#and that just isnt realistic so they can like | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

imnez-daydreams · 2 days ago

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listen, have i watched sinners ? no. do i know anything about the movie beyond uhh there's vampires ? also no. do i even know what remmick looks like ? still a no. am i still gonna devour this fic i stumbled upon on my feed ? you bet i am !!!

“Ain’t you—” you began to say, but he beat you to it, laughing low in his throat as he took a slow, deliberate step forward. “Lord, you spook easy,” he said, voice thick just soft enough to make you lean in without meaning to. “Didn’t mean to startle you, sugar. Though I s’pose I got a knack for it.”

okay well im already melting. "sugar" ?? reader leaning towards remmick from his soft voice is so real.

"You didn’t even get another sentence out before he titled his head, slow and deliberate, and stepped in just a tad closer."

ooo he's already eyeing reader like a predator eyeing his prey. tilting his head slow, moving into reader's space.

He took a step closer, and you backed up, your heart pounding faster. But your feet wouldn’t move. You wanted to run, but your body was paralyzed. The closer he came, the harder it was to breathe. “You don’t just walk away from me, sugar,” he said, his voice smooth like silk, but each word felt like a weight. “You don’t follow me into the woods and think you can just... leave.”

gosh the transition from polite image yet a sense of something off to cold, heartless and hungry is written so well !! the smile that doesn't reach his eyes, the kind words that don't fit quite right when leaving his mouth. then that last line, can feeeeel the possessiveness already rolling off his tongue.

“You wanna know what it felt like?” he asked, tilting his head slightly, eyes narrowing. The way he looked at you then—like he was studying something precious, something fragile—made a shiver crawl down your spine. “What it felt like to kill Mrs. Hatcher?”

i like the juxtaposition of his gaze to his words. looking at reader with a gentle gaze yet talking about committing a violent crime.

“You should’ve stayed away,” he murmured, taking another step closer, and your body lurched, the terror of it all finally making your feet move. But not fast enough. “But now it’s too late darlin’ cause I intend to keep you for myself now.”

hey mister if you keep calling reader those sweet pet names you can keep me !! jokes aside the build up to the chasing is soo good ! the realisation dawning on reader that this man isnt even a man, something darker and unexplainable. that cold realisation turning into dread when he stakes his claim.

Behind you, his footsteps didn’t rush. He wasn’t chasing. He was following. Like a predator who already knew exactly where you’d end up. “Keep running,” he called, voice almost playful. Almost. “It’ll only make me want to fuck you harder.” You didn’t scream. You couldn’t. Your throat was tight with terror, your body buzzing with the kind of panic that drowns thought.

sorry for being depraved on main but this is so hot i cant even lie akdhsidke. LISTENN. remmick not even running, just leisurely following after reader. knows he can easily catch up so its like he's savouring your fear, your hopeful naivety thinking you can escape him. then him playfully telling reader continue running. then, then that statement about how running is just gonna make him fuck reader harder. hello. (me when)

"He yelled out your name—how’d he even know your name? There was a guttural edge to his voice—low, primal—that tore something loose in you. You cried silently, not daring to make noise, not out of fear, but because your body didn’t know what else to do."

omg been watching and listening !! and reader has been none the wiser all this time. i like how reader's reaction is realistic too, those times when tears just escape you not cause of the sadness or fear but because the situation you're in seems so hopeless, tears just make their path down your face.

He takes his hand from your neck, and you barely register when it slips beneath your long nightgown. One hand forcefully parts your thighs—rough and possessive—while the other holds your wrists captive above your head. "You don’t even know," he murmurs, his voice almost gentle, as he continues "You're fortunate that I want you all to myself."

remmick what is that supposed to mean mister. are there worse monsters than you ? but again i really like the duality of it all, gentle and soft voice with the backdrop of violent and rough hands.

And as his lips brush against your ear, whispering promises of pleasure and pain, you can't help but wonder what fate has brought you to this moment, where his will dominates your own and the line between fear and longing blurs into something dangerous and intoxicating.

goodness that wholeee last line is so beautifully described. even though its a long one it doesn't even feel dragged on, just a string of pretty words dancing.

"Don’t look away," he breathed, his nose brushing yours with each slow, deliberate motion—like he needed you to witness what he was doing. You did, though your vision blurred with the weight of it all. Maybe it was instinct, maybe something deeper—but you obeyed. Looking into his eyes was like staring down a storm: wild, old, and wholly untamable.

“Keep your eyes on me,” he murmured again, breath hitching against your cheek, his drawl low and possessive. “Ain’t no one ever gonna see you like this but me, you understand?”

EYE CONTACTTTTT. i go crazy over this. feral even. love love love. the smut was so good !!! how reader feels that pull, can't stop wanting it even though the warning bells are ringing. the possessiveness, the claiming. grrr.

“You’re mine now,” he breathed, voice coated in something reverent and frightening all at once. “Ain’t just sayin’ that either—I felt it in my bones the second I saw you. Like God carved you out just for me.”

ohhhhhhhdndkdjeiedklfl. im a sucker for religious themes this is so good. reverent ??? as if reader was carved by God just for remmick ?????? in shambles this is delicious writing.

phew that was a ride !! thank you ada for introducing me to sinners :DD this was sooo good and well written, it really makes me wanna read other works of this character ! dont mind me snooping through remmick's tags after this hehe. thank you for writing, splendid work ada <3

Baked In Blood

summary: Driven by kindness, you walk to a secluded house every day, leaving freshly baked pies for the mysterious man who never shows himself. But when your neighbor, Mrs. Hatcher, is violently killed one night, everything changes. As fear spreads through the town, the man you've been silently serving steps into your life—and the true, terrifying nature of his obsession begins to unravel.

warnings: non-con, dub-con, explicit content, dirty talk, mentions of blood and murder, forest sex, prey and predator dynamics

pairing: dark!remmick x fem!reader

words: 6k

based off this request

The air was thick with that early morning quiet — not cold, but not warm yet either. Just still. Hushed. Like the world hadn’t quite decided to wake up. The pie in your hands was still warm, warmed in a red gingham towel that gave a slight aroma of sugar and cinnamon. You carried it like you always did, how you carried it to his house every morning. Steady, careful, both hands under the dish so the heat didn’t slip through and burn your fingers.

You took the long way, even though you didn’t have to. Past the lot where the hydrangeas used to grow, Past the old gas station that hadn’t sold gas in years. The street was empty, save for a squirrel darting across the sidewalk and a newspaper half soaked in dew.

You liked mornings like this. Quiet ones. Nobody needing anything from you yet.

His house sat at the far end of the block, past where the road cracked deeper and the shade settled in early. You could barely see the roofline through the trees most days. No cars in the drive. No signs of the sun shining into his house in the mornings, windows and curtains closed. Just that porch with the crooked step and the step and the front door that never opened.

You didn’t know who he was. No one really did.

You’d never seen him up close. Never heard his voice. Just a name once, muttered by a neighbor who looked like she regretted saying it the second it left her mouth.

But none of that mattered. Never mattered to you.

You climbed the creaking and worn steps like usual, pie in hand, the porch groaning under your weight. You paused at the door. Knocked once… twice then three times and that was it. Never more.

SIlence only met you. Not even a sign of a curtain drawing back. Though you waited just for a few seconds more. Long enough to maybe give him a chance to open the door and accept the pie you usually baked.

There were signs he took the dishes you left on the little table posted by the chair on his porch. And you needed him to open the door sooner or later in the future because you sure were running out your plates and dishes.

So you crouched down slightly, set the pie down on the small round table. You adjusted the towel, smoothed it down with your fingers. And then left like you always did. Same way you came. With your back turned you never saw the figure that stood by the window– shifting the curtain ever so slightly to watch you leave.

It was a good twenty five minutes by the time you reached your gates, your rhoughts still back at that old house. You’d never gotten anything in return except for an empty door. But it didn’t stop you. Some things couldn’t be helped, and kindness was one of them. It was just who you were.

You didn’t know why you were this way– always looking out for others, always taking the time to lend a hand, even if it meant nothing in return. Maybe it was because your mama had always taught you that small acts of kindness could make all the difference in a world that could be a little too harsh and unyielding sometimes. Or maybe it was just your heart, too damn big for its own good.

You’d seen people look at you strangely when you held the door open for them or when you offered a smile to the grumpy old guy who owned a small grocery store cross the street who barely even returned the smile. But you didn’t mind. You’d always been this way, and you’d always keep doing it— whether it was helping your neighbor Mrs Hatcher with her groceries or just leaving one too many baked goods for a man who never even bothered to show his face.

As you reached the steps of your porch, you noticed Mrs Hatcher was sitting outside again, her rocking chair creaking steadily. The morning sun barely touched her, casting her face in a sharp light that made her look even more critical than usual. You almost didn’t want to stop, but you were too polite, so you gave her a quick wave as you neared the gate.

She didn't wave back. Not like how she would regularly do so. Instead, she looked you up and down, her eyes narrowing slightly, and for a moment, the silence between you both felt a little too thick. “Been out walking again, huh?” she said, her voice carrying the same sharpness it always did, but now there was something else in it— a little more judgement, a little less warmth than usual.

You nodded. “Just dropped something off.”

Her eyes flickered toward the street, and she took a slow drag from her cigarette, the smoke curling up into the air like it had a mind of its own. “And what’s that, exactly? Your ‘good deed’ for the day?” You shifted on your feet, a little uncomfortable, but you didn’t want to seem rude. “Just took the guy that lives in that old house near the woods a pie. I baked it in the morning.”

Mrs Hatcher raised an eyebrow, leaning back in her chair as if shw was trying to make some sense of you. “That house,” she started slowly, like she was comprehending her own words in her head before letting them out, “It ain’t one for pies, sugar. And it ain’t one for kindness neither. You might want to stop before you‘re the only one left out there handing things to a ghost.”

You felt a small flutter in your chest, but you didn’t show it. Sure you’ve heard the whispers about that house— from the strange way it sat, half hidden behind thick trees, the rumours that no one had ever seen the man who supposedly lived there. People called him strange, distant, dangerous even, but it didn’t faze you. You didn’t need to know him to know that everyone deserved a little kindness.

“I’m sure he’ll like it,” you said simply, smiling. “He’s always been taking them in.”

Mrs Hatcher’s lips pressed together in a thin line. “Is that so huh?” She leaned forward, the creaking of her chair louder now, her tone dripping with a subtle challenge. “Well, maybe he don’t mind. But I’m telling you sugar, one day you’ll find out kindness don’t always come back around the way you think it will.”

You didn’t know why, but there was something in the way she said it that left a bitter taste in your mouth. Something that didn't sit right. But you ignored it, like you always did with her not bothering to listen to any of the bullshit any more, you just gave a simple smile and nodded. “I’m sure I’ll be fine,” you said, offering a half smile before stepping toward your front door.

The last thing you heard before you entered was Mrs Hatcher’s voice, barely above a murmur, like she was talking to herself. “Just be careful, girl. There’s kindness… and then there’s being a fool for it, and that’s you right now.”

You didn’t let it bother you. It was just Mrs Hatcher, always watching, always waiting for something to go wrong. But somehow, her words hung in the air, and for the first time in a while, you wondered if there might be more to her warning then you realized.

Everyone was shocked to hear the news, but nobody could say they were surprised.

It wasn’t the kind of thing that was completely unexpected in a place like this. The kind of place where people get to be known by their routines, their quirks and their habits. So when the sheriff made his rounds, grim faced and speaking low, people leaned in a little closer, nodding pretending they didn’t already know.

Mrs Hatcher had been found in her chair— rocking still, like she was just taking one of her usual evening naps. But this time, her chair wasn’t creaking from the wear of decades. It was still in a way it never had been before. Her neck, torn open, blood spread thick across the porch, pooling like dark wine against the old wood.

It was late, the street bathed in that heavy hush. The silence clung to the scene, to the dark windows and the front door that creaked ever so slightly due to the wind.

But it wasn’t just the manner of her death that had the town rattled. It was the fact that it had happened right there. Just a few houses down from where you could practically hear the crickets and see the stars in their endless stretch above. Mrs Hatcher had never been the type to keep quiet. She knew too much, talked too loud, watched too long— and all her sharp words, there was always a thin, hidden thread of fear running underneath them.

The sheriff said it was too early to say much. But you didn’t need to be a damn detective to know that whatever had happened to Mrs Hatcher, it had come from the deep shadows beyond the streetlight’s reach. And that, as always, made you nervous.

You stood at the edge of the gathering, the murmurs of the townsfolk was a distant hum as your eyes were just fixed on Mrs Hatcher's porch. The air was thick with the scent of iron and something else— something you couldn’t quite place.

As you begin to take a cautious step closer, a sudden chill ran down your spine. You turned slightly, sensing a presence behind you.

Remmick stood there, half shrouded in shadow, his eyes reflecting the dim light with an unsettling gleam. His expression was unreadable, but there was a hint of amusement playing at the corners of his mouth when he saw your reaction to him somehow startling you.

You didn’t answer right away— couldn’t, really. It wasn’t just that he’d come out of nowhere. It was that this was the first time you were actually seeing him. Up close. And he wasn’t what you expected. He was just a normal man. Tall, wth skin pale like it hadn’t met sunlight in years. But it wasn’t his looks that held you. It was something else you couldn't quite take hold on.

“You’re…” The words trailed from your lips, thin and uncertain,

“Remmick,” he offered, with the faintest tilt of his head, the smile still ghosting at the corners of his mouth. “Though it sounds like folks ‘round here prefer other names for me.”

He glanced across the street, toward the sea of curious people that had gathered in front of Mrs Hatcher’s house. The porch light burned too bright now, casting hard shadows over shaken faces and murmured prayers. Someone was crying, but no one had dared to step past the old woman’s front gate. No one even noticed him. Not with the chaos. Not with the way the fear made them all look anywhere but the dark.

“Hell of a night,” he muttered, almost to himself, voice curing like smoke in the stillness.

Then he looked back at you. “You been bringing those baked goods, didn’t you, specially the one today?”

You blinked. “What?”

“The one in the red towel. Sugar and cinnamon.” His gaze lingered. “Tasted real good.”

Unease tightened in your chest, and something more but you weren’t sure if it was fear or something colder.

He chuckled again—low, almost fond. “Meant to bring the dish back. Got a mind like a cracked jar, though. Things slip out easy.”

You swallowed, unsure if you meant to nod.

“If you’re not too spooked to walk back with me,” he said, voice light like he was asking you to fetch a paper off the porch, “I could hand it off now.”

He held your gaze a second longer, then added with a crooked smile, “Seems like nobody’s watchin’ but you anyhow.”

You cleared your thrat, trying to keep your voice steady. “That’s alright, I can just come by in the mornin’ and pick it up.”

You didn’t even get another sentence out before he titled his head, slow and deliberate, and stepped in just a tad closer. “Nah,” he said, low and smooth, like he was talking to some skittish animal. “Best do it now.” There was something in the way he said it—not harsh, but final. As if he was the one deciding for you instead.

You tried to laugh it off, light and easy. “It’s no trouble really. I don't mind—”

“But I do,” he cut in, still smiling. “Ain’t polite, lettin’ a lady like you walk all the way just to fetch her own plate back. ‘Sides, I got somethin’ for you.” That made you pause. “A gift,” he added, like he was sweetening the offer, though the word came off strange in his mouth, like he’d never had much reason to use it. “For all those baked goods. Seemed only right.”

You hesitated, eyes flicking toward the crowd again that was still buzzing around Mrs Hatcher’s porch, not a single one of them looking in your direction. His voice dropped slightly, though the smile stayed. “AIn’t nobody gonna notice you’re gone, sugar. Not tonight.”

And it was true. They wouldn’t. The streetlamps were dim, the shadows stretched long, and everyone’s attention was wrapped up on what had happened. You could simply leave easy right now, and nobody would even call your name.

You swallowed, throat dry.

He turned then, back toward the narrow path leading toward the woods. “C’mon,” he said over his shoulder, his husky and slow with a soft roughness to it. “It’s just a short walk. You already know the way.”

Yeah a short walk… a twenty five minute short walk with a guy you baked for but he never did have the face to open the door, and suddenly he’s asking you to follow him home after the events that took place tonight. But you didn’t give it a thought any longer, telling yourself you were just now paranoid. So you just followed behind him.

The road felt longer this time. Each step kicked up dust that didn’t seem to settle, and the cicadas had gone quiet, like even they didn’t want to listen in. You kept a few paces behind him, watching the sway of his shoulders, the way he didn’t look back once—not even to make sure you were still there.

You told yourself it was fine. He was just being polite. Returning a dish, offering a gift. That’s all it was.

But the dark felt thicker out here. Heavier. Like it was pressing in, one slow breath at a time.

It was a good ten minutes before either of you spoke.

Just shoes on the forest floor. The occasional creak of a distant fence outside of the trees shifting in the wind. You were starting to think maybe he wasn’t much for small talk—maybe he’d changed his mind about that “gift” entirely—when his voice finally cut through the dark.

“You always that generous with folks who don’t bother sayin’ thank you?”

You blinked. “Figured you were just shy.”

That made him huff a laugh. “Is that what they’re callin�� it these days.”

You could see the back of his head tilt slightly, like he was chewing on whatever thought came next. Then he added, “Truth be told, I didn’t expect you to keep bringin’ those goods. Thought you’d give up after the second one went untouched.”

“They weren’t untouched,” you said quietly.

Another beat of silence.

“No,” he said at last. “No, they weren’t.”

And that was all he said.

Just enough to make your skin prickle.

You kept walking, telling yourself you were just tired. Just tired and rattled from everything with Mrs. Hatcher. But still, something in his voice made you wonder if the pies were all he’d been taking.

The road narrowed as you walked, the trees leaning in closer like they were listening, their bare branches creaking softly in the wind as though whispering to one another. Crickets had gone quiet somewhere along the way. You didn’t notice when. Just that the silence had started to hum, low and constant, like something was holding its breath.

“You always walk this way alone?” he asked, voice low like he was afraid to break something in the dark, or maybe like he hoped he would.

You glanced at him. “Most mornings.”

“Brave,” he muttered, though it didn’t sound like praise. “Folks ‘round here talk too much and see too little. That kind of silence’s dangerous when no one’s listenin’ right.”

“You listen?”

“Sometimes,” he said. Then, with a half-smile that didn’t quite meet his eyes, “Don’t mean I always like what I hear.” You didn’t answer that. Just kept your eyes ahead, the trees curling over the path like ribs, and the moonlight catching in strange, pale flashes on the gravel. It wasn’t the first time you’d taken this road, but it felt unfamiliar now, like the dirt had been stirred different, like something unseen had stepped ahead of you first and left the path colder behind it.

“Why now?” you asked suddenly, the question clawing out before you could think better of it. “All this time, you never said a word. Never showed your face. Then tonight, after—” you didn’t finish the sentence. You didn’t need to. The name didn’t need to be said again out loud.

He took his time responding, just like he took his time walking. “Reckon I just figured the timing was right.”

“That because of Mrs. Hatcher?”

That smile again. Crooked. Sharp at the edges. “Didn’t say that.”

You stopped walking for a beat, not because you meant to, but because something in your chest pulled tight. “But you didn’t say it wasn’t.”

He looked back at you slowly, eyes gleaming in the dark like wet stones, and for a second, his face was half-lit by the moon, carved in angles and shadows that didn’t look entirely human. “You ask a lot of questions for someone still walkin’ beside me.”

That stopped you more than anything. Not the words, but the way he said them—calm, like he was commenting on the weather. Like he already knew you’d keep walking anyway.

And you did.

Maybe it was foolishness. Maybe it was that same part of you that kept leaving pies at the door of a man you’d never seen, even when the dishes never came back. That stupid softness your mama used to call your ‘God-given curse.’ Either way, your feet moved before your mouth could argue.

Ten more minutes, you told yourself. Just ten more minutes. And then you’d turn around.

But deep down, you already knew you wouldn’t.

The woods felt suffocating, each step you took making the air grow thicker, heavier, as though something in the darkness was pressing against you. It wasn’t just the trees, it wasn’t just the silence. It was him.

Remmick walked ahead of you, so calm, so assured—like this was all part of some twisted game, and you were the only one who didn’t know the rules. His back was turned, but you couldn’t shake the feeling that he was aware of you, every movement of yours, every step you took.

Finally, you couldn’t do it anymore. The weight of his presence, the heavy silence, the way he didn’t even seem to care that you were still walking behind him—it all piled up. You had to say something.

“I think I’m just gonna head home,” you said, your voice shaky, betraying the panic you were trying to keep under control. “You can just give me the dishes and gifts another time.” Your words felt like a desperate attempt to break the tension, but they fell into the woods like a pebble into a deep, dark well—no echo, no response.

For a moment, there was nothing but the low rustling of the trees, the soft whisper of the night wind. Then, without turning to face you, his voice cut through the air—low, dark, chilling.

“Daft.”

It wasn’t a word. It was a sentence. A judgment.

You froze. His voice, though soft, felt like it was wrapping around your throat, squeezing just enough to make it hard to breathe. Your heart skipped a beat, your skin prickling. You couldn’t tell whether it was fear, the cold, or something else entirely making your body shudder.

Your mouth went dry, but you tried to force out something—anything to break this moment, this growing nightmare. “I—I'm just not feeling well. I think I should go.”

You took a step back, but he wasn’t having it. He didn’t even turn to face you.

“Daft,” he repeated, sharper now. “You think I’d let you walk away after you followed me here?” Your breath hitched. Your feet felt glued to the ground, like the air was too thick to move through. You wanted to run, to scream, but your body betrayed you, stuck in place as if you were trapped in quicksand.

You looked at him now—his back still turned—but something about his posture had shifted. It wasn’t just his body language, though. It was in the air. It was in the space between you. Something darker had taken root, something unrecognizable.

He finally turned, slowly, deliberately, and the smile he gave you wasn’t the same one from earlier. There was nothing warm in it. It was sharp, cold, like a blade dragging across skin.

You swallowed hard, your throat tight. His eyes locked onto yours, but they were different now—flickers of red deepening in the corners, glowing faintly in the dim light. He didn’t look human but at the same time he did.

There it was again—his smile, wider now, crueler. It made your stomach twist, nausea rising up your throat.

“You really don’t get it, do you?” he asked, his voice almost too calm. “You think you’re safe, walking through the woods like this? Like I’m some normal guy you can just forget about?” He took another step toward you, and you felt yourself sway back, but your feet stayed planted.

His eyes were glowing now, too bright in the dark, his pupils slit like a predator’s. This wasn’t right. This couldn’t be happening.

You blinked, eyes wide. Your mouth opened, but no words came. You couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think.

“Her blood was so warm,” he whispered, as if speaking to himself, the words heavy with something sinister. “The moment my teeth sank into her throat, she stopped fighting. She knew. She knew she couldn’t outrun it, couldn’t escape me. But she didn’t stop trying, not at first. She kicked. She scratched. She screamed—but there was no sound. No sound at all once I got my hand over her mouth.”

You could barely hold your ground now, your legs trembling. Every word he said made you want to run, but your body was frozen, immobilized by something you couldn’t explain.

“She tried so hard to get away,” Remmick continued, his voice softer now, like he was savoring the memory. “But the harder she fought, the better it felt. I could feel her pulse—fast, frantic, desperate. It was like the world had slowed down, and all I could hear was the sound of her blood rushing, beating in her veins, until it wasn’t.”

Your body was shaking now, your hands clenched into fists by your sides. You couldn’t escape his gaze, couldn’t escape the pull of his voice.

“She went limp, finally. And I could taste it—the victory, the power. The moment her body stopped fighting? That was the moment I knew. I knew it was perfect.”

You felt sick, but you couldn’t look away. His eyes—those damn eyes—had you trapped, every word sinking deeper into your chest, twisting, turning.

That was when you began running.

Branches whipped your arms and tore at your clothes, but you didn’t feel it. You were moving on instinct—raw, clumsy, frantic. The darkness swallowed the path, and still you ran, lungs burning, eyes stinging. You didn’t even know where you were going. Just away.

Then your foot caught—root, rock, something—and the forest flipped sideways. You hit the ground hard, your palms shredding on gravel and bark. The pain jolted up your arms and knocked the air from your lungs. You scrambled to your feet, but your ankle screamed the second you put weight on it. There wasn’t time—he was too close.

So you crawled. Half-dragging yourself through the underbrush, eyes wild, hands trembling, and ducked behind the thick trunk of a gnarled pine. You pressed yourself against the bark, heart slamming against your ribs so loud you were sure he could hear it. The forest had gone still.

Dead still.

You clamped a hand over your mouth to quiet your breathing, every breath coming in sharp, panicked gasps through your nose.

He yelled out your name—how’d he even know your name? There was a guttural edge to his voice—low, primal—that tore something loose in you. You cried silently, not daring to make noise, not out of fear, but because your body didn’t know what else to do.

He found you before you could move again — an arm slipping around your waist from behind. You barely had time to gasp before he pulled you back, gently but firmly, like you'd simply wandered too far.

Then, without warning, your head was guided down, not slammed, but pressed hard enough into the earth that the shock still jarred you. Dizziness bloomed behind your eyes. By the time you blinked through it, Remmick was already on top of you, his body blanketing yours with a frightening calm. His chest pressed against your back, steady, too steady. One hand slid up, slow and deliberate, until it curled around your throat — not choking, just holding. Controlling.

A broken sound escaped you as tears streamed down your face, hot and helpless. Your fingers clawed instinctively at his hand, the one wrapped so carefully—so cruelly around your throat. There was no strength in your resistance, only fear and the desperate hope that he might hesitate.

You try to push against his hold, but he only tightens his grip, his touch sending shivers down your spine. His words echo in your mind as fear and confusion swirl within you. You feel trapped, vulnerable beneath him as he looms over you with a hunger in his eyes that chills you to the core.

You can see the intensity of his gaze fixed upon you, a mixture of desire and possession that makes your heart race with both terror and a strange, forbidden thrill. And as his lips brush against your ear, whispering promises of pleasure and pain, you can't help but wonder what fate has brought you to this moment, where his will dominates your own and the line between fear and longing blurs into something dangerous and intoxicating.

You don’t even notice he’s moved your undergarments aside, not warning you.You suddenly wince as he inserts two fingers at once, not bothering to be gentle. His breath is hot on your neck, his voice a low growl. "You're mine now. Every part of you belongs to me." You can feel his heartbeat, steady and calm, unlike your own which is pounding wildly against your ribs. His fingers move inside you, exploring, claiming, and you gasp, your body betraying you with a shiver of pleasure.

He shifts slightly, his lips trailing down from your ear to your collarbone, leaving a path of fire in their wake. "You can fight it all you want," he whispers, his voice like velvet darkness, "but your body knows who it belongs to." His thumb finds your most sensitive spot, circling slowly, deliberately, drawing out a moan from deep within you despite the fear that still lingers in your eyes.

You buck against him, a futile attempt to deny the sensations coursing through you.

He laughs softly against your skin, a sound that resonates with triumph. His teeth graze your shoulder, a gentle bite that should be a warning, but your mind is a swirl of confusion and desire. The nightgown tangles around your waist as he shifts again, releasing your wrists to push the fabric higher.

Oddly enough, when your fight waned, that was when things…changed. "There she is," he says, his hands warm on your bare hips. You know you should run, scream, do anything to break free from the spell his touch weaves around you, but your muscles betray you, your body succumbing in various ways as pleasure envelops you completely.

"You were made for this," he breathes, his eyes dark with certainty. He pins you down again, and this time you don’t struggle, the fight leaving your limbs as your own desires betray you. You can sense the mounting bliss intensifying within you, building pressure in your lower core as you teeter on the edge, about to climax on his fingers.

He watches your face closely, like a man studying a piece of art, ready for the moment when it overtakes you. "There you go darlin’," he murmurs, urging you on, and the sound of his voice is the final push. You cry out as waves of release crash through you and every nerve in your body sings with surrender.

He holds you through it, his fingers slowing to a languid pace until your breathing evens and your heart calms, pulling back slightly to look at you, satisfaction etched across his face. He removes his fingers slowly and careful, you don’t even have a second to even catch a break before you can hear the rustling of his belt and pants and you know what's coming. He parts your legs wider, opening you to him again, and presses against your entrance.

“Gonna claim ya real good now darlin’, you’re doing such a good job.” The sensation of him entering you is intense—stretching, burning, and pulling you apart with the thick, weighty movement of his shaft. He fills you completely, every inch commanding submission, and you arch under him, the feeling overwhelming and all-consuming.

His hands grip your hips, steadying you, pulling you closer as he begins to move. He thrusts slow and deep, each motion a deliberate staking of his claim, and your body responds in ways you can't control, meeting his rhythm, rising to meet him as he buries himself inside you over and over.

Your mind reels with the impossibility of it, the way desire silences resistance, and your body betrays every instinct to flee, surrendering instead to the brutal, relentless pleasure he forces upon you. You gasp his name, a broken plea caught between a cry and a moan, and he only pushes harder, his breath hot and wild against your throat.

"That's it," he groans, his voice rough with need, "take it all."

As he bent down to kiss you, you without thinking returned the gesture. His thumb grazed your damp skin, and a soft hum in his throat soon transformed into a groan. You didn't desire it, nor did your mind, yet it seemed as though your body was operating independently, driven by hormones.

His hand snaked through your hair, pulling gently as his lips pressed against yours with a fierce hunger. The kiss deepened, full of demand and promise, his teeth and tongue teasing you until you couldn't tell where you ended and he began. The force of it all—the thrusting, the kissing, the claiming—pulled you further into a daze where pleasure eclipsed pain, and you were lost, floating on the brink of something infinite.

Your body arched helplessly, wave after wave of sensation leaving you breathless, raw, and vulnerable. He quickened his pace, his movements more urgent, pushing you both toward an inevitable release. The air was thick with the sound of skin on skin, punctuated by his ragged breaths and your own soft, involuntary cries. It was too much, too fast, and yet nothing else mattered in those moments but the wild, terrible ecstasy of being taken, utterly and completely.

You closed your eyes, too overcome with the overstimulation, he curved his hips deeper into you. “Open your eyes darlin’.” He says getting your attention again. You obeyed, though some quiet part of you understood how dangerous it was—how locking eyes with the one unraveling you piece by piece would only carve the memory deeper.

“Keep your eyes on me,” he murmured again, breath hitching against your cheek, his drawl low and possessive. “Ain’t no one ever gonna see you like this but me, you understand?”

The air felt thick, like the woods themselves were leaning in to watch. His nose brushed yours with every movement, his brow pressed to your temple. You weren’t sure when the tears started again, but they did—quiet, unrelenting.

As he continued to whisper shameful, dirty words to you, saying things like you’d never leave him, and as he still relentelly thrusted into you, his mouth found your neck—then came the sharp, sinking pain of his bite. It wasn’t just teeth. It was a claim. A seal. Something final.

And in the haze of it all, in the breathless dark, you stopped fighting the truth. Somewhere between fear and surrender… you accepted it.

#remmick x reader #remmick #sinners

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itspheenixbaby · 3 days ago

Text

introduction

🎶 now playing … honey - erykah badu

for years i avoided scripting “world changes” to my desired realities because i knew it would fundamentally alter my culture and the state of the world in general. if you take away racism, you dont have rap. if you take away colonialism half the world doesnt have a lingua franca. since i got my shifting “start” on tiktok, my decision to keep the world the same was seen as “wrong” or “bad”. when it was anything but (at least from my pov) all i wanted to do was preserve the culture(s) that i had come to love so much.

but eventually either the peer pressure or just curiosity got to me, and i decided. what the hell, sure. lets get rid of every traumatic racial or social event thats still an issue in the modern day that i can think of. and thank God i caved, because the world i ended up building is ten times cooler.

(i only script this in realities where it probably wouldnt matter either way. like its not in any of my marvel based realities because the usa’s historical events are so deeply tied to all their plots to me itd feel weird to take it out. but for most of my desired realities set on earth, yeah this is our history.)

(i also never try to make the world perfect but what id describe as a “semi realistic good-ending”)

for the rest of this ramble, keep in mind when i say “america” or “american” im referring to both north & south americans. like how you’d say european or asian. if i mean to say united states of american 🇺🇸 , ill probably just say yankee(s) or yank(s). just because my familys jamaican and thats what they call us as slang lol.

alternate history, aka historical algebra

🎶 now playing … agua de beber - astrid gilberto

some people just script “racism didnt happen”; “the us is different/fairer” or “slavery / indigenous genocide didnt happen” but im very detailed. so that just felt like a cop-out. and all events are instrumental to shaping the cultural, social and even economic landscape of all my cultures. therefore, i had to come up with a way to get a mostly similar afro-america, usa & jamaica while re-doing all cultures major past atrocities. but how do you do that? well its pretty obvious. injustice and our cultural traumas didnt just pop up out of no where, so you have to change the history. if you build a home with a crooked foundation, obviously the entire house will be lopsided.

because both north and south america already have similar histories, it wouldnt get the effect i want if one nation was unaffected by colonialism/slavery/indigenous genocide and every other one was or vise versa. so any historical changes would have to be pan-continental.

indigenous-americans

to set a steady and mostly ethical foundation, indigenous culture unfortunately couldn’t be too much of the same. i considered making it that native americans and settlers were just harmonious, but like…realistically, even if they did okay it, who wants some random mofos just strolling into your land and establishing themselves? not me. especially not without indigenous americans holding the same power / advancement in general. you could still reasonably have some kind of racial tension, even if you scripted out racism. and again, i know in some countries esp south america, indigenous-settler relations in the past and the modern day arent as abysmal, but hell if im going all out scripting for a handful of countries why not include everyone? like what the hell, sure.

anyways in my desired reality, indigenous americans keep most of their fundamental culture. but unlike our reality, they were all *extremely* advanced. especially compared to the other four populated continents. characteristically they were a curious people, which is why their educational systems, economics & problem solving were ahead of their time. one example of this is the PCT.

the PCT isnt its going to be the “official” name, but im terrible at naming things, so were going with that. anyways, PCT stands for Pan Continental Transit. it was established in around the 1000s. the PCT is exactly what the name implies. its a road (not a literal modern one, think like the silk road) that goes from canada all the way to argentina. it includes the major carribbean islands too, so nobody gets left out. the PCT transported items, people and ideas across both continents at rapid paces. which will explain ; north & south americas extreme advancement levels, the lack of resistance to cultural exchange & the vast intelligence of the people.

other than the PCT, another key example of the curiosity of indigenous americans was their growing degree of influence. instead of europeans “finding” the americas, indigenous americans “found” eurasia & africa. they especially traded and interacted with western europeans and western africans. this interaction lasted a few hundred years before immigration waves began in the 1500s-1700s. in my desired reality, immigration was a natural step following cultural interest instead of an intrusion.

footnotes / effects ;

indigenous americans mingled with other cultures already, so foreign disease wouldnt have killed off their populations.

indigenous-american culture is respected and rightfully mainstream.

there was no reason to war with indigenous people, and it likely wouldve gotten shut down quick due to their advancement & control over both continents.

african-americans

african-americans, in my desired reality alternate history left africa and resettled in the americas on our own jurisdiction. so then what drove us out of africa? i came up with a few sensible reasons. those escaping tribal conflict and exiled rebels were a large amount of the resettlers. an interest in american education / ideas was also a driving force considering the intellectual power of native americans in this au. and since in my desired realities african-americans were seen as equals, a desire for financial opportunity also drove immigration. and since as i mentioned before native americans frequently interacted with west africans, immigration was already feasible.

pan africanism continues to exist in my desired reality, but it formed in a different way. thats where liberia comes into play. because the amount of west africans leaving the region caused an economic slow/drain, large amounts of west africans returned to africa and formed liberia. slowly but surely, the nation began to thrive. the prosperity trickled down to other west african kingdoms/nations/city-states turning liberia and the general west-african community extremely financially successful. in my desired reality, liberia continues its economic brilliance to the modern day. boasting one of the worlds best economies and largest populations. (mostly west african / african-american though).

footnotes / effects ;

african-americans & africans arent treated or seen as less than by other races & ethnicites.

african-american & african culture is respected.

african-americans mostly have african surnames.

african-americans have always had ethnic or racial pride and known our history.

asian-americans

a. so just for funsies, i scripted in a whole ethnic group. i didnt have any clue what to call them, so i pulled the name “jiuyuan” out of my ass. this group set history as the largest wave of collective east asian immigration out of the continent. with estimates of six million individuals leaving asia for the americas. so, whyd they emigrate? well…its complicated. a chinese former military general formed a new religion/mindset. this religion, yuanism, was cut throat and brutal with remnants of witchcraft/shamanism. it was thought to have been causing a stir across asia. so its practitioners were generally shunned from mainstream society. since they had difficulty finding work and adjusting to society, a vast majority turned to maritime based occupations. this continued for a few hundred years until the exiles began. by taking advantage of decades of maritime knowledge, jius fled persecution in east asia and resettled in the americas. particularly the carribbean, central america and coastal south america.

b. i scripted this change for the dumbest reason. i wanted to keep the name “west indies”. so i scripted in another important group of asian americans ; indo-carribbeans (who, yes, i know already exist in our original reality) but in my desired reality, they didnt come to the americas because of english colonialism/labor. indo carribbeans arrived in large quantities to various carribbean nations (including non-english/patois speaking ones) from western india in the 1500s. would be the second largest wave of immigration from asia to the americas, at around four million. they were merchants, aristocrats, pirates and traders. but they were already so well established and so integrated into carribbean cultures before the cultural solidification of europeans that the region was named “after” them. which in my desired reality is why the carribbean is also called the west indies. (clever, aint it 😉)

european-americans.

europeans still emigrate to the americas for the same reasons, but their effect is extremely different.

european-americans would have more cultural similarities with mainland europeans and possibly more syncretism with indigenous and african cultures in general.

instead of slave labor, you might’ve had very wealthy families or individuals relying on a non-race-based system similar to european feudalism to farm crops in southern states / fertile countries. or mining, entrepreneurship, military, local government & trade/shipping (majority directly tied to mother countries / europe). and even then, none of those would be european dominated.

footnotes / effects ;

no jim 🐦‍⬛, encomienda system, white washing, anti-race mixing or wh1te supr3macy. (censoring bc tumblr might not let me post)

nationality is seen above race in their communities.

most slurs including the n-word probably wouldnt exist.

colonialism

yes, i kept in colonialism. how else would we be speaking english/spanish/portuguese/dutch/french? but it does run differently. i mentioned this system in another post, but europeans were only rulers in name. in actuality, it was locals (of all races, including european) that were running the show and typically more concerned with their own agendas than loyalty to the motherland(s). (P.S, i wonder if when i shift this would cause an “untrustworthy american” stereotype in european media 🤔) this is also the case for asia & africa but even more so because there were less europeans & bigger populations in most of those countries.

naturally colonies did adopt some aspects of european culture including; language, christianity/catholicism, art forms (such as visual arts, music, films, dance & sports) and cultural beliefs, including those spread from movements such as the enlightenment. all with varying degrees of alteration and syncretism.

race

european-americans / europeans wouldnt be able to establish racism (which fun fact was partially invented to pit the poor against each other in our cr 😍 i love rich people), and any attempt would obviously be obsolete because in this reality each race has no reason to not be seen equally.

another non-factor is the classification of race into categories like “black”, “brown” or “white”. while in my base reality i dont find an issue with these terms, i dont think itd be realistic in this context. color based terms would likely be seen in the same way as how asians & indigenous people see the terms “yellow” or “red”. what i figure would actually be the case is either continental or region based ancestral classifications. and even then i figure the classifier level would prioritize nationality, followed by ethnic group and finally any broader racial categories.

(if you peruse my page, you’d see that in my idol dr me and most of the members of my group are classified in accordance, if an example is needed)

and thats it for the americas. now onto things i scripted for other regions/countries/continents or just the world in general. this is a lot more general because im jamaican-american so i dont know jack shit about any other nations histories to feel i should change anything (or even have a place to), but here it goes ;

most stuff is made regional/domestic. aka not everything is from china! literally only because i miss seeing “made in usa” or even “made in mexico” on things :(( like switch it up.

everywhere would be classified as a “first world country” by my original reality standards.

europe as a whole still has hella lions.

women & men have always been equal.

east asia is slightly more advanced than the rest of the world.

more places maintain “traditional” architecture styles. i heard in some european countries they dont build anything thats not cohesive with the older buildings and i was like, why dont we all do that???

the principal monetary system might not be capitalism (or communism, for that matter) i feel like i made the world so different im unsure if itd even still “work” but it might be idk.

and now, here goes the rapid fire intended cause & effect round explaining why the historical changes i scripted matters, if its unclear. but im no historian so i could be inaccurate on some things.

no indigenous genocide & thriving pre colonial pan-americas -> all nations in north/south america have further opportunity to become economically stable & explains the continents diversity without decimating an entire population.

pan-american road -> pan-americanism spreads, usa / canada is less likely to play “big brother” (or even be able to) with other north & south american countries. yankees automatically become like way less xenophobic/racist/isolationist because they never were.

global first world + peaceful status -> less over immigration from foreign countries to the west because there isnt a need to. more immigration in general because of cultural interest/work/school, but from everywhere to everywhere. less need for war & conflict because theres less injustice. less racism & xenophobia because no groups can be seen as literally having less. more technological & economic advancement because of a higher education rate.

fem/male equality always -> more technological & economic advancements because of an always larger work force. better mental health because gender norms (while they could still exist) wouldnt be nearly as intense on both genders. possibly more peaceful politics / social scenes because of more nuanced perspectives being highlighted and masculine energy wouldnt be a status quo.

no racial hierarchies -> no systemic racism in general. ameircan or european racism / xenophobia doesnt exist much less spread to other regions and continents.

weaker colonialism -> while europe & the west in general would still be extremely culturally & economically dominant, other regions and even entire continents would be on the same level….and the term “the west” might not be used? whats more plausible (even though its dated downnn in this reality) is probably old/new world.

more stuff made domestic/regional -> more equal financial clout. higher global production power. less unsafe work conditions. and more employed people everywhere.

europe still has lions -> europe just became like ten times cooler???

fun fact im lowkey planning a 1600s-1700s carribbean / american / yankee dr based on this alt history. itd be FUNN. and you just know the carribbean piracy golden age would just be bat shit insane too. also sooo excited to see different countries take on fashion, since the euro influence wouldnt be as universally strong.

and old hollywoods gonna be way more diverse so that’ll be cool to watch.

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