. Way y'cunt still pulses f'me even now."
You whimper—soft and splintered—and he smiles, wide and slow.
"Don't fight it, sugar," he says, low and coaxing. "Ain't nothin' left but me now."
You feel the slow, lazy roll of his hips beneath you—the thick, heavy press of his cock, still slick and blood-warm, nudging insistently between your thighs again.
You sob weakly, your body jerking against his.
But it’s useless.
Inevitable.
He shifts you higher, lining himself up, one broad hand guiding your hips as he pushes back inside—slow, deep, claiming.
You choke on a whimper, trembling violently in his lap as he fills you again—stretching your battered, blood-slick cunt to the limit.
"There we go," he croons. "There she is."
He rocks you on his cock—gradual, thick, obscene—grinding deep with each lazy roll of his hips, never pulling out, never letting you escape the feel of him inside you.
His mouth finds your ear, breath hot and heavy.
"Y'ain't even know my name yet," he murmurs, almost laughing. "Been takin' ya, ruinin' ya, bleedin' ya dry...and you don't even know what t' call me."
You shudder helplessly against him.
He presses a kiss to the hinge of your jaw—filthy, tender.
"Remmick," he breathes.
"That's what ya call me, sugar."
Another slow grind of his hips—another thick, aching thrust deep inside your ruined cunt.
"Say it," he whispers, voice breaking sweet and sharp against your skin. "Say my name."
You sob—mind reeling, body burning—but the word tumbles out of you like a rejected prayer.
"Remmick."
He groans, raw and reverent, and rocks you harder, the weathered pew creaking beneath the slow, punishing grind of his body.
"Good girl," he pants, forehead pressing to yours. "Sweet lil' thing...mine now. Mine forever."
He kisses you then—
A brutal, clumsy thing—
Mouth crushed against yours, tasting of blood and salt and something older. Something primordial.
You sob into the kiss, legs trembling against his hips, your body clinging to him without thinking, without reason.
Remmick smiles against your mouth.
"That's it," he murmurs. "Ain't no runnin' now. Ain't no leavin'."
He rocks you again—slow, deep—every thrust branding you, sinking you deeper under his spell.
"You got my name now," he whispers, voice thick with triumph and devotion. "And soon enough, baby...you gonna carry the rest of me too."
His hand slides down, splaying wide over your lower belly—
Possessive, filthy, promising.
"You gonna carry me inside ya, sweet pea," he breathes, voice almost shaking. "Gonna grow fat an' heavy with me...my blood, my seed, my babies."
You sob against his chest—wrecked, overwhelmed—as he rocks you through it, slow and relentless, every movement carving your fate deeper into your body.
And Remmick—
The monster, the devil, the man—
Just holds you tighter, crooning low and filthy against your skin.
"My girl," he whispers. "My sweet, bleedin' girl."
The slow grind of him inside you never stops.
Remmick rocks you lazily in his lap—the pew creaking under the weight of his possession—each slow thrust pushing you deeper under, erasing everything but the burn and the stretch and the unbearable, filthy tenderness of him.
Your head lolls against his shoulder, sweat-soaked hair sticking to your temples, every nerve frayed to a live wire.
He strokes your back in long, rough sweeps—the calluses of his palms rasping over every bruise, every bite mark, every blood-smeared inch of you.
"You feel it, don'tcha, sugar," he breathes into your ear, voice sweet and sticky as syrup. "The way yer body listens to me now. Way it wants me even when you don't."
You sob weakly, too broken to deny it.
His arms tighten around you—one locked around your back, the other spreading wide over your hips, guiding you up and down the thick, blood-slick length of his cock.
"You was made fer this," he murmurs, his breath hot and humid against your skin. "Made t'be mine. Made t'be fucked full, bred fat, kept warm an' wet in my bed."
He rocks you harder—deeper—the swollen head of his cock grinding up against that raw, aching place inside you, making your whole body jolt and shudder helplessly.
Your wrists curl weakly against his chest, the instinct to cling overpowering even your fear.
Remmick hums low, satisfied.
"Good girl," he praises, voice rough and ragged. "Good lil' thing, clingin' so sweet."
He kisses the side of your throat—a slow, open-mouthed drag of lips and teeth—and you feel him smiling against your pulse.
And then his voice drops lower—softer, darker—as he begins to whisper.
"But if y'ever think about runnin'..." he murmurs, rocking you a little harder, his cock dragging thick and slow inside your cunt, "if y'ever try t'leave me, lil’ hare...I'll hunt ya down."
You shudder violently in his arms.
"I'll drag ya screamin' back by that sweet lil' ankle," he whispers, almost lovingly. "Chain ya tighter. Fuck ya harder. Make sure next time ya can't even walk."
You sob—broken, breathless.
He kisses your ear, his tongue flicking out to taste the salt of your tears.
"Maybe I'll break that pretty lil' ankle," he muses, his voice so soft it’s almost a lullaby. "Keep ya bed-bound...keep ya needy...make ya beg for me t'feed ya, to fuck ya, to touch ya."
You whimper, hips jerking against him without meaning to.
Remmick groans low in his chest, thrusting up deeper inside you.
"You'd look so pretty like that," he pants. "All bruised up an' cryin'...beggin' me to keep fillin' this sweet lil' cunt."
His hand slides between your bodies, thumb finding your clit—swollen, aching, blood-slick—and starts to rub slow, relentless circles.
You gasp, high and needy, clutching at him, legs trembling where they sprawl weakly around his hips.
"That's it," he breathes, rocking you harder now, rubbing you faster. "Cum f'me, sugar. Milk me good. Show me who ya belong to."
You sob, mind fracturing under the thick, unbearable pleasure—under the dirty, endless tenderness of his voice—under the awful, overwhelming rightness of it.
Your orgasm slams into you—sharp, brutal, dizzying—your whole body clenching down around him, sobbing his name against his throat.
Remmick groans, burying his cock deep one last time, grinding slow and thick against the fluttering spasms of your cunt.
"That's my girl," he whispers, voice cracked and worshipful. "My sweet, bleedin' girl. Mine."
He holds you through it—rocking you gently, slowly—cooing filthy promises against your skin.
"Never lettin' ya go," he breathes, voice drunk with possession. "Never."
And you know—
With a dark, shattered certainty —
That he’s telling the truth.
Your body trembles in his lap—used, slick, overflowing—and still, Remmick doesn’t stop.
Still buried deep inside you, he rocks you lazily—thick, slow drags of his cock against your raw, battered walls, the wet, messy sound of it filling the ruined chapel.
You whimper, limp and broken against his chest.
He shushes you, petting your hair, pressing kisses to your temple, your jaw, your throat.
"That's it, sweet pea," he praises. "Just keep takin' it. Keep takin' me."
His hips move slower now—deep, grinding thrusts that make you feel every vein, every throb of him inside you.
You sob weakly when you feel the telltale pulse of his cock thickening again—feel the way he holds you tighter, groaning low in your ear.
"Poor thing," he breathes, voice shaking with hunger and something darker, deeper. "Ain't built t'keep up, are ya?"
He rocks you harder, the sticky, bloody mess of your body clinging wetly to him.
His mouth finds your ear again—voice low, filthy, almost laughing.
"Y'know why?" he whispers. "Y'know why ya break so easy f'me, sugar?"
You whimper, unable to answer, unable to think.
He licks the shell of your ear—slow, lazy—before speaking again.
"'Cause I ain't no man, sweet thing," he says, voice rich with wicked delight. "Ain't no mortal that tires out an' falls asleep after one fuck."
He grinds deeper—hips jerking, cock twitching inside you.
"A demon’s stamina," he murmurs, "ain't like a man's."
You shudder violently in his arms.
"I can do this," he breathes, voice low and full of terrible promise, "forever."
He thrusts again—slow, heavy, final—and you feel it.
Feel the thick, molten flood of him spilling inside you again—hotter, heavier than before, painting your ruined cunt, seeping out around his cock.
Remmick groans low, deep in his chest—a sound full of brutal satisfaction.
He holds you there—stuffed full, pinned tight—grinding the mess deeper with lazy, possessive rolls of his hips.
"There we go," he murmurs against your throat. "Fill ya up good. Mark ya so deep ya gonna leak me out fer days."
You sob, a broken little sound that only makes him hum in pleasure.
He strokes your hair, your back, rocking you gently in the wreckage of the chapel.
"You're mine now," he whispers. "Ain't no priest, no preacher, no god up there that can take ya from me."
He kisses your temple—filthy, loving.
"Belong t' me, sweet lil' thing," he breathes. "My pet. My meal. My mate."
You lie limp in his lap, broken open, owned.
And you realize—with a dark, awful clarity—that you don't even want to run anymore.
You belong here.
With him.
Forever.
And the monster—
The demon—
Your Remmick—
Rocks you slowly into the night, crooning sweet, filthy promises against your skin.
preacher’s daughter!reader x remmick headcanons. MDNI (18+)
you never really liked music until you met REMMICK. every evening, you sit at his feet like a faithful pup, watching him strum his banjo under as the sky turns a lovely shade of bruise. the songs he plays for you aren’t the hymns you grew up listening to—those are replaced with irish folk songs that speak of longing and heartache, rebellion and freedom.
you don’t lie to him—because you know you can’t. REMMICK sees every filthy little fantasy that goes on inside your head. and being the attentive lover that he is, he acts on them.
REMMICK calls you his “sweet girl” more than your birth name. sometimes he lets slip, and gaelic rolls of his tongue: “a stór,” “mo chroi,” or “mo leanbh,”
you learned to fear your body the day you started bleeding. they told you it meant you were unclean, a temptation, a vessel for sin. REMMICK tells you otherwise. says your body is a vessel for pleasure, and proves it every time he spreads your thighs and dips his head. he loves it most when you’re on your period—drools for it, actually. claims that it’s the sweetest you ever taste.
you cried the first time (of many) he fucked you. not out of pain—no, but because it felt so good, and you liked it; all those years of sermons never warned you about missing out on that kind of sweetness.
once, you were told pleasure was a doorway to hell—now you live past the threshold every night, legs open, hands gripping the sheets. REMMICK never lets you forget how badly he wants you. you’ve woken up more than once to find his face nestled between your thighs. eyes gleaming in the dark, a leering smile full of teeth.
you used to get bruises on your knees from hours of prayer. now they bruise for other reasons. the good kind. you kneel at the foot of the bed, nightgown rucked up at your waist. the wooden floor bites at your skin with every thrust, but you don’t ever want REMMICK to stop. not when he’s hitting so hard that you see god. one hand tangled in your hair, the other flattened over your abdomen. “poor thing,” he licks a hot strip down the nape of your neck, and that’s when you start to tremble. “nothin’ holy about what you need, is there?”
𝐅𝐄𝐀𝐑-𝐈𝐒-𝐓𝐑𝐔𝐓𝐇 2025 — all rights reserved. do not modify, repost, translate, or plagiarise my content. ꕀ
imagining an AU where Remmick lives but Sammie doesn't leave the church and Sammie is destined to spend the rest of his life with a weird guy white lingering outside services every Sunday just to hear a sliver of Sammie's music
I think some people have been a bit confused by some of my posts so I wanna clarify something.
In real life i know a lot of people who love sinners. So I've spent everyday for the past week talking and dissecting every little part of that film, it's meanings, it's commentary on racism and colonialism, the score, the acting, the costuming. Everything.
So when I come on tumble, I don't need to talk about that because I do it in real life. But I can't talk about shipping and smut and horny thoughts in real life so I do it on here. That's why it might seem like I'm simplifying characters or only focusing on superficial stuff. I don't need people to come and tell me the real meaning of the film because I know. I just also wanna talk about funny and sexy stuff the same way I do with every other random. And honestly I hate that we finally get a black led vampire film and people aren't allowed to do the normal fandom stuff that every white film with characters get without criticism. Personally, I'm so happy to finally seem black and ethnic characters get that fandom experience. I love seeing them woobified and thirsted after and made into baby girls. Because white characters get that all the time.
Anyway, that's my rant over, tldr I understand the film i just have friends to talk to about it in real life
𝑺𝑼𝑴𝑨𝑹𝒀: Once, in a Dresden forest, Dionysus met you—or rather: you met the God of Intoxication.
OR
The night you whispered your secrets and surrendered your life into Remmick's hands.
𝑨𝑼𝑻𝑯𝑶𝑹'𝒔 𝑵𝑶𝑻𝑬𝒔: I’ve just been listening to ‘Ancestral Recall’ on loop, and this scene came to me—something abstract, almost like a creative writing experiment/study.
𝑾𝑨𝑹𝑵𝑰𝑵𝑮𝑺: +18, ADULT CONTENT. blood, kinda sexual suggestion, folkloric themes, some more grotesque descriptions.
𝑾𝑪: 1386 words (this one was really small, just like a study text really)
for whoever is going to read it, a great read! <3 likes, reblogs and comments are greatly appreciated :)
“ERIS: (Ἔρις) is the goddess of discord, strife, and conflict. She is known for sowing chaos and disharmony among gods and mortals alike.„
“dionysus once knew me / he found me on the bridge in dresden, naked with eris / stripped of adornment / he found me again in monte verita draped in aesthetic illusions„
(ancestral recall, emma ruth rudle, thou - 2020).
"Let your hair down, please."
His voice was low, as if whispering a secret meant only for you—penetrating you with that hungry gaze, pupils dilated, lips parted to reveal needle-sharp fangs. You merely nodded, obedient to this god masquerading as a man.
His name felt alien to your ears—rolling off the roof of your mouth, clicking at the tip of your tongue, the color of iron-tinged blood. Remmick. You'd heard he was some noble wanderer who haunted Dresden during the Spring Solstice, always dressed as Dionysus—eyes glittering, razor-edged smile—forever seeking someone to share the night until dawn. The great mystery surrounding this man was that most of his guests for these "idyllic adventures" met curious fates. Once, a girl who had just turned nineteen simply appeared the following night, screaming for blood, completely out of her mind—they took her to a convent and had the poor wretch locked in solitary confinement ever since. Another, a virtuoso musician rumored to communicate with gods through his music, emerged that same night covered in wine and song, wandering off into the night's mist. He never returned to the city. So many other stories that could fill an illustrated codex, with the man depicted spitting fire, sporting bat ears and wings, a goat's tail and horns, and a malicious little grin on his face. Remmick held sway over everyone, always arriving at dusk and leaving before the first rays of light appeared on the horizon.
Your ears had caught whispers from the pious faithful that this man was a demon incarnated in human flesh; others inclined toward the occult believed him to be a sorcerer who had obtained the elixir of youth and needed to steal others' souls—preferably the young—to maintain his integrity; in doing so, he ended up inadvertently sucking out their essence, their anima. And for you, he would be your freedom from that life of suffering and misery—whatever he did to you would be worth it, so long as you could be liberated from the weight of a secret that tormented your conscience every morning when you woke, every night before you slept. That alone was enough to convince you to be there, in that clearing, in the heart of the dense forest, face to face with the magnificent Lord of the Flies, dressed as a strange Dionysus: his crown of dried flowers had more thorns than blossoms, his golden cup was engraved with serpents in high relief, and he wore only white trousers, his torso bare. Barefoot. A contemplative smile on his angular face.
As you let your hair down, leaving it in its natural state, you noticed him hissing some murmur in a strange tongue, unknown to your ears. But you didn't care—or pretended not to, with your desperate heart pounding against your chest, nearly breaking through your ribs, flesh, and skin to expose itself before him. Remmick spread his arms like a statue blessing all around it:
"Come to me, my goddess, and I shall embrace you eternally!"
Your bare feet began walking across dry leaves, broken branches, and damp earth toward him, while wolf howls could be heard in the distance and above your heads a Full Moon reigned with its silver light over your bodies. When you were near him, you smelled his scent more intensely: iron, honey, freshly turned earth, blood, and bitter wine. Remmick immediately cupped your face with his calloused hands, turning it so you'd face his red eyes—a light that came from the depths of his soul while the area around his eyes, nose, and mouth was consumed by darkness, making him look like a talking skull:
"With me, you may whisper your deepest secret."
"I—" Your mouth quivered, remembering things you wished to keep buried in the depths of your memories, feeling tears burning your eyes. Remmick made an expression of contemplation mixed with pity, raising his eyebrows, parting his lips further. He murmured, like an empty tomb echoing from the depths of a darkness you'd fear to face:
"You…? Tell me your secret."
You took a deep breath, closed your eyes to avoid looking at him as you let the words take control of your lips and the memories give life to those words:
"I killed someone."
"Who? Tell me your story." You slowly opened your eyes.
"It was to protect someone I cared deeply about. A horrible man was hurting them, so I poisoned him."
"My Eris—" he whispered, his thumbs crawling across your tear-stained face, smiling with strange pride: "—killing another isn't biblically acceptable, but this was self-defense, and I welcome you regardless of your sins. You creatures are so fragile and susceptible to momentary passions that you act without thinking. That's why I walk among you." His thumbs stopped at your lips. The bittersweet taste mixed with his skin seeped into your mouth.
Remmick then approached you, kissing your lips gently, as if wanting to swallow all your tears, all your pain into himself. His hands slithered down your shoulders, lowering the straps of your dress and exposing your breasts.
"Take off your clothes. And lie down, please."
Once again you obeyed the request, finishing removing your dress, kneeling before him, staring deeply into his eyes before lying on your back on the ground, feeling twigs prick your bare skin. You looked at him as if he truly were Dionysus before you, removing his trousers and crown, kneeling between your legs as he leaned over you, arms braced on either side of your head, his red gaze penetrating you. You weren't afraid. You felt the world around you was just that small bubble between you and this man, illuminated by the Moon, naked, where you'd confessed a heinous crime and he hadn't judged you.
Remmick moved closer to your neck, nuzzling it, inhaling your scent as if appreciating you:
"You need fear nothing more, my Eris, for I will free you from the burden you carry…" His right hand found your neck, caressing the soft skin, a trail of saliva—thick and whitish—beginning to drip from the corner of his lips: "Just kiss me once more."
You grabbed his back, digging your nails into his icy flesh, marble beneath your fingertips, dragging your hands up to his hair and pulling him in for another kiss. Only now your mouth filled with blood as his body undulated atop yours, nearly fusing with your flesh, becoming you. The blood flooding your mouth spilled out, smearing your chin, your neck, his lips and chin—yet he didn't mind. He licked your chin, sliding up to your neck where he scraped his fangs, drawing a desperate moan from you as you squeezed his waist tightly, pulling him against you so he could penetrate you. His teeth broke your delicate skin, blood bloomed from your neck straight into his mouth, and the world around you became a mixture of rending pain that pulled your soul outward, wetting the earth with your blood and his saliva, the gods above you dancing before your clouding vision as primal pleasure emerged at the edges of that tearing pain—that enveloped you and pushed you toward a precipice. Remmick kept dancing atop you—or within you?—your consciousness a thread between reality and waking dreams.
Blood.
Blood.
Blood.
Everything was now wet, sticky, noisy, grotesque.
Remmick finally ended his divine osculation, washed your soul with his lips, made your soul the dwelling place of his mouth—now he was the bearer of your most intimate and infamous secrets. With his mouth stained with blood, ruby eyes, and a smile of ecstasy, he rose up between your legs, your blood painting him from lips to pale chest, the silver moonlight radiating off him like a profane painting. He smiled in delight. You, naked, unadorned, lying and defiled by his fangs, felt strangely free.
Remmick was your profane Dionysus, your blood was the wine he drank, the celebration happened between your bodies that danced together, the theater of life and death performed by you two that night where lilies and birches would bloom the next day. Amid your body cradled by dry leaves, broken branches, damp earth, and now your sacred blood.
And he would find you again one night at Monte Verità, offering you a chalice of bitter wine and toasting the secret you now shared between you.
𝑭𝑶𝑶𝑻𝑬𝑹 𝑵𝑶𝑻𝑬𝑺: how they says: "and somehow this secret keeps on passing down to us / down to us / dionysus once knew me"
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