”with our ai chatbot you can talk to your ocs!!” Dumbass. I’m already talking to them. In my head. “B-bbut what about your favourite charac-“ skill issue. In my head as well. get fucked.
warnings: 18+ SMUT, aged up, mean!mike, perv!mike, panty stealing, teasing, name calling, barely cunnilingus, not proofread
pls send mike asks :((
⊂*.✧ gooner!mike wheeler who… gets off to just about anything about you. your sweet smile, your scent, your personality… because why on earth would someone like you hangout with freaks like him? being completely clueless about D&D and all. but! even with that fact, he’s still quite mean towards you, because that’s just how he is… and he’ll totally abuse the fact that you choose to hangout with him..
who always begs to hangout in your pretty little room so he could blab on about his D&D campaign that is a “work-in-progress”, whilst you were doing simple homework. just a friendly, innocent hangout.
who gives u his famous puppy eyes when you catch him stealing a freshly-cleaned pair of your underwear, giving you his best most reasonable (stupidest) answer as to why his hands found their way tangled in your drawer.
“ah- uhm- my friends dared me to!” you’d give him a blank stare. he knows he’s absolutely done for, that you’d be running away crying to your mom about it.
but oh…
gooner!mike wheeler who is unaware you’re as much of a gooner about him as he is to you, how your knees turn weak when he stares at you, or how you’d press your thighs whenever his hand brushes yours because oh lord they had to be so long n’ slender! it didn’t help how delicious it was to watch him hold that piece of satin for way too long..
“y-you could have just asked me to- i mean, i would’ve..”
“aww- of course you would.” you'd punch him, but you felt too shy, given the situation right now.
“hmm.. but you’d let me? sure?” you could only nod. he’d grin widely, “well, i wanna confess somethin’, ever since you started wearing those tiny skirts, i’ve wanted to take them off since forever.”
he’d go straight down on his knees, right in-between your thighs. he’d be inexperienced, his also inexperienced friends couldn’t help him, all he knows is that he’s hungry! for you n you only!
he pushes your skirt up to your abdomen, smiling to himself. his eyes widen as he stares, you couldn’t help but be soaked! he’d wonder if you were already wet before anything had happened between the two of you. “fuck. maybe you’re the freak, huh?” he’d look up to stare at you, mockingly.
he’d hold the back of your thighs, spreading them slightly, pressing open-mouthed kisses against your soft skin, taking his sweet time, knowing damn well your mom or dad would be checking up on you right now, because god forbid you’d be in your room with a boy!
his mouth stops right against your core, before pressing his nose right against it, inhaling full of your scent. “mike!” his laugh would vibrate through your core, and you whine- louder this time. you pray your parents think he’s just being a jackass again (well, he is.) but he inhales again with a groan “fuuuck..” and you can’t help but grind against his nose like that, it’s only pure hormonal instinct…
he’d then pull you impossibly closer to his face, moving his lips to make out with the soft fabric. “mmm… i can.. feel it pulse…” keeping the panties on was pure torture!
n'… just before anything happens… he pulls away, looking up at you, nose and lips slightly glistening from the small amount of wetness transferred from the cloth. “i think… you’re likin’ this a bit too much.” you whimpered in reaction. he only chuckles. pulling your panties with his pointer finger and pulling away immediately to make it snap against your aching cunny…
“mikey… pleasee, use your fingers please?” you’d grab his hand, and he’d pull it away just as fast. he tuts. shaking his head. “nuh-uh, don’t wanna get caught by your parents, not yet!”
“steve hears that all the time and he goes in anyway, don’t you steve?”
that has been in your mind the whole day now. robin's stupid comment, it made your whole world tilt. you knew steve was famous for being good in bed. he has a good reputation with girls after all. and that just made everything worse.
you were a henderson. not a wheeler like nancy. you werent brave, you werent confident like her. you were soft, shy, inexperienced. and that's what made you feel so icky. that your boyfriend had been with so many girls he was so experienced, and you were just...you.
you had thought about it, sleeping with steve. it was natural, he was such a sweetheart, not pressuring at all. but you were just so scared. his past, the way he carried himself was so intimidating. he felt so out of your league.
“hey,” he slips beside where you're sitting down on the couch. everyone is gone, taking a couple of hours to regroup themselves before the last fight. “hey,” you say back, smiling softly at him. “i been looking for you, dustin said you were heading back home?” you nod, resting your cheek against his shoulder. “just wanted to go see my mom, incase anything happens.” he frowns at how hopeless you sound about the whole plan, but its understandable.
“want me to drive you?” he offers, rubbing his fingers into your scalp. all he needs is a nod from you before he's guiding you to his car. the drive is silent, not uncomfortable. but peaceful. yet your head is anything but. you want to say something, to make an offer. but you're so scared you'll embarrass yourself. “shoot, she isnt home.” you frown as you step out of the car once you arrive.
his hand finds its way to the small of your back naturally once he gets out of the car. “its okay, we'll wait for her inside.” you nod, a small pout on your lips as you walk inside your house. its cozy, something you need after everything that's happening and will happen. you pull steve into your room, smiling as he plops into your bed.
“steve?”
you whisper, standing infront of him with an almost shy expression. your hands behind your back to hide your fidgeting. “hm?” he hums, turning his head towards you.
“what robin...saying the truth?” steve almost chokes at your words, audibly gulping. “was she?” he sighs at your pressing, shrugging softly. “i guess, i mean, it depends what you consider big.” he mumbles, trying to keep the humble tone in his voice. because he is big. he's huge. but he cant just say that!
you go up to him, burying your face into his neck. “can i see?” your quiet whisper against his neck makes him tense up, his eyes widening. “baby what are you-” “what if something happens to us while we're down there. i love you, steve. i do. and i know that stuff like sex isnt the only way to show you that i do but-”
he cuts you off with a heated kiss, his big hands going to your cheeks to pull you closer. you whine against his lips, arms wrapping around his neck. “i just want to make you feel good. before we go.” he gulps again, his heart beating so fast. “you can...see it.” he whispers, unbuckling his belt. “but i wont fuck you. not now. because we both will get out of there, and when we do," he lets out a breathy laugh, pulling his pants down. “ill make you mine. completely.”
his words are so extreme it makes you wet. he really does know how to talk to women. before you know it, he grabs your hand, giving it a soft kiss before placing your palm on his bulge. “just feel it,” he whispers. he knows you're inexperienced, even if he didnt know he didnt have to think too hard to guess that. you were even hesitant to kiss him, you probably never seen a dick before. much less one like his.
“it's twitching.” you mumble, softly pressing your hand into his bulge. he sucks in a sharp breath, resting his chin on your shoulder as he watches you touch him. “can you pull it out?” you ask delicately, looking at him with needy eyes. he hesitates before scooping himself out, letting his dick spring into your palm.
he's thick.
heavy.
his tip is glistening and throbbing against your palm. it makes your core throb, making your breathing hitch. steve squeezes his eyes shut as you start stroking him, thumbing his tip softly. robin was 110% correct. it was almost scary how big he is. “go slowly,” he whispers, his hand going over yours so he can guide your strokes. you listen, letting him guide you. “that's supposed to go inside of me?”
your question makes him laugh softly. its a stupid one, you know that. but you dont see how that will fit inside of you without ripping you apart. without breaking you. "we'll find a way to...loosen you up.” he whispers, pressing a gentle kiss against your cheek. “for now, you can...suck it?” he's being pushy, but he has waited for months. almost a year. he needs you, no one else.
just you.
“i-i think i can do that.” you whisper, rather eagerly. you get down on your knees without having to be told. “start with the tip, go slow, no rush.”
you start with shy little licks, your eyes locked on his to watch his reaction. he, well he's a mess. he's already whimpering, gripping your scalp but not pushing you down. no girl had ever had him act up this bad this early. “you're doing so, so good baby.” his praise makes you go further, taking his tip in. your teeth sloppily brushes against him, making him flinch.
“im sorry!” you gasp, covering your mouth. he shakes his head, nudging his tips against your plush lips. ”its okay, just go slower.”
and you do, painfully slow. by the time you're halfway in you're crying, jaw almost locking as you gag against him. “that's it– god baby girl you're doing so well.” he groans, rolling his eyes back as he grips your hair. “its too big!" you gurgle against his cock, your eyes full of tears. yet you feel so good. this is completely new, but you can feel yourself getting used to the feeling of your mouth being stuffed.
“just a little more...” he groans, his hips bucking. then you do something that sends him over the edge. your nails dig into his thigh, your free hand going to the base of his cock which is being neglected. you stroke and suck him at once, and while he's had girls do that before, no one else has done it like you.
so delicately, so sweetly. an action full of love. because it came from you. he pulls you off his dick, leaving you breathless. he strokes himself once before he's releasing himself in his hand with a loud groan. its so primal, so raw. it makes you fall inlove with him all over again.
“i-i want to do it again.” you mumble, gazing up at him with a desperate look.
↳ summary: mike wheeler is a loser. big time loser. and he’s dating the cheer captain. the only problem is that they’ve kept it a secret long enough.
↳ warnings: characters are 18, making out, slight voyeurism, dry humping.
↳ notes: wrote this on my phone at the airport not too much on me.
word count: 2.5k
The Hawkins High gymnasium’s smell was awful. It smelled like a lethal mix of floor wax, sweat, stale popcorn, and enough Axe body spray to tear a new hole in the ozone layer. It was the night of the Senior Championship game—or in other words, the holy grail of high school social hierarchy—and the noise was absolutely deafening.
Mike Wheeler sat sandwiched between Will Byers and a very aggressive tuba player from the marching band, his knees pressing uncomfortably into the back of a freshman. He looked miserable. He felt like he was vibrating out of his skin. He wanted to punch someone.
"Statistically speaking," Dustin shouted over the thumping bass of We Will Rock You, spraying pretzel crumbs onto Lucas's shoulder, "this is a gross misappropriation of our time! Our teams’ defensive line has the structural integrity of a wet napkin. We could be running the Vecna's Revenge campaign right now. I had the map ready! But instead, we are watching grown men chase a ball."
"It's our last semester, Henderson!" Lucas yelled back, wiping pretzel dust off his jacket. He was wearing face paint that was already sweating off in the humidity. "It's called social integration. Try it sometime! We're seniors! For fuck’s sake!"
"I am well integrated!" Dustin gestured wildly to his Hellfire Club t-shirt. "I am a leader of men! I just don't see the appeal of—"
Will nudged Mike hard in the ribs. "You okay? You look like you're going to throw up."
Mike was staring fixedly at the sidelines, his face pale, gripping his knees so hard his knuckles were white. He swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing nervously. "I'm fine, Will.” he squeaked. His voice cracked. He cleared his throat violently. "I'm great. Go Tigers. Yay sports."
Nobody knew.
It was the absurdity of the century. It was a glitch in the matrix. It was the best-kept secret in a town famous for government conspiracies and horrendous interdimensional monsters.
The secret had a name, and that name was Y/N, his sweet little girlfriend.
It had started back in October, senior fall, on a rainy Tuesday that smelled of damp leaves and ozone. The AV Club room was Mike's sanctuary, the one place he could escape the pressures of senior year. He had been alone that afternoon, covered in black toner, cursing creatively at the large-format poster printer which had decided to jam for the third time that week.
He heard the door creak open. He expected Mr. Clarke. He expected Dustin.
He did not expect the Captain of the Hawkins High Cheer Squad.
Y/N had walked in, closing the door softly behind her. She wasn't wearing her uniform; she was in a soft, oversized cashmere sweater and jeans, looking like she had just stepped out of a catalog. Mike froze, his hands stained with ink, waiting for the usual mockery. He waited for her to ask where the "cool people" were, or to make fun of his D&D shirt.
Instead, she looked around the messy room with a sigh of relief. "Is it quiet in here?" she asked, her voice soft. "The library is full of freshmen."
"Uh," Mike had managed, eloquent as ever. "Yeah. Usually."
She held up a leather-bound notebook. "I just need somewhere to write. Journaling. I can’t do it with people behaving like animals."
She didn't leave. She sat on a desk, legs swinging, and watched him fight the printer. And then, shockingly, she helped. She rolled up her expensive sleeves, got ink on her perfect hands, and helped him dislodge the paper tray.
They spent three hours talking. And not the superficial stuff Mike expected. They talked about fears. About the crushing pressure of perfection. About how they both secretly thought Return of the Jedi was the weakest of the trilogy. Mike was a rambling, nervous mess, his hands shaking every time she looked at him with those big, intelligent eyes, but she just laughed—an overly warm, genuine sound that made his chest ache.
By the end of the day, the tension in the room was thick enough to choke on. The rain was hammering against the windows, sealing them in their own little world. Mike had been staring at her lips, paralyzed by his own insecurity, convinced he was misreading the signals. Because girls like Y/N didn't look at guys like Mike Wheeler. Not like that.
"You're going to pass out if you don't kiss me, Wheeler," she had whispered, leaning in close enough for him to smell her sweet, edible vanilla perfume.
Mike had stopped breathing. "I just... I didn't think..."
"Shut up," she had smiled.
She grabbed him by his shirt, yanked him down, and planted a kiss on him that effectively rebooted his operating system. It was soft at first, then hungry, and Mike had realized with a jolt that the coolest girl in school was actually trembling just as much as he was.
Now, six months later, they were keeping it secret. Mike insisted on it. He told himself it was to protect her.. Well, obviously, dating a very active member of the Hellfire Club wasn't exactly a status booster for a cheer captain. He didn't want to be the anchor that dragged her down the social ladder.
But tonight? Tonight, Y/N had other plans.
"I'm doing a toe-touch jump right at the 50-yard line," she had told him last night, her voice husky over the phone as he lay in bed staring at his ceiling. "And if you aren't there to see it, I'm, so seriously, breaking up with you. I'm tired of hiding, Mike. I want to show you off."
Show me off, Mike thought, feeling dizzy. She's fucking insane.
Back in the gym, the buzzer sounded for halftime. The lights dimmed, and the spotlight hit center court.
"Oh, look," Dustin groaned, rolling his eyes so hard it looked painful. "Pompoms. My favorite part of the evening. Wake me when the game starts again."
"Shut up, Henderson," Mike snapped, instantly alert. He sat up straighter, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird.
The music kicked in, something rhythmic and loud, vibrating through the bleachers. The squad moved in perfect synchronization, a sea of green and gold pleats and white sneakers. And there she was.
Y/N.
She was absolutely mesmerizing, as always, Mike thought. She flew through the air in a basket toss, soaring higher than anyone else, her ponytail whipping like a lash, her smile dazzling enough to blind the front row. She hit every beat with a sharpness that commanded attention. She looked powerful, beautiful, and completely, utterly out of his league.
Mike felt a surge of pride so intense it nearly choked him. That's my girl, he thought. His and only his. The words felt reckless and golden in his head. The girl everyone is staring at? She kisses me. She likes my nerdy ass rants.
The routine ended in a pyramid formation. Y/N was at the very top, arms raised in a V, chest heaving, glitter catching the overhead lights. The crowd went feral.
But Y/N didn't look at the crowd. She didn't look at the judges.
She turned her head and locked eyes with the specific section of the bleachers where the band geeks and the Hellfire Club sat.
She found Mike. Even from this distance, he felt the weight of her gaze. It was a look of pure, terrifying possession. A smile curled the corner of her lips; soft, intimate, and knowing.
Then, slowly, deliberately, she raised two fingers to her glittery lips and blew a kiss.
It was a direct hit.
The bleachers around them erupted in confusion.
"DID YOU SEE THAT?!" Lucas grabbed Dustin's arm, nearly dislocating it. "She looked right at me! Y/N just blew a kiss at me!"
"You're hallucinating, Sinclair!" Dustin scoffed, frantically smoothing his curly hair under his hat. "She was looking at the hat. Chicks dig the trucker hat energy. That was clearly for me! It was a signal!"
"In your dreams! Why would SHE blow a kiss at you?"
"Why would SHE blow a kiss at YOU!? You're wearing face paint like a damn toddler!"
"Guys," Will started, looking at Mike. "I think—"
But Mike didn't say a word. He couldn't. His face was burning so hot he thought he might spontaneously combust. He stood up abruptly, his metal chair clattering back loudly. He looked like he'd just seen a ghost, or maybe God.
"I have to go," Mike choked out. "Stomach. Bad pretzel. Need air."
He bolted before they could ask questions, scrambling down the bleachers, tripping over people's feet, fleeing the scene like a criminal.
Twenty minutes later, the game was dragging into the third quarter. The crowd was roaring, but the party was distracted.
"He's been gone a while," Will frowned, looking at the empty seat next to him.
"He's probably crying in the car because the noise was too loud," Lucas rolled his eyes, though he looked concerned. "Or he went to 7-Eleven for a slushie and didn't invite us."
"Let's go get him," Dustin decided, standing up. "This game is a blowout anyway, and I refuse to watch the Tigers lose by thirty points. Let's go."
The three boys trudged out into the cool night air, leaving the roaring, sweaty gym behind. The parking lot was a sea of metal, quiet and still under the buzzing streetlights. The distant sound of the announcer echoed eerily.
"There's his car," Dustin pointed to Mike's beat-up, beige sedan parked way in the back, under the shadow of a large oak tree. "I bet he's asleep. Grandpa Wheeler strikes again. Probably taking a nap."
As they got closer, weaving through the rows of trucks and vans, Lucas slowed down. He squinted.
"Hey... is it just me, or are the windows... wet?"
The car windows weren't just wet. They were opaque. Completely fogged up with heavy condensation, obscuring everything inside like that one scene from Titanic.
"Weird," Will murmured. "It's not that cold out."
Dustin marched up to the driver's side, a mischievous grin on his face. "Watch this. I'm gonna scare the soul out of his body." He raised his fist to bang on the glass.
Then, through a small clear streak in the condensation, his eyes adjusted to the interior.
Dustin's hand froze in mid-air. His mouth dropped open so wide a damn demogorgon could have crawled in and set up camp.
Inside the car, illuminated only by the warm, amber glow of the dashboard lights, was a scene that defied every law of the high school social universe.
Mike's seat was pushed all the way back. And Mike wasn't sleeping.
He was buried.
Y/N was straddling his lap, facing him. Her green and gold cheer skirt was hiked dangerously high, gathered at her waist, the pleats fanning out over Mike's denim-clad legs. Resting on the dashboard, next to a half-empty bottle of water, was a massive, expensive-looking bouquet of red roses with a card that screamed CONGRATS, LOVE <3 in bold marker.
But nobody was looking at the flowers.
Mike Wheeler, the lanky nerd who argued about dice rolls and refused to dance at prom, had his head thrown back against the headrest, his mouth devouring hers.
It wasn't a polite high school peck. It was feral.
Y/N had her arms wrapped tight around his neck, her fingers tangled deep in Mike's messy black curls, holding him in place as she ground her hips down into his lap. And Mike... Mike looked like a man starving. His hands were gripping her waist with a desperation that turned his knuckles white, his long fingers digging into the bare, soft skin of her thighs just below the hem of her skirt.
Y/N broke the kiss for a split second to gasp for air, a string of saliva connecting their lips, and Mike chased her immediately. He didn't let her pull away. He groaned something against her throat, a low, vibrating sound that was audible even through the glass, and buried his face in her neck.
He kissed the sensitive cord of her throat, open-mouthed and wet, his hand sliding up from her waist to palm the curve of her hip possessively, dragging her closer until there was zero space between them.
She whimpered, her head falling back, exposing her throat to him. She grabbed the collar of his Hellfire Club t-shirt, yanking on the fabric so hard the neck stretched. She bit his lower lip, hard, pulling it between her teeth, and Mike surged up to meet her, his other hand tangling in the back of her cheer uniform.
It was messy. It was frantic. It was the hottest thing any of them had ever seen, and it involved.. Mike. Jesus Christ! The Mike Wheeler.
Lucas looked like he had been slapped in the face with a wet fish. Will looked like he wanted to dissolve into the pavement.
Dustin just stood there, his brain unable to process the data. Mike? With Y/N? Making out like they were trying to invent a new form of fusion energy?
The cognitive dissonance was too much.
Inside the car, Y/N shifted her weight, pressing down harder into Mike's lap, arching her back. Mike let out a rough sound and moved his hand higher, his thumb grazing the skin of her inner thigh, his face flushed, eyes squeezed shut in pure, agonizing bliss. He looked powerful. He looked like he knew exactly what he was doing.
Dustin couldn't take it anymore. The universe was collapsing.
He didn't tap politely. He banged on the window with the force of a SWAT team.
THUMP. THUMP. THUMP.
The reaction inside was explosive.
Y/N shrieked, a high-pitched sound of terror, scrambling backward and hitting her head on the rearview mirror. Mike practically jumped out of his skin, his limbs flailing as he tried to cover Y/N and locate his own dignity at the same time. His elbow hit the dome light, flooding the car with unforgiving brightness.
Mike whipped his head toward the window.
He looked wrecked. His black hair was standing up in every direction. His lips were swollen, red, and slick. His t-shirt was twisted. And on his neck, blooming in vibrant high-definition, was a fresh, purple hickey right above his collarbone.
He looked at Dustin with eyes the size of dinner plate; terror, shame, and fury all mixing together.
Dustin stood there, illuminated by the sudden flash of the interior light. He looked at the disheveled cheerleader trying to smooth her skirt down over her hips. He looked at the giant bouquet of love roses. He looked at Mike, whose hand was still instinctively resting on the thigh of the most popular girl in school.
Dustin threw his hands up, gesturing to the entire tableau, his voice rising to a screech that echoed across the parking lot.
a/n : so there isn’t a one-shot yet—just some headcannons to get me motivated 🙇🏾♀️
~~
✦ sfw
farmer!remmick’s the kind of man who pauses before touching you—always looks down first, thumb flexing like he’s asking permission without saying a word. sometimes he doesn’t even finish the gesture, just leaves his hand hovering near your shoulder before retreating with a small, nervous laugh
farmer!remmick gets tongue-tied real easy. every time you call him “darlin’,” his ears go red to the tips. he’ll turn away, mutter something about “needin’ to check the fence,” and flee before you see him smile
farmer!remmick always straightens up when you stop by the farm, like he’s been caught doing something he shouldn’t. wipes his palms on his trousers before tipping his hat—never quite meeting your eyes at first, like he’s steadying himself just to say hello
farmer!remmick doesn’t know how to take a compliment. once you told him he looked handsome in that white shirt he saves for sunday, and he actually dropped his hat trying to hide how flustered he got
farmer!remmick froze the first time you reached for his hand, and didn’t breathe for a few seconds. his fingers twitched like he wasn’t sure what to do, then finally laced with yours, slow and careful
farmer!remmick is always checking that you’re comfortable, even if it’s just offering his jacket on a warm night. “ain’t much, but it’ll do,” he mumbles, holding it out like he’s scared you’ll refuse it
farmer!remmick is soft-spoken when it’s just you two. voice low, a little rough around the edges, the kind that makes you lean in to hear him better. sometimes he’ll stop midsentence just to watch your expression, then shake his head with that shy little half-smile
farmer!remmick brings you things without saying much—a small bunch of wildflowers, a jar of honey, a single peach from the orchard. he just sets it down near you and mumbles, “thought you might like it,” before walking off like he didn’t just make your heart ache
farmer!remmick sometimes hums while working. it’s never a full song—just a tune you can barely catch. later, you’ll realize he hums it against your skin when you’re lying together in the dark
farmer!remmick fixes everything himself—fences, roofs, your necklace clasp when it breaks. sometimes he’ll grumble about it, but he loves when you ‘accidentally’ ask for help just so he can touch you
farmer!remmick always walks you home after town events, hat in his hands, even if it’s out of his way
farmer!remmick is a little superstitious. knocks on wood, won’t walk under ladders, says a quick “thank you” when lightning misses the barn. you tease him, but it’s kind of endearing
farmer!remmick will lie beside you on the grass, pointing out constellations and saying, “ain’t no stars like the ones over this town, huh?” on nights when the crickets are loud and the air feels thick with summer
✦ nsfw
farmer!remmick doesn’t talk much during—not at first. just grunts softly through his nose, cheeks flushed, eyes wide like he can’t believe he’s got you spread out beneath him. his mouth opens like he wants to say something filthy—but all that comes out is a choked little “god, you feel good.”
farmer!remmick’s hands shake the first time he touches you down there. not from fear, but from how badly he wants it—how soaked you are, how soft. he breathes through his nose like he’s steadying himself, then mutters, “you’re so—jesus,” before burying his face against your shoulder and sliding two fingers in real slow
farmer!remmick is a mess when you teach him how to fuck with his fingers first—let him watch how your mouth parts, how your hips rock forward. and once he sees what you like, it’s over. he gets obsessed with doing it right—thumb circling your clit again and again until you’re whimpering his name like a prayer
farmer!remmick groans so deep when he finally sinks into you for the first time—then immediately hides his face in your neck, ashamed of how loud he was. “s-sorry— ‘m not used to—it’s jus’—” you hush him with your hips
farmer!remmick loves when you guide him. if you murmur “harder” or “faster” in his ear, he gets this desperate look in his eyes—bites his bottom lip and thrusts harder, like he’s trying to impress you. and when you praise him? he melts
“just like that, baby.” you murmur, hips lifting to meet his next thrust.
“…f’that’s what you like, I—I can keep goin’…”
farmer!remmick begs without meaning to. when he’s close, it slips out soft and ruined—“please… please let me come inside, I need—I wanna feel it, I need to feel it so bad—” and the whole time he’s rutting into you, he’s whispering your name like he’s afraid he’ll die if you don’t say his back
farmer!remmick gets shy when you ride him—hand over his face, other hand gripping your hip like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded. but he can’t stop looking. through his fingers, his eyes flick down to where you’re joined, and he lets out the quietest, filthiest moan
farmer!remmick tries to be polite even when he’s desperate. “you sure you want this, darlin’? swear i ain’t tryna rush—” he says that while he’s already shaking above you, the fabric of his shirt brushing your skin because he can’t quite bring himself to take it off yet
farmer!remmick tries to hold back his sounds, but he’s terrible at it. every thrust pulls another whimper or hiss from him, low and breathy. you tease him for it, and he stammers, “can’t—can’t help it, sweetheart.”
farmer!remmick is so gentle afterwards, it almost hurts. he wipes your skin clean with his handkerchief, still flushed and breathing heavy. every touch says thank you without words. then, when he finally dares to meet your eyes, there’s that faint, bashful smile—the one that always comes right before he asks, “…you need me again?”
little blurb (size kink because he has a big dick..)
he’s big. not just in the way that makes you stretch, but in the way that makes you stare the first time he pulls down his trousers, lips parted, breath caught in your throat. thick. heavy. flushed deep with blood and already twitching from the way you’re looking at him.
remmick tries to cover himself with a hand, face going red as he mumbles,
“i know it—it ain’t gonna… fit easy.”
but you just shake your head, heart pounding. you want it to.
he’s hesitant. careful. he’s never gone that slow in his life—not because he doesn’t want you, but because he wants it to be good for you. he strokes himself with a shaky hand first, runs the thick head through your slick folds, breath catching on every wet sound it makes.
“you’re… already so tight, sweetheart. god—are you sure?”
you nod. beg. pull him in by the hips.
he pushes in—inch by inch, stretching you open, making your thighs tremble with every breathless slide. you gasp, eyes fluttering, and he stops immediately, hand bracing beside your head like he might break you.
“you’re squeezin’ me so much, I—I can’t—”
he bottoms out with a groan so raw it punches out of his chest, forehead pressed against yours as he shudders. you can feel him twitch inside you, thick and full and barely able to move. your walls flutter around him, overwhelmed. his hips jerk forward once—accidental—and your moan makes him whimper.
“i’ve never—never felt anythin’ like this. you’re so warm… i’m s’deep in there, baby. god, I didn’t know it’d be like this.”
and he doesn’t move. not at first. just stays there, buried to the hilt, his breath stuttering while he mutters broken things against your cheek.
and when he finally does move? it’s slow. deep. ruinous. like he’s memorizing the way your body takes him. like he still can’t believe it.
summary: raw, nasty, smut. Porn with little plot. You and Remmick have history. Remmick wants you bad and you try to resist but you’re not strong enough to ignore him for long. (Warnings: PIV, cunnilingus, spitting, blood, spanking, fingers in V. Sexual acts described in depth. AFAB!Reader)
a/n: I did not mean for this to be 6k words o_o. I'm very proud of this fic. Pls give feedback, comment, repost, do anything with this post. Thank you for reading! <3
The chain of the porch swing creaks softly as it sways you in the remaining heat from the hot summer’s day. With your head resting on the back of the swing, you allow your eyes to close, and without a thought in your mind, you bask in the sounds of the quiet countryside.
You begin to feel the unmistakable, eerie weight of eyes on you. Slowly rising off the swing, you follow the feeling of the peering eyes.
Looming a few yards away, bathed in the silver beams of the full moon, looking like a fallen angel, stands Remmick. The porch light illuminates his eyes, causing their red color to reflect brightly as the pale moonlight sharpens his defined features. You mentally laugh at the fact of Remmick standing here, looking like a character from one of those romance novels your grandmother used to read.
Realizing this staring contest has gone on far too long, you make haste in moving inside. A soft whoosh of air lets you know he’s made it to the porch just as you cross into the house.
“I almost hadcha there, sugar. You gotta be more careful at night. Ain’t no tellin’ what monsters are lurkin’ around.”
“I think I’ll keep riskin’ it. Seein’ as the worst one is standin’ here on my porch.”
The comment goes straight to Remmick's ego.
Remmick shamelessly runs his eyes all over your body. The shorts and tank top do little to conceal you. The action has your panties becoming sodden, making them uncomfortable. You think it’s unfair, the effects he has on you. He’s done nothing but show up, and your body is betraying you. He steps closer, a few inches from the doorframe.
“You smell so goddamn divine.” His eyes roll back as he pulls air into his mouth. “I can almost taste you.”
When you don’t respond, he pushes further. “I know you want it. I can sense it in you. I can hear it, taste it, hell, I can see that you want me.” He gestures at you with his right hand as his left hand stays placed on his hip. “Why don’t you allow yourself this one earthly pleasure?”
“I-We-It’s just not. Shit.”
His eyes keep the fire in you kindled, and you can’t focus on the thoughts you’re trying to put into words. Retreating away from the door, you turn your back towards him. Rubbing your face with your hands, you sigh and clasp them on the back of your neck. You still don't risk turning around to speak to him.
“It ain’t a good idea, Remmick, and you know it’s not. We can hurt each other, like seriously hurt each other. I mean, fuck, we have hurt each other before.”
Remmick scoffs, “You tellin’ me that, ‘cause we had a few fights before, you’re not willin’ to trust lil’ ole me?”
“Remmick, we've tried killin’ each other. That’s a little more than just fightin’!”
“But we didn’t! And right now the only thang that’s killin’ me is not being able to touch ya, sugar.”
“Just leave Remmick. I’m tired and done arguin’.”
You finally turn around to look at him. He sees it in your eyes, sees that he’s not getting anywhere tonight. You need time to think, time to need him as badly as he’s needed you. He understands.
“Fine, fine.” He raises his hands in surrender.
“You need time to think it over, I understand. But I’ll be back tomorrow, then the next night, and the night after that too. I don’t care how long I gotta sit outside this door and beg ya. I ain't given up on this.”
He takes a few slow backwards steps before he stops to lock his eyes on yours and really looks at you. There’s fierce determination and honesty in his eyes as he stares deeply into you. It throws you off guard, and you have to look away before you let the invitation slip off your lips.
When you glance back, he’s gone. Nothing left but the faint smell of his sweat, the citrus cologne he wears, and the markings he’s left on the wooden railings.
Like he had promised, Remmick came back every night. Waiting, watching, whining, whispering filthy thoughts to you, and you knew tonight would be no different.
The air became thick and heavy, like a heat storm had rolled in. Your skin prickles, and the hair on your arms and neck stands at attention.
As you make it to the front door, he’s standing on the last step, shoulders so broad they dominate the space, leaving no room for anything else to catch your eye. Large, lean fingers clamp the railing of your porch, the wood groaning under his supernatural grip. His pupils are already devoured by blackness, and the whites of his eyes have a tinge of red. He’s staring at you like a wolf looking at a stuck hog.
His tongue flicks the air, sampling the briny sweat beading on your body and the syrupy arousal glossing your thighs. A pure as sin grin spreads across his face, his plush bottom lip caught between his top fangs. Those throat-shredding fangs glint beneath the warmth of your porch light, and your gaze can’t tear away from them.
"Let me get a taste, sugar." His accent is thicker than ever, the words oozing from his mouth. "Just one real good taste, then I’d leave you alone." His forked tongue flicks before gliding over his fangs, a thread of drool sliding from the corner of his mouth. "That is, of course, if you’d still want me to leave after that."
You can’t speak at first, too dizzy imagining him buried between your thighs. Dreaming of how his serpent tongue would feel, flicking at you. Lightning dances through every nerve, causing goosebumps to erupt in its wake.
“Mmm, you’re thinkin’ about it, ain’t cha sugar?” He smirks, his mouth curving as he lets out a low chuckle. He creeps up the steps, slowly, as if not to scare you away. His nails scratch the wooden railing as he reaches the top step.
“Y-yeah, I am.”
“Ya might as well let me do it then, since you’re already thinkin’ about it. And that body of yours wants it—I can tell. Oh, she’s singing to me.” A low, guttural groan abruptly halts his sentence. He tips his head back, and you watch as his eyes roll upward. The lustful thoughts send a shiver down his spine, and he rolls his neck, attempting to control himself. His eyes flutter open, barely slits, heavy with desire as he fixes his gaze on you.
“That pretty little body of yours, she’s just a singin’ to me, luring me in. Hell, if I didn’t know no better, I’d think you were a siren. Ya aren’t, are ya sweet girl?“
You let out a huff of air. “If I am, it ain’t to my knowledge.”
His devilish smile widens, making more of his razor-sharp teeth poke out. “Nah, you’re too sweet to be anythang like that.”
A gentle hush settles between you as you both quietly take each other in. The night hums with the chorus of crickets, the slight creaking of your porch swing rocking with the late-night breeze, and your heartbeat that you know Remmick hears even better than you can.
You take a tentative step toward the door, and Remmick mirrors it.
“It ain't nice of you to put yourself in my mind as I sleep, Remmick. One place I’m supposed to have sweet, peaceful thoughts, and you ruin it by corruptin’ them with your nasty, sinful need.”
“What were you dreamin’ about before me?” His smile is dopey as he teases.
To be honest, the dream before he had filled your mind with sex hazed images was nothing inappropriate. But instead, just images of him being sweet on you. Which is something you wouldn’t dare confess.
You bite your lip, shrug, and then feign interest in the floorboards, hoping he doesn't press more. Remmick watches the bite of your lip, catching the tremor of your breath and the way your cheeks deepen with color. His smile falters as his eyes darken, jealousy coiling and pulsing in his unbeating heart.
“Should I be worried that ya got yourself another suitor?” He almost bristled as he delivered the false lighthearted words. The low rumble of a growl behind them gave away the chilling shadow of envy that clung to each syllable.
“You know you’re the only thang that’s crazy enough to pursue after me, Remmy.” You’re smiling at him, leaning on the doorframe now. He moans as you call him the nickname.
With the grin returning to his face, he inches forward off the top step and toward the threshold.
“Let me in, sug. Let me show you just how crazy I can be.”
“I can’t-”
“Or come out here. I’ll take you right here on the porch or in the grass. Hell, I’d even take you in the barn like a dirty animal. I don’t much care for where we do it. I just need to feel you.” His voice was a guttural growl, far too deep for a human, and you knew this was the real him —not the humanized voice with the occasional Irish lilt, but the horrifying sound of a vampire.
At the realization, a fresh wave of desire runs hot through your veins. A needful ache has your clit throbbing, and you squeeze your thighs together, desperately hoping the pressure will ease. You silently plead for relief, but the movement only spurs Remmick on, his attention sharpening at your struggle.
“We shouldn’t get tangled up together, Remmick. It wouldn’t be good for either of us.”
“Now I-I am a very givin’ lover. I’m not like them little boys you’ve wasted time with. I know, I can give you everything you need. And don’t sell yourself short, sugar. I’m sure you're just stellar in the sack.” His voice has returned to its human form, and he gives you a lopsided smile.
Before you can stop them, your eyes roll at his twisting of your words.
“Do you want me on my knees? Will that seal the deal? Maybe you’re into the whole sad, injured animal thang. I can do that.”
He drops to his knees before you can protest, brows drawn tight and lips pulled into a dramatic frown, eyes shining with unshed tears. Clearing his throat, he starts his performance. Long arms reach for you, then rake through his hair before pressing to his chest, right over his heart.
“Please, ma’am. I’m beggin’ ya. I-I’ll make ya feel real good. And-and I'll be good, I swear it. I’ll be a good plaything for ya.” He’s wailing it out, high-pitched and absolutely desperate.
“Remmick! Stop that!”
“Please, ma’am, I’ll sleep at the foot of your bed or-or on the floor. Alls I need is some warmth and a meal. Could ya help this poor wounded soul feel whole again?”
He reaches for you, hands tingling as they press against the invisible barrier of the doorway. Gritting his teeth, he pushes harder, the pain flaring from pins and needles to searing heat until he finally breaks through. The instant his hands cross the threshold, you recoil. Remmick jerks his arms back, collapsing in exhaustion, breathless from the ordeal.
“How did you do that?”
“It ain’t easy, just takes some force and pain. You run the risk of turnin’ into a pyre, if ya do it for too long.”
You hum, slightly impressed. “Can you get off your knees now? You damn vampires and your theatrics.”
He settles back on his shins, hands splayed on his thighs, the fabric stretched tight over their solid strength, drawing your gaze.
“Ya lettin’ me in?”
Walking back toward the doorframe and leaning on it, you stare at him. Watching the sweat bead on his forehead, watching the stillness of his chest, watching how his eyes never stray from your face.
With closed eyes, you whisper his name. “Remmick.”
“Yeah, sugar?”
His voice, while feather-soft, is a lot closer to you than before. Opening your eyes, you gasp at the sight. He’s towering over you, arms resting on the top of the door, and the corded muscles of his arms look extra droolworthy in the warmth of the porchlight. His deep crimson eyes stare down at you, completely void of white.
“What is it?” His voice is still soft as he prods at your silence. His brows rise and pull together in anticipation.
“Come in.” The words come out breathy, but it’s all he needs. It’s the one thing he’s been waiting for. His chest rumbles with an excited growl, and his hands surge through the doorway without burning this time.
Those massive hands of his grab at the sides of your face. He’s pulling you close to his chest, letting you stumble into him. Lips land on yours, and it’s a kiss you weren’t expecting. It’s full of desire but not aggressive. He’s gentle when he licks into your mouth, even more gentle when he nips at your bottom lip. He kisses you till your lungs are screaming for air and you’re lightheaded. When he pulls away, a trail of spit goes with him, and you both track it.
Remmick points toward the inside of your house, and you walk deeper in, allowing him to walk through the threshold. As he steps inside, he inhales deeply, spares a look around, and then his sight is set back onto you.
He’s in your personal space before you can blink, hands and lips all over you. His lips trail down your neck, and his hands work quickly to get your shirt off. The prickle of his fangs skimming your exposed skin makes your back arch. A hard surface hits your back, and when you look, it’s your small wooden dining room table. You hadn’t even realized he had been moving you through the house.
“Oh, I’m gonna fuckin’ devour ya.” His voice is inhuman, making you moan.
With one motion, your shorts and panties are off, and the coolness of the table's surface chills you as it presses against the back of your warm thighs. Now you’re completely bare and laid out for Remmick like Sunday dinner.
Your slick-covered thighs and sopping pussy shine in the low light of the room, and Remmick has to swallow down his spit before it pools out of his mouth.
Remmick lets out a whistle with a head shake. “Oh, honey, I ain’t ever seen something drip so pretty like that before”
Somehow, your body gets even hotter, and your face feels swollen from the heat it’s producing. “Stop it, wouldcha?”
For the second time that night, he’s dropping to his knees, this time to get eye level with your sex. Big and calloused, but gentle fingers spread you apart as he admires your weeping cunt up close. “Nah, I’m bein’ dead serious. Nothins ever been as pretty as you gushin’ just from my kisses and words.”
His red eyes flick back up to you, and he watches how you react when the fat part of his tongue licks a blazing stripe from your opening to your clit. The tip of his tongue circles the clit a few times before he repeats licking from bottom to top. He shoves his entry face between your thighs and then wraps your legs over his shoulders. His long, thick, warm tongue laps, circles, and flicks, while his lips switch between sucking on your folds and clit.
You’ve moved on from gasping and moaning to crying out his name. Your back permanently arches off the table, and your head has fallen back between your shoulders. After leaving scratches on the table, you’ve moved on to gripping the part of Remmick's biceps that sticks out from under your legs. Neither of you pays any mind to the red scratches that are forming. Remmick’s mouth clamps around your clit and tugs it with him as he pulls away. Only when you whine does he let go of the sensitive bud with a pop.
“Look at me, sugar. Watch me give you what you need.”
If you hadn’t already been so far gone, you would have noticed the Irish accent slipping through.
He pushes your thighs open just enough to get both hands in between them. Both his thumbs spread your folds, leaving nothing hidden from him. Remmick moans as he watches your pink walls clench on nothing. The action pushes even more slick out of you, and his red eyes watch intensely as it drips to the table.
His fully erect cock twitches in his pants as he meets your glossed-over eyes, as they try their hardest to focus on him. Once he’s satisfied with you looking, he leans forward and, while keeping you spread open, begins making out with your pussy. The sounds are lewd as he mixes more of his thick spit with your slick.
“Oh, fuck, Remmick.” Your voice comes out higher-pitched than you’ve ever heard it.
Remmick growls, nuzzling his face deeper into you, reveling in having you consume all of his senses. His tongue touches spots no one else ever has. You can’t stop yourself from humping his face; his strong, broad nose rubbing perfectly against your clit.
“Yeah, that’s it, take whatcha need, let me have it all. Come on, baby, come on.”
The pureness in the name brings you over the edge. Your vision fills with dancing stars, molten lava erupts from the bottom of your spine, and a repeated cry of ‘Remmick’ and ‘yeah’ echoes through the house as you're pulled into unconsciousness.
As you reenter your body, the first thing you feel is Remmick’s hands caressing the skin of your ribcage. Your vision comes back next, and lastly, your hearing.
“There ya are, sugar.”
Remmick‘s standing between your legs now, and has yet to wipe away the liquid mess dripping from his lips and jaw. You consider how well he knows the feeling, and the image of his face, slick with thick, slimy blood, quickly appears in your mind. The shame of finding the image enticing was a subtle pressure that could not quell the need growing in your veins or the excitement you felt of having such a dangerous monster in front of you.
“You’re really good at that.”
He smiles at your breathless praise, his eyes glistening with fervor.
“I tried to tell ya, tried to give it to ya sooner.” His hand spans across the lower part of your face, fingers pressing into the fat of your jaw. He gives your head a little shake with the following sentence. “You’re just too hard-headed for your own good, ain’tcha baby? Ah, guess it’s a good thang Remmick‘s here to take care of ya now.”
Squinting your eyes at him. “I hate when you refer to yourself in the third person.”
As you remove his shirt, your nostrils fill with the sharp scent of citrus, metallic tang, damp earth, and an accent aroma. Your warm fingers graze his cold stomach, and Remmick responds with a low, guttural rumble. Leaning down, he slots his lips against yours, transferring the saliva that had been pooling in his mouth. The sensation of his tongue against yours, combined with the way his large frame pinned you to the table, had you breathing rapidly.
His cool hands slid down your back, pulling you in, making chills dance in their wake. The feel of his touch, devout and full of longing, sent a surge of desire coursing through your veins. Without breaking the kiss, Remmick wraps your fallen legs around his waist. His left hand came to rest on the table behind your back, arm still close enough for you to lean on. The right hand grabs and kneads at your plush thigh and then your waist as he manhandles you closer to the edge. That's when you feel it, hotter than the rest of his body and already leaking on you. You can’t hold the moan falling off your lips.
Breaking away from the kiss, you divert your attention to Remmick's cock. Flushed pink and milky white, Remmick's long, thick cock stands between your legs. You let out a gasp at the beauty of it. The pearlescent beads of precum make your mouth water as they stick to your thighs and roll down the shaft. You watch it bob from its weight, and when you gasp at that, it twitches in delight.
“Like what ya looking at, darlin’?”
You hum back in agreement, head nodding like you’re in a trance. “You’re a real pretty one, Remmy.” The weight of him in your hand and the silkiness of his skin are like nothing else. A perfect teardrop bead of precum drips onto your palm. Without thinking, your palm is at your mouth in a second, tongue darting out to lick it off. The action causes Remmick’s hips to stutter, and more dribbles from the tip.
“Ya taste real good too, baby.”
It’s all too much for Remmick. The way you’re splayed out on the table, the taste of you lingering on his tongue, the softness of your hand around his cock, the quickness with which your pink tongue darted out to lick his cum off your hand, and the sweet names for him coming from your swollen lips. It makes him lightheaded and like he’ll combust if he doesn’t get you wrapped around his cock soon.
Using his right hand, Remmick taps the tip of his penis against your clit. Your body jerks at the new contact, hips bucking to chase the weight of him when he pulls away. After a few taps, Remmick switches to rubbing his tip against your puffy clit, and both of you moan at the feeling. He lifts his leaky tip off, a string of precum and slick, keeping you two connected. As if in a trance, Remmick repeats his actions, rubbing more precum onto the skin of your cunt. He’s snapped back to the moment when your tongue licks from the bottom of his neck to his mouth.
“You’re drooling, honey.”
With a deep noise resembling a purr, Remmick notches the head of his cock at your entrance. Your stomach dips inward, anticipating the stretch that you know is coming.
“Remmick, no more teasing.”
“Oh, yeah? Ya want me to give ya what you’ve been needin’?”
“Please fuck me, Remmy.” You whine out.
“Of course, darlin’. All ya had to do was ask.”
He thrust forward, causing you to moan in sync. Pushing in inch by inch, allowing both of you to savour the feeling of your tight, gummy walls stretching to accommodate him. He doesn’t stay buried deep in you for long before he’s pulling out, leaving just the tip in. He rolls his hips, starting a steady rhythm. His right hand lifts your thigh higher, allowing him to get even deeper. He picks up speed, the bulbous tip of his cock knocking into your cervix with every few thrusts.
“Just like that, Remmick, oh fuck, just like that.”
Remmick fucked the air from your lungs, making your eyes squeeze shut and your head fall limply against your chest. Your hands clawed at his shoulders, nails leaving crescent-shaped indents as they bit the flesh. The violent thrusting caused the old wooden dining table to rock and groan loudly. It goes ignored.
“Is that good, baby? Am I at that sweet spot?”
You slur out a ‘yes’, the word heavy in your mouth as your cervix gets intensely bullied. He’s so deep and so intent on getting you to cum, it makes you feel like you’re burning alive.
“Give it to me, let me feel you gush on my cock, baby. Come on.”
His lewd words push you closer, but you beg him for more.
“More? I’ll fuckin’ give you more.” His words are snarled out. He surges forward, fangs pressing into the velvet skin of your breast. Gobs of cooled spit douse your chest as he trails his mouth between your nipples. He lets his fangs nearly pierce you, removing the pressure right as your skin indents to break.
The only warning of your orgasm is a shriek of his name, but Remmick already knows. He smells the heady scent of his reward before it’s spraying on his cock and splashing his torso. Your cunt grips him impossibly tight, and he’s so close to filling you up.
“Goddamn, if that ain’t the best thing I’ve ever had the pleasure of experiencing.”
He pulls out and drops to his knees so fast that he watches your entrance adapt to being empty again. His long fingers flatten against your clit, and he starts rubbing fast and hard.
“I want more. Wanna watch up close as ya make that nectar for me, honey.”
Desperate hands reach for the fingers assaulting your sensitive clit, your fingers barely wrap around his wrist before he's swatting them away with his other hand. He traps both your wrists in his one big hand, rendering you defenseless.
“Remmick, I can’t. Please, it-it’s too much.”
“Shh, don’t lie to me. I know you’ve got more in there. I want it all, want ya drippin’ all over me.”
You moan whorishly at his words. He looks directly in your eyes as he shoves his tongue inside your sloppy cunt. When you start whining his name like a prayer, he pulls back and gives your poor clit a slap before returning to rubbing it. He pats it a few more times, making your eyes well with tears. As he starts rubbing again, you feel the familiar sensation rushing back.
“Remmy.” It comes out as a small whimper. You can’t tell if it’s a plea, a warning, or maybe even a question.
He nods at you, greedily encouraging you to let go. When you finally cum, he welcomes it with an open mouth. Long tongue stretched out, making sure to get as much in his mouth as he could. It spills down his chest, and his head lolls back, basking in your hot liquid as it soaks him.
He rises, cradles you in his arms, and walks toward your bedroom. As he walks down the dark hallway, he thinks of how he could get used to this, something domestic, something with you. Nearing the door, he shoves his thoughts to the back of his mind, promising himself he’d think about it later. With a creak of the door, he pushes it open and strides to your bed. He places you down on your weak, trembling knees and uses his calloused hand to bend you over gently.
Your feet dangle slightly off the bed while your back arches perfectly. The position showing off your swollen, wet pussy to him like an offering. You wiggle your hips. Remmick chuckles at the taunt. He laughs even harder at your yelp when he nips at the fat of your ass. His teeth barely broke skin, a flesh wound compared to what he could do. Both of you shiver at the idea of his teeth sinking into your delicate flesh. His leaky slit dribbles precum at the vision of your blood on his tongue.
He runs his hands from the base of your neck to the bottom of your spine, his nails scratching ever so slightly. When his hands get to the soft and plump flesh of your ass, he squeezes before moving to give himself a few pumps. A glance over your shoulder gives you the perfect debauched view of him. Pale skin flushing with desire, slick and spit glistening on him, and his painfully hard cock ready to fill you up.
Your eyes follow his hand as it stops pumping himself and goes to collect spit from his mouth. He takes the spit back to his length and fists it around himself a few times before spreading the leftover spittle onto you, both of you moaning as his chilled hand pets at the hot, sensitive area. Even in the darkness of your bedroom, his red eyes seemed to glow as they briefly met your face. A soft smile finds its way to his face as he glides a head to your shoulder, pressing in between the blades. You concede, laying your top half down flat on the soft bedding, leaving your bottom half propped up.
You feel his tip press into your entrance softly. Remmick keeps it there, letting you leak on him. The act feels strangely intimate, and you wonder if he's thinking the same. He finally breaches past the narrow opening with a tentative thrust, his length rubbing deliciously slowly on every inch of your channel. The soft pace and new angle allow Remmick to feel you opening up for him differently than before.
“Ah, shit, baby. You’re –mmfph fuck– you’re taking my cock so good. Feels like ya were made to take me.”
“Does it feel good, baby? Having me deep inside of ya?”
“Oh fuck, yes, Remmick. Feels too, feels too good.”
“That’s it, tell Remmick how good he’s makin’ your cunt feel. Tell me how good I’m fuckin’ this needy pussy.”
You’re whining, trying to move away from his intense thrust. Remmick doesn’t let you go far. Crawling onto the bed with you.
“Don’t run now, sug. I’m given it to ya real good now.”
Remmick hears you speak, but your pillow muffles it. His large hand wraps around your neck, pulling you up.
“What was that, darlin’?”
“I said, I hate when you speak in third person.”
Remmick gives a full, hearty laugh, astonished that you’d still be so divisive with his cock buried deep in you. He admires your hardheadedness.
“Aww, that just means you ain’t properly fucked out just yet. I’ll get ya there, don’t ya worry, sugar.”
He picks up his speed, ramming into you hard and fast. Remmick relishes watching the fat of your ass bouncing as it smacks against his lower stomach. He pulls you closer, pressing your back to his chest, and finds that your mouth can’t seem to close. Your moaning switches between long and deep to high-pitched gasps of his name. His hand tightens around the sides of your throat, applying a small amount of pressure. Your cunt squeezes him tighter as you cum for the third time.
“Goddamn, you’re a filthy thing. Gushing all over me again, all because I gripped your neck.”
He maintains his pace and holds your body upright, not wanting you to escape the overstimulation. You match all his thrusts as your orgasm fades, not letting him slip out for too long. Desperate for the stuffed feeling his cock gives your pussy.
“Ya like that? Like having Remmick so deep inside of ya? Like feeling his cock kissing your womb?”
You shake your head no, not wanting to satisfy his annoying antics.
“I think ya do. I think, nah, I know you love having Remmick's big cock rearranging your pretty guts. And you love when I talk like this. Ya know how I know?” Without giving you a chance to respond, he continues. “Your pretty little cunny’s choking my cock. You might be able to lie, but she can’t, sugar.”
“God Remmick, just shut up. Just shut up and fuck me.”
Tears are streaming down your face from how good he’s fucking you. You’re panting from how good he’s fucking you, you’re both soaked in your cum, because that’s how good he’s fucking you, and yet you’re demanding more. Remmick’s not an idiot; he knows what you're doing. He knows you’re trying to provoke him, and goddamn does it work. His chest vibrates from a growl, causing your back to tingle. He breaks the skin-to-skin contact by manhandling you to back down onto the mattress. One hand seizes your wrists and, with the other hand, forces your head down, leaving you unable to move. He’s pistoning with all that he's got, your bed protesting as it rattles from his force. Your mind has gone blank; the only thing left behind is Remmick's name and the way he's got your body feeling.
Remmick hears your heart pounding like a little rabbit's, and the accompanying sound of your blood surging through your veins. He listens to your uneven breath and the pants that the mattress is catching. He practically hears your brain shut off when you start pleading with him. You don’t even know what you’re praying for from him, just whining his name as he destroys your pussy.
Remmick’s words drip with smugness as they leave his mouth, “Tell Remmick all about how much you’re just lovin’ him wreckin’ ya.”
You try babbling out an answer, but the words are too mushy to get out.
“Come on, sweet girl. Try a little harder for me, try harder to think for Remmy.”
“Remmy, please, oh fuck, oh fuck .” You’re close to cumming again, but Remmick’s not ready to give you that reward just yet. He pulls out, just leaving the tip in. An honest to god sob tears through your chest at the sudden emptiness. Your hips rut backwards, trying to get his length sheathed back into you.
“Quit that.” He delivers a quick slap to your ass. “Now, tell Remmick how good he’s got ya feelin’. Tell him all about how you’re lovin’ him talkin’ like this and how much you love his big ancient cock in you.”
He pushes in an inch more, making you moan.
“I’ll let ya cum again, sugar. I’ll even give ya my cum too. I’ll fill your cunny with so much cum, you’ll be leakin’ it for days. All yeah gotta do-” another inch presses into you, “-is tell Remmick how good he’s being to you.”
“It’s so good, Remmy. You’re so good.”
“Uh, uh, uh, not like that, baby. You know what I want to hear.”
You don’t care at this point. Don’t care that he’s winning, don’t care that you’re being too desperate, and that you’re giving him just what he wants. You swallow your pride and give it to him.
“I love havin’ Remmick’s cock inside me. I love how Remmick fucks me. I love how Remmick takes care of me. I love, oh god!”
Remmick shoves his cock back into you, returning to the same rhythm as last time.
“Keep goin’.”
“I-I love when Remmick talks like this. I love having Remmick stuff me full with his big, ancient cock. I love gushing on Remmick's fingers and cock. I love how it’s all too much. I love it all. Remmick, I-I’m gonna.”
Your tear-soaked submission and words work him to the edge. Not to mention, he can feel your soft cervix kissing his sensitive tip, begging him to fill your womb full of his sperm.
“Oh, yeah, that’s it. Gonna give it to ya, sug. I’m gonna spill all in this pussy and you’re gonna take it all. You're gonna keep all of Remmick’s seed deep inside.” His accent has reverted to Irish, his voice switching from vampiric to human as he gets closer to losing control.
“Remmick, give it to me, please. Fill me up, baby. I want-I need it.”
That was the final nail in the coffin for Remmick. His cock twitches as his seed spurts out, all viscous and hot. Looking down, Remmick sees a thick ring of cream at the base of his shaft, a mixture from both of you. Even after stuffing you full with his seed, he still spurts out ropes of seed as he pulls out. The milky fluid coating your reddened, crying, overworked sex. Amazed by the sight, he rubs his still hard length through the mess and pushes it back into your quivering canal.
“Goddamn, you’ve got such a greedy cunny. All it does is take and take, and still ask for more.”
Flipping you to your back, he admires the fucked out look on your face and the layer of sweat covering your body. He presses the tip back in and gently rocks back and forth. Using your tight entrance to milk out what’s let in him. You’re completely blissed out as he uses you, only squeezing subconsciously. His mouth waters, and his eyes lock onto your chest, enjoying the simple pleasure of watching them jiggle from his shallow thrust. His moans turn to whimpers as he empties into you, the pleasure almost turning painful at the overstimulation of being milked dry. His knees tremble before he lies down next to you on your soft mattress.
Your breathing fills the room as you work to bring it back to even, full breaths. The emptiness of your sex and the weight of Remmick being off of you has you feeling cold. A shiver passes through you. Without thought, you turn toward Remmick, placing your head on his cooled chest. He wraps an arm around you and traces patterns on the skin he can reach. Basking in the afterglow that neither of you dares to break, allowing the intimate moment to linger.
Summary: Remmick's been gone for two weeks. Naturally, that's given you plenty of time to dream up an appropriate punishment. And sometimes, bad dogs learn best when they're chained up.
Author's Note: You have all been hounding after my first fic, The Dog at the Door, and since you've all been such good girls and boys...I thought you deserved a little treat. Enjoy the sequel. They do both work as stand alone fics, but isn't it more fun to double down on torturing our favorite vampire?
Warnings: Contains smut; MDNI. Vampirism, blood sucking, monsterfucking, sub!Remmick, pathetic!Remmick, dom!Reader, begging kink, control kink, praise kink, orgasm denial, edging, intense power dynamics, pet names, obsessive behavior, p in v sex, pillow humping, hair pulling, torture, burning skin, handcuffs, collar and leash, spit kink, drool, cum eating, slapping, cutting/knife play, making Remmick cry, and obviously treating Remmick like a dog and being soooo mean to him. I love him <3
Reblogs, comments, and likes always appreciated! Please reblog if you like what you read; it helps keep writers engaged in fandom spaces and creating cool shit for you!
Thank you endlessly to my beta reader and friend @scannainscanrula for fueling my insane delusions and being a huge supporter of me and all of my efforts to inflict as much pain upon Remmick as humanly possible. I love playing Barbies with you.
It’s been two weeks since you’d seen him, and your patience was wearing thin.
The last time you two were together, he was devouring the blood pouring out from between your legs. Of course he would hound you when you were literally leaking sustenance, satisfying his appetite in more ways than one, and then leave you high and dry when it was your turn to be needy.
You’re ovulating, and you don’t need the calendar to tell you that. In every idle moment, your mind drifts to Remmick, and you catch yourself squeezing your thighs together. Your desperation irritates you. Needing him irritates you. You love to play with him, to torture and tease him until he’s a wreck, to feel powerful standing over him as he crawls and drools on the floor. And feeling this ache in your bones, in your blood, for him…you hated feeling the power he had over you in return.
The hormones clouding your brain make it impossible to focus on anything. Even the dishes in your sink had been sitting for longer than usual, neglected as a result of your constantly diverted attention. Every night, you lie in bed, pathetically hoping to hear your porch sagging under his weight. And every night, nothing.
Tonight was more of the same.
You twist in the sheets, the dense Southern humidity painting your skin with a thin layer of sweat. The collar of your nightgown feels cold, soaked through and clinging to you uncomfortably. The ancient wooden ceiling fan above you rotates lazily, each rotation passing with a soft click as the internal mechanics struggle to keep pace.
You slowly rock your hips back and forth, grinding against nothing. God, it made you feel so stupid. Your body’s needs eclipsed any level of rational thought, turning you into a desperate mess. You just want a moment of clarity. Just one moment that didn’t leave you with this aching, hungry feeling.
There’s a pillow next to you in the bed–where you wish he was. You gently paw at the loose fabric of the pillowcase, tangling your fingers in the soft material. Your breath is shallow, the heat between your legs still burning. There’s no way you’re doing this.
And yet.
You hug the pillow closer, parting your knees around it. It feels good to be this close to something. The scent of your lotion lingers on the sheets and you smile into the pillow. It’s the type of thing that would drive him insane. Too bad.
You press your pelvis into the pillow, a soft sigh escaping your lips.
You can’t believe you’re doing this. It’s so juvenile. Unfortunately, you’re desperate enough to try it.
You rotate your hips, grinding in circles against the pillow. You feel a rush of wetness start to seep from your pussy and remember too late that you’re not wearing panties under your night gown. You can feel the pillowcase absorb you, dampening under your legs.
“Fuckkk,” you groan.
You picture Remmick beneath you, playing with your tits, sucking on your neck, and start to grind faster against the pillow.
“God, Rem…”
You remember the last time you were together, his face between your thighs, covered in blood from the nose down. His eyes glowing that endless red, fangs bared, claws dancing delicately over your skin.
“Fuck, baby all for me?”
“Yes, yes, all for you, Rem, shit…”
“All for you,” you pant as you chase your high. “All for you.”
Your cheeks flush as pathetic mewling sounds escape your throat.
“Fuck me, Rem, please, baby…”
You press your hips to the pillow roughly and choke. You grind yourself through your orgasm, a shiver running through your body. When you finally recover the strength to move, you dismount the pillow and examine the pillowcase.
It’s fucking filthy, covered in your juices.
“Shit,” you sigh.
You’ll never forgive him.
The crickets sing softly, providing the music for the fireflies that dance over the tall grass in your yard. Things always seemed softer, gentler, after dark. The pale moonlight shimmering across the lake at the edge of your property. The rhythmic croaks of the frogs hiding in the mud. The intoxicating scent of magnolia blossoms. The cool air that moved in once the sun disappeared. Nighttime in Mississippi was an enchanted time, a reward reserved only for those bold enough to brave the things that lurked in the shadows.
The old rocker creaks under your weight as you pull your knees to your chest, your hair still damp and clinging to your neck from your shower. Your eyes linger on the treeline that traces the edge of your property. Coyotes, bobcats, black bears, rattlesnakes…ask any other Clarksdale resident why they stayed in after dark, and they’re sure to name one of the Delta’s apex predators. Ask you why you chose to stay out well past twilight, and you’d list another. The kind of predator that looked like a lover and could corrupt like the devil.
A gentle rustling catches your attention. Your eyes snap towards the sound, only to be greeted with a tiny possum staring at you from the darkness.
Where the fuck is he?
You bring a knuckle to your mouth and start to gnaw on the skin–a nervous habit.
The torturous feeling of want, of need, of hunger…you could feel nothing else. It had been a while since you last checked the time, but you were certain you’d been out here longer than you’d like to admit.
A snapping twig draws your focus again.
Fucking finally.
“Waitin’ up for me, sugar?”
Some fucking nerve.
“Wasn’t expectin’ you,” you reply, as evenly as possible. You drop one of your feet, one leg still perched on the rocking chair, your legs parted slightly. You know his keen sense of smell will do the rest of the work for you.
“Missed ya,” he smiles, his eyes gleaming as he approaches the steps of your porch.
“Coulda fooled me.”
“C’mon, y’know I can’t resist my favorite girl,” he continues, starting up the stairs.
“Oh, I’m your favorite now?” you retort.
“C’mere, darlin’.”
He’s on your level now, his hand extended towards you in invitation. Your eyes scan him from head to toe and back again. He looks good. As good as an undead thing can look. He’s clean, well put together, even his hair looks recently washed. It drives you crazy–and infuriates you.
“Look at you, all cleaned up,” you bait him.
“I wanted to look nice for ya,” he smiles. He grabs your hand and pulls you out of the chair, pulling you in close to his chest. You draw in a deep breath, and he smells like the cheap, imitated scent of lavender that comes from a bottle. It’s the thing that finally cracks the fissure in you wide open.
“Didn’t realize people ‘round these parts were in the habit of letting stray dogs into the house,” you reply hotly. You press your palms into his chest and shove him, hard. He stumbles back, his face blown with shock.
“The hell y’talkin’ ‘bout?” he asks, defensive.
“I’m talkin’ bout you, fuckin’ up and disappearin’, then comin’ ‘round here smellin’ like some other bitch’s shampoo, you motherfucker!”
“Sweetheart–”
He takes another step towards you. You take a step back, your hand resting on the doorknob behind you.
“C’mon, darlin’, it’s not–”
“Don’t fuckin’ call me that.”
You rotate the knob slowly and silently in your hand, unlatching the door.
“It ain’t like that,” he tries to reason, stepping closer again. Your porch creaks under his foot.
You swiftly and silently, in one motion, push the door open behind you and take a step back inside the house. He deflates when he realizes what you’ve done.
“Seriously?” he huffs. “We playin’ like this again?”
“Who’s playin’?” you demand. “I’m not lettin’ no fuckin’ stray mutt in my house is all. Guess I just ain’t that easy.”
The threshold. Ordinarily it’s your favorite game. But tonight it’s a threat.
“Sweetheart–”
“Enough!” you finally scream. The silence that falls between you is enormous. Even the cricket song seems to have evaporated.
“I get it. You got your little list, your little rotation. All the girls in the Delta, hell, maybe you got girls all over the fuckin’ world, fuck if I know. All the girls you can call for a quick little suck and fuck, right? Well, forget my damn name. Forget my damn address. Forget me. Cuz I ain’t gonna be one of your little toys.”
You slam the door in his face and press your forehead to the rough wood in front of you. You can feel your breath tightening in your chest and hot tears pricking at the corners of your eyes.
Two weeks ago, he was worshipping you. Licking blood from your thighs and your cunt, babbling nonsense about how delicious you were, how you were made for him. And now, two weeks without him, two weeks of the fire in your belly burning for his touch, and he shows up smelling like some other whore.
You can hear him breathing softly on the other side of the door, frustrated, and you know he can hear you.
An idea strikes you.
If he can hear you…he can smell you.
You pad into the kitchen and reach for the knife block sitting atop your counter.
All he wants is your blood? Fine.
You grip the handle of your tiny paring knife and pull it from the block before crossing back to the door. You can see his shadow under the door, blocking the light coming from the ancient bulb hanging above your porch.
You carefully raise the knife and connect the tip of the blade with the tip of your index finger, pressing firmly. You wince under the sharp pain, brief as it is. He inhales sharply on the other side of the door.
Removing the knife, a bead of blood swells from your finger. You settle on the floor, sitting with your legs folded under you. You delicately dangle your finger in front of you and watch the blood collect in the tiny prick until gravity works its magic, the fine drop of crimson splattering to the floor in front of you.
You hear him moving swiftly on the porch, and his shadow moves as he scrambles to his knees.
“Sugar? Y’okay in there?” he calls. You can hear the barely disguised desperation in his voice.
You don’t answer.
Well, that’s not quite true. You reply by squeezing your finger, drawing more blood to the surface. Drip.
He huffs and puffs behind the door, his breath shaky and ragged.
“C’mon, darlin’, can we talk about this?” he asks through a waver in his voice.
Drip.
You hear the crunching sound of shredding wood before you see the culprit: his claws, fully extended, poking beneath your door. His hands are trembling as he paws under the door, desperate for the drops of you collecting on the threshold.
“You better not be destroyin’ my fuckin’ porch!”
His hand retracts instantly.
“Can we talk, baby? Please?” he begs.
He presses his cheek to the floorboards of the porch, looking for you, any piece of you he can find. He sighs, sticking his tongue out, tasting you in the air. It’s pathetic, he knows, but he shoves his tongue as far as he can reach under the door, chasing you.
Drip.
“Mmph–please?”
You rise and tug the doorknob, flinging the door open. He’s on his knees, pressed against the threshold. When he sees you, he leans back on his haunches, affecting a cool presence.
“Wha’d we have to talk about?” you demand, anger still saturating your voice.
“Please, sugar, I swear ’s not what it looks like.”
“Oh, it’s not? Jus’ find some other girl’s pussy to eat for two weeks, no big deal. Hell, wouldn’t surprise me if you kept a fuckin’ calendar trackin’ the cycle of every fuckin’ girl from here to Mobile, pickin’ who you wanna spend a week with ‘fore you get bored.”
“It’s not–”
You cut him off when you squeeze your finger again. His eyes flutter shut as he breathes in deeply.
“Please, baby, lemme in ‘n we can talk ‘bout this.”
“Oh, of course. Cuz this is all you really want, right?”
You bring your finger to the threshold, holding it down in front of his face. His eyes shoot open and he lunges forward before he hits that invisible wall that separates you, growling in frustration.
“Please, sugar. Lemme inside, lemme clean y’up,” he whines, the cracks in his cool guy façade finally starting to show.
“Oh, it’s alright. I can do it myself,” you reply cooly. You bring your finger to your mouth and drag the bloodied tip across your lips, applying your own blood to your mouth like lip gloss. He whimpers, his eyes catching the porchlight and reflecting that deep red color that only surfaces when he’s too tired or too riled up to maintain his human appearance.
You push your finger past your lips, gently sucking on the wound.
“Darlin’–” he croaks.
You release your finger with a lewd, wet pop and he groans.
“Yes?” you ask, saccharine sweetness dripping from your voice.
“Please, can I come in?”
“Now, why d’ya wanna do a thing like that?”
“Wanna–fuck, I wantcha sweetheart. C’mon, lemme in baby, lemme show ya how bad I wantcha. Need ya.”
You hum, pretending to think about his offer.
“C’mon, sugar, please. Lemme treatcha right.”
“You’re gon’ treat me right?” you taunt.
“Yes, baby, please, please,” he babbles. “Can make you feel so good, promise.”
“Hmm…”
“Please, angel, anythin’ you want, I’ll give it to ya,” he rasps, his voice hoarse with desperation and desire. “Make ya scream, make ya cry, make ya cum so many times you can’t even think straight, please. Lemme take care’a ya.”
“Oh, that’s alright. I can do that myself, too.”
His eyebrows crinkle in confusion, his jaw falling slack.
“Ohhhh…sweetheart,” you chuckle, turning one of his favorite nicknames against him. You slowly sink to your knees in front of him at the threshold. “Two weeks is a long time to keep a girl waitin’. ‘Specially when she’s..y’know…”
You pull your nightgown up around your hips, not quite exposing yourself to him. You part your knees and he sucks in a deep breath. You know you’ve made your point when you see a thin string of drool start down his chin.
“Fuck,” he whispers, through gritted teeth, his eyes transfixed on the cloth of the nightgown that hangs down between your legs, obstructing his view. “M sorry sugar, I didn’t realize…”
“Oh,” you interject, leaning towards him, your breath hot on his face. “You’re not sorry yet. But you fuckin’ will be.”
It takes all of your strength to make him pay.
You almost couldn’t believe what you’d gotten yourself into when you went to bed that night, still needy and aching and wanting him. Your wrist was exhausted from two weeks of self service, and prolonging your mutual torture seemed like the act of a madwoman.
But you knew it would be worth it.
The next night, it’s barely dark before you hear him crawling up the steps to your front porch. You’d left the door shut and all the lights off, but you knew he could smell you, taste you, moving around the house.
He knocks on your door. Polite. Sweet. Like a gentleman.
Not for long.
You cross to the door, then take the knob in your hand and twist, pulling the door open to reveal Remmick.
“Evenin’,” he starts.
“Can I help you?” you respond, folding your arms across your chest.
“C’mon, darlin’, yer not still upset are ya?” he drawls, his accent stirring the butterflies in your stomach.
He still looks good, but decidedly a little less put together. His hair is tousled and damp with sweat near his temples. The first two buttons on his shirt are open, exposing the gold chain hanging around his throat.
“C’mon, baby, this is all just a big misunderstandin’. Lemme in, please?”
“I told you, I ain’t lettin’ no stray dogs inside my house. Good night.”
You go to close the door when he stops you.
“Wait.”
His eyes lock on yours as he lowers himself to his knees slowly.
“This whatcha want?” he asks, staring up at you. “Y’wanna see me beg? I’ll do it baby, just say the word.”
“I think you got me confused with one’a your other whores,” you hiss.
“Baby, it ain’t like that–”
“Well, what then? Y’gon’ leave me here for two weeks, come back smellin’ like some other bitch, and expect me to, what? Jus’ let you back in here, take whatever scraps you’re willin’ t’give me? Go fuck yourself, Remmick.”
You slam the door in his face. But you don’t leave; not yet. You press your forehead to the door again, listening to him pace on the porch before he stills. You hear the gentle thud of his forehead hitting the door lightly, now face to face with you through just a couple of inches of wood.
“Jus’ needed…fuck, jus’ needed t’feed,” he breathes. His voice is soft, pained. “Been tryna go further out, y’know, draw less attention.”
Your breath catches in your throat.
“I was runnin’ for a few days. Got ‘bout, I don’t know, Jackson maybe? Stopped in some little bar. And—”
His voice breaks.
“She…she looked like you,” he croaks, his voice warbled and strained. “Same hair. ‘Bout the same height. And fuck, sweetheart, I jus’ wanted to rip her throat out.”
You notice that your nails are digging into the wood of the door. A far cry from his claws, but your self control is no better.
“Scared the shit out of me,” he continues. “How much I wanted to see her on the ground, neck fuckin’ shredded. She took me back t’hers, invited me in…and I jus’ couldn’t take it no more.”
“I…I killed her,” he whispers. “But then I kept lookin’ at her body there on the floor. And she just looked so much like you…I…I…”
He trails off, and that’s when you hear it: the little hitch in his breath that means he’s crying.
“I didn’t fuck her. Promise. But somethin’ ‘bout all that…it felt worse.”
His voice is barely above a whisper now.
“Didn’t even have the heart t’get ridda the body. Jus’ left her there…cleaned myself up. And ran back here fast I could. ‘M sorry darlin’. Don’t wantcha thinkin’ I’m shacked up with some other girl…but, fuck, what if I…what if I…”
You stay like that for a minute, leaning into each other through the door.
Finally, you hear his weight shift as he moves.
“Please, sweetheart. Lemme in. Don’t wanna be anywhere else but here. With you.”
You twist the cool metal doorknob in your grasp and pull your door open with a loud creak, the ancient hinges squealing.
He’s on his knees at the door, sweat beading across his brow and tear stains around his eyes.
“Remmick…” you breathe.
“M sorry, baby…wasn’t tryna make y’wait on me, promise, I jus’—”
“Remmick,” you repeat, sternly this time. “Come in.”
He rises slowly, holding your gaze. Wary, he puts one foot across the threshold, then the other. When he’s finally standing inside your front door, you gently rest your arms around his shoulders, pulling him close. He brings his shaking hands to your hips and holds you softly.
You bring your lips to his and kiss him sweetly. He tastes like salt and sweat and tears and Remmick. You hadn’t realized just how much you’d missed that taste. As fun as it was to torture him, to make him cry and beg for you, you missed him.
But you’d also been planning this for two weeks.
When you break the kiss, pulling back to stare into his gleaming red eyes, he can see the mischief lurking behind yours. You silently slide his suspenders off his shoulders and get to work on the buttons of his shirt, undoing them one by one. When he finally falls back into reality, he finishes the task, discarding his button up and pulling his undershirt over his head.
“C’mere.”
You take his hand and drag him towards the bedroom. When you back him up against the mattress, you shove him back roughly. He topples onto the bed and continues to stare at you.
“You’ve been a bad dog, Remmick,” you whisper cruelly. “And you know what happens to bad dogs?”
You climb over him, your hips straddling his. You reach over to your nightstand, pulling open the top drawer.
“They get chained up.”
You dangle the spiked choke collar in front of his face and his eyes glaze over, transfixed on it. He sits up a little straighter and you notice his chest rising and falling a little quicker now.
He sighs dreamily and hums low in his throat. He leans forward, his eyes fluttering shut, presenting his neck for you. When you lean forward to clip the collar around him, he flinches slightly.
“Wait,” he whispers. “Is it—it’s not—”
You smile.
“It’s steel.”
He hums in satisfaction again, and leans forward, connecting his flesh with the spikes. You reach behind his head and clip the collar on.
It fits him perfectly—the guy at the pet store had looked at you sideways as you stood in front of the shelf, examining your options. You reach towards the night stand and grab the second piece you’d purchased that day: a short, black leather leash. You clip the metal end to his collar and wrap the leather around your hand, tugging him harshly.
The noise that escapes Remmick is a strangled, choked sound. He lunges forward, following the pull of the collar. You lean forward, your mouth ghosting over his ear.
“Bad dogs…dogs who run away…they gotta be kept on a leash. Ain’t that right?”
He nods, and you can hear the metal as it moves with him.
“You don’t want to be a bad boy, do you?”
“No,” he strains. “No, ma’am.”
“Good.”
You reach for the nightstand again, and Remmick’s eyes follow your movements. He swallows thickly when he sees the handcuffs–two pairs. You reach for his left wrist and press a soft, wet kiss over the veins on the inside of his wrist. He shivers at the contact. Carefully, you tighten the cuff around his wrist and bring his hand towards your old headboard, closing the other cuff around the frame. You repeat the ritual with his right wrist until he’s secure.
“Y’gon’ show me you can be a good boy?” you taunt.
“Yes,” he whispers. “Yes, I can be good, I’ll do anythin’ ya want, sugar, please.”
You hum thoughtfully.
“Hmmm…I don’t know.”
“Please, baby,” he begs. “Please, jus’ wanna be yours. Jus’ wanna be yer good boy.”
“Y’wanna be mine?” you tease, your voice high in mock surprise. “Ya coulda fooled me, runnin’ off with that other girl.”
You grind your hips down onto his, feeling him already starting to get hard underneath you.
“Mmmph–not runnin’ off,” he manages to choke out.
You click your tongue in disappointment.
“Tsk, tsk…Remmick…now you gon’ add lyin’ t’the list?”
You punctuate the sentence with another firm tug on his leash, the points of the collar digging into his skin.
“Not–ah,” his breath catches in his throat when you flex your hand again, applying even pressure to the spikes encircling his throat. “Not lyin’, sweetheart, please. Wasn’t tryna run off, promise, I promise…”
He’s panting now, his composure already starting to slip.
“No?”
“No,” he heaves. “Couldn’t…can’t…”
You tug the leash sharply.
“Good boys finish their sentences,” you say sweetly, the gentleness of your voice dancing in his ears as the metal spikes painfully press into his neck.
“Can’t be anyone else’s. Jus’ you. Jus’ yers,” he manages to choke out.
“Aww…” you begin, tracing your hands down his chest. “So all this–”
He inhales a shuddered breath when you palm him through his pants.
“–is just for me?”
“All for you baby,” he breathes, his eyes squeezed shut. “All for you.”
“Well…if you can behave, maybe we’ll do somethin’ about that.”
You dismount, swinging your legs off of him and back down to the floor. You pad across the room and open the top drawer of your old wooden dresser. When you turn back to him, you can see the confusion in his eyes.
“D’ya know what this is?” you ask innocently, playing with the fabric in your hands. He warily shakes his head. The soft clink sound of the collar sends a shiver up your spine. It’s divine seeing him like this–restrained, already so needy, with hardly any effort on your part. You finally have him, have him, own him, possess him, and you’re going to make the feeling last as long as you can.
“This is my pillowcase, Remmick,” you explain. “And look at that.”
You straddle him again and hold the pillowcase out in front of him, showing him the stains you’d left there from your two weeks apart. He whines, the smell of you already overwhelming him.
“Is that–?”
“Two weeks is a mighty long time,” you continue. You lean into him again, whispering in his ear. “Here I was, two whole weeks, wearin’ almost nothin’ to bed, hopin’ you’d come through that door…and all I had was my pillow. What kinda bad dog would do that to a sweet girl like me?”
He twitches underneath you, twisting his hips up into yours, chasing any kind of contact. His wrists are already beginning to look rubbed by the cuffs chaining him to the bed.
“Fuck, ‘m sorry, darlin’,” he pants. “Fuck, smell so good…”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah, shit…c’mon, sweetheart, whatever…whatever yer plannin’ t’do, can we do it?”
It’s so pathetic, it almost makes you smile. He’s begging, and he doesn’t even know what for. You bring the pillowcase up over his head and cover him with it. He groans obscenely under the cotton. The smell of your release lingering in the pillowcase overwhelms his senses; you fill his nostrils and his mouth with every ragged breath.
You leave him again, and he whines desperately.
“What?” you ask. “I thought you wanted to prove you could be good?”
“Teasin’...” he huffs. “I can be good, can be good, I promise, but yer teasin’ me…”
“Well, what’s the fun in playin’ fair…sweetheart?” you drawl, leaning back down over him. He strains against his restraints, trying to get closer to where he can hear your voice.
You cross the room towards the bathroom and open your medicine cabinet, the old metal hinges squealing loudly. You grab the ornate glass bottle–an ancient thing, handed down from your grandmother, and filled with Holy Water.
You’d stopped by Annie’s a few days ago. She worried about you, but you could tell she was secretly glad that Remmick was your problem rather than all of Clarksdale’s. She blessed the water and poured it into your bottle.
“Don’t do anything stupid, now.”
“Me? Doin’ somethin’ stupid? Annie…”
You left her with a wicked grin, and it was tough to decipher the look on her face: something in between concern and amusement.
You bring the bottle back to the bedroom, taking in the sight of Remmick on the bed, his head covered, his hands cuffed, and the collar around his neck catching and reflecting the low light in your room. He’s still breathing hard and twisting uncomfortably in the cuffs.
You could devour him.
Instead, you cross back to the bed, Remmick listening keenly to the floorboards squeaking under your step. When you reach him, you climb over him once more, leaning around his torso to set the bottle gently on the nightstand.
You roughly rip the pillowcase off of his head, his wild eyes finding yours almost instantly as he winces at the sudden loss of your scent.
“Please, please, sugar, I’ll be a good boy for you, jus’ lemme fuck ya, please…”
“I think the bad dog needs to learn a lil’ lesson ‘bout runnin’ away first,” you say suggestively.
You grind your hips down hard against his, making him groan.
“Fuck, darlin’, I know, I know—”
“No, I don’t think you do,” you cut him off abruptly. “Leavin’ a pretty girl all alone when she’s waitin’ on you?”
You press your face into the side of his neck, muttering directly into his ear.
“Leavin’ a pretty girl all alone when she’s waitin’ for this cock to fill her up so good?”
His hips spasm as he stutters and babbles.
“Mph, sorry, baby, sorry, been so bad t’ya, I know…”
You lean over once more and grab the Holy Water from the nightstand, uncorking it and pressing your thumb to the bottle’s mouth. You hold it between you, over his abdomen, and slowly move your thumb to send one drop cascading towards his skin.
When it connects, he hisses and recoils sharply.
“FUCK!”
He stares down at his stomach, where steam is rising from his skin.
“Fuck, baby,” he pants.
“Puppy needs t’learn his lesson. Needs t’learn t’never leave his owner.”
Remmick’s head falls back, his chest heaving. You release another drop of water, burning his stomach again. He just breathes through the pain, his breath deep and rattling through his body.
You bring the bottle up towards his chest and give him another droplet, this one slipping down his chest and burning his skin as it descends the length of his torso.
“Ssshhhhit,” he winces through bared teeth. When his eyes open, you can see that they’ve transitioned to that perfect shade of vampiric red. You love watching him transform; the process is grotesque, animalistic, and enchanting. His eyes are one of your favorite parts, always the first piece of him to betray when he’s turned on.
“Pretty boy…” you mumble softly, gently taking his chin in your fingers. You tilt his head towards the lamp, making his eyes shine. You raise the bottle towards his face. “Open your mouth.”
“No, baby, I can’t–”
You grab the leash and viciously yank, making him yelp against the pain.
“Bad dog. Fuckin’ open.”
He opens his mouth and holds his tongue out to you, quivering under your touch.
You hold the bottle above his tongue and his breath comes in short, nervous pants. You move your thumb and drop a bit of water directly onto his tongue. He cries out, ragged and pained, and you can smell his flesh burning. Tears form in the corners of his eyes and streak down his cheeks.
“Good boy,” you purr.
His mouth moves into a weak smile. You press your tongue to his, licking the singed muscle. He moans and his hot breath floats across your face.
You set the bottle back down on the nightstand next to your final toy. A part of you hoped it wouldn’t come to that, because it scared even you a little bit. But another part of you wanted to push him.
He rests his forehead against your collarbone, dampening the fabric of your nightgown with his sweat.
“Please..” he whispers. “Please, sweetheart?”
“Please what?”
“Lemme be inside’a ya, please, baby.”
You grind your hips in a slow circle over his clothed cock, and you can feel him twitch against the motion as his breath stutters.
“D’ya think you’ve earned it?” you ask innocently.
“Please, darlin’,” he pants. “Jus’ use me, please.”
You bring your hands down to the top of his pants, deft fingers working the belt, button, and zipper. When you finally free him, you chuckle.
“Look at you…y’always this messy?”
Precum leaks from his tip, and you can see the wet patch on his boxers where he’s stained them. You grab his length, lazily dragging your hand up and down. His eyes are squeezed shut and you can tell he’s focusing on his breath, forcing himself to breathe slow and steady through his nose.
You lift your hips and gather the hem of your nightgown in one hand, exposing your dripping cunt. His eyes open when he smells you.
“Fuck, baby, please,” he begs, his voice hoarse. “Quit teasin’, please, please…”
He’s senseless, his nerves frayed like a chewed electrical wire.
“Here’s how this is gon’ work,” you begin, lowering yourself against his length. You slide up and down, wetting his dick between your folds. He looks like he’s going to cry again.
“I’m gon’ ride this dick ‘til I cum–”
“Yes, sugar, please–”
You tug his leash sharply.
“Don’t fuckin’ cut me off.”
He whimpers in response.
“I’m gon’ ride this dick ‘til I cum. And maybe…if you can play nice…maybe I’ll let you cum, too.”
He nods silently.
“If you even think ‘bout cumming without my permission…”
You lean over him, grabbing the sharp silver letter opener from your nightstand and holding it in front of his face.
“Well, I have ways of dealin’ with a misbehavin’ puppy.”
You quickly press the sharp end to his cheek, burning him before he recoils with a sharp intake of breath.
“Understand?”
He nods.
“Good.”
You set the letter opener back down on the nightstand and grab the base of his length, lining him up. When you slowly sink down over him, he throws his head back, wincing at the feeling of your soft warm walls engulfing him.
You have to close your eyes against the feeling of him filling you. Two weeks of desperately rubbing your clit, grinding against your pillow, biting your own skin just to feel something…it made the stretch of his cock inside of you sting and hurt all the better.
You sink further, taking him in bit by bit. He sucks in another shaky breath.
“Fuck, yes, baby, jus’ like that,” he moans.
Finally, your hips connect, his entire length resting deep inside of you.
“God, Rem, missed you so fuckin’ much,” you whine.
“I know, darlin’, I know, missed you too,” he babbles.
“Why’d you leave me?” you pout, your anger replaced with pathetic desire as you grab his shoulder for support.
“Never leavin’ again, sweetheart, promise,” he pants. “Y’jus’ chain me up, ‘member? Jus’ chain me up, I ain’t goin’ nowhere.”
You grab his leash again and flex your hand, not tugging, but making him feel the choke of the collar.
“Ah-fuck, yes, baby, jus’ like that,” he huffs.
You start to move your hips, your grip on his leash moving with the rest of you so his neck is pinched with each rise and fall of your body over his.
“Been such a bad boy,” you taunt him.
“Fuck, ah,” he pants. “Fuck, I know, sorry, baby, ‘m sorry…”
You drive your hips down particularly hard and he lets out a mangled yell. You feel so full, all you can do is fuck yourself stupid on his dick.
“God, can’t believe you fuckin’ left me all alone while I was ovulating,” you sigh.
All he can do is moan; it’s tough to tell if it’s frustration or pleasure.
“Fu–ah, ah, y’were?”
“Yeah,” you grin wickedly as you angle your hips up, using him to hit that spot inside of you that has your head spinning. He whimpers. You tighten your grip on the leash.
“Y’not thinkin’ of cummin’ without permission, are ya?”
“N-no, no,” he pants.
“Y’don’t want to be misbehavin’ now?”
“No, no, wanna be so good for you, wanna be yer good boy.”
He can hardly get the words out around his labored breath.
“Doin’ so well, Rem,” you coo, sinking down on him again. You bring your free hand to his hair and tug sharply, throwing his head back. You stare at him from above, examining his eyes pressed shut against the pleasure, the tight skin of his neck slick and shiny with sweat, the sharp points of the collar digging into his flesh.
“Look at me.”
His eyes shoot open.
“Good boy.”
He opens his mouth for you.
“Puppy beggin’ for scraps?” you taunt. You lean forward and gather your saliva at the front of your mouth before slowly dripping it onto his tongue. “You’re lucky I like it when you beg.”
He swallows everything you give him.
“Gooood boy,” you chuckle.
You press against his chest to support your weight as you continue to ride him, his cock stretching you in a perfect mix of pleasure and pain. You adjust yourself so he’s hitting that spot again.
“Fuck, sugar, not–mmh–not gonna, ah, ah…”
“If you wanna cum, you wait for a fuckin’ command.”
You punctuate this sentence with another sharp tug at his collar. It’s a lot of work keeping Remmick in line while you’re chasing your own high.
“Tryin’, sweetheart, ‘m tryin’...”
You rise until he’s almost all the way out and Remmick throws his head against the pillow, tugging viciously at his restraints.
“NGH, FUCK, put me back in, please, please, baby,” he chants. “Fuckin’–please, please darlin’, jus’–ah–”
He stumbles over his words as you sink down at a torturously slow pace, feeling him stretch you all over again.
“Mm, jus’ like that, fuck.”
“M bein’ a good boy, right?”
God, he sounds fucking pitiful. It makes you moan obscenely.
“My good boy,” you reassure him, reaching your hand behind his ear and playing with his hair. He sighs dreamily and leans into your touch. You loved learning him–his body, his voice, his habits. He always reacted like this when you played with his hair, like a dog being scratched in just the right spot.
“Now make me cum.”
He growls and brings his hips up to meet yours, slamming into you with ferocity. You cry out and brace yourself against his shoulders. He continues to drive up into you, the coil in your stomach tightening with each thrust.
“Fuck, yeah, right there,” you huff.
He moans and pulls against his handcuffs. His wrists are raw, rubbed fiercely by the metal.
“Ah, ah–baby, I’m gonna–”
“No, not yet,” you breathe. “So close, wait for me.”
He’s holding on by less than a thread.
“Ahhha, sugar, please, can’t do it, can’t…”
“You fuckin’ wait for me or I’ll get off,” you snap, driving your hips against him faster. You squeak and choke down a gulping breath as you fuck yourself on him, using him to chase your orgasm. He whines, but the sound morphs into a cry.
“Baby, please, been playin’ so nice, letcha use me, letcha play with me…”
You quickly grab the silver letter opener from your nightstand and press the sharp point into his chest, right above his heart. He screams in agony as the silver scorches his skin.
“You fuckin’ cum and I’ll kill you right now.”
“M sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, darlin’, sorry, I can do it, I can do it,” he babbles senselessly.
You remove the weapon from his chest and bring the pointed tip to your finger, digging the blade into your soft skin. A small drop of blood blooms across the pad of your finger. You lean over him to set the letter opener down again and he snaps his head forward with a snarl, eyes glowing that delicious shade of red, tongue hanging down, fangs bared. You snatch your finger away from him.
“Ah-ah…put those away,” you command breathlessly, pointing towards the sharp ivory daggers lining his mouth.
“Rrgh,” he growls. “Bein’ so fuckin’ mean t’me, princess.”
You yank on his leash in response.
“Wanna see you put ‘em back in,” you moan, grinding your hips against him deliberately. The pressure on your clit sends another wave of pleasure over you.
He holds your gaze as he pants, his lips parted, a string of drool painting his chin. You watch as he forces the fangs back up into his gums. It’s not instantaneous, like you expected. Some retract faster than others, creeping back up into his flesh with a disgusting crunching sound. When just his human teeth remain, you shove your finger into his mouth, pressing towards the back of his throat. He closes his mouth around you and sucks lewdly, slurping you down.
“Gooood boy,” you coo again.
You’re getting close, the pressure in your stomach building. You’re hot, and not just Mississippi-in-the-summer-hot. Sweat beads across your hairline and pools in the dips of your collarbone. You adjust your angle one more time, driving Remmick into that spot again, your vision blurring around the edges.
“Ah, ‘m almost there, Rem, bein’ so good,” you heave. “Y’like it when I use ya like this, yeah?”
His arms are shaking against the restraints, still secured tightly to the headboard.
“Nnngh, feels so good baby, fuck,” he hisses. “So fuckin’ good. So good to me, so wet and warm, jus’--ah, yeah, jus’ like that, there’s my girl.”
“Rem…fuck, Rem…” you stutter helplessly.
“Yeah, so fuckin’ gorgeous, gorgeous girl, use me, c’mon, yeah, use me, baby,” he pants.
You drive your hips down again and cry out, pressing your hands against his chest as your orgasm washes over you. You can feel your cunt oozing and clenching around him, trying to draw him in deeper. Remmick shifts under you to thrust into you, working you through it.
“Fuck, fuck, yeah, oohhhhh God,” you cry. “So good, so good, my good boy…”
He whimpers under you, his face contorted in pleasure or pain or both. When you slow down, he continues to rock his hips into yours.
“Remmick, stop.”
He ignores you, too lost in his own bliss.
“Remmick,” you wince, still sensitive. Again, he ignores you.
You bring your hand down across his cheek, hard, connecting with a loud crack.
“Bad dog!”
He stills, his head thrown to the side, his chest heaving.
“M sorry,” he whispers. You watch a tear roll down his cheek. “Sorry, sugar, shit.”
You slowly rise, slipping his still hard cock out of you. You wince at the sudden feeling of emptiness. He lets out a choked sob.
“Remmick…” you taunt. “Thought y’were gonna follow the rules?”
“M tryin’ sweetheart, ‘m tryin’ so hard, promise.”
He’s actually in tears now, streaks of tears painting his cheeks. You notice the viscous clear liquid dripped on his chest and realize he’s drooling, too, slobbering down his front like an animal.
“I know you are, baby,” you coo. “Doin’ such a good job.”
“But I was bad,” he whispers shamefully.
“Well, why don’t y’show me again? Show me you can be good.”
He nods slowly, bringing his eyes back to yours. You would never get tired of that red.
You slowly line him up again, dragging his tip through your folds, grazing your clit. You hiss at the feeling on your overstimulated core. When you push him inside again, you have to inhale deeply, purposefully, to keep from falling apart. Weeks without him and now you were ready for round two.
You push him in slowly, sinking over him once more.
“Can I…do I get to…?”
You drag your hips up and down, angling him just the way you like.
“Y’gon’ run out on me again?” you tease, fighting for breath.
“N-no, nononono, no baby, gon’ stay right here,” he chokes out. “Gon’ be yer dog, gon’ eat my food out of a fuckin’ bowl on the floor, gon’ wear this collar all fuckin’ day, get a tag that has yer fuckin’ name on it.”
“Good,” you pant, feeling the warmth in your center beginning to spread again.
“Fuck, baby, gon’ be all yours, all yours,” he says, his voice pitching up in desire. You can feel him twitching inside of you, so deep you swear you can feel him in your stomach. You rock against him again.
“Fuck me, Rem, c’mon, fuck me, there’s my good boy…” you whine.
He ruts his hips up, his rhythm irregular and chaotic, but it’s all you need. Feeling him hitting your cervix over and over again, you reach down and toy with your clit, filling the room with wet sounds.
“Agh, baby, baby, gonna…rghhhh please,” he begs.
Your second orgasm hits you harder than your first, your legs turning to jelly. You rub against Remmick the same way you fucked your pillow for those two weeks, your heart bursting that he’s here, that he’s yours, that he’s begging for you.
Remmick continues making those small, sad noises that tell you he’s close. You slide off of him quickly and he screams, throwing his head backwards into the pillow.
“FUCKKKK, please!!! Please, baby, God fuckin’ DAMN it…”
You grip his length and quickly work your wrist up and down, his cock still slick with your release.
“Y’gon’ leave me all alone when I was just beggin’ for you to put a baby in me,” you whisper cruelly. “Y’don’t deserve to cum inside this pussy.”
His breath is ragged, his voice worn.
“Please, baby, please, lemme be your good boy, can’t take it no more, please…”
You smile. He’s yours. Completely.
“Good boy. Cum, cum for me baby. Been so good.”
The sound that escapes his lips is so disgusting and divine that it puts butterflies in your stomach. He twitches in your grip and hot, sticky ropes of his cum paint his stomach. You watch as he fucks himself into your hand, his hips still driving up to chase the only friction you’re willing to give him. His release dribbles onto your hand, coating your fingers in him.
He’s panting, coming down from the ordeal. You drag your fingers through the cum on his abdomen, gathering him on your fingertips. You roughly tug his leash with your other hand, the metal driving into his skin and dragging him forward.
“Such a good boy…y’want your treat?”
You paint your fingers along his lips, decorating his mouth with his own cum. You swipe at a bead of his drool with your thumb and roughly shove your fingers in his mouth, pressing them to the soft, slippery flesh of his tongue. His eyes flutter shut and he sighs in bliss.
The sight sends another pulse of wetness to your already aching cunt.
He sucks on your fingers, swallowing his cum gratefully. He pops off of you, making an obscene sound.
“Thank you, thank you,” he mumbles.
You lean forward and connect with his lips in a messy kiss. There’s too many flavors of him in your mouth: his cum, his drool, his sweat, and that taste that was pure, uninterrupted Remmick.
“Thank y’baby, thank you,” he babbles into your mouth, sucking at your bottom lip when he snags it between his teeth.
“Been so good Remmick, so proud’a you,” you mutter.
“Jus’ wanna be yer good boy,” he sighs, his voice dripping in fucked-out ecstacy.
“You are…you’re my good boy. Don’t worry,” you smile, looping your finger into one of the metal links of the collar and pulling gently. “I’m gon’ getcha that tag.”
Summary: Based on this concept that I posted awhile ago that really took off. I don't know when I developed the intense need to destroy this man, but here we are. I needed to exorcise this from my brain, so...enjoy.
Warnings: Smut!! Should also add that I have never written smut before lol so sorry if it sucks. Vampirsm, blood sucking, oral sex (f!receiving), sub!Remmick, pathetic!Remmic, begging kink, control kink, praise kink, p in v sex, intense power dynamics, pet names, mentions of religion, obsessive behavior, hair pulling, dom!Reader (sort of), torture, burning skin, cutting, knife play, spit play, drool, monsterfucking, treating Remmick like a dog, I really just want to inflict as much pain on him as is humanly possible.
Reblogs, comments, and likes always appreciated! Please reblog if you like what you read; it helps keep writers engaged in fandom spaces and creating cool shit for you!
Special thank you to @spikedfearn for not only being one of the best writers in the Freaks for Remmick community, but also for beta reading this and encouraging me to write it! Please check her stuff out, she's a fantastic writer!
You sat on your porch in the late evening sunlight, sipping your sweet tea and listening to the soft song of the crickets all around you as they settled in for the night. It wouldn’t be long now. He was fairly consistent; true, if he needed to feed, he’d be a little longer. Crawling up to your door, well into the night, covered in drying blood, claws still showing, fangs barely hidden. Other nights, he’d stroll up right after the sun dipped below the horizon, looking like a true gentleman– clean, composed, in control. You couldn’t tell which version of him you would get on any given night. And that was part of what made it so exciting.
It had gone on this way for months. The sun starts to set. He comes to your door. The two of you fool around– sometimes. Other nights, you didn’t fool around so much as…play games. Oh, you knew what he was. No question about that. There was just something so delicious in denying him. Keeping him on your porch like a hungry dog, begging and crawling and clawing to get in. Knowing that, no matter how desperately he whined or how violently he dug his nails into the floorboards, he could not enter without your permission. He hung on your every word, waiting to hear those two little words that beckoned him in, inviting him to worship at your altar. It was deliciously fun, riling him up, tearing through his humanity, before letting him in. But sometimes…sometimes you just let him sit there. All night. Whimpering. Starving. Deranged. Just for fun.
The sun was just starting to kiss the edge of the horizon. You glanced from the setting sun back towards the parting of trees that opened from your long driveway into the clearing around your house. He would be here soon. You could feel it.
The soft sound of creaking wood catches your attention.
You glance at the clock above your kitchen cabinets. 9:47pm. He’s later than you anticipated.
You freeze. Listen. You can hear him shifting his weight from one foot to the other, the boards of your porch sighing underneath him. You hear his breath, soft and sweet, before–
“Sweetheart. Ya there?”
You don’t say anything. He knows you’re inside. Hell, he could smell a human being from miles away. It gives you an idea.
You quietly walk over to your old recliner and silently lower yourself into the chair. On the ground just next to the chair is where you keep your sewing kit. While you were no expert, life in the Delta necessitated a few basic sewing skills. Thorns snagging at your dress, threadbare patches blooming in pieces of clothing passed down through the generations. But tonight, you don’t reach for any thread– just a needle. You can still hear Remmick breathing just outside your front door, confusedly listening to you move around inside. You take the sewing needle and quickly, painlessly, jab it into your left index finger. Outside, you hear his breath catch in his throat, a sound like he was being strangled.
Wordlessly, you creep towards the door. You wrap your hand around the doorknob, twist, and pull. He’s standing there, as if he had just had his forehead pressed to the door. Eyes wild, fangs barely peeking out from behind his lips. Those lips twist into a stupid, happy grin.
“Hey.”
“Hey.”
“Just, uh, come ‘round to see ya.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“Sorry, didn’t hear ya. I seem to have made a little bit of a mess.”
You hold your finger up in the tiny space there is between you. It’s beaded with blood, the tiniest bit starting to drip down the side of your finger.
“Oh, uh,” he stutters, eyes now transfixed on your wound. “I could…help ya, y’know…clean that up.”
He’s staring at the blood inching its way down your finger. You’re staring at his eyes, pupils blown huge, black and gaping. You’ve got him.
“Oh, no, that’s okay. I wouldn’t want to make ya clean up after me.”
Slowly, deliberately, you lift your finger to your mouth. You lick up the stripe of blood running down the length of your finger before taking your fingertip in your mouth, sucking lightly. His face twists with pain, like he’s just been kicked in the stomach. You gently release your finger, examining the tiny injury, no longer dripping red.
“All better,” you smile wickedly. Your heart is already thumping hard in your chest. You’re certain he can hear it– it’s the one secret you wish you could keep from him. Telling him how badly you want him, even as you torture him, sweet and slow.
“Let me in, sugar.” And so it begins. Your favorite game. “Let me in, please?”
“I don’t know…townsfolk always whisperin’ about somethin’ out there in the dark. Somethin’ evil.”
“Oh yeah? Why don’t you let me in, I’ll show you how evil I can be.”
The grin returns to his face, but you can tell it takes effort this time. His hair is damp, sticking to his temples with sweat. He’s clean of blood, so you know he hasn’t fed tonight. But he’s covered in sweat and dirt, the gentle kiss of the Mississippi heat.
“I don’t know…” you tease. Blood starts to swell from the prick in your finger again. You gently rest your hand on the doorframe, noting the way his cocky grin fades as his eyes follow your hand.
“C’mon, baby, let me in. Let me be good to you,” he murmurs, his composure hanging on by a thread.
Wordlessly, you take a step back into your house and grab hold of the door. You go to shut it before–
“Wait.”
Slowly, he sinks to his knees, your porch groaning underneath his weight.
“Please, I don’t want to play like this tonight, baby. Please.”
His eyes stare up at you, still huge, still black. Not a trace of his usual blue left. But no hint of that reflective red yet, either. Hm.
You slowly lower yourself to your knees, eye level with him, never breaking eye contact. His breathing comes in quick, ragged breaths. You lean back, slowly sitting on the floor, right in front of the threshold. The invisible line keeping him away from you, like an electric fence, sizzles under the weight of his want. You raise your left foot to the doorframe, sending your nightgown down towards your hips. Your right knee is crossed in front of you, the last obstacle between the two of you. His hands fly to the outside of the doorframe, connecting with such force that you feel the shock wave travel through your foot and up the length of your leg.
“Play? Who’s playin’?” you drawl, with a sweetness that you know only intoxicates him more. You notice a bead of drool at the corner of his mouth.
“C’mon, sugar, lemme– let me in now, please.” He stumbles over his words. Fucking pathetic.
“You want to come in?”
He’s almost shaking. He nods his head slowly, eyes never leaving your center, as if he could make you move your leg just by focusing hard enough. A wicked idea flashes through your brain. As if sensing it, his inquisitive, almost fearful, eyes dart up to meet yours. You smile slowly, baring your teeth to him as you sink back onto your elbows. You drop your head back, exposing your neck to the incoming cool of the night air. He’s breathing through his mouth, raw and ragged, as if he can’t get enough oxygen into his lungs.
“Pl-please…please…” The word almost sounds like a prayer on his tongue, something uttered over and over, falling on deaf ears.
You let yourself sink so you’re lying completely on the floor. You move your right knee, torturously slow, until you’re entirely exposed to him. You hear a sound, a strangled choking sound, like an animal caught in a trap. Slowly, you bring your hand down between your legs.
“No, no, please, baby, please, let me in, I’ll be so good to you, please, don’t do this, don’t–” his begging is cut off by the gentle sigh that escapes you, and the tortured cry that rises from him in turn. You drag your fingers between your folds while he writhes on the ground, just inches from you. His hands snap from the doorframe to the ground with a loud crack. His forehead kisses the ground as if he’s a sinner begging for forgiveness. You just smile.
You delicately toy with yourself, just out of his grasp. Your eyes roll back in your head as your fingers rub your clit. And the whole time, he’s crying for you.
“PLEASE, baby, I can’t take it no more. Please let me in,” he begs, face still connected to the floor. He sounds wounded, as if you shot him. The raw need in his voice just fuels your fire. You quicken your movements, working towards your release. Your moans, quick and breathy, sting in his ears.
“You want to come in here?” you coo quietly. Affectionate. As if you’re considering it.
He lifts his head to look at you. There’s a string of drool connecting his lips to a small puddle on the porch. He looks like a wreck. Sweat, dirt, heat, drool, desire. Sickening. Delicious.
His eyes gleam red in the darkness.
“Yes,” he rasps. “Yes, please.”
He sounds like a man who’s crawled on hands and knees through the desert, only to be met with a mirage. You grin. His fangs are protruding, like they’re too big in his mouth. His claws are out, and you can see the scratches he’s made on the porch, like a dog locked in a room trying to dig its way under the door. Seeing him like this, undone. A monster, a killer, completely at your mercy.
You drop your head back again as you finish. Your ecstasy washes over you in waves. A choked moan escapes him– half desire, half agony. When you finally come back down, you sit up slowly in the doorway. He doesn’t have any more words. He just sits, stares, pants. You bring your fingers, still wet with your slick, to rest gently on the inside of the doorframe. He presses his cheek against the outside, that invisible line keeping him back by barely a centimeter. His tongue gently grazes over his fangs, his eyes locked on your fingers.
“Please, darlin’, let me clean ya up. Please, I’ll, I’ll be gentle. No teeth. I’ll be good. I promise.”
“You’re pathetic, Remmick.”
Finally hearing your name from his lips, he groans, eyes screwed shut, in that limbo between torture and pleasure.
“I know,” he sighs. “Fuck, I know. Just…please, I gotta taste ya. Please. Just this, just your fingers, just one taste. You’re killin’ me sweetheart, please.”
You almost pity him. You would pity him, you think, if it wasn’t so divine seeing him beg.
You push yourself up to your knees, eye level with him once more, your noses almost touching. The invisible line. The electric fence.
“Goodnight, Remmick.” Your breath blows gentle and sweet and cruel across his face. His features contort in torment as you bring yourself to your feet.
“No, no, please, sugar, please don’t lea–”
Click. You cut him off as you close the door. You cross the floor towards your bedroom, tired and still a little wound up. You swear you can hear him gently sobbing as you tangle in the cotton sheets.
Beautiful sunset.
The oranges, yellows, reds and pinks, all mixing together as if on a painter’s palette. It’s one of your favorite things about living outside of town: this view. Nothing for miles. Just the woods, the creek, the sun, hell, you didn’t even mind the critters. Raccoons, possums, foxes, deer…but your favorite one walks on two legs and whispers your name like it could save him.
You take another sip of your sweet tea when you hear a twig snap off in the growing darkness between the trees. You grin to yourself. He had a tendency to do that. If he showed up late and you decided to torture him, he would be at your door the next day the second the sun disappeared from the sky. Like he was atoning. Like you’d forgive him for making you wait. Putting on a show now, you lift the cool glass up to your temple. The cold condensation dissolves across your skin, bringing at least a little relief in the Mississippi heat. You move the glass down to your neck, letting the ice cold water drip down your neck to the space between your breasts. The woods fall silent. Unnaturally silent, like every living thing has vanished from the dense forest that surrounds your house.
You glance back towards the setting sun. You stand and cross back into the house, letting the screen door slam behind you.
There’s a gentle knock at the door. 8:24pm. That’s more like it.
You don’t move. Don’t even breathe. The knock comes again. You hear him under his breath:
“Shit.”
You can’t help the grin that creeps across your face.
“Baby. It’s me. Let me in?”
He shifts from one foot to the other, the porch creaking under him. He sighs, antsy and frustrated.
“Please, darlin’. Don’t make me keep doin’ this.”
The pain in his voice makes your insides melt. You slink over to the door and gently pull it open.
“Make you do what?”
He’s neat, composed. Light blue button up tucked neatly into his trousers. Suspenders taught over his shoulders. Gold chain barely visible at his throat. No trace of the inhuman mess he was last night. At least, not in his clothes. Not in his body. But the suffering in his eyes tells you everything.
His voice is barely above a whisper.
“Please don’t make me beg.”
“Fine,” you sigh playfully. “I won’t make you.” He’s eyeing the grin on your face.
“But you will anyway,” you whisper, your cruelty crackling through the space between you. “You’ll beg and cry and drool like the filthy animal you are.”
Instantly, he falls to his knees, groaning. He looks up at you through those long eyelashes. You can already see the outline of his cock pressing against his trousers.
“Please, darlin’, I’ll do anything you ask–”
“You will?” you cut him off sharply.
He nods his head with such ferocity you’re almost worried he’ll pull something in his neck. Suddenly, you find a new way to play the game.
“Yes ma’am, anything you ask, just say the word and–”
“Take your suspenders down.”
He reaches up to his right shoulder and gently, slowly, pulls the strap off his shoulder, letting it fall to the floor at his side. He does the same with the left.
“Good. Unbutton your shirt.” Your commanding surprises even you. You’ve never played with him like this before, but something about it lights you aflame. Seeing him do everything you instruct, with the reverence of a dog obeying its master. He fumbles with the top button, despite his claws still being sheathed for now. Just the shape of his hands, his once-human-hands, shaking at the buttons, shaking from need.
His shirt unbuttoned, you stare at him, looking him up and down, while his eyes bore into your skull. When your eyes fall back to his, you can see the question in them. He’s asking you, silently: please?
“Tell me what you want.”
He leans forward, bracing himself on all fours.
“Please, baby, let me in. Just wanna come inside, be with ya, feel ya, anything you want, please.” He presses his forehead to the floorboards, reverent.
“No. Tell me what you want to do.”
“Wanna…” he’s struggling to catch his breath. “Wanna lick that pussy so good you’ll lose your voice. Drink every drop of ya. Wanna feel that pussy, so tight, so warm, on my cock, over and over again, all night, give you so many orgasms you lose count, forget your name…please, sugar. Wanna make you mine. Wanna be yours.”
He slowly raises his head to look up at you. He looks like a fucking mess, eyes almost entirely black, sweat and dirt caking his face. There’s thick ropes of drool dripping down his chin, collecting in a dark puddle on your porch.
“What’s that?” you ask harshly.
“Oh, I–”
“Lick it up.”
He stares up at you for a second, uncertain. Finally, he lowers his head to the porch in front of him. He holds your gaze as he sticks his tongue out and slowly laps up his drool.
“Good boy.”
He presses his eyes closed involuntarily, humming in pleasure at the praise.
You smile.
“Come…”
His eyes snap open, all attention on you. His breath hitches in his throat. The sound almost makes you laugh.
“...here.”
His eyes flutter closed and the breath falls out of him, his hope immediately extinguished. Still, he crawls, on his knees, as close as he can to the threshold. You dart your hand out as quickly as you can, giving him no time to react. You snatch his gold chain under one finger and pull it towards you, as close as the laws of…what? Physics? God? The Devil? Whatever force kept that electric fence up. You pull him as close as he could possibly be without being shocked. Your finger and the chain on one side of the fence, the tight skin of his throat on the other.
He gasps, a divine cocktail of shock and desperation.
“You want to come inside?” you tease. He nods again. “Words,” you spit sharply.
“YES. Yes, ma’am, please.” He's starting to sweat, little beads of moisture dotting his forehead. “Just wanna please you. Please. Let me taste you, darlin’, I promise, I can make it so good for you, just let me–”
You give his chain a sharp tug to shut him up. He cries out.
“I don’t let animals into my house, Remmick.”
He drops his head. You feel something wet drip onto your finger. A teardrop falls from his eye to your hand.
“Please.” He shivers, voice almost completely inaudible. The volume reserved for sinners talking directly to their god. “I’ll be good.”
“My, my, my…sweat, drool, and now tears? You’d make a mess all over my floors.” You drop his chain and slowly start to wrap your hand around his throat. His head shoots back and his eyes roll into the back of his head with a moan so vile and animalistic you silently thank whatever God there might be that your closest neighbors live miles away.
You smile. As your fingers close around his throat, he hisses and pulls away. He stares up at you, hurt. The burn on his neck sizzles softly in the damp night air. His gaze darts to your hand.
“Oh, you are evil, ain’tcha? Sweet little girl like you, thought ya had e’rybody fooled.”
“What? You don’t like ‘em?” You coyly show him your hand, fingers adorned with silver rings.
“Fuck, sweetie.” He’s rubbing at his neck, now almost entirely healed. The tiny amount of silver in your rings isn’t enough to do much damage, you know– just enough to get his attention. “You tryna kill me?”
“Maybe,” you coo softly, the sweetness evaporating any lingering trace of his shock.
“Please, baby, let me in. Let me fuck ya proper. Like you deserve. Please. Wanna see those thighs around my head, over my shoulders, fuck, wanna see–wanna see you…” His eyes flutter closed again, like even the image he was conjuring in his head would be enough to make him cum right there.
“Tell me.” Your tone is even. Not mean, not kind. Part of you wants to hear him out.
He leans back on his haunches, his face is wet with sweat and tears.
“I’d take you right here on the floor. Bury my face between your legs. Make you cum more times ‘n you can count and thank you for each one, fuck, whatever you want, I’d do it all night. Then I’d come crawlin’ back tomorrow night, beggin’ you to let me do it all over again. Please, sugar, just say it. Just let me in. Can’t stand these fuckin’ games no more.”
“You know,” you say, crouching down in front of him, still behind the door frame, “when I first moved in here, e’rybody told me about the big bad monster lurkin’ in the woods.”
His eyes meet yours then, huge, sad, pathetic. You can still see a hint of the iris, just barely, the tiniest ring of blue surrounding the endless black of his pupils.
“They said it only came out at night, and the only way to protect yourself was to stay inside. Garlic. Silver. Sunlight. A stake–” you press your palm flat against his chest, feeling his heart thunder beneath his ribs “--right to the heart.”
His eyes roll back and he moans, obscene and filthy and desperate. Before he can think to snatch your wrist and yank you out onto the porch with him, you pull your hand back behind the threshold. You rise to your feet, standing over him.
“And now here he is, the Big Bad Wolf, on his knees, slobbering at my door like a dog. Ain’t that somethin’?”
He stares up at you, almost like he knows what comes next.
“Please,” he whispers, pitiful. You smile wide.
“Goodnight, Remmick.”
Click.
The next night, he doesn’t even bother knocking. Doesn’t bother announcing himself. He just sits, cross-legged, on your porch, staring up at your door as if he could will it open with his mind. What he doesn’t know is that you’re sitting just on the other side of the door, a mirror image of his desperation. You don’t know how long you sit like that. Silent, just listening to the soft sound of the cricket song and his gentle, even breathing behind the door. Finally, you give in. You reach up and twist the knob, torturously slow. The door creaks open.
“Hey sugar.”
He looks rough. Not to the untrained eye, of course; his shirt is clean, tucked in, his hair fairly neat, even his boots look pretty clean. But you see deeper than that. The slightly sunken look around his eyes that tells you he hasn’t fed in days. The subtle hollowness that carves out his cheekbones, collarbone, even settles around his knuckles, when he’s gone too long without blood. The hungry glint in his eyes that he can’t help, like an animal looking for its next kill.
“You look like shit.”
“Aw hell, come on now, cut a fella some slack. I tried my best for ya, sweetheart.” His voice sounds the way his clothes look–a façade, a too-perfect, lighthearted sound, disguising something darker underneath.
“When was the last time ya fed?”
His eyes drop to the floorboards below him.
“Remmick. Look at me.”
His eyes shoot up to meet yours, that hungry look winning out above the pretenses. His voice drops, too, into something dark and sickly sweet.
“Five days ago.”
“Then what the hell ya doin’ here?” Your voice, barbed and venomous, cuts straight to his heart. “Go find ya some poor bastard to drain ‘stead of wastin’ my time.”
“I can’t, baby. Can’t do nothin’ else. I walk in circles all night, and I keep endin’ up down this road, endin’ up here. Please, sugar, all I’m askin’ for is–”
You let your head roll to one side, pulling the skin of your neck tight over your veins. His sentence stops in his throat as he watches you, swallowing thickly. His eyes have the dull, hypnotized look of hyperfixation as he stares at your neck.
“All you’re askin’ for is…what?”
“Please. Let me in.” His voice is low, but not quiet.
“Why should I?” You drawl, knowing he’s hanging onto your every word.
“I’ll be anything ya want me to be, please. I’ll be so good to you. I’ll be wicked. I’ll–”
His words catch in his throat again as you, on all fours, crawl closer towards the door.
“Y’know, I went to church this mornin’,” you tease. “Preacher said somethin’ interesting. He said…you dance with the devil…one day, he’ll follow ya home.”
Remmick’s breath, coming in short, ragged gasps, inches from your face, was the only sound flooding your senses.
“That what you are, pretty boy? You the devil?”
His eyes dart down to your mouth and back up to your eyes, his pupils blown huge and black.
“Yes, ma’am.” His voice is half whisper, half confession. “Yes. I am the Devil.”
“That’s what I thought.” You stand slowly, gripping the door frame for support. You leave the door open, but cross the floor into your kitchen, always aware of his eyes on you.
You reach for the smallest paring knife that lives in the knife block sitting atop your counter. His eyes don’t leave you for a second, but now, from the darkness, you see his shiny red pupils reflected back at you. You smile. The Devil at your door, begging to do unholy things to you. At your mercy.
You cross back to the door and stand over him, knife in hand. His hair, sweaty, sticking to his temples, looks almost black in the darkness.
The quiet in the air lingers between the two of you. You want him so badly it aches. You want to torment him, to make him cry again, to stand above him while he worships the ground beneath your feet. Your heart hammers in your chest, and you can feel it thundering in your neck. He notices.
Slowly, you begin to undo the buttons at the lacy neckline of your nightgown. Drool begins to drip down his chin as he stares at you.
“Don’t make a mess all over my porch, now.”
He mindlessly wipes at his chin with the back of his hand, wetting the cuff of his sleeve. Done with the buttons, you drop your nightgown around your ankles. A choked sound gets stuck in his throat. You take a step out of the nightgown, kicking the garment to the side.
“Please, baby. Please, I’m dyin’ out here. I can be anything you want. I’ll follow you around on a leash, goddamn it, just don’t make me sit out here no longer.” His begging hits your ears like a symphony. You bring the knife up to your chest and gently press the tip of it between your breasts.
He whines like a dying thing. A strangled, agonized sound,that, again, makes you grateful for the secluded location of your house.
You drag the blade down, slicing one clean line between your cleavage, just deep enough to break the skin and draw blood, just enough to sting.
“Preacher said the best way to ward off the devil was to wear a cross,” you say innocently.
You bring the blade back up. You carve one shorter, perpendicular line through the first. A cross. A mark. A brand. Beading with drops of blood, collecting and trickling down your chest, across your stomach, towards your heat.
You don’t know when it happened, but his claws are out now. Long, caked in dirt, and scratching at the boards of your porch like a bad dog. The sound of the wood shredding under his claws makes you grin, sweet and sadistic. He pulls his head up, like just the effort of that simple movement is enough to drain all the life out of him. He braces himself with his hands on the doorframe. His eyes glow red, tears pricking at the corners. His fangs poke out of his mouth, sharp and wet with saliva. Drool slicks his chin and foams at the corner of his mouth. This is the monster. This is what you wanted.
Then, quietly, so quietly you almost think your mind might be inventing it, he whispers:
“Please, mo chuisle. Let me in.”
You sink slowly to your knees in front of him. He’s not looking into your eyes anymore. He’s staring at your blood, red, hot, and wet, dripping freely just inches from his mouth.
“Tell me what you want.”
“Want you to let me in, please–”
“No. That’s what you want to happen. What do you want?”
“You. I want you.” His voice is ragged. Broken. Like he’s been screaming at the top of his lungs for his whole life. “Please, please, I don’t know any other way to ask, to beg, to scream, to cry for you sugar, please–”
You cut him off when you press your hands to the door frame, just on the other side of where his are. You’re palm to palm, almost, in this half-formed way, dancing along the electric fence. You bring your forehead to the invisible line, so you’re face to face with him, taking in the sight of him unravelled before you.
“You want me?” you whisper cruelly.
“Yes,” he says through shaking breaths.
“Come get me, then.”
It’s all he needs. His hands fly to your waist as he topples you over. He presses his tongue to the blood that’s dripped down to your stomach, working his way up to your chest. When he reaches the incision, he sucks and laps at the cut. At the spot where the two cuts meet, the center of the cross, he presses a kiss, soft and gentle to your sternum. It makes you gasp.
“Gonna treat you so good, darlin’. Gonna make you forget your own fuckin’ name,” he rasps against your chest. You rake your nails across his back, careful not to let yourself touch him too much–not yet.
When he’s done sucking the blood from your chest, he begins to leave a trail of kisses back down your stomach. Sitting back on his knees, he grabs your thighs and traces his claws across the flesh, making you shiver. He hoists your legs just enough to nestle himself in between them, pressing a gentle kiss to the inside of your left knee.
“Dreamed of this every night, every fuckin’ night, you slammin’ that door in my face. Kept dreaming of this. Of you.” He works his way up the inside of your thigh, kissing and licking your skin. “Taste so fuckin’ good.”
“If you think that’s good, I got somethin’ I think you’re really gonna enjoy,” you drawl, deliberately grinding your hips upwards in a small circle, catching his attention.
He growls. Like a fucking animal standing over its kill. It almost makes you sob. The pure, electric feeling of his desire.
He licks one slow stripe up your center, making you cry out.
“Sweet girl. You think you were the only one playin’? I could smell you every night, every night you shut that door in my face. Could smell this sweet little pussy cryin’ for me.”
His grip on your legs tightens as he picks up the pace. Lapping and kissing at your core, he devours you like you’re water in the desert. What was that saying? Something about well-fed sinners and famished saints?
He presses one thumb to your clit and your head begins to spin. The only sounds in the heavy air are the crickets, your gasps, and the obscene noises coming from where the two of you are connected. He slowly rubs circles on your clit, not even coming up for breath as he does. Your fingers tangle in his dark curls. He hits a particularly sensitive spot and you jerk him back by his hair.
“Ah, ah, easy, sugar. Not gonna hurt ya. Not unless ya ask real nice.” The smile he gives you is enough to nearly send you over the edge. Your drying blood at the corner of his lips. His fangs covered in your slick. His chin wet with– well, it was impossible now to tell where his drool ended and your juices began. You shove his head back down with a huff and he just chuckles, attaching himself to your cunt once more. When he opens his mouth, you can feel the tips of his fangs ghost over your clit, over and over, as he devours you.
Electricity lights up your entire body, starting in your core and sizzling through your limbs. You grip his hair as if it’s the only thing tethering you to Earth. Your legs twitch around his head, and Remmick? He just continues lapping you up, desperate, as if you might kick him back out onto the porch the second your orgasm passes.
When your breathing finally returns to normal, he’s over you, his hands on either side of your head, his chain dangling in your face.
“How was that? Was it good?”
You stare up into his face, so desperate to please you. His eyes are wild, his chin still wet.
“So good. Such a good boy for me,” you coo, melting him instantly. He hums in pleasure. You bring your hands back to his hair, and he leans into your touch, letting you play with his sweaty locks. You scratch behind his ear and his head drops in ecstasy. You trace a finger over the top button of his shirt.
“Ain’t you hot? All these clothes on…?”
He growls again, animalistic and raw. He sits up and rips his suspenders from his shoulders, letting them hang down around his sides in that way he knows you like. He goes to unbutton his shirt, but his claws make the dexterous movement impossible. You sit up, still under him. Gently, you place your fingers over his. You trace the length of one of his claws with your fingertip gingerly. He rests his forehead against yours, sweat mixing on your skin, your breath hot and mingling between you two as you delicately undo the buttons on his shirt.
“The Devil ever had anyone be gentle with him?” you whisper, almost afraid to break the silence.
“No,” he whispers.
You tug the shirt from his shoulders. He finishes the job and tosses it aside. He grabs at his tank top, torn and already soaked with sweat, and adds it to the pile of clothes that will, hopefully, go neglected until morning. His chest heaves with every labored breath, the gold chain glinting and reflecting in the moonlight. You rake your nails down his chest, making him drop his head back again. He groans again, loud, lewd, and lustful.
A grin creeps across your face. When your fingers reach his waistband, you flatten your palms against his stomach and drag them back up towards his chest, pressing firmly against the taut skin, slick with sweat.
“FUCK, baby, shit!”
He curses and snaps his head forward. When he does, you grab his jaw between your fingertips and hold him still, forcing him to look at you. The skin on his chest sizzles quietly.
“You’re a little fuckin’ sadist, ain’tcha?” he spits, somewhere between furious and turned on. You press the silver ring on your finger to his jaw in response. He hisses and bares his fangs before you shove his face to the side.
“Fuck. Fuck, sugar, I–” he breathes, still recovering. You stare down at the burns that are streaked down his chest, your hunger growing. You want to run your tongue over the burned skin.
“Let me…let me feel you darlin’. Please,” he gasps. It makes you smile. He’s still begging.
“Didn’t realize you needed permission to enter down there, too,” you tease. He doesn’t waste any more time. His hands fly to his trousers, undoing the button and zip as you lie back. You see him then, long and hard and already weeping for you. The feeling of him lining himself up makes your breath catch in your throat.
He pushes in gently, like he’s still asking permission for every inch of closeness. When he’s finally inside, his eyes, red and gleaming, roll back into his head.
“Ah–ahh, feel so fuckin’ good sugar. Feel like you were made for me.”
“Ya gonna gab all night or ya gonna fuck me like you promised?”
He laughs, the vibrations sinking in all the way to your bones, as he begins to move.
“Gonna make you cum so many times you lose count. Gonna fuck you so good you’ll be stumbling for days.”
And fuck, you think he might be right. He’s stretching you, hitting deeper than he ever has before, hitting a spot that’s making your cheeks flush and your head spin. Pleasure builds in your center as you reach up for him.
“Ah, ah. Keep those hands to yourself, pretty girl,” he scolds. You chuckle.
“Afraid of a little silver?” you coax.
He stills inside of you. You whimper, frustrated.
“That’s what I thought. Keep those hands to yourself and that pretty little mouth in line, and I’ll fuck ya like the good girl you are,” he promises. You groan under him, but whether it’s from pleasure or defeat, even you don’t know.
He resumes his pace, relentlessly ramming into you. You turn your head to the side. You see his right hand, bracing against the floor next to your head. You stick your tongue out and lick one clean stripe from his wrist up his forearm, as far as you can reach. He moans above you.
“Fuck, ‘s what I’m talkin’ ‘bout sugar,” he croons. “So good to me.”
He leans down over you until his forehead is pressed against your collarbone.
“Let me taste you, darlin’, please. Haven’t fed in days, let me be full, let me have you, please…” He pulls back just enough so you can feel his hot breath on your neck, desperate. “I’ll be gentle, I promise, won’t bite too hard. Please.”
Before you can speak, he leans into your neck.
“Remmick–”
He recoils from you as quickly as if he was bit by a snake.
“FUCK!”
You can see the burn searing on his chin in the shape of a cross. He looks down at your neck to see the only thing you’re wearing– a silver cross on a silver chain. You smile up at him wickedly.
“I guess there’s somethin’ to be said about askin’ permission, huh?” you whisper. His glare looks like he’s contemplating ripping your throat out with his teeth.
“You really want me dead, huh?” he asks hotly.
“Maybe just a little bit,” you retort through a devilish grin.
Then, his gaze softens. He looks down at the necklace and back at you.
“Will you take it off?” he asks weakly. “Please. Wanna taste you…please?”
You reach up and grab the cross, playing with it daintily between your fingers. His eyes follow your every move. You could toy with him like this forever. Finally, you firmly grip the cross and tug. The chain snaps behind your head, and you toss the silver aside. You smile up at him.
He sighs, a sound of pure bliss, and falls back down to your chest, resuming his rhythm one more time. His breath is hot in the crook of your neck. You feel his fangs ghosting over your throat, his lips brushing against your pulse point. Then, something wet and dripping. He’s drooling all over you, thin, warm, wet ropes of his spit dribbling onto your neck. You tangle your fingers in his hair and yank him back so you can see his face.
The creature looking back at you barely looks human. His eyes, wide and red, darkness lurking behind them. His fangs, spilling out of his mouth as if they’re too big for his jaw. Drool all over his chin.
“What?” he growls, frustrated from being interrupted.
“Just wanna see you like this,” you whisper.
“Like what?”
“Like the goddamn animal you are. Like the desperate, whiny, pathetic creature that keeps comin’ to my door. Like the Devil that’s lovin’ me so good it’s sendin’ me to Hell.”
It sends him over the edge. He snarls and bites down on your neck, hard. He thrusts up into you with similar ferocity. The pain, the pleasure, all building in you, sending heat through your body. He reaches down with one hand and drags the tip of one claw across your clit. You’re seeing stars.
“Oh God–” you moan, your orgasm rocking through you.
“No God here, darlin’, ‘member?” he teases, darkness in his voice. “Just the Devil, fillin’ you up this good.”
You have no idea how much blood he drains from you. Enough to make you lightheaded, even as you come down from your high. He follows you soon after, detaching from your neck and rutting into you, chasing his own release. You feel it a second later, hot spurts of warmth shooting inside of you. You claw at his back, anchoring your nails into his flesh, certain that he’ll have marks there for at least a few days, accelerated healing be damned. You can feel him go soft inside of you, but he doesn’t pull out. He stays there, above you, panting, eyes still wild, chin dripping with your blood. A drop falls from his fangs to your chest. He leans down, still holding eye contact, and slowly, obscenely, presses his tongue to your skin, licking it up, making you shudder.
“Thank you,” he whispers, face buried in your chest. “Taste so good when you’re cummin’, heart fuckin’ beatin’ for me, pussy hangin’ onto me, fuck, baby, thank you, thank you…”
You hum in response. He picks his head up, looking at you desperately.
“Was that good? Was I good?” he asks, still craving your approval. You laugh, your hands flying up to cover your face. He stares down at the silver rings still decorating your fingers. You reach for his face and he instinctively pulls back.
“Oh,” you say gently. As much as you love torturing him, all you want right now is to touch him, sweet and soft. “You want me to take these off?”
He nods wordlessly, eyes huge, looking like a wounded thing.
“Why don’t you take them off?” you coo. “Those teeth oughta be good for more’n just this.” Your fingers graze over the bite on your neck. It’s oddly smaller than you expected.
You raise one finger. Slowly, he opens his jaw and takes your finger in his mouth, careful not to graze the metal. He bites down, his fangs gripping your ring, and pulls your hand back by the wrist, gently working the ring off your finger. When it’s completely free, he turns and spits, sending the silver clattering across the floor. He does this a second time, and a third, until you can feel him start to get hard inside of you again. You smile up at him.
“Good boy,” you praise as he works on the fourth ring. His eyes gently flutter shut.
When he’s successfully removed all the silver from your body, you grab his face between your hands. Your foreheads pressed together, breath leaving his mouth and entering yours. You press a kiss to his mouth, wet and sloppy, tasting yourself all over him– the sweet, coppery taste of slick and blood. His hands ghost all over you, as if he’s trying to memorize your body so he can reconstruct it the next time you shut him out.
He starts to move again, gripping your hips and pressing into you. He takes your hand and places it over your lower stomach, pressing gently.
“Feel me? Right here? Fuckin’ tight, fuckin’ sweet, fuck sweetheart, you have no idea what you do to me.” His voice is dripping with lust and something else, something like gratitude.
You feel him hitting you slow and steady and deep, and the sinful sound of him fucking his own cum deeper into your pussy makes you feel faint.
“Please don’t make me go. I’ll stay here, I’ll be your dog, your animal, walk me around on a leash, leave my water in a bowl on the floor, please, I’ll do whatever you want. Just don’t make me leave, sugar. Can’t stand it, please.” He sounds close to tears. Your eyes glance up to his face, contorted somewhere between pleasure and agony.
“Remmick,” you say, forcing his eyes open, making him look at you. “You gonna keep grovelling, or ya gonna fuck me like ya mean it?”
A wicked grin illuminates his face. He picks up his rhythm. You have a feeling your back is going to be giving you hell for a little while.
You wake in the morning, and there he is. You don’t remember how late it was when you both finally tumbled into the bed. He looks peaceful. You’re struck with something– not sympathy, not pity, something else. A feeling, deep in your chest, seeing him lying there. Looking…human.
You roll over and check the alarm clock on your nightstand. 1:37pm. Damn. Well, you suppose, to be expected after a long night. The curtains are drawn in your bedroom. On instinct, you swing your feet down to the floor, pull your robe around you, and cross to the window to open them. You grab the two pieces of fabric and pause.
The only thing between him and sudden death. You. The only thing keeping him from frying alive. You. The only thing taking enough pity on him to let him keep sleeping. You.
You cross out of the room and shut the door quietly, sealing in the darkness. In the kitchen, you pour yourself a glass of water and gulp it down. You prepare your coffee, filling the old iron pot with water and setting it on the stove. You turn the heat on as you wander across the room, opening the curtains at each window, letting daylight stream into the room. It’s like something from a postcard, you think, the warm afternoon sun, the gentle underscore of birdsong, the familiar and comforting smell of fresh coffee. The pot whistles on the stove and you take it off the heat, pouring yourself a cup. You hear a stirring from the bedroom. A delicious idea takes root in your mind.
You quietly pad across the floor to the bedroom door. Gingerly, you turn the knob, and throw the door open. Sunlight bathes across the first few feet of the floor, but doesn’t reach the bed.
He screams. Screams with true terror in his voice.
“Mornin’ darlin’!” you crow. “I made coffee, if you want any.”
His eyes, terror-stricken but slowly adjusting to the sudden light, peek up at you from the sheets. It’s odd, seeing him during the day. It’s like two separate pieces of yourself colliding at once. You turn from the door, leaving it open, and jaunt back into the sunlight of the kitchen.
“You gonna stay in bed all day?” you call. When you stick your head back into the bedroom, he’s out of the bed, on all fours, on the floor. He’s as close to the patch of light on the floor as he possibly can be without catching any of it. You chuckle darkly and turn to sit on the couch, in full view of the bedroom door.
You lean back on the couch, coffee steaming from your mug on the coffee table. Your robe falls open just a bit at your chest. You see his eyes, not yet red, but gleaming in the darkness. You let your hand fall between your legs and let your head fall back against the couch, soaking in the afternoon sunlight.
⋆˚࿔ three strikes, you're out — john price x reader
tags ... fem!reader , dbf!john price , age gap (early twenties & mid/late thirties) , female masturbation
wc ... 1.2k
note ... i'm reposting this bcs my tags were being suuuper funky yesterday and i don't think this got good reach and i'm soooo proud of it so i'm not letting it flop </3 sorry if u see it twice !!!
the words ring in your head like a mantra every time you see him.
you shouldn't be attracted to someone this much older than you. you shouldn't be attracted to your dad's friends. you shouldn't. you shouldn't.
but oh, it was so easy to be attracted to john price.
the way he smiled at you cordially when he came over for dinner, seemingly oblivious to the way you looked at him like you wanted to jump his bones. the way he asked how your courses were going at school and if you liked your program whenever you were home for the weekend. all of it innocent. all of your interactions nothing more than a friendly conversation or fleeting meaningless touch.
but still it kept you up at night. he kept you up at night.
what would his lips feel like against yours? his worn, rough hands against your skin as he undressed you? and that beard. god, that beard. you imagined it rubbing against your inner thighs as he buries his face in your cunt, imagined tugging at his hair while he licks and sucks at your clit, imagined all the filthy things he'd say while he did it.
and so every night, like clock work, you found yourself with a hand down your panties, rubbing urgent circles into your clit as you let your mind drift to think of him.
it all came to a head one day. he had come over early in the afternoon to help your father fix something wrong with the sink.
strike one was when you made the mistake of sitting on the couch that gave you a perfect view of him. crouched down on his knees, reaching and leaning under the sink. you could see everything. the face he made when he was trying to loosen a stubborn bolt, the way his bicep strained against the already form-fitting shirt he wore with every tug on the wrench.
you pressed your thighs together, desperately trying to focus your eyes back onto your laptop and the essay on the screen demanding your attention.
strike two was the groans. the deep grunts escaping him when he stretched after standing up. the way he gritted his teeth as the sound slipped past his lips. he didn't think anything of them. why would he? they were involuntary responses to the movement.
he certainly didn't mean for them to have you biting your lip almost to the point of bleeding, for you to be unable to pry your eyes away from the source of them. and he most definitely didn't mean for you to imagine if he'd make similar noises in bed.
strike three was when you brought him a glass of water. your father had asked you, barked something about being thirsty and how nice it'd be if his daughter did something about that. so in a second you were up, taking two glasses from the cupboard and filling them with water from the fridge. cold and crisp.
you set your father's down on the counter and passed john's to him. the corner of his lips tugging upwards in an almost smirk when he looked down at you and took the glass. god he was going to kill you.
but that wasn't strike three, no, strike three was when he spoke. said "thank you sweetheart," in a low, husky register that could have even the most composed woman melting into a puddle.
that mantra repeated in your head again- you shouldn't be attracted to someone this much older than you. you shouldn't be attracted to your dad's friends.
you tried to move on, really you did. remember that he didn't mean anything with his words, that he doesn't see you as anything more than a kid, and that he certainly doesn't want you like you want him. but all of five minutes after you sat back down, you found yourself sneaking off upstairs to your room.
you shut the door behind you, wishing that the door came with a lock for times like these, then laid down your bed. it was routine at this point- hand down your pants and john on your mind.
you're soaked already (to no one's surprise), and make quick work of finding your clit. you gasp at the contact, then roll your head back into the pillow as you start drawing quick little circles around the bud. your free hand finds the sheets, grasping at them for dear life as his name tumbles from your lips amidst a chorus of soft whimpers.
little do you know, while you're chasing your orgasm in the quiet confines of the room, thinking of the man you can't have- he's standing right outside your door.
he came upstairs to get something from a closet, but stopped dead in his tracks when he heard the unmistakable sound of a moan, shortly followed by his name. he smirks and then exhales in disbelief. he felt his dick twitch to life in his pants, and he mumbled a curse. this couldn't be happening. not to him- not now.
but it was. he heard it again. clear as day this time, and fuck did it sound sweet. the way you said his name was like a melody, like a fucking siren song calling him, urging him- and so he let it get the better of him.
he hesitated- only for a second- before he closed his hand around the doorknob, the metal cool under his warming skin, and slowly twisted it open. and there, splayed out on your bed, eyes shut in ecstasy and moaning his name- was you.
you who he had accepted long ago was off limits. you who he could never have, but always dreamed of. you who made his skin hot every time you smiled at one of his pathetic attempts at a joke.
your back arches off the bed, along with a moan that is significantly louder than it's predecessors- john can tell you're close. he wants it to be him making you feel that good- his hands on you, his fingers on your clit, his cock fucking deep into your dripping hole. but for now, he settles for watching you. listening to all your pretty noises and watching the way your face contorts in pleasure.
he puts a hand on himself, palming his hardening length through his cargos and watches as you make yourself cum. his breathing quickens in time with yours, his hand grinding desperately against his bulge to try and ease some of the tension building. and when your whimpers turn into cries, when your muscles all tighten quickly before loosening again, and the last thing to leave your mouth before you orgasm is his name?
he thinks he's never seen anything so beautiful.
you come down from the high gradually, your breaths slowly coming back to a normal rate and your body sinking deep into the plush of the mattress. you don't open your eyes immediately, just basking in the afterglow of the subsiding orgasm for a moment. until- an unmistakable voice cuts through the room. a voice that sounds like gravel on velvet, that's low and controlled- the voice that made you come up here, that made you so desperate to touch yourself you couldn't wait until the house was quiet-
"what a fuckin' sight you are."
✎ᝰ please please pleaseeeee leave a comment/reblog!!! just getting likes makes it feel like i'm posting to the void </3
˖ . ݁𝜗𝜚. ݁₊ the little nymphette who isn’t scared to to play with ghosts …
you always got your way — you were spoiled to all hell. with a simple bat of your eyelashes, coupled with the stretchy smile of your pouty stained lips, you found yourself with the world wrapped around your pretty little finger. one would assume that your parents were definitely the root of this little issue, but your older brother, alejandro vargas, the vaquero himself — he kept you on a pedestal … you were his baby sister, the only family he had living. so, he kept you a tight-lipped secret, for your safety, you were still young, old enough, but still … young.
that didn’t mean that you were a naive little thing, no. you were headstrong, kept your head held high, a mouthy little brat, a pendeja at times — and once you had your sights set on something, or someone, you went for it.
once you were of age, you noticed how the vaqueros (only the ones your brother deemed worthy) looked at you differently. your curves were now accentuated by tight tops and dangerously short mini skirts and micro shorts. you’d purposely began to wear your brother’s old army-issued shirts, completely aware of the biting breeze that cut just below the curve of your pretty plump ass … the slight peek of your black thong, leaving the soldiers gripping their rifles just that much tighter.
not to mention, the jiggle when you’d finally get down from your tip toes, flashing the oh so loyal vaqueros a giggly smile.
“hermana, please go put some clothes on,” alejandro sighs, fully donned in his gear, shooting his men a warning glare, “no la mires así,” he scolds, his soldiers quickly diverting their eyes elsewhere.
with a playful roll of your eyes, you tilt your head at your brother, “i live here, alejandro — they shouldn’t even be at the house—” you go to argue, multiple heavy footsteps now filling your ear as you turn to see two large men entering the home.
your swollen lips part slightly, your doe eyes widening at the sight of the 6’4, 200-something pound man who stands a few feet away from alejandro. you drink him in, his broad shoulder, his thick thighs that strain against his jeans, his freakishly huge gloved hands, all the way up to the mask — the carefully carved skull face mask that conceals face, and the ghastly balaclava that maintains his anonymity, covering his mouth and jaw.
“oh — um,” you stammer, blinking your cluster lashes together as you let out a breathy nervous giggle.
alejandro tilts his head towards you, slowly blinking as he observes the way you watch ghost take a seat on the couch, his beefy and heavy legs spread deliciously wide, “this is sergeant mactavish,” alejandro motions towards the slightly shorter man with an undeniable mohawk.
you politely nod with a smile towards the man, sliding your tongue across your teeth, behind closed lips as you watch your brother motion towards the phantom himself.
“and this is ghost,” alejandro nods.
ghost? you slightly squeeze your thighs together, that dull ache on your clit begging for release, your nipples slightly hardening against your oversized t-shirt.
you’d never been attracted to any of your brother’s colleagues. sure, you found some to be handsome, but you’d never allowed yourself to fall into attraction. however, you’d always been into the older ones, the colder ones, the ones who could put you in your place without breaking a sweat, the ones who could make your cum for hours and hours, just by making out with your cl—
“s’a pleasure to meet ya,” the shorter man kindly waves, breaking you from your thoughts. his accent is different from yours and your brothers, he must be a scottish man — you’d heard of them from the movies.
clearing your throat, you straighten your posture with a forced smile, “the pleasure is all mine, mactavish and …” your eyes meet the darkened ones behind the skull mask, “ghost,” you almost whisper.
the skull-faced man nods his head once, bringing his eyes to alejandro, his broad back now leaned fully against the couch, “this y’girl?” ghost questions, one arm draped over the couch, his free hand resting on his bulging thigh.
you swallow thickly, stomach sour with rejection as he barely acknowledged you.
alejandro chuckles with a shake of his head, “nah, she’s my sister, carnal,” you open your mouth to speak, but alejandro beats you to the punch, “my baby sister, who can’t take orders and likes to be a pain in my ass,” he adds with a raised brow.
“m’not a baby.” you speak, your voice stern, almost bratty.
ghost slightly turns his masked face towards you, his sunken eyes slowly scanning you from bottom to top, “jus’a baby, huh?” he husks, his accent thick, his voice deep and commanding.
with a scoff you lick over your lips, “to him, but im old enough,” you retort, your tone offended and bitter as you go, turning on your heels towards your bedroom.
you weren’t a baby. you were an earlier twenty-something, old enough to drink, at least. you knew what you wanted and how to get it. so, who the fuck was that pendejo, ghost, to assume otherwise? but of course, your younger nature was confirmed to ghost the moment he heard the door to what he guessed was your bedroom slam to a close.
you needed discipline. ghost respects your brother, but if you were in his care, you’d walk a straight line — he didn’t tolerate brats, and he especially would never accept bad behavior in his home.
but you weren’t his — not yet, at least.
ghost wasn’t a stranger to younger girls fawning over him. he knew full well, the perks that come with being a man in uniform. a man, who was hardened. but, they never appealed to him, not for longer than a toss-away fuck, at least. but you, you came with prestige, you were a challenge — i mean, he couldn’t ignore the rush of blood that flooded to his cock when he learned that you weren’t alejandro’s, but were his for the taking.
and that fucking accent of yours, he’d kill to hear his real name roll off of your latin tongue.
so, he observed as alejandro and mactavish conversed, only giving his input when it was absolutely required. during his moments of silence, he took note of how you behaved: the way you carelessly blasted your music from your bedroom, with no regard. the way you slammed doors, and the way you scurried your little ass into your bedroom in nothing but a towel.
yeah, you needed to be trained. in no world, would ghost ever allow his woman to openly reveal herself in such a manner — shit, he’d have over his knee and in blubbering tears, had you already been his girl, his spoiled little brat.
now, when soap and alejandro ask if ghost would like to join them for a drink on the balcony, no one bats an eye when ghost refuses, remaining manspread on the couch. soon after, your bedroom door opens as you strut down the hallway, but he reads right through that bitchy facade you have on.
you’re now dressed in a black skimpy lace trim romper, with no underwear. the flimsy fabric hugging each and every curve and crevice on your body. you silently move past ghost, only stalling when the big man lets out an unimpressed chuckle.
with a toss of your hair, you shoot him a narrow-eyed look, “problem?” you question sarcastically, the fabric of your romper swallowed in between the plush of your asscheeks, your puffy pussy imprinting on the crotch.
ghost’s eyes finally meet yours, butterflies flutter in your tummy — you try to maintain your composure, “y’have no manners, lil’ bird like yourself jus’ walkin’ around y’brother’s home, flaunting y’self for all these men,” he comments curtly, slightly shifting his hips to sit comfortably, you fight every urge to glance at the slight tint against his zipper, “bein’ a bratty lil’ nymph, eh?” ghost comments, moreso to himself than to you.
bewildered, you exhale shakily, sighing for a brief moment, before forcing out a laugh, “perdonamé, ghost — but you don’t know m—” ghost raises a gloved hand, silencing you on the spot.
maintaining his laid back position on the couch, ghost lowers his hand back onto the couch, “‘know enough, know tha’ y’wore that fuckin’ piece of cloth t’get a rise outta me, maybe even outta mactavish,” he calls your bluff, your shoulders drop just a smidge. a faint smirk plays on his masked lips when he watches your nipples push against the fabric of your romper.
defeated wordlessly, you make your way to the lounger that sits directly across from ghost, the only thing separating the two of you being a custom-made glass coffee table. ghost is fully aware of the fact that he’s trained enough to have you pressed, face-first against the nearest wall with a barely five steps, maybe even silent, if you choose to behave.
dropping yourself into the seat, you cross one leg over the other, the gem of your romper now ridden up into the crevice where your thighs and hips meet, “im not scared of you, ghost,” you relax into the seat.
amused, ghost tilts his head, “s’tha so?” he questions, his tone gruff and heavy. you nod — like a proper fucking brat. deciding to bite, ghost leans forward, “i will ruin y’fuckin life, love. i don’t take well to spoiled little girls, and if y’were mine, i wouldn’t let y’get away with things like y’big brother does,” ghost warns you, his dead eyes never leaving yours as you subconsciously roll your eyes, earning a sharp whistle from the older man.
“tha’ right there, tha’ends right now,” ghost commands with a snap of his gloved finger, and you oblige with a slow nod.
you shift awkwardly, quickly glancing down the hallway that leads to your brother on the balcony, before turning to face ghost, deciding to play your final card, just to see how far you could push the ghost in front of you.
“you haven’t even asked me if i have a boyfriend, ghost,” you smirk.
dumb little girl, you’ll learn soon enough about the man in front of you.
spreading his legs wider, ghost sniffs, “after today, y’don’t,” he states firmly. your eyes widen as stands from the couch, his hips fluid, yet firm with each step he takes as he stops beside you, lowering his head to your ear, “m’gonna have a chat wit’ya brother, and when i get back, f’youre not wearin’ actual clothes, we will have a problem, do i make m’self clear?”
his breath is warm against your ear, a shaky breath leaves your lips as his gloved hand reaches for your jaw, gently holding you in place as he brings his masked forehead to rest against yours, forcing direct and uncomfortable eye contact. your chest lightly heaves up and down as he moves your head up and down in a nodding motion.
“yeeeess—” ghost drags out mockingly, leading you to your words, still nodding your head.
“yes, ghost,” you rush out, your eyes glossed over with embarrassment as he lets go of your jaw, standing straight and overbearingly tall.
keeping his gaze trained forward, ghost straightens his shoulders to sit broad and strong, “go,” he mutters, stern enough to have you immediately standing from the chair and darting down the hallway.
as ghost makes his way towards a jeering mactavish and alejandro, he can’t help but smirk at the way your ass jiggled as you sprinted to your bedroom.
tummy bulges with simon riley are sometimes just him cramming himself inside you cause he likes the way it looks. the guy holds the plush of your stomach so stares like he's got nothing but you and time, rolling his hips until he can't push any further and that little bump appears. showing you how deep he is.
si feels even deeper when he takes a palm and presses the small mound, his other hand swiping at the tears gliding across your face and shushing your whines.
"what's all this blubberin' for? right where 'm s'pose t'be." he talks as if he isn't fucking buried in your hole, tip kissing your insides and stretching you so wide you can't speak.
he's even got the audacity to change the angle, lugging your body towards him to drag a pillow under the small of your back before letting you flop back down and wail at the different, better feeling.
it feels so good. too good and you try to push him away. just for a second to blink away another round of tears but he just shoves away your pitiful grabs, grunting with a slight scowl.
"quit it, he mumbles, plunging his cock again until he can see the subtle poke of his head inside you. "trying to watch."
ghost has never let you see under his mask—but you could care less. (18+)
you love your big bear. ghost was just misunderstood. he might have seemed cold and unapproachable, but it wasn't like that between the two of you, and despite his reluctance to show you his face, he was the kind of man that you think you've waited your whole life for.
you're opposites. where ghost does not budge, you melt. where he darkens a corner, you light it right back up. you're often in a constant state of laughter, and you don't really know if ghost even has the muscle memory to smile anymore.
it doesn't matter. not to you.
you don't think anyone understands the two of you, but that's okay. the first time you met his team, johnny asked if you were a paid actress. you'd squealed with delight when you saw ghost, for the first time after weeks apart, arms wrapped around his neck as you hung from him and kissed his masked face over and over again.
"simon!" you gasped, making the most obnoxious kissing noises as you cradled his cheek and pressed your lips to his temple. "oh, simon, i missed you, baby..."
johnny did not believe his eyes that night. the way ghost's lashes fluttered at the sound of your voice. the loosening of his shoulders, the way he bent so he could press his face to yours as you mumbled in his ear and stroked a thumb over his cheek. ghost towered over you by a great deal, but you all but dragged him down to your level, lips puckered, glossy kisses staining the front of his mask now as you cooed at him and scratched at the nape of his neck.
the only downside to ghost's mask was the lack of proper kissing. you had only ever kissed him through fabric. in the beginning, it was hot. ghost's mask was one of the things that drew you to him in the first place. seeing nothing but his eyes was how you really noticed how hungry he was for you the first night you met. heavy, lidded, glazed-over when he first saw you—the same way he looks at you all the time now, the same look that got you into his bed that very first time and the same look that keeps you in it now.
he likes you on top. arms wrapped around his neck, seated up in his lap, mouth open as you pant against his mask as you bounce on his cock.
"you feel so good, baby," you whimper, your nails scratching along the back of his balaclava. you cup the back of his head, moaning softly as you sit down as low as you can and grind your hips against his. your pussy is pulsing—ghost smells fresh off an op, and you like him that way. eye-black smudged around his eyes. mask that smells like sand and sweat. fingernails dark with something bloody, cupped under your ass as he squeezes and tells you how hard it was to wait this long to have you again.
"yeahhh," you whine. "i-i missed you, simon—missed you so much, missed how b-big you are—"
"i'm big, yeah?" ghost laughs.
"yeah—" you nod, closing your mouth around his through the fabric, pressing your tongue against him even though you can't taste him. you soak the front of his mask with a messy kiss, and he groans. "you're so pretty, simon...missed every bit of you."
you don't know why it hits him then, the kind of love you have between you. ghost is ugly. his entire body is a mess of traumatic history. his skin has been peeled, burned, branded, pulled apart. there's tattoos in the places he hated to look at the most, and where there isn't, a map of what people have done to him, a terrible story he tells involuntarily every time he lets his skin show.
but to have his girl call him pretty? to feel her cunt so fucking wet because it's him she's fucking? to have the ability to make her come just by sitting there, wordless, letting her touch herself with nothing but his body on display—fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck—
you don't speak as he pushes his mask up over his nose. he goes no further, just reveals his lips, and your hands shake as you cup his jaw and stare down at him through wet eyes.
your big bear. what a sight.
when he opens his mouth, you see his chipped teeth. the skin of his lips has been torn apart and messily put back together, leaving behind pink, puffy scar tissue and criss-cross patterns across his chin. there's so much texture, so much you want to ask about, but the more important revelation is how pretty ghost really is.
not pretty in the conventional way, but that way is so boring. he's pretty in the way that only a few could maybe understand. pretty in the sense that he survived. pretty in the sense that he's smiling, and he's blushing, and there's a slight smile on his face as you squeeze your thighs around his hips and come all over his cock with just one real kiss.
messy, nasty little kiss. your teeth hit his, tongue sliding over his lips before finding his own. you dig your nails into his chest as you keep your hips moving, riding out that blissful orgasm as you taste something new and warm inside of his mouth.
maybe he'll never show you his face. maybe you'll never get to reveal all of him to yourself, but that's okay.
you're on your back now, hands up over your head, and your back arches and eyes roll back into your head as ghost peels back the hood of your clit and slides that pink tongue over you.
you don't need to know what his face looks like. your pussy already recognizes him just fine, and she's coming in his mouth to prove it.
touch repulsed!simon riley x touch!starved reader
Angsty, emotionally unavailable and kinda toxic Simon comes back to strike again, minimal to no aftercare, reader realising she deserves better
Simon doesn’t like to be touched. That’s a fact that you’ve known exactly as long as you’ve known him.
It’s fine, you had told yourself when your childhood friend Gaz had introduced you to each other on a night out and Simon had bestowed upon your outstretched hand nothing but a carefully blank look, his own hands remaining stuffed in his pockets. It’s fine, probably doesn’t want to shake hands with and touch a stranger. Justified.
Almost a year since that night, and you’re no longer a stranger and things have somewhat improved in the touch department though not by much. It’s fine, when you slip your hand in his during dinner and twine the fingers together tightly like you’re afraid this small touch too will be banished from you if you don’t hold on to it as hard as you can. There’s claw marks in every piece of Simon Riley that he’s entrusted to you. He told you why after seeing incessant need for his warmth in your eyes one too many times— about Mexico, about the way he died bit by bit before they put him in the ground.
You get it, you really do, and you love him regardless.
But it’d be nice if every once in a while you wouldn’t have to crush your pillow between your arms in a crushing hug after a hard day at work, longing for the embrace of the man sharing your bed.
It’d be nice. And you hate yourself for thinking that. Simon’s been through more than enough and you’re just happy to have him.
Simon doesn’t like to be touched. That’s a fact that you’ve known exactly as long as you’ve known him.
It’s fine, you had told yourself when your childhood friend Gaz had introduced you to each other on a night out and Simon had bestowed upon your outstretched hand nothing but a carefully blank look, his own hands remaining stuffed in his pockets. It’s fine, probably doesn’t want to shake hands with and touch a stranger. Justified.
Almost a year since that night, and you’re no longer a stranger and things have somewhat improved in the touch department though not by much. It’s fine, when you slip your hand in his during dinner and twine the fingers together tightly like you’re afraid this small touch too will be banished from you if you don’t hold on to it as hard as you can. There’s claw marks in every piece of Simon Riley that he’s entrusted to you. He told you why after seeing incessant need for his warmth in your eyes one too many times— about Mexico, about the way he died bit by bit before they put him in the ground.
You get it, you really do, and you love him regardless.
But it’d be nice if every once in a while you wouldn’t have to squeeze your pillow between your arms in a crushing hug after a hard day at work, longing for the embrace of the man sharing your bed.
It’d be nice. And you hate yourself for thinking that. Simon’s been through more than enough and you’re just happy to have him in any way he allows it.
It's just... the thing that puzzles you is that for someone who hates being touched Simon fucks you just fine.
Skin on skin contact is tolerated, even indulged, just as long as it's in the dead of night with the lights turned off, and there's sweat and gasps between you and him. Maybe he's got you on your knees, two of his thick fingers curling over your tongue and down your throat to quieten your soft whines, your chest crushed against the sheets as he pushes deeper deeper deeper searching for something that certainly isn't your heart. Or you're on your back, his forehead pressed firmly against yours as his moist breath fans over your lips as he bottoms out over and over, punching little sharp breathless sounds out of your lungs so you can bury them in the mess of scars littered across his chest and shoulders. You're afraid that if you say I love you, he won't want to hear it.
It's the after that becomes the problem.
It's the distance Simon solidifies between you when he slips out of bed to the bathroom while you're still chasing the breathe he bludgeoned out of you. It's when the taps runs so he can wet a washcloth and you hear him redress in his sleepwear.
It's when Simon returns to clean the mess from between your thighs but you've never felt more dirtier and used in your life.
He slips into bed beside you, never touching, and the gap between his clothed body and your still naked one yawns wider and wider until it feels like you and him are laying on the opposite sides of a ravine.
You get it, you really do, but all you can think about as you watch the long line of his spine move as he breathes is that it'd be fucking nice.
It'd be nice, and maybe, just maybe... you deserve nice things.
Fuck. He knows it's wrong. It's agains their duty along with all the rules and regulations he's been taught and following for well over a decade, but...
Christ.
When Captain Price got badly injured during an op and thus forced to go on medical leave for the next three months (at least), Task Force–141 got assigned with a new CO.
And who would’ve thought that Lieutenant Riley could ever indulge in something as silly as a forbidden crush?
However, when you got introduced as their new temporary captain and leader, Ghost was a goner.
Godmother—they called you in your last task force.
And, bloody hell, even he must admit that you are mommy material indeed, even though you are anything but a mother. Recently divorced, yes, because your ex-husband cheated on you.
"Bloody tosser," Ghost grumbles one quiet night, stuck in a safe house with you while Gaz and Soap are on watch on the roof. "Focker didn't deserve ya." He huffs through his balaclava, pissed beyond belief on your behalf.
Meanwhile, a soft smile tugs on your lips as you watch his reactions, and it's almost adorable, how vexed he gets whenever you share a piece of your past with the Lieutenant just to fill the silence.
You like hearing his voice. Strong and rumbling, like a panther's deep purr. It awakens something inside you, something taboo between ranks.
"Eh," you shrug, gear rustling with the movement, "it is what it is." You reply before bringing the rim of your canteen to your lips, lips brushing against stainless steel when you add: "Loved how he whimpered whenever I gave him a handy, though."
As cool water floods your parched throat, Ghost chokes on air next to you on the tattered couch.
"Whot?!" His tawny eyes widen comically, eye holes stretching as his brows shoot up. He pounds at his buff chest like a gorilla, still catching his breath as he sputters.
"Aw, calm down, Simon," you chuckle as you scoot closer and reach over to pat his back. "I'm just a simple woman with needs and desires underneath this uniform and bloody gear, y'know?"
And just like that—Ghost is absolutely reeling; if not from the snippet about your subby ex, but definitely because of the way you casually dropped his name for the very first time.
Perhaps that's why he ends up letting your hands wander and eventually unbuckle his belt before slipping into his combat pants to pull out his cock.
The way you pull your tac glove off with your teeth before spitting on his ruddy tip leaves him breathless and panting like a touch-starved dog.
"Cap–tain," he croaks out, nearly squeaks, gloved fingers digging into the brittle leather of the couch as you work his rock hard cock in you supple hand.
Fucking hell. Now he understands why your ex was whimpering for you. He gets it, really. Truly.
"That's it, Lieutenant," you coo into his ear, nose nuzzling into the cloth of his mask until a shudder runs down his spine. "Knew you'd be good for me."
He grits his teeth, jaw clenching and grinding with the force as his face flushes, "Fuck—hah... fuck."
His back is sweating, thigh muscles trembling as the inevitable builds up hot and heavy in his lower gut, balls drawing up tight.
You can feel it, too. The way his prick throbs and his breathing turns shallow. Your eyes go heavy-lidded as you drink up all his sweet telltale signs, lips tingling with the sudden urge to taste his lips. Perhaps next time.
"You gonna cum for me, baby?"
Ghost can practically hear the smug smirk in your voice, and that's all it takes.
His balls throb, pumping the biggest load he's ever straight from his twitching slit. He groans so lewdly, it almost sounds like he's in pain, and you're quick to point and jerk his cock to the floor so his cum splatters all over the floor; painting the dark wood with his white spunk.
You're in awe at the sheer amount of it; pussy pulsing between your thighs at the obvious effect you have on him.
"My, my, Lieutenant," you click your tongue, eyes crinkling with amusement and delight at the sight, "s' that all for me, huh?"
And he just keeps cumming; body shaking as he breathes raggedly, muttering curses under his breath while your talented hands keeps milking him for every drop and twitch and whimper.
Putty in your hands.
Your movements slow, and Ghost doesn’t know if he should be thankful or keep chasing after your touch. Nodding meekly, he slumps against the backrest, leather groaning under the impact.
"Affirmative, ma'am," he rasps, utterly boneless while his pale cock goes limp in your hold.
"You know," you start like it's merely an afterthought while tucking him back into his pants before anyone can catch you in this compromising position, "I think I already like the sounds you make better than my ex-husband's."
His eyes flutter with a heavy exhale, though at your praise, his chest puffs like a peacock's under his tac vest, feeling strangely proud of that.
Content warning: smut, p in v sex, slight dubcon, breaking and entering, stealing(Simon), predatory behaviour, taking advantage of you, unprotected sex, Simon's a creep (duh), technically breeding kink
Okay, so the rules for the apartment were kinda weird, but it was a great price for rent!
Female only. No males, friends, or family permitted inside. Rent is due on the first of each month. All maintenance is handled by the landlord.
So maybe it was super weird, kinda predatory, but $650 a month for a full, private apartment? You could turn a blind eye to all the other weird things happening behind the scenes. You didn’t even care if they were money laundering; you had a nice place to sleep!
You had met the landlord on your move-in date. He was ruggedly handsome, with short blond hair and a light dusting of stubble on his jaw. It looked like his nose had been broken a few times, and he didn’t say much to you, telling you his name was Simon before handing the keys over and allowing you to explore your new home. He’d given you his number for any issues you might have, explaining that he learned a few things from his time in the military.
And then he left you to your own accord. It took you a few days to fully unpack and set up your belongings, but the end result made it all worth it. The apartment was warm and cozy, filled with plush pillows and soft blankets for you. You had your small collection of houseplants by the window where the sunlight streamed in, a few of your favourite books sitting on the coffee table, and a nice view of the surrounding town. You couldn’t have asked for a better place to live.
A few weeks in though, you started to notice that a few pairs of your panties had gone missing, seemingly evaporating into thin air. You checked your room and the washer and dryer, but they were nowhere to be seen, until a few days later, three pairs sat on top of your clothes in the laundry basket.
Little did you know, Simon had come in just to check on how you were after the move in and saw a few pairs in your laundry basket. He grabbed them without a second thought and stuffed them into his pocket, a little treat for himself for giving you such a good deal for the apartment.
And he milked that treat for all it was worth, kind of like the way he was currently milking his cock. One pair of your panties was pressed against his face, the gusset of it right against his nostrils, breathing in your scent. Simon had the other pair wrapped up in his fist, stroking his fat cock, his calloused hand working up and down the veiny shaft while a steady stream of precum leaked out of the slit. Simon groaned and panted, feeling himself getting closer, the telltale signs of his orgasm approaching with the way his abdomens contracted and his hips jerked up to thrust into his tight fist. It only took a few more strokes before his heavy balls tightened up against his body and thick, hot ropes of cum spurted from his cock, painting his fist and your panties in the potent liquid.
When you plucked them out of your laundry basket, you could feel that there was some strange fluid crusted on the fabric, so you tossed them back in with disgust and washed your hands.
You had pulled a load of laundry from the dryer, only to find that the clothes were still wet. And when they didn’t dry after another cycle, you had to call Simon.
“Sorry love, looks like the ducts need to be cleaned out, that’ll cost a few hundred.” Simon explained after taking a look at the dryer. Your heart dropped hearing his word, a couple hundred? You didn’t have the money to spare.
“But… I could do it for you, you’d just owe me something.” he said gruffly as he cleans up his tool kit. You were a bit skeptical by what he meant, how could you possibly repay him for his work?
That led to your current situation, bent over the arm of the couch while Simon plowed into you from behind. His strong hips slapped against your ass with every thrust, a hand holding your hip in a bruising grip to keep pulling your sweet little cunt back on his fat cock. His body was blanketing your own, broad shoulders blocking out the light of the room, while the overgrown stubble on his jaw tickles your soft skin.
The veins on his cock dragged deliciously against your walls, the mushroom-shaped tip nudging up against the spongy bundles of nerves deep inside of you. All you can do is press your face into the pillows and cry out in pleasure as he moulds your pussy to fit his cock.
“That’s it lovie, scream for me.” He coos softly into your ear while his hand releases your hair and travels in between your sweat-slicked bodies to press the rough pad of his thumb against you and rub tight circles on your swollen clit. “You’re not going anywhere until I’ve had my fill of this gorgeous body.” He murmured softly against your skin, his accent thick with emotion, his lips peppered tender kisses along your shoulder blades.
He can feel your walls rippling and squeezing around his cock, your clit throbbing under the pad of his thumb. “Take it, pretty girl. It’s okay… you can come. I can feel your greedy pussy squeezing me.” Simon murmurs, coaxing you closer and closer to your orgasm before the hot coil in your tummy finally snaps.
You're shaking, gasping, your fingers dig into the cushions of your couch, trying to ground yourself as the first waves of pleasure wrack your body. The addictive high rushes through you, leaving you standing on shaky legs that threaten to buckle at any moment. But Simon wasn’t finished yet. His control began to slip, bucking his cock deeper into the warmth of your tight hole with a sloppy pace. Simon’s hips stuttered for a moment, his tip pressed against your cervix before he spurted hot, thick ropes of cum directly into your womb.
You two lay against each other, sweat-slicked and panting from your highs, not a word needing to be said.
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