morde me
fem!reader x remmick
word count : 16k
masterlist | taglist
a/n : the gap in the votes 😭 i know what y’all are…. anyways, i’ve been working on a one-shot where remmick gets reader pregnant … getting over my fear of pregnancy and childbirth to finish it 🙏🏾
thank you @madkingcrowley for giving me the idea for them to fuck near a dead body kiss.
and thank you @iceemochaa for helping me figure out how to make this header 🫶🏾
sypnosis : three years after he turned you, you still haven’t forgiven him. but when blood stains your mouth and he’s dragging a corpse through the woods, you fall into the only rhythm you know—teeth, hands, bruises, and skin. you never stop long enough to ask why.
warnings (mdni !! 18+) : voyeuristic themes, masturbation, hate sex, vampiric attack (blood feeding, neck biting, flesh tearing), feeding-induced euphoria, choking, pinning, manhandling, sex as emotional outlet, forest sex/semi-public, sex near dead body, oral (m!receiving), grinding (non-penetrative foreplay), possessiveness, fingering, facefucking, spit/drool, unprotected sex (p in v), handjob, riding, nipple play, dubious consent themes (engaging in intense acts while physically exhausted or overwhelmed), doggystyle, pain/pleasure overlap, rough sex, hair pulling, mutiple orgasms, overstimulation, dirty talk, verbal power play & sharp banter during sex, lack of gentleness (by mutual design), marking (biting, scratching, bruising)
“get off of me.”
your breath leaves you in a harsh pant, chest heaving beneath the solid weight of him. his own chest presses flush to yours, damp with sweat, the heat of him clinging to your skin like something you couldn’t scrub off. his breath ghosts along your throat—hot, uneven, still carrying the remnants of a groan he hadn’t quite let go of.
he pulls his head back just enough to get a good look at you, head angled just enough for the shadows to catch along his jaw.
your hair is a mess—tangled, mussed from where his hands had been rough in it earlier, his fingers fisting into the roots like he needed to anchor himself. strands cling to the sheen of sweat along your temples, wild and damp, framing your face in a halo of disarray.
your lips—still parted from the last moan you let slip—are swollen, shiny with spit, and slightly red where teeth had caught. his gaze drags over your face, heavy-lidded and slow, like he’s memorizing the mess he made. your eyes are barely open, lids low and heavy like the weight of what just happened is pressing down on them.
you look up at him through lashes that clump with sweat, your stare dazed but defiant, too tired to move but too stubborn to look away.
there’s a curl to his mouth—lazy, smug—that makes something tighten deep in your gut, though whether it’s rage or want, you can’t quite tell.
“you sure?” his voice is thick, ruined from everything he’s just done to you. “i can always go for a round tw—”
“i will fucking kill you.”
his groan is immediate—low, guttural, deep in his throat like your threat only spurred him on. he finally pulls back, the shift of his hips dragging his cock from your body. he’s softening now, but not enough to make it easy. you feel every slow inch of him as he slips free, the wet drag of it against your still-throbbing walls making you hiss. the stretch lingers, leaving you empty and aching.
you grit your teeth, jaw tight with restraint. you don’t give him the satisfaction of another gasp, another tremble, another sound. he doesn’t deserve it.
“you can’t say things like that.”
his voice is low, not quite a whisper, more like a confession, and it spills out with a breath that shudders once he’s fully slipped out of you. the drag of him still lingers—an echo of pressure, slick and sore—and you feel the emptiness sharp in its absence.
“it turns me on,” he adds, almost absently.
you sit up slowly, the ache between your thighs immediate and pulsing. your legs shift closed, a sharp sting blooming from your center that makes you bite down hard on a hiss. your hand steadies against the sheets as you move, fingers curling tightly into the fabric like it could ground you.
you glance down and assess the damage like habit. like ritual.
the bruises along your hips are already yellowing, the deep purple centers beginning to fade. you can still feel the imprint of his hands there, the ghosts of his grip branded into your skin where he’d held you too hard—too tight.
your thighs bear him too. twin bite marks bloom high on your inner thighs, ragged around the edges where his fangs had broken skin. the skin around them is tender, a little inflamed, already slow to heal with the venom still lingering beneath the surface. it burns, just faintly—like a fever caught low in your blood.
one wrist is ringed in a flush of red where his fingers had wrapped around it, pinning you down. it aches with the dull throb of bruising, nerves sparking beneath the surface like a warning. your neck—still damp from his mouth—is littered with hickeys and shallow bites, some of them fresh enough to sting, others already scabbing over.
they’ll all heal. eventually.
“get out.”
you say it flatly, voice too hoarse, too hollow to carry any real weight. the words are there, but the strength isn’t. you stare him down anyway, refusing to look away, even when it hurts to keep your head upright.
he doesn’t respond.
he isn’t looking at you.
his eyes are fixed lower, between your legs, watching—shamelessly—the thick, messy drip of your mixed fluids slipping out from between your thighs. it coats your skin in a slow, obscene slide, catching the light like something molten. he stares like he wants to carve the image into memory.
“remmick.”
he glances up at the sound of his name—your voice cutting through the thick silence like a thread snapping.
his head tilts slightly, already waiting. like he’s bracing himself for what always comes next. for the venom in your tone. for the sharp, tired ritual you’ve both memorized too well. maybe you’ll scream, maybe you’ll spit some half-hearted insult or tell him you hate him again—he’s used to it. it’s practically foreplay by now.
three years.
three years of this twisted, tangled thing—hate laced with need, loathing soaked in want. ever since he turned you, this cycle has devoured the space between you. it wasn’t supposed to happen like this. none of it was.
the first time had been an accident. or something close to it.
you’d been yelling—loud, vicious, like your throat might tear from the force of it. words you barely remember now, fury clashing with his until it all blurred into something white-hot and unbearable. you’d gotten too close. your chest brushed his. your breath tangled with his, and in that fraction of a second, something shifted.
heat rose. logic disappeared.
and then your mouth was on his, teeth clashing, hands grasping at whatever flesh you could find. clothes torn. limbs tangled. anger melted into pleasure that felt like punishment.
when it was over, you were both bruised and bitten all over—purple marks blooming across your skin like flowers in decay—and floating in that strange, post-fury bliss that neither of you knew how to name.
it was supposed to be a one-time thing.
but here you were.
again.
and despite everything, despite the pain, the damage, the mess—he still looked at you like he wanted more.
like he never stopped.
“let me watch.”
his voice is hoarse, stripped down to something almost desperate. there’s no shame in it—there never is with him. his hand drifts low, fingers curling around the base of his soft cock, already coaxing it back to life with slow, needy strokes.
you watch, dazed and half-detached, still hovering in that hazy space between aftermath and awareness. the ache in your limbs grounds you, the sticky pull between your thighs a reminder of what just happened—what always happens.
you know exactly what he wants.
after all these years, after all the times you’ve clawed and fucked and cursed each other senseless, this part remained untouched. sacred in its own way. the cleanup was always solitary. always silent. one of you would slip away like it meant nothing, leaving the other in the wreckage of it all.
but now, he wants to stay.
he wants to see.
he watches the war behind your eyes, the pause in your breath, the flick of your gaze toward the bathroom like it might change your mind. and he waits—hopeful, panting, hand still moving lazily between his thighs.
“i don’t care,” you mutter, the words falling from your lips before you can think better of them.
and you don’t. or maybe you do—but it’s too late now.
the bathroom tiles are cool beneath your feet as you step into the tub, and the water greets you with a searing kiss. steam curls around your body, licking at your skin as the heat begins to seep into your sore muscles. a sigh leaves you—quiet, unguarded—as the tension eases from your limbs.
behind you, you hear it: the wet sound of him stroking himself, punctuated by shallow breaths and low groans that he tries to stifle and fails.
you don’t look at him. not yet.
“fucking pervert,” you whisper under your breath, not expecting him to hear.
but he does. you know he does—because the next sound is sharper, a choked-off breath that stutters through clenched teeth.
you lather the soap into your scrub, dragging it along your skin with slow, deliberate circles. you scrub the sweat from your collarbone, the spit from your chest, the mess between your thighs that makes you wince as the fabric brushes over half-healed bites. you hiss when it grazes a particularly raw one at your neck, but you keep going—methodical, clinical.
and still, he watches.
you don’t have to look to know his eyes are devouring you—tracing the line of your spine as you lean forward, following the water as it runs in rivulets between your thighs, catching in the curve of your hips.
when you finally step out of the tub, the air bites at your damp skin, sending a shiver across your shoulders. you grab a towel, but don’t wrap it around yourself just yet. your gaze lifts to him, and sure enough—he’s still there.
still pumping himself with steady, unrelenting strokes.
his knuckles are flushed pink, his breath ragged, and his cock is slick and twitching in his grip. his eyes are glassy—hungry—and when they meet yours, something cracks.
his mouth parts with a soft, broken sound.
and then he comes, spilling across his hand in messy spurts, jaw clenched as he gasps through it, eyes never leaving yours.
you just stand there. dripping. spent.
by the time the sky shifted—brushing the horizon with the bruised blush of dawn—remmick was gone.
no door slam. no parting words. just the familiar absence settling into the space where his heat had lingered. you didn’t move right away. you just stood there, damp towel clinging to your skin, staring at the spot he left behind until the first hints of gold started crawling through the cracks in the world outside.
and then—like always—you moved.
you did what you always did when the sun threatened to bleed across the land. you pulled the heavy wood panels from where they were leaned, fitted them over the window with practiced ease. thick nails. thick hands. years of repetition. not a single sliver of light would make it in. not anymore.
you hadn’t seen the sun in years. not really. not since the turning. not since the day your body stopped depending on it.
now, you lived by moonlight and instinct.
you sank onto your mattress—silent, still—letting the silence settle over your bones. no need for sleep. not anymore. the urge had left you long ago, burned out like the last flicker of candle wax. but lying here, in the stillness, pretending for a few hours that you were just tired instead of undead… that brought a kind of peace. a false, quiet comfort.
so you laid there.
watching the ceiling.
counting the faint thrum of blood moving somewhere deep beneath the floorboards, the birds chirping in the far-off distance, the way the house creaked like it remembered being alive.
and you waited.
for the heat of the sun to pass.
for the moon to rise again.
it didn’t hurt.
not really.
if anything, it felt like the brush of a leaf across your cheek—soft, inconsequential. barely there. the kind of touch you wouldn’t remember if not for the blood that followed.
his nails scraped at your skin in wild, uncoordinated desperation, trying anything to wriggle free from your grip. his chest heaved under you, heart pounding like a trapped animal’s, eyes wide with that raw kind of fear that always came when they realized—too late—what you were.
his throat was raw, voice cracked as he screamed at you, begged you to let him go.
but you didn’t.
you’d found him stumbling along the dirt road behind your house, cutting through the woods like some foolish, half-drunk ghost. backroads weren’t made for walking this late. not with things like you out here.
and now, he’s pinned beneath you—writhing, clawing, his limbs jerking like a caught rabbit in the mouth of something ancient and sharp.
his nail catches your cheek again, this time a little deeper. a faint red line blooms across your skin—but just as quickly as it appears, it closes, the blood fading as your body seals the wound without effort.
his hand lashes out to grab your wrist, but you’re faster—so much faster. you catch his arm mid-swing and twist.
there’s a sickening crack, sharp and final. his scream splits the quiet woods, echoing off trees and curling into the night like smoke. his wrist hangs at an unnatural angle, and his body spasms beneath you, breath coming in shallow, broken sobs.
you grab a fistful of his hair—rough, clumped with sweat—and yank his head to the side. the motion is brutal, practiced. the slope of his neck stretches out beneath you, pale and trembling, pulsing with fear.
“please—!”
he gasps it, half-whimpers it. his voice cracks again, high and wet with panic.
you hesitate.
just for a moment.
not from guilt. not from mercy.
but from hunger. the kind that makes you savor the moment before the first bite. the kind that lives in your bones now, ancient and patient and cruel.
your mouth parts.
and then you strike.
your fangs pierce his skin with ease, sinking deep into the vulnerable flesh just above his collarbone. he screams again—louder, rawer—his hands flying to your back, scratching and tearing at the fabric of your dress as he tries to push you away.
but it’s too late.
his blood rushes into your mouth, hot and copper-sweet, thick as syrup. it coats your tongue, spills from your lips, trickles down your chin and over your collarbones, soaking into the bodice of your dress until the fabric clings wet and sticky to your skin.
his body trembles violently beneath you, spasming with each pull of your mouth.
his body begins to go slack beneath you.
not dead. not yet. you’d know if he was. the blood would tell you—sour, spoiled, turned to ash in your mouth. but now it’s just weak, thinned-out, trickling like a slow stream from a dying spring.
your grip in his hair softens, fingers slipping to cradle the nape of his neck. not tender—never that—but supportive, stabilizing his limp head as it tilts uselessly to the side. the warmth of him is fading fast.
your eyes squeeze shut, jaw clenching as the familiar surge rises through your body. it coils through your veins like heat poured straight into your bones—fast, hot, and blinding. the sensation isn’t overwhelming, not like it used to be, but it’s enough to bring your breath to a soft hitch. enough to pull a quiet, involuntary sound from your throat—something between a gasp and a moan.
you bite down harder.
deeper.
your fangs shear through tendons and muscle, slicing clean. his throat convulses under your mouth as you pull him closer, crushing his body to yours with a strength that leaves no room for resistance. not that he has any left to give.
and then it starts.
the souring.
slow. subtle. you taste the shift in his blood—like iron gone to rust. it clings to the edges of your tongue and you know it’s time.
but before you can pull away, before the final drop turns bitter—
you hear him.
“what a mess.”
his voice drips like oil across your spine—smooth, familiar, smug.
you open your eyes slowly, pupils dilated wide, the world blurring at the edges as intoxicated warmth pulses through you. it’s not strong—not like it used to be when the thirst was new and any blood could send you spiraling. but the haze is there. just enough to soften the edges. just enough to lull.
you draw your mouth back, blood smeared across your lips and chin, your breath coming in slow, thick exhales.
you look down at the man beneath you—at the carnage. his throat is torn, skin shredded like wet paper, the blood pooling under him in a wide, dark stain that soaks into the dirt. the wound pulses once, weakly.
he won’t last long.
you hear the tsk behind you, sharp and judgmental.
but you don’t acknowledge him.
your jaw ticks.
you try to clench it, to lock it tight with irritation or restraint—you’re not sure which—but the sharp weight of your fangs won’t allow it. they press against the edges of your mouth, jutting out just enough to keep your lips parted in that permanent, threatening curl. your breath hisses quietly between them, blood still fresh along your teeth.
“you goin’ to ignore me?”
his voice is louder this time—firmer. not angry, but something close. like he feels entitled to your attention, your gaze, your reaction. like silence is a personal insult he won’t let slide.
you don’t look at him right away. you let the beat stretch.
and then—finally—you turn your head.
you take him in slowly, assessing him like he’s just another piece of the ruin you both helped make.
he’s nearly as wrecked as you.
his eyes, usually sharp and cutting, are glazed now—blissed out and low-lidded, the haze of fresh blood making him look dream-drunk. the edge of hunger has dulled, but there’s still a flicker of it twitching beneath the surface, just behind his stare.
his mouth is painted in blood—smudged at the corners, clinging to the cut of his lips, dripping slightly down his chin where he hadn’t bothered to wipe it. it shines dark red in the low light, almost black.
his bangs stick to his forehead, damp with sweat. they curl there like they’ve been plastered by heat, and the flush of his cheeks hasn’t faded yet—skin glowing faintly with the kind of heat that only comes after a good feed or a good fuck.
he looks like sin incarnate.
you shift your weight, rising slowly, and the man beneath you crumples with a dull thud as the support of your body disappears.
his limbs sprawl unnaturally, like a puppet cut from its strings, blood still seeping in slow pulses from the gaping mess you left at his throat. the sound of him hitting the ground is wet, final.
you don’t spare him a glance.
instead, you lift yourself with unhurried grace, spine uncoiling like something that had been crouched for far too long. your movements are liquid, slow and feline, a dark silhouette dripping in blood and silence.
he watches you—closely.
your bare feet pad across the dirt, sticky with blood. the hem of your dress clings to your thighs, soaked heavy and dark where it brushed the man’s body. your fingers twitch slightly at your sides, still pulsing with the aftershock of the feed, and your mouth hangs just barely open, fangs still bared, still glistening.
his eyes follow the way your body straightens, the way your shoulders roll back, like you’re shedding the last traces of restraint. the moonlight cuts across your face and catches the smear of blood on your jaw, the glint of your fangs, the faint shimmer of sweat clinging to your collarbone.
“there she is,” he murmurs.
the corner of his mouth twitches up into a crooked grin—tired, cocky, a little too pleased. like this—this—was what he was waiting for.
you tilt your head slightly, eyes narrowing just a fraction. “you like watching me work?”
he leans against the nearest tree, dragging the back of his hand across his bloody mouth, smearing it further across his cheekbone. “like watchin’ you lose yourself.”
you move toward him with slow steps, not quite a threat, but nothing soft either.
“don’t pretend you’re any different,” you murmur, voice low, thick with the haze of bloodlust. “i saw the way you looked… like you wanted to crawl inside the taste of it.”
he chuckles under his breath. “i do.” he tilts his head, exposing the faint trail of someone else’s blood dried down the side of his neck. “but you—you wear it better.”
you pause a foot away from him, your eyes locked, your breathing steady. the buzz between your bodies is palpable—shared hunger, shared ruin. the space is thick with it.
you reach up slowly, casually, and swipe a smear of blood from your own chin with your thumb. you suck it into your mouth, eyes still on him.
he watches your mouth, pupils dilating just slightly.
“you gonna clean me up next?” you ask, tongue flicking out to catch the last drop. “or just keep runnin’ your mouth?”
his grin widens, lazy and slow.
“depends,” he says, voice rough. “you gonna let me touch?”
your smile doesn’t quite reach your eyes. “you can try.”
you stand there, locked in place.
the air between you is taut—buzzing. you don’t move. neither does he. just a long, heavy stare.
his gaze drifts—slow, deliberate—down the length of you, taking in the blood still slicking your skin, the way your chest rises and falls in the aftermath, the gleam of something unspoken in your eyes.
you stare right back.
daring him.
until, finally, he looks away.
his jaw shifts, tongue pressing to the inside of his cheek, and he lets out a soft, short breath before turning and stepping past you.
he walks over to the body. the man’s limbs are splayed awkwardly, his blood already cooling in the dirt, dark and tacky. remmick crouches beside him and reaches for what’s left of his neck, his fingers curling beneath the mangled jaw with unsettling ease. the body lifts like it weighs nothing.
“still feed like a newborn,” he mutters, turning the man’s head slightly in his grip.
you scoff behind him. “you feed the same. like you’ve got something to prove.”
he glances back at you, an eyebrow raised—but there’s no humor in his eyes.
then he returns to the task at hand.
he angles the corpse’s neck so you can see it clearly, fingers firm against the ruined skin. even in the shadows, the tear of flesh is brutal—jagged, deep, too deep. bone glints faintly beneath the shredded tissue, and blood drips in slow trails down the man’s shoulder.
“you bit too deep,” remmick says, tone flat. “you went through tendon. nearly hit the spine.”
you roll your eyes, folding your arms over your chest. “and?”
his fingers slide from the man’s jaw, letting it drop back with a dull thump against the earth.
he rises slowly, brushing his hands against his trousers like the blood might bother him, though you both know better.
“you’re gonna kill someone too quick if you keep doin’ that,” he says, tone half-scolding, half-something else. “not everything’s a damn frenzy.”
you shift your weight, eyes narrowing slightly. “says the one who’s usually elbow-deep in someone’s ribcage.”
he smirks faintly, but it doesn’t last long.
“yeah,” he murmurs. “but i know how deep to go.”
you watch him—still blood-stained, still smug—as he dusts his palms off on his trousers like he hadn’t just chastised you over a corpse.
your tongue presses to your fang, jaw working.
“if you were planning to scold me,” you say, voice cool but edged, “maybe you should’ve thought twice before taking my life.”
he freezes—just for a moment—but it’s there.
you see the tension settle between his shoulder blades. the way his jaw tics before he scoffs, shaking his head like you’ve said something tired. old. rehearsed.
“you done?”
he doesn’t wait for an answer.
he bends at the knee and grabs the dead man by the ankle, lifting his leg and beginning the slow drag through the underbrush. leaves crunch under the weight. the man’s head bumps unevenly over a tree root, but remmick doesn’t flinch. doesn’t pause.
you follow, your steps light, steady, a stark contrast to the corpse thudding behind him.
“you didn’t have to turn me,” you go on, pace quickening so you can stay at his side. “you made a choice. and now you act like i’m the burden.”
“you think i wanted to?” he snaps, barely turning his head toward you. “you think i was just lookin’ to babysit some brat with no control?”
“then why the fuck did you do it?” you bark, walking faster now, matching his stride. “you should’ve let me die.”
he stops.
the sudden halt makes the corpse slide forward a few inches, dead weight tugging his arm. he doesn’t look at you right away—just stands there, his breath curling into the cool air, jaw clenched so tight it looks like it might crack.
then, slowly, he turns to you.
“maybe i should have,” he says. quiet. flat. but the edge of it slices through the space between you.
you swallow sharply.
your voice drops low, sharp. “then do it now. finish the job.”
he lets go of the man’s leg.
the body hits the dirt with a dull thud, forgotten for the moment as remmick steps toward you.
“you really want me to?” he says, close now—close enough that you can see the dried blood at the corner of his mouth, the twitch in his brow. “because you run your mouth like you don’t care, but if I left you in this forest, alone, no one would find you. you’d rot out here with your teeth bared and your pride clutched to your chest.”
“better than being your mistake,” you hiss.
he laughs—sharp, bitter.
“you’re not a mistake,” he mutters. “you’re a fuckin’ reminder.”
that shuts you up for half a second. just long enough for the weight of the words to land between you, heavy and cold.
and then—
“fuck you,” you say, too quiet, too tight.
he nods once, jaw working again.
“you already did.”
remmick exhales sharply through his nose, then bends again to grab the corpse’s leg, the man’s boot scraping across the dirt. he doesn’t say another word as he resumes dragging him deeper into the woods, like the conversation—like you—no longer matters.
but that silence makes your blood roar hotter.
you close the distance between you in two steps, your hand snapping out to grab his wrist—tight.
“i don’t need you to do anything for me.”
your grip tightens, and he stops walking.
his head turns slowly, eyes flicking down to your hand on his arm, then back up to your face. his expression is unreadable—but that smug edge creeps in as his lips curl.
“no,” he mutters. “you just wouldn’t do it properly.”
that’s it.
that’s the spark.
you shove him.
hard.
his body jolts backward, boots skidding in the loose dirt as he stumbles a step—two—before catching himself. the corpse thuds to the ground beside him, limp and discarded again.
remmick straightens slowly, his head turning toward you.
his eyes are darker now—dilated, wild. all that cool detachment stripped away. what replaces it is something raw and mean, something that’s simmered under his skin for too long.
you don’t even have time to react before he’s on you.
his hand is at your throat, slamming you back against the nearest tree. the bark scrapes your spine as your back hits the trunk, and your breath catches in your chest—not from fear, but from the sheer force of him.
his body presses close, arm pinning you in place, the scent of blood and sweat rising thick between you.
his grip tightens just enough to remind you who’s stronger.
“think that made you feel good?” he growls, voice low and venomous against your ear. “pushing me around like you’ve got any power over me?”
your fingers dig into his wrist, but you don’t push him off. not yet.
your fangs flash as your lips curl into something dangerous.
“you think choking me’s gonna scare me?” you rasp. “you forget what i am now?”
his grip doesn’t loosen—but his breath stutters. just slightly.
there’s something between you now that isn’t just anger. something tighter. rougher. it thrums between your chests like a wire pulled too taut, trembling with everything unsaid.
for a heartbeat, neither of you move.
then he leans in, close enough that his mouth almost brushes yours.
“don’t tempt me,” he mutters, voice like gravel. “i might forget to stop next time.”
his eyes stay locked on yours for a beat longer, and then—
his grip tightens.
just for a split second.
just enough to make your breath catch in your throat and your pulse flicker against his palm.
he watches the way your eyes narrow, the way your jaw clenches even though your mouth is slightly parted, fangs still bared. the way your body doesn’t flinch away, doesn’t weaken—if anything, it leans in.
his breath is hot when he moves, lowering his head, mouth dragging close to your cheek, his voice curling against the shell of your ear—low, slow, and guttural.
“is that what you want?” he murmurs. “you want me to fuck you?”
the words are thick with heat and venom, not sweet or soft—not some gentle offering.
they’re a challenge.
his grip on your throat loosens just enough for you to breathe again, but he doesn’t pull away. his body is still flush with yours, his lips hovering at your skin, waiting. testing.
your fingers twitch at your sides, nails curling inward as his words sink in.
you hate how your body reacts before your mind does—how heat crawls under your skin, how your stomach twists, how your thighs press together without meaning to.
his breath ghosts against your ear, lips brushing so close you feel the shape of every word. he hasn’t pulled back. he’s waiting—still holding you there like he owns the right to, like you haven’t fought him tooth and claw every step of the way.
you don’t answer him.
not with words.
your hand shoots up, not to push him away—but to grab a fistful of his shirt. you yank him closer, the fabric stretching tight across his chest, and your lips barely graze the line of his jaw.
he laughs. low. dark. a sound that vibrates between your bodies.
“thought so.”
his free hand moves fast—grabbing your hip, dragging you against him. he pins you harder to the tree, the bark biting into your spine. the angle of it pushes your chest into his, and you can feel the tension rolling off of him in thick, unrelenting waves.
his mouth finally touches yours—not a kiss, not really. just the press of his lips against your lower one, the faint scrape of his fang when he pulls back.
“say it,” he mutters, voice frayed at the edges. “say it, and i’ll ruin you right here.”
your head tilts back against the tree, breath sharp in your throat. his hand is still at your neck, not choking—just holding. just reminding.
you swallow hard.
then you say it—quiet, hoarse, but without hesitation.
“do it.”
he growls—not a sound of frustration, but something closer to relief. like he’s been waiting to be let off the leash.
his mouth crashes against yours then, all teeth and heat and blood. it’s messy and immediate, your bodies colliding like neither of you want to be gentle. his tongue tastes like iron, like heat and rot and hunger, and you kiss him back like you want to devour him from the inside out.
his hand drags down your side, gripping your thigh, hiking it up over his hip as he presses himself harder against you. the friction sends a jolt through your spine, and when you gasp, he bites—just below your jaw, not enough to break skin, but enough to bruise.
he pulls back only long enough to speak again, voice rough, unsteady.
“you asked for it.”
his mouth crashes back to yours—hot, claiming, all teeth and breath and hunger—but this time, he doesn’t rush. he drags it out. lets the kiss linger with purpose, lips parting slow as his tongue slides against yours, tasting the blood still caught between your teeth.
his hand is still braced at your throat, fingers splayed wide across your skin, thumb brushing over your pulse like a warning. he’s not squeezing—but the weight is there. the threat of it. the promise of it.
your thigh stays hooked over his hip, the fabric of your dress bunched up between you. his palm splays against your leg, sliding slowly—up, down, up again—his fingers dipping just beneath the edge of your underwear but never quite committing.
you breathe against his mouth, low and uneven. your hands move to his chest, gripping the front of his shirt, feeling the taut muscles beneath the fabric, the way his chest rises and falls faster with every second that passes.
he breaks the kiss just enough to speak, voice hoarse.
“you feel that?”
you do.
he’s hard against you, pressing into the heat between your legs, rolling his hips slow just once—just enough to make your breath stutter and your nails dig into his chest.
he watches you carefully, eyes heavy and dark, like he’s reading every twitch of your mouth, every flutter of your lashes.
“don’t act like you hate this,” he murmurs, dragging his lips along your jaw, then down your throat. “you need this. just like i do.”
his mouth lingers there—hot, open, fangs grazing your skin as he sucks a bruise into the hollow of your neck, right over where your heartbeat thrums. you gasp, hips shifting, trying to grind against him—but he pulls back just enough to stop you.
not yet.
he wants you to beg for it without saying a word.
his fingers curl tighter around your thigh, lifting it higher, spreading you open around his hips. the pressure between your legs is maddening, but he doesn’t move faster. he holds there, steady, thick tension curling in the space between you.
his lips drag back to your ear, breath warm and ragged.
“you gonna let me take my time with you?” he asks, voice low—almost gentle. almost.
but there’s something sharper underneath. something waiting to snap.
your answer comes with a breathless nod, lips parted, thighs trembling.
and that’s when he starts to move.
slow. grinding. letting the friction build, letting you feel every inch of him through the thin layers still separating you. he wants to make you squirm. wants to feel you come apart before he’s even inside you.
and you let him.
he keeps moving against you, slow and grinding, not rushing a thing—like he wants to drag it out until you’re shaking. your leg’s still hitched around his hip, and with every roll of his body into yours, the friction builds—just enough to keep your breath shallow, your fingers digging tighter into the fabric of his shirt.
he presses in again, mouth at your throat, his voice low and rough against your skin.
“you’re already soaked for me.”
you don’t answer—your head tips back against the bark, eyes fluttering shut, hips pushing forward on instinct. your body’s answering for you, the ache blooming too hot to ignore now.
his hand slides down between your thighs, palm cupping the heat of you through the soaked fabric, and you gasp—a soft, bitten-off sound that has him smirking against your neck.
but then—your hand shoots out.
flat against his chest.
not hard. just enough to still him.
your eyes open slowly. steady. clear enough now to mean it.
“not on the tree.”
his brow furrows, and he pauses, breath catching. “what?”
your fingers tighten into his shirt, grounding yourself in the memory.
“not on the tree,” you repeat. “last time… i’m not doing that again.”
something flickers across his face. he knows what you’re talking about. of course he does.
he stares at you for a second longer, the weight of it passing in silence.
then he nods.
without a word, he grips your thighs and pulls back—just enough to lower you down. he catches your fall with a practiced ease, guiding you, shifting your body as your back meets the forest floor. the dirt is soft from the season’s rains, warm where the moonlight filters in, and you feel leaves crumple beneath your shoulders as he settles above you.
the moment shifts again.
his hips slide between your thighs, and the position changes everything. wider. deeper. more.
his hand presses to the inside of your knee, pushing your leg aside as his other hand rakes up your side—slow and heavy—palming your breast through the fabric, fingers dragging over your nipple until you arch.
“better?” he asks, but it’s a murmur, distracted, because his mouth is already back on yours.
you nod into the kiss, and that’s all he needs.
he rolls his hips again, this time with more pressure—more intention—and your body bucks slightly, that sweet friction finally returning.
he breaks the kiss only long enough to move—his hands sliding down your thighs, rough and steady, until they hook beneath the elastic of your panties. he doesn’t ask. doesn’t tease. just yanks them down in one clean pull, dragging the soaked fabric past your knees and tossing them somewhere behind him into the dark.
you don’t even have time to say anything before he’s reaching down between you, unbuckling his belt with one sharp tug. the clink of the metal, the drag of the zipper—it’s fast, practiced. impatient.
you watch him from beneath your lashes, breathing heavy, lips still slick from his mouth.
his cock springs free, hard and flushed, the head already glistening from the friction. he grips it once at the base, pumping lazily, the tip brushing against your inner thigh as he lowers himself again, settling between your legs like he belongs there.
then he presses himself to your folds—skin to skin.
hot.
wet.
so fucking close.
he doesn’t push in—not yet.
he stays pressed against you, the head of his cock slick where it grinds against your folds, sliding between them with every slow, grinding rock of his hips.
he drags himself through the mess he’s made of you—deliberate, teasing, just enough pressure to make your legs tense around his waist.
you grit your teeth, a soft, involuntary gasp slipping free as he rolls his hips again, the ridge of him catching your clit just right.
his hand comes up to your jaw, not gentle—tilting your face toward his with a firm grip like he owns the right to do it.
“this isn’t you beggin’ yet?” he mutters against your cheek, lips brushing your skin.
you scoff, even as your breath shakes. “please. you’d come in your pants if i did.”
he laughs—sharp and quiet, his teeth grazing your jaw.
“you talk so much for someone who’s dripping for me,” he says, voice low and thick with heat.
“and you hump like a dog,” you snap back, your nails dragging down his back hard enough to leave lines through his shirt. “are you gonna fuck me, or just grind on me until you lose rhythm?”
his eyes darken.
his next thrust is harder. sharper. not enough to hurt—but enough to make your head knock lightly against the forest floor, enough to steal the breath from your chest.
“keep talkin’,” he growls, voice rough now, losing that smooth edge. “see how nice i am when i finally do.”
you meet his glare head-on, your nose brushing his, your mouths still inches apart.
“you’re never nice,” you say through clenched teeth.
he grins.
“you never ask me to be.”
his hand moves between your bodies again, sliding down, thumb circling your clit with purpose—slow, but with more weight. your hips jerk, breath catching hard in your throat.
he watches you closely—waits for your mask to slip. just a little. just enough to say he won.
but you don’t give it to him.
instead, you reach down between you, curling your hand around his cock where it grinds slick against your folds, guiding him lower—pressing him just a little harder where it feels best.
his breath stutters.
you smirk. “see? you need me to do all the work.”
his jaw flexes.
his hips push deeper against you. his cock slides through your folds again, slow and steady and maddening, catching against your clit in just the right way to make your legs shake.
the air between you is thick now—hot and tense, full of sharp breaths and sweat and hate and need.
his cock slides against you again—slow, heavy, dragging through the slick heat between your thighs. the pressure is maddening, just shy of enough. your hips push up on instinct, trying to chase it, to make him do something.
he groans under his breath, low in his throat. not soft. not sweet. it rumbles out of him like it irritates him to feel this good.
“you’re so fuckin’ needy,” he mutters, mouth brushing your jaw, breath hot and uneven.
you huff out a breath, trying not to roll your eyes—even as your legs tighten around his waist. “just fuckin’ do something, remmick.”
he rolls his hips into you—slow, grinding, the tip of his cock nudging your clit just enough to make your breath stutter.
“that feel like nothing to you?” he grits out, jaw tight.
you moan—quiet, almost unwilling—and dig your nails into his back, raking them lightly just to feel him twitch.
“i’ve had better,” you lie, panting through a half-smirk.
he chuckles, humorless and sharp. “you’re so full of shit.”
“and you’re still talkin’.”
his hand moves between your bodies again, fingers slick as they rub against your entrance, sliding slow, teasing like he knows you’re trying to hold it together. your thighs twitch, breath catching.
you grit your teeth. “if you’re not gonna—”
his fingers press just inside.
you gasp—sharp and sudden—and his mouth is at your ear again.
“shut up,” he growls, breath ragged. “or i won’t prep you at all.”
you freeze under him, lips parted, heart hammering.
his fingers slide in a little deeper, slow and firm.
your hips lift, chasing him, but you don’t say a word.
not now.
not with that threat hanging in the air between your thighs.
he smirks against your throat, his voice low and wrecked.
“good girl.”
remmick shifts above you, pulling back just enough so his cock isn’t dragging through your folds anymore. the sudden absence makes you bite down on a breath, your thighs twitching from the built-up friction he’s now denying you.
but you know what’s coming.
and he doesn’t make you wait long.
his hand slips back between your thighs, and without a warning—like always—he shoves a finger inside you. no slow ease, no gentle stretch. just a hard press and a quick thrust, like you were something he already owned and didn’t need to ask permission from.
you hiss, hips jolting slightly, but you don’t stop him. you never do.
this is the way it always is with him—rough, practiced, a rhythm neither of you ever talked about but both learned down to the bone. no sweet words. no slow tenderness. just the hot, grinding need that always boils over when you’re too pissed at each other to think straight.
he curls his finger inside you without mercy, testing your tightness, jaw clenched like he’s annoyed at how ready you already are.
“fuckin’ knew you were soaked,” he mutters, more to himself than to you.
you glare up at him through heavy lids, your breath hitching again as he adds a second finger just as fast. no warning, no pause.
you grunt out a sound that borders on a moan and a curse, your hands grabbing at his shirt, balling the fabric into your fists like you need something to hold onto.
“you never warm me up right,” you grit out between clenched teeth.
he thrusts his fingers deeper, harder.
“you never fuckin’ need it,” he growls back, his voice right at your ear. “you’re always ready to get split open.”
his fingers work inside you, unforgiving, knuckles pressing flush as he pumps them in deep, fast strokes—just enough to loosen you for what’s next.
your head tips back, a sharp breath tearing from your throat as the pressure builds, low and hard.
“you don’t even fuckin’ like me,” you pant, voice breaking through the wet sounds of his fingers moving inside you.
he leans in, mouth brushing your jaw, his breath shaking just slightly.
“you think i gotta like you to want to wreck you?”
his fingers curl deep again, and your back arches off the forest floor.
you don’t answer.
because he already knows the truth.
his fingers pick up the pace—rougher now, faster, the wet slap of them echoing between your legs as he drives them in, over and over, knuckles deep.
you gasp, the sound cracking on the way out of your throat.
then another sound follows.
and another.
a whole leash of them.
high and broken and desperate—spilling from you before you can catch them, before you can remind him how much you hate giving him anything.
his eyes flick up to your face, and he smirks, teeth flashing, sweat beading at his brow.
“there she is,” he breathes, voice tight, rough with restraint. “already falling apart on my fuckin’ fingers.”
you claw at his shirt, trying to keep yourself grounded, but your hips keep lifting off the ground to chase the pressure. he doesn’t slow down. if anything, it makes him go harder—his fingers thrusting into you like he’s already imagining how you’ll take his cock next.
he leans down, his mouth close to your ear again, his breath hot and ragged.
“we just fed,” he murmurs. “you know what that means.”
you shudder under him, head turning slightly, cheek brushing the dirt and leaves.
“means i get to take my fuckin’ time,” he growls, voice like gravel and heat. “means you’re not gettin’ just one position tonight.”
his fingers curl again, right against that spot inside you that makes your legs twitch and a choked moan claw its way out of your chest.
“means i’m gonna bend you over every surface i can find—fuck you against trees, drag you into the creek, put you on your knees in the goddamn dirt if i feel like it.”
you moan again, louder this time, and he grins like he just won something.
“gonna keep fuckin’ you till you forget your own fuckin’ name.”
your body jerks beneath him, the pleasure coiling too fast now—too deep. your cunt clenches around his fingers, your thighs tightening as another broken sound spills out of you.
“already close, aren’t you?” he taunts, pumping harder. “already so fuckin’ close and i haven’t even given you my cock yet.”
you try to snap back—try to spit something at him—but it dies in your throat as his thumb finds your clit and starts rubbing tight, fast circles in time with the brutal pace of his fingers.
your back arches. your mouth falls open.
he leans in, voice a low, guttural whisper against your lips.
“come for me.”
it hits you fast.
hard.
your body tenses beneath him like a cord pulled too tight—and then it snaps.
your thighs lock around his hips, toes curling, your stomach tightening as every muscle in your body goes rigid. your back arches high off the ground, pushing your chest into his as the first wave crashes through you.
a moan rips out of your mouth—loud and raw, torn from somewhere deep in your chest, the kind of sound you never mean to give him but always do when it’s him.
your walls clench around his fingers, fluttering tight as he keeps thrusting through it, not easing up for a second. his thumb grinds into your clit with just enough pressure to send the pleasure spiraling, pulsing in deep, unbearable waves.
“that’s it,” he groans, watching you with that same fucked-out hunger in his eyes. “just like that. fuckin’ take it.”
you’re gasping now, mouth open, hands clawing at his arms—at anything you can reach—desperate for something to hold onto as your orgasm rips through you. your vision goes white at the edges. your body trembles under his grip, legs spasming as he keeps fucking you through every last second of it.
your hips try to jerk away, too sensitive, but he holds you down with a hand braced against your thigh, fingers still working inside you until the last ripple fades, and your body finally collapses back to the earth.
he pulls his hand away slowly, fingers soaked.
you’re still panting, chest heaving, lips parted as you try to catch your breath.
he stares down at you for a moment—eyes dark, jaw tight, his cock twitching against your thigh.
“that was just the start,” he mutters.
then he lowers his mouth to yours.
not gentle.
not slow.
just hunger.
pure and sharp.
your body sinks into the earth, boneless, dazed.
the coolness of the dirt beneath your back soaks into your spine, grounding you. your thighs are still twitching with the aftershocks—little trembles you can’t quite control. your chest rises and falls in ragged swells, lips parted, skin damp with sweat and heat and breathlessness.
you feel him watching you.
feel the weight of his gaze dragging across your body like another kind of touch.
then—smack.
a light slap against the outside of your thigh. sharp enough to make your muscles flinch.
“get up.”
his voice is low, hoarse, somewhere above you—but it feels far away. muffled through the fog in your brain, your ears still ringing from how hard you came.
another smack, this time closer to the inside of your leg.
“come on,” he says again, firmer now, but not harsh. “up.”
you blink slowly, trying to piece the words together as your eyes flutter open. the trees blur above you. moonlight cuts through the canopy in thin beams. the air is thick with the scent of sex and sweat and damp earth.
you shift, slowly, arms bracing behind you as you sit up, body heavy and unsteady.
and when you do—
he’s there.
standing above you.
his pants pushed down around his thighs, cock flushed and hard, slick with your wetness from all the grinding earlier. it stands just inches from your face, bobbing slightly with the rhythm of his breath.
you tilt your head up, dazed eyes meeting his.
he looks down at you like he’s already imagining what you’ll do next—like he knows you’re still too fucked-out to put up a real fight. like he’s not going to ask permission this time, because you already gave it—back there, when you moaned his name like it belonged to you.
his fingers reach out, brush a strand of hair from your cheek.
“open,” he murmurs.
not a demand.
not a question.
just what comes next.
you blink up at him, still catching your breath—lips slightly swollen, jaw slack from how hard you’ve just unraveled. your eyes are half-lidded, lashes damp with sweat, and your body’s still trembling in soft waves that roll under your skin like an aftershock.
he’s waiting.
watching you.
his cock inches from your mouth, heavy and flushed, the tip shining.
you shift onto your knees, slow and unsteady, tongue darting out just barely to wet your lips. your fingers curl into the dirt beside your thighs for balance, the coolness grounding you.
then you look up at him—eyes dark, mouth twitching into something like a smirk, breath still ragged.
“you always get so eager when i’m too fucked-out to bite,” you pant, voice low and edged in defiance. “what happened to all that stamina, huh?”
his jaw flexes.
his fingers twist into your hair.
and without a word—he thrusts forward.
your breath catches as the head of his cock pushes past your lips, hot and thick, filling your mouth before you can finish the next breath. your throat tightens instinctively, hands bracing on his thighs as he presses deeper, forcing you to take more of him.
your smirk dies right there.
his other hand settles at the back of your neck, not choking—just holding you in place, controlling the pace as your lips seal around him.
he pulls back just enough for you to inhale, then pushes in again—slow, steady, but firm. claiming. wiping the words from your mouth like they didn’t matter.
“thought i told you to shut up,” he murmurs, voice rough and low, hips rocking forward again, sliding over your tongue. “open that smart mouth just a little wider for me.”
you do.
because you can’t do anything else now.
he groans when you relax into it, jaw loosening as your tongue curves under him, taking him deeper.
he groans low as your mouth stretches around him, the heat of you pulling a shiver straight up his spine.
your fangs—once bared and threatening—are gone now. they’d receded when you came, sharp edges dulled back into flesh, leaving your mouth soft, wet, open. your lips mold around him without danger, without that usual threat lingering behind every gasp and growl. and he knows it. feels it. takes his time because of it.
he fucks your mouth slow.
not lazy—just measured. deliberate.
each stroke is long and steady, hips rolling forward with the kind of practiced control that makes you ache more than if he were rough. your breath flutters hot through your nose, fingers still gripping his thighs, holding tight every time he pushes a little deeper.
he watches your face the entire time.
the drag of his cock over your tongue. the way your lashes flutter, lips stretched wide and glossy with spit. the way your throat works to take him.
“look at you,” he mutters, voice raw with want. “all that mouth earlier—and now it’s full.”
he brushes the pad of his thumb along your cheek, feeling how you hollow it out for him, how warm and tight your mouth is wrapped around him.
you hum low in your throat—something dark and smug—and he groans when the vibration ripples down his shaft.
you pull back slightly, just enough for the head to sit on your tongue, eyes lifting to his with a heavy-lidded, deliberate look.
he twitches.
“don’t fuckin’ tease,” he growls, hand tightening in your hair.
your lips curl around the tip, breath hot against his skin. and though you don’t speak, your expression says it all.
make me.
he pushes forward again, slow and steady, burying himself deeper—your jaw stretching, drool spilling from the corner of your mouth as he holds you there for a moment, not cruel, but commanding.
then he eases out again, a slick sound filling the space between you.
“you like this?” he mutters, voice tight. “that pretty little mouth ruined and wet for me?”
your fingers dig into his thighs in response, nails biting into his skin—not enough to stop him. just enough to remind him you’re still in this.
still sharp.
even if your teeth are gone for now.
his grip in your hair tightens, thumb brushing along your jaw as he begins to move with more purpose now.
slow fades to steady.
steady builds to deep.
his hips roll forward in controlled thrusts, each one pushing his cock deeper across your tongue, your throat tightening around him with every slow, fluid stroke. spit pools at the corners of your mouth, thick and messy, stringing down your chin as your lips stretch to take him.
he groans—low and guttural—the sound curling down your spine like smoke.
“fuck—just like that,” he breathes, voice unsteady now, the tension finally threading into his tone. “knew you’d take it. always do.”
you let him.
you open wider, relax your jaw, let him guide your head as he rocks into you, deeper each time. your fangs remain tucked away, your mouth pliant and warm, slick and safe—for now.
his head tips back briefly, throat flexing as he grits his teeth, and his next thrust pushes past the threshold of comfort, nudging the back of your throat. your hands grips his thighs, fingers tightening—not to stop him, just to brace.
he notices.
he always notices.
“too much?” he rasps, voice dark and knowing.
you blink up at him, eyes sharp through the haze, and deliberately flatten your tongue against him, sucking gently as he slides back just a bit.
a silent answer.
no.
his jaw flexes, breath shuddering.
“you’re fuckin’ filthy,” he mutters, hand guiding your head now with a little more force, his cock slipping deeper with each pass of your lips. “always actin’ like you hate me… till you’re down here like this.”
you gag once—just barely—as he pushes deeper, and his hand slips from your hair to the side of your face, steadying your jaw as he pulls back slightly, dragging your mouth with him.
he doesn’t stop.
he’s watching every reaction—your watering eyes, the slick trail down your chin, the soft sounds breaking in your throat each time his hips meet your lips.
you suck harder.
just to hear him swear under his breath again.
and he does.
“jesus fuck—”
the pace picks up now, steady and deep, each thrust pressing into your mouth with a little more urgency, his hips rolling in tight circles as the tension coils higher in his stomach.
his hips jerk forward harder now—deeper, rougher.
the last of that controlled rhythm shatters as the tension inside him snaps tighter, and you feel the shift immediately. his cock drives into your mouth with sharper thrusts, his grip on your face firmer now, thumbs braced against your cheeks as he holds your head in place.
your throat flexes, taking him, swallowing around each deep stroke as he begins to fuck your mouth in earnest.
no more teasing.
no more patience.
just the sound of slick, wet movement and the heavy slap of his hips against your face.
drool pours from the corners of your mouth, coating your chin, soaking your neck, and still—you take him. your hands gripping his thighs for balance, your fingers digging deep with every thrust that pushes you closer to the edge of breath.
your eyes flutter, lashes damp, and through the blur you see him—head tipped back, mouth parted, chest rising and falling like he’s fighting for air he doesn’t need. he groans your name under his breath, low and guttural, his body trembling with restraint as he buries himself to the hilt.
your gag reflex kicks once, and he hisses at the tight clench around him—but doesn’t stop.
his fingers slip back into your hair, fisting at the roots now, dragging your head into each thrust. your nose brushes the base of him again and again, the scent of skin and sweat and sex overwhelming every inhale.
“fuck—look at you,” he growls, voice frayed. “takin’ all of it… mess all over your fuckin’ face—god—”
you moan around him, the sound muffled and wet, and he nearly stumbles.
his cock twitches on your tongue, and his hips falter for half a second before he pulls out with a wet gasp—your mouth popping free, spit trailing from your lips to his tip in thick, glossy strands.
you cough once, chest heaving as air rushes in, your chin glistening, lips swollen and red.
he looks down at you—jaw tight, eyes blown wide with lust and something that might almost look like desperation.
“you want me to come in your mouth,” he breathes, voice wrecked, “or you want to feel it while i fuck you?”
your breath stutters as you lick your swollen lips, spit still strung between them in glossy threads. your throat aches in the best way, jaw loose and trembling, chest heaving as you look up at him through damp lashes.
you meet his eyes—dark and wild above you—and without flinching, without shame, you pant out:
“come in my mouth.”
his body jolts like you hit something vital.
his cock twitches in his grip, and for a second, his head tilts back with a groan so guttural it rips straight from his chest. like he wasn’t expecting you to say it. like he needed to hear it.
“fuck—” it spills out of him.
then he’s grabbing your face again, cock lining up with your mouth before you can even brace—
and he thrusts back in.
deep.
rough.
completely undone.
his hips piston forward with no more caution, no rhythm—just desperate need. he fucks into your mouth with ragged, broken groans, his hands guiding your head, holding you where he wants you.
your lips stretch around him, your throat working as he drives in over and over again, the head of his cock slamming into the back of your throat. spit and precum mix, flooding your mouth.
his thighs tense beneath your hands.
his breathing turns sharp. erratic.
“fuck—fuck—”
he buries himself deep.
your nose pressed to his skin. your throat stretched.
and he comes.
hot and thick, pulsing across your tongue in heavy waves. he groans through gritted teeth, his body shaking with the force of it, one hand still gripping your hair like he’s trying to keep himself from falling apart.
you swallow around him, slow and steady, milking every last drop as his cock twitches one final time against your tongue.
he pulls back slowly, panting, your lips slipping off with a wet pop.
your mouth is wrecked—slick, red, chin soaked with spit—but you stare up at him like you’re proud of it.
and he looks down at you—spent and sweat-slicked.
the forest is quiet now, save for the twin sounds of both of your breathing—harsh, uneven, loud against the backdrop of crickets and wind.
remmick stands there for a moment, still flushed, chest rising and falling like he’d just fought something off—or given in to something bigger than him. his cock hangs slick and softening, glistening with spit and release, while your mouth remains parted, lips bruised and wet.
you’re both panting.
your knees ache from the earth beneath them. your hands twitch slightly at your sides, still trembling from earlier—whether it’s your previous orgasm or the fact that he just fucked your mouth like it was a goddamn promise, you can’t tell.
he blinks down at you, jaw still tight, sweat clinging to the curve of his throat.
then—without a word—he moves.
his legs bend, and he slowly lowers himself down to the ground in front of you, knees pressing into the dirt, bringing you nearly eye level. not looming. not hovering. just there. his breath fans across your face, still warm. still shaky.
your eyes lock.
and neither of you looks away.
your chests rise and fall in unison, heat radiating between you in that narrow, electric space. his hands rest on his thighs, still twitching with leftover tension, like he hasn’t decided if he wants to hold you or shove you down again.
your gaze flickers across his face—his jaw, his lips, the flushed color still clinging to his cheekbones—and then back to his eyes.
you don’t say anything. neither does he.
you just stare.
your breaths mingle. your bodies thrum. the dirt presses into your knees, but neither of you moves.
then, slowly, the edge of remmick’s mouth curls into something crooked—something smug.
his voice is low, rough with the ghost of a groan still clinging to it.
“think i’m gonna bend you over that log behind you,” he mutters, his eyes dropping briefly to your mouth before dragging slowly back up. “pull that pretty ass up in the air and—”
“no.”
your voice cuts in—hoarse, breathless, but firm.
his brows tick up, just slightly.
you sit back on your heels, chin lifted, lips still glistening with spit and cum, your jaw set in that way that always makes him pause.
“i’m riding you.”
he huffs out a breath—half a laugh, half something darker—and leans forward just a little, his hand dragging lazily across your bare thigh, fingers dipping into the sticky mess between your legs, his touch casual, claiming.
“you think you’re in charge now?” he murmurs.
you meet his eyes, unflinching.
“i know i am.”
he stares at you for a beat longer, the heat in his gaze deepening, thickening into something molten. something fond and fucked-up.
then he leans back on his heels, spreading his thighs wider, arms bracing behind him in the dirt like he’s offering himself up—but only because he’s letting you.
“then do it,” he says, voice low, eyes dark. “come take what’s yours.”
you don’t move right away.
you just watch him—watch the way his body shifts slightly under your gaze, the way his hands flex behind him like he’s deciding whether to keep playing along or flip you back under him.
but he doesn’t move.
so you do.
you lift your hand and press it to the center of his chest—firm, steady.
his muscles tense beneath your palm, but he doesn’t resist as you push. slow. deliberate. until his elbows give and his back hits the ground, dirt sticking to the sweat bleeding through his shirt.
he exhales through his nose, looking up at you now, head tilted, brow low.
“really think you’re in control, huh?”
you swing your leg over him and straddle his hips, settling on his thighs—not yet where he wants you, not yet where you want to be, either. just close enough to remind him who’s holding the rhythm now.
you drag your hands down his chest, then lower one between your bodies, fingers curling around the base of his cock. he’s soft—but only just. still slick with your spit and his release, still sensitive, still warm in your palm.
you stroke him slow.
long, unhurried pulls from base to tip.
his hips twitch beneath you, a soft grunt slipping from his lips as you work him back to life, each stroke coaxing blood to the surface, swelling him under your touch.
he grows harder in your hand by the second—thick and flushed, pulsing faintly against your palm.
you glance down between your bodies, watching the way your hand looks wrapped around him, the way he throbs with every stroke.
his breath is heavier now, chest rising under yours.
“you always this smug when you’re sittin’ on my cock,” he mutters, voice low, lips curling just slightly.
you keep stroking him, pace steady, fingers tightening just a little.
“i haven’t sat yet,” you whisper.
and the way his body reacts—hips twitching, eyes darkening—tells you he’s ready for it.
you keep your hand wrapped around him, pumping slow, steady—watching the way his face tightens every time your palm twists just right near the tip.
he’s hard now. thick and throbbing beneath you.
and still, you don’t sit.
you drag it out.
your other hand slides up his chest, nails grazing lightly across the ridges of his abdomen, up to his ribs, his sternum, until your fingers wrap loosely around his throat—not squeezing. not even applying pressure. just a warning.
his eyes flicker.
his hands stay planted in the dirt at his sides, fingers twitching like he’s holding himself back from grabbing your hips and flipping you straight onto your back.
good.
you lean in just enough to murmur near his mouth, lips barely brushing.
“what was that about bending me over?” you ask, voice quiet and mocking, breath warm on his tongue. “say it again.”
he growls low in his throat, hips bucking up into your hand, but he still doesn’t touch you.
his lips part, eyes heavy-lidded, but you cut him off before he can speak.
you release him.
his cock twitches as your hand slips away, and he makes a sound in his chest—frustration, hunger, maybe both—but you’re already reaching lower, gathering the hem of your dress in your fists.
you rise slightly onto your knees, pulling the fabric up and over your head—slow, sensual, like you know he’s watching every inch of skin as it’s revealed.
your breasts bounce free first, and then your stomach, your hips, the stretch of your thighs. the whole dress slides off in one smooth motion and drops beside you in the dirt.
you’re bare to the moonlight now, flushed and glowing, slick between your legs from everything he’s already wrung out of you.
his breath catches—he doesn’t even try to hide it.
then his hands are moving.
he sits up with a quiet curse, fingers flying to the buttons of his shirt. each one comes undone fast, desperate, not messy—but impatient. his chest is already glistening with sweat, muscles tight from restraint, and when he pulls the shirt off, he tosses it behind him without a glance.
now it’s just skin.
skin and tension and breath and heat.
you’re still straddling his thighs, naked and warm against his stomach, his cock hard and pulsing just below your hips.
he leans back on one hand, the other running slowly up your thigh, palm wide and possessive.
“you done showin’ off?” he asks, voice low and thick.
you smirk, hand dragging down your own stomach, fingers grazing your inner thigh as you shift your weight.
“you done watching?”
his grip tightens slightly.
“get on,” he mutters, breath catching.
but you lean in close, lips brushing his ear.
“make me.”
he groans, head tipping back slightly as your words settle hot in his ear.
his hand tightens on your thigh again, grip bruising now, restraint burning just beneath his skin.
“get on already,” he growls, voice rough and fraying at the edges. “before i forget how long i’ve let you play.”
you smirk down at him, slow and dangerous, hips shifting just enough to let your slick folds slide along the length of his cock—barely brushing. just enough to make him twitch, to hear him suck in a sharp breath through his teeth.
“you want it so bad,” you murmur, voice low, taunting, “then line me up.”
he doesn’t hesitate.
his hand slides from your thigh to the base of his cock, thick fingers wrapping around himself as he holds it upward—steady, the swollen head brushing through your slick, gliding easy between your folds as you lift onto your knees.
you hover there—bare, flushed, glowing from your high—your entrance hovering just above him, breath coming faster now, chest rising and falling with the heat simmering low in your belly.
his cock nudges your entrance.
and you pause.
eyes locked on his.
slow. deliberate.
your thighs tighten, steadying yourself.
then, inch by inch—you sink down.
his head pushes inside first, parting you slow, stretching you wide around the thick head of his cock. your breath stutters, jaw falling slack as the pressure blooms deep, warm and all-consuming.
he groans—deep in his chest, guttural—his fingers digging into your hips as you take more, and more.
your walls clamp around him, greedy and wet, pulling him in as you lower yourself until your thighs are flush to him.
you sit there, fully seated, full to the brim, your body trembling slightly from the stretch, from the weight of him pulsing deep inside you.
his breath shudders.
your hands rest on his chest, nails grazing his skin, your lips parted as your eyes flutter half-closed.
“good boy,” you whisper, just loud enough for him to hear.
his hands flex on your hips like he’s about to flip you right there.
but he doesn’t.
he waits.
and that restraint?
barely there.
you stay still for a moment.
just sit there, fully seated on him, your walls fluttering around his cock—tight and wet and pulsing as he throbs inside you. the fullness stretches through your belly, deep and hot, grounding you in the weight of him. your thighs are tense on either side of his hips, hands splayed across his chest, feeling the hard rise and fall beneath your palms.
remmick’s breath is ragged.
his fingers twitch where they rest on your waist, every muscle in his body pulled tight with restraint.
“you gonna move,” he mutters, voice strained, “or just sit there makin’ me lose my fuckin’ mind?”
you smile—slow, wicked—and lean in just a little, your lips brushing his without touching. your hips shift. just barely.
then you lift.
only a few inches. just enough to feel the drag of him leaving you, your walls clinging as he slips free—slick, hard, aching for more.
then you sink back down. slow.
his groan is broken. deep in his throat. hands clenching at your sides like he’s trying not to take over.
you start a rhythm like that—long, drawn-out strokes. lifting and dropping your hips with measured control, rolling your body like you’re dancing on him, using every muscle to squeeze and pull him deeper.
his head tips back. his jaw clenches.
“fuck…”
his voice is hoarse now, barely audible between the sound of your wet heat sliding down his length, the slap of skin meeting skin, the soft, breathy moans leaving your mouth with each descent.
you rock your hips in slow circles once you bottom out, grinding down on him, your clit brushing the base of him just right. your body trembles, a soft gasp breaking from your lips.
his hands roam your thighs, your hips, your waist—touch hungry, greedy, but not quite taking control.
“you feel that?” you whisper, voice sweet and breathless, eyes half-lidded as you start to move again. “feel how deep you are?”
he grits his teeth, nodding slowly, barely holding on.
you lift again, slower this time, and drop down with a soft moan, your head falling back.
“you’re gonna break if i keep this up,” you murmur, almost teasing, breath catching in your throat.
and from the way he shudders under you, the way his hands curl tighter into your flesh, you know he’s close to snapping.
just the way you like him.
your hips begin to move faster now.
no longer slow and teasing—still controlled, but heavier, more deliberate. each lift and drop brings a wet clap of skin, your thighs working around his, your hands braced against his chest for leverage.
you ride him with purpose.
your moans fall freely now—low and breathy, soft at first, then catching in your throat as your pace builds. your body is flushed, glowing in the moonlight, sweat clinging to your chest and collarbone as your rhythm grinds harder, deeper.
underneath you, remmick groans—head tipped back, hands gripping your waist as you fuck yourself on him like you’re trying to prove something.
he cracks first.
“look at you,” he pants, a crooked grin breaking across his lips. “bouncin’ on my cock like you’ve got somethin’ to prove.”
you moan through a smirk, riding him harder now, the bounce in your hips sharper, the sound of it filthier with every slap of skin.
“maybe i do,” you breathe, grinding down hard as he hits deep inside you. “someone’s gotta do the work.”
he laughs—short, breathless—before his hands tighten on your hips and slam you down a little harder, making your head jolt back with a sharp gasp.
“please,” he grits. “you’re the one desperate to stay on top.”
you lean down until your mouth is brushing his, your breath mingling, sweat mixing where your bodies meet.
“because you’d lose your fuckin’ mind if i let you have control.”
his eyes narrow, pupils blown wide with lust, breath ragged beneath you.
“you’re damn right i would.”
you slam down on him again—deep, fast, unforgiving—and his groan cuts through the trees, low and guttural, hands sliding down to your ass as he guides your rhythm now, matching your pace with just enough pressure to let you know he could take over at any second.
but he doesn’t.
“keep talkin’,” he mutters, jaw clenched as you ride him harder. “see if you don’t end up face down in the dirt next time.”
you moan at that—louder than you mean to—your nails dragging across his chest.
“sayin’ that like it’s a threat,” you pant.
your pace keeps climbing—sharper now, filthier, the sounds between you obscene, wet, and desperate. your thighs burn, your breath breaks in stuttering gasps, and still you keep going—grinding down, bouncing, rolling your hips in quick, punishing circles that make him groan your name.
the rhythm shatters.
control slips.
your hips crash down onto him harder, faster—no more teasing, no more slow grind. now it’s raw need, your thighs trembling with the effort as you bounce on his cock, over and over, slick and soaked and stretched wide.
remmick meets you with equal force, thrusting up into you with brutal snaps of his hips, his grip bruising at your waist, dragging you down to take every inch. the wet smack of your bodies slamming together fills the air, broken only by ragged moans and gasped curses.
you arch your back, spine curving, hair tumbling down your shoulders as your chest rises.
that’s when he moves.
he surges up, sitting beneath you as your hips keep moving, his mouth catching the swell of your breast. his tongue drags over the soft flesh first—hot and wet—before he latches onto your nipple, sucking hard, tongue swirling around it as you cry out.
your hands fly to his shoulders, nails biting into his skin as you ride through the shock of pleasure, hips grinding down deeper. he groans around your nipple, the vibration sending another jolt through your body.
his fangs graze your skin next—light, deliberate. not piercing. just threatening.
a warning.
or maybe a promise.
you feel the points of them drag slowly across the sensitive skin just beneath your nipple, not breaking, but enough to make your breath catch. your cunt clenches around him at the sensation, and he feels it.
he fucking feels it.
“you like that,” he growls against your breast, voice muffled, hot, wrecked. “fuckin’ feel you tight around me.”
you grind harder in response, riding him fast, messy, wild. the sound of it grows louder, wetter, his cock sliding in and out of you like your body was made to take him.
he switches sides—mouth finding your other breast, sucking hard, fangs dragging again across your flushed skin. your cries grow sharper now, whimpers and moans tumbling from your lips with every brutal stroke of his cock, every graze of his mouth.
“remmick—” you gasp, your voice cracking.
his hands move to your ass, gripping tight, guiding your rhythm as he fucks up into you now with force—your bodies slamming together, fast, unrelenting.
it’s not tender.
it’s not sweet.
it’s hunger. blood-deep, soul-deep.
animal.
he doesn’t let up.
not when your back arches harder. not when your nails sink deeper into his shoulders. not even when you cry out his name again, sharper this time—needier.
his cock drives up into you with punishing force now, timed to the ragged rise and fall of your chest. and still, his mouth is on your breast—sucking, biting, dragging his fangs across your flushed skin until your thighs begin to shake.
“mine,” he growls against your chest, the word half-buried in heat, half-lost in the wet sound of your bodies slamming together.
you snarl through a gasp, fingers snapping up to grip his hair. you yank his head back, baring his neck, his jaw clenched and eyes blown wide with lust and something darker.
“you don’t get to mark me,” you breathe, voice shaking. “not without wearin’ some of your own.”
and before he can respond—before he can even smirk—you sink your teeth into the curve of his throat.
not with fangs. not to feed.
just to hurt.
he groans—loud, guttural—hips jerking up into you as you bite down harder, teeth pressing into his sweat-slick skin until you feel the faintest taste of copper. he hisses, fingers bruising your waist now as he thrusts harder, deeper.
you pull back, mouth wet, his blood smeared at the corner of your lips.
he stares at you—dazed, panting, wrecked.
then his hand snaps up and grabs the back of your neck, yanking you down into a brutal kiss, mouths crashing, teeth clicking, blood and spit and breath all mixing in the space between you.
he bites your bottom lip—hard.
you bite his upper lip in return, dragging your nails down his back as you slam your hips down to meet him again, cunt fluttering around him from the overstimulation.
your bodies rock together in rough, wild rhythm now—desperate to leave pieces behind. your teeth graze his shoulder. his mouth finds your throat. his fangs press again, just enough to sting, just enough to leave little indents in your skin.
no feeding.
just marking.
your hips stutter once, your breath catching.
“remmick—” you gasp, voice hoarse.
his hand slips down to your ass, squeezing, lifting you slightly before slamming you back down again.
“that’s right,” he groans, nose brushing your cheek, his voice breaking. “say it again.”
you do.
you scream it.
because he’s everywhere—in you, on you, under your skin now.
you’re not moving with rhythm anymore.
you’re fighting it.
grinding, bouncing, slamming your hips down every time he thrusts up—no sync, just raw collision. wet, loud, punishing. it sounds like war and worship in equal measure.
remmick grits his teeth, arms flexing as he grabs your waist and holds you steady. his thrusts get sharper, deeper, his cock driving into you like he’s trying to reach something no one else ever has.
your head snaps back, a wild moan tearing from your throat as he slams into the softest spot inside you, over and over. your nails rake down his chest—hard—leaving raw lines behind.
he hisses, and the second your hands lift again, he grabs both your wrists in one of his hands and slams them down against his chest, pinning you in place.
“stay fuckin’ still,” he growls, breath hot and furious at your jaw.
“make me,” you snarl back, legs tightening around his hips as you grind even harder, defiant through the slick mess between you.
he doesn’t answer.
he bites.
his fangs sink into the curve between your shoulder and neck—not deep, not enough to draw real blood—but enough to bruise. enough to make your body jolt.
you cry out, not from pain—but from the way your cunt clenches around him instantly, your body reacting without permission.
your wrists strain under his grip, but you don’t pull away.
you bear down on him instead, muscles tightening, your hips driving down harder as you clench around his cock like you’re trying to milk him on the spot.
he groans, guttural, eyes rolling back for a second as he thrusts up so hard your body jolts.
“fuckin’ hell,” he pants, biting your shoulder again, then dragging his tongue over it like a claim.
his grip loosens, and you break your hands free, immediately grabbing his face and pulling his mouth to yours—biting at his bottom lip, sucking it into your mouth before nipping down to his jaw, his throat, anywhere you can reach.
you want him covered in you.
marked.
wrecked.
he grabs your ass again, this time spreading you wider, holding you open for the way his cock drives up into you with violent precision. your whole body jolts with each thrust now, your tits bouncing against his chest, the burn in your thighs nearing collapse.
your voice is a mess of moans and curses and breathless growls against his skin.
“you’re gonna break me—”
“good.” he slams into you again. “gonna feel me every time you fuckin’ sit for the next week.”
you sob out a laugh and ride him harder, your fingernails dragging into his scalp, your entire body shaking with strain—but neither of you slows.
your thighs start to give out first—shaking, twitching, the strength draining with every hard, relentless thrust he pounds into you. your head’s spinning, mouth open, gasping through half-broken moans that catch at the top of your throat.
he knows.
he feels it.
the way your walls start to flutter around him, tighter, wetter—gripping like a vice with every grind of your hips.
his hand slips between your bodies, fingers finding your clit, rubbing tight, fast circles that send sparks skittering up your spine.
you cry out—a strangled sound—and your whole body arches against him.
“that’s it,” he growls, fucking up into you harder, faster, deeper. “go ahead—come on me.”
your fingers clutch at his shoulders, nails digging in hard enough to leave crescent moons behind as your release finally rips through you.
your body locks up.
your thighs seize, stomach clenching, hips jerking uncontrollably as your orgasm crashes through you like a wave that doesn’t crest. it just keeps going—your walls clenching and pulsing around his cock in desperate, helpless spasms.
you moan his name again—louder, wilder, fucked-out and barely coherent—as your head drops to his shoulder, your voice catching in gasping whimpers as your body rides it out.
he doesn’t stop.
not even when you’re shaking.
he slams up into you again and again, riding your release as if it’s dragging him under with it. your cunt squeezes him so tight he grits his teeth and curses under his breath, fingers digging into your ass as he bucks up hard.
and then—he breaks.
“fuck—fuck—fuck—”
his cock throbs inside you, buried to the hilt as he comes—hot and hard—spilling deep, hips stuttering wildly beneath you as he groans through clenched teeth. his head falls back, mouth open, eyes screwed shut as the pleasure wrecks him, his entire body trembling under the force of it.
you feel every pulse of it inside you—feel the warmth, the tension leaving his body all at once.
for a moment, neither of you moves.
you just collapse against him—sweat-slicked and shaking—his arms wrapping around you tight, both of you panting into each other’s skin.
your body still twitches with aftershocks. so does his.
he presses a breathless kiss to your shoulder, lips barely grazing the bite mark he left there.
“fuckin’ hell,” he mutters, voice hoarse. “you tryin’ to kill me?”
you laugh softly against his throat, still breathless, still shaking.
“maybe.”
your bodies are slick where they touch—skin to skin, heat layered between the sweat, the cum, the mess of it all.
you haven’t even caught your breath fully when remmick’s hands slide back down to your hips, fingers curling tight like he’s already deciding what to do with you next.
you lift your head, just barely, eyes half-lidded, lips parted—but before you can speak, his mouth finds your neck again.
this time, lower.
rougher.
his teeth sink into the space just beneath your jaw, right over where your pulse flutters against your skin. not a love bite. not soft. it’s marking again—harder than before. enough to make your breath hitch and your thighs clench all over again around his softening cock still buried inside you.
you gasp, body jerking against him.
he doesn’t pull back right away—his mouth lingers, tongue dragging across the sting like he owns it.
and then he murmurs, low and dark against your neck:
“still wanna bend you over.”
you exhale sharply, pulse stammering under his mouth.
“course you do,” you pant, voice tight, fingers gripping his shoulders. “you’ve got no imagination.”
he chuckles, low and dangerous, biting again—just beside the first mark, your skin already flushed and bruising.
“oh, i’ve got plenty,” he mutters. “you just keep wearin’ me out before i can use it.”
you roll your hips once, slow, grinding down just enough to feel him twitch inside you, your smirk returning even as your thighs tremble with aftershocks.
he growls softly—his hands gripping your waist tighter, strong enough to bruise, strong enough to flip you over and keep going if he really wanted to.
but he doesn’t.
instead, he runs his nose along your throat again, voice low and wrecked.
“you’re sore,” he says, matter-of-fact, like he can feel it in the way you flinch just slightly when he shifts his hips beneath you. “i can feel it.”
you lean in, mouth brushing the shell of his ear.
“and you’re still hardening inside me,” you whisper. “so what does that say about you?”
he groans at that—deep and ruined—his arms locking around you again like he can’t decide whether to rest or ruin you again.
he exhales a broken sound against your throat—half a growl, half a groan—and you feel it vibrate against your skin, deep and frustrated.
then his hands move.
he grips your hips hard, fingers digging in, and in one swift motion he lifts you off him. you gasp at the sudden emptiness, the stretch leaving your cunt fluttering and sore.
“remmick—”
he doesn’t give you time to finish.
you’re flipped.
his hands press between your shoulder blades and your lower back arches before you can think. your palms hit the ground, knees digging into the dirt. your thighs are still trembling, your body still soaked, but it doesn’t matter.
he needs this.
he kneels behind you, one hand palming your ass, spreading you open with a rough groan as his cock twitches back to full hardness.
“told you,” he pants, voice low, hungry. “still gonna bend you over.”
his hand drags along the curve of your spine, not gentle—possessive. and then you feel it—his cock pressing back to your entrance, slick and hot, nudging at your swollen folds.
you try to say something—maybe protest, maybe provoke—but all that comes out is a whimper as he thrusts back inside you in one long, hard push.
your breath punches out of your lungs, your arms nearly buckle.
“fuck—” you cry, hips jerking forward from the force of it, but he grabs them and yanks you right back, his cock burying to the hilt.
he leans over you, chest against your back, breath hot against your neck.
“too sore?” he murmurs, voice full of that smug, breathless heat. “say the word.”
you hiss through gritted teeth, glancing back at him with fire still flashing in your eyes.
“shut up and fuck me, remmick.”
he growls at that—and obeys.
his hips slam into you, pace brutal from the start. your hands claw at the ground, body jerking forward with each thrust. he keeps your hips locked in place, thrusting deep, hard, relentless. slick, filthy sounds fill the air with every connection of skin, every wet thrust driving into your overstimulated cunt.
you cry out, voice breaking, but you don’t tell him to stop.
you can’t.
your body’s burning all over again, the pain bleeding straight into pleasure, your mind fogging up as he pounds into you like he’s trying to fuck everything you just gave him right back out.
“take it,” he snarls, his hand gripping your ass, then sliding up your back to press between your shoulder blades, forcing your chest lower. “you wanted this.”
your cheek brushes the dirt, your mouth falling open as your thighs tremble violently beneath you.
“fuck, remmick—”
“that’s it,” he groans, slamming into you again, his voice dark and tight. “say it louder.”
his thrusts get heavier now—deeper.
every slam of his hips drives your body forward, only for him to yank you back again, your ass smacking against his pelvis with every stroke. your thighs burn, your arms shake, and your moans spill out in wild, breathless fragments you can’t control anymore.
“fuck… ”
it’s slurred. half a plea, half a curse.
he doesn’t slow.
instead, he leans over you, his chest pressing to your back, trapping you beneath his weight as he fucks into you from behind. one hand digs into your hip, the other sliding up your spine again, up to your throat, wrapping around the front of it—not tight, just there.
his mouth finds your neck.
not gently.
his teeth scrape down to that same bruised spot under your jaw, and this time, when he sinks them in, it’s not soft. it’s not careful.
he bites hard.
your entire body seizes under him, a strangled moan tearing from your lips as he growls against your skin, your cunt tightening around his cock like a reflex. he doesn’t draw blood—just leaves a mark so deep it’ll bloom in purple and blue by morning.
his hips piston into you harder now, desperate, messy. every thrust is brutal, precise, and possessive. the rhythm is fraying, breaking at the seams.
“feel that?” he pants against your ear, voice shaking with heat. “feel how fuckin’ deep i am?”
you sob out a moan, your fingers clawing uselessly at the ground beneath you.
“can’t get any deeper, remmick—”
he growls, slams into you again.
“yes i fuckin’ can.”
you gasp, choking on another moan as your body jerks forward with the force of it. your legs nearly collapse, and he holds you up like he knows, dragging your body back to meet every thrust like he’s molding you to him.
his hand squeezes your throat once, just a bit tighter.
“say it,” he breathes into your ear, his pace turning punishing. “say this pussy’s mine.”
you try to speak, but the only sound that leaves you is a broken, desperate cry as he hits that spot again and again, his cock driving deep, thick, hard enough to make your vision blur.
he bites your neck again.
your body shakes.
you can’t speak.
you can only take it.
and he fucks you like he knows it.
his hand is still at your throat, palm warm, fingers flexed.
his mouth hovers near your ear now, breath hot and ragged as he drives into you over and over, your name tangled in the curse that slips from his lips when you clench around him again, pulsing tight and soaked.
“still fuckin’ fightin’ me,” he hisses, dragging his teeth along your jaw. “even like this.”
you snap back between gasps, voice hoarse, trembling under the weight of him.
“not fighting.” your hips jerk back to meet him. “winning.”
that earns a low, vicious sound from his chest. he slams into you harder—no rhythm now, just chaos and dominance, raw friction that makes your eyes roll back.
“keep talkin’,” he growls, hand leaving your throat just long enough to wrap around your hair and yank your head back. “go on—say somethin’ else smart.”
you gasp at the sting, scalp burning where he grips you, back arching deeper under his weight. but you don’t flinch. you grin through it, breathless and wrecked.
“this what you call fuckin’? feels like desperation.”
his rhythm stutters—just for a second.
then he drags your body up against his chest, your knees barely holding under the angle. one arm banded around your waist, the other still in your hair, pulling your head back until your neck’s exposed and vulnerable.
you’re half-folded over him now, fully impaled on his cock, your cunt clenching with every unforgiving thrust. and he’s not hiding the sound he makes—deep, guttural, soaked in obsession.
“you think i’m desperate?” he grinds out, voice wrecked. “you’re so fuckin’ wet, i can hear how bad you want it.”
you sob out a moan as his thrusts snap faster, harder, punching the air from your lungs.
his mouth’s back on your neck—biting, licking, breathing into your skin like he’s feeding off the sound of you falling apart.
you try to speak again, but his hand tightens in your hair and he yanks you back against him until your back’s bowed so deep it aches. your walls flutter hard around him, your body shivering under the pressure, too overstimulated to hide it anymore.
“you’re gonna come again,” he pants. “i feel it.”
you shake your head, breath catching—whether it’s defiance or panic, you don’t know.
your body gives first.
he releases the hold on your waist and your hands meet the earth.
your breath stutters, legs shaking beneath you as the tension inside snaps all at once. your hands claw at the dirt, your voice caught in your throat before it finally breaks loose—a raw, aching cry as your body convulses around him. the climax tears through you like a fire that leaves nothing untouched, nothing unburned.
and still—he doesn’t stop.
remmick’s thrusts stay deep, unrelenting, as if the sound of you falling apart is the only thing that could possibly drag him over the edge. he grits out your name through clenched teeth, his pace stuttering as your walls spasm around him.
his fingers bruise your hips. a breath catches. his whole body tenses behind you, and with one final thrust—deep, drawn out—he gives in too.
his breath leaves him in a low groan, drawn from somewhere in his chest. you feel it in the way he trembles against your back, in the heat of him filling you, in the grip that doesn’t loosen even after it’s over.
for a long, stretched moment, the forest is quiet except for the sounds of your shared breathing—ragged, broken, slowly coming down.
he doesn’t move.
not right away.
his chest stays against your back, his hands still heavy on your hips. the only sound between you now is the wind in the trees and the slowing rhythm of your breaths syncing.
eventually, you find your voice.
“you’re fuckin’ heavy,” you murmur, hoarse but strong.
he exhales against your neck. not quite a laugh, not quite a sigh.
“and you still talk too much.”
you don’t answer. not this time.
tag for dividers : omi-resources
