"The words of love, which are always the same, take the taste of the lips they come from."
~ dovesinthewind on ao3
~ This is my official masterlist. Works are listed from the first being the most recent, to the last being the least recent. I do not take requests unless stated otherwise. Individual works cite the appropriate warnings, so do advise. My works are 18+ regardless of content. Feel free to engage with my inbox with questions or comments. Please do not repost my works but reblogging is always encouraged! Thank you for reading :)
HEADCANON;
Headcanon Masterlist
READERFIC;
Crush*- Bo Sinclair/F!Reader, wc 8.7k | on ao3
Skin*- Hugo Stiglitz/F!reader, wc 3.6k | on ao3
Sweetest Devotion* - Father Jud Duplenticy/F!reader (multi-part) | on ao3
Dream of You - Eddie Munson/F!reader/Emperor Geta, wc 3.3k | on ao3
Heartbeat* - Demetri Volturi/F!reader, wc 3.6k | on ao3
Close to You - Kyle “Gaz” Garrick/F!reader, wc 1.8k | on ao3
Phases - Enedina Arellano Félix/F!reader, wc 4.3k | on ao3
How Do I Make You Love Me - Maddy Perez/F!reader, wc 14.5k (multi-part) | on ao3
In The Dark - TASM! Peter Parker/GN!reader, wc 2.0k
Normal Girl - Kiara Carrera/F!reader, wc 4.9k
CHARACTER ANALYSIS/NON-READERFIC;
From Beyond Oz, With Love - Elphaba/Glinda, wc ~ 1.5k
Dear April - Lexi Howard & Rue Bennett, wc 1.7k, character study | on ao3
Disclaimer: this is my first time posting on tumblr, i normally post on ao3 as 'beatmewithurbitterlies' and this will probably be cross-posted onto there as well, under the same title. This is just FAN fiction, also I-I- don't speak German, but i really don't and same with all the other languages used (french and italian) so i'm begging any native speakers to forgive my use of google translate. Also this is a loosely based off of Secretary (2002) so self harm will be referenced and explored in depth.
When looking for a job as a secretary, you end up finding more than what you could've bargained for.
Warnings: Masochism, rough sex, power imbalance, age gap, hair pulling, manipulation, self-harm, grotesque imagery, violence, improper BDSM etiquette, oral sex, and other things too, probably
Word count: 13k
It had felt as though the world was spinning around you the day you met him.
‘Him’, being Colonel Hans Landa, of course.
The way his sharp gaze had merely just acknowledged your presence, a fleeting moment of recognition glistened beneath his cold, perceptive glare, before his eyes flickered away, much more focused on his affiliates surrounding him. It felt demeaning, having him look at you in such a belittling way, as if you were a cheap toy used to distract him for the briefest of moments.
Disappointment clawed in your chest, an ugly emotion fighting animistically to be let free. Your freshly curled hair and pale lip gloss now felt a bit strange on you, your memory quickly replaying the shameful moments of wearing your mother's expensive makeup as a child, and her mortified face at the thought that a child your age would be interested in such things. His scrutinising stare had made you feel as if you were that child again; maybe that child in you had never left. Meek and insecure, desperate for approval, even for it just to be a fleeting glance.
You were now standing awkwardly in his doorway, fidgeting with your fingers as if you were unsure of your presence there. The wait felt like a vexatious burden upon both parties. As you continued to stare at him, your eyes flickered between him and his associates, while he barely acknowledged your presence. Even though you both knew, you were to be his new secretary.
Secretary.
The word rang heavy in your mind as you waited for him to finish his clearly riveting conversation; the concept of settling down and becoming a secretary for an SS colonel had never even flickered across your mind, not even a year ago, while you were still at university, your dreams grandiose and bordering hubris as you wished to continue your youth resistance to Nazi occupation in France. But the War carried on, your fellow—relatively small—resistance group had all gone their separate ways post-graduation, some being forced against their goodwill to join the military, others fleeing before the worst came to ahead. Leaving you here, desolate, all alone in Paris, alone and broke. With only a degree in linguistics and an overpriced rent to a flat that you can’t even call your own.
That’s when reality hit you, an epiphany smashing the teeth through your skull, leaving blood ringing through your ears. That perhaps job hunting and actually embracing adult life were the most likely pursuits that were in your best interest. The taste of bitterness clinging to your tongue at the thought of engaging in adult life, a persistent notion burdening your mind every second of your youth, and an ugly disdain crawling up your spine at the thought of ‘growing up’ made you itch and shiver. That wasn’t you, you weren’t one of those mind-numbing adults who so clearly resented life and, therefore, youth in and of itself, the general tiredness and loathing for every living being around them making you gag in your mouth.
You had sworn to yourself that would never be you, an image of your child self watching your parents scream at each other, plates smashing, and fractures of red dashing through your mind, with incessant boring phrases being thrown around. The crumbling realisation hits you that this is what maturing provides for you.
And that made you sick.
But soon, the chipped wall of your flat began to chip away at you. The bed frame creaking every time you dared to turn in your sleep, and the forever-dampening roof right above your bed staring down at you, a degree of indignation in its glare, with the threat of it caving in on itself ever present as you counted up whatever spare change you had managed to pawn off your friends and family.
And when the nights sometimes waned, and the only sound penetrable between the four walls of your flat was the blaring late-night Parisian traffic, a force beyond your own managed to compel you to reach for that secret stash of blades you kept hidden. The mask of a stationary box fooling essentially no one but your own sanity, as it was never like you had any had visitors over. But good lord, those blades seemed so delicious, sharp and painful, and they were even more delicious when you would drag them across your skin, so deep and jagged blood would rush from your own self-inflicted wounds. But that was never enough for you, you would want more and more, you would gash your cuts so deep to the point all you could see was nothing but deep crimson red. Despite this, the pain was so fucking good, managing to distract you from your collapsing life as a moan erupted from your mouth.
So incidents like those were the straws that broke the proverbial dams, so to speak, and made—no—forced you, to find a job. With a degree in linguistics from a top-grade university in Vichy, France. Your secretary application soon reached Colonel Hans Landa’s door, as you used your family's connections to pull some strings, as well as glowing letters of recommendations from your professors, describing you as a ‘pleasure to teach,’ and a ‘wonderful delight, yet quiet at times. ’
Although you doubt the truth and extent of that thought. Most likely, they conducted a thorough background check on your family, and upon seeing your upper-class background and education, they thought they had struck gold. And your inexperienced resumé meant a presumption of malleability, your thoughts flexible and loose, ready to be deconstructed only to be built back up again, the right, proper way. Your ‘quiet’ and ‘delightful’ nature only probably meant one thing to those Nazi scum, that you were meek and insecure, soft and ready, that you would always sit back and take whatever treatment they gave you with no complaint, like a good—
“Ah! Fräulein!” he chirped. Your head snapped to look at him, his eyes now meeting you with painful scrutiny and a tone of mockery. “Come, sit!” He motioned towards the chair opposite his own, the only barrier being the desk between you both.
You were so out of touch, lost in your own head, that you hadn’t even noticed the Colonel’s affiliates leaving the office. It had made you wonder how long you had stood there, thinking, dozing off. And how long he had sat there, just watching you.
Every step felt heavy as you made your way towards him; each step had felt as though you were shortening the distance between that of yourself and a predator. Nerves coursing through your veins like blood, the crippling sensation almost making your knees buckle in anxiety. With luck on your side, however, you made it to the chair in time.
His face was almost hard, stiffened in age and maturity, like fine leather. You couldn’t help but stare at every single line and wrinkle sporting his countenance, wondering just how old he truly was. He couldn’t be older than perhaps late forties, but if the strands of grey decorating the sides of his temples suggested correctly, he very well might be in his fifties. But his eyes, his eyes told you everything you wanted to know about his age; they acknowledged you with almost a degree of immaturity, as if you were a petulant child and he knew far beyond your years. He could pass for wise if the intimidating nature of the storm behind his eyes didn’t surpass a level of cruelty, so instead, it felt like an aura of condescension radiated off of him like uranium. However, his sharp, crooked nose interested you the most; you couldn’t help but notice the line running through the tip, and you remembered an old friend who told you it was a physical manifestation of selflessness in a person, but this felt like a crude perversion of that meaning. The calculating glare he wore, paired with the hard lines of age, implied a lack of toleration for things so futile, like ‘selflessness’.
The Colonel’s office was diligently neat. Shelves of books were behind him, all of which were perfectly placed, and from what you could tell, they were ordered on an alphabetical basis. His waxed floor was so polished that when you looked down, you could see your own reflection looking back up at you, the blinds pulled down just enough to let the smallest sliver of sunlight in, yet the room was still shrouded in an aura of mystique and intrigue, as if the corners were fraying slightly at the edges. And everything on his desk was faultless, the stacks of paper perfectly balanced, not a corner out of place, even his pencils were ordered and freshly sharpened, somehow all the same size. It was honestly a bit unnerving.
He interrupted your morbid admiration for his dedication to all things chronological, however, when he began.“So I have been told you have a degree in linguistics?” While you never had a formal interview with him personally present, the information had clearly been relayed back to him. That level of intrigue in his eyes told you he clearly approved of this. “I assume you to be multilingual, yes?”
You cleared your throat, unsure if your voice was even still present. “Ahem—yes, sir, I am fluent in English, French, Italian, and German, of course.” Your face flushed from the attention, your fingers picking at the skin around your cuticles, wondering when the onslaught of questions would end.
“Ah, wunderbar! Sagen Sie mir: Wie konnte eine junge Dame wie Sie so,”—Ah, Wonderful! Tell me, how could a young lady such as yourself become so— the Colonel paused, his dark gaze raking over you, as if you were a new toy, or a tantalising piece of meat, “erfolgreich werden?” —so accomplished. The switch in language caused you to jump, and you began picking around the flesh of your nail beds even deeper, praying the pleasure from the pain could distract your nerves for even just a second.
“Ach, wissen Sie, ich habe das Lernen einfach immer genossen,”—Oh, you know, I just always enjoyed learning— you could physically feel your voice trembling, and his eyes boring into you with a disturbed fascination, but you could only stare at your cuticles, as you dug deeper and deeper into them, “und Sprachen sind sehr anregend.” —and languages are very stimulating.
“Bellissima.”—beautiful.
Your head shot up before you could even react fully, a bewildered look flashed across your eyes before the skin surrounding your thumbnail finally snapped, and you began to bleed, a lot. But despite the blood gushing from your skin, the cut was superficial, as the pain couldn’t distract you from Landa’s impenetrable gaze.
“Ah, Fräulein! You are bleeding!” The whiplash between the concern in his voice and that hardened stare left your mind reeling, and knees heavy, “Quick.” he commanded, rising from his side of the desk, ushering you to do the same as he took you by the hand and practically dragged you out of his office and into the ladies' room. Your face burned with embarrassment as you felt everyone's eyes on you and the Colonel, your blood slowly seeping into the palm of his hand, as he conjoined his own to yours.
“Err, C-c-colonel, I don’t think this is entirely—” you barely managed to stammer out, before he hushed you.
“Hush, Liebling,” he turned to look at you, seemingly unbothered with everyone else's stares, only gazing into your own, somehow managing to telepathically read your mind and grasp your concern lied within the stares that continued to linger and gawk, “Don’t bother with them, when you’ll be working for me, you won’t even interact with them.” And his words provided a strange comfort while you continued to bleed.
Before you knew it, you were practically dragged through the door of the ladies' room, thanking whatever deity there is that no one else was in there as the Colonel rinsed your bleeding thumb under the sink, the dried blood slowly washing away under the cold water from the tap. And against your better judgment, you couldn’t help yourself from asking:
“Why?” You all but whispered, the single word barely louder than the silence penetrating the room.
But, he still managed to hear your hardly audible words, his frighteningly impressive perceptive skills forcing you to realise why he was the most esteemed detective the Deutschland had. “Why what, mein schatz?” Though, you knew he was teasing you, you both knew the implication of your ‘why’.
Your gaze flickered back to the sink and away from the mirror, tucking your hair behind your ears with your free hand as you did so, as he continued to bore into you through the reflection. “I mean,” you continued to whisper, your voice apparently unable to go beyond a certain decibel in the midst of his presence, “why are you doing this for me? I—” the words were left unsaid, but the thought was so loud and heavy, you could both hear it, ‘I’m just your secretary.’
“Because,” he drawled with a confidence only guaranteed to someone who has been granted their superiority through their own command, “Je n'aime pas que ce qui m'appartient soit,”—I don’t like what is mine to be— he began, pulling you away from the sink, and raising your head with his blood-stained hand, “endomangé.” —damaged.
****
It had been a quiet few weeks since you started working for Colonel Hans Landa, since that incident, which you like to store as an embarrassing moment in a secret, hidden compartment of your mind. Filed away with the other myriad of inherently shameful moments you’ve managed to accumulate over the years. But what you don’t let yourself acknowledge, even for a split second too long, the secret only held between you and the night.
The dead of night would chip away at your senses, your body flushed and desperate, practically fucking moaning with the how bad it was aching, for something, anything. And in lapses of shame, or perhaps something more tempting than shame, you would reach for that cursed stationary box; the illusion of innocence it provided could almost ease your desires within of itself. But once the lid was lifted, your thoughts were racing, a myriad of fantasies rushing through you like blood as you brought a blade to your thigh, slowly letting out a warm, wanton moan. Feeling the flesh between your legs grow warmer and wetter like a perverse animal, thoughts of the Colonel flashed behind your eyes as you imagined his warm fingers pressing into the now healing wound on your fingernail, the pain hardly there, but instead the memory of his hard eyes suddenly turning soft and malleable with concern.
With concern.
You knew it was pathetic, and there was no use in denying it, so you were pathetic. Pathetic as the blood leaking from the ocean deep cuts across your thighs, dirties your skin, and you couldn’t resist from moaning and dipping your fingers into the pools of crimson, as if it were cream for a dessert, and licking it. You revelled in the shame, the disgust, both entities liminal in the borderline that is pleasure for you. And when you closed your eyes, you would imagine it was Colonel Landa licking his fingers clean of your filthy blood, eyes reverent behind the cloak of coldness.
The sensation was calming, in its own, mangled way. The tearing of the soft, putty-like skin on your thigh gouges deep, ugly wounds that bloom onto the surface of your skin, like freshly plucked roses during the spring. Your thighs slowly becoming a mutiliated canvas that you couldn’t help but admire, the work of art prominent on your form, with the oozing red paint decorating it. Perhaps Landa would kiss the marks littering you, old and new, licking and savouring the life gushing out of you as if it were sacred. The cold glare that normally could stop you dead in your tracks, now in full concentration. And maybe, just maybe, his teeth would rip at your damages, deepening them, claiming them as his. The message would be clear, only he’s allowed to hurt you, to provide that strange balance between pain and pleasure, wrong and right. And when time would pass, your fingers would trace the wounds, now faint bruises slowly morphing yellow in colour, wishing Landa was actually there, with you.
And it was so, so wrong, but also so right. This was your place, it was where you belonged, where he owned you.
Obviously, when you were at work, those thoughts were hidden, or more accurately, stored away. Not to even be reminisced, let alone actively thought about with genuine consideration. Those moments were fleeting, shameful, and they would remain so.
But sometimes, when his fingers brushed against yours as he handed you a sheet, or when he would lean up against you from behind, guiding you in your inexperience, as if you were incapable, useless, or when his eyes would meet yours, tired from a long day at work, yet they would soften ever so slightly, you couldn’t help yourself.
You couldn’t help yourself as you would calmly dash to the ladies' room, excusing yourself in a reserved, meek tone. Inpure thoughts flashing through your mind, causing your voice to crack ever so slightly, and before you knew it, you were hiding behind a stall door, left hand muffling your moans and whines as your right sneaked underneath the hem of your skirt. Closing your eyes, you imagined it was Landa instead of you; it was Landa rubbing your clit furiously with the rough, calloused pad of his thumb. Whispering less than sweet nothings into your ear as he did so.
‘You pathetic slut, so fucking weak, you get so wet at what, my kindness?’
Your knees buckled at the imaginary degradation, the fake, empty words your sick and twisted brain thought of, that you only wished the Colonel would say to you. But that couldn’t stop your eyes welling up with tears, and your thighs getting even more impossibly drenched, just at the mere thought.
The feeling of tightness curled into your stomach like a devastating hunger, as your moan was muffled once again.
‘Aw,’ he would coo, you were just purely incapable, and he needed to supervise every move you made, ‘is my sweet thing close, already? Go on, doll, you can do it. I know you want to, you fucking whore’ And the sweetness bordering on faux sent you over the edge, as your climax finally grasped onto you, as if it had been chasing you this entire time.
It still felt like your breath was laboured and catching up to you, even as you washed your hands and tidied up your hair. Looking at yourself in the mirror, feeling nothing but shame as the memories of just minutes before flashed into your head. Fighting the urge to groan in embarrassment, you just decided to tidy yourself up even more and sigh before opening up the bathroom door.
You flinched in surprise, however, when the older man stood amongst his colleagues next to the watercooler, seemingly having a pleasant conversation. Yet his eyes were strictly on the door, or in its place, you. His gaze appeared interested, as if he had been waiting for you.
Your head shook as you dismissed the thought. Why would he be waiting for someone like you? You were only his secretary.
He beckoned you over with his finger, as if he commanded you. And maybe he did, because your body was seemingly compelled to listen, as before you knew it, your legs were making their way towards him and his fellow lieutenants and majors.
“Ah! Fräulein! I was just waiting for you!” You gulped, okay, perhaps he was waiting for you. But what does that mean? His eyes gazed into your own with that level of curiosity that he bore when a case was particularly intriguing, like you were a game—or better yet— a puzzle, just waiting to be solved. “You need not worry, mein liebe, I have already gotten your bag for you.” He continued, as you approached closer, with a pleasant, chaotic look on his face.
The perspiration on your forehead felt heavy; your eyes dropped to his hand, where the handle of your bag was gripped; and your stomach plummeted as you met his eyes once again.
Shit, you thought, all panicked and wide-eyed, but trying to remain a passive smile on your face as he finished talking to his colleagues. Did he look inside the bag? Did he find the stationary box?
There was a weight on your legs that felt like ten tonnes worth of bricks, chaining your feet to the floor while you walked to The Colonel’s car. Trying desperately to listen to the torturous small talk the older man was inflicting on you.
“So, how are you enjoying working for me so far?” Landa began, after an awkward pause of silence. “I know working for me specifically can be very… taxing.” And the way he looked you up and down, with suspicion and something deeper, even pleasurable, left a shiver running down your spine.
Your very presence felt out of place when you were beside him; your limbs felt simultaneously too long and too short, and you could feel your bones protruding grotesquely beneath the surface of your skin. Even your hair felt like unnatural clumps of fur glued onto your scalp. He just had that effect on you, you figured.
But that couldn’t stop your practically fatal attraction to him.
The truth was, you quite enjoyed working for him, or at least the menial tasks he provided for you. The endless letters that had you click-clacking against a typewriter for the better half of your day. If not that, you spent your time note-taking, highlighting, keeping tabs on whoever he asked you to, whenever he asked you to. The simple, mind-numbing repetition of these tasks dulled your brain in such a way that only a pleasant buzz could be left ringing through your ears. It was to the point that you couldn’t tell if your thoughts were the distraction, or your work.
“Oh, it’s no matter, sir,” you clutched onto your handbag almost aggressively, but you didn’t have the heart for aggression, did you? So it was just something weaker, more meagre. “I’ve really enjoyed working with you so far.” Your eyes were glued to the ground as your voice became progressively quieter. Feeling the Colonel’s gaze burning into the side of your neck.
You heard him hum, the kind of hum you would give as if you were pleasantly surprised by the result of something. “You need not lie to me, Engel.” A breathy chuckle escaped him, the sound uncanny to your ears. “But I will admit, you are very good at what you do, just warn me if I am spreading you too thin.”
The compulsion of nodding came before you even allowed yourself to speak. Not trusting your own voice.
However, you were so lost in your own thoughts, hypervigilant of every breath you took and every misstep you made, you found yourself tumbling into the Colonel’s shorter stature. Apologies tumbling out of your mouth before he interrupted you.
“Ah, it seems we are here.” Amused by your anxious behaviour, he nodded towards his car and opened the passenger’s side door for you. “Please, Fräulien, sit.” He said with an insistence that bordered on domineering, clearly, it was not a suggestion, but a command. The ‘please’ had just been a formal nicety.
But, as obedient as you were, your body couldn’t help but follow his command. The all-encompassing nature of his presence only forced you to be aware of his acknowledgement of you constantly, and you couldn’t handle disappointing him.
Awkward could only scratch the surface of this strange situation, you and the Colonel both find yourselves in. The silence was bordering on deafening, only interrupted by his occasional humming, which, instead of pleasant or even domestic, felt unnatural, an irregular displacement of his usual being.
Soon, the silence grew somewhat comfortable; perhaps it only felt awkward due to your perception. This could be an act of allowance, from him; he could be permitting you to bask in the pleasure of stillness, without having to worry about deadlines and quotas. Eventually, you allowed the calm to wash over you, and the sleep hiding behind your eyelids began to take over. Suddenly, the plush leather of the seat lining began to feel very comfortable, and the dizziness from the trees passing by, paired with the Colonel’s almost hypnotic hum, lulled you to sleep.
******
You were always a dreamer, quite literally so. Ever since your youth, your dreams and reality often blended into one morbid dimension. On the one hand, your visions were so bright and vivacious, yet on the other, reality seemed so dull and grey; your brain couldn’t help but intermingle both entities, your conscious and subconscious constantly at a battle for dominance. And this dream was no different.
Your breath was sharp and quickened, and if you could focus hard enough, you could see the foaming condensation of your breath in the air. The soft touch of satin sheets bundled up underneath your back, paired with the gentle callouses of the Colonel’s finger tips running up and around your thighs, peppering the litany of scars decorating them with kisses. You felt coy as you looked down beneath you to see him propped between your legs. Shame crawled into your stomach, and it left your mind reeling. But the soft kisses soon turned into rough hickeys and bites, your brain struggling to jostle between the hardened pleasure and the pliant pain. Gasping, you let out, “Ah, Herr—Herr- Colonel,” as if you were even prepared to reject him when he was sitting beneath you, looking like this.
However, your futile complaints were soon rendered forgotten in the back corner of your thoughts. When his sharp tongue took a long, painful lick across your pussy. A moan erupted from your mouth, and your hands rushed by default to muffle your sounds.
“Wage es ja nicht.” —Don’t you dare— he bought his head up to look at you, his gaze full of malice and cruelty, but you couldn’t help but grow wet at the sight of his dishevelled hair and reddened lips. “Ich möchte alles hören.” —I want to hear everything.
He then returned to slowly tease you with his tongue once again; the rough texture alongside his aged pace made the experience almost painful. Just how he knew you liked it. Each stroke growing deeper and deeper, the movements were skilful, having you gripping your sheets, your moans bordering on screaming as he essentially tongue fucked you. But before you could lose yourself once again, he started to playfully bite and suckle at your clit. Causing you to cry out. “Ah-ah fuck, Hans, fuck!” Tears soon built up behind your eyes, your pupils rolling out, and you could physically feel yourself losing control.
The strange contortion of grief at the loss of his tongue almost made you feel guilty. “Say that again.”
Confused, all you could do was whine at the loss, too lost in the pleasurable daze he cast over you to even comprehend any noise he was making. That’s when he slapped you.
He slapped you, and all you could do was moan.
“You fucking whore.” he spat, but the degradation only made you even more horny. Wet at his cruel words. “Stupid slut is so fucking wet, all you can do is moan and whine like a cheap whore?” And you felt yourself nodding in agreement, the shame evaporating from your pores, because yes, you were a stupid slut, a cheap whore. “I gave you an order, bitch.”
Relaying his words, the cogs began to turn in your brain, “Hans?” Unsure if you mispoke, hoping he wouldn’t punish you, but also praying he will.
He hummed in appreciation, gripping the soft tissue on your thigh, his nails digging into your scars, “That’s my good girl.”
*****
You awoke with a gasp, feeling the real Colonel, completely separate from the conjuration of that in your mind, actually gripping your thigh as he continued driving. It was done with such normalcy that it could pass as domestic, and perhaps it was, perhaps this was him allowing such passive domesticity between your dynamic.
He was still humming, unbothered by your awakening, the melodic hypnosis of the tune almost lulled you back to dozing off again, as you were still dreary from your nap, sleep still fraying the corners of your mind. This makeshift plan was broken, however, when Landa broke the impregnable silence.
“What were you dreaming about, Fräulien?” Images of his head propped between your legs, lapping up your juices, breaking you down with mere words flashed before your eyes. Face flushed, you snapped your head towards the window, feeling the heat of your blood and his concentrated focus rise across your neck, unable to make eye contact with him.
“Oh, nothing-nothing much, sir.” You mumbled, trying hard to focus on the view outside, and not the fresh, hot arousal pooling between your thighs.
“Tsk,” the older man began, seemingly disappointed with your answer. Causing your stomach to curl, the disgust with yourself from his disappointment, with the troubling excitement of your dream, left you nearly disoriented with sensations. “Look at me when you're talking to me, girl.”
The harsh tone of his words mimicked that of your dreams, and that made a strange compulsion take over you, and your eyes couldn’t help but sneak towards him, as if your very body was ensnared under his spell. You hated dissatisfying him, but the enchantment of his cruelty left you almost begging for more, having to constrict every muscle around your mouth so as not to humiliate yourself.
“Good girl.” The praise and his smirk of victory, leaving you hazy, the refined smile lines and subtle dimples that only deepened with age, made your heart skip a beat; you hardly even noticed his eyes skipping towards your plump lips, before jumping back up to your own, the stormy grey of them so loud you could practically hear the thunder behind them. “Now tell me, what was it you were dreaming about?”
Trapped. He had effectively trapped you, with the opiate nature of his gaze and commanding presence; you couldn’t escape. The knowing expression on his face would normally leave you irritated. Still, if you were honest, you found solace in your imprisonment, feeling exactly where you were, reaching a state of belonging. Accepting your fate as the simple-minded mouse, caught endlessly between the paws of the amused cat.
Your mind ran with endless possibilities of what you could say. What would you say? Would you tell him the truth, tell him u fantasised about him in such a debauched position, would you tell him your body had an instinctual reaction to him slapping you up and calling you a whore. Or would you lie, lie and tell him it was nothing, that you couldn’t remember, it was all too vague. Like a scale, you balanced out both options in your mind, as if the former were ever a tangible option.
Lie it was.
“Oh, it was nothing, sir,” you silently thanked God that he turned his head to look back out the main road ahead of him, you didn’t think you could look him in the eye and lie so blatantly, “I can’t remember it quite so well.” Feigning ignorance by giving a weak smile, catching a stray strand of hair and tucking it behind your ear.
“Hm.” Landa seemed disappointed—no, disbelieving— perhaps even insulted that you would even dare think he would ever believe that. You watched with a sinking feeling as his smile faded and his focus hardened. He continued in a grave, “I don’t think I quite believe you.”
Panicked, an alarmed chuckle escaped you. “What—what do you mean, Colonel?”
All of a sudden, the feeling of his hand gripping your thigh nearly made you jump out of your skin. You gasped quietly, trying to constrict your moan as his fingers directly pressed into your still-healing scars; the lasting pain made you nearly delirious. “In fact, I know you're lying.” He repositioned his grip once more, allowing his fingers to press into your wounds even deeper, with intent and purpose. Your heart dropped as the realisation hit, and his warm breath crawled around your ear as he whispered, “Do you want to know how I know?”
You could only nod in futility, even when you both knew how he knew, but your body was incapable of any other motion as he continued to tease the pain out of you, breathy little moans and whines escaping you as you began to let yourself go. “Because,” He drawled, the accent thickening at his apparent arousal, and in a sing-song tone, he murmured, “I know your dirty little secret.”
His fingers began to lift your skirt, slowly, playfully, as if he finally cracked the puzzle and was taking his sweet time going over the answer. However, all was confirmed once the air hit the gashes that painted your thighs. Your only protection from the biting cold was the thin layer of your tights. “You’re a masochist!” He whispered, shouting, his excitement bordered on infantile as you watched him smile with all his teeth, clearly pleased with his correct deduction.
Suddenly, his fingers let go of the hem of your skirt and began to slowly caress the waistband of your tights, wandering with purpose as they began to pinch and tug at your soft skin, picking at the scabs of the older scars on your thighs. The quick succession of the pain left you irritated; you wanted more, the teasing nature of his appendages just wasn’t enough for you, and soon, your moans of pleasure morphed into whines of frustration.
He chuckled, amused by your dissatisfaction. “Aw,” he began to coo in jest, “does my little angel want more?” You nodded your head dumbly in response, the remaining pride you still had left you unable to actually vocalise your needs. “Too bad, you fucking slut, you’ll take what you're given.” The shift from that mocking sweetness to the harshest of words left you weak, and you could physically feel yourself getting wetter.
You whined at the loss of his touch as he quickly pulled away from you. Too dazed to realise he was parking the car, and even more so at the sight of the unfamiliar driveway. Confused, you realised when he graciously offered to take you home, he meant his own. Was this his intention all along? To fuck you? Had he always wanted to do this? To have you and claim you?
Your questions were left unanswered; however, when he pulled you by your arms, dragging you as if you were constantly indebted to his orders and direction, unable to do anything of your own volition. And maybe, that was true, maybe you took delight in how his large hands manhandled you, and gripped onto your wrist, not letting go, even when he was fumbling to unlock the door in front of him.
Finally, he managed to unlock it, pulling you by the arm and pushing you against the door as he slammed it shut. His mouth was immediately on yours, biting the skin of your lips and that all too familiar metallic taste invaded your senses, causing a high pitched moan to come crashing out of you, as his tongue was a dominating force taking over every nook and cranny of your mouth, like he was searching for any more secrets, making you feel even more vulnerable and exposed. And you revelled in it. You couldn’t help but moan into him, completely melting, limbless, ready to be rearranged at his will.
When his tongue let go of yours, you were both panting, chasing both or either of your breaths, and if you looked hard enough, you could see the condensation forming up from between you two. Just like your dreams.
He never allowed you to think for too long, you gathered. It was almost like he could recognise when you were about to drift off, but he just couldn’t have that, and he needed all your attention to be on him at all times. So before your mind could even begin to fully wander, he pulled you towards the sofa, latching onto your mouth with an aggression that whisked away any lingering thoughts you still had. His kisses felt just as forceful and vindictive as him, but also as all-consuming; he kissed as though he was thirsty and you were the only water left for miles.
The attention he gave you was divine.
You were now pinned down by the Colonel, fully encased under his hardened gaze. He had that same look of concentration and malevolence that he harboured when interrogating a suspect, or when he was about to kill a man in cold blood. God, you shuddered in delight, was this how he fucked?
A gasp was torn out of you as his teeth grazed your neck, leaving wet kisses all over your nape, marking you, claiming you. There was a particularly loud scream of delight ripped from your vocal cords as he bit down into you, tearing the skin barrier. Scolding yourself internally, you attempted to muffle your own noises, but Landa’s unrelenting grip grasped onto your hands and forcibly pulled them away from your mouth. And he looked angry. Angry that you could even dare deny him what is rightfully his.
Then, he leaned in, the harsh lines of his lips dusting over the skin of your ear. His breath was hot and strangely gentle, and he began to murmur, his voice deep and thick with arousal, “Those pretty little noises you make,” he paused to bite down onto the cartilage of your ear, eliciting yet another whine out of you, “they belong to me, alright? They’re mine to hear, mine to enjoy.” He started to nuzzle into your nape, before biting it once again, “Verstehst du, meine liebe?” —Understand, my love?
Nodding, he continued to undress you. Never allowing you too much time to think, his mouth was constantly on your own, or around the skin of your neck, or whispering sweet nothings into your ear. The sharp air nipping at your bare skin, the contrast between his warm hands on your cold skin felt near feverish. Your body shudders, and you whimper with every button undone and layer tossed away. The sound of the soft rip of your tights rang in your head like a pestering case of tinnitus, the only noise present besides the panting, groaning and whining coming from both parties. (Mainly you.)
Before long, all that was left were your bra and panties clinging to your skin. And suddenly, you were hyper aware of every sensation that tingled against you, like the soft tickle of the frills on your panties, or the subtle tightness of your bra pressing into your chest. And most of all, Landas' thirsty hands taking up and fondling you as if you were a finite resource, and he just wasn’t psychologically prepared to let go.
“Mein Gott,” the Colonel muttered, seemingly encapsulated by your form, “you are simply enchanting, puppe.” The veneration of his tone left you embarrassed, and your face flushed, snapping your eyes away from him, self-conscious of —what you felt was— the undeserving praise. Suddenly growing coy at the image of Landa studying your scars, old and new, feeling ashamed of your starving, cannibalistic sense of lust.
But it seemed Landa had taken offence to your bashful behaviour, because he gripped your jaw tightly; you were certain the imprint of his fingers would bruise from how hard he was applying pressure. “Don’t—don’t look away from me.” He all but growled, looking into you with a degree of possession, somehow having the ability to dictate even the most minute of your actions.
And you loved it.
Without thinking, you nodded vigorously, your mind beyond your soul as the only force keeping you grounded was pure instinct and his overwhelming presence. “Yesh,” you drawled, becoming so useless and latent that you could barely even speak.
This seemingly wasn’t enough for the Colonel, because before you could even say or do anything else, he slapped you. Your eyes widened with shock, bewildered by his audacity. Still, he seemed to be placid, awaiting your full reaction, as if he could predetermine every move you could make long prior to you even being aware you were about to make it. His calculated stare was proven right once again as a prolonged slutty moan crawled its way outside of the concave structure of your mouth.
You watched in terror and a horrid desire as his eyes widened in excitement, and he began to slowly grin with all his teeth like the Cheshire Cat. “Oh, you dirty whore,” he practically giggled with delight, “I knew you would like that, didn’t you?”
At the lack of your reply, he slapped you once again, only for a sluttier, more broken moan to escape you, a silent beg for more on the tip of your lips. “I asked you a question bitch.”
You gargled on your spit, and an incessant torrent of whimpers and whines was the only sound heard as he waited expectantly for your answer. You felt your body flush up and the blood pumping through your veins, “Yes! Daddy!” His eyes flashed with something dark and inhospitable, “I love it, daddy, I need more please,” tears began to form in your tearduct at the humiliation, but you couldn’t stop, “please Daddy, I need you.”
Oh, and the look he gave you, a countenance of pure animalistic lust washed over him in the blink of an eye, and just like that, he began to manhandle you into place, pulling and pushing you into place as if you were completely limbless and in complete need of his direction. Having you sit on his clothed lap, legs hanging off his thighs, and if you looked hard enough, you could see the muscles tensing beneath the fabric of his uniform. The sight alone had you weak, and collapsing into the crook of his neck, muttering a litany of “Ah, please!” And “I need you, I need you.” Into the comfort of his neck.
He remained silent, brooding, his arms holding you still as he unclasped your bra; they were an anchoring force, for you were afraid that if they weren’t there, you wouldn’t be able to keep your own hands off of him.
Everything shifted when your bra finally snapped out of its place. The sound was sharp like a crack or a pop, echoing in the chambers of the home. And those calloused hands began to grope and fondle you, every graze and brush felt immensely delicate, but also hesitant; you could gather he was holding something back.
He began to speak up once again, and you felt yourself growing impossibly wet, soaking your panties at the deep husk of his voice. “Oh, you’ve been a naughty girl,” his hot breath dewing up against the cartilage of your ear, “you’ve made Daddy fucking crazy over you, been thinking about fucking you dumb ever since I first saw you,” a tight groan escaped him, like he was reminiscing his utter restraint, “Mein Gott, you were just stood there, all dazed, and I could tell you needed a good man to fuck you into your place.” At that, his fingers pinched your nipple and twisted it, causing you to scream into him and scratch his back, feeling the skin tear beneath your fingernails.
“Oh, do you like that, puppe?”
You squealed, unable to restrict your urges, “Yes! I love it, I love it,” you drawled, drunk off his mere presence alone.
He merely hummed, finding your answer to be satisfactory. His attention soon diverted to your soaking wet panties, the fabric now digging into you painfully as you waited patiently for him to absolutely ravish you.
An all-consuming shudder ran through you as he gently grazed over your clothed pussy, clearly marvelling over your overly apparent desire for him. He chuckled, continuing to stroke your desire like he would an obedient animal, “Wow, just look at that, is meine liebe that fucking horny for Daddy?”
You wanted to tell him everything, how you would cut yourself and plunge your fingers deep into your soaking wet pussy, imagining it was him degrading and praising you all the same, how you would dream of him eating you out, his death grip leaving bruises against your skin for days, how he would mark and claim you as his, and his only.
But instead, all that came out was a strangled moan and a quivering of your marked thighs. Feeling impatient and so insatiably horny all at once, just waiting inoperatively for him to take you and do with you as he pleases.
At the lack of your reply, he pries your face away from his neck, gripping your jaw so tight it was almost in veneration, like he needed your attention; it was a source satitation for him. But when he looked into your dazed, glassy eyes, his gaze softened as he noted what kind of state you were in. “Oh, I’m sorry, princess,” he cooed, his iron grip soon being replaced with a gentle caress against the side of your face, “I didn’t know how bad my fucking whore needed to get ruined tonight.”
You nodded your head vigorously, seemingly aware and unaware at the same time, your remaining sanity disagreeing vehemently with the provocation, but your subconscious couldn’t help but melt into it, accepting it as the truth.
With a cruel sense of humour, he teasingly pulled the strap of your panties, letting it snap back, the sensation reverberating against your skin, as you mewled pathetically. Leaning into his touch like a lifeline, keeping you grounded.
“Shh, shh,” and you revelled in the gentle timbre of his voice, when you would close your eyes, you could almost imagine it to be loving in a way, “daddy’s gonna take care of you, okay,” the comforting tone left you even more aroused, constantly torn between the praise and degradation, both so disgustingly beautiful.
Then finally, finally, you felt his fingers pulling down your soaked panties and threw them aside, the cold air now corrosive against your sensitivity, and you couldn’t help but shudder at the piercing sensation. Now completely bare in front of the great Colonel Landa, how humiliating, presenting yourself to him like a bitch in heat.
The fact that he was fully clothed left you sick with delight; it was as though he was fully unaffected by the devouring lust between you two. The only things that could possibly give anything away were the visible vein bulging out of his neck, the strained erection against his trousers and the subtle grit of his teeth. But all of these things were a shock to you; you had never seen the Colonel to be so affected and catalysed by anything before in the weeks you had known him. He was always a symbol of a menacing virtue, grace and etiquette in the most despicable of hands, but to see him evidently hard and eyes red-rimmed, God, it did things to you.
Your loins curled in on themselves when the feeling of those maliciously luscious fingers fondled your arousal, toying with your clit so softly the presence was barely there, but it was just enough to want more. The insatiable nature of your lust made you crave more, no, all of what he could give you.
However, it seemed Landa was interested in your sheer desperation for him, “Wow,” he practically giggled, so interested in your anatomy it bordered on amusement, “look how horny you are for me,” he said, bringing up his finger that was essentially glistening with your juices. Ashamed, you wanted to close your eyes and beg him to stop teasing you, but when he pushed his finger into your open mouth, forcing you to taste yourself, it was in your second nature to allow the command to wash over you, entranced by his sheer command as you diligently sucked his finger clean. Eyes glazed over and completely enthralled by the obdurate will in his own, the subtle smirk on his face gone now and replaced with morbid fascination, watching you so easily submit to him.
The feeling of his index finger pressing onto your tongue was almost oppressive, the pressure increasing like a heavy weight as you watched in lust as a dark haze clouded over his eyes. Something grim and morbid took over him, his pupils dilating and a subtle vein straining against his forehead; your adrenaline debating whether or not you should be scared or even more aroused than you already are.
A gag refluxed out of you, unable to keep up with his daring intensity, and that seemed to be the moment that broke all the intensity and darkness. The question that was dancing against the tip of his own tongue was finally asked.
“Are you always like this?”
Currently incapacitated, you were unable to answer him coherently, instead only responding in muffled whimpers and gags as he continued to press down onto your tongue. Ever so graciously, however, he seemed to acknowledge your incompetence as no fault of your own, and slowly removed his finger from your mouth, an obscene line of spit trailing alongside the removal that bordered on pornographic.
“I’m sorry, mein schatz,” he began at first, sickly sweet, the corruption of his sophisticated persona started to crumble in a near demented manner as you could physically see the anger and malice build up inside him with every ounce of hesitance and trepidation in his words. “I said, do you fuck every man like this?”
You were left breathless at his question, unable to even answer him. How could you? Would you admit to him that you were a hopeless, pitiful virgin who got off on her sick perversions? Admit to him that you would finger your pussy every night, dreaming of him slapping you, hitting you, cutting you, as if you were his property. Admit to him that every cut, gauge, and slash was for him, that you would fantasise that he would dig deep into your wounds and scoop up your heartstrings, only to fuck you with nothing but his bare fingers and your blood, it was your grotesque, macabre, wet dream.
Instead, you could only moan and shake your head furiously, hoping, praying to him that he would understand, because you couldn’t admit that to him, you just couldn’t.
Anger blazed in his eyes at what he deemed to be defiance, clearly taking your lack of verbal objection to be an admission of what he feared. In contempt of your idiocy and lack of coherence, he slapped you. So hard it stung with emotion, it felt more vindictive and personal than the last ones did, while those seemed to be playful and teasing, this felt like a reflection of his outrage.
This felt like an insult.
He didn’t even wait for your reaction, didn’t wait for you to catch up as tears welled up in your eyes and your cheek reddened, the imprint of his palm already forming on your face. The sting of pain felt hedonistically guilty because you couldn’t help but moan and sob at your treatment. You wanted more, more slaps and more hits, but you couldn’t let him think you fucked other men, especially like this. You put your heart on the line for him, so exposed like this, only to think you would do this for any man with a cock and a passion for sadism, like a cheap whore.
“Use your words, girl,” the Colonel gripped your cheeks, fingers digging in so hard they practically radiated his rage, and you were certain they would bruise, “are you that cheap of a whore, you would spread your legs for anyone with a cock, for any man willing to slap you around for a bit?”
Your legs quivered, and your whole body shuddered at the indignation of his words. The feeling of your eyelids fluttering, trying to hold back stray tears, made the sob in your throat hiccup. God, you were pathetic.
“N—mph—No!” However, your attempts at justification were made futile as his iron grip on your face muffled any noise you could make. Only causing more desperate sobs and hiccups to erupt out of your mouth, gushing out of you without any semblance of stopping.
That same look of pity flickered across his face; the overly apparent humanistic nature of his sympathy unnerved you. He always seemed to be an impenetrable force, a rampart hazard, incapable of such sensitive matters as sympathy or care. But that glimpse of his humanity had your mind running hurdles, before it was gone as quickly as it came, instead, replaced by that usual hardness with something more sinister lurking beneath its surface.
He suddenly let go of your face, stroking your hair and muttering into it, “I’m sorry, Mein Liebe.” An almost grounding motion, but less for you, and more for him. Mumbling mantras of apologies felt like a regret on his part.
But that’s crazy, Hans Landa doesn’t regret. Does he?
Before you could dwell on your thoughts further, your croaking voice began to speak up. “No—no, sir, I’ve never, never fucked anyone else,” your face began to flush, feeling the intensity of his gaze and the blood rushing up to your face all in one quick succession, whispering, you managed out, “your—my first, Daddy.”
All time stood still in that moment. The temperature dropped in an instant, the incessant ticking on the clock seemed to slow, and you even heard the Colonel physically hold his breath. In that split second, it had felt like nothing else existed beyond you two, the whole world could be crashing in on itself, but you wouldn’t know; all that mattered were those stormy grey eyes and whatever horrible secrets and fantasies lay beyond them.
He smirked. Long and slow. In fact, smirk was an inadequate description; it was elongated and thin and, if anything, more like a grin. Your heart dropped at the realisation of your confession, the epiphany hitting you that you had just given such vulnerable information to him. You were akin to a bleeding out deer, with its guts spilt and outstretched, presenting itself to the wolf, lingering around the fresh corpse.
Fuck.
His breath was hot and heavy against your skin as he mouthed against your lips, the feeling of his giddiness ever present while he talked, not only apparent through the menacing joviality of his tone, but also the fact that he was barely holding back a smile as he spoke. “Oh wow, am I my kleiner Liebling’s first?” And you could only nod your head against the open-mouthed kiss, words beyond embarrassment. “Isn’t that just wunderbar!”
When his lips let go of your own, you were panting after him and chasing the high that was his presence. Clapping his hands once as an uncanny act of triumph and finality, he exclaimed, rather bluntly, “Ah! So am I popping your cherry then?”
God, the crass tone of his words couldn’t leave you anymore flustered. Whimpering, your body couldn’t stop itself from melting into the Colonel’s nape once again. Silently wishing that if you hid yourself long enough, you would spontaneously cease to exist and escape this horrible embarrassment.
Unaffected by your amalgamation of coy desire and wanton bashfulness, he ignored you, humming into your hair and stroking it once more. It was romantic, in a way. The beauty of the simple intimacy left you strangely relaxed, and you didn’t even realise how fast your heart was beating until it finally slowed.
You shakily sighed in relief. The colonel slowly moved his right hand down to your thigh, stroking it at the same pace as his left hand was brushing through your hair. You could feel his hand graze over the rough, scarred terrain of your skin. The subtle jerks of pain when he would press especially hard on some of the fresher scars electrocuted you in the best, dizziest way possible. You were so enthralled in the hypnotic motion that you hardly even registered the fingers brushing your hair, slowing down and gripping the roots.
Until he pulled your head back. Hard.
A scream of gratification and agony was unleashed from you. In the midst of this distracting pain and his open-mouthed kisses, his right hand had slipped further past your thigh and was now dangerously toying with your clit once again. Pinching and twisting it like he didn’t hear what he was doing to you. All that could be heard were your pants and gasps, and occasionally, a constrained groan from the Colonel.
Amused by your crude satisfaction, a cold tremor washed over you as you felt his attention shift, and all his decades of experience suddenly came to fruition. You felt oddly empty as the grip on your hair loosened and snuck down to your heat, his left hand replacing the right, two fingers slowly circling your clit, while you felt the index finger of your right plunge into your pussy.
“Ah!” The foreign feeling of fingers other than your own felt bizarre, causing you to gasp, and your legs subconsciously tried to close, but the Colonel’s dominating grip pried them open.
With leisure, he began to rock his finger back and forth inside of you, marvelling at the way your muscles engulfed him so greedily. “Just look at that.” He murmured, more to himself than anyone else, transfixed at the sight of your virgin hole greedily consumed just a fraction of himself.
‘Gott, stell dir nur vor, sie mit meinem Schwanz’—God, just imagine her with my cock—he thought. His eyes were heavy-lidded with desire, images of what he wanted to do to you flashed into his mind, and he had to restrain himself from prematurely pushing another finger in.
He had to be careful. He had to be ready, he was your first afterall.
He wanted you to be addicted to his cock, for it to be all you could think about, so that when you would finger yourself, it would pale in comparison to him, leaving you empty and whining for more. He wanted to ruin you for every man out there, so that when you would lie with them, all you could think about was the relief he granted you, the tension he gave you, how he let you cross that borderline between pleasure and pain so easily.
He wanted all of you, mind, body and soul.
Practically yelling, your nails ran down his back once again, clinging onto him like a lifeline as the pace of his strokes against your clit increased rapidly, probably to distract you from that beautiful sting of his fingers inside your pussy.
You grew even louder, choking on your own moans when he started up his dirty talk back up, once again. “Fuck, just look at you,” his voice was laced with arousal in a thick octave, “ just a meagre virgin and already swallowing my fingers like you were made for this, made to take cock,” he paused in contemplation for a moment, his gaze hardening as a malignant haze took over him, “my cock. You understand?”
Quite cruelly, he slowed his impossibly fast pace on your clit to a halt. Making you dizzy with trepidation and an empty, unfulfilled desire burning inside you. “I asked if you understood that.” And that deep octave just grew even deeper at his impatience; you could physically feel yourself getting wetter.
“Yes, Daddy, I understand.” You answered quickly, learning from your past mistakes and not willing to let him mistake your hesitation for insubordination. Also hoping to avert his attention from your immediate arousal at his dominance, it would be like putting all your cards on the line.
But apparently, you already had. Despite your facing away from his face, eyes bashfully looking beneath you both, you could physically feel his sneer in your peripheral vision. “Oh, you fucking slut.” he grumbled in grim delight, taking satisfaction in the way your legs quivered at the insult. “Does my little girl like that?” He cooed, clearly mocking your soft and eager pants, mimicking all your pitiful whines and that airy, sex crazed voice.
Ashamed, you averted his gaze further, focusing on the speck of dust on the carpet, the way his hardwood desk seemed to be freshly polished, just anything but him. That was short-lived, however, when you felt his middle finger being unceremoniously pushed inside of you.
Curling over in surprise and passion, you were forced to meet his eyes. His devilishly chagrin smile caused your cheeks to heat up even further, and any coherent words that were about to come out of you suddenly evaporated at the tip of your tongue as he started rocking his fingers inside you, leisurely fucking you with his fingers as he continued to interrogate you.
“Would you want me to flip you over? Fuck you till you can’t think, until you're scrambling to remember your own name?” And all you could do was sob and moan as the thickness of his fingers stretched you tense and stretched, the deep callouses of his skin felt tranquillizingly delicious. It was quite literally scratching you in the deepest of places. You felt corporeally tied to him, yet you were too dazed to answer him, leaving a burning desire within him to tease you more.
“I could bend you over this desk right now.” He whispered into your ear, evidently aroused by the idea himself, “Would you like that, puppe? For me to fuck you senseless right here, right now?”
Just then, you felt a spasm racking through you, his skilful fingers having clearly found that spot, “Oh fuck! Ah—Herr Colonel!” You screamed, unable to control yourself at the attack of stimulation, “Please! Please fuck me, Daddy—need it, need your cock.” You slurred, incapacitated by the pleasure, but you didn’t want him to stop; he couldn’t. You wanted, no needed, more, more, more, more.
“As you wish, Schatz.” And just like that, he picked you up and flipped you around as if you were nothing, the sudden loss of his fingers and the disorientation of being so easily flipped like that left you whining, confused and empty.
But that emptiness didn’t last forever; the sound of the zipper being pulled down could be heard from behind you. Before you could focus on the biting frost that shuddered through your body at your bare breasts being pushed into the hardwood, or the sound of the clatter of books falling, or even the pressure of his hand gripping the small of your waist, fitting you into the right position and arching your back ever so slightly. You felt his cock teasing graze your clit, like a cat playing with its meal before gorging, and tonight, you were particularly delectable to him.
Desire burned within you as you croaked out, “Please, please—ah! Daddy, please—mhm, need you, need you to fuck me.” Your words fighting with the gentle moans that bubbled inside of you. It was pathetic how you felt your eyes well up with tears in anticipation, but you couldn’t help yourself; you needed him, carnally. “Stop t-teasing me, please.” It was humiliating how desperate your whines were, but you couldn’t help it; you just felt so fucking empty.
The feeling of his fingers gripping the roots of your scalp was almost ghostly, but when he tightened his grasp, you could only shriek and relish in the pain, pulling your head up and forcing your bare back to meet his chest. The soft tingle of his chest hair made you realise, sometime between all of this flipping, twisting and manhandling, he somehow managed to take his shirt off.
You let out a hitched sob and moan when the Colonel leaned in close and whispered, hot and heavy into your ear. Beguiling you with his cruel words and gentle touches, “You’ll take what I fucking give you, don’t be greedy, slut.” And in all his viciousness, he continued, “Du bist so verdammt dreckig, hast du dir etwa deine enge Muschi gefingert und dabei daran gedacht? Jetzt kannst du nicht mal mehr eine verdammte Minute warten, du Schlampe.”—You're so fucking filthy, did you finger your tight pussy and think about this? Now you can't even wait a goddamn minute, you whore.
His German sounded less graceful and sophisticated, but more vile and barbaric, as if something ugly was laced into his words. He didn’t even realise the anger building up within him, preoccupied with the pit of desire in his heart, unbeknownst to him that they were one and the same.
His hands caressed you, so soothing compared to his red in tooth and claw words, so soothing it felt hypnotic in a way. You basked in the somniferous nature of his touch until the grounding clench he had on your scalp was suddenly pulled apart from you. Leaving you to slam into the table, all limbless and stupid, proving once again your idiocy without him and his guidance. Mental and physical.
He barely left you any time to think as you thumped onto the table, your mind still reeling from the whiplash. And when he slowly began to enter you, you were left fully inebriated by sensations. The stretch of your pussy was agonisingly beautiful, and in any other circumstance, it would be painful, excruciating even, but he was taking it so slow, so gentle, like you would collapse if he went any faster, and the slow pace of fulfillment made you sigh with relief, as he finally bottomed out, whispering and muttering nothing but praise because he “knew Daddy’s little girl could do it.”
And you melted into it, not only the feeling of his dick twitching inside of you, rearranging your insides as he gave you a moment to breathe, but also the praise, his words. Maybe you were just his little girl, his to dote over, his to dress and arrange, his thoughts to become your own. You needed him in a telepathic sense.
Telepathic, he was too, as if he had reached into your mind and forcibly gripped your bleeding thoughts out of your brain. He began to speak, “Isn’t this just perfect, mein Engel, having you here like this,” he hummed, fondling the ends of your hair, stroking through them as he began his pace, his movements soft and delicate as you moaned at the feeling of his hands finding their grip against your hips from behind you. “To think,” he purred, almost fondly, “every day could be like this, I could take you like this wherever we went, I could feed you, dress you, and all you would have to do is say ‘Yes, Daddy’ and I would be yours, I would fuck you, hit you, beat you, cut you, all you have to do is say the word.”
Oh God, you could hardly think straight, and it didn’t help that he reached down and started to play with your now swollen clit. Pinching and pulling it, as if he were deaf to your shrieks of overstimulation, the relish so bright it became a discomfort, and it was fucking amazing. His gentle strokes inside you made you feel soft and loved, but his cruel fingers never made you forget your desire for that delicious pang of anguish.
With every subtle pound, your knees wobbled with pleasure. The completely foreign sensation of a cock actually inside of you was nothing short of mind-blowing. The thickness, the stretch, how every time he would hit your spot, it would be just enough to tease you and also leave you dumb-fucked.
The moans couldn’t stop themselves, “FUCK! D-daddy, fuck, feelsh so good,” your vowels were elongated and drawled, so fucked out you could hardly help but slur your words. “Mhm, pleashe don’t—don’t shtop.”
His bare chest leaned into you once again, his arms wrapped around you, while his fingers pinched and twisted your nipples, in the same way he was teasing your clit, purposefully trying to disorientate you even further.
Every fibre of your skin felt hot, as if you were on fire, and the fuel was the searing passion lacing the very air around you. The Colonel’s touches and grazes that were left all over your body felt swollen and bruised, and you revelled in the fact that there would be lasting marks of him all over you, for days to come. And maybe, when you are especially lonely, you could press into your wounds and reminisce on the love you felt today, the cold memory lingering in your bones.
But for now, you were living in the moment, and it was a high, ecstasy pumping through your veins with every slow, angled thrust, your cunt gaping for more as high-pitched wailing sounds reverberated against the walls of the lounge, his thick member hitting that spot over and over again.
You could feel your juices leaking out of you; the sound of depraved squelches was almost obscene, but your unabashed moans of pleasure were definitely obscene, but it was all the same to Landa, music to his ears. And the sight of you, his body shuddering when he pulled your tousled hair back to see your face, so utterly fucked out, eyes rolled back, makeup pooling and smudging beneath your tears, Gott, you looked divine.
It was at that moment, when he was boring into your fucked out expression, watching as you were too fargone to even realise what was going on, let alone the mental strife he was going through, that something just snapped. Perhaps it was his inhibitions, or perhaps it was something deeper—he didn’t know—nor did it matter to him, all that mattered to him was that he needed you now, carnally, and he was done playing coy, playing gentleman.
As if he ever was one to begin with.
With that, he slams into you at a near-ruthless pace. Biting his lip at the sight of your mouth stuck in that whorish ‘O’ shape, enthralled in the way your mind was chasing the concept of such intense pleasure. “Did you like that, sweetheart?”
But of course, you were too fucked out, choking on your own breath as his pace quickened with every thrust, slamming into you over and over again, the table beneath you rattling at the pressure, ready to give way any minute now. And every so often, the cutest little gasps would escape you as you realised that you needed to breathe, and Landa couldn’t help but fuss over it.
“Oh my poor baby,” he cooed, each word muttered through strained groans, clearly struggling himself, “so fucked out, you can’t even breathe? That fucking dumb, huh? Only thing on your mind is my cock, isn’t it?”
He waited patiently for your answer, not even halting his offensive speed as he continued to pound into you, but only hearing your dumb squeaks and whines was an indignation that pissed him off to an extent that could only be described as arousing.
Adrenaline pumping through his blood just led to one event after another, in what felt like a blur. It was as if a foreign force took over him as he flipped you around once more and held you up, watching the way your body sank into his touch, noting down mentally that you clearly enjoyed being manhandled.
Just like that, he slammed you into the wall. You could faintly hear the sound of the bookshelf beside you rattling with the force. All done with his dick still straining inside of you, bulging and twitching with every pulse and clench of your cunt, your mind simply unable to get over the sheer size of him inside of you. You couldn’t imagine life without him now that you had a taste; everything else just seemed so dull.
Before you were given time to think any further, you felt his grip on your chin as his pace continued back up once again, just as relenting with no mercy insight for your cervix. He was hitting so far that you could swear you could feel him in your stomach. God, it felt like he was claiming every inch of you with his cock.
He slapped you. And you moaned. He slapped you again, and you only moaned again. You were lost in the sensations. He would pull your hair till the sting felt raw, bite your neck till the skin broke, but all you could do was moan for more. His thrusts became successively more direct, as if he was fucking you with a purpose, to make you come undone.
And with that intention, he was becoming increasingly successful, your stomach clawed with an unfamiliar yet all too familiar sensation, and you could feel the pleasure tightening and constraining within you, and he could sense it too. Sense it with the way your cunt began to twitch and pulsate against his cock, and a wicked thought flashed across his mind, smirking against your skin as he kissed your neck.
You were so close, you could feel it, release only a touch away, his ruthless pace driving you to the edge of your orgasm. Until he slowed. Slowed so dramatically you could see him wince from the contrasting feelings; however, that didn’t relent him from his crude plan.
Whining, tears dropped from your cheeks at the frustration of your release being so cruelly taken from you, mumbling and muttering a litany of ‘pleases’, as if that would change his unrelenting gaze.
“Ah, ah, ah, Mein Leibling,” The colonel tutted, wiping the tears from your cheeks with something akin to mercy, “You see—” he drawled, enthralled with the way you bit your plush lips from trepidation, fascinated with the way the soft skin ripped to reveal the deep red leaking beneath, the way you winced at the pain, but your pupil dilated with desire, “you see, you never answered my question, did you?” Your body shivered with the way his voice dropped an octave, and he leaned in impossibly closer next to your ear, “Are you mine? Mine to possess, mine to ruin, mine to fantasise over? Do you fuck yourself thinking about me, dreaming of my cock pounding into your tight little hole?”
God! His words were so vulgar, but his expression was so raw and earnest, his grey eyes red-rimmed at the edges, his hair sticking out of place; if you didn’t know any better, you would say he was desperate. Your voice was stuck in your throat, and you were seemingly only capable of slight moans and hitched breaths from escaping you.
At your hesitation, he slowly thrusted back into you, drawled and elongating, practically teasing the answer out of you. “What’s your answer, puppe? Gonna leave Daddy waiting?”
Broken from your desire, a wretched sob was pulled from your vocal cords. Inhibition begone as you couldn’t help yourself from giving him what he wanted to hear, “YES, please! Daddy, please, I’m yours—I’m yours, you're all I can think about, I swear, I swear.”
Your nails clawed against his back, grapling with your confession and the way his eyes darkened with a haze of lust. Preparing yourself with the knowledge that he was going to absolutely ravage you.
His speed was instantly picked up once again, unapologetically slamming into you repeatedly. Your head slamming into the wall with every sharp thrust into your cervix, mind reeling from the pleasure and the unabashed way he treated you, throwing and tossing you around like a rag doll, ready to be fucked and thrown away so easily.
All that could be heard was the sound of your pained moans, his strained grunts and that depraved sound of you falling into the wall. The smell of sex was hot and heavy in the air, thickening the atmosphere and clouding your judgment. His fingers were cruel and harsh as they gripped onto your skin, and if you weren’t battered and bruised before, you were certain you were now.
But those sensations were thrown away when you felt that curling power within you. Chasing your body with its promise of fulfilment, and you could tell The Colonel was closer than he was letting on as his thrusts were getting sloppier and increasingly carnal, clearly chasing his own pleasure in a similar fashion.
Your toes curled, and your fingers tingled, your moans became increasingly more high-pitched and airy, and before you knew it, pleasure crashed over you like a tsunami wave; you swore everything went white. You had never felt anything like this before, not even with your own fingers; your thighs quivered with the aftershock, and your juices leaked out of you.
He wasn’t done just yet, though. He continued to fuck into your orgasm, if not just a bit gentler, aware that the overstimulation was probably painful for you. But it couldn’t be painful enough; you loved it. The feeling of him using you, regardless of your fulfilment or not.
And with a strangled moan, he came into you, muttering some nonsense in German before his head fell into the crook of your neck. Exhausted in a way only sex could make him. But clearly, it caught up to you first, as you were promptly passed out against the wall. Gott, weren’t the youth supposed to be more virtile?
Amused, he picked up your frame, bridal style, satisfied not only in terms of sex, but also that of possession.
"'M just sayin', lads—it's been a while." Johnny announces this to the table with the easy confidence of a man stating a fact, tipping his pint glass towards his two companions like he's presenting evidence.
He's freshly showered, smelling like that cedar body wash he's been using since rehab, and his mohawk is styled the way he only bothers with when he's feeling good enough to exert the kind of effort that signals intent.
"Define 'a while,'" Kyle says mildly, not looking up from his phone beneath the table.
"Months, mate. Fuckin’ months." Johnny takes a long drink and scans the pub with the lazy, appreciative gaze of a man on the hunt. "I'm dryin' up over here. Witherin' on the vine. 'S embarrassin'."
"That's one word for it," Simon mutters into his whisky.
Kyle's thumb pauses on his phone screen. He doesn't look at Simon, and Simon doesn't look at him, but the silence between them is loaded with a practiced, wordless exchange refined over months of navigating nights exactly like this one.
Because Johnny has not, in fact, gone months without getting laid.
Johnny had sex with his wife four days ago. Kyle knows this because you'd texted the group chat—the one Johnny doesn't know exists, one labelled "Ops" on Kyle's phone and "X" on Simon's—to let them know Johnny was having a good week.
Remembering things. Sleeping through the night without nightmares. Being present.
Four days ago. And now he's sitting in a pub in Hereford telling his mates he's been in a drought, and his eyes are doing that thing they do when a bad episode is ramping up; brighter than usual, slightly too wide, running hot with a manic energy that looks like confidence if you don't know what you're looking at.
But Kyle knows what he's looking at.
He glances at Simon. Simon gives the smallest nod—a millimetre of movement, barely perceptible—and Kyle opens the Ops chat beneath the table.
Bad night. Swan. Come when you can.
Swan is the code. You'd all agreed on it together in the early days, back when the episodes were frequent and terrifying and no one knew the rules yet. Swan means he doesn't know you. Pub means to come find him. Home means they'll bring him to you immediately.
Your reply comes seconds later as if you’ve been bracing for it, which you have. Just in case.
Omw. 20 min. How bad?
Kyle replies,
Flirty. Scanning the room. Hasn't clocked it yet.
Three dots, then: Dress up or down?
Kyle looks at Johnny, who is now leaning back in his chair with his arms spread wide, grinning across the room, radiating the particular Scottish charm that made him dangerous in pubs long before the injury and wedding.
Up. He's in a good mood.
Three dots appear again, longer this time, and one simple word follows because Kyle hesitated sending it.
Horny…
Got it.
He puts his phone away and picks up his pint casually. "So what's your type again, Johnny? Since you're on the pull tonight."
Johnny snorts, mumbling into his glass. "Ye know my type."
"Mm. Remind me."
"Funny. Smart," he takes a sip of his drink, smacks his lips while his eyes keep scanning, “Can handle her drink. Someone who doesnae take my shite." He pauses, something flickering behind his eyes—a shadow, there and gone again, like a cloud passing over the sun. "Someone who laughs at ma’ jokes even when they're rubbish and rides me like it’s our last day on bloody earth." He grins; baby blue’s gleaming mischievously.
Simon turns away to roll his eyes while Kyle's chest tightens but smiles anyway. "High bloody standards for a man with that fuckass haircut."
"Fuck off, Garrick. This haircut is iconic."
Simon says nothing. He drinks his whisky, watches the door, waits.
You arrive in eighteen minutes.
You're wearing the deep green dress—the one Johnny told you made you look like "somethin' oot of a Bond film" on your second anniversary, the one you now keep in the back of the wardrobe now specifically for nights like this. Your hair is done. You're wearing the perfume he bought you three Christmases ago that he won't remember buying right now.
You pause outside the pub, sit in your car for thirty seconds, and breathe.
This is the seventh time. You know because you keep count, not physically, but in your body. In the specific way your hands shake when Kyle's text comes through while he is out with Johnny and the practiced steadiness you layer over it like gauze over a wound.
The first time was the worst. Two months post-injury, Johnny still in a neck brace, waking up in the hospital and looking at you with polite confusion and asking the nurse who you were. You'd made it to the corridor before your legs gave out, and Simon had caught you with one strong arm and no words, holding you upright against the wall while Price talked to the doctors and Kyle distracted Johnny.
You'd learned the rules since then. The triggers and early tells. The protocols. You'd built a system—you and his brothers in more than arms, the lot of you holding Johnny's world together like scaffolding around a building that keeps forgetting its own foundations.
On good days, Johnny knows you; he knows the house, the wedding photos, the way you take your tea. On those days, he calls you by the nickname only he uses and reaches for you in his sleep and laughs at the same terrible jokes he's been telling for years.
On bad days, you're a stranger.
Tonight is a bad day, even though it had started good initially. And sometimes that happens, too.
You check your reflection one more time; smooth the dress, tuck your wedding ring into your jacket pocket, because he can't see it yet, not until the timing is right, and you saunter into the pub, hips swaying.
You spot them immediately. Corner booth, usual spot. Kyle is facing the door, which means he sees you first, and his expression does a complicated thing—relief and grief and a non-verbal "Go on then, you've got this,"—before he schools it into easy neutrality.
Simon is beside him, facing away from the door now, though you know he clocked you the moment you walked in, always does. He can feel a change in a room's atmosphere the way other people feel a draft, and your presence has become one of the things he's attuned to, though he'd rather be waterboarded again than admit it.
And Johnny.
Johnny is mid-sentence, gesticulating with his pint, lit up and alive and devastating, and he hasn't seen you yet.
You order a drink at the bar. Gin and tonic. You position yourself where his sightline will catch you naturally—not too close, not too obvious, like setting a lure and waiting for the current to do its work.
It barely takes a minute.
His gaze sweeps the room, passes over you, and snaps back. You watch it happen in your peripherals; the double-take, the slight parting of his naturally pouty lips, the way his entire body reorients towards you like a compass needle finding north.
"Ho-ly shite," he breathes, still staring. "Lads. Lads. Two o'clock."
Kyle makes a show of looking when his arm is being nudged repeatedly. "Yeah? Which one?"
"The—Are ye blind?" He scoffs, offended on your behalf. "Her. Right there. At the bar."
"She's alright." Kyle shrugs, and the casualness of it is Oscar-worthy.
"Alright? She's fuckin'—" Johnny runs a hand over his mohawk, a nervous tell he's had since he was a teenager and will probably have until he's ninety. "She's fuckin' gorgeous is what she is."
Simon lifts his glass. Takes a slow drink, sets it down deliberately.
"Go talk to her then," he says with a shrug, and his voice is perfectly flat, perfectly controlled, and if anyone at this table could hear the hairline fracture running through those five words, they'd understand something that Simon has long decided to take to his next grave, because he's watched this happen too many times now.
He's watched Johnny fall in love with you for the first time seven more times after the real one, the first time, and each time, he involuntarily catalogues the way Johnny looks at you—stunned and reverent, immediately and irrevocably gone—and files it beside the thing he keeps locked in the deepest, most fortified room in his chest cavity.
He doesn't want you instead of Johnny. That's not what this is. It's worse than that, and quieter, and it has no name because he refuses to give it one.
What he wants is to be someone who could be loved the way you love Johnny; he wants to understand what it feels like to be chosen over seven times by a brain that can't hold onto anything else.
What he desperately wants—is to stop fucking wanting.
"Go on," Simon says again, when Johnny hesitates. "Before someone else does."
Johnny grins wider and slides out of the booth.
And he approaches you with more confidence than caution along with a smile that could talk its way out of an international incident.
"A'right?" He leans against the bar beside you with all his bulk, leaving just enough space for plausible deniability, and you almost laugh because it's exactly how he did it the first time—the real first time—at a pub in Edinburgh six years ago.
"A'right," you reply, letting the corner of your mouth lift.
"Johnny." He extends his hand. "John MacTavish."
You take it. His palm is warm and rough and so achingly familiar that you have to swallow hard against the lump that rises in your throat.
And you give him your name in return; no surname, because hearing his own last name come out of your mouth would raise questions you're not ready to choreograph around yet.
"Can I buy ye a drink?" he asks casually, nodding at your gin and tonic. "Or are ye waitin' for someone?"
"I might be."
"Oh, aye?" His eyebrows lift, and the grin sharpens. "Lucky bloke."
Your lips purse. "Who says it's a bloke?"
He barks a genuine laugh and the sound of it hits you right in the sternum because it's the same laugh, it's always the same laugh, whether he knows you or not.
"Fair enough. Can I buy ye a drink while ye wait for whoever's lucky enough to have ye, then?"
You hold his gaze, eyes crinkling in the corners as you suppress a smile before you cave in. "Go on."
Johnny buys you a cocktail, then a water, and you let him.
He tells you he's military—"Aye, the kind ye cannae ask aboot, sorry, love"—and that he's recently recovered from an injury he's vague about; he points at his two mates sitting in the corner booth who are "Absolutely shite wingmen, don't even look at ‘em." And he tells you that you have the best laugh he's ever heard, and he says it with such disarming sincerity that you almost believe he's saying it for the first time.
He might be. That's the thing. To him, he is.
You tell him you're a—and you pause here, every time, because this is the part where you have to build a version of yourself that's close enough to the truth that you won't trip over the details but far enough from reality that he won't start connecting dots prematurely. You tell him what you do, where you live, staying vague, and you make him laugh, and his hand finds the small of your back at some point and stays there, warm and heavy through the dress, and you let it because it belongs there.
At the booth, Kyle is watching with the practiced eye of a director monitoring a scene he's staged before. He tracks the beats—the body language closing in, the first touch, the moment Johnny leans down to hear you over the music and stays close—and he nods to himself, satisfied with the outcome.
Simon is staring at the table. His glass is empty. He doesn't order another.
"He's doing well tonight," Kyle says quietly, because someone should break the silence, and Simon sure won't.
Simon nods, not lifting his eyes from the sticky surface. "He always does well with ‘er."
The sentence hangs between them. Kyle looks at Simon and sees something in the set of his Lieutenant's jaw that he files away and will never, ever mention aloud.
"You good, LT?"
"Fine."
He's not fine. Kyle knows, but he chooses not to push it.
Johnny drives you home after assuring you he only had two pints.
This is the part that always makes your chest tighten—the navigation and logistics of getting him into his own house without it feeling like a trap. You give him directions, turn by turn, and he follows them cheerfully, one hand on the wheel of your car (his car, technically; the one you drove to the pub) and the other on your thigh, thumb tracing idle patterns on your skin.
"Nice neighbourhood," he remarks as you turn onto the street. His street. Your street.
"It's alright," you manage, and your voice is steady, which is a miracle.
He pulls into the driveway and kills the engine, and you watch his eyes move over the front of the house; over the garden you maintain together, the blue door he painted last spring during a particularly good month, the porch light that you left on tonight because you knew you'd be bringing him home.
"Lovely place," he says, and there's nothing in his voice but genuine appreciation, no recognition, no alarm, and the absence of it is a knife you've learned to hold without flinching.
"Come inside then," you tell him, and he grins genuinely. "Thought ye'd never ask."
The front door is where it starts getting tricky.
His boots are by the mat. Not a guest's boots—his boots, broken in and muddy, sitting beside a pair of your trainers in the easy domesticity of a shared household. Johnny glances down at them, and you see the first flicker; not quite recognition yet, just a stutter, a brief glitch in the narrative he's been building all evening.
"Those are—" he starts, then stops, and shakes his head. "Those look like mine."
He lets out a short laugh, but there's an edge to it. A hesitation. His eyes move from the boots to you, narrowing playfully, but you can see the question forming underneath.
"Ye're not married, are ye?" He asks it like a joke, but his gaze drops to your left hand—still bare, ring safely tucked in your jacket pocket—and then sweeps back to the boots. "Because I'm no' that kind of bloke, love. I don’t do that."
"I'm not married," you lie, and it tastes like glass shards in your mouth.
"Good." The grin returns full force, satisfied, and he reaches for your waist again. "'Cause I'd hate to have to fight some poor bastard for ye."
He moves on, pulling you towards him, and you let out a breath you were holding. Then he pauses, looks down at his own left hand, still resting on your hip, and you watch his brow furrow.
"What the—" He lifts his hand, turning it in the dim hallway light. The gold band sits on his ring finger, catching the glow from the porch light through the glass panel in the door. He stares at it like it appeared there by magic, and you always wonder if he only notices it at this point, because some part in his brain does recognize the terrain subconsciously.
"When did I—" He touches the ring with his other thumb, turning it as he mutters. "I don't—Why am I wearin' a—"
"Johnny," you say softly, and take his hand, folding your fingers over his. "Come to the bedroom with me."
He looks at the ring, then at you. The furrow deepens, but the panic hasn't arrived yet—just confusion surfacing, sitting like sediment at the bottom of a glass that hasn't been stirred yet.
"Aye," he says slowly, nodding. "Aye, alright."
The hallway is next.
You've learned to control the environment—certain photos stay up because removing them would make the house feel wrong, and a wrong-feeling house agitates him in ways that are harder to manage than the photos themselves. The wedding portrait stays on the wall at the end of the corridor, but the hallway lighting is dim enough that it doesn't register unless he's looking for it.
He's not looking at anything but you; one hand finding your waist as you move through the darkened house, his mouth is close to your ear.
"Ye smell incredible," he murmurs, nose brushing through your hair. "Been thinkin' aboot this all night."
You chuckle softly with a knot in your chest. "Have you?"
"Since the second I saw ye in that pub." His grip tightens, pulling you back against him, and his lips find the side of your neck. "Couldn't think about anythin' else."
You lean into him; let him hold you and his hands wander over the fabric of your dress while his mouth traces a warm, open path along your throat.
"Bedroom?" you whisper.
"Christ, yes."
You lead him by the hand. Down the hall, past the closed door of the bathroom where his toothbrush sits in the holder beside yours and the spare room where Simon once slept on the floor for three days during a particularly bad episode because he refused to leave either of you alone to deal with it and refused a bed on top of it.
The bedroom.
You open the door and let him walk in first, which is a deliberate choice—it lets you watch his face as the room registers. The king-sized bed you share. The nightstand with his book on it, dog-eared and half-read. Your wardrobe, open slightly, his fatigues visible on the shelf beside your clothes.
And on the dresser, in a simple frame—a photograph. Not the wedding portrait. A smaller, candid snapshot. Him and you, laughing at something you don’t even remember off-camera, his arm around your shoulders, your face turned into his chest. Kyle took it at a barbecue over eighteen months ago, back when things were still normal, back before the world broke.
And because his vigilance training is seared somewhere deeper into his brain, Johnny sees the photograph first.
He goes still. Not the easy stillness of before, but tighter and alert. The stillness of a soldier who's walked into a room and sensed that the intel doesn't match the terrain.
"What—" He drops your hand and crosses to the dresser to pick up the frame without asking. His brow furrows deeper while his thumb traces the edge of it.
"That's me," he says slowly.
Your stomach drops; you stay back, swallowing hard. "Yes."
"That's—" He looks at you. Back at the photo, then back at you. His breathing changes, shallow and faster now, and you can see the confusion calcifying into something harder, edged with the beginning of panic.
"Why is there a fuckin’ photo of me in yer house?"
"Johnny—"
"Why are my fuckin’ things here?" He's turning now, scanning the room with fresh eyes, and you watch the details hit him one by one—the boots downstairs, the book on the nightstand, the fatigues in the wardrobe. His toothbrush. His cologne on the bathroom shelf. The indent on his side of the bed.
"What the fuck is this?!" His voice pitches up and his chest is heaving, and you recognise the spiral; the moment the ground drops out from under him, and he can't find the edges of what is real. "Who the fuck are ye? What—Why do ye have—"
"Johnny." You step towards him, hands raised, palms open, the way you'd approach a wounded animal. The way the counsellor taught you. "Johnny, listen to my voice."
"Don't fuckin'—" He backs away and bumps into the dresser, and the frame rattles, and his hands are shaking. "Tell me what's goin' on. Now!"
"You live here," you say carefully, evenly. "This is your house. Our house."
"No. No, I've got a flat, I've got—"
Your expression drops to something pained yet soft. "You don't have a flat, sweetheart. You haven't had a flat in three years. You live here. With me."
He stares at you. His jaw is working, his fists are clenched at his sides, and his eyes are wild with the terror of a man whose own mind has suddenly become enemy territory.
"We're married, Johnny." You keep your voice steady and warm. You don't move closer yet, but you produce your own wedding band from your pocket and slip it on deliberately, matching his. "Three years. We got married at your mum's church in Glasgow, and you cried during the vows, and Kyle was your best man and he cried even harder."
Something flickers. Not memory, not quite yet, but a tremor, a fault line opening in the panic.
"Kyle—" he repeats, and his voice cracks on the name.
You nod enthusiastically. "Kyle Garrick. Gaz. Your best mate. He was at the pub tonight. So was Simon."
His blue eyes widen and flicker to meet yours. "Simon…"
"Ghost. Your Lieutenant. Tall, angry, won't take his mask off. He's probably sitting in his car outside right now making sure you got home safe, because that's what he does."
Johnny's breathing is ragged. His eyes are darting around the room, and you can see him trying to force the pieces together, grasping for edges that won't line up.
"I don't—" His voice breaks. "I don't remember."
Your heart breaks all over again; hands clenching and unclenching at your sides while you suppress the reflex to reach for him.
"I know."
"Why don't I remember?"
You sigh and your shoulders drop with it. "Because you were hurt. On a mission, ten months ago. You were shot, Johnny. In the head."
His hand moves before he's conscious of it—fingers lifting to his temple, searching, and you watch the exact moment they find it. The ridge of scar tissue above his left ear and temple, healed but tight, a furrow carved into the skin where the bullet grazed bone instead of passing through it.
He should be dead. The doctors said so. Kyle said so. Simon said so, once, in the kitchen at one a.m., in a voice so flat it sounded like a weather report. He should be dead. The bullet was two millimetres from killing him.
Two millimetres. The width of a pencil lead. The margin between a funeral and a life that keeps resetting.
Johnny's fingers trace the scar slowly, mapping the terrain of a wound he doesn't remember receiving. His face goes blank, not calm, but emptied, like the shock has pushed everything else out to make room for this one impossible fact.
"I was shot in the head," he repeats, toneless.
"By a man named Makarov. On a mission in," you sigh again, rubbing both hands over your face before regaining some composure. "It doesn't matter where. What matters is you survived, Johnny. You're here… With me."
"I don't—" His fingers press harder against the scar, like he's trying to push through it into the memory underneath. "I can't feel—It doesn't hurt."
"It pulls sometimes. When you're tired, or when the weather changes. You rub at it without realising. And then you ask me to put Bepanthen on it for you."
He drops his hand. Stares at it like it belongs to someone else.
A sound comes out of him that you've heard before and will never get used to—a small, gutted noise from deep in his throat, barely human, like something being torn at the root.
His gaze lifts. "I forget you?"
"Sometimes." Your voice is steady, but your eyes are not. "But you always come back. Every time, Johnny. You always come back."
He's staring at you with an expression that is no longer panic but something rawer, more exposed. The look of a man standing in the wreckage of a life he can't remember building and trying to find anything solid enough to hold on to.
"Come here," you say softly, finally, and you open your arms to him.
And Johnny doesn’t hesitate. He crosses the room in two strides and crashes into you.
His arms wrap around you so tightly it hurts, his face burying into the crook of your neck, and the ragged, broken sound he makes fills the bedroom and settles into the walls like a stain that will never come out.
You hold him like always. One hand on the back of his head, fingers carding through the short hair at the nape of his neck, the other arm banded around his broad back. You press your lips to his temple and breathe him in; cedar and sweat and the faint antiseptic undertone that hasn't fully left his skin since the hospital.
"It's okay," you murmur into his hair. "I'm here. I've got you."
"'M sorry—" He's shaking in your embrace. "I'm so fuckin' sorry, I didn't—I didnae know."
"You don't have to be sorry."
"I was chattin' ye up like some—like ye were some random—"
"I know." You pull back just enough to take his face in your hands, thumbs brushing over his cheekbones. His eyes are red and wet and searching yours desperately, looking for the anchor he can feel but can't see.
"You chat me up every time," you tell him, and you let yourself smile wetly because he needs to see it, needs to see that this isn't a tragedy to you—it's a Tuesday. It's the life you chose, and you'd choose it again. Every day for the rest of your shared life. "Same lines, same moves. You always lead with buying me a drink."
A wet, startled laugh punches out of him. "Aye?"
"Every time. Kyle says your material is tragic."
"Kyle can fuck off." He sniffs hard, blinking, and his hands are still gripping the fabric of your dress at your hips like he's afraid you'll evaporate. "Do I—Do I at least have good chat?"
You snort. "The worst."
His eyes widen comically. "The worst?"
"Absolutely appalling. I fall for it every time."
He laughs again, and this time it's closer to real and his forehead drops against yours as you breathe the same air, and the room settles around you like a held breath being released.
"Ye married me," he whispers, like he's testing the shape of it. "Ye actually married me."
You nod again, nuzzling your forehead against his. "Voluntarily and everything."
"Yer off yer heid."
"Probably," you brush your nose against his tenderly, "but you're stuck with me, MacTavish."
His hands slide from your hips to your waist, pulling you closer, and when his mouth finds yours, the kiss is tentative at first; careful and questioning, the kiss of a man who isn't sure what he's allowed to take yet.
You answer by threading your fingers into his mohawk, pulling him deeper, and kissing him back with every ounce of the love you've been carrying all evening behind the heavy mask of a stranger.
He groans into your mouth; his hands tighten on your waist, and the tentativeness dissolves into urgency, warm and achingly familiar.
"Tell me what ye like," he murmurs against your lips, and the earnestness in his voice—the genuine desire to get it right and learn you, not knowing he already has—makes your heart crack along an old fault line.
"I'll show you," you whisper. "I'll show you everything."
You undress him slowly.
The henley first, peeled over his head, and your hands trace the landscape of him; the scars he doesn't remember getting, the ink he doesn't remember sitting for, the topography of muscle and damage that your fingers have memorised over years of exactly this. Touching and mapping him; loving the body that keeps forgetting it's loved.
He watches you with wonder, his chest rising and falling unevenly. You trace each scar you find and when your fingers reach his jaw, you let your thumb drift up to his temple, brushing feather-light over the ridge of scar tissue there.
He flinches. Not from pain but from the strangeness of being touched somewhere he didn't know existed until twenty minutes ago.
"Does that bother you?" you ask, pulling your hand back.
"No." He catches your wrist and guides your fingers back. "Do it again."
You trace the scar slowly, gently, and his eyes flutter closed, and for a moment his face is so open and so unguarded that you have to bite the inside of your cheek to keep yourself together.
"Sounds aboot right," he murmurs, half to himself. "Hero and an eejit."
You push him back onto the bed, your marital bed, and he goes willingly, pulling you with him until you're straddling his lap, the skirt of your dress riding up around your thighs. His hands grip your hips, and he looks up at you with those bright blue eyes—burning with more than just lust.
"Christ, yer beautiful," he breathes. "D'ye know that?"
"You tell me." You lean down and press your mouth to the hinge of his stubbled jaw. "Every time."
"Good," he murmurs. "'S important ye hear it."
You kiss down his neck, his hairy chest, tracing the lines of his tattoos with your tongue and flicking one of his nipples. He groans and his hips roll up against you, the hard line of his fat cock pressing against your inner thigh through his jeans, and his fingers dig into the meat of your hips.
"Fuck. Ye don't have to—" You shake your head with a smile, shushing him. "I want to. Always do. I love sucking you off."
Johnny grins wolfishly. "I can see why I married ye."
And he groans with delight as you slide off his lap to kneel between his legs while the look on his face makes your eyes sting again, though you’ve become good at blinking it away. You undo his belt carefully, his button, his zipper, and free him from his briefs, and his cock springs up thick and hard.
You know this cock well; know the weight of it on your tongue, the exact pressure to stroke it that makes his abs clench, the spot beneath the mushroomy head where he's most sensitive. You know that he likes it slow at first and messy by the end, that he'll try to be polite about it until he can't, that his hand will find the back of your head and his hips will stutter and he'll warn you in a voice that's already gone before he comes down your throat in needy pulses.
You take him in your mouth, and the relieved, guttural sound he makes fills the room.
His eyes squeeze shut; his chest heaves. "Oh Christ—oh fuck—!"
You work him slowly. Tongue flat against the underside of his shaft, lips tight around the flushed tip, one hand wrapped around the base. You hollow your cheeks and take him deeper, and his hand flies to the back of your head—not pushing but needing to touch you—and his thighs tense on either side of your shoulders.
Johnny babbles through it, always does when you give him oral; accent thickening with random gibberish and praise.
You pull off with a slick pop and look up at him through your lashes, stroking him slowly from root to cockhead before you duck lower, and you lick a long, slow stripe over his balls, tonguing along the seam until you feel the exact moment his brain short-circuits.
"Holy shite—oh my God—nghh—" He grits his teeth, his eyes squeeze shut, and John MacTavish whines when you take one into your mouth gently, sucking softly, while his entire body arches off the mattress. His hand fists in the sheets; another sound comes out of him that is less word than sensation, more guttural and ecstatic.
"How did ye—Nobody does—How do ye know—"
You release him and press a kiss to his inner thigh, looking up at him with eyes that are bright and wet, but steadier.
"Because I'm your wife, Johnny."
The words land. You watch them hit; watch his expression cycle through shock and confusion and then something that isn't memory but is adjacent to it, deeper than recall, carved into the bedrock beneath the damaged circuitry.
Recognition.
"My wife," he repeats, and his voice is thick and full of awe.
You kiss his hip, nodding. "Your wife."
"Christ Almighty." His hand comes up to cover his mouth, and his eyes are shining as he pulls it back just enough to stare at his wedding ring again. "Oh my God, ye're my wife."
"I am."
"And ye—ye know—ye know exactly what I—"
"Everything." You crawl back up his body and straddle him again, cupping his face, pressing your forehead to his. "I know everything, Johnny. Every filthy, unhinged, ridiculous thing you're into, because you've spent years showing me, and I love it, and I love you, and you don't have to hold back."
And then Johnny kisses you hard and desperately; his hands suddenly everywhere at once—your hair, your waist, tugging at your dress, pulling it over your head with shaking fingers. He gets it off and throws it somewhere and then his hands are on your bare skin and the sound he makes is reverent.
"Ye're not—This isn't—"
"This isn't a hookup," you finish for him. "This is us. And I want all of it."
The dam breaks open behind his eyes, not quite memory, but permission, and the shift is seismic. His grip and breathing changes. The careful, polite restraint of a man on a first date incinerates, and what replaces it is raw, hungry, and known.
He flips you onto your back in one fluid motion, and the strength of it, the ease, makes you gasp. He's between your thighs before you can draw your next breath, yanking your underwear down your legs and tossing them over his shoulder, and then his mouth is on you without preamble, just his tongue on your clit, furious with intent.
Your head tips back with a shameless moan as he sucks and laps at your cunt.
"Tell me," he growls against you, the vibration making your hips buck. "Tell me what ye like, tell me everything, I wanna know—I wanna know every fuckin' thing—"
"Your fingers—Two—Hah, yes! Yes, like that—"
He drives two thick fingers into you, curls them, and your spine lifts off the bed. He reads you like a detonation sequence; adapting to your needs, adjusting pressure and angle and rhythm with the same tactical precision he brought to every mission, and within minutes you're shaking apart under his mouth, your hands fisted in his mohawk, his name tearing out of you on a scream.
And he doesn't let up but works you through the orgasm, licking you through the aftershocks, and when you drag him up by the shoulders and pull him over your body like a weighted blanket, his chin is slick and his eyes are blazing and the grin on his face is the most Johnny thing you've seen all night.
"Good?" he asks, like he genuinely needs the feedback.
Your hand curls around his nape as you pull him down, breathing against his lips. "Get inside me. Now."
"Fuck. Yes, ma'am."
He lines himself up, drags his cock through your drenched cunt and pushes in, slow at first, until your breath catches at the stretch and fullness, the feeling of home that hits you every time no matter how many times you do this, and he is fully sheathed inside.
Johnny cusses under his breath, his voice strained, and his arms braced on either side of your head; his face close enough that you can see every flicker of sensation crossing his features whenever you squeeze and clench around him.
"Move," you breathe. "Don't hold back. You never hold back with me."
"Don’t hold back," Johnny repeats and groans breathlessly, head hanging with the resigned realization that this will have a quick end, before he nods and folds your legs up, draping them over his shoulders. "Aye… I can do that."
And then his hips drive forward in a thrust that knocks the headboard against the wall, and the sound that punches out of both of you is obscene. He sets a relentless pace, hard and deep, fucking you the way you asked him to—with everything and nothing held in reserve—and the slap of skin on skin fills the bedroom along with your cries and his grunts and the rhythmic bang of the headboard.
"This what ye like?" he pants, one hand gripping the wooden frame for leverage. "This how I fuck ma wife?"
"Yes!" you cry out. "God, yes, please—Harder!"
"Harder she says—Fuckin' hell!" He adjusts your right leg over his shoulder, canting your hip up even further, and the change in angle makes you see stars, his cock massaging that spot inside you that makes your pussy tighten and your vision white out. "Look at ye takin' it. Fuckin’ look at ye. Yer a fuckin' dream, ye know that?"
"Johnny, 'm close," you mewl while your nails dig into his flexing biceps.
"Aye, I can fuckin’ feel it." His hand slides between your bodies, thumb rubbing your clit with unerring accuracy while a beads of sweat run down his chest, disappearing into the coarse hair. "C'mon, love. Gimme it, lemme feel ye."
And when he makes you tip over and your inner walls convulse around his cock in rhythmic, desperate pulses, Johnny follows you over the edge barely three thrusts later with a guttural moan and your name bitten into the skin of your shoulder as he buries himself to the hilt, spilling his load inside you.
He collapses over you, trembling, his face pressed into your neck while your legs slide off his shoulders with a satisfied sigh, and you hold him through the aftershocks the way you always did in nights like this one; a hand in his hair, the other on his sweat-slick back, feeling his heart pound against your chest.
For a long time, neither of you moves as the room settles. Your breathing evens out, syncs up, falls into the rhythm of two people who've been sharing a bed long enough that their bodies know how to find each other even in the dark.
"Hey," Johnny says eventually, muffled against your neck.
You smile despite everything, eyes welling up with tears. "Hey."
"I love ye."
You press your lips to his temple and whisper, "I love you too."
"D'ye think—" He lifts his head; his eyes are glossy and he suddenly looks unbearably young. "D'ye think I'll remember this tomorrow?"
The question sits between you, heavy and terrible but honest. You swallow hard, consider lying, but choosing not to.
"I don't know. Sometimes you do, other times you don’t," you say truthfully, because you promised yourself early on that you'd never lie to him about this. "But if you don't, I'll remember for both of us."
A tear slips down his face. Then another. He wipes them roughly with the back of his hand and lets out a wet, shaky laugh.
"And then ye'll just… What, fall in love with me again?"
"Johnny." You take his face in your hands and hold his gaze. "I've never stopped."
He makes a choked sound and kisses you again, slower this time, tasting of salt and beer.
He falls asleep with his head on your chest and his arms around your waist, and you stay awake longer than necessary, fingers carding through his short hair, listening to the slow rhythm of his breathing.
Outside, across the street, a black truck sits with its engine off.
Simon Riley watches the bedroom light go on through the upstairs window, and he watches it stay on for a long time before it’s switched off again.
And then he sits in the dark, in the quiet, and he wonders.
Not about what is happening inside. Not about them, specifically.
About the shape of a life where someone waits for you; where someone takes a phone call at nine p.m. on a Friday and puts on the green dress and drives to a pub and falls in love with you again because you asked her to, even though you didn't know you were asking.
He wonders what it would feel like to walk into a room and have someone's entire body reorient towards you; to be the answer to a question someone didn't know they were carrying.
And Simon wonders if he's capable of that. If the thing inside him that was broken long before any mission, long before any scar, is the kind of broken that someone could love around, the way you love around Johnny's.
He wonders, and he doesn't find an answer—somehow never does—and after a while, he starts the car and drives home to an empty flat.
And he locks the door behind him and sits in the silence that he chose, keeps choosing, and has never learned to want.
as a writer you will have a specific deck of vocab words you like using a lot and when you read other peoples' work you will see a very clear spread of different vocab words on their end. this is why you need to read, to collect other writers' words like it's a card game
You ruin Bo's plans, but his desperation to keep you around is stronger than his desire to set you straight.
Warnings: 18+, AU, smut, slight dubcon, f!reader, language, unhealthy dynamic but he tries, controlling dynamic, mommy issues + mommy kink (the term mommy isn’t mentioned), breast/nipple play, dom!reader, sub!bo, reader is morally grey, violence, mentions of blood and murder, typical horror warnings, weapons, alcohol, smoking, angst and comfortish, but you love that man like nobody can, softer!bo, grammar probs WC 8.7K
A/N: Please advise warnings, this dynamic certainly isn't for everyone. I didn't list stockholm syndrome as a warning because I didn't imagine the reader as a real captive, rather a figurative one. I did a lot of research on this film because I love it so much, and though Bo's killing technique isn't mentioned canonically, I wanted to emphasize that my creation of Bo may be a serial murder, but he is certainly not a rapist or sexual predator. I wouldn't be able to stomach that. So, I may have softened him a bit but its because I'm a romantic and I love to self indulge. ANYways I hope you enjoy regardless. Listened to Ethel Cain on repeat for this one. My inbox is open, as are my requests!
A sheen layer of sweat glistened on your temples. The sun shone harshly onto your exposed skin as you loaded paper grocery bags onto the bed of the truck. The black metal scorched your skin, hissing in disapproval of your time leisurely spent in the outskirts of your enclosure. Bo's truck was similar to him in that way.
The driver seat groaned beneath your weight as you situated yourself behind the wheel. Stale cigarette smoke permeated from the hot cabin, settling in your sun-baked hair. The truck engine whined, and for every second spent out of his sight, you knew Bo would have too.
You just couldn't help yourself. Ambrose seldom offered normalcy. The neighboring towns bustled with livelihood and the gratitude of functioning air conditioners. Their communities did not reek of death, but of life and prosperity. Of fresh laundry and ripe tomatoes. Of newly cut lawns and gossip caught from open windows. Children's bikes chimed and dog paws clacked on fresh pavement. Clothing rotated in shop windows—constantly changing to resemble the magazines that women held in salon chairs.
Dust was not swept to keep up appearances. Contraptions were not built to mimic the steady rise and fall of a breathing chest. Prescriptions did not expire behind pharmacy counters, and wax did not glaze over ordinary imperfections. Ambrose made these little Louisiana towns resemble heaven, and as your head lied upon the same stained fitted sheets in a town with a population of four and a dog, you could only have dreamt of something so luxurious.
So, you grew aggravated. Harbored enough resentment to fuel Bo's truck to New Orleans and back.
Bo's lingering touch stung your bare skin. Left imprinted uncertainty where you once felt adoration. You grew hopeful he'd spend more time in the garage, and less time searching for you—peering within the shadows that the street lights and shop signs neglected to illuminate. You'd slowly began moving some of your possessions to a house down the street, with a back deck and a rocking chair that faced the expansive forest. Thick vines twirled onto the banister, gripping with its green hands as if loosening would prompt the entire structure to collapse.
You weren't going to leave, not completely, yet the thrill of disobedience flourished with every object you moved to your house rather than a home you shared. A hairbrush on the old dresser. Sheets you had bought from the department store in town stitched newly and save without wear. A newspaper clipping of salons in the next town over, employment listings seemingly etched on the back. The stacked cardboard boxes in the Sinclair house taunted you. Misplaced photographs and empty beer cans spilled along the filthy carpet. It made your skin crawl. No vacuum was strong enough to suction decades worth of cigarette ash and emotional distress, embedded in the worn rug as if it was installed when the house was built—trapped inside. Seeping out, and grasping at your slipper-clad feet as you maneuvered around the house of horrors.
You'd never truly leave. You didn't truly want to. Bo handing over the keys to his beat up truck was a test you aced every time. He would search for you, not that he would need to go far, because you would return to him all over again.
Readily, you'd fall into his creaky bed. Into the chapel as he prayed over his deceased mother, seeking for advise she could no longer—if she ever was able to, provide. Your fingernails would paw at the stitching of his suit jacket as if you were a child grown bored by the intricacies of Sunday mass. You'd crawl onto the porch and into his lap while he held a cigarette between his calloused fingertips. The amber glow would glisten onto his softened face, settling into the fine lines around his stern eyes. You would cradle his stubbled jaw, thumb swiping over the coarse bumps along his throat.
The image hardened in your stomach. You were utterly dependent. Utterly restricted by rules you abided by. Bo never strapped you to a chair. Never threw you over his shoulder and gave you a reason to fear him. Never duck-taped your mouth shut and trailed a knife over your beating heart to prove he was your keeper, to prove he was the only one capable of determining your fate. He didn't have to. Seemingly didn't desire to. And as you turned onto the main road in Ambrose, you thought about flooring it straight into the damn garage.
Bo's truck shifted over the pavement, nearly urging itself towards home without your assistance. The air conditioned breeze brushed upon your face, goosebumps biting along your forearms. Bo's truck remained the only place in Ambrose with functioning AC. The unit he had bought sat unopened in a spare room up at the house, awaiting installation as impatiently as you were. Your whining needed to be done tastefully, preferably on a day where the eldest wasn't stricken with the burdens of maintaining a ghost town. Lester would install it in a heartbeat. That much you knew to be true.
You grew restless at the thought of stepping out into the sun once more, as something odd caught your gaze. Two figures were placed before the church. The woman was clad in a white tank top that struggled to stay put upon her small frame, flowing with the subtle drift and reaching just barely above her mid thigh. Her companion was a very tall man, hovering at least a foot above her.
You'd never seen these figures before. Maybe Vincent had them stored elsewhere. You glanced at the time ticking on your wrist. Perhaps you'd been gone long enough for a new capture to have swept through. For Vincent to have ample time to carve through their humanly imperfections—smoothing them as if they had never existed at all. Though, the feminine figure wasn't wax at all. She leaned into the chest of her companion, hand trailing his broad shoulder as her lips stretched into a pleasant grin. She was another living, breathing person standing idly by the church.
Your hands grasped the leather steering wheel, desperate to get to them before anyone else did.
The truck halted across the street from the white chapel. The couple watched as you hopped out from the driver's seat and into view. Hesitating, the man followed shortly behind his female counterpart. She was certainly not as cautious.
Sure, you were complicit. You watched as Vincent hauled men twice his size over his shoulder and into the basement. You heard the screams as they echoed along the empty streets, piercings into your eardrums and aching beneath your molars as you clenched your jaw. You knew Bo took tourists beneath the garage before, strapped them into his twisted fantasy and all you could hope was that he didn't touch them how he touched you. Pathetic.
"Can I help you?" You swallowed. A swift hand shielded your already sunglass-clad eyes. A self-conscious submission. Please don't see the blood on my hands.
The woman stepped before you, a shy smile offered. Something foul lingered along your nostrils. Death. Rot left out in the tenacious sun. "Do you know where we can find Bo?" She asked. Her head tilted in a way that seemed as if she wasn't sure Bo even existed.
"I'm not exactly sure where he is at the moment. Maybe I can help?"
The man peered over his presumable girlfriend, thick brows furrowed in bemusement. His striped shirt grew damp along his neck. "Are you a mechanic?"
You shifted your weight onto your other foot, hand finding the dip of your waist. "No, are you?"
The girl's hand swatted against his chest. "Listen," she began. "A guy brought us here, said to look for Bo. We need a new fan belt."
"Fifteen inch," he added, unhelpfully. "We tried asking for help from somebody in the church but seems like there's a funeral goin' on."
"Yeah, bad timing," the young girl laughed. Your eyes scanned the pebbles beneath the soles of your boots. You didn't have long. "I'm Carly by the way, this here's my boyfriend, Wade."
A small stretch pulled at your lips as you told her your name. She seemed sweet, young. Maybe college-aged. A little frazzled by the combination of heat and the lingering aroma of roadkill, most definitely. If Lester brought them here, surely Bo must've known about them already. Your head swiveled towards the chapel doors as if glaring at them would grant you the ability to see inside. You imagined Bo's body pressed up against the wood, waiting to intervene. Waiting for you to make a mistake.
"I don't...think we have those, but the next town over might." Your shoulders lifted in faux defeat. It was a long shot. You weren't exactly sure if the shop had them. It was a matter of getting them into your car before he burst down the church steps and wrapped his hands around someone's neck.
"Are you sure? Can't you check first?" Carly panted.
Wade pinched the skin between his brows, nearly hissing at you as a rebuttal. Louisiana heat was no joke. "How far is the next town anyway?"
"It's not that far, I can take you. It's really no problem." Believe me, you have bigger ones, you thought. These were exactly the kind of tourists that didn't make it out alive. Nagging, picking fun at Vincent's art and trespassing where they didn't belong. Their personal belongings would be thrown in the old mill before they could locate Ambrose on a map.
Carly inhaled deeply. "It's just that we told our friends to meet us here-"
The door to the chapel swished open. Church music dissipated as it wafted shut again. Bo dug into his suit jacket pocket, and fished out a cigarette. His hair was styled, slicked with gel and combed back behind his ears. It curled at his tanned neck. You hadn't seen him in a suit in ages. Your heart began to pick up speed, thumping in the safety of your chest.
Bo stuck the cigarette onto his lips, nodding in your direction. He looked unfathomably handsome as he tilted his jaw down for you to give him a light. Your hand buried into the contents of your purse, swiftly flickering the lighter and watching as the butt glowed amber. Carly's eyes narrowed curiously, and you almost forgot they were standing there.
"Shouldn't have walked in." Bo exhaled a cloud of nicotine away from your face as Wade sighed.
"Yeah, I know. It's just that we have car trouble, and we're not from this town." He explained. Bo's glare remained fixated on your face. The laces in your boots suddenly became extremely interesting to you.
"We were looking for Bo. He works at the gas station," Carly added.
"You found 'em," Bo scoffed. The man took one last inhale, tossing his cigarette onto the ground. He was wearing dress shoes. The black leather barely scuffed. Faded fold lines imprinted onto his dress shirt. You would have ironed it, had he asked...
"Really? Well, we need a fan belt-"
Wade interrupted her, "We were camping up the road and..."
"You walk in on a funeral for a fuckin' fan belt?" The Sinclair twin stepped forward, leveling himself with Wade. Despite his stature above that of Bo, Wade seemingly shrunk. Carly's eyes trailed over to your position. A subtle plea.
"Bo, they didn't know," you reasoned. Your fingers burned, desperate to reach out to him. Consoling him in front of them would likely irritate him. Still, you yearned to brush the accumulated debris off his broad shoulder—hand lingering where his bicep proved strong.
"Yeah, well let me just go dump the casket in the ground," he murmured. "I'll be right there."
Bo set for the stairs, softly closing the chapel doors behind him. Your head shook solemnly. It was an act, you knew this well. You knew him well, yet part of you wondered if today was an exception. An anniversary of some sort.
Your knowledge of Trudy was limited to what Bo had confided in you, and the few photographs scattered in packed drawers. Newspaper clippings were framed in the wax museum, but your lack of interest deterred you from investigating. You did not care to know the boys' mother. Their peculiarity was enough for you. The indentations on Bo's wrists and ankles. The cower in Vincent's shoulders. Lester's desperation to please. Trudy Sinclair was better off memorialized with her mouth shut. With a permanent procession of strangers and a beaded rosary upon her wicked hands.
Carly lingered for a moment, waiting for your day dream to pass. You imagined the gears turning in her head. "You said the next town wasn't too far?"
You shook your head. "'Bout thirty miles."
"Kinda far," Wade scoffed.
Your sunglasses suddenly weighed heavily upon the bridge of your nose. Carefully, you pushed them back onto the top of your head. Eyes narrowed, your gaze dug straight into Carly's boyfriend. "It's different down here, you're not in whatever city you came from. There isn't a gas station or diner on every street." Your hands gestured sternly towards the vast emptiness of the town before you. "I can try to help you, but you're gonna need to develop a bit of patience."
Wade's stripe-clad shoulders shrunk once more, this time in acquiesce rather than submission. Carly's brown eyes softened. "This isn't a lot to ask of you?"
"Not at all. I make this trip often." You gestured to the truck standing just feet away from you, groceries idly in the back.
The duo exchanged a knowing look, but before they could accept your proposal, Bo stepped out from the church once again. He found his way beside you, heat radiating from his body. Cigarette smoke and faded cologne floated along your nostrils. It was intoxicatingly familiar. Bo's calloused hand rested among the small of your back, prompting a subtle tilt of your head. He was somewhat grinning. It was muted, but evident in the perk of his lips. He was uncomfortable.
"I'm sorry. You know, someone very special to me passed. And I didn't mean to take it out on you," he admitted.
Wade eyed your closeness as Carly's cheeks flushed with embarrassment. Bo was an incredible actor to an unknowing audience. It didn't help that he was undeniably stunning, and ostensibly normal.
"No, no, no," she persisted. "It's totally understandable. You guys just lost someone and we're begging for a favor." Trudy's death was hardly a loss, you thought. More like divine intervention. Bo's hand rubbed at the exposed skin of your hip.
"I reckon things will wrap up soon," he said. He gestured down the hill with his free hand. "Why don't I meet you guys back at the station in 'bout a half?"
The girl's shoulders released. Her gratitude would likely be short lived. Maybe not if you could help it. "That'd be great, thank you both. Really."
She smiled brightly, grasping onto Wade's arm as they walked onto the path towards the museum. Bumping hips and intertwining their hands like kids in a school parking lot. The museum would be nothing like field day, however. No relay race or capture the flag. Only unwilling participants frozen in a game of freeze-tag.
Your attention returned to the man beside you. "Are you gonna help them?"
He scoffed. "Don't I always help the needy?" A smirk spread onto his lips, both hands now resting on your waist. His thumbs rubbed beneath your t-shirt.
"Seriously, Bo. They seem nice," you paused. "And young. Just get them what they need and let them go."
"You're awfully bossy, sweetheart."
You hummed, pressing short kisses along his shaven jaw. It smelled of aftershave. The stubble left your lips tingling pleasantly. "Someone has to keep you in check."
"And I suppose that must be you?" He murmured against your lips. Molding them together as if that's the only place they belonged. He tasted faintly of nicotine and spearmint. Perhaps that was why he was so addictive.
His head tilted side to side in mocking consideration. "I let them go, and then what?"
You pulled away. "You'll be graciously rewarded."
Bo stepped closer, hovering over you. His blue eyes narrowed in an attempt to appear intimidating. He didn't scare you, though. His gaze surveyed your entirety. "If you're just offering a chance to get between your legs, that ain't nothin' special."
You wound your hand to smack his chest, but he was much quicker than you. Catching your hand, he intertwined your fingers with his own, resting just above where his heart should be.
"Jackass," you hissed, but the smile on your lips provided anything but malice. "You certainly won't mind me finding someone that would appreciate it then, huh?"
His grin was wicked. His teeth sunk into his bottom lip as he pinched your jean-clad ass. Right in front of a church. His mother's final resting place. How fitting.
"Don't y'got groceries to put away, girl?" A firm kiss was planted onto your hairline. "Money just meltin' in the bed of that truck."
"Not like it's yours."
"'Scuse me?" Sharp lines creased between Bo's brows. His eyes remained squinted. You slid your sunglasses off of your face, and placed them carefully onto his. Likely the heat, but you swore you saw redness flush along his bare neck and beneath his black collar.
"Nothin', baby." Your hands stroked the shoulder pads on his suit jacket, rubbing intentionally. "I'll see you back at the house after you help Carly and Wade."
Your lips pressed against Bo's, a final provocation to do precisely what you ask of him. Hips swaying down to his truck, you hear the man clear his throat.
"And which house is that?"
Frozen, you turned on your heels to face him. You expected steam to outpour from his ears. Maybe a knife clad in his hand or Doc Sinclair's shotgun that usually remained safe over the fireplace. But his lips were not tilted downwards, and his sharp jaw was not clenched. He looked curious. Amused, even.
Your mouth popped open, but before you could find the ability to explain he interrupted once more. "This isn't over," he said, finger pointed at you like a recruitment poster. Uncle Sam looked ridiculous in your round, crystalized sunglasses. "I'll deal with you later." The man returned into the chapel, door ushered closed behind him.
Of course he knew, and part of you felt guilty. Why did you always assume he would react aggressively? As if he ever acted that way towards you to begin with. He had never harmed you. Never laid a finger on you that you didn't want, didn't beg for. Perhaps it was because you knew what he was capable of.
You had scrubbed the blood from his hands, beneath his brittle fingernails. Had wiped the frustrated tears from his sorrowful eyes, and rinsed the stains from his worn clothing as if it was simply a wine spill. A simple mistake, and not a well thought out plan that commenced with the order placement of duck tape and medical equipment.
Bo was complicated in his own way. You’d known him to go months without bloodshed. Ambrose was secluded enough that visitors were not habitual, but a periodical nuisance. He was sloppy, aiming mostly for a weaker target that didn’t fuss too much before his hands could wrap around their throat.
Vincent was stronger. Perhaps more so than Bo ever was. Ever could be. Destined for a life of misery. Of emotional stunting and a relentless phobia of abandonment. In a way, they all were.
They made you comfortable. Encouragement, you figured. Please don’t leave us like our mother did. Like our father did.
Bo could leave, you thought. If provoked. If begged. But it wasn’t in your nature to do so.
Stumbling upon Bo Sinclair was a rarity. A coincidence. In his mind, fate.
It was late July in New Orleans. The skin of your bare legs stuck to the barstool you sat upon. Legs crossed, you cradled a chilled glass in your right palm. The condensation made a mess of your hand, yet you still offered it to the man that slotted himself beside you. An assertion of dominance. Of course he knew. So he wiped his large hand onto his jean-clad thigh— a temporary marking. Something like a hickey.
You learned that he was from a small town about two hours North of New Orleans, and about forty-five minutes from Baton Rouge. He was a twin, though he couldn’t remember who was just seconds older, and an older brother nonetheless. His palms were rough, no doubt victim to physical labor. His wrists were decorated in badly healed indentations, as if rubber bands had overstayed their welcome on his poor skin. He rolled down his sleeves just as your eyes caught sight of them.
He was persuasive, and charming. A southern gentleman that worked with his hands, and smelled vaguely of stale cigarettes. There was evidently more to his life than he led on, but there were skeletons in your closet too. None that compared to the horrors of Ambrose and the dust-caked museum resting upon the hill, however, and as you leisurely rocked back and forth upon the deck of your abandoned home, you contemplated the sanity of remaining stagnant.
Bo's imperfections were not smoothed over with scorching candle wax, but solidified in the irrationality of his routine. His incessant obsession with perfection in appearance, while the Sinclair house withered with an essence of demise.
Trudy's lanky figure stalked the halls, lingered past the blind spots of street lamps and whispered with each passing breeze. She brushed strands of your hair off of your damp forehead during the particularly warm nights, and stood eerily in the background of your peculiar dreams. Her bedroom door would waft open, despite the lack of a draft. It was better that her eyes were waxed shut, you thought. Yet, at times when Bo wasn’t looking, you swore the blues of her irises shined beneath the burning candles scattered along the church. Her black lashes tickling the edge of her brows. Eyes forever unmoving, but profoundly open.
She wasn't the only figure that loomed within your vision, but the others made themselves scarce. You wondered if a proper burial would put an end to her visits. God forbid you told Bo, yet something told you he saw her too. There were certainly more than five permanent residents in Ambrose, even if the majority were deceased.
The sun was just beginning to set along the horizon. Burnt amber loosened along the tree lines, settling behind the museum on the hill. You couldn't see the main house from here. Though, if you stood on the top step of the Sinclair porch, you could faintly see the red garage door attached to your humble cottage. Unsuspecting to most, you were sure Bo could have sensed which one you occasionally occupied just by pure intuition.
You didn't choose this house at random. Trudy seemingly never visited you here, neither by dream or by apparition. It was far enough from town for the whirl of generators to only be heard scarcely, beneath the rattle of the window fan you had cranked on the highest setting. Only Jonesy would find her way to you when she felt as if she was being neglected. She'd scratch her filthy paw at the screen door, waiting patiently for permission to enter. You'd brush her and tend to her nails, sometimes bathing her when she was being extra sweet. Those moments sat uncomfortably in the pits of your heart. A yearning for normalcy. A shared home with Bo where nightmares didn't ensue. Jonesy could run freely along the backyard while you nursed a melting glass in the comfort of Bo's lap. Vincent and Lester could loosen the tension in their shoulders.
After departing from Bo, you had put away the groceries and tidied the lingering mess of the small kitchen. You cursed at the accumulating mess before setting down the main road.
Carly's caramel brown hair wafted out the open window of the pick up that he usually kept stationary beside the shop. Perhaps it had something to do with the broken headlight that appeared miraculously overnight.
The yellow exterior floated along the pavement. You brought an eager hand to shield your eyes, whether from the sun or the atrocious mustard steel you couldn't be sure. But as Carly's hand waved happily from the passenger side, a glimmer of hope festered in your belly.
Bo's truck was once a luxury you couldn't afford to lose. You frequently cringed at the memories of when he would fish through the receipts, scanning with a glare you could only interpret as uncertainty. Mistrust. You believed it had less to do with the items and cost, and more to do with his compulsion for control. That sort of behavior needed to be reprimanded, and Bo learned quickly not to check another receipt.
Footsteps thumped along the front steps of your residence, echoing to your position on the back deck. The chair rocked leisurely beneath you, as you stretched to place your book on the nearby table. You did not wait for him to knock, or for your name to be called from behind the black screen. It wasn't in his nature to wait for permission. That needed to be taught.
Your neck craned as you sensed his figure looming behind you. A smirk pulled along his lips. He was leaning against the doorframe, still clad in his mechanic uniform. Soft tufts of hair snuck out beneath his baseball cap, curling at the base of his neck. You gestured to the empty seat resting alongside you.
The wood creaked beneath his weight. The sound settled along with the chirp of nearby crickets and the rustling tree branches as they swung in the wind.
“Did you help them with their fan belt?” You asked, breaking the comfortable silence that laid over the two of you like the cotton sheet you had on the bed back home.
“Sure did, just like y’asked of me.” He rolled his head towards you, brows raised as if waiting for praise.
“They’ll be on their way then?” A smile played carefully along your lips, unsure.
He hummed mindlessly, eyes planted on the wild brush ahead.
“Why did you do it?”
“D'what?” His blue eyes were finally on you now. Lips pressed in a thin line, his expression was somewhat misleading.
“You helped them, and let them go.” He did, didn’t he?
Bo removed the cap from his head, rough fingers threading through the brown locks revealed beneath it. You reached out an eager hand before he could return it to its place. Your fingertips toyed with his scalp. His eyes fluttered closed in submission. He was capable, you thought.
“‘S what y’asked me to do.” He murmured.
Your hand glided swiftly from his scalp to his cheek, thumb swiping along his lips. “You’re a good boy, Bo. Y'take such good care of me.”
He smiled. He panted into your hand, eyes still closed as he suckled onto the pad of your thumb. You pushed the digit leisurely in and out of his mouth. His ample tongue chased closely behind. The bulge forming beneath the constraints of his uniform was visible to you now. The setting sun glazed over his face, caressing the scar on his chin and resting within the fine lines of his forehead.
Carefully, you got up from your own chair and stood before him. His cap rested on his knee, hair still tousled upon his head. Bo brought his large hands to rest on your hips, and you took this as permission to straddle his lap. You placed his baseball cap onto his head once again, this time angling it backwards so you could lean in.
Bo groaned into your mouth, pushing his lips against yours eagerly. Your hips shifted over the hardening bulge that aligned with your clothed pussy. Gasping, you steadied yourself and placed a delicate but intentional grasp onto his broad shoulders. The chair creaked beneath the two of you as you dragged your hips agonizingly back and forth over his lap.
Bo struggled, his lips chasing yours with furious determination. Warmth fanned onto your face with every sharp exhale through his nose. He grasped harshly onto the fat of your ass—an attempt at getting his way. An attempt to force your hand and allow him to take charge. His submissive facade seemingly faded and the Bo Sinclair you knew was coming through once more. Not this time.
You pulled off of his lips, your own tingling with dissatisfaction. The man’s brows screwed, hand still rubbing the skin he previously squeezed. “‘S the matter with you?”
“You were being so good.” You spoke lowly, almost taunting. Your swollen lips pursed in disappointment as he took you in. His stern gaze softened as his eyes rampantly scampered around your face like an obedient puppy. His hair was a mess. The collar of his shirt was disarray and partially unbuttoned. You smoothed it, shaking your head softly. “You always do what I ask, don’t you, baby?”
“Course I do.”
“Then sit still, and don’t touch me,” you hissed. You swatted at the lingering touches on your waist, his fingers releasing rapidly as if he grazed a hot stove top.
A small scoff escaped his lips nonetheless. Bo’s head shook. Curiosity danced along the dark blues of his irises. Within this lighting they appeared nearly obsidian, blown with arousal and slight pain. Pain of releasing control, of passing it onto you as if it were a family heirloom. Blown with reluctance and simultaneous acquiesce. He was at war with himself. But he is capable. You know, so you persisted.
“You always give me want I want,” you cooed. “You always take care of me. Let me do the same.” Hands roamed his chest. You pawed at the tufts of hair peeking out beneath his undershirt.
He sighed heavily, chest falling as his gaze loitered along the fabric covering your stomach. It wasn’t until his shoulders were freed of lingering tension that you relented.
Your hand trailed down the length of his torso, index finger tugging beneath his leather belt. The cold metal tingled onto the pads of your fingertips—a sharp contrast from the passion radiating from his body. You wondered how it hadn’t melted, pooled into the palm of your hand like he soon would. For now, you leaned forward. Your warm hand palmed his bulge, lips swallowing each grunt as he allowed them.
Bo’s hips twitched with each grasp, each pressed kiss onto his neck. “You’re being so good, I knew you could be.” You murmured against his lips.
“C'mon, I need…”
You thought you had imagined it, but as your thumb swiped over his cheekbone a sudden wetness reflected within your fingerprint. Tears had accumulated in his frustration, yet instead of forcing a change in dynamic, he relented.
“You need what, honey?”
He gritted his teeth. “More, fuck. You’re killin’ me, sweetheart.” He pleaded with every tear collected in his waterline, voice rasped in despair.
“Tell me what you want, Bo.” Your hips shifted slowly over his lap now. Your hands warmed as they cradled his head, annoyance pouring from within him.
“I need t’touch you, please.”
Bo hissed as you slipped from his lap. The sudden lack of body heat was quickly absorbed in the chill of night. The sun had trickled beneath most of the tree line now, leaving a veil of darkness above. The profound cold nipped at your exposed forearms.
You stood above him now. Your shoulders relaxed with this newfound pride. “Bed. Upstairs, c’mon.”
You feel him behind you the entire way up the staircase. His head swirls around, taking in this place that’s become your second home. It’s vague, empty save for the few items you had brought in: a hairbrush, novels, new makeup and curtains that needed to be ironed.
Your bedroom was reminiscent of a bedroom you had had in a previous life, where the horrors of Ambrose had yet to manifest. In an apartment where Bo's things were not thrown over living room chairs, and his toothbrush didn't nestle too closely besides yours. Cardboard boxes weren't filled with his deceased mother's things. Your apartment had yet to experience the nuisances of living with Bo Sinclair. Yet, you couldn't imagine sharing a bedroom with anyone but Bo.
He took in the clean sheets pulled onto the thick mattress, the window fan blowing summer air into the space. Curtains billowed along with the breeze. It smelled of you, he noticed.
You pursued the bed, laying your head onto the fluffed pillows as he watched, awaiting further instruction. Awaiting permission. Your fingers curled, summoning him to you. His rough hands toyed with the buttons of his shirt, undoing them as if being timed. One by one, Bo peeled both layers from his torso, tossing them gently onto the floor. He moved with such fluidity, such dedication. You wondered if he had even taken a breath.
Bo kneeled onto the bed before you, hands resting firmly on the plush of your hips. His bangs had fallen onto his forehead now, dampened with perspiration. "What do you want, baby?" You cooed, brushing those persistent hairs out of his eyes. He nuzzled into your palm, stubble tenderly pricking the skin.
"Let me taste you, please.” He begged, voice gravel as his restless hands palmed the softness of your flesh. You nodded, and he began to guide your shorts off of your body. Your hips rose with ease, desperate for the throb in your underwear to be dealt with.
Bo messily pressed his lips onto your inner thighs, inhaling your undeniable arousal. His fingers easily buckled beneath your panties, pulling them down the expanse of your legs.
The chill of the window fan flutters along your newly exposed skin. Goosebumps bite along the surface as Bo buried his face into your mound. You gasped—an encouragement to push further. Your hips rocked along his soaked face, gliding over his eager tongue as he lapped your juices.
He ate as if he were starved, emaciated by months of deprivation. Breathless, your back arched off of the comfort of the mattress. He was insatiable. Heat festered in the endless pits of your abdomen, fanned by every lick of his tenacious tongue. Your nipples hardened beneath your loose shirt, tickled by the light fabric. As if he could sense your desperation, a calloused hand slithered underneath your top. He palmed your ample breasts and summoned a whimper to fall from your agape lips.
Bo was filthy with exhilaration. Damp curls soaked onto his forehead as he groaned into your pussy. The vibrations prodded at your arousal, and his nose slid over your throbbing clit. Hips jerked over his zealous mouth, and Bo's strong arms trapped you securely around his shoulders.
Passing the baton of control was seemingly addictive, and his eagerness to please had you incoherent—babbling praise as he persisted in chasing your high. "Don't stop," you all but pleaded.
His chin was slick, coated in your excitement. It wasn't until then that you noticed his own arousal pushing into the mattress. His hips rotated, hopelessly grinding into the plush comforter in need for release. His tongue flickered in and out of your hole, nose dragging back along your throbbing sex.
"You're such a good boy, Bo," you praised through uneven pants. "You're gonna make me cum." His moans vibrated against your sensitive mound, pushing you over the edge. Pleasure crashed over you, mouth agape as you whined. Your toes momentarily froze as your legs shook over the comfort of his broad shoulders. His arms still firmly held you in place. Your walls clenched, aching as your orgasm washed through you.
Your chest rose and fell rapidly. Heart thumping as if it were trying to completely pry itself from your body. You sat up, blinking at him. He was disheveled, eyes glazed over as if hypnotized. He wiped his face on your previously clean sheets, breathless and utterly obedient. His dark eyes trailed up your torso, finding your gaze and awaiting instruction.
Your fingers grasped onto his chin, still partially dampened. You tugged him forward until he was hovering over you. His face squeezed between each of your fingers as you held him above you. “Lie back.”
Bo maneuvered himself onto the pillows. His bare chest glistened beneath the moonlight pouring in from the open window. Soft brown hair decorated his torso, trailing all the way to his fastened belt buckle as you tugged at it. It snapped in release. You tossed the heavy leather off to the side, the object thumping as it hit the wooden floors.
“What do you want?” You asked, toying with the seams of his black trousers. You felt the elasticity of his briefs beneath them. You yearned to snap it onto his unsuspecting skin.
Bo’s gaze fixated elsewhere. His jaw grew slightly sharp as he gritted his teeth. He was fighting himself once more, you figured. But you knew how to be patient.
“Good boys use their words. Don’t they, baby?” You asked, head craning in mock sincerity.
He nodded. Gaze still glued to the walls as if he were watching them dry.
“I can’t hear you.”
“I wan-,” he grunted. “I jus’ want to be inside o’you.”
Your warm grasp rested on his clothed thighs. He wasn’t the only one practicing restraint. He was an utter mess—hair slicked onto his forehead, lips parted as he rejected submission. His eyes were glossy, cheeks flushed with embarrassment.
“You wanna fuck me, Bo?”
Eyes finally meeting yours, Bo nearly moaned. “Yes,” he hissed.
“Yes, what?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Then lift,” you spoke. You pulled onto his trousers, guiding them down his legs. His bulge pressed angrily against his thin boxers. The outline of his tip flushed against the fabric, alongside an undeniable stain of arousal. You grinned, brows furrowing.
“See, wasn’t that hard, was it, baby?” You cooed. Bo was completely exposed to the lingering air circulating the tense bedroom. You tossed his boxers somewhere onto the floor, reaching for the hem of your light shirt.
He was propped against the headboard as you straddled his lap. Heat radiated from his eager body. Your hands roamed the expanse of his chest, finally settling upon his shoulders.
“Do y'want to touch me?” You asked, brushing his stubborn bangs from his damp forehead.
“Yes, ma’am.”
Always a quick learner. Perhaps it was a defensive trait—learning what appealed to his mother. What to say, what not to say. How to not step on her toes. You weren’t that way.
“Go ‘head, honey.”
Bo’s rough hands gravitated from your waist to your hardened nipples, palming the flesh as he watched your face. Gaging your reaction. A gasp escaped, and you situated yourself above his throbbing cock.
You grasped onto his shaft, his head prompting falling back onto the headboard. His tip was raging, throbbing a vibrant pink as you guided him through your slick folds.
Bo’s pearly teeth sunk into his bottom lip. Your hips rocked agonizingly over his, soaking his cock solely with the lubricant of your arousal. You moved just enough to stimulate your own pleasure, while simultaneously denying him of his.
He grunted, teeth gritted like an emaciated animal. He latched his rough fingers onto the plush of your waist, tossing you off of his lap and beneath him.
Your hands flew onto his pecs, handprints pressed into the flesh—his weight falling onto your grip. He hovered over your entirety, hand restraining you from taking back control.
His cock aligned with your slick entrance.
“Bo…" Your words dripped of a disappointment.
The man slid himself inside of you, inch by inch until there was nothing left to give. His hips were connected to yours, pubic hair tickling your groin. His head threw back in ecstasy as he groaned loudly. It was as if he had finally injected himself, the instant sensation of pleasure too great to resist.
He pounded into you, complaints falling short on your chapped lips. Breathless, you wrapped your legs around his lower back. The new angle allowed him further access, fucking into you as the bed frame screamed in agony. He was doing so well.
“Shh—baby, I’m…”
You wanted to scream. His thrusts became animalistic—grunts filling the empty room as if they were part of the initial decor. He felt so good. He knew your body better than you did. And as he guided himself in and out of you, you couldn’t help the heat from building inside of your stomach.
"Poor baby," you cooed. His thrusts remained relentless, and your hand grasped harshly at the roots of his brown hair. "You just can't help yourself, can you?"
Bo’s eyes filled with tears, streaming down his flushed cheeks—steam nearly rising at the contact.
“I’m… so sorry.”
You pulled at his thick hair, forcing him to look at you. His lip quivered, moaning as your slickness sucked him back inside.
“Oh, honey,” you said. “You’re not used to having to ask, are you?”
“No, ma’am,” he cried.
"You just take, and take. Don't you, Bo?"
Bo’s thrusts were slowing in pace, still pounding you into the plush mattress.
“It’s not your fault, baby.” Your fingers swiped underneath his tired eyes, collecting the tears before they dripped down onto your face. “You really tried. You tried to be good, didn’t you?”
“Yes! Yes, I…”
“I know,” you cooed. Your lips found his, tasting the salt of his tears as you molded them together. “You can be good, I know you can. You just need someone to show you, hmm?”
He buried his face into the nook of your shoulder, gasping for relief as the emotion streamed down his cheeks. He was a mess. He was your mess.
“I can teach you, baby,” you promised. “Would you like that?” Hand trailing down the expanse of his back, you coaxed a serial murder. He nodded, whispering a plea into your neck as if it were a recited prayer. Our father, art thou capable of forgiving such a sinner?
He kissed roughly upon your neck, trailing down to your ample breasts. His tongue circled the risen flesh, left breast to right and back again. Along your sternum, behind your ear, lips navigating as a nonverbal apology. I can be better, he promised. And so he shall.
His wet mouth found your nipple again, suckling with a persistent tongue. He doesn’t nip, just moans into your flesh as he finds his pace inside of you again.
“Go ‘head, honey. Take what you need.”
Your hand finds his scalp, threading through the locks while he latches himself to your nipple. Your chest dampens with his accumulated tears, yet the action seemingly calms him. His thrusts become much more intentional, grinding into you as his eyes fluttered shut.
His lashes brush against your skin. The slight tickle prompts goosebumps to rise along your body. He is all over you, weight completely upon you, and you’re utterly full. Your core throbs around him as his whimpering picks up.
“Cum for me, baby,” you panted softly through your lips. “You’re such a good boy, Bo.”
It washes over him instantly. His length twitches inside of you, spilling hot spurts of cum along your walls. His lips release your nipple as he orgasmed, and moans pleasantly filled the bedroom. His shoulders shook, hot pants of breath padded onto your skin.
He softened slightly inside of you. Your heart beat rapidly pulsated beneath his head. His ear pressed against the cavity as if ensuring you were alive to begin with. His brown hair curled at the base of his neck, tinged with sweat and a day of relentless sun. Relentless torture from the woman he loves.
Bo remained inside of you, shifting only to wrap his arms around your body. A mixture of tears and saliva dried over your breasts. He didn’t seem to mind, not while he listened to the rhythm of your heart. His head lifted carefully as you inhaled, promptly falling as the air slowly exited from your lungs. This was the most intimate you had been, likely the most you ever could be.
The window fan spun around and around, circulating the aroma of pleasure. Of pain. You brushed your fingers onto his bicep, nodding for him to get up.
You wrapped a thin robe around your frame, setting down the staircase and back onto the back deck. The sun had completely fallen. The night sky relished in darkness, harboring scattered stars as they reflected from lightyears away.
You fumbled with your package of cigarettes, as Bo entered from behind you. Looming against the doorframe, he was still shirtless. His chest glistened less, and his eyes remained sorrowful. The skin around them grew swollen. You had never seen Bo cry, not in the time you had known him. And you were positive even he could not remember the last time he sobbed that heavily.
His work pants were pulled back onto his hips, unzipped to reveal thick tufts of black pubic hair. He flickered his lighter, nodding towards you as you leaned forward.
The cigarette butt glowed amber. Wafts of nicotine dissipated into the night. Moths fluttered about, chasing the porch light while it shined.
You eyed his groin, exhaling a cloud of thick smoke as he lit his own cigarette.
“Very ‘70s,” you teased. A small smile pulled at your lips, but Bo remained somewhat impassive. His jaw clenched as he flicked ash from his cigarette.
“Did y’mean it?” He asked.
You hummed, lines settling between your brows.
“That I could be good.”
Your bare feet padded towards him, chilled against the wood. God, were his eyes full of pain. You hoped you hadn’t permanently broken him.
“Of course I did, Bo. I know you can be.”
Your chest was mere inches from his. Truth radiated from his silhouette. It lingered with the nicotine, swirling into your nostrils as your own eyes brimmed with tears.
“You are good, Bo.” You spoke lowly. “You are so good to me. You’d do anything for us—for me, Vincent… Lester.” What would it take?
“We could start fresh,” you added. Your hand cradled his jaw. You were being too optimistic. “We could leave Ambrose. We could have something normal—“
“Normal?” His voice raised. It was as if he had never heard the word before. Bo shook his head, defeat filled your belly like the first time you tried a strong liquor—unsettling and agonizingly misplaced.
He turned on his heels, flicking his cigarette into the brush.
“Bo, please!”
“What was that, huh?” He asked, chest puffed as his lips curled. His hand gestured to the ceiling. “Tryna trick me? Make me soft so you can get what y'want out o’me?”
Tears threatened your waterline, merely crossing as your lip quivered. “No… I just want you!”
The man leveled with you, glaring down at your frame as his shoulders tensed.
“Don’t you get it?” You pleaded. “I’m saying it doesn’t have to be this way—that we could have something normal. Where people are real, and they don’t need mechanics to fake their movements!”
You hadn’t realized you were crying until Bo’s gaze subtly softened. The lines beside his eyes somewhat disappeared, and you pushed.
“Vincent can still sculpt! He doesn’t need live models. You never needed any of this,” you gestured wildly.
“Yeah? And what 'bout me?”
“What about you?” You dared. “You did so good today, baby. You’d let them go—you helped, and let them go. Like I knew you could.”
He scoffed, gaze heading straight for the front door. “Y'not happy here? Is that what this s'bout?” Bo asked, blue eyes finally returning to your face. His tone softened, but his posture remained frozen in discomfort.
Were you? Was anyone that had lived here? Had anyone asked you a decade ago to describe your dream life, your dream home and relationship, would you have described this?
Ambrose was unforgiving. It was permanent to all those that encountered it, consciously or not. It ran on old generators and southern hospitality, and the gracious hands of Bo Sinclair. It ran on generational fear and neglectful mothers that had a shrine in the town church, and sons that worshiped her, even if they couldn’t understand why.
Nothing could completely change what happened here. Nothing could erase the body count that had tallied on the imagined chalkboard of your mind. Could people like Bo change? Like Vincent? Like Lester? Like you? Your shoulders shrunk, and the man before you remained restless.
“No.” You finally admitted.
It settled between you, nagging like a needy cat clawing at your socks. Pawing at your leg. Kneading the flesh with wide eyes.
He stared.
“Would you have chosen this for yourself?”
“No,” he hesitated momentarily. His lips curved downward. You could tell he ached for another cigarette. “Na, I wouldn’t.”
“I want a life with you, Bo.” You cried once more. Your fingers reached for his hand, lacing them together. You waited for him to pull back, yell and disappear into the night.
“I want a house that doesn’t have cardboard boxes for decor. I want clothes that fit my body.” You rubbed the callouses of his hand with your thumb. “I want to get my hair done—like normal women do. I want neighbors that laugh through open windows..."
His jaw clenched.
“I want to live in a place that's accessible on a map! I want a bed that doesn’t have sheets with holes in them—a mother-in-law that doesn’t haunt my dreams, and stalk the corners I round!”
“My mama—“
“I want a life that doesn’t entail imminent death or prison time, but I need you to want that too.”
The silence weighed on you heavily, resting on your shrunken shoulders as they shook.
He considered you carefully, and you wondered if he too were made of wax. If this whole time you had simply lost your mind. Unmoving, except for the occasional blink of his stern eyes. You had never been afraid of Bo, though you could see exactly why one might’ve been.
“I don’t know how t’leave.” He admitted, broad shoulders shrugging as a humorless laugh escaped his mouth. He reached to adjust his hat, but it still remained on the back deck. His hand fell to his side. “This s’all I know, y’get that?”
“Yes,” you nodded. Your eyes stung and you bit your lip to keep it from trembling.
He nodded once, arm reaching to pull you in. Against his bare chest you sobbed for every person that never left Ambrose. For every can of expired food, and for every roof that caved in from lack of maintenance. You cried for every time you lied restless in your shared bed, afraid to close your eyes in fear Trudy would appear behind them. For every article of clothing that didn’t belong to you, yet you wore it anyway. For every pair of shoes that didn’t quite fit. For every cobweb that tickled the corpses in the House of Wax. For every family that remained devastatingly optimistic. For every piece of duck tape on young Bo’s wrist. For every crude remark made on Vincent’s behalf. For every moment where Lester felt as if he never existed.
By morning, Bo would slip from your shared bed and confront his brothers, unknowing that they all felt the same.
Yet, for now, you let him rock you gently in your little house, in the safety of his strong arms and the scent of his faint cologne. You let the aroma of stale cigarettes blanket your exhaustion. You let dreams of paint colors and salon chairs fill your mind while he murmured soft promises against your hair.
Your mind filled of freedom, for you never thought you would dream of it again. And for the lowering of Trudy’s body into God's green earth, for none of you would truly be free until she was gone.
Summary: You have a plan in mind. Watching your favorite man fall apart under you. The only caveat is he has to stay still and stay quiet.
TW: teasing, cockwarming, edging
Pairing : Farmer!Remmick x Female Reader
WC: 2k+
As always comes from the Farmer Remmick series by @flixpii
Famer Remmick Masterlist
18+ MINORS DNI!!!!!!
It’s a warm evening on the farm and Remmick is sat, resting after a full day of work, in a rocking chair on the front porch of his family’s farm. He’s lightly rocking back and forth, watching you lazily in the patch of grass just out-front, picking colorful flowers. Soft smile on his face. You eventually trot up the porch and come over to him.
“Havin’ fun?” He asks you with a chuckle.
All you do is smile and begin to sit in his lap facing him, knees bending, as you straddle him. His hands move to wrap around your hips, holding you with a light touch. You hum, beginning to arrange the flowers into his hair, one by one, however they would stick out of his wavy hair. He just smiles at you letting you do whatever, just appreciating the closeness. His hands slightly rub against your hips.
“There, perfect.” With a smile of your own you lean forward, quickly pecking him on the lips.
Remmick smiles more as you pull back from the kiss. As his hands rub, he realizes that he doesn’t feel that familiar line of your underwear. His eyes go wide as he tries to hide his panic, then they go back to normal. His sudden reaction doesn’t go unnoticed by you, and you can’t help but grin mischievously. You lift his chin up to look at you.
“Something the matter baby?”
He swallows, “no…” as says clearing his throat. “Not at all.”
You giggle and roll your hips down. He bites his lip feeling you rub yourself against the seam of his jeans. “You wanna try something?” You whisper to him, just below his ear.
A nod and he gulps, unsure what you had in store for the night. After glancing around the empty space, the farm seems to have not a soul in sight, all the confirmation you need. You unbutton his jeans. Once he realizes what you might be up to his face flushes and the tips of his ears go bright red.
You take your time, pulling the zipper down, reaching past the waistband and tugging his cock free. It doesn’t take much until he’s rock hard, all from a little pumping of your hand around his shaft. Soon you rub his tip through your already wet folds.
He swallows hard. Not believing that this is happening, especially not out in the open.
Your entrance sucks his cock in, sliding through your folds. He stifles a moan feeling his cock sink into you. Quickly you ruffle your dress down, smoothing the crinkles to cover you both up, in case some passersby notice you. They would just see two lovers enjoying a light evening on the porch.
You gently take his chin again; he’s already giving a whine. “I need you to be a good boy for me, Rem. Can you do that?” Voice low as you give him instructions. Whispering at the base of his ear, you tell him he’s not allowed to move. Not a hip roll, not a thrust, nothing. You on the other hand could do what you pleased.
Remmick nods, agreeing. You feel his hands tighten on your hips.
When you kiss him, his hips jerk involuntarily. You tsk at him and he apologies. You are also cruel in the fact that you tell him he as to keep his noises down. To stay quiet. Even though no one was around for miles. The goal was to watch him fall apart.
Your words sank into that beautiful skull, his cock twitching already. His fingers dig into your hips, when the warmth of your walls clench. He tells himself not to grip you to hard, never wanting to accidentally bruise your skin.
There’s a soft creak from the chair, swaying beneath you. The farmhouse looms behind him, a silent watcher. The soft lamplight casts a soft glow on your features and creates a halo of light behind his head. It’s just you, him, and the night critters to keep you company.
With the fabric of your dress layered perfectly, thighs press tight against his, sinking deeper, his cock settling fully now. His thick shaft is buried all the way to the hilt, tip leaking pre thanks to the warmth. You can feel the way it pulses alongside his heartbeat, every shift you make, no matter how slight, has the vein throbbing.
Remmick looks so innocent under you. He’s looking up at you, wide blue eyes wet and pleading, the tiny flowers sticking out of his wavy hair. Your heart flutters with how cute he looks.
“You’re being such a good boy,” you murmur, lips brushing the bottom of his. Except for the occasional shift, you have sat completely still. It was a torment; the sensitivity hits him hard. You know he’s desperate for friction, his cock is a dead give away with how its twitching and straining inside you.
Remmick briefly clamps his eyes shut, steading his breath, while his chest rises and falls in shallow pants. When your walls squeeze, its shoots shivers up his spine. He’s forced to swallow a whimper. And you watch the struggle unfold when his Adam’s apple bobs.
Nuzzling your nose against his, the tension coils, he swears you’ve been here for hours, speared on his cock, but It’s only been a few minutes. He staggers a breath as you lean in, “just sit there and feel me.” You instruct, suddenly, deliberately, you roll your hips. It’s instant. He bites his lip, eyes fluttering shut, a whine escapes his throat, slipping past without meaning to. His cock drags through your drenched folds, squeezing his whole length.
“You’re doing great, Rem. Just gotta stay quiet.” Hand cupping his jaw, gently forcing him to look at you.
His pale blue eyes are already watery from tears. His lips parted when a soft moan slips out when his cock jerks. “Feels….please…it’s too much.” Clutching your hips, he locks his in place, as his voice cracks.
He’s unraveling so easily and your grinning, loving to get to watch this happen in real time. Purposefully you shift again a bigger motion, lifting so his cock slides out about an inch before lowering, plunging it back in. the sound it makes, soft squelch, your slick coating him, easing the glide. He bites his lip again, fighting back a gasping moan that filters out anyway. Tears streaking down his cheeks, the bite so hard it almost breaks the skin on his lip.
“Shhh…. no.” Your tone is affectionate, yet firm, as you cut him off. To add to his torment, you grind down, clit rubbing against his pelvis, hard this time. His cock throbs helplessly. His chest heaves, a whine turning into quiet sobs, gripping at clumps of your skirt for comfort. Cock pulsing again, head nudging that sweet spot, mixing your slick with his leaking pre-cum. He wants to beg for relief.
“You feel that?” you throw the question into the night air. The stars come out to play now, as you continue tormenting him. The chair rocks with each grind, a whisper meant to taunt and tease. “The way you fill me up, is just right.”
Tears come out of the corner of his eyes more freely, moans growing louder despite his efforts. All he can manage is tiny whiny pleas, body shaking, as you deny him any release.
You capture his mouth in a slow kiss, silencing another arising moan, tongue intruding deeply. His own tongue, in frantic urgency, twists and chases yours, desperate for anything to bring relief. Your mouth muffles the desperate cries.
Pulling off to breathe, just for a second, then you’re diving back, recapturing his lips before he can think. Arms wrapped snuggly around his neck, you press your body into his, so that he can feel your perked nipples through the fabric of his shirt.
When you go completely still, his cock is sucked into a vice grip that your pussy has on it. There’s no more teasing, no more shifts or rolls. The shaft of his cock throbs wildly, his thickened length stretching you with that full feeling. Core fluttering with quiet pleasure.
This time he’s the one to break free from the kiss. Letting out a jagged whine. You don’t allow him. Your mouth is currently nipping at his jaw, at the soft stubble there, in soothing kisses.
“Shhhhhh….” You gently remind him and it has him in more tears. Whimpering quietly, your breath warm on his skin, slick flowing over his jeans.
Remmick’s cock fills you just right, it throbs and twitches desperate for any movement. A broken needy whine vibrates from his chest. He’s not sure how much more he can take and you barely started.
“Mmmm….baby,” you hum, sucking on his neck, leaving little red spots. What you are doing is just plain cruel. Pussy clenching, clamping again, an involuntary response. More broken cries slip out of him, tears coming down faster. Heart thumping against his ribs. Your pussy squeezes more pre-cum from his tip, the head barely kissing your cervix.
You moan this time, he’s so deep, the sensation sending sparks behind your eyes.
The grip he had on you waivers, losing his grasps on your dress, hands slipping, he wasn’t meaning to let go. Hell, he needed contact to ground him. His thighs tense, body shuddering, a slew of sobs escaping him. The overwhelming pressure is too much; he can’t help as his legs spread wider causing the chair to rock. Your thighs trip his, another denial, prolonging the ‘torture’ you’ve held him hostage with.
You tease him, kissing his neck softly, whispering. “Feels good. Doesn’t it?” your words crash into him, straight to his core, cock jumping, vein pulsing, tears pouring out alongside his pathetic whimpers.
“Lord….y-yes…you’re so…so warm… please.”
It almost breaks your heart the way his voice cracks. The way he’s begging for release. He catches himself just as his hips try to thrust.
“Please… c-can’t… take much more.”
It doesn’t help that each breath you take makes him feel the tiniest movements. He’s sweaty, drenched in your slick from the waist down, darkening his jeans. Buried so deep, he lets out a frustrated groan.
Lips meet his once more, you lift his dipped head. Soft pathetic wails fill your mouth, muffled of course. You have him so close to the edge, just like a balloon popping from the smallest needle. The chair creaks, rocking backwards. Muffled moans and the wet squish are the only sounds. His body was so frantic.
As you lock eyes with Remmick, he’s a total broken mess. Tear filled hazy eyes, unfocused, look towards yours. Tear lines wet his cheeks as they continue to trickle out. Gently you use your thumb to wipe them away. The least you could do for him. As much as you love him like this, obedient, vulnerable, your heart swells with affection.
He trusts you so completely, even when you bring him to ruin like this. You can feel him tremble under your hands. He’s so sweet. You are starting to feel bad.
He inhales, it sounds difficult for him, breaths ragged and stuttered as he fights to keep still. Just as you told him to. Remmick’s lips are quivering, jaw clenching, and those soft whimpers he’s producing is a show of control. Restraint. Following the instructions you put in place.
More time passes, you are unsure how long. Sat there unmoving. When you look at him again, he’s barely held together. His eyes are heavy lidded, part way closed, desire mixed with exhaustion.
You press a tender loving kiss to his jaw. “You’ve been so good for me, Rem.” There’s warmth in your voice. Praise. He’s done so well to this point. The only response he’s able to muster is a quiet whine. You fear you may have pushed him too far and broken your sweet caring man. It worries you, so you roll your hips, just a fraction. His cock responds with a twitch. Proof that he’s still with you. at least his body is. Whatever focus he had, had been shattered.
When you cup his cheek, he hums. When you pet his face, in a slow soothing motion, he leans instinctively into it. And when your fingers find his hair, massaging his head, he purrs.
Kissing his forehead, you ask him. “Would you like me to move now?”
You wait for a response. It takes his mind a few moments to process that you spoke to him. Then a slow nod of his head, then an almost inaudible plea.
“Please…” A high begging whine comes out.
“There’s my good boy.” You praise, worry washing away as you kiss him deeply. As a reward you start to roll your hips. Your pace stays that way too. Lifting up making his cock drag along your walls. Then you sink, pussy swallowing every delicious inch. It rips a guttural groan out of his throat.
“Do your best to stay quiet love.” Words barely holding together yourself as you grind your hips. It’s a challenge for him.
Remmick tries. He really does. Biting on his already sore lip, but noises leak out of him regardless. By now he’s panting, breathy and low. It doesn’t take long, each bounce, each slide, and your walls squeeze. He doesn’t have any control left. Another sink down his cock and it only takes one buck of his hips, through no fault of his own, the action involuntary. It dawns on you, that he’s cumming, releasing the pent up load in hot spurts, painting your pussy white with his seed. His dick convulses wildly inside you.
Releasing everything he had, he is spent. His head slumps forward against your open collarbone. Face buried, panting so hard it has his whole body shaking in your arms. With each one of his breaths there’s a heart breaking whimper.
“Hush now. I’ve got you.” You say soothingly, slowing your movements. You feel his cock soften within your soaked warmth, slick and cum trickling out as you sit still again.
Both hands gently cup his face, tilting it just enough to kiss his damp forehead. Then his nose. Then his lips.
“You did so well. Staying still, so perfect. And cumming….just like that for me.” You purr.
His arms tiredly hold onto your waist, as he nuzzles your neck. The praise melts him. His breathing slowly calms down into a steady shaky relief. Your arms are wrapped around his head, fingers threading and petting his hair, twirling the strands, as you cradle him to your chest. The rocking chair settles with a creak. The night air blowing around you, cool, capturing the intimate moment.
prompt : finding a somewhat private area at a fancy party to fuck (coat closet, empty office, secluded corner on the big balcony, hedge maze if we wanna get dramatic, etc)
RAHH FARMER REMMICK yes yes yes. i did change it from a hedge maze to a corn maze to fit the scene !
ᰋ ˓ . contents. semi-public sex / risk of getting caught, oral sex / messy blowjob, throatfucking, gagging, spit, cum swallowing, size kink, shy!remmick, whiny!remmick, praise kink, light teasing. mdni 18+
“Darlin’—fuck, darlin’, your mouth,” Remmick whines, way past holding his tongue on curses, his big hand trembling against the side of your face as his cock slides heavy over your tongue, the broad head drooling a steady pulse of salty precum that coats your tastebuds.
Which, first of all, is rich coming from him.
This is the same man who had spent most of the afternoon standing around his folks’ backyard barbecue looking like he had never had a filthy thought in his life.
All shy smiles, pink ears, work-worn hands wrapped around a sweating glass of sweet tea while his mama told somebody from church that her boy was still “a little bashful around pretty girls.”
A little bashful.
Cute, really.
Especially considering that same bashful boy is currently tucked between two rows of tall corn with his jeans shoved open, belt hanging loose, shirt rucked up just enough to show the dark trail of sweat-damp hair under his belly button, and his cock forcing your mouth open so wide your lips feel stretched to their limit.
Very wholesome. Very family barbecue appropriate.
The corn maze was technically for the kids, but in your defense, the kids were busy throwing bean bags by the porch, and Remmick had been looking at your mouth across the yard like he wanted to climb out of his own skin.
You could only be expected to behave so much.
There were paper plates, folding chairs, somebody’s aunt fanning herself with a napkin, his daddy manning the smoker, and Remmick turning red every time your tongue slipped over your straw.
So, really, who could blame you?
Not you, that’s for damn sure.
Now you’re on your knees in the dirt, one hand wrapped tight around the thick base of his cock, the other curled around his tense thigh as spit slicks down your chin and makes a mess of your chest. You still can’t take all of him without your throat fighting it, and he keeps trying to apologize for it like that isn’t half the reason you dragged him out here in the first place.
“I’m sorry,” he pants, voice breaking as the head of his cock nudges the back of your throat. “Shit, baby, I’m sorry, you’re just—ohhh fuck, you’re takin’ me so good.”
The praise makes you hum around him, and Remmick nearly loses his knees.
The pride of somebody’s little southern town, reduced to gripping corn stalks because your lips are wrapped around his cock ten yards away from the potato salad. His hips twitch forward before he can stop himself, pushing in deeper, and you gag so prettily around him that his whole body jerks.
“Oh, Christ,” he chokes, looking down at you with wide eyes.
The second you blink up at him through watery lashes and deliberately relax your throat to take him deeper, Remmick makes a noise so desperate and broken it belongs in a confession booth.
His thumb strokes your cheek like he’s trying to be sweet about it, like there’s anything sweet about the wet, choking sounds your mouth is making or the way your throat keeps tightening every time he slips too far.
You pull off just enough to breathe, strings of spit clinging from your swollen lips to the flushed head of his cock, and his eyes drop to the mess with a look so stunned you almost laugh. His cock bobs in the air between you, heavy and angry-red, another bead of precum welling at the slit and sliding down the veined underside while you stroke him slow with your spit-slick hand.
“Look at you all shy,” you murmur, stroking him slow with your spit-slick hand.
Remmick’s face goes so red you’d think you’d slapped him. “Baby,” he whines, and there’s something so good about hearing that soft, embarrassed plea while his cock twitches in your hand.
“What?” you hum, batting your lashes like you don’t know exactly what you’re doing. “You want me to stop?”
His answer comes too fast, too honest. “No.”
You smile, and take him back into your mouth before he can feel too embarrassed about admitting it.
His hand finally settles at the back of your head, resting there with his fingers shaking like he wants to guide you and is too polite to be honest about it.
So you make it easy for him.
You press forward until your throat works around the head of him, gagging softly as your nose nearly brushes the hair at his base. He smells like sun-warmed skin and barbecue smoke and pure, desperate arousal, and it makes your head spin. Remmick’s hips buck, rougher this time, and the sound of your throat catching around him goes straight to the heat between your thighs.
Somewhere beyond the corn, someone laughs loud enough to remind you both that his whole family is still eating barbecue in the yard.
That should probably slow you down, but it doesn’t. If anything, the risk makes it hotter, makes you hollow your cheeks and suck harder, bobbing your head in short, sloppy strokes that have spit bubbling at the corners of your stretched lips.
Remmick realizes it too, because his grip tightens in your hair and his gaze darts toward the open end of the row before snapping back down to you, flushed and panicked and so turned on he looks like he might cry.
“Gonna get us caught,” he breathes, even as his hips rock forward again.
You hum around him again, and that’s the last of his manners.
Remmick starts fucking your mouth in short, desperate little thrusts, messy enough that your throat keeps catching around him and your eyes keep watering.
Your hand works what you can’t fit, slicking him up with every stroke, and his cock feels impossibly heavy on your tongue, pulsing every time you gag. His balls are drawn up tight, tapping against your chin on the deeper pushes.
“Good girl,” he whimpers, and then seems personally embarrassed that he said it so loud. “Sh—I’m sorry, I just—your mouth feels so good. So good, darlin’, you’re perfect. You’re perfect.”
Remmick’s hand tightens on your nape, his stomach flexing hard under the bunched-up hem of his shirt, and his hips stutter like his body is trying to decide between pulling away and burying himself deeper.
He chooses wrong. Or right. Depends on who you ask.
You take him until you gag again, and his cock throbs hard against your tongue.
“I’m gonna come,” he gasps, voice cracking into something downright pathetic. “Baby, wait, I’m—oh God, don’t stop. Please don’t stop.”
You hollow your cheeks, stroke him faster, and look up at him just in time to watch his face fall apart.
Remmick comes with a broken, keening whine, hips jerking forward in short, uncontrolled spasms as the first thick, hot spurt of cum hits the back of your throat. It’s a lot—pent up from hours of teasing and shy looks across the yard—and it floods your mouth in heavy, salty pulses.
You swallow around him greedily, throat working to milk every drop, sucking through every pulse, tongue pressed flat against the underside of his cock, until his thighs are shaking violently under your hands and his breathing has gone ragged and broken.
He tries to pull back out of some last-minute gentlemanly panic, but you don’t let him. For a man who was worried about being heard, he’s doing a terrible job of being quiet.
You keep your mouth sealed around him, sucking him through the oversensitive aftershocks until he’s whimpering softly, his cock twitching weakly against your tongue as you lick the last dribbles from the slit.
When you finally let him slip from your mouth, he stares down at you like you’ve ruined his life in the best possible way.
Your lips are swollen, your chin is wet, and there’s dirt on your knees while his cock gives one weak little twitch against your palm like it is just as stupid as the rest of him.
You wipe at your mouth with the back of your hand, smiling up at him. “You good?”
Remmick swallows, glancing toward the barbecue like he only just remembered his mama exists.
“I’m gonna need a minute,” he rasps, voice hoarse and fucked-out.
You glance pointedly at his still-open jeans, then back up at his wrecked face. “A minute to tuck yourself away, or a minute because you’re gonna get hard again if I keep looking at you?”
His blush comes back immediately.
God bless him.
“Both,” he mutters, and somehow, that might be the filthiest thing he’s said all day.
A/n: Saw one of these things and got inspired. Will probably do one for the other boys as well.
Warning: very light allusions to smut
A = Affection (How affectionate are they? How do they show affection?)
Bo's generally not for gentle touches and cuddles and being soft in his affection. He's more like possessive hands on your hips, lingering stares and kisses that take your breath away and make you weak in the knees. But he also shows his affection by making sure you're well cared for; you have nice clothes that fit you well, pantry and fridge full of food and drinks you like and ingredients for whatever meal you want to cook or bake next, a home that he makes absolutely sure is safe for you, even in the case of visitors showing up in Ambrose. He buys you books and CDs to keep you entertained. And of course he thoroughly makes sure your physical needs are met as well.
B = Best friend (What would they be like as a best friend? How would the friendship start?)
Let's be honest, Bo doesn't have friends. His brothers are the closest thing he has to that term. But I can see him building up an easy rapport with a few locals in a nearby town that he or Lester visit sometimes to get groceries and some basic necessities. Maybe he visits a bar or a grocery store where you work every time he comes into town (which is not that much). You would have small talk, he would ask you a few questions about yourself, but only give elusive answers whenever you ask him about his background. He's charming, he knows how to talk to people and how to manipulate them, but I don't think he would know how to build a genuine friendship.
C = Cuddles (Do they like to cuddle? How would they cuddle?)
Cuddling with Bo is not something you actively do, it's more like something that just happens at the end of a long day or in the early morning hours. That's when he's the most calm and affectionate. He's always the big spoon. He just likes to hold you in his arms, his hand having a gentle but firm grip on your hips, his thumb rubbing soft patterns into your skin. These are the only times when he lets himself get a bit soft, only for your eyes to see.
D = Domestic (Do they want to settle down? How are they at cooking and cleaning?)
Bo is not the cooking and cleaning type. He's good with personal hygiene, but when it comes to keeping his environment clean, he doesn't put in that much effort. He can probably cook a few simple recipes if he has to, but it's mostly thanks to his brothers that they eat actual home cooked meals.
I feel like he's the type of man who would really appreciate a partner who's very domestic. Keeping the house clean and tidy, cooking and baking and just creating a homely environment in general. It heals something in him to see you take care of their home. He would praise you all the time and brag about how you're such a good little wife/husband/partner for him.
E = Ending (If they had to break up with their partner, how would they do it?)
It depends on how attached he's grown to you. If it's the beginning stages of your relationship, he would have no problem with getting rid of you, wouldn't even really feel guilty about it.
Now, if he's already fallen in love with you, he's fiercely possessive of you, and it would take a lot to make him let you go. He would only do it if your well-being depended on it, for example if there was a big chance that the killings would be discovered, and you would be taken from him. And even then, his selfishness would put up a fight and try to keep you around. In the end, he would probably tell you to leave Ambrose for your own good and never come back. It would break him, but he would do it if it meant that you would be safe from all the chaos and destruction their lives bring.
F = Fiance(e) (How do they feel about commitment? How quick would they want to get married?)
For most of his life, Bo could have never imagined committing to someone. The beginning of your relationship was full of arguments about his inability to accept selfless love from you, him always waiting for the moment you would have enough and try to escape from him. But you never did, and he couldn't understand why. It takes years and a lot of care for you to break him down, but when he finally accepts that you love him for who he is and are not planning to leave him anytime soon, he actually quite starts liking the idea of marriage. As hard as it was to get there, he loves it when you refer to him as your husband. A darker, more possessive part of him revels in knowing he took a claim on you for life, and the title of 'husband' lets everyone know that you're his in every way.
G = Gentle (How gentle are they, both physically and emotionally?)
Bo is not a gentle person. At all. But for you, he tries to soften his edges just a little bit. Like I've mentioned before, he takes care of your mental well-being by providing a stable home among all the chaos, but he doesn't coddle your feelings. If you're ever upset, he doesn't really know what to do with himself.
He probably has the roughest touch among his brothers. It's an entirely new and unfamiliar thing to him that someone wants to touch him with gentleness instead of striking him in anger or fear.
But even in his rough ways, he's willing to listen and learn. You'll just need to be patient with him and tell him what you need. This doesn't mean he won't be rough anymore, but Lester will tell you in secret that this is the most gentle he's seen Bo ever be; when he's with you.
H = Hugs (Do they like hugs? How often do they do it? What are their hugs like?)
Bo is not one for hugs. The best you get in public is a side hug where he drapes his arm around your waist, his hand pressing firmly into your hips while he brings you into his side. It's more of a sign of possessiveness in front of his brothers or strangers when you occasionally go into the nearby town.
In the privacy of his room, he gets a bit more relaxed and allows you to wrap your arms around his torso from behind. In the evening before you fall asleep and in the morning just after waking up he allows you to bring him into cuddles like I've mentioned before. But the only times when he initiates an embrace is when he holds you in bed during your passion or when he startles awake from a nightmare and feels especially vulnerable.
I = I love you (How fast do they say the L-word?)
Oh it would take a long time and he would probably struggle with it. Bo is not good with words, at least not when it comes to showing genuine affection for someone. He doesn't really remember hearing his parents ever saying those words to him, so he doesn't know how to say them either. It takes a lot of effort to break down his walls, and when he eventually does say them, it's in the privacy of his room with only you hearing it. He feels a lot lighter afterwards; like the pressure of saying I love you back even after months of you saying it to him, but also feeling unable to get the words out was a huge weight on his shoulders that has been dragging him down. It gets slightly easier to say them after the first time, but he still keeps the 'I love you's for special moments with just the two of you present.
J = Jealousy (How jealous do they get? What do they do when they’re jealous?)
God forbid someone looks at you the wrong way or a moment too long. They would get the most vicious death stare of their life. And if someone actually tries to flirt with you, he's definitely threatening physical violence. One time a visitor caught you off guard and alone while you were taking lunch for Bo to the auto shop. You didn't know there were people near Ambrose, so you just stood there, frozen in surprise. The guy tried his luck, and even tried to grab you after you told him no. Let's just say his life didn't meet a swift end after Bo stormed out of the gas station and dragged his ass down into the basement. You just set down his lunch inside and walked back to the house while ignoring the agonizing screams and the pleading apologies. When Bo gets jealous, he also gets very handsy. Good luck with trying to walk the next morning.
K = Kisses (What are their kisses like? Where do they like to kiss you? Where do they like to be kissed?)
Bo's usual kisses are the same as his tough: rough. They are possessive and bruising or slow and deep and claiming, making you weak in the knees and stealing your breath. But sometimes, in the privacy of his room his kisses can be just a bit more gentle, worshipping you and your body.
He likes to kiss your lips, leaving them all swollen from his attention. He also likes trailing his lips down your neck, smattering your skin with his marks. He likes it when you kiss his shoulder as a simple way of showing your affection or even his chest when you're cuddling in bed.
L = Little ones (How are they around children?)
Okay, hear me out. I feel like Bo would be good with kids. Not with children in general (he finds most of them to be obnoxious and annoying little brats), but his own kids. He would be very anxious about becoming a dad, seeing as he didn't exactly have a good role model in his life. He would be afraid of becoming just like his father, and it would take a lot of reassurance and late night talks to convince him otherwise. But when the time finally comes, I think he would make an effort to be the exact opposite of the man who raised him. He would play with his kids, take them on walks around town, teach them about cars and how to throw a punch. He wouldn't necessarily be an openly affectionate parent (that's just one of those things that he would probably struggle with all his life), but he would be a present father who looks out for his kids' well-being and protects them fiercely if someone tries hurting them. Who would sit on the porch with a beer and listen to his child telling him how their day went, who would mutter an 'I'm proud of you' in that gruff dad way after significant life events and it would be the biggest compliment his child has ever gotten in their entire life and they would take it to heart.
M = Morning (How are mornings spent with them?)
Mornings with Bo are a calm affair. That's when he's most affectionate, still half asleep, before he had his morning coffee. You usually lounge around in bed for a bit before getting up to start the day. You share quiet conversation and teasing glances and small smiles. He likes to watch you get dressed while he's still laid back in bed, his eyes wandering over your body in quiet appreciation. He also likes it when you help him getting ready, straightening his hat before pressing a quick kiss to his cheek.
N = Night (How are nights spent with them?)
Nights are much more eventful. On many days, you hang out with his brothers in the evening, having dinner together or watching tv or having a drunken game night (which turns into chaos usually). After retiring to his room, you get ready for bed together. He likes to shower with you; for obvious reasons, but also because he secretly loves it when you wash his hair and take care of him (he's just too much of a hardass to say it out loud).
O = Open (When would they start revealing things about themselves? Do they say everything all at once or wait a while to reveal things slowly?)
Some people are open books when it comes to their life and their feelings. Bo is like a brick wall. Even if you scratch at it long enough, the most you get are small chunks of rock. You have to piece their past together more or less by yourself. You find the articles and photos and Lester is quite open and ready to talk about what their childhood was like. Bo doesn't like to talk about it. It's not a problem when he tells the story to visitors, because he's playing a role, he can detach himself from everything, tell it like it happened to someone else. But it takes you a loooong time until he's comfortable enough in your relationship to start sharing stuff from their past.
He's just as stubborn when it comes to sharing his feelings. It takes a lot of guessing and observing in the beginning to learn what makes him tick and what makes him happy. But I feel like once you've figured out how to read him, it becomes a whole lot easier to navigate his moods.
P = Patience (How easily angered are they?)
It's a well knows fact that Bo has a temper. He's probably the most patient with you out of everyone, even his brothers, but sometimes when he's really tired or when something goes wrong and he's worn thin, he will snap at you. It doesn't happen often, at least compared to others (most of the times he's in a foul mood he rather just walks away from you until he cools off), but he feels guilty after every time. You got used to his mood swings and learned how to deal with them, but there's been a few times when his comments managed to find a particularly sore spot. When hurt flashes across your face, he instantly knows he fucked up, and after a few hours of harsh self-criticism and self-hate he usually finds you to apologize and try to make it up to you.
Q = Quizzes (How much would they remember about you? Do they remember every little detail you mention in passing, or do they kind of forget everything?)
He's not the type who keeps every little detail about you or your interests tucked away in his brain, but he's not someone who forgets everything either. He would be somewhere in between. Many times when you tell him stuff, it doesn't look like he's listening or paying much attention. But sometimes he manages to surprise you when on your birthday he gifts you a book you mentioned liking in your teenage years. He might not remember what the name of your childhood pet was, but he one day comes home with a bracelet he saw you looking at the last time you were picking up groceries. He doesn't remember the plot of your favourite book, but he convinces Vincent to learn how to make your favourite dish (he's not good with cooking himself).
R = Remember (What is their favorite moment in your relationship?)
He doesn't necessarily have a favourite moment, he's not the sentimental type. But he will forever remember the moment he realized he loved you. It was just after they dealt with a group of visitors. It was your first time witnessing the violence, as until now he always made sure that you were clearly out of the way of everything. But this time things went wrong and you were caught in the middle of it. And despite being scared and probably traumatized, having a few bruises of your own, when you saw Vincent sitting at the kitchen table, slightly slumped over from the pain caused by a large gash across his side, you took the bandages out of his twin's hand and started taking care of his wound without question. That was the moment Bo knew that he would never let you go.
S = Security (How protective are they? How would they protect you? How would they like to be protected?)
He takes your safety very seriously. Precisely because it's so hard for him to grow attached and let someone in, once you get to that level, he will do everything he can to make sure you stay safe. He doesn't let you participate in any way when there are visitors in Ambrose, he makes sure that you're away from curious eyes with either one of his brothers (usually Lester) by your side, or you have a weapon to protect yourself with in case things go horribly wrong. Sometimes he just straight up sends you to Lester's little cabin in the woods and comes to get you when everyone was dealt with. At the beginning you've had a few arguments when you felt like he was treating you like some fragile little thing, but at the end of the day you both know he would be a wreck if anything happened to you. In a way, keeping you protected is a way to protect himself. You can't be used against him. It keeps him sane and sharp knowing that you're safe.
In return, you help protecting him from himself. You're there to patch him up after a fight knowing that he would probably be a typical man about it and just do a haphazard job. You're there to ease his mind when his insecurities take hold of him or when he wakes up in the middle of a night from a nightmare. You're there to listen when he needs to rant his anger out to someone.
He protects your physical well-being and in turn you protect his mental well-being.
T = Try (How much effort would they put into dates, anniversaries, gifts, everyday tasks?)
I wouldn't say he puts in a crazy amount of effort, maybe he even forgets anniversaries sometimes. He much prefers keeping everything lowkey, and you don't really mind it. That's just how he is, and you've accepted it. You don't really have 'dates' per se, it's more like you hanging out at the auto shop while works on his car or him lounging at the kitchen table with a beer, watching you cook dinner for him and his brothers, sitting in his lap in the evening watching tv or tiring each other out in the bedroom. And that's exactly how you both like it.
U = Ugly (What would be some bad habits of theirs?)
I feel like Bo would have a tendency to isolate himself from you from time to time. One reason is his temper. Bo is very aware that he has anger issues, and I feel like he would try to keep it away from you as much as possible. He wouldn't want to accidentally hurt you, either physically or with his words. But that means when he gets into one of his moods, he shuts down. He doesn't want to talk to you, starts avoiding you and going out to do stuff at the auto shop or just in town in general. When he gets it out of his system, he would come back though, and make it up to you for the lost time.
Another reason would be his insecurities. As much as he likes to portray himself as confident, I think Bo might actually have a hard time accepting your affection for him. He didn't have a very affectionate childhood, so he struggles to believe that you are with him because you genuinely love him and not just because you're afraid of him. This makes him moody and dismissive, and he would avoid you once again. But I also feel like with a lot of time and care and patience, you could eventually earn his trust and make him believe that what you have and what you feel for him is actually real.
V = Vanity (How concerned are they with their looks?)
Bo is a naturally charming and handsome bastard, and he's very well aware of it. He's got good genes, so I feel like it wouldn't take him much effort to look good. Therefore, aside from keeping up with basic hygiene, I don't think he would do much. He knows that all he has to do is flash you a smile and you would go weak in the knees.
W = Whole (Would they feel incomplete without you?)
He's one of those people who thinks that getting attached is a weakness. If you don't get attached, no one can hurt you. At least until he met you. As much effort as it would take for you to get under his shield of arrogance, if you manage to fully earn his trust and his heart, there's no way he could ever let you go again. He's not clingy, but he likes to have you near him. He's fiercely possessive of what he holds dear, and you're number one on that list.
X = Xtra (A random headcanon for them.)
Bo enjoys watching you interact with his brothers, especially Vincent. He likes how they treat you like a sibling and in turn you treat them like they are your own flesh and blood. It makes him feel at ease to listen to the banter between you and Lester while you're making breakfast for everyone. It makes him content to see you treat Vincent with a care and kindness that he so deprived from his whole life. You never judged them for who they are or how they live. You go out into the woods with Lester, you sit with Vincent while he sketches, even started learning sign language so you could interact with him easier. These small things show him that you're here to stay for good.
Y = Yuck (What are some things they wouldn’t like, either in general or in a partner?)
He doesn't like people who tell him what to do. Bo has a problem with authority figures because of his childhood, so he hates to feel like he's not in control. Even among his brothers, he's the one in charge in general, the head of the family, and they respect that. He needs to be the more dominant person in a relationship, he couldn't stand someone bossing him around. Now, when your relationship reaches the level that you have complete trust in each other, he doesn't mind you being bossy sometimes, he likes a playful challenge. But it only happens with the understanding that it's just banter, something he let's slide because he loves you, and no matter what happens, he's the one who's really in control.
Z = Zzz (What is a sleep habit of theirs?)
Bo regularly suffers from nightmares. It usually starts with him shifting around more in his sleep, then he starts groaning, and eventually muttering. Most of the time you can't make out what he's actually saying, and when you ask him what the dreams are about, he says he doesn't remember. On good days, it takes only you calling his name to wake him, on bad ones you literally have to shake him up, all the while he's fighting you about it. It's not something he's ever told his brothers, because he doesn't want them to think he's weak, although you have a feeling that Vincent suspects it. It doesn't wholly surprise you that Bo is plagued with nightmares, given all the trauma he experienced during his childhood, and the trauma of his separation from his brother by his own father even before that. He's not talking about his nightmares and you don't pry, instead you do your best to wake him up as soon as you realize he's having one, and also to comfort him after he jolts awake.
It’s the 4th of July. My family is outside in the sun. I am inside, buried beneath my comforter and the chill of the air conditioning. Writing Bo Sinclair fanfiction. This is what being American is truly about.
You grinned to show it had been a playful gesture, once again ducking out of his shadow when he had tried to sneak a peck on the lips; his way of attempting to de-escalate the roughhousing you had tried to spur on. Despite huffing through his nostrils, wanting to cross his arms at you but unable to let his guard down, he wasn’t snapping at you just yet.
He was seasoned to this sort of thing. He grew up with Lester, after all.
Bo had been standing idle in the middle of the shop while you scampered around him, a bemused glower in his eyes but a smirk unable to keep from his face as you once again got your wrist caught before it could even get close to grabbing his side or touching his chest in another half-shove to try and get him to goof off.
When he had enough, he finally grabbed your shoulders in a flash of movement, being as gentle as Bo Sinclair could manage as he spun you and pulled his arm around your neck. Not close to choking, but enough to make you gasp aloud. When his other hand came up to cover your mouth, you had let your teeth meet them in a gentle squeeze of your jaw, feeling the weathered skin and the hints of his bones between your teeth for a fleeting moment. You were even surprised at what you were doing, but you met him with the same care as you didn’t even come close to breaking the skin or leaving marks.
Still, his hand jerked away with the moment he recognized the hot breath on his skin. “Hey! You just bite me!?” Bo’s brow furrowed as he craned his neck over your shoulder, looking at you with lidded eyes and an expression that tried to be tough. He was good at it normally, but not when you looked back, face flushed and eyes already taking on an apologetic gleam.
You noticed the way his hand was now securing over your collarbone, falling down from your neck to hold you against him in a more comfortable fashion. All he had wanted was for you to slow down, after all. The bitten hand had retreated to set on his hip, waiting for the answer in silence. You finally swallowed, noticing the dirty taste of whatever was under the hood of a car now sitting in your mouth as you cringed out, “Maybe your h-hand was going somewhere it shouldn’t...”
He scoffed at that, once again darting out to take the hand settled at your side. You squealed, wriggling at his touch until his arm constricted you again. Still, he was staring with a dull fondness, distant enough for his liking but still able to melt underneath your skin as he peered into your eyes, feeling your chest rise and fall under his grip. “You watchin’ me?” Bo asked, fingers intertwining with yours and making you look downwards. When you only hummed in affirmation, he shifted a little closer, the inside of his shoe brushing on the outside of yours as he lined up to stand straighter behind you. His voice fell to an even softer tone, a focused one he used when he knew you and only you would hear him.
“Here’s what you do when my hand comes up t’your mouth.” He muttered, a little sarcastic but with the slightest hint of a plea that made your form loosen against him, settling your shoulders into his warm chest. That he did allow, raising your knuckles to his lips and kissing each finger’s protruding bone, eyes shooting from your hand to your awed expression, a smirk once again trying to stay hidden as he peppered your knuckles a few times over.
You blinked at the gesture, your head falling back to set against his shoulder. He finally loosened his grip on you again, and scolded in the same soft voice, the words crawling into the shell of your ear.
summary: new orleans, 1995. a folklorist researching her new book bites off a hell of a lot more than she can chew.
warnings: banter as foreplay; murder as foreplay; p in v; f receiving; just truly nasty work
notes: evil dilettante remmick is something that can be so personal !! let's all get very horny very quickly. a like and reblog makes my little heart beat faster ♥️ title is interview with the vampire s1
In the morning, you wake with a killer hangover and an address.
You vaguely remember a journey home from the bar, a beautiful man walking behind you. You remember flashes of anxiety, of unnatural stillness, of suppressing that innate fear of being stalked by a predator you can't quite trust not to strike.
And… you remember how that same man did something that silenced the gaggle of frat guys who’d whistled in your direction. How he’d caught you by the elbow before you tripped on an upturned sewer grate. How he led you to your porch without you having to tell him the house number.
At your door, it was impossible to miss the look of devastating and unabashed want that passed over his handsome face, the shiver it sent across your skin. Part of you wondered just what kind of want it was. (The other shouted RUN.)
You could've invited him in. (You didn’t.) He could’ve killed you. (He didn’t.)
All good stories have to start somewhere.
-
It began, as everything does, with blood.
A night out with a few girls from your program. One too many cosmos. Your half-drunken insistence of it’s fine, really, I’m just around the corner. Heels low enough to be walkable but high enough to make the busier sidewalks a challenge. That little voice in your head whispering that drunk cigarettes never count.
So you’d stopped, feet aching, and lingered a moment in the back alley behind some dive bar.
There’s - thank God - that loose cig at the bottom of your bag, the novelty four-leaf clover lighter you got as a gag gift last Christmas. You exhaled, slowly, pushing the smoke out in a tight ring, idly thumbing at the blistered ink of a new tattoo.
The dark city hummed with life.
Just a few feet away, you watched as students lumbered up and down the street, some red in the face and some too wasted to get one foot in front of the other. Someone blaring dance music from a car window. Honking and sirens. A drunken shouting match.
And behind you, a faint cry followed by the crash of a metal trash can.
You turned.
You shouldn’t have.
The ground was wet, though it hadn’t rained in days. The light from the road - the streetlamps, the passing headlights - couldn’t quite penetrate the shadows beyond, nothing at all past the milk crates and overflowing dumpsters.
The glowing red eyes were, however, quite visible.
Your stomach dropped.
The man stepped forward. You couldn’t see all of him, not yet, but the crimson of blood and the ivory of too-large teeth were unmistakable.
“Shit,” he drawled. Everything about him rang false. “You weren’t meant to see that.”
But you were too drunk and confused to manage a coherent reply. He took that as some kind of permission and inched closer, reeking of iron and wet earth. Still, you stood your ground.
“S’pose that puts us at an impasse.”
“Why’d you sound like that?” is all you could think to say, your gaze flitting between pointed teeth and burning irises.
“Like what?”
“Like a… like John Wayne. I don’t know.”
He cocked his head. “Ain’t that somethin’.”
“You some kinda vampire?”
“Shit, what gave it away?”
You nodded over to the limp pair of legs still twitching behind him.
“That was rhetorical, sweetheart.”
“Oh.” Your cheeks flushed.
“You gon’ run?”
“No.”
“Shame. I like to chase.”
“I wouldn’t get far in these shoes.”
And the vampire actually laughed - full-throated, good-natured.
“Oh, you liked that…” you mumbled, straightening, leaning against the bricks for more support. By some miracle, you hadn't dropped the cigarette and so you permitted yourself another drag. You blew it at him. His eyes flitted shut.
The thing about academia is that once you’ve devoted your life to eating, sleeping, and breathing your chosen discipline, it’s just about impossible to ever really stop. Those questions are always working in the background, a hum so quiet you can sometimes forget it’s even there.
But it is. It always is.
And your chosen discipline just so happens to be folklore.
Now, there was no way to outrun this guy, nor were you even getting a punch in before he drained you dry. Not many options on the table, not unless you could summon a silver dagger out of thin air. So fuck it: if all you could do was talk, maybe you’d survive the night.
And… well, some research for your monograph couldn't hurt either, could it?
“Let me ask you something.”
“Why should I?”
“You’re enjoying yourself.”
“That right?” he laughed, eyes crinkling with something almost fond in them.
“Sure seems it. Be a shame to kill me just yet.”
“Alright,” he grinned, and the teeth were wrong. “I’ll bite. What’d you wanna know?”
06/09/95 : #001
The vampire lounges across from you on a dark velour couch that probably cost more than a year’s rent. His thighs are splayed wide, one ankle resting easily over the opposite knee.
He’s dressed better than he was the other night: a pricey leather jacket that seems softened from years of wear. Faded white t-shirt. Jeans. Loafers. (No more bloodstains, in any case.)
All the light in his home is artificial. No overheads - nothing so tacky - just a few candles and low-hanging lamps that cast a golden hue over the room. A dozen false suns to make up for the one he can’t have. The windows are tightly sealed with blackout blinds. There’s a scent like incense in the air, an old one… something that recalls prayer and antiquity. (That, and Drakkar Noir.)
“Can I start?”
“By all means.”
“Alright.” You hit the button on the tape deck and it starts to whir. “9 June 1995, session one. Please state your name.”
“Remmick.”
“Your full name.”
“Only name that matters.”
You roll your eyes, only briefly and not even a full rotation - but he catches it. Cocks his head.
“Somethin’ funny?”
“Nothing. One name, you’re like Madonna.”
He laughs, teeth flashing white.
You clear your throat. “Where were you born?”
“North of Ireland. Town ain’t there no more.”
“Alright. So how old are you?”
“Very.”
This, really, is the question you’ve been dying to have answered.
The idea of living long enough to see empires rise and fall, to see wars started and ended, to see the world move through its infinite many stages… For a historian like you, there’s no greater fantasy nor sharper jealousy.
But when he finally mutters “Must be comin’ up on a thousand,” you nearly drop your pen.
“One thousand?”
“Yes, ma’am,” he smiles, slowly, like the sudden shock on your face is feeding him. “Don’t believe me?”
“No, I do, I - but, that’s just a very big number.”
“As I said.”
“Can I ask…”
“Ain’t nothin’ out of bounds, sweetheart.”
“Do you remember it all?”
“Broad strokes, big things - y’know, Easter Rising, Napoleon, Al Capone. The rest, it's just bits n’ pieces.”
“And ho-”
“My turn. Question for a question.”
You swallow your retort. “Alright. Sure.”
“What is it you're lookin’ for?”
“What do you mean?”
Remmick leans forward, both feet planted on the soft Persian rug underfoot, leans in so close that you catch the glints of red buried in the soft blue of his human eyes.
From a distance, he’s handsome. Up close, he’s a vision. There’s a dusting of reddish stubble across the expanse of his sharp jaw. A tiny gold ring in his ear. Eyelashes nearly as long as yours.
“I mean, what is it that possessed you t’come after me, honey, askin’ all these questions?”
“Curiosity.”
“What, you gon’ take what I give you and pen a bestseller? You fixin’ to be the next Anne Rice?”
“No.”
“No? Really? Just… curiosity.”
“I write about folklore.”
“Yeah?” His voice hangs, soft. It envelops you. “What kind?”
“Vampirism as metaphor.”
He barks a laugh.
“Metaphor? Baby, I’m sittin’ here plain as day.”
“And… as a moralizing tool, a holdover from pre-Christian society. Make girls behave, make ‘em too scared to leave the house, fraternize with strange men.”
“That what I am? A strange man?”
“Well. I wouldn’t exactly call you normal.”
He lets that sit for a moment, potent and hungry.
“Nah, y’ain’t wrong,” he speaks suddenly, leaning back. His arms stretch lazily across the seat of the couch. “But I don’t know who’d be stupid enough to fraternize w’the likes of me, anyway.”
“Is that a threat, Remmick?”
“No threat,” he says, and it’s so casual you nearly believe him. “Just fact.”
“Alright. Fine.” You decide to shift gears. “That accent doesn't seem very Irish.”
“Been here a while. Comin’ up on, oh, I don't know, ‘bout a hundred years?”
“Here as in New Orleans?”
“All over. Came through Ellis Island n’just… followed the wind ‘ever it took me.”
“But why here? Why Louisiana?”
He taps a finger against the velour. “I like it.”
“That’s all?”
“Couldn't say. Just feels right. Feels old.”
“And -”
“Ah. My turn.”
You sigh. “Go on.”
“No boyfriend?”
“What?”
He lifts his palms to you. “Or girlfriend. I don't judge.”
“No. Neither. And how would you know that, anyway?”
“Well, I been watching you since that night and I ain't seen no one comin’ or goin’ - no one you been fixin’ to fuck, anyhow, if you'll pardon my French.”
You eye him.
It’s obvious the man's looking for a rise: he wants you flustered, blushing, or else angry, off-kilter. But you know men, even ancient ones, and this is the oldest trick in their book.
“Maybe I fuck with the curtains closed,” you offer, voice neutral.
“Maybe.” He smiles like he doesn't believe a word of it.
“Why does it matter?”
He shrugs, unaffected. “S'pose it don't.”
The standoff is interrupted by the beeping of your watch. You hit STOP on the tape deck.
“Y’got somewhere t’be, sugar?”
“Seminar. I’m giving a lecture.”
He sniffs. Nods slowly. “You’ll be back?”
“Maybe.”
“Yeah. You will.”
06/12/95 : #002
“How do you hunt?”
Remmick’s eyes go wide.
Today is grey. Overcast skies. Intermittent roiling thunder. It’s so gloomy that he’s actually left the curtains open a fraction of the way, cracked the window onto the stormy street below.
You sit across from him in the plush chair you’ve come to think of as yours. A half-empty bottle of vintage cabernet sits between the two of you.
“Ah, darlin’, now that’s some nasty work, what I do in the dark. You really wanna know?”
“Yes. Do you pick your targets beforehand or is it opportunistic? How do you lure them in? What is it that excites you, exactly: the hunt, the kill, the blood…?”
“Christ, Dr. Scully,” he laughs, incredulous. “Make it sound like yer huntin’ down the damn Son of Sam.”
“Well, you are a serial killer. No?”
“Alright,” he says, tight. “Sure. I kill.”
“So-”
“Nah, one question at a time. Makes you seem bloodthirsty, otherwise.”
“Fine.” You bite the inside of your cheek. “How do you choose them?”
“Stragglers. Tourists. Assholes. Anyone not liable to trigger a manhunt.”
“Alright. And then how do you get them alone?”
“Well,” Remmick says, “I can be very persuasive.”
He leans forward.
The room tilts.
There’s something all-encompassing in the way he watches you, the way he traces the veins in your neck with his eyes, drags that same gaze up and across your collarbone. It’s as though he’s seeing through your skin, right down to the bones and marrow.
He eyes you like a meal.
The cast of his skin is warmer in this light, not quite as pallid as last time. There's a gold to it, bouncing through the red and brown of his stubble, of his brows, of his disheveled hair. His teeth, when human, are a bit crooked, a bit sharp. Something low and awful hums in your belly.
You can’t find it in yourself to panic.
The rational half of your mind is sounding the alarm, pumping adrenaline through your system in an attempt to force an escape. But… it isn’t enough, not against this. And as he sits there eyeing you, enjoying you, you think back to the manuscript you found in the university archives last fall, some supposed firsthand encounter back in 1931:
It was the strange magic of what he was, that’s what called to me. He was a creature designed for seduction, for the gentle erosion of boundaries. That’s how he lives. That’s how he hunts.
Thank God for the tattoo on your hip.
That little patch of ink stands like a dam between you and the vampire making your blood sing. It’d been the product of another one of your drunken escapades last month, a little five-pointed star that kept coming up in the literature as a sigil of protection. Better safe than sorry, you’d thought, sitting in that tattoo parlour three martinis deep while some girl from your methodology class rubbed soothing circles into the palm of your hand.
You’ve never placed much faith in it - it’s not like you’d actually believed in any of this stuff - but right now, it grounds you like a cold glass of water in the middle of a bender.
Remmick’s breath fans across your cheek - sweet, minty. His gaze is fixed on your mouth, the way you nibble at your lip like a nervous tic, how you hitch a little breath when his pupils blow.
“Seduction.”
You mumble it like an accusation, but there's no real weight to it.
“Could call it that. Yeah.”
“What is it, then, pheromones? Mind control? Black magic?”
He laughs a little. Pulls back, like the show's over. “Why does it matter how I do it? Call it whatever you like. All I know’s that it works and it works pretty damn well, don’t it?”
“I wouldn’t know.”
“No?” His brows go wide. “Sugar, if I hadn’t stopped when I did, you’d be slidin’ clean off that damn chair.”
Your cheeks burn with the shame of the truth. “Well. I guess we’ll never know.”
“Shame.”
“Okay.” You straighten your spine - shake it off, settle back into your body. “What is it about the hunt that excites you? You told me the first night that you enjoy the chase. Is that what it is?”
“Sure. I like that part. Little too much, maybe,” he begins, cat eyeing mouse. “But it ain’t only about the excitement, darlin’, not really. It’s more about… the satiation. Yeah.”
You nod up at him, a silent plea to continue.
He takes a swig of wine. Gestures to it.
“You know I cain’t eat? Not food. Lil’ liquor here n’there, but no meals. And sometimes I sleep, sometimes I don’t. Some days, all I wanna do is lay out in the sun like one of them cats you used to find hiding way up in the parapets.” He pauses, as though he hadn’t meant to reveal quite that much. “So, see, I ain’t got much to keep me satisfied.”
“And it’s the blood that does it?”
“That and the performance, baby. Followin’ folk down them alleyways, choosin’ the right things to say, readin’ their bodies, what makes ‘em tick. Gets electric when I turn it on - but then, you already knew that.”
You ignore the taunt. “It’s sexual, then?”
Remmick whistles low, rubs at his jaw. “Shit, darlin’, you call ‘em like you see ‘em.”
“Nothing’s out of bounds. That’s what you said.”
“Oh, sure. But I’m an old-fashioned man, see, and I’m wonderin’ whether it’d be decent of me to share those particulars with an impressionable young lady like yerself.”
“It’s just research.”
“Oh, it’s a lot more n’that.”
“I’m not a virgin, if that’s what’s bothering you.”
“Don’t bother me none.”
“So tell me.”
“Alright. D’you know that I’m about as hard as a fuckin’ rock by the time I’m done drinkin’?”
Your stomach drops. He doesn't stop.
“Wanna hear how sometimes I gotta toss ‘em aside, limp as a doll, and take care a myself right there in whatever fuckin’ hovel I’ve found myself in? See, it’s an excess of blood darlin’, hot blood, and I am but a man.”
“A-alright. That makes sense.”
He sits forward on the divan, quick and bold. Leans across the table and in towards you.
“No. It don’t. None of it does. ‘Cause I cain’t enjoy life in half-measures, baby, not like you with yer two cosmos - three if you’re feelin’ naughty - or whatever toy I’m sure you got hidden under your pillow. An abomination like me’s got two options: suffering or ecstasy. And, as you can imagine, I do tend to lean towards the latter.”
“It’s an addiction, then.”
“It’s a mode de vie, baby. I am what I am.”
As if on cue, your watch beeps.
“Thank you for all that detail.”
“Anytime.”
“I’ll see you next week, Remmick.”
The vampire is still as a statue as you rise, as you collect the writing materials scattered across the dark oak coffee table. You drop them all into your satchel without ceremony, without rush but without delay. You’ve revealed too much of yourself today. Shown too many weaknesses where propriety is concerned. He got to you.
And worst of all, he knows it, too.
“Bet you’ll be thinkin’ about this one all night,” he taunts.
“Probably,” you admit, tone flat. “You’ve given me a lot to think about.”
“You’re welcome.”
“But it’s…”
“It’s…?”
“It’s in my nightstand. Not under my pillow.”
“Alright.” He rubs at his jaw. “Yeah.”
07/08/95 : #006
“Do you mind if I…?”
“Please.”
You take a heaping bite from the apple and set it down in your lap. He watches as you chew, the grinding of your jaw, the way you lick up the sweet juice collecting at the corners of your mouth.
“Couldn’t stop for lunch. Sorry.”
“Don’t be.”
“What would happen if you took a bite?”
“Of you?”
“Ha ha.”
“Ah, nothing. Just tastes bad.”
“Huh.” You grab another bite, scanning quickly over your notes. “Okay. So…”
“Why don’t you let me ask a few, just for now? Finish yer lil’ snack.”
You nod your consent, eyes narrowing in curiosity. He runs with it.
“You ain’t been afraid of me since the first night. Why’s that?”
“Who says I haven’t?”
He points to your heart. “Her. Too steady. Always has been.”
You shrug as you chew.
“And since I’ve spent the last two weeks detailin’ all the nasty shit I’m liable to do,” he continues, “I know you know I ain’t exactly safe t’be around. So… what? You think you ain’t in danger? Think you’re special?”
“I think,” you say, wiping away the last of the juice and setting the core onto a spare notepad, “that you find me interesting. Or entertaining, anyway.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. And I think you’re lonely. By your own admission, you’ve got no coven. You’re alone in the world. So… I imagine it feels good to share these things with someone, to think you’re impressing a pretty girl who can’t do anything but sit here and play nice. That’s what I think. Am I close?”
“Ain’t you bold.”
“I am.”
“Silly me. Here I was, thinkin’ maybe it was somethin’ to do with the pentagram on your ass. Am I close?”
You freeze.
“What, you thought I didn’t know?”
“I didn’t care if you knew.”
And he can hear your heart, hear the way it stutters, so he knows it’s a lie but all he says is: “Hm.”
“Can’t blame a girl for using protection.”
“No. I cain’t.”
“You’re wrong, though. It's my hip, not my ass.”
“My apologies, angel. Why don't you bend over, show me just how wrong I am?”
You roll your eyes.
“Tell me, though, what exactly you think that lil’ ink is doin’ for ya.”
“I…”
“’Cause sure,” he starts, “I can feel it in the room w’me and, sure, maybe my charm ain't hittin’ quite as strong as it's meant to, but I could rip your throat out before you even open that pretty mouth to scream. Ain’t no ink could stop me. You get that?”
You swallow. “I’m aware.”
“So… why the hell d’you keep coming?”
“Because I want to know things. And… well, everyone dies eventually. If I die here, then that’s just how it is.”
“Everyone, huh?”
You sit in the silence a moment. No one blinks.
Your gaze flits down to his mouth, to the pink of his lips and the crooked smile just barely visible. He isn’t even doing his witchy thing and yet all you can think about is crawling into his lap.
“In the end,” you manage. “Yes. Everyone.”
He nods.
“Come with me next time.”
“Where?”
“Hunting.”
He says it like that, like it’s a totally reasonable thing to offer.
“You’d let me?”
“Yeah. I want you to.”
“Alright.”
“Good.”
07/15/95 : #009
“ - and you gotta bite down hard, ‘cause if you don’t, if you mess around in there, well, then, now you’ve got yerself a stain too big to write off when the cops spot ya. You gotta move in the shadows. Y’ain’t meant to be noticed, y’understand? Visibility, that’s what gets you killed. Ain’t garlic. Ain’t silver. Visibility. Now, you see this, sugar?”
Remmick holds the thrashing out-of-towner by the collar, digging a knuckle into the exact part of the neck that protects the carotid. He brings his free hand up to cradle the base of your skull, directing your gaze. You peer down at the man’s shoulder, pointedly ignoring the tears in his wet eyes.
“Yeah. So it’s gotta be right there or else you’ll make a big mess of it?”
“Exactly,” he coos, rubbing a soft thumb over the nape of your neck. “Smart girl. Right here.”
And then he bites.
The man tries to scream but it’s too late, too wet, too gargled. You avert your eyes. The guilt in your stomach roils. Are you an accomplice now?
You tell yourself that your presence changes nothing. You tell yourself that Remmick would be out to kill tonight regardless of whether or not you joined him. That this poor tourist would still be dead.
The only difference between action and inaction is a clear conscience.
The vampire sucks at the man’s neck with a bacchic, frenzied hunger. The blood dribbles from the corners of his mouth, victim of his own animalistic greed. He takes it all at once: no hesitation, no moderation. It’s awfully gory. The wet tear of flesh, the squirt of red…
You’re too horrified to really process anything except the strange rush of want bubbling low in your stomach. It’s the only emotion that manages to cut through the fear, through the shame and guilt of participating in what you’ve witnessed here.
The body is drained. It hits the concrete with a thump. Remmick wipes his mouth.
“Just like that,” he breathes. “Ain’t nothin’ to it.”
And then you notice he’s hard.
You don’t mean to look down. It’s just - well, it's not exactly inconspicuous.
He follows your gaze. It’s visible even in the shadows, the tenting under his leather belt. He grins slowly, fangs gleaming in the low lamplight.
“Ah. Well, I told you, didn’t I?”
“You gonna take care of that?” you ask, voice just a little too high. “Or are we done here?”
“What, baby, you don’t wanna?”
“No.”
“Alright, sweet girl,” he laughs. “G’on, then. I’ll see you in a bit.”
You nod, turning on a heel, careful not to step in any of the pools of blood.
From behind, there’s the unmistakable sound of a belt buckle hitting the ground.
-
Remmick reemerges in a collared shirt you’ve never seen before, the ends of his hair dripping with water. When you crook a brow in confusion, he nods over to the little pond by the edge of the woods.
“Ew. Really?”
“Well, I ain't about to walk around all painted like a Jackson Pollock. Visibility, remember?”
And then he wraps an arm around your waist, drawing you into him. His body is cold - though from the water or the vampirism, you aren’t quite sure.
“Please tell me you washed those hands.”
He tosses you the little bottle of sanitizer gel from his jeans pocket. Before you can stifle it, you’re laughing. That draws a smile from him - not a teasing one, not a smirk, but something much warmer. More honest. He looks down at you like he’s pleased.
“You're ridiculous.”
“Good hygiene’s my utmost priority, angel.”
He pulls you in closer, pressing a long kiss to the top of your head.
“You’re so touchy. I thought you took care of your little problem.”
“Little? You wound me.”
You roll your eyes.
“Nah, alright, it’s just that it’s always the lone men that catch people’s attention. Makes ‘em jumpy. Better t’have a pretty girl at my side after the cops get here. No one’ll suspect a thing.”
“What does it feel like?”
“What?”
“The blood. Does it make you stronger? Give you superpowers?”
“Nah,” he chuckles. “Only, I’m feelin’ real good, like I wanna do something stupid.”
“Like what?”
“Like taste you.” You stiffen. He sighs. “Relax, darlin’, I didn’t say kill.”
“Sorry Nosferatu, I can’t justify a turtleneck in July.”
“Why should you? F’anyone comes at you sideways, just tell ‘em your boyfriend’s a real freak.”
That elicits another laugh from you, real and loud and clear. It’s got him preening.
“How long did it take you to get used to it?”
“Drinkin’ blood?”
“Killing.”
He slows a little. You wonder if you’ve toed the line too far.
“My life ain’t like yours,” he says, finally. “Never was. Didn’t take me turnin’ into… this to kill a man.”
“No?”
Remmick clicks his teeth. “Baby. I was born in the Dark Ages. Death’s always been nippin’ at my heels, just waitin’ for me to trip up.”
“Oh. I… Sorry. Didn’t mean to bring up bad memories.”
“Ain’t all bad.”
“Good.” You hesitate a moment. “So, what now? We just stand around, waiting for the police?”
“Nah. Now, we go find ourselves a real drink.” He beams as your brows furrow. “Lucky for you, I got the best joint in town.”
It’s field work. Participant observation. Ethnography, even.
You run through the list of anthropological buzzwords like you’re trying them on for size, contorting them until they fit the situation you now find yourself in.
The music in here is very loud, so loud it rings in your ears, so loud it catches in the hollows of your throat.
And Remmick’s got you by the waist from behind, rubbing heavy thumbs into your hips, gripping tightly at them like he thinks you’re about to bolt. Bodies are everywhere. You’re pressed into him, drink in hand, trying very hard not to spill it.
His hand crawls up your forearm, completely covers your own, and brings the glass of gin to your lips.
“Drink up, baby,” he says into your ear. “Need ya to feel how I feel.”
“Blood gets you drunk?” you shout back.
“Somethin’ like that.”
So you down the drink and swear it’s your last of the night.
He wasn’t lying - this really is the best joint in town.
It’s not one of those yuppie gastropubs that the New York Times writes about where the drinks cost more than the minimum wage. It’s also not like the dive bars you and your peers frequent, those little holes in the wall where the booze is cheap and the floor is sticky with unidentifiable liquid.
No, this place is a living, breathing thing.
Remmick moves you like water. Guides you right and left, nudges you where your feet need to go. You like it like this, like not overthinking it. No thinking at all, really.
He spins you like it’s second nature to him. That’s a thousand years, you suppose, one thousand years of finessing every possible social skill. How many girls has he spun like this? How many has he fucked? And how many has he drained dry?
Then he digs his hands into the flesh of your hips, just over the hidden tattoo.
“I like this lil’ thing. I’ve decided.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“How’s that?”
“’Cause I feel you drippin’ all over me and I know it ain’t ‘cause you been compelled.”
You stumble on the beat, trip a little into him. He steadies you.
“Remmick.”
“I mean that. Ain’t gotta run circles in my head, ain’t gotta wonder if it’s me or the magic: I know you want it.” His hand comes to rest on your lower stomach. “I’m a very bad man and you want me anyway. Bet you’d let me do it right here, huh?”
And maybe it’s idiotic but you arch into him anyway, letting the curve of your spine melt into the broad expanse of his chest. He brings his arms over yours, hugging you from behind, holding you where he needs you to stay.
“You would. I know it. And if you weren’t so drunk - fuck, I’d do it. Let all these freaks watch.”
“That’s not fair.”
“Nah, we ain’t talkin’ about fair. Not like this, not when your body’s singin’ like she needs me to shut her up.”
“Fuck you.”
“Eventually. But… shit, I think I like this better, knowin’ you’ll be up all night with an ache so deep you cain’t even name the place it’s hidin’.”
“Bring me home, then. I’ll find that toy.”
He laughs against your neck, pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses down the length of it. “Oh, now that, I’d like to see.”
“Too bad. You can’t come in, can you?”
“Not yet.”
“Boo hoo.”
He nips at your ear and you squeal. “Don’t tempt me, baby.”
“Hm. You really won’t fuck me tonight?”
“Not a chance.”
“Then go get me another drink, would you?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
07/19/95 : #010
The air is heavy today.
A sudden chill hangs over the city. It might rain, it might not, but the humidity’s so high it hardly matters. This day wasn’t made for hard work or expending energy.
And yet…
One step through his door and you’re already struck by the supercharged air between you, something like voltage - sizzling and humming just below the visible. He sits across from you, nearly unblinking.
You drink the wine, slow, like the heat in your cheeks could possibly be attributed to the alcohol. To warm you up, he’d said, eyeing the way you shivered in your sundress.
The interview is a short one.
Neither one of you can concentrate. No one addresses what happened at the club.
“Man on the news said there’s a storm on the way.” You offer it like an olive branch, some boring factoid to distract from the way his eyes wander. “Said it's a big one.”
“Hm.”
“Can't believe I walked here.”
“Shit.”
“You aren’t worried?”
“Not in the least.”
Silence.
You flick off the recorder.
“I can’t use of any this.”
He shrugs. “Just makin’ some small talk.”
“I probably should’ve stayed home.”
“How’s that?” He seems almost offended.
“If there’s a… storm.”
“I got candles.”
“You got food?”
“Not unless you don’t mind joinin’ me for eternity.”
“So no.”
You nod. Outside, a crack of thunder rings out.
“Alright. I’ll drive you home, angel.”
“What about the sun?”
He casts a glance up at the slate-grey sky as if to say, what sun?
“Right. Okay. Thank you.”
Remmick watches you.
You know that look, know what it means. You’ve been on the receiving end of it a hundred times in your life, both wanted and not.
It’s not the way a vampire eyes a meal, but… more like the way a man eyes someone he wants to taste, something he wants to devour.
You know he can hear the erratic beat in your chest. You know he can tell from all the way over there how wired you are. You know he’s picking up and cataloguing every hitch in breath, every tiny shift in your thighs, every time your eyes dart to his mouth.
You can’t take it anymore.
-
The rain comes down as a sheet just as you reach the top step of your porch. Fumbling around for your keys, you momentarily forget there’s an apex predator just over your shoulder with his hands dug into his pockets like there’s nothing strange about any of it.
The lock gives with a click and you swing open the door. “Thanks again for the ride,” you call over one shoulder, dumping your work bag by the welcome mat.
“No sweat, sugar.”
“D’you wanna…?”
Remmick stills. “Wanna what?”
“You know.” It just slipped out - but you realize, quite immediately, that you really do mean it.
“That’s so sweet of you, angel,” he says. “But...”
“What?”
“Your name ain’t on the deed. Is it?”
Something cold shoots down your spine.
And then he walks in.
You step back.
“That’s my bad, sugar. I didn’t even think to check. Who owns it, then?” He shuts the door behind him - slow, easy, like nothing’s gone terribly wrong.
“The university.”
He crooks a brow.
Nods.
“So. What d’you want me to do, then? Want me to go?”
“No.”
“You’re shakin’.”
“No - yes, I don’t know, I… But I don’t want you to leave.”
“Alright. Won’t budge.”
“Just… You can follow me.”
It’s like a twisted reimagining of that first night, how you led him through the streets of the dark city praying he wouldn’t snap and rip your throat out. You hear his steps behind you, measured and even, the creak of him on the stairs. The lamps flicker as the rain hits the roof.
But you wonder something.
It’s true you don't own the place. Technically, you’re just renting. And technically… the only place in this house that could kind of be considered yours is the bedroom, the bright one with the bay window overlooking the tree-lined street below.
Now here's a research opportunity.
With a few feet to go, you dash through the door to your room and stumble over the threshold.
Remmick growls, not far behind and -
Nothing.
You wait a beat. Two.
He hasn’t followed because he’s still in the doorway, his figure backlit by the lamps downstairs and casting a long, black shadow onto your carpet.
“Sorry, Rem. Just wanted to test something.”
“I see that.”
“You really can’t…?”
“I cain’t.”
“You’d need me to say it, then.”
“I would.”
You nod.
And reach over to your nightstand.
A flick of the switch and the toy buzzes to life. Remmick bangs his forehead into the doorframe. “You gotta be fuckin’ kidding me.”
“Nope. Just wanna see you sweat a little.”
You settle just in front of the doorway, shift your legs apart, letting them fall open from the knee. Slowly, you move the toy up and down your thigh. You’re soaked. He can see it.
He snarls, nails biting into the wood of the frame.
“What? Think you could do better?”
“I get it,” he grits out. “I teased you - I'm sorry, alright? You want me to fuckin’ beg?”
“As a matter of fact, I do.”
“Please, alright? Please, I’m - sugar, I need you. I need you t’let me make it up to you. Cain’t do that from all the way out here, can I?” He presses forward, as far as he can get, straining the barrier between you.
Your hand hovers over your core, just inches from where you need it most. “How long’s it been since you had to beg for something? Since you couldn’t just take it?”
“Sweetheart, I - please, I can smell it on ya, it’s all over you n’I - I need it.”
“You’re so pretty when you whine, baby.”
“That’s sick.”
“So are you.” You can’t hide the crack in your voice when the toy makes contact. “Shit, Rem - I wish it were you. Bet it’s big. Bet it’d fit just right.”
“Please.” He falls to his knees, holds up his hands in a mockery of holy prayer. “Anything you want, angel, anything. Just put that fuckin’ thing down and lemme in.”
All he can do is watch as you writhe, still clothed, chasing the feeling as you teeter on the edge.
“Feels so good,” you whine.
“I cain’t fuckin’ watch this. Please.”
One flick of the wrist - you know it - and you’ll come. Just one. It’s now or never.
“You gonna eat it, Rem?”
“Yes. Jesus fuckin’ Christ, I’m gonna eat it.”
“And then you’ll fuck me good?”
“So good you won’t walk for days.”
“Come in, then.”
And the space between you closes.
The toy is on the other side of the room before you can even switch it off. His mouth is on yours, licking into you like the flavour is what he craves. One hand comes to squeeze at your tit, sharp and possessive. You gasp into him.
“Don’t you ever do that again, baby,” he spits against your teeth. “Y’understand?”
“Won’t,” you manage. “Just get to work.”
It’s another minute before his mouth finally leaves yours, before he’s ripping the dress clean in two and letting the pieces fall unceremoniously to the floor. He kisses down the length of your cheek, your jaw, your collarbone, the valley of your breasts, all the way down to your core.
You half-expect him to tease you right back, to draw the whole thing out - bt he doesn’t.
He eats it in a fury, like he’s exacting a punishment. Your fingers weave into his soft, ruddy hair, start tugging at the roots like you could possibly control his motions. Remmick hasn’t even bothered to drag you to the bed, to find you a pillow, to even angle you over the plush carpet just over to the right - no.
You’re doing this right here… and you wouldn’t have it any other way.
The dig of his hands into the flesh of your thighs, the way he's got one arm locked across your stomach so tight you can't even buck your hips, the wet sounds barely audible over the crackling thunder and howling wind -
Between all of that and the half-abandoned orgasm you nearly achieved, it takes no time at all for him to shove you over the edge into ecstasy.
You scream. He laughs.
“Ain’t no fuckin’ toy could do that,” he mutters into your thigh, pressing wet kisses into the soft skin of it.
“I need more, Rem, I need - holy shit.”
“I got you, sugar. Lie back, now, lemme do what needs doin’.”
Remmick crawls up over you. There’s a surprising tenderness in how he moves, a distinct attention to keeping his weight even, to giving you enough space to breathe.
“What’d you think, baby, think it’s big?” he mutters between kisses, between the wet stripes he licks across the flushed skin of your neck. “Think y’can take it?”
“Y-yes, I - shit - I can.”
“That’s good, sweet thing, ‘cause I’m gonna make it fit, n’you’re gonna lay right there and you’re gonna thank me for it. Ain’t that right?”
You nod furiously, whining at the feel of canines scraping at your skin. He nips at your breast - not enough to break the skin, but enough to make you keen into him. All the while, his hands roam the length of your bare body.
“Speak up.”
“Yes.”
“Smart girl.” He nuzzles into the slope of your neck, inhaling deep. You claw at his shirt, some faded old band thing that smells of expensive aftershave and iron-rich rot. He understands, pauses his attack, peels it off and over his head.
And then he’s right back where he was, colder than the night and far more beautiful. His skin burns with a strange ice, overwhelms the sticky humidity of the room and the flushed heat emanating from your every pore. The world is made perfect in his expert, ancient hands.
“You let me in.” He mumbles it into the flesh of your stomach - an accusation, yes, but laced with adoration. “You didn’t have to. I didn’t make you. Nah, you did it ‘cause you wanted it. Wanted me.”
“Obviously,” you gasp. “Fucking obviously I wanted this.”
He laughs, soft and airy.
“I know, baby. She -” he runs a finger against your core and you keen - “has made that very clear.”
“Please, Remmick, would you just - I can take it, I’m ready, just - fuck, please…”
“Yeah?” He chuckles, even now, even as he’s rocking back and forth over your bare body, grinding his clothed self into you. “What, y’ain’t so bold now that y’need some cock, huh?”
His blunt words leave you clenching around nothing.
You swallow. “Fuck you.”
“You can, if you ask real nice.”
“I got mine already, Rem.” Your voice cracks as the head of him catches against you. “You gave it to me, remember? And if you want yours, you’d better get on it.”
“Aw, there she is,” he coos, grinning against your mouth. “Dirty girl. Silly girl, playin’ with fire, survival instinct of a fuckin’ pebble.”
“Shut up.”
Remmick reaches down to undo his zip. Tosses his belt aside, the leather sliding through the loops and the buckle meeting the hardwood with a heavy clank. You lower a hand to feel him and he slaps it away.
And then he’s moving against you again, feeling his way through the combined wetness between your bodies without ever breaching it.
“Tell me, sweetheart,” he starts. “Is this what you been hopin’ for? Whole time, sittin’ there across from me all pretty n’breakable, pokin’ and proddin’ at a thing so old it cain’t hardly remember what it means to say please… What, you kept comin’ back just hopin’ I’d get you under me? Get you squirmin’, just like this?”
“No.”
“I don’t believe you,” he says simply, and then buries himself to the hilt. You scream. He makes a sound like choking.
“Rem, you’re so - fuck, just slow down -”
“Nah, baby,” he counters, pulling himself out just to push in again. “I can take it, Rem, I’m ready - ain’t that what you said? Ain’t that how you begged? See, I’m just givin’ my girl what she wants.”
My girl.
You whine at that, clench down around him, and he groans.
“Oh,” he spits. “Y’like that? Like bein’ mine?”
“Yes,” you sob. “Yes, I-”
“Good, ‘cause that’s what you are.” He hisses it, his hands coming to land on either side of your face, digging into your cheeks, forcing your gaze. “You been mine, sugar, since the first night, since them college boys looked at you like a meal n’got their throats ripped out for their trouble.”
Your eyes go wide.
“Aw, you don’t even remember, huh?” He laughs in your face. “Poor baby’s just lucky was me that found her in that alley and not one of them.”
“Rem-”
“Mine.” He hits you with a cant of his hips that shoves you forward. “Say it.”
You drag your hand from its resting place on his bicep, from the five little indents in his pallid skin, and bring it to rest in his hair. You tug. He snarls.
“Yours,” you whisper, drawing his lips down to meet your own.
“Goddamn right.”
“Because you’re mine.”
“Fuck.” It’s almost a whine. “Oh, angel - fuck, that’s right, just like that - so fuckin’ perfect, so fuckin’ - “
He reaches down to the nub between your legs, chases that same pattern with his thumb as he had with his tongue. You cry out, grip on his shoulders so tight that the tips of your fingers start to tingle.
“Just like that, baby, go on - one more. Know y’can, know y’wanna.”
“Don’t stop.”
“Shit, angel, could be fuckin’ armageddon outside and I wouldn’t stop. Not when I got you like this. Not when you’re cryin’ all over me like a fuckin’ whore.”
All you can babble is his name, rising and falling, swelling and bursting.
“I’m gonna - “
“Oh, you goddamn better.”
So you do.
Remmick doesn’t let up, doesn’t give you the briefest second to acclimate, to ride it out, to come down from the peak. He’s still bucking and moving, still chasing his own high.
What can you do but lie there and take it? What can you do but grab at his mussed hair, coo soft words of praise in his ear, tell him how good he is to you?
“Sweet girl,” he pants, pressing wet kisses across your face, down your neck, in your hair - anywhere his animal body takes him. “You let me in. Let me… let me in again. Ins - lemme come inside, yeah?”
“Inside,” you whine, eyes screwed shut. “Yeah.”
“Yeah?”
“Please.”
So he does.
“You’re mine, baby,” he groans, kissing softly at the corners of your mouth. “Fuck. All mine.”
“I’m yours.” You brush a loose lock of hair from his eye. Drag him down again for a deep kiss - slow, filthy, indulgent. “You know that.”
“And I ain’t talkin’ about a fling, angel, ain’t talkin’ about you’re mine up ‘til you get your degree n’get the hell on outta Louisiana. Nah, this here’s forever, sugar, for life. Get that?”
“Your life or mine?”
“Why not both?”
You both look at each other, then, properly. The red’s almost dissolved from his iris. If you squint, he might just be a handsome man like any other, all hungry hands and slick words. You wonder what he sees in you - something fragile to cradle, some sweetness to indulge in.
There's something very human in the way he watches you, how he hangs on whatever words might next leave your lips. Like he knows what he wants to hear. Like he's terrified he won't. Like any of it matters to a creature older than God.
“Bring me to bed, please.”
With a kiss to your forehead, he’s pulling himself from your body, shushing you as you wince. Wordlessly, he lifts your sore frame from the floor as if you weigh nothing, carrying you up and over to the king-size mattress laying unused only feet away.
“I mean it,” he says, drawing your body up against him. His fingers play in your hair, scratch at your scalp. “I could give you forever.”
“I know.”
“You don’t want it?”
“I don’t know. Did you choose this?”
“No. But you could.”
“You think I’d be happy?”
“Think I could make you. Yeah?”
“You’re probably right.”
“Yeah.”
“D’you think I’d also get horny after drinking blood?”
“Goddamn, I hope so.”
“Pervert.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Y’know, I’d like to turn thirty first, I think.”
“What’s so great about thirty?”
You laugh. “I don’t know. I just want to.”
“Alright,” he mumbles into your hair. “When’s your birthday?”
remmick x f.ᐟreader ⨾ ❝ blood made a poor man of him, and you have always liked him poorest. ❞
remmick has spent months learning how to live under your roof without taking more than he is given. he can mend fences, carry feed, and sleep beside you like a man—but blood strips the manners from him. word count : 5k
contents. MDNI 18+ pathetic! remmick ; dom! reader ; sub! remmick ; bloodplay ; mentioned animal death ; references to remmick feeding on an animal ; drool / spit ; unprotected p in v ; messy sex ; oral sex (f! receiving) ; fingering ; creampie ; begging ; praise ; degradation ; humiliation kink ; masochism ; slapping ; implied punishments ; punishment / reward dynamic ; remmick cries during sex ; overstimulation ; possessive undertones ; implied stalking ; power imbalance.
notes. more remmick… y’all already know he’s my most written character and the unpublished fics prove that 😭 more pathetic remmick bc i love
“Remmick,” you call, coming in through the back door with chicken blood drying beneath your nails and the last purple smear of evening clinging to the yard behind you.
The screen door claps against the frame, rattling the loose hook in its eye, and the house takes the sound into itself with a long wooden shiver.
Outside, the pasture has gone dark at the edges, the mares moving in pale, restless shapes beyond the fence line, and the butchered hen lies wrapped in paper against your hip, still warm enough to leave its damp weight through the cloth.
The kitchen smells of iron, cornmeal, lamp oil, and hot wood, all of it made heavier by the wet breath of summer pressing against the windows. Blood has soaked through your apron in stiff patches. It darkens your knuckles, clings under your nails, and slicks the inside of your fingers where the washbasin has not yet had its turn at you.
Remmick sits at the kitchen table with supper cooling in front of him, fork laid across the plate like a prop in some poor play. Cornbread, beans, and a slice of onion sit untouched on the plate, though he had taken care to move his fork once or twice as if the habit of eating could make him seem less unnatural.
He's been better at pretending lately.
Better at wearing a man’s shape around your house.
That pretense slips the moment he sees your hands.
His eyes lift first, then hold. His mouth goes wet. The change comes over him with shameful quickness, a stillness so complete the whole kitchen seems to lean toward it. His fingers curl against the table, nails scraping once, soft and desperate, and he swallows as if something in his throat has gone dry despite the shine already gathering on his lower lip.
“Bring me the basin,” you say, setting the wrapped hen near the stove, “and stop staring like you’ve never seen blood in this house before.”
A sound catches in his throat, too low to be a laugh and too eager to be shame, but he rises quickly enough, chair legs dragging hard across the boards.
Months ago, when he first came to your land, you would have taken that quickness for threat and reached for the shotgun you kept by the pantry.
The first night he came to you, pale as a corpse in the moonlight and smiling like something raised wrong from the marsh, you had been in the stable with your sick mare, her flank hot beneath your palm and her breath sour with fever.
He had stood beyond the open doors with rainwater silvering his hair, asking after the road to the nearest town, then begging for a cup of water in a voice too soft for a man who looked as though he might open his jaw and show you a wolf’s hunger.
You had given him directions and your flask because you were not cruel, then told him to leave because you were not a fool.
Night after night afterward, he returned to the porch with some new misery tucked under his tongue; a stone in his boot, dogs in the distance, fever in his head, a weakness in his knees, any excuse that might win him a chair by your fire.
You let him speak to the locked door until dawn thinned the trees and drove him away.
Then he came bleeding.
You think of it now when he brings the basin from the sideboard and sets it down too near you, close enough that his sleeve brushes your elbow.
That night he had sagged against your porch post with one hand pressed to his ribs, shirt torn, mouth trembling with a pain you later understood he had chosen for himself.
Mercy had gotten him across your threshold. Mercy, and your own hands, and the foolish human pity he had learned to pull from you like a thread from cloth. And after mercy came habit, then want, then the strange arrangement of a dead thing living in your house as if marriage vows had been exchanged under the kitchen rafters instead of hunger.
He mended fences after dusk, hauled feed in the bruised light before sunrise, kept his hat low and his hands busy, and in return he crawled into your bed each night because he begged so sweetly for it, and because his body never held heat unless he stole yours.
By the time you found him in the yard one night with one of your hens torn open between his hands, his mouth red and his fangs hooked deep into the limp, feathered body, you had already let him kiss you. You had already let him climb into your bed. You had already slapped him once for nearly putting those teeth in your throat while his cock was inside you, and watched him go rigid with hurt, hunger, shame, and pleasure all tangled together until he looked as ruined as any sinner caught at the altar.
His hand hovers over yours, not touching, but every part of him strains toward the blood.
“Remmick,” you warn.
“I know,” he says, though his voice has gone thin and ragged. “I know, I know, I only—”
“You only what?”
He looks from your hands to your face, and the lamplight makes something red move behind his eyes before he blinks it back.
His tongue touches the corner of his mouth. He looks wretched with wanting, dressed in the same shirt he wore to mend the smokehouse latch, the sleeves rolled past his forearms, his suspenders loose, his hair damp at the temples from the heat. There's dirt beneath his nails, a smear of dust along one cheekbone, and for all his sweetness around the house, for all the way he carries himself when he wants to seem harmless, the sight of blood has peeled him down to the thing you know he is.
“Please,” he whispers.
“You’ve had supper put in front of you.” You tilt your head, searching for any changes in his expression.
His eyes flick toward the plate with no interest at all. “That is supper for a livin' man.”
“And what are you?”
The question strikes him low. In the tremor that moves through his mouth, and in the way his gaze drops from your face to your fingers again. “Whatever you tell me to be.”
The answer is pretty, pathetic, and practiced only because every true thing in him has begun to sound like begging.
You lift your hand and let your bloodied fingers hover near his mouth, and his lips part.
The sight of it sends a slow warmth through you, power sinking into flesh.
He has torn through men, animals, God knows what else, and yet in your kitchen he waits for permission with his cock already swelling in his trousers because you might let him lick chicken blood from your hand.
“Open,” you tell him.
Remmick obeys with such speed that his shame seems to arrive after the hunger, following it across his face in a red wash. His mouth closes around two of your fingers, hot and wet, his tongue moving with careful greed over the dried blood.
He sucks gently at first, trying to make a show of restraint, but the effort fails as soon as the taste reaches him.
His lashes lower. His breath shudders. Drool gathers where your fingers press his lower lip, and the sound he makes around you is obscene, a low, grateful hum that vibrates through the bones of your hand.
You watch him take what you allow, watch the stain disappear from your knuckles, watch his hands grip the table because he knows better than to seize your wrist.
That lesson had taken several nights to settle into him, several bruises, several warnings, and the pleasure of it still lives in the way he trembles when you call him greedy.
“You’re filthy,” you murmur, easing your fingers deeper until his throat works around the pressure. “Sitting here drooling over chicken blood like I starve you.”
His eyes lift, red flickering deep behind the brown, and the word filthy nearly finishes whatever restraint he has left.
His hips press once toward nothing. A thick shape pushes against the front of his trousers, plain beneath the lamplight, and when you glance down at it, he gives a muffled whine that turns wetter around your fingers.
You pull back slowly, but his mouth follows before he catches himself, lips chasing the taste, and then he does it: the smallest tilt of his head, the slightest flash of ragged fangs, an attempt to catch your thumb and nick the living blood beneath the skin.
Your palm cracks across his face before his teeth can close.
The blow rings through the kitchen and leaves him turned with one hand braced against the table, mouth open, cheek already flushing beneath the mark.
He breathes hard, almost panting. Shame folds through his expression, but pleasure rises with it, sick and immediate, his body betraying him so plainly that his eyes squeeze shut. His fingers flex against the wood as though he needs something to hold or he might sink to the floor.
“I told you not to bite me,” you say, quiet enough to make him listen.
Remmick nods quickly, his voice rough when he answers, “Yes.”
“You tried anyway.”
“I was only—” He stops himself because the lie would insult you more than the disobedience. His throat works, and the red print on his cheek deepens. “I wanted more.”
A slow look down his body makes him shift like he can hide what the slap has done to him. “And now look at you.”
His gaze drops, and you follow it without mercy. His cock strains against his trousers, obscene and thick beneath worn fabric, the front of him tented as plainly as if he had meant to show you. He looks down at himself and makes a sound that is almost pain.
“One little slap and you’re fit to spend in your pants.”
Humiliation bends his head, but it does not soften the hunger in him. If anything, it makes him worse.
His lashes flutter, his lips part, and a shine of spit gathers again at the corner of his mouth as though the slap has loosened something in him that hunger alone could not.
You take the clean side of your thumb and press it to the reddening mark on his cheek. He leans into the touch like a whipped dog seeking the same hand that struck him.
“You’ll fetch water so I can wash,” you say, letting your thumb drag once along his cheekbone. “Then you’ll go sit in the bedroom and wait for me. You will not touch yourself.”
His face twists with need. “I can’t—”
“You can.”
He nods slowly, too eager and too miserable and, when he turns for the pump, his gait is wrong with arousal, stiff through the hips, one hand hovering near the front of his trousers before he snatches it back like he remembers your command by pain alone.
By the time the basin is filled and your hands are clean, the water has turned a cloudy brown-red that seems to grieve him when you pour it out.
He watches the blood vanish into the yard through the back door, his jaw tight, his gaze hollowed by want, but he goes where you send him.
The boards in the hall complain under his steps, and you take your time with the kitchen because you know every ordinary sound will torment him. The knife is washed and dried. The wrapped chicken is set aside. The apron comes off stiff with blood and hangs from the nail by the door.
In the bathroom, you clean yourself with warmed water by lamplight, dragging the cloth over your arms, your throat, the sweat-slick hollow between your breasts, the places where blood had soaked through the cotton and touched skin.
The house is quieter there, close and damp, yet you know his hearing catches the water wrung from the cloth, the shift of your dress loosening, the soft fall of your stockings.
Letting him imagine is its own punishment, and you enjoy it more than you care to name.
The bedroom is dark except for the low lamp on the dresser and the moonless weight at the window when you finally step inside.
Remmick's sitting on the edge of the bed with his suspenders hanging loose, shirt open down the chest, hair damp at the temples from a sweat his body has no honest reason to make. One hand grips his thigh. The other is pressed over the bulge in his trousers, just holding himself through the fabric as if pressure alone might keep him from splitting apart.
His gaze lifts to you, then drops to the thin shift clinging to your freshly washed skin, and the sound that leaves him is half-starved.
“You touched yourself,” you say, crossing the room slowly.
“I held it,” he answers, breathless with the need to explain. “Only held it. It hurt.”
“Poor Remmick,” you say, and the false softness of it makes his hips twitch beneath his hand.
He stands before you reach him, crowding close but not quite touching until your eyes give him leave.
His hands settle at your waist with a tremor. His mouth lowers to your shoulder, kissing through the shift first, then nudging the loosened neckline aside to taste skin.
The kisses come wet and scattered, down your throat, along your jaw, over your cheek, each one leaving a shine behind. He is always too messy when want has burned through his manners, too open-mouthed, too eager, too grateful for anything your body allows him.
When you catch his chin and make him look at you, his pupils are wide, his lips swollen from biting back whines.
“I said not to touch yourself,” you remind him.
“I only held it,” he says, pleading already. “I swear, I only—Christ, I needed something.”
"Poor you," you repeat.
His hips push forward before he can stop them, the hard length of him grinding against your thigh. He chokes on the sound that follows and tries to pull back, but you keep him there with your hand on his jaw.
“You like being pitied?” you ask, letting your thumb rest at the corner of his mouth where spit has gathered. “You like being made small?”
The shame in him answers before he does, running down his throat in a swallow. “I like when you say anything to me.”
The answer is so bare that it would soften you on another night. It does soften you, somewhere deep and unwise, but you do not let it reach your hands.
You stroke your thumb over the red mark on his cheek, and he turns into the touch with such helpless hunger that your own body answers, heat blooming between your thighs.
“Get on your knees, then.”
Remmick sinks down so fast the floorboards creak beneath him, hands sliding to your calves, face tipped up with a hunger that looks nearly devotional.
Your back settles against the wardrobe as you gather your shift in one fist and lift it, the old wood cool and solid behind your shoulders.
When he leans forward, you raise one thigh over his shoulder, making room for him between your legs while his hands come up to steady you at the hips. He stops with his mouth hovering inches from you, breathing against your inner thighs while he waits, and the restraint costs him badly enough that his fingers dig into your skin before he catches himself and loosens his grip.
His eyes flick up for permission, and when you give it, he falls on you with a groan that nearly buckles the leg still planted beneath you. His mouth is hot, wet, and shameless, licking into you with the desperation of something denied too long.
He drags the muscle through your slickness, circles your clit, then sucks with enough care that his fangs never touch, though the danger of them stays present in every breath. Drool slips down his chin and cools against your thighs while his hands clutch under your shift, holding you open as he eats you like praise might be found there if he works hard enough for it.
Your fingers push into his hair and pull him closer, and he makes a grateful, muffled sound, tongue circling your clit before flattening, then dipping lower to taste where you are opening for him.
His nose presses against you. His fingers dig bruises into your hips. He breathes harshly through it, rutting once against nothing before he catches himself and stops, shaking with the effort.
“No,” you say, tightening your hand in his hair. “You don’t get to rub yourself on my floor like a dog.”
The words break a rough sound out of him, humiliation moving through him like fever, and he moans into your cunt as his tongue flattens against your clit again, then slips lower while two fingers stroke up the inside of your thigh.
Your free hand braces against the wardrobe, and he feels the shift of your weight, feels the way your raised thigh tightens over his shoulder. He always knows when he has done well, and he turns ravenous with the knowledge, licking you with long, desperate strokes until pleasure gathers low and heavy in your stomach.
“That’s better,” you say, breath thinning. “Good boy.”
The praise wrecks him worse than the insult. He pulls back just enough to gasp, “Again.”
You look down at him, at the wet shine all over his mouth and chin, at the way his eyes have gone glassy with need.
“Earn it.”
Remmick earns it with his tongue, with his mouth, with his fingers sliding up the inside of your thigh only after you nod.
When he presses two of them into you, they go slow at first, crooked carefully, finding the place that makes your breath catch. He watches your face as he does it, his mouth still working your clit, eyes almost fever-bright with the pleasure of being used.
The room thickens around you, close and hot, the lamp smoking faintly on the dresser, the quilt twisted on the bed behind him, the open window letting in all the wet green rot of summer.
You can hear his fingers moving in you, and you can hear him swallowing your pleasure as if he is starving for that too.
Your orgasm gathers, and he seems to sense it before you tell him, pressing deeper, sucking softer, giving you his mouth as steadily as he can while his own body shakes.
Pleasure rolls through you hard, making your hand fist in his hair, your thigh tightening over his shoulder as you bow against the wardrobe and come on his tongue.
He groans as if your pleasure hurts him sweetly. His fingers keep moving until you shove at his shoulder, oversensitive and breathless, and even then he kisses your inner thigh once, twice, wet open-mouthed kisses that beg forgiveness for stopping and permission to start again.
By the time you pull him up, Remmick’s mouth and chin are shining. His cock strains so heavily against his trousers that the fabric is damp at the front, and the sight of your pleasure on his face has made him glassy-eyed rather than proud.
He looks debased, beautiful, and miserable with restraint.
You rub your thumb over his slick lower lip, and he opens for it without instruction, tongue touching your skin with a shiver.
“You did that well,” you murmur.
Praise hits him harder than the slap. His eyes flutter, and his hands curl uselessly near your waist, not daring to grab. “Again,” he whispers, though it is unclear whether he means the praise, your mouth, or the chance to get between your thighs until he stops shaking.
“Bed,” you tell him, and he nearly stumbles in his hurry to obey.
The mattress gives under you with a familiar rope-and-frame complaint as you lie back, shift bunched around your hips.
He kisses you on the way down to it, or tries to. His mouth finds yours in broken, greedy attempts, too eager to be smooth.
You taste yourself on him, salt and heat beneath the faint copper memory of the chicken blood he had cleaned from your fingers.
He whimpers when your tongue touches his. He whimpers again when you bite his lower lip hard enough to warn him but not hard enough to bleed.
Remmick’s hands make poor work of his buttons. He is too aroused to be graceful, too eager to be quick, and by the time he gets his trousers open, his cock springs heavy and flushed into his palm.
He grips himself once by instinct, then snatches his hand away at the look you give him. The remorse on his face is immediate, but he doesn't cry; his eyes only shine, wet at the edges, his mouth tightening as he fights the ache.
When you finally part your thighs, the expression on his face changes so sharply it borders on pain as he climbs over you with care, one hand bracing near your head, the other gripping the base of his cock because even now, with permission, he's trying not to spend too soon.
The head of his cock drags through your wetness, and his face tightens as if the pleasure has teeth. He pushes in slowly because you told him once that you liked to feel him try not to lose himself, and he remembers the things that torment him.
When his hips finally settle flush against yours, his forehead drops near your collarbone with a low, broken moan.
“No teeth,” you remind him, turning his face away from your throat with two fingers at his jaw.
“No teeth,” he repeats, voice rough. “I know.”
“And no coming until I say.”
Remmick’s whole body tenses above you, then obeys by force of will alone.
He begins with slow strokes, dragging out of you almost to the tip before sinking back in, the rhythm careful and reverent until care becomes impossible.
His mouth moves everywhere it can safely go: your shoulder, your jaw, the curve of your breast through the shift, the place beneath your ear where he trembles from keeping his fangs away.
Each time his hunger gets too close, he turns his face aside and curses softly into the pillow.
The restraint makes him rougher through the hips, less polished, more desperate, and the bed starts to knock against the wall in a steady wooden pulse.
“You’re trying so hard,” you say, nails dragging down his back.
The praise makes him shudder, and one thin tear slips free despite his effort to hold it back. It cuts down the slapped cheek, catching the lamplight before disappearing near his jaw.
That's all he gives you at first, that single sign of being split too wide by pleasure, shame, and obedience. He doesn't fall apart the way he has before—he keeps moving, breathing hard through his nose, mouth open and wet, eyes fixed on your face because looking away would feel like failing.
“You like being kept like this,” you say, wrapping your legs higher around his waist. “Being made to wait. Being told no. Being put in your place.”
His hips stutter, eyes squeezing shut, and the next thrust goes deeper. “Yes.”
“Say it proper.”
“Yes,” he says again, hoarser, his hand fisting in the sheet beside your head. “I like it.”
“You like being treated like something that needs training.”
A sob catches in his throat. He thrusts harder, then whines when you tug his hair in warning.
“Careful,” you say. “Don’t get stupid now.”
“I am stupid,” he says, the words falling out in a rush, all dignity gone. “I’m stupid for it, I can’t think when you smell like this, when you open for me, when you look at me like that."
The answer pulls a sound from you before you can swallow it.
Remmick hears it and gives you that angle again, his body learning yours in the filthy, faithful way it always does.
The room fills with him: the slap of his hips, the damp heat of his mouth against your skin, the faint copper ghost of blood still hidden somewhere in his breath from your fingers.
Your hand slides between your bodies when the second climb starts, and the first touch of your fingers to your clit makes you tighten around him so suddenly that he chokes.
“Christ,” he gasps, eyes dropping to where your hand moves, hips rolling into you while your fingers rub tight circles over your clit.
His mouth hangs open, drool shining on his lower lip, and his cock jerks inside you each time your body clenches around him.
You touch yourself harder, matching the rhythm of his thrusts, using him and your own hand together until pleasure spreads hot and heavy through your belly.
Remmick's breathing turns ragged.
“That’s it,” you breathe, gripping his shoulder with your free hand. “Right there. Don’t change it.”
His jaw locks with the effort of keeping the pace.
The bedframe hits the wall harder, rain beginning at the window in a sudden silver rush, and the scent of wet earth rolls through the room with the smell of sweat and sex.
He drives into you exactly as ordered while your fingers work your clit, and the second orgasm breaks through you in a deep, pulsing wave.
Your back arches from the mattress, your thighs tightening around his hips, your cunt clenching hard around every inch of him.
Remmick makes a strangled sound and nearly follows, his rhythm collapsing into short, frantic thrusts before he catches himself.
“Not yet,” you say, still shaking from it, your hand leaving your clit to grip his face.
Agony flashes across him. His eyes go wet again, and this time the tears gather because he's too close, because your body is still gripping him, because obedience has become almost unbearable. “Please,” he says, the word cracked and low. “Please, please—I can’t hold it—”
“You can hold it until I tell you.”
His mouth trembles, but he nods, fucking you in broken strokes that keep him buried deep without letting him finish. Every muscle in him strains. His fangs show, not from threat but from the force of clenching his jaw, and he turns his face away from your neck as if the very sight of your pulse might break him.
You stroke his cheek, softer than before, and that gentleness ruins him more cleanly than cruelty.
“You did well,” you tell him.
The first true sob comes then, quiet and torn up, his face crumpling with relief before pleasure swallows it. “I tried.”
“I know.”
Remmick comes with a hoarse cry, hips driving in deep as his body bows over yours.
His cock pulses hard, filling you with heat while his breath breaks against your mouth. A few tears spill down his face at the force of it, not the endless weeping of earlier nights but something sharper, dragged out of him by release and the awful sweetness of permission.
He keeps whispering your name into the damp space between your mouths, each repetition less like speech and more like surrender.
You hold him through it, fingers in his hair, nails resting against the marks you left on his back, and his weight lowers carefully once the last tremor leaves him.
After the storm opens fully over the fields, the bedroom settles into a humid dark sweetened by rain through the window and the low smoke of the lamp.
Remmick stays buried in your warmth, softening by degrees, his face tucked near your collarbone without touching his teeth to your skin. The monster in him has not gone anywhere. It lies quiet under his skin, fed and chastened, listening to the blood in your throat with the same devotion he gives your voice.
You know what he is, what he had planned when he first crossed your threshold bleeding on purpose, what he could still make of you now that the house has accepted him.
He could turn you whenever he chose if you grew careless enough to let him.
He knows it too, and maybe that's why he clings to obedience so fiercely, why his mouth trembles when you stroke his hair, why the palm-mark on his cheek seems to comfort him as much as it shames him.
“You hit me hard,” he murmurs, voice rough against your skin.
“You earned it.”
A faint shiver moves through him, and even spent, he presses closer, seeking your heat like an animal crawling toward a hearth. “I know.”
“If you try to bite me again, I’ll do worse.”
Remmick’s lips touch your shoulder in one careful, toothless kiss, and his answer comes low, reverent, and still a little hungry. “Yes, ma’am.”
Rain batters the sill, the pasture disappears beyond the dark glass, and the blood has long since been washed from your hands, though its memory remains in the damp shine of his mouth.
You let him lie there, half corpse and half supplicant, the devil you allowed inside because mercy had once looked too much like need.
When his arm tightens around your waist and his breath slows against your throat, you do not tell him to move.
your daddy sticks the strange new farmhand in the small house by the barn, figuring it’s safer to keep a man like that close. it isn’t. remmick spends his nights watching you, and when you finally sneak down in your nightgown to “set him straight,” he bends you over his table and fucks the fight right out of you. (wc: 22k). ao3 link
゛notes ⸝⸝.ᐟ⋆ i was mad horny everytime i opened the doc to work on this… this is def one of my fav fics that i have written, and i’m ngl and say i won’t write anything else with this dynamic bc it’s too juicy. beta read by my offline irl bbg (i’m trying to get her to make an acc 😔)
゛ contents ⸝⸝.ᐟ⋆ morally dubious behavior. virginity taking. peeping tom behavior / voyeurism (he’s a creep). m!masturbation. size kink. vaginal fingering. very light choking. groping. manhandling. breeding kink if you squint. messy sex. cum play. light overstimulation. rough sex. table sex. unprotected p in v. power imbalance. period-typical misogyny. small talks of purity culture. predator / prey vibes. praise w a little degradation. possessiveness. mdni 18+
Night eases down over the fields slow as molasses, settling in the furrows and fence lines until everything looks dipped in ink.
The porch sits right on the edge of it, a little island of yellow lantern light with you cross-legged in your chair, enamel bowl in your lap, fingers slick with bean juice. Crickets grind away in the ditch, frogs answer from somewhere near the pond, and the heat that pressed on your skin all day finally lets go a little, turning soft and damp and heavy instead of mean.
Your daddy, Joe, stands out by the road with a cigarette, just that small orange coal drifting up and down whenever he draws on it.
He’s mostly shadow, hat brim pulled low, shoulders a dark cutout against the pale strip of dirt lane. The smoke hangs around him in thin gray strands, catching the lantern glow before the breeze worries it apart.
The wagon makes itself known before you see it. A tired rattle carrying over the fields long and low, iron and wood complaining in a way that could belong to any old rig on any old night.
The mule steps out of the dark first, ears flicking, hooves whispering in the dust, harness creaking, then the wagon-bed, then the man riding it, the whole shape of him hunched against the evening like the road’s been sitting on his back.
He climbs down slow, not careless, one boot testing the ground, then the other. He isn’t tall; not one of those long, scarecrow boys you see come through town sometimes. He’s put together closer to the earth than that, thick through the shoulders and arms, weight settled in the meat of him instead of stretched out.
Shirt pulls across his chest where the fabric has been asked to hold too much too often, sleeves rolled to his forearms, muscle and old work written in the dust and veins there. Suspenders run straight over his torso, holding everything decent, but there’s something loose under the neatness, a restless set to the way he carries himself, like he’s got more energy than his frame knows what to do with.
His hat sits low enough to shade most of his face until he steps up nearer and the porch light reaches for him.
“Evenin’, Sir,” he says, voice a slow scrape, low and worn, like it’s been dragged over gravel and cigarettes for years.
The vowels don’t belong to your county, not exactly, but he leans into them like he’s been practicing, trying to make them fit the dirt under his boots.
“Evenin’,” Joe, flicks ash toward the ditch without turning. “You Remmick?”
“Yes, sir.”
He takes off his hat then, presses it to his chest in a gesture that seems to be humble, and in that little bow you see the line of him clear.
Hair dark and close-cropped, stubborn where it’s tried to wave up and been tamed with water and a hand. Jaw rough with stubble that looks more forgotten than stylish.
There’s a hardness around his mouth, something that could tilt into a grin or a snarl with not much provocation either way.
When he straightens and lifts his eyes, they cut toward the porch, and you feel it right away when they land on you, as sure as if somebody laid a hand on your bare ankle.
A limp green bean hangs between your fingers, ends torn and wet.
His gaze drifts, following your calves where your skirt’s ridden up, running along the slope of your shins and the span of your knees pressed together, sliding up the line of your apron and the thin open V between your collar buttons where the night air pushes in against your skin.
He looks like he’s reading you, not just seeing you, taking his time over every line.
You go still, sharp-aware of every place your dress touches your body and every place it doesn’t.
The bean pieces drop into the bowl as you lower your eyes to the boards. The porch wood is dark and warped from years of feet, knot-holes winking like little eyes in the dim.
You fix on those, on the small wet snaps and soft taps of beans piling against enamel. Anything that is not the feeling of a stranger’s stare walking up and down you like a man checking fence.
“Baby,” your father says, voice flat, cigarette smoke curling out on the word. “Say evenin’.”
You wipe your hands on your apron and stand, bare feet quiet on the boards. “Evenin’,” you say, polite as sunday, letting the rest of what you feel sink down where it won’t show on your face.
Remmick smiles like he hears it anyway. It isn’t wide or warm. Just a slow tug at one corner of his mouth, a small, crooked tilt that never quite reaches his eyes.
“Evenin’, miss,” he answers, and there’s a drag in that word miss, the s held just long enough to make it catch.
Miss, when he could have asked for your name, when any decent man might have. Your father hasn’t offered it yet, so you keep it closed up in your mouth.
“Girl oughta be in bed this hour,” Joe mutters, eyes on the yard, not on you. “Ain’t no call for her to be sittin’ out like some boy on watch. Night’s for men workin’, not for women gawkin’.”
The words land on your shoulders like an old coat, familiar weight, old smell. You bite down on what you want to say and feel it burn on the way down.
“I’m finishin’ the beans,” you tell him instead, hands tightening on the bowl till the rim bites into your palms. You don’t bother trying to explain that the dark sits easier on your skin than the hard white noon does, that the night gives you a little space to stretch.
You can feel Remmick watching you still, not with that sloppy hunger you’ve seen from boys in town, all elbows and gawking.
This is like he’s comparing what he sees to something he’s held in his head a long time.
“Don’t reckon there’s any harm in her gettin’ some air, Sir,” he says after a moment, pitched low, as if he’s offering reason and not meddling. “So long as she stays where you can see her.” He tips his head, and his eyes make another lazy path over you, unashamed. “World’s rough for a girl on her own.”
Your daddy snorts, jaw tightening just enough for you to notice. “You just worry ‘bout them fields, son. I didn’t hire you to advise on my girl.”
The almost-smile on Remmick’s mouth doesn’t quite leave. “Yes, sir,” he says. “I’ll give all my attention to what you’re payin’ me for.”
He keeps his words aimed at your father, but his gaze is not that obedient. It flicks back to you when he says attention, and there’s weight in it, promise, something that makes your skin prickle fine all over. Something in you bristles right back, lifts its head like a barn cat whose tail’s been stepped on.
You draw a breath and set the bowl against your hip. “Where you want him sleepin’?” you ask your father, eyes fixed out over the yard so you don’t have to meet either man’s stare straight on.
“In the old place.” Joe jerks his chin toward the smaller farmhouse slumped beyond the well—a squat little shape where the lamplight doesn’t reach, half-eaten by shadow. “Closer to the barn. Got a bed and a stove. Man don’t need more than that.”
Remmick turns to look at it, and the lantern light catches his eyes in a strange way, making them flash for an instant like there’s something slick behind them.
The little house sits there like it’s been waiting, windows dark, door shut up tight, roofline sagged just enough to look suspicious.
“That’ll do,” he says. “I’m a night sort myself. Easier workin’ when the sun’s gone and the air ain’t tryin’ to boil you clear through. Less trouble all around.”
He says it easy, like it’s about sweat and shade and nothing else, but you hear the way he shapes night in his mouth, the soft way he lets it roll off his tongue, and something in your belly curls up smaller and sharper.
“Heard you don’t care much for daylight,” Joe says, watching him out of the corner of his eye.
Remmick’s jaw shifts, a muscle ticking like it wants to answer on its own. He glances at you, quick and bright, before he looks down at his boots. “Sun don’t care much for me,” he finally drawls. “Burns me to char if I let it. Always been that way. Doctor said I got delicate skin.”
The word sits wrong in your ear as soon as it’s out, delicate, dangling over this stocky man with forearms roped up in tendon and dirt ground into his knuckles, hands that look like they were made to break things, not handle them gentle.
It slips out of you before you can catch it, quiet and skeptical. “Delicate,” you repeat, eyes finding his without meaning to.
He catches that and settles into it like a cat into a warm spot. “You don’t think so, miss?” he asks, voice a touch softer now, gaze steady and unblinking.
You ought to let it pass. Ought to dip your head and let the men talk over you, let delicate lie between them like some joke you weren’t meant to get.
Instead you hold his stare in the lantern glow, take your time looking back the same way he did to you, tracing the faint hollows under his eyes, the line of his nose, the mouth that looks used to biting down on words and maybe on other things too.
“No, sir,” you say finally, after a beat that stretches long. “You don’t look delicate at all.”
Something shifts behind his eyes at that, something pleased and sharp that makes your heart knock once, hard, against your ribs. The corner of his mouth tugs just a shade higher.
“Then I suppose I’ll have to live up to what you see,” he murmurs. “Would be a shame to disappoint you.”
Your daddy grinds his cigarette out under his heel, done with this line of talk. “You can unload what you got, then I’ll show you the place,” he says. “Got work waiting for nobody. You ain’t too tired from sittin’ on a wagon all day, are you?”
Remmick rolls one shoulder, hand rubbing the back of his neck. The stretch shifts his shirt over his back, pulls the fabric across solid muscle there.
You feel your breath snag for half a second and hate that it does.
“Wagon ain’t heavy,” he says. “I’ll get settled quick, then you can put me to whatever needs doin’.”
Joe nods and starts toward the dim outline of that little house, his boots crunching through the loose gravel near the well. The lantern light falls behind him with each step until he’s just another moving patch of dark.
Remmick lingers at the foot of the porch. He settles his hat back on his head, brim bringing his eyes into shadow again, but you can still feel them.
“You finish them beans,” he tells you, voice gone softer, aimed up at you like a secret. “Man works better with a full belly.”
There’s nothing in the words you could point to and call wrong, nothing on the surface you could carry to your father and hold up like proof.
Still, the way his gaze drifts down and back up as he says them leaves something slick and uneasy under your ribs. Heat crawls up your neck, hot in a way that has nothing to do with the air.
“I’ll see to what’s mine,” you say, gripping the bowl till your fingers ache. “Same as you should see to yours.”
His laugh is low, a rough little sound that lives in his chest and doesn’t quite make it to his teeth. He dips his head a fraction, like you’ve handed him a dare instead of brushing him off. “Oh, I intend to,” he replies. “You can count on it.”
Then he turns and walks after your father, stride easy, body moving with a loose sort of purpose. His shadow stretches out along the yard behind him, tossed strange and long by the lantern, then swallowed up as he and Joe move past the well.
The small farmhouse waits ahead, black windows staring, door a darker cut in the wall. It looks, for one breath, like it’s swallowing the two men whole.
You stand there with the lantern hissing softly at your elbow and watch the dark take them.
When the yard settles again, when their footsteps fade and the crickets creep back up to full volume, the space between the barn and the house does not feel the same. It’s as if something else has stepped into it and sat down, something you cannot see but can sense just the same, like a pressure change before a storm.
You sit again, bowl back in your lap, fingers finding another handful of beans by habit alone. The wet snap of them breaking sounds too loud in the hush, echoing in the hollow boards under your feet.
Every few seconds, your eyes drag toward that low silhouette out past the well, toward the little house that is not empty anymore.
You tell yourself you’re only minding where your father put a stranger.
The first night after he arrives, he walks the fence line while you wash dishes.
You hear his boots dragging through the loose gravel near the yard, then the softer sound of steps in the grass.
The screen door hangs open to let the air move, lantern burning low over the sink. Your arms are wet to the elbow, suds creeping up your forearms as you scrub at a pan that’s older than you are.
Out past your own reflection in the dark window, you catch a small shape of motion—the swing of a lantern out near the barn, then the shorter, solid outline of him moving along the fence, checking posts, rattling wire.
He doesn’t look up at the house that you can tell, doesn’t lift the light toward you, just keeps on with that steady pace, head bent.
Still, your shoulders hunch like you’ve been caught at something you haven’t done. The glass fogs a little with the breath you don’t remember letting out.
You tell yourself it’s good your father found a man willing to walk the property at night. That’s what you tell yourself as you rinse plates and stack them, as the little yellow circle of his lantern slides back and forth along the edge of your sight.
The second night you have to bring him his supper, because your father ‘forgets.’
It’s late by the time the last of the pots are scraped and put away, your back aching from standing, hair pasted to your neck. Joe leans back in his chair, radio humming low on the table, and says without looking up, “That boy eat?”
You still your hands on the dishrag. “Ain’t seen him at the table.”
“Damn it,” He grumbles, more at himself than you. “Told him come in if he heard me holler and I ain’t never thought to holler. Fix him a plate and take it down. Man don’t work right hungry.”
You swallow whatever you were about to say about whose job it is to feed farmhands, scrape together a plate from what’s left—two biscuits gone hard at the edges, a ladle of beans, a piece of ham with more bone than meat—and cover it with a clean cloth.
The air outside hits your damp skin and feels cooler than it ought to. The night smells like dirt and hay and whatever’s blooming along the ditch.
The smaller farmhouse sits out near the barn with a faint thread of light leaking around the edges of its curtain, not bright enough to spill onto the yard. You walk out there, skirt brushing your ankles, plate balanced careful in both hands.
You knock, knuckles soft on the wood. For a second there’s nothing, then the faint scrape of a chair, the hush of someone crossing a small room.
The door opens only halfway. He fills the gap, shoulder and chest just there, heat and sweat.
“Evenin’,” he says, voice a little rough, like he hasn’t used it since sundown. “You lost?”
You hold the plate out, not stepping any closer than you have to. “Daddy forgot to call you in. Told me to bring your supper.”
His eyes go to your hands first, to the way your fingers wrap the rim of the plate, then to the food, then back up.
He doesn’t reach right away; he lets the moment stretch, his gaze traveling from your wrists up your arms, lingering on the damp on your skin, on the few stray strands that have worked loose at your temple and stuck there.
“That’s mighty kind,” he says at last, taking the plate so slow his fingers brush yours.
They’re not as rough as you expected, just warm and solid, the pads of them catching against your knuckles. “Hope he didn’t drag you out here from your bed on account of me.”
“I wasn’t in bed,” you answer, because lying feels worse than telling him anything true. “Kitchen don’t clean itself.”
He makes a small noise at that, somewhere between agreement and amusement. “No, ma’am. World’d fall apart if it weren’t for everything women do men don’t think about. Least he can do is call me in for a plate now and then instead of sending you.”
You don’t like that it sounds almost gentle, that there’s no clear edge you can grab onto and call wrong.
You nod once and start to turn away, wanting the room behind that door to stay his business and not have to wonder what’s in it.
“Miss?” he says, and you stop even though you don’t want to. “You tell your daddy I’m obliged. To him and to you.”
You keep your eyes on the yard. “He’ll hear you tomorrow.”
“Maybe I like the thought of you carryin’ my thanks,” he says, voice dipping lower.
You don’t answer to that. You walk back toward the big house with your empty hands and you feel his eyes between your shoulder blades all the way to the porch steps.
Another night you pass him by accident at the pump.
You come around the corner of the house with a pail in each hand, too focused on not sloshing well water onto your skirt to notice him right off.
He’s just there suddenly in the lantern’s edge, sleeves rolled high, suspenders hanging loose at his hips, hair damp with sweat or water; you can’t tell which.
The pump squeaks once as he lets go of the handle. Moonlight catches the wet on his forearms, the curve of muscle there, the scar that runs pale along his left wrist like a rope burn that never faded.
You stop short, pails swinging. “Didn’t know you were usin’ it,” you say. “I’ll wait.”
He tips his head, that same little crooked half-smile thinking about showing up. “You scared I’m gonna dirty the water, standin’ too near?” His accent is thicker tonight, as if he’s tired of smoothing them for everybody’s sake.
“I ain’t scared,” you say. Your voice comes out flatter than you mean it to, which only makes him watch you harder. “Just got taught not to crowd folk when they’re at work.”
“And here I thought you were just bein’ polite,” he murmurs. He steps back from the pump, gives you room to pass. “Go on, then. Wouldn’t do to have Mr. Joe’s girl haulin’ from the ditch ‘cause I hogged the handle.”
You move past him, the damp of his skin ghosting near your elbow, the smell of iron and sweat and something like tobacco clinging to him. You set a pail under the spout and work the handle, arm moving in a practiced rhythm.
The pump groans, then warm water shudders up from below, splashing cold over your fingers when you misjudge the first rush.
His gaze sits on your hands again, on the bare forearms you didn’t bother covering because it’s night and there’s no sun to scold you. “You do all that yourself?” he asks. “Water, cookin’, everything inside?”
“Me and Mama,” you say, though your mother’s cough has been bad enough lately you both know it’s more you than her. “Daddy’s got the fields.”
“And now he’s got me,” Remmick says, watching your arm work. “Guess I’m supposed to make life easier ‘round here.”
“Then do it,” you answer, a little sharper than you meant. The second pail fills and you swing it away, careful not to splash your toes. “Don’t stand around talkin’ about it.”
For a heartbeat there’s quiet. Then he laughs, low and delighted. “There she is,” he says under his breath, as if he’s been waiting on that bite.
When you glance over, he isn’t offended. He looks satisfied, eyes bright, lean mouth curled up. “You keep snappin’ at me like that, miss, I might start thinkin’ you’re sweet on me.”
“Or you might start thinkin’ wrong,” you shoot back, lifting both buckets. The weight drags at your shoulders, but you’d sooner drop in the yard than ask him to carry them.
He doesn't offer, just watches you walk away, and you can feel that as keenly as the pull of the water on your arms.
There are other little moments like that, small as splinters. Like, when you cross paths in the barn one evening when you go to check on a cow that lowed funny through your window.
He’s already there when you reach the threshold, one hand on the animal’s neck, murmuring something soft and nonsense in her ear.
She calms under his touch, sides heaving slow, eyes rolling less. The lantern hangs from a nail overhead, throwing golden light over the dust in the air, over his shoulders, over the cow’s hide.
He glances up when he senses you, and for a blink his irises flash almost too light, as if the lantern’s in them and not above him. Then they’re ordinary again, a color you could name if you got close enough, and he’s saying, “She just didn’t like the thunder,” even though the sky’s been clear all day.
You lean on the stall rail, arms folded, watching his hand move in slow strokes along the cow’s neck.
The steadiness of him with animals makes something twist in you, something like reluctant respect and something like fear, because if he can soothe two thousand pounds of nervous flesh with a voice and a touch, what could he do to yours if he ever decided to try.
On another night you fix a tear in one of his work shirts at the kitchen table because your father plops it there and says, “Stupid fool’s gonna walk around with his arm hangin’ out if someone don’t thread a needle.”
You mutter that Remmick has two hands and surely they can manage a seam, but you fetch your sewing basket anyway.
The fabric smells faintly of him, sweat and field and that odd metallic thread that’s been nagging at the back of your senses since he arrived.
You push the needle through worn cotton and wonder how a man gets a rip that clean across the bicep, by snagging it on barbed wire or nail head, without a single bloodstain around the torn edge.
He shows up to collect it before you take it down yourself. Don’t know how he knows it’s ready, but he’s at the door not long after you knot the last stitch, hat in hand like he’s paying a call.
Your father’s gone out back to piss or smoke or both, your mother’s dozing in her chair, so it’s just you in the quiet kitchen with your fingers still sore from the work.
“You didn’t have to,” he says when you hand the folded shirt over. “Could’ve walked around indecent a day or two, see if anyone complained.”
“My father would,” you say. “Don’t like loose things on his land.”
He takes the shirt with his good arm, the other rolling his shoulder like it aches. The lantern throws his eyes into little warm coins.
Some nights you only see him from a distance.
Through your bedroom window when you should be sleeping, you catch the sway of his lantern again and again, marking his rounds. In the moonlight, his stride is compact, efficient, not showy.
He moves like someone who’s spent a long time walking alone, someone who knows better than to waste steps. He never seems to stumble, never misjudges a rut or loose stone.
You watch him slip between the barn and the smaller house, in and out of shadow, and you tell yourself you’re just making sure he’s where he should be, that you are only doing what your father would want.
You notice, too, the nights when the light in his window stays on longer than makes sense. Long after your father’s snores have settled and your mama’s breath has evened into sleep, after you’ve lain there staring at the ceiling until your eyes burn, that far-off square of yellow will still be sitting out there at the edge of your sight.
Sometimes you think you see the shadow of him cross it, head bowed, shoulders hunched, moving back and forth in a tight little path, but when you squint it’s gone.
Once, you step out onto the porch for air and catch him already looking.
You don’t see him at first; you just feel that prickling awareness that has become his signature in your body.
Then your eyes find him where he’s paused near the barn, one hand on the fence post, the other hanging loose at his side. No lantern this time, just moonlight on his face, flattening all the hard parts, making his eyes look too bright and his mouth too soft.
He doesn’t look away when you notice him. He doesn’t call out or tip his hat in greeting. He just stands there in the dark, steady as another post, and lets you decide whether to step back inside or stay where the night can see both of you.
You stay a breath longer than you should, chest tight, heartbeat stepping up loud between your ears. Then you reach for the door, fingers curling around splintered wood, and it feels, for a strange second, like you’re the one retreating and he’s the one who lives here.
By the time a week has worked itself around, his presence has braided into the place.
The horse knows him, ears twitching toward his voice before dawn. The dogs have quit barking when his boots scrape the yard at dusk. Your father has stopped watching him like he might bolt and started calling for him when something heavy needs lifting.
The small farmhouse doesn’t look so empty now; you’ve grown used to the idea of a man’s breath in there, a man’s boots by the door, a man’s shadow on the curtain.
You’re the one still wary, nerves still stretched thin every time you feel his eyes, even if nobody else in the house seems to notice how often that is.
You catch him in little reflections—a sliver of him in the pump’s metal, in the window glass, in any surface that throws back light—and he’s always looking your way.
Not always outright, not always rude, but always aware of you. Always clocking where you are in the yard, whether your sleeves are rolled, whether your hem rides high on your calf or hangs proper at your ankle.
You tell yourself it’s just because there’s not much else worth watching out here.
You don’t quite believe it.
Clouds bruise up toward the horizon, swallowing the moon a few bites at a time. You’re at the kitchen table with mending in your lap when you hear it—one sharp, panicked bawl from the barn that cuts straight through the hum of crickets and the low murmur of your father’s radio.
You’re on your feet before you think about it, thimble still shoved on your finger, needle stuck tight in a loop of thread.
Your father says something about “damned horses spookin’ at their own shadows” but doesn’t move from his chair.
His back’s been bad all day; he’s been walking like every step hurts. Mama’s dozing, her breath a thin whistle.
So you grab the lantern from its hook, light blooming up in a hot bloom that stings your eyes, and head out barefoot into the yard.
The grass is cool against your soles, damp from the thick air. The little farmhouse where Remmick sleeps has a strip of light at the curtain-bottom, but you don’t see him outside. The barn looms ahead, big and dark, door standing half-open like a mouth. Another low, fretful sound comes from inside, not as sharp as the first but enough to hurry you along.
“Easy now,” you call as you slip in, lantern held high. “Hush yourself, girl, I’m comin’.”
The barn swallows the outside sounds. In here it’s hay and dust and the soft shuffling of hooves, the rustle of wings up in the rafters.
Your mare stamps once, snorting, eyes rolling white when the lantern light hits her. You cross the packed dirt quick, set the lantern on a hook so you’ve got both hands, and reach for her halter, stroking her long face.
“It’s just the weather actin’ strange,” you murmur, words more for yourself than her. “Ain’t nothin’ gonna hurt you.”
She settles a little under your voice, but her muscles are still tight, skin twitching under your palm.
You’re so focused on her that you don’t hear him until he’s already in the doorway.
“Somethin’ wrong?”
His voice slides through the gloom, low and rough.
You jerk a little, head snapping toward the barn entrance. He’s just inside the threshold, lantern in his hand turned down low, throwing more shadow than light. Sleeves rolled, suspenders hooked proper tonight, hair damp at the temples like he’s just come in from a hard walk.
“Lord,” you mutter, heart kicking hard. “You move too quiet. Thought you were a ghost.”
He lets out a short huff of a laugh. “Not yet.” The lantern swings by his knee as he steps inside, setting the hay shadows dancing. “Heard her fussin’. Figured I’d check before she took it into her head to kick through a stall.”
“She just spooked,” you say. “Storm brewin’ somewhere.”
He comes up nearer, close enough that you can see the sheen of sweat along his throat, the bead of something darker at the cuff of his shirt where it brushes his wrist.
His gaze does a quick, automatic sweep of the stall—manger, bucket, the mare’s flanks, your hand on her halter—and then it hooks on you, like it always does, like there’s a string between his eyes and your skin.
“You shouldn’t come out here by yourself at night,” he says, quiet, not rebuking exactly but not gentle either. “Barn full of spooked stock, any one of ’em could knock you right off your feet. Ain’t proper for a girl to be runnin’ around after dark alone.”
“That girl’s got ears,” you answer, voice tight, stroking the mare’s neck to hide your own nerves. “She can hear you fussin’ without talkin’ over her head.”
His mouth does that little tilt again, amused. “Reckon she can,” he says. “Reckon she don’t listen half as good as she ought, neither.”
You’re just shaping a sharp reply when it happens.
Something cracks outside, a dry, sharp sound—maybe a limb breaking, maybe a board settling wrong, maybe thunder grumbling way off where the clouds are thickest.
It doesn’t matter what it is. The mare flinches hard, shoulder slamming sideways. The stall rail shudders under the hit, and you’re standing too close, lantern throwing crazy shadows as the world jolts.
Your first instinct is to get out of the way. You jump back, skirts swishing, hand flying off the halter. You pivot toward the stall opening and catch—not air, not clear space, but the edge of an old nail head that’s been working itself loose from the post for years.
The sound of fabric tearing is loud as a gunshot in the barn.
It rips from just below your hip down the side of your thigh, a long, rude run that opens your dress like a mouth.
Cool air hits bare skin where cotton should be.
You gasp, more from the exposure than pain, and slap your hand down, fingers clutching at the split to keep it from gaping wider.
For a heartbeat you stand frozen, lantern light swinging, breath shallow, your leg half-bared through the torn seam.
You don’t have a slip on under this dress, not a proper one. It’s too hot. You’ve got plain cotton drawers and a whole lot of skin, and you know without looking that the tear has gone high, high enough that if you weren’t grabbing it shut he’d be seeing places no man has any business looking at on you.
“You all right?” Remmick’s closer before you register him moving, his boots whispering over packed dirt. His lantern clanks against a beam as he hangs it up. He reaches for you by pure reflex, hands coming to your arms, steadying you where you’ve stumbled.
“I’m fine,” you snap, too quick, humiliation burning your face, neck, chest. “Let go.”
You twist away from his grip, turning your hip, trying to angle the torn side away from him.
The dress shifts anyway, hem dragging through straw, and there’s a flash of thigh where your fingers don’t quite cover everything. You feel the rush of blood under your skin like you’ve been slapped.
His eyes drop before you can stop them.
It’s an instinct with him just like yours, hungry and automatic. His gaze hits the split, the glimpse of your leg, and sticks. Time slows down around that look. You see it happen, see the way his pupils widen, see the quick, sharp inhale he tries to hide.
“Jesus,” he breathes, almost soundless.
You yank the torn fabric tighter, the motion making the rip strain up higher, edge brushing the curve where your thigh meets your hip. Your whole body feels like a lantern flame, exposed and flickering. “Don’t you look,” you hiss, low and furious. “Turn around.”
One of his hands lifts, like he might actually offer to cover the tear for you, fingers curling as if they want to fit over the place you’re guarding. He stops himself, hand hovering for an awful second near your hip, close enough that you feel the heat of him even through the thin cotton.
“Ain’t my fault you went tearin’ yourself open on every nail in the county,” he says, tone trying for light and landing somewhere rougher.
His eyes drag up slow, from your knuckles clenched in the fabric, up the bare strip of thigh he already saw, up the shape of your waist and the heave of your chest. “Maybe you should let me look and make sure you didn’t cut that pretty skin to ribbons.”
The way he says pretty makes your stomach flip and your teeth set.
“I ain’t cut,” you spit. “And I sure as hell don’t need you inspectin’ me.”
He should look ashamed. Though, he doesn’t. There’s color high in his cheeks now, not from heat, not from work. His mouth’s gone a little slack, like he’s holding back words. His gaze keeps sneaking back to the place your hand guards, greedy, any time you aren’t staring right at him.
“If you say so,” he murmurs finally. “Wouldn’t want to offend your delicate sensibilities.”
You hear the echo of his earlier lie in that word, delicate, and decide if you stay here another minute you might do something you can’t take back, like slap him or cry or both.
You shift your grip to catch more fabric, bunching the torn side up in your fist so nothing shows. It makes walking harder; you’re hobbling, half-skipping, desperate not to let the skirt fall. “You see to the mare,” you manage, chin up, eyes burning. “I’ll fix my dress.”
He steps back enough to let you pass. As you squeeze by him in the narrow space, your shoulder brushes his chest, your bare calf bumps the hard line of his boot.
“Careful,” he says, voice quiet, right by your ear. “Would be a shame if the rest of that dress gave up and left you standin’ in nothin’ at all.”
You don’t give him the satisfaction of a reply. You duck your head and hurry out, every step measured so the torn seam doesn’t pull, one hand clamped between your thighs, lantern bumping at your knee.
The night air on your exposed skin feels wrong, every stray breeze finding its way up under the rip.
You keep your eyes fixed on the glow of the house, on the square of the kitchen window, on anything that is not the barn behind you.
You slam the kitchen door with more force than you mean to, startling your mama awake, mumble something about a nail catching you and make straight for your room. You don’t light your own lamp; you don’t want to see what he saw. You stand there in the dark with your back to the door and your dress torn open under your hand, heart hammering, ears roaring, shame and something hotter and uglier twisting up together in your belly.
Down by the south fence, in the smaller farmhouse, Remmick sits on the edge of his narrow bed with the easy, humming satisfaction of a man who’s been saving something up.
He lit the lamp as soon as he stepped in, not out of any real need for light but because he likes the way it throws shadows, likes the way it paints dim gold over bare wood and gives him something soft to look at while his mind runs back over the evening.
The room is small and warm from his own body heat, close enough that every breath feels shared with the walls. Old wood, dust, a curl of tobacco from the roll-up he finished outside, and under it all the ghost of you clinging to his clothes—soap and starch and sweat—make a thick little stew in the air.
He shrugged out of his shirt as soon as the door shut, tossing it over the chair without bothering to check if the seam you mended had held.
The rip in the fabric is nothing next to the rip in your dress that he can’t stop savoring. He works the buttons of his trousers loose without hurry, fingers moving with the contented patience of a man about to sit down to a meal he’s been smelling all day.
He doesn’t try not to think of you. That would be a waste of a perfectly good night.
He leans back against the wall, boots kicked off, pants open at the fly, and lets the picture come as easy as breath.
You in the barn with your hand clapped between your thighs, dress split wide, that slick little strip of thigh flashing when the cloth slipped. The way your eyes flared when you realized he’d seen, outrage and mortification and something bright under both. The sound of your voice when you told him not to look, like you already knew he was going to anyway.
“Hell,” he mutters, half laughing under his breath as his cock swells heavy against the thin barrier of his briefs. “Ain’t nothin’ on this earth I’d rather think on.”
His palm drifts down over his belly, fingers tracing a slow path to the bulge at his groin. Even that light touch makes him suck in air through his teeth.
He presses his hand over the outline of himself, feeling the hot, solid weight of his cock straining upward, and a low, pleased sound curls up out of his chest. He palms it once, a lazy roll, enjoying the way it kicks against his fingers like it’s eager too, then he slides his hand inside.
Warm cotton gives way to hot skin. He wraps his fist around the thick base of himself and exhales like he’s been holding that breath since the barn, relief and hunger tangled up in it. His cock sits heavy in his grip, veins standing up, the head already wet where precum has gathered from how long he’s been walking around hard on the memory of you.
“Look at that,” he murmurs, voice low and rough, thumb smearing that slickness over the swollen tip. “Worked up over one little tear. You’d laugh yourself sick if you saw me now, wouldn’t you?”
The thought of you seeing him like this, spread out on his narrow bed with his trousers open and his cock standing full in his hand, only makes him harder.
He drags his fist down slow, savoring the drag from head to base, then back up again, the friction sharp and sweet all at once. The first few strokes are measured, a man settling into a rhythm he plans to enjoy, not something hurried and guilty he has to choke down.
He lets his head tip back against the wall, eyes slipping shut so he can see you better behind his lids.
Not the church version, not the good girl with the hem tugged just so and the buttons done up high.
The barn version. Lantern light sliding over your bare thigh, the tremble in your fingers when you clutched at the rip, that split second when your hand wasn’t fast enough and he got the clean, unearned look he’s been replaying ever since.
“Shit,” he breathes, hand tightening, the slide of skin on skin picking up a little speed.
He drags his fist down again, slower, getting a feel for every inch, for the way his cock swells harder in his grip with each pass. Arousal slicks his thumb, gathers at the crest of the head, and he spreads it with an easy, greedy little twist, working it around until the slide turns wet and smooth.
His hips lift into his own hand without much prompting, body eager after nights of walking around with you on his tongue and in his teeth and under his nails.
“Bare leg,” he mutters, watching his hand move now, eyes half-lidded, lashes throwing shadows on his cheeks. “Goin’ about your business like you ain’t got that tucked up under your skirt. Like I ain’t seen it now.”
He remembers exactly how the tear opened, how the cotton gave and the seam surrendered, how your thigh flashed in the jumpy lantern light.
That first raw glimpse lives in his chest like a hot coal. Skin smooth and soft-looking, the curve of muscle under it, the sweet thickness where it met your hip.
He remembers your drawers too, plain white cotton clinging to you, riding that line between demure and lewd when the fabric shifted wrong.
His hand moves faster at that, instincts catching up with memory. He curls his fingers a little tighter, pulling from the heavy base up to the slick crown, milking a fresh bead of precum up with each stroke.
“Bet you went home and stitched that dress up neat as a Sunday virtue,” he says, voice roughened by breath. “Head bowed, lips bit, pretendin’ that leg ain’t still there underneath, smooth as cream and just as soft. Bet you can’t stop thinkin’ about me seein’ it neither.”
He can picture you at your little table, lamp burning, needle in hand, fingers trembling just enough to make the thread snag. Your face hot, your mouth set, your thighs pressed together under the cloth as you sew shame into every stitch. He imagines you tugging that seam tight, that same hand that clutched the torn fabric now working the needle, every pull a memory of his eyes on you.
His free hand slides down his belly, fingers pressing over the flexing muscles there, holding them tight as he fucks up into his own fist. The bed creaks under him, wood complaining, but he doesn’t slow. He spreads his legs wider on the mattress, giving himself more room to move, and the extra slack lets his strokes lengthen, his hips roll, everything turning into a slow rhythm.
“You know what I see when I close my eyes?” he asks the ceiling quietly, dragging his thumb across the slit. “Not that pretty little mouth tellin’ me not to look. I see that hand of yours slip. I see that dress fall open just a little more.”
The picture in his mind sharpens: you, back against a stall post, hand too busy clutching at rough wood to hold your skirts closed, light catching on the full line of your thigh as the rip edges skid higher.
He imagines the flap of cloth falling aside, full view of your leg from knee to hip, drawers pulled tight over the mound between your thighs, a faint darker patch where heat and sweat have gathered.
His cock throbs in his grip at that. He grits his teeth, pushes his palm down hard, and his hips jerk, chasing the pressure.
“Yeah,” he growls softly. “That’s it. Dress up around your waist, showin’ all that sweet flesh. You holdin’ on to that wood like it’s gonna save you, eyes full of righteous fury while your body’s tellin’ on you.”
His fingers slip lower on the stroke, pausing to cup his balls, rolling them in his palm, feeling the tight, heavy pull there. The sensation punches another sound out of him. He goes back to his cock with renewed urgency, arm working harder now, hand pumping.
He lets himself wander further than any real moment has gone. Lets the memory of that tear turn into something else, something he can taste.
He imagines stepping in close before you can bolt, one hand catching your wrist, the other gathering your torn skirt up and out of his way. Imagines your gasp, that little sharp intake he already knows, your bare thigh hitting his hip as he pins you to the stall. Your panties stretched tight over the soft swell of your cunt, his fingers pushing up against the dampening cloth, feeling how hot you are through the barrier.
“Pretend you don’t want it,” he murmurs, throat rasping. “Try to act like you ain’t gettin’ wet for me while you fuss.”
The words sound vulgar and right in his mouth. His cock swells at it, the head aching now, sensitive with every pass. He squeezes at the top, thumb pressing just under the crown, and his whole body shudders, pleasure rushing up his spine.
“Be a good girl,” he hears himself whispering to the woman in his head, the one pressed to barn wood with her dress in tatters. “Spread ’em for me, let me see what you’re hidin’.”
His hand flies now, finding a quick, dirty rhythm. His breath comes rough, each inhale catching, each exhale spilling out in curses and half-formed praises.
“You’d flush right up to your hairline,” he pants, head rolling against the wall. “Act all offended while your thighs tremble and that pretty thing between ’em throbs. Might even cry a little, wouldn’t you? All sweet and scared and soaked.”
The image of you crying—eyes bright, lashes wet, lips bitten—while your body betrays you sends him right to the edge. His balls draw up tight, cock jumping in his fist, veins standing out under his skin. Heat coils at the base of his spine, that familiar pull gathering everything in, ready to snap.
He spits into his hand for more slick, doesn’t even bother wiping his mouth. The added wetness turns his strokes into something obscene, the sound echoing in the small room. His forearm snaps, muscles burning, chasing the crest bearing down on him.
“Come on then,” he grits. “Show me.”
He imagines hooking a finger under the edge of your drawers and pulling the cotton aside. Imagines the first sight of you bare between your thighs, folds swollen, maybe already glistening, all that heat finally out in the lantern light instead of tucked away in shadows and good manners.
“That’s it,” he rasps, voice breaking, hips jerking harder into his fist. “Knew you’d be pretty there. Knew you’d be soft.”
The wave hits with no ceremony; it slams through him like a mule kick. His whole body locks, stomach clenching, heels digging into the thin mattress, head thumping dully against the wall.
A groan tears out of him, rough and strangled, half-swallowed behind clenched teeth. His cock jerks in his hand, once, twice, then again, spilling hot over his fingers and across his stomach in thick, pulsing ropes.
He rides it out, hand still working, strokes shortening but not stopping, milking every last drop. Cum coats his knuckles, drips over his fist, slicking his grip until his palm slips on the softening length.
“Fuck,” he breathes when he can breathe again, voice low and wrecked.
His strokes slow, then ease off altogether, fingers loosening their grip.
For a moment he just sits there, chest rising and falling, wrist slick and heavy, cock giving a few last, half-hearted twitches in his hand. Sweat cools on his forehead, a bead sliding down along his temple.
He looks down at the mess on his belly, streaks shining in the lamplight, dripping off the side of his hand. There’s no disgust in the way he examines it; if anything, there’s pride. A crooked smile tugs at his mouth, lazy and satisfied.
“Look what you pulled out of me, and you weren’t even here,” he murmurs, more pleased than ashamed.
He wipes his hand across his stomach, smearing instead of cleaning, fingers drawing idle patterns through the stickiness before he drags them off onto a wadded-up shirt at his side.
The cotton takes the worst of it, darkening where it soaks, but he doesn’t fuss about the rest. Let it dry on his skin. Let it sit there as a reminder.
He tucks himself back into his briefs, though he doesn’t bother fastening his trousers all the way, leaving the fly gaping a little for air.
His body feels loose and heavy now, bones sunk deep into the thin mattress. The edge is blunted, that sharp hunger dulled to a warm, low thrum, but it’s not gone.
He leans his head back and lets his eyes drift half-closed, the lamp still burning low.
In the quiet, he can almost hear you tossing under your own quilt up the rise, feel the echo of your indignation, imagine the way your fingers might trace absent circles over the mended seam of your dress while you tell yourself you hate him.
He runs his tongue along the back of his teeth, savoring that thought as much as any touch.
“Gonna see it torn again,” he says softly, not quite a promise, not quite a threat.
The lamp flickers, a tiny flame fighting sleep. Outside, crickets scream and something small scurries through the grass.
The little house settles around him with soft creaks and sighs. He closes his eyes fully at last, the picture of your bare thigh and your furious face smoothing together into one sweet, ripe ache he’s already wondering how soon he can taste again.
Most nights Remmick does his rounds like he’s supposed to, lantern swinging at his knee, gate latches checked, fence wire plucked and listened to like strings.
But once he knows the map of the place in his bones, once he has counted every post and measured every path, his feet start wandering off the straight lines your daddy would like him to walk.
He learns where the shadows fall thickest under the pecan tree by the side yard, where the dark under the eaves hides a man from anyone glancing out through lamplight.
He learns just how far back he can stand and still see into the kitchen window when you’re up late, sleeves rolled, forearms wet to the elbow, talking to your mama while you scrub a pan.
He learns that when you think everybody’s settled, you lean your hip against the counter and tilt your head a little while you dry your hands, and that little shift of weight does things to your dress you’d never let it do in town.
He finds out you like the back porch at night even more than you like it at dusk. That when the work is done and your parents are loud in their sleep, you slip out with a glass or a cup and sit with your legs stretched, ankles crossed, toes tracing idle circles on the board beneath them.
From the fence line he can see the shine of lamplight on your bare shins when your hem rides up, can see the loose, tired way you soften back into the chair.
He watches you tilt your face toward the dark yard like you’re asking it questions it hasn’t answered yet, listens to the little sounds you make—half-sighs, half-hums—that never show up when anyone else is awake.
He leans on a post with a cigarette hanging from his fingers and looks until he’s had his fill, no hurry in him, nothing but a lazy, steady satisfaction in knowing you have no idea.
He learns your bedroom window, too. Where it sits in relation to the oak, how far up the slope he has to stand to see its square of light.
The first time he notices the curtain isn’t quite shut, it’s by accident; he’s walking back late, boots slow on the path, when a slice of movement catches his eye.
Curtain gapping, lamp turned low, you moving around your room in that soft circle people make before bed.
He stops in the shadow of the tree without even thinking, shoulder to rough bark, the leaves above him murmuring in a wind that doesn’t get down into the yard.
From there he can see you in fragments—an arm as you reach up to unbutton, a brief glimpse of the side of your neck, the line of your shoulder as fabric slips.
He tells himself he’ll move when you’re done, that he’s only making sure you got in safe. He stays until the lamp goes out.
The night he sees you in the bath, there’s not even that thin excuse.
It’s late enough the frogs have worn down to a sleepy chorus and the crickets sound drunk. A low, warm fog sits over the fields, pressing scents in close: damp earth, animals settled in their pens, soap drifting thin from the open kitchen window where somebody forgot to latch it right.
He’s finished his rounds early, all the work of the night sitting behind him instead of ahead, and he feels that restless itch under his skin again, that soft, prowling urge that has nothing to do with fences and everything to do with you.
The house is a square of softer dark against the sky, only a couple of windows holding light.
He knows which is which now without having to think about it. Kitchen, front room, your parents’ room. The little back room off the side where the big galvanized tub sits when somebody’s been lucky enough to haul enough water.
Tonight it’s that one glowing gentle behind its thin cotton curtain, lantern hanging somewhere just out of sight, making the fabric look like a pale, breathing thing.
He circles wide, slipping along the edge of the yard where the grass meets the packed dirt of the lane, where the shadows from the trees throw him one more thin cloak.
The bath window is low, glass fogged a little from steam. The curtain is drawn but not all the way, left a thumb’s width open on one side—enough for light to leak out in a narrow spill. Enough, if a man stepped in close and angled himself just right, to see inside.
He comes up under the sill, breath slow, boots quiet, and lays his palm flat against the siding to steady himself. The boards are cool and rough under his fingers. He leans his shoulder into them and tilts his head, lining his eye up with that careless little gap.
Heat hits him first, a wet, sweet breath rolling out into the night. The lantern inside throws shadows high on the wall, flickering over the curve of the tub, over the length of you in it.
You’re sunk down in the water with your knees bent, one leg drawn up just enough for him to see the shape of it under the surface, the other stretched straighter, foot braced on the far side.
The water glows around you, gone cloudy with soap, clinging in beads to your skin where it’s out of the tub.
Your shoulders show above the rim, bare and slick, drops running down in slow trails.
Steam curls off your chest, off the slopes of your breasts where they rise from the water, soft and heavy, nipples pebbled tight from the heat or the air or both. The lamplight loves them, catching on every curve, laying little gold crowns on each peak.
Your head is tipped back against the rolled towel you’ve wedged between neck and tin, eyes closed, lips parted just enough for breath. One arm drifts along the tub’s edge, fingers dragging lazy patterns through the thin scum of soap there, the other resting across your stomach.
He watches your ribs move with each inhale, the slight swell and fall of your belly under your palm.
You're so unaware of him that it feels almost holy.
He drinks it in like it’s what he came here for all along, no flinch in him, no apology. His gaze roams where it will.
From the line of your throat down to the hollow between your collarbones, where a small puddle has gathered and overflowed in slow rivulets; down over the slick, shining hills of your breasts, the way they shift just a little with every breath, the way the waterline cuts across them. Lower, to where the curve of your stomach disappears under the opaque water, hinting at more, promising everything.
You shift, lifting one arm to drag the washcloth over your shoulder. The washcloth trails over the round of your shoulder, down the outside of your arm, across the swell of your breast, nipple tightening even more when the rough cloth skims past.
You don’t seem to notice the way your own body responds; you’re too busy chasing day-dirt away, lifting your arm to scrub your neck, tilting your head to give yourself better reach.
From his vantage, he sees everything. His hand tightens on the siding, knuckles going white, that buzzing hunger flaring up bright and hot behind his eyes.
He stares, not making a sound.
You work the cloth down your arm and set it aside, then slide both hands into the water, scooping and pouring over yourself.
You lift your leg a little, knee rising higher, water spilling off in sheets, showing him the smooth length of your thigh all the way to the place where it vanishes back under the cloudy surface. The muscles there flex as you shift, your toes stretching, calf defined a moment before settling again.
For a brief second, the water thins enough he can see the shadowed shape where your thighs meet, softened by the haze but there, real and mouth-watering.
His eyes go dark on it, pupils swallowing light. He leans in a fraction more, cheek almost touching the glass, breath fogging the edge of the pane where it meets the frame.
Every small move you make sends little waves across your body, playing light over the parts he can see, hinting at the parts he can’t.
You sigh, the sound faint through the wall but clear. Your head tips a little to the side, cheek turning toward the window without quite facing it.
One hand skims over your sternum, following the center line of your body until it disappears under the water.
Your fingers paddle lazily there for a moment, moving along your own stomach, over the soft give of your lower belly.
He imagines exactly where they’re drifting, what warm, slick places they’re brushing, even if you’re not thinking of it like that. Your face gives nothing away but relief, a tired little slackness, the expression of someone finally easing aches out of their bones.
“You ain’t got a clue,” he breathes, lips ghosting the words against the flaking clapboard. There’s satisfaction in it, not cruelty. “Bathin’ like Eve in a picture book with the curtain open and the devil on the outside lookin’ in.”
His hand, the one not braced on the wall, shifts restlessly by his side, brushing the front of his trousers.
He doesn’t touch himself proper, not yet; this is looking time. He wants to be empty enough of the last time to fill up on this one entire.
His fingers flex anyway, his palm pressing for a moment against the growing bulge, acknowledging it. His cock swells quick and eager, remembering the barn, welcoming the new fodder.
You lean forward to reach the soap, and the angle changes.
For a breathless few seconds he gets the long line of your back, the way it curves from nape to waist, the hollow above your hips, the dimples that show when you move just so. Water slides off you in glittering trails, trickling down along your spine, pooling in the small of your back before spilling lower.
As you sit back again, that same water slips over the round of your ass where it breaks the surface, catching the light along the curve, then vanishes under the cloudy bath.
He closes his eyes briefly, just to fix it, then opens them again. He doesn’t want to miss a thing.
You lather your hands, work the soap into your skin, fingers massaging into your shoulders, down along your collarbones.
The more you scrub, the slipperier you become, water beading and running, foam clinging in thin streaks before melting away.
When you finally slide your hands under the water, scrubbing lower, your elbows move in a rhythm that makes something low and obscene curl in his gut.
He knows you’re only washing, just doing what needs doing, but to him it looks like a preview, looks like a rehearsal of things you haven’t yet learned to want.
He watches until the waterline creeps lower on the lantern as the bath cools and you sink down, chasing warmth. Watches as you finally let yourself relax fully, shoulders sliding under, just your face above the surface, eyes closed, breaths slow and even.
Only when you sit forward and reach for the towel hanging on the peg beside the tub does he ease back from the window.
He knows if he lingers another second, if he sees you stand, water sheeting off every inch as you step out, he’ll plant roots under this sill and never leave.
There will be other nights, he tells himself.
He peels himself off the wall, body humming, and slips back into the darker yard, breath still measured, strides easy.
By the time he’s at the edge of the light, he has his lantern in hand again, held low, the picture of a man just passing through on his way to some small piece of work.
He doesn’t feel a lick of shame. What would be the use of it, when the memory of you in that tub is already lodged in his body like a polished stone, something he can roll under his tongue whenever he chooses.
You’ll go to bed clean and soft, thinking maybe about chores and storms and the seam you mended this morning.
He’ll go back to his little house with your wet skin behind his eyes and no confusion about what he plans to do with it.
The day’s been long, the kind that starts with a rooster and ends with your back feeling twice your age.
By the time supper’s put away and the kitchen wiped down, your father’s in his chair with his boots off, socks so full of holes you don’t know why he bothers wearing them, radio mumbling low out of the corner. Your mother’s gone to bed early with a headache, door cracked just enough that you can hear her cough now and again.
You’re halfway through folding the dish towels when you remember.
Mama’s good jar of salve.
You can see it plain in your mind’s eye: small tin with the blue lid, the one she guards like treasure.
She sent you looking for it just after dinner, when she noticed the raw place on your father’s wrist from rope burn and the darkening bruise on your own hip from where the stall rail caught you days ago.
You’d gone to fetch more wood for the stove first, meaning to get the salve on your way back, and somehow it slipped right out of your head, chased off by smoke and scolding and the rush to get biscuits off the fire before they burned.
Your father’s already grumbled twice about the barn nail and told you if you’d been paying mind you wouldn’t have torn your dress, wouldn’t have bruises, wouldn’t have needed fussing.
You can hear him in the morning if he finds that wrist still angry and your hip still tender. Can hear that disappointed click of his tongue.
You’d seen him hand the tin to Remmick earlier in the week, mumbling something about “keep this on hand, boy, in case you tear yourself up,” and watched the new hand tuck it into the pocket of his coat before heading down to the little farmhouse.
“That’s where it is,” you murmur, more to the quiet kitchen than to anyone. A little knot between your brows loosens when you place it. “Down there.”
You glance at the clock. It’s late enough the newsman’s gone off the air, early enough the world hasn’t quite tipped into the dead hours where the dark feels thickest.
Outside the window, the yard is quiet, the barn a heavy shadow, the smaller house beyond it just a darker square against the field.
“Where’s that boy?” Your father mutters around his cigarette, not really expecting an answer. “Ain’t heard him come in for coffee. He out checkin’ fence or sleepin’ on my dime?”
“Out, I reckon,” you say, folding the last towel with a sharp little snap.
Truth is, you haven’t heard his boots either. You haven’t seen his lantern bob by the window. It’s been a soft, blank stretch of night, no sign of him.
You tell yourself that means he’s at the far end of the pasture or walking the ditch line. Exactly where he’s supposed to be.
“I’ll fetch Mama’s salve,” you add, already untying your apron, tucking it over the back of a chair. “She’ll want it first thing in the mornin’.”
Joe nods, smoke curling out of his nose. “Don’t you linger,” he says, not looking up. “Get what you need and bring your tail back in this house. I don’t want you down there visitin’ like it’s social hour.”
You bite back the urge to say you’d sooner visit the pig pen. “Yes, sir,” is what comes out instead.
The night air catches you on the porch, damp and soft, smelling of cooling dirt and a hint of something sweet blooming out by the fence.
You step down barefoot, skirts whispering around your calves, the boards’ splinters familiar against your soles. The big house’s light spills just to the bottom of the steps, then gives up, letting the yard roll out into dark.
The little farmhouse sits a ways off, past the well, past the worn track where the wagon turns. All its windows are black. No orange seam under the curtain, no silhouette rising and falling against the glass. The barn is quiet too, doors thrown shut, only a thin line of moon-silver along the roof.
You latch onto the sight of that dark little house like proof. He’s not there. He’s out somewhere with a lantern and a bad attitude.
You’ll be in and out before he knows you’ve even left your room.
You wrap that thought around yourself like a shawl and start across the yard.
The grass is cool and a little slick with dew under your feet, clinging between your toes. Crickets saw at the edges of things, frogs mutter down in the low spots. The well’s stone lip rises out of the ground like something old and patient; you ghost past it, keeping your eyes on the squat shadow of the farmhouse.
Up close, it looks smaller, somehow meaner. The door is shut, the porch bare save for his boots lined up neat off to one side. You take in that detail with a little flick of relief—boots off means man in bed, not loose in the yard—before another thought slides in behind it: or just inside.
You hesitate only a heartbeat.
The want to not get scolded in the morning, the want to have Mama’s salve where she can lay hands on it, outweighs the whisper of sense telling you this is foolish.
You lay your palm on the door and push.
It gives with a small, tired creak, the smell of the place rolling over you in a warm wave: wood, straw, tobacco, sweat, and that faint metallic thread you’ve started to think of as his alone. There’s a lamp turned low on the table just inside, wick pinched till the flame is barely more than a coal in a glass throat, enough to lay out the shapes of things and nothing more.
“Remmick?” you call, voice barely above a whisper, more habit than hope. When nothing answers—not a word, not a shift of boards—you let your breath out slow and step over the threshold.
The door eases halfway shut behind you, not latched. You don’t bother with it; you don’t plan to be here long enough to worry about what’s open and what isn’t.
The room is small and spare, just like your daddy said it was. Bed against one wall, blanket rumpled from someone sitting, if not lying. Chair with a coat thrown over the back, shirt draped careless on top. Table with the lamp, a chipped cup, a folded knife. A shelf holding a few tin plates, a jar of coffee, the heel of a loaf.
You move quick but careful, eyes trying not to linger on the smaller things that say a man’s been living here—his belt coiled on the chair seat, his hat hanging from the peg, the empty space on the floor where his boots were.
You head straight for the coat, remembering your father’s hand dropping the salve tin into its pocket.
You pinch the fabric between your fingers, easing it aside, but the weight you expect to tug at the hem isn’t there. The coat hangs light. You pat the pockets; they’re empty, save for a wadded rag and a stray button.
“Damn,” you breathe, annoyed, under your breath.
Maybe he moved it. Maybe he took it out so the tin wouldn’t fall and get lost when he shrugged the coat on.
You cast your eyes around the room, searching high shelves, low boxes, any place someone might set a small, important thing.
The table catches your attention next. You circle it, gaze skimming over the knife, the cup, the lamp.
There, near the edge, half in shadow—a squat little tin no bigger than your palm, blue lid dulled with age.
You smile in spite of yourself and reach for it. “Got you,” you murmur, closing your fingers around the cool metal.
You pop the lid just enough to see the salve inside, pale and thick, smelling faintly of herbs and camphor, then press it back down with a soft click. The job’s done. Simple as that.
You turn, already thinking about the path back to the house, about slipping this into Mama’s hand and letting yourself be proud she won’t have to wonder where it is in the morning.
You don’t make it two steps.
There he is.
Standing in the doorway that leads to the small back room, shoulder braced against the frame like he’s been leaning there a while, like he grew right up out of the wood.
He’s shirtless, skin slicked faint with sweat, the rise and fall of his chest slow and easy. Suspenders hang loose against his hips, clipped to his trousers but fallen off his shoulders, framing the cut of his torso in dark lines.
The lamp’s low light paints him in gold and shadow both, dipping into the hollow between his collarbones, skating over the plane of his stomach, catching on the trail of hair that runs down from his navel into the waistband of his pants.
His arms cross over his chest, veins standing faint along the backs of his hands where they rest against his biceps.
His feet are bare. His eyes are not gentle.
“Find what you was lookin’ for?” he asks, voice soft, too soft, the scrape of it wrapping around the words like a touch.
Your heart gives one wild jump, slamming up against your ribs hard enough to hurt, then starts to run.
You hadn’t heard him come in. Hadn’t heard the back door, hadn’t heard the floor protest, hadn’t heard anything but your own little fussing search and the tiny pop of the salve lid.
For a foolish second you think about hiding the tin, tucking it behind your back like a child caught in a pantry. You don’t. There’s nowhere to put it he wouldn’t see, and you refuse to give him the pleasure of watching you scramble.
Instead you hold it up just enough that he can see the blue lid glint in the lamplight. “My mama’s salve,” you say, surprised at how even your voice comes out. “Daddy gave it to you. He forgot where he put it. I came to fetch it.”
He doesn’t move. Doesn’t look at the tin for more than a passing glance. His attention stays on you, heavy as a hand between your shoulder blades. He rakes his gaze from your face down to the salve, then lower, slow as a man looking over a field he’s about to plow.
You suddenly know exactly how your dress is sitting—where the fabric pulls across your chest from turning too quick, where the skirt clings to your thighs from the damp in the grass, where your collar gapes just a breath more than it should because you didn’t bother with the top button in the heat. Your skin prickles under each place you picture his eyes touching.
“You always just walk yourself into a man’s house without knockin’?” he asks after a beat, one brow ticking up.
“This ain’t a house,” you reply, chin lifting a shade. “It’s a shack my father stuck you in so you’d be closer to the barn.”
Something like amusement flickers across his mouth. “Still mine for now,” he says. “Door was shut, wasn’t it?”
“You left the lamp on,” you shoot back. “Anybody with decent sense would take that as invitation in case of emergency.”
He uncrosses his arms then, letting them drop to his sides. The motion makes muscles jump in his chest, the lines of his shoulders shifting under skin. “And what’s the emergency, miss?” he asks. “That your mama’s medicine was sittin’ ten yards farther than you like it?”
His tone isn’t mocking. It isn’t kind either. It’s something in between, something testing. Like he’s poking at you with words just to feel where you’re soft.
You swallow, the salve tin suddenly heavy in your hand. “I said why I came,” you answer. “I’ll be goin’ now.”
You move to head toward the front door, the one you came in, but the room is small, and he doesn’t move. One pace brings you close enough to smell him. Another pace would put you near enough to brush him if you misjudged your route.
He shifts his weight to fill the doorway more fully, one hand lifting to rest on the frame to the side of him. It leaves his ribs bare, that patch of hair under his arm catching the lamplight. There’s a faint scar along his flank, pale against the warmth of his skin, old and ugly, like something tore him open once and he lived anyway.
“Seems a shame,” he says, looking at you. “You comin’ all this way just to snatch up a tin and run.”
Your pulse hammers harder. “It ain’t far.”
“For you,” he agrees. “For me it’s a long, lonely walk most nights. I might be grateful for a little company.”
“You got company,” you say, words a little sharper than you intend. “You got every cow, every dog, every fence post on this land. You don’t need me.”
He lets that roll over him like water off a duck’s back. “Maybe I’m tired of talkin’ to things that can’t talk back,” he murmurs. His eyes flick down to the salve again, then to your hand, to your wrist where your pulse beats visible in the hollow. “You tore yourself up any today, or you just borrowin’ this for show?”
“Bruise on my hip,” you admit before you can remind yourself you owe him nothing. The words come out stiff. “Ain’t your concern.”
“Everythin’ that happens on this farm’s my concern when it means workers showin’ up busted in the mornin’,” he says. “You do work, don’t you? Or are you just here to keep the place pretty.”
Heat flashes through you, quick and mean. “You've seen me work,” you say. “You've seen me at that pump, at that stove, out in the yard. Don’t you stand there half-dressed and ask if I do my share.”
His mouth twitches at half-dressed. He doesn’t bother to hide the way his gaze drops, quick, down the front of himself and back up, as if to say he knows exactly how much he’s wearing and how much you’re seeing. It’s deliberate, that small, shameless acknowledgement of his own body.
“Believe me,” he says, voice dropping lower, “I’ve seen you.”
The words land between you, heavy and thick. They mean more than they say. Every peek he’s stolen presses into the space they open up: your bare leg in the barn, your shoulders shining in the bath, your tired posture on the back porch, one strap slipping careless down your arm before you hitched it back up.
You don’t know about most of that. What you do know is enough to make your throat go dry.
“I ain’t supposed to be down here visitin’,” you say, trying to wrestle the conversation back onto some ground that feels steadier. “My father told you that when you got here. Told me too.”
His eyes gleam at the mention of your father, some dark amusement sparking there. “He told me to show you respect,” he says. “And I have. Haven’t laid a hand on you that you didn’t walk too close to yourself.”
Your mind trips over the memory of his fingers catching your arm in the barn, steadying you when your mare spooked. The way his hand hovered near your torn dress, heat just shy of your hip. The way he stood in the yard with his eyes on your mouth and called you miss like it was something he wanted to lick.
You draw yourself up as tall as you can manage in the little room, salve tin tight in your grip, refusing to yield the step he’s trying to take without moving his feet. “Then you’ll move,” you say, voice low but steady. “So I can go on home and keep livin’ my life with all that respect you’re so proud of.”
For a moment, you think he might laugh in your face. His lips part, teeth catching on his bottom lip, eyes glinting.
Instead he just looks at you.
It’s worse than if he’d laughed. He looks like a man deciding how honest he feels like being tonight. Like he’s weighing whether to keep playing at politeness or lay something sharper on the table between you.
The lamplight flickers, shadow jumping along his jaw as he tilts his head. “You walk out that door,” he says finally, nodding toward the porch, “and I’ll let you. I ain’t gonna drag you nowhere you don’t step first.”
Relief and something colder flick through you at the same time. “Good,” you start to say, but he isn’t done.
“But,” he adds, and that one little word lands heavy, “you come walkin’ into my place after dark again, all alone, dressed like that, lookin’ at me like you don’t know whether you wanna slap me or cry on me—well.” His gaze drops to your mouth and back. “That’s you steppin’. And I’ll take it as such.”
Your heart stutters, one hard misstep in its rhythm. “You overestimate yourself,” you snap, even as your fingers twitch on the tin.
He smiles then, slow and wolfish, the expression finally reaching his eyes in a way you haven’t seen yet.
“We’ll see,” he says.
For a long, tight second, nobody moves. The walls feel closer, the air thicker, the lamplight too intimate. You hear the frogs outside, the creak of the house settling, the little wet sound of your own swallow. His bare chest rises and falls, steady, like he’s got all the time in the world.
Then he steps to the side.
The doorway opens up behind him, a narrow slice of night visible over his bare shoulder. It’s more space than you expected him to yield, less than you’d like.
You duck past, your shoulder nearly brushing his chest, the heat pouring off him making your skin prickle. You feel his eyes on the side of your face, on the line of your throat, on the way you have to hitch your skirt just a little to keep from tripping as you step over the threshold.
“Goodnight, miss,” he says softly, right by your ear, breath warm as it ghosts over your neck. “You be careful now. Dark’s full of things you don’t know about.”
You don’t trust your voice not to shake, so you don’t give him the satisfaction of hearing it. You just walk, bare feet hitting the packed earth hard, fingers biting into the salve tin so tight the metal cuts a little crescent into your palm.
Rough wood presses into your hips, edge digging a little where your nightgown’s ridden up, breath catching in short, shallow pulls because he’s got one big hand flat between your shoulder blades, holding you there, and the other is on your ass, fingers clawed into the thin cotton, bunching it up and away from your thighs.
The lamp in the corner throws a low, mean light over the kitchen, just enough to show you the knot in the tabletop and the chipped plate someone left on the shelf, just enough to catch the shadow of his arm when it moves.
You came down here hot with it. Anger, mostly.
At him for looking at you how he does, for crowding doorways and talking low in your ear. At yourself for feeling anything besides disgust when he does it.
For weeks that feeling has sat under your skin like a burr under a saddle, rubbing everything raw—every brush of his eyes, every sly comment, every late-night glimpse of his lantern out in the yard when you should’ve been sleeping.
Tonight it tipped over. Tonight you lay in your bed and stared at the ceiling and saw his bare chest in that little house instead, heard his voice saying we’ll see, felt your own body answer in a way that wouldn’t quit.
So you got up after the house went quiet, barefoot on the boards, heart in your throat.
You didn’t bring a lamp. You told yourself you were just going to tell him off, to say plain that you didn’t want him looking, didn’t want him speaking to you sideways, didn’t want the innuendo and the smirks and the way he made you feel peeled without ever laying a proper hand on you.
That was the story you wrapped yourself in as you crossed the yard, nightgown clinging to your knees.
He opened the door before you could knock, like he’d been standing right on the other side with his palm on the handle, listening.
You remember the way his eyes moved over you, slow, no shirt, just those loose trousers hanging low on his hips, lamp behind him making his shoulders look broad and his face unreadable.
You remember his mouth forming your name, quiet and satisfied, like he’d been waiting to say it like this.
You remember the way all that anger and want surged up together in your chest, wild and tangled, and how you said something too sharp, voice shaking, about him needing to keep his eyes to himself if he wanted to stay on your daddy’s land.
Now here you are with his hand on your back, pressing, holding you down exactly where you came—over his small scarred table in his small farmhouse kitchen—your own fingers gripping the edge in a white-knuckled clutch.
“Thought you weren’t supposed to be down here visitin’,” he drawls above you, breath warm near your ear, words rolling over your spine. “That what you told me?”
You glare at the knot in the wood like it did you personal harm.
Your face is hot, your body even hotter, a slow, heavy throb deep between your thighs that started halfway across the yard and hasn’t done a thing but grow.
“I ain’t visitin’,” you say, the words a little muffled by the way he’s got you folded. “I came to talk sense into you.”
His laugh is low and pleased, hand on your back sliding a little, fingers spreading, thumb settling along your spine. He presses down just enough to remind you who’s holding you where you are.
“Is that what you call it,” he says, “showin’ up in your bed things after dark, sneakin’ through my door with your hands empty and your eyes wide? Talkin’ sense?”
His other hand cups your ass through the thin fabric, palm wide over you, squeezing like he’s testing a piece of fruit at the market.
The nightgown has twisted up, hem caught high over your hips, leaving the bottom curve of you bare to his touch, only the cotton of your drawers between his fingers and your skin.
Heat floods that spot, a sharp, shameful pulse that makes your breath catch.
“You been walkin’ around twitchy as a cat for days,” he goes on, hand kneading, thumb digging into the give of your flesh there. “Snappin’ at me, snappin’ at your daddy, gettin’ that look on your face every time you see me like you don’t know whether to spit or spit somethin’ else.”
“Shut up,” you hiss, mortified at how true it feels in your bones.
You shift your hips, trying to wriggle away from that hand, and all it does is grind you back against his palm, soft cotton dragging over the swell of you, catching on the seam that runs right over the place you’re trying not to think about.
He makes a sound at that, low in his throat, rough and appreciative. “Yeah. There she is,” he says, words coming a little thicker now. “All that fire. You walked your own self down here, girl. Nobody dragged you.”
“I came to tell you to stop,” you manage, though the way your voice climbs at the end takes the bite out of it. His fingers curl, grab a little handful of your ass cheek through the cloth, and you feel the ache spike hotter. “Stop lookin’. Stop talkin’ like that. Stop—stop–”
“Stop makin’ you feel all twisted up?” he supplies, not unkind, just plain.
His hand on your back softens, spreads, rubbing along your spine like he’s soothing a spooked animal even as the other keeps kneading at you.
“Stop remindin’ you there’s more to be had in this world than hymns and beans and mendin’?”
You suck a breath in through your teeth. “You ain’t the only man alive,” you snap. “You ain’t special.”
His grip tightens, a hard squeeze that makes you gasp. “No,” he agrees easily. “But I’m the only one you marched down here to cuss out in your bare feet and nightclothes, so I’d say I’m doin’ something right.”
You hate how your body answers that, how something low in you liquefies at the thought of it, at the truth you don’t want to name. You hate the way your thighs press together of their own accord, seeking pressure, seeking relief, even as you hold yourself rigid under his hand.
He feels it. His palm slides down, fingers curling under the heavy curve of you, thumb dragging along the crease where your ass meets the top of your thigh.
You’re hyper-aware of every inch, every callus on his skin, every place the old wood digs into your hips. When his hand moves inward, fingers bumping close to the center of you, you flinch.
“Don’t—” you start, panic and want knitting together, but the word thins out when his touch presses just a little firmer over the damp cotton there.
“You’re soaked,” he says softly, no mockery in it, just raw, hungry wonder. “Walked through my door mad as sin, all full of pretty speeches, and your cunt’s already cryin’ for somethin’ to hold on to.”
Shame scorches up your neck. “Don’t call it that,” you choke, mortified, the word hitting you deep and low and making everything worse.
He hums, thumb tracing a slow circle over that swell, pressing right where the cloth is clinging. The pressure is perfect, unbearable.
“What you want me to call it, then?” he asks, voice brushing the shell of your ear now.
“Your virtue? Your purity? That sweet spot between your legs that ain’t nobody touched?” His thumb moves again, firmer, and your hips jolt against your will. “’Cause I see it all over you, darlin’. You came here wantin’ me to stop, but your body came here wantin’ somethin’ else entirely.”
You shake your head, even as your toes curl, even as your lungs drag in another sharp breath that tastes like him and the lamp smoke and the hot, close air of this little house.
“You’re—you’re foul,” you say, but it comes out thin, breathy. “You been lookin’ at me, watchin’ me, talkin’ to me like—”
“Like I know what to do with you,” he cuts in, a hint of impatience threading through his heat. “And I do. You think I don’t see what’s eatin’ at you every time you glance down at my hands, or my mouth, or lower?”
His fingers slide along the seam of your drawers, finding the little ridge where cloth meets cloth and pressing right there.
It sends a jolt through you big enough you can’t muffle the small sound that drops out of your throat.
His hand on your back pushes down, keeping you bent, letting you grind into that touch without rising off the table.
“Listen here,” he says, voice roughening, patience fraying. “You came. You’re here. You can tell me to stop and I will. I ain’t gonna take what you don’t hand me. But don’t stand there in my house, drippin’ on my floor, and try to lie about what you’re feelin’.”
The room seems to shrink around those words.
You know he’s right. You also know how far you are from where you were supposed to be, from the girl who said she’d never let a man like him get close, from the girl who swore she’d keep herself intact till some tidy, respectable husband came along with a ring and a house and his hat in his hands.
You think about those men. Faces you’ve seen in church, in town, men who look at you when they think you’re not noticing with a hunger they don’t know what to do with. Men who’d apologize if their fingers brushed your wrist too long.
Then you think about this man, bare-chested behind you, hard and unashamed, his hand pressed between your shoulder blades, the other on you like you’re his to handle.
You think about his eyes in the barn, on your torn dress. About the words he said in this very room, about stepping. About how you’ve been walking around with your jaw clenched and your thighs pressed together ever since.
“Tell me the truth,” he says, thumb pressing a little harder, his other fingers spread wide over the swell of you. “You want me to let go of you and send you back up that hill with your temper, you say it. I’ll move. You can go pray extra loud come Sunday.”
The lamp crackles softly, a tiny sound in the heavy dark.
“And if I don’t?” you hear yourself ask, voice small but steady. “If I say I don’t want you to move?”
His hand stills on your back for one beat, then both of them tighten—one pressing you down, one grabbing a handful of your ass like he’s staking a claim. A breath leaves him in a long, shuddery exhale that ghosts hot over your neck.
“Then I’m gonna take real good care of what you brought me,” he says, tone gone hoarse and thick, the restraint in it the only thing keeping you from shaking. “Gonna give you somethin’ to think about next time you lay awake in that bed of yours. Gonna fuck you on this table till you don’t remember what you came down here mad about.”
The word fuck lands hard in you, a punch and a promise all at once.
You grip the edge of the wood like it’s all that’s keeping you upright, though you’re already bent, already braced.
“Say it,” he murmurs, leaning in until his chest brushes your back, bare skin hot where it touches the thin cotton.
The admission sits in your throat like a hot stone. It feels enormous. It feels like stepping off a ledge.
“I want—” The word catches, but his thumb flicks over you again, sharp and sure, and your hips roll without permission, a little helpless grind that betrays every fight you’ve been waging with yourself. “I want you,” you gasp, shame and relief crashing together. “I want you to—to do somethin’ about it.”
He lets out a sound that’s almost a groan, almost a laugh, almost a curse, his body crowding you tighter, his weight a solid wall of heat at your back. “That’s my girl,” he says, and the possession in it makes your knees wobble, makes that core of you clench hard around nothing.
His hand leaves your back long enough to grab a fistful of your nightgown at the hem, yanking it up in one rough motion that leaves it bunched around your waist.
Cool air hits your drawers, the bare backs of your thighs, the soft part just under your cheeks, and then his palm is there, skin to skin at last, cupping you hard.
His fingers dig in, thumbs pressing outward, spreading you slightly, mapping the give.
“You’re shakin’,” he says, sounding pleased. “Ain’t even touched you proper yet.”
“You’re takin’ your time,” you manage, though the words shake too.
He chuckles, low. “First time’s never good when a man rushes,” he answers, matter-of-fact. “And I know you ain’t had nobody in you yet, feelin’ the way you do under my hand.”
Before you can answer, his fingers hook into the waistband of your drawers and tug. The fabric resists for a second, elastic biting into soft flesh, then slides down, dragging over your hips, over the swell of your ass, down the backs of your thighs until they tangle around your knees.
He leaves them there, trapping your legs just enough you can’t kick or close up, just enough that you’re open and vulnerable and aware of it.
Cool air kisses you everywhere the cloth just left.
You feel filthy, bare from waist to mid-thigh, bent over his table with your nightgown rucked up, your cunt exposed to the room, to him. It makes your head swim.
Then his hand is back, and there is no room for anything else.
He cups you from behind, fingers sliding through the slick heat of your folds, and you hear a sharp breath hitch out of him. “Oh, hell,” he says, reverent.
You make a broken, helpless sound that doesn’t sound like it belongs to you.
No one’s ever been there before, not like this, not with fingers spreading you, rubbing through you, middle finger catching on that aching bud you’ve only ever touched in the dark with guilty hands.
The sensation is lightning-bright, stabbing up your spine.
“Easy,” he murmurs, palm flattening across your low back again, his body curving over yours, caging you. “I got you. Gonna make it good for you before I stretch you around me. Don’t want you too scared to enjoy your first fuck.”
The way he says first fuck, like he’s staking a flag there, like he’s carving his name into it, makes something fierce flicker through you, a strange pride knotting up with the fear.
You push back against his hand without meaning to, chasing more.
He feels it. “That’s it,” he encourages, fingers pressing deeper between your lips now. “Ask for what you want with that pretty body. Tell me where it hurts.”
“Everywhere,” you pant, honesty ripped out of you on a wave. “It hurts everywhere.”
He laughs, breath hot against your neck, mouth close enough you feel the shape of it. “That ain’t hurt, girl,” he says. “That’s need.”
His fingers finally find your entrance, slick and hot and clutching, and he presses the pad of one inside, just the tip, testing. Your whole body clenches around that intrusion.
“You relax for me,” he tells you, tone sliding into something commanding. “Breathe.”
You suck in air, lungs burning.
He slides the finger in a little further, thick and probing, opening you.
The stretch is sharp, uncomfortable, but there’s an undercurrent of relief in it. He works it in and out slowly, letting you get used to the feel, letting your body learn the shape of him.
“That’s good,” he murmurs when he feels you soften around him, the praise lighting up something small and hungry in your chest. “See? You take my finger just fine. Gonna take my cock too when I’m done with you.”
He adds a second finger before you can brace, and this time the stretch makes you gasp loud, muscles clamping down. It burns, a deep, insistent ache, like you’re being pried open.
“Shh,” he soothes, his index finding that little bundle of nerves again, circling steady, sending sparks to chase the hurt. “I know. I know. We gotta loosen you up some or you’ll split yourself on me.”
The blunt truth of it makes you squeeze your eyes shut, face hot against your forearm.
You can feel him behind you, solid, his chest glued to your back, his arm moving between your legs. When you manage to breathe past the initial shock, the burn eases, replaced by a full, pressurized feeling that fills your head with nothing but sensation.
He moves his fingers, slow at first, pumping them in and out of you in short strokes, stretching, coaxing.
Your body starts to answer despite itself, hips rocking back in tiny motions, seeking that deep, sweet drag.
Every thrust brushes against something inside you that makes your legs tremble, makes your breath hitch.
“Listen to that,” he says, voice thick, and it takes you a second to realize he means the wet sound loud in the little kitchen as his fingers work in and out of you. “You hear yourself takin’ me in? That’s you wantin’ it.”
It’s filthy and true and you can’t deny it.
There's a coil tightening low in your belly, every nerve in your body funneling to where his hand is. Your grip on the table edge goes slippery with sweat.
“Remmick,” you gasp, not even sure what you’re asking for, only that you’re strung too tight.
“There you go,” he groans, fingers driving a little deeper, curling just right.
It hits without much warning. One second you’re climbing, the next you’re over the edge, everything snapping.
Your body seizes around his fingers, clenching so hard it almost hurts, that coil unspooling in a rush of pleasure so intense it blanks your mind.
A breathless moan tears up your throat. Your thighs shake, knees nearly buckling, if it weren’t for his hand on your back and the table under your palms you’d be on the floor.
“That’s it,” he groans, riding you through it, fingers still working, still moving until you’re whimpering, too sensitive, twitching with each little aftershock.
You sag against the table when it finally lets you go, chest heaving, sweat cooling on your neck. He eases his fingers out of you slow, gentle for the first time since you walked in, his hand sliding up to rest on your hip. You can feel his other hand at your back again, rubbing small circles, keeping you grounded.
“First one’s always a little wild,” he says, sounding almost fond. “You doin’ all right?”
You nod, or try to. Your head feels full of cotton, floaty and heavy all at once. “I—” Your voice comes out hoarse. You clear your throat. “I’m fine.”
“You’re more than fine,” he says, and there’s a smile in it. “You’re perfect.” He shifts behind you, and that’s when you feel it, really feel it—his cock pressed up against the back of your thigh through the fabric of his trousers.
He’s been hard this whole time, you realize dimly, all that while he was working you open. The blunt head drags over your skin when he adjusts, the thickness of him obvious even through cloth.
Your stomach flips, fear and anticipation knotting together. “You’re really—”
“Oh, I’m really.” He sounds almost amused. “You wanted me to take you on this table, remember?”
His hand leaves your back and you hear the soft, familiar sound of a belt coming loose, a buckle clinking, the rasp of leather through belt loops. Then buttons, quick and practiced, fabric shifting.
You suck in a breath, every sense straining.
A moment later, something hot and slick—not his fingers this time—nudges against your entrance. He slides the head of his cock through your slick folds slowly, up and down, coating himself in you, bumping your clit on the downstroke, making you twitch.
“Jesus,” he mutters, more to himself than you. “You feel that? How you’re grabbin’ at me already and I ain’t even in?”
You do feel it, and it’s terrifying. Your body recognizes him as something it’s meant to hold, meant to take, even as your mind stumbles over the size of him, over what this means.
“I—wait,” you say, panic flaring for a second, the reality of it looming. “Remmick, I’m—”
“I know,” he says, and for once there’s no teasing in it. “You listen to me. It’s gonna burn at first, then it’s gonna feel like you never should’ve gone without it this long. You trust me?”
You hesitate. He feels it in the way your muscles tense around the head of him. His hand comes up, fingers wrapping loosely around your throat from behind, thumb tipping your chin just a little. The touch sends a different kind of shiver through you, sharp and grounding.
“I ain’t gonna break you,” he says quietly, close to your ear. “I want you comin’ back to this just as bad as I want you right now.” His hips roll just enough that the blunt tip presses hard against your opening.
The hand at your throat, the tone in his voice, the memory of his fingers and the way your body just came apart on them thirty seconds ago—they all crash together, and you find yourself nodding before you know you’re doing it.
“Go,” you whisper, the word trembling, but there.
He makes a sound then that’s half-growl, half-groan, all man. His grip on your throat tightens just a hair, his other hand clamping down on your hip.
“That’s my girl,” he says again, rough with need. “Hold on.”
The head of him breaches you with more resistance than his fingers ever met.
Your body tries to clamp down, to keep him out, muscles fighting the stretch. He doesn’t slam in, but he doesn’t baby you either. He works himself in slow, steady pressure, teeth gritted, hips driving forward inch by thick inch.
The burn is real. It’s sharp, like you’re being split open from the inside. You gasp, nails scraping at the wood, whole body bowing. For a second it’s too much.
“Breathe,” he grunts through his own strain, hand at your throat sliding up to your jaw, thumb pressing at your cheek. “Breathe through it. You’re takin’ me. Look at you. You’re takin’ me.”
He isn’t wrong. Beneath the pain, there’s this breathless awe—at the size of him, at the way your own body yields, at the feel of being filled in a way you never have before.
You force yourself to inhale, exhale, again, again. Your muscles flutter around him, protesting, then slowly easing.
When the broadest part of his head passes the tight ring of your entrance, the rest slides in easier, still stretching, still burning, but less violently.
He sinks deeper, stopping only when his hips are flush with your ass, his pelvis pressed to your backside, balls snugged up against your cunt. You can feel him everywhere, heavy and solid in your core, pulsing faintly.
“Christ,” he rasps, the words hot against your neck. “I can barely think straight. Sweet girl, you just swallowed every inch of me.”
You exhale shakily, overwhelmed. Full doesn’t begin to cover it. You feel stuffed, stretched to the point of coming apart, and yet under the ache, something else is already starting—a low, thick pleasure that moves like honey, spreading outward from where you’re joined.
He holds still for a long moment, breathing hard into your hair, chest rising and falling against your back. His hand at your hip rubs little circles, the one at your jaw softening its grip.
“You tell me when it stops hurtin’ so sharp,” he says. “I ain’t in no rush, even if my cock’s yellin’ otherwise.”
You try to focus. The worst of the burn ebbs, leaving a throbbing soreness, but the sense of him—deep, impossible, yours—is starting to bloom into something almost good.
“Move,” you whisper, surprising yourself. “Just a little.”
He laughs, breath short. “Greedy already,” he says. “Alright.”
He pulls back, just an inch, maybe two, dragging that thick length along your walls. The friction is intense, raw and tender and electric all at once. Then he pushes in again, slower, watching for any flinch.
Your fingers dig into the table, but you don’t cry out, don’t tell him to stop. Your body clutches at him on the way out, sucks at him on the way back in.
He does it again. And again. Each shallow thrust smooths the hurt a little more, replaces it with deeper sensation. The initial sting fades into a deep, stretching fullness that makes your knees weak, that makes heat lick up your spine in waves.
“That’s it,” he murmurs, hand sliding from your jaw back down to your throat, wrapping around it more firmly this time, not cutting your air, just pinning you, reminding you where you are and who’s holding you. “Now we’re gettin’ somewhere.”
He lengthens his strokes, pulling back farther, pushing in harder. The wet slap of his hips meeting your ass starts up, quiet at first, then louder, the sound of skin on skin obscene in the still night.
Every push drives him deeper, nudging at something inside you that makes your breath jump, that sends little shocks through your belly, like he’s bumping the edge of something tender and secret and his.
Your body has learned the shape of him, stretching you from the inside.
You can feel every ridge, every vein, the way the fat head spears through the tight clutch of you and then disappears into that deep, hot place that was empty your whole life and now is nothing but him.
His hand at your throat tightens, just a little. Not enough to cut your air, but enough to make each breath a thing you have to pull for, chest heaving against the table edge. His palm is broad and warm, thumb resting under your jaw, fingers curved along the side of your neck.
Every time his hips snap forward, that grip reminds you he’s there; it pins you in your own skin so you can’t float away from what’s happening, can’t pretend it’s anything but what it is: you getting fucked open on a man’s cock in his kitchen like you were meant for it.
Then his hand drops. It slides down the column of your throat, over the dip of your collarbone, fingers spreading wide as they drag lower, rough palm grazing the top swell of your breast through the thin cotton.
He cups you from behind, big hand wrapping around the weight of it, lifting, squeezing. The nightgown bunches under his fingers as he kneads, thumb rolling over your nipple until it stiffens hard, the fabric rasping just enough to make you whine.
“There,” he mutters, voice gone thick, like he has to taste every part of you. “Knew these’d feel good in my hand.”
He squeezes once more, harder, the pressure sending a sharp line of sensation straight down to where he’s buried in you, your nipple trapped between his thumb and the heat of his palm.
Your back arches, pushing more of your tit into his grip even as his cock grinds deeper.
For a second you’re caught between the drag inside and the rough, greedy hold on your breast, pleasure ricocheting between the two.
Then his hand is moving again, leaving your aching nipple peaked under the cotton, skimming back up over your breastbone, returning to your throat like it owns the place. His fingers curl back into their collar around your neck, thumb settling under your jaw, holding you where he wants you while his hips keep driving.
“Listen to you,” he groans, and you realize he doesn’t just mean your voice—wrecked and breaking on every inhale—but the wet, filthy noise your body’s making, the slick drag of his cock pulling out of you, the obscene squelch when he pushes back in, the slap of his balls hitting the curve of your cunt. “You hear that? That’s this pussy lovin’ every inch I’m givin’ her.”
The word makes your stomach flutter and your cunt clench down around him so tight he curses, hips stuttering.
There’s no room for modesty now; everything between your legs is wide awake and telling on you.
Every time he pulls back, your inner muscles chase after him, hugging, clinging, like you’re frightened of losing that fullness, like your body’s praying he’ll push right back in—and he does, like he’s answering a call.
He adjusts his stance, feet shifting on the rough floor, and angle changes. The next thrust lands different, deeper, the thick head of him driving up and forward to grind against a spot inside you that makes your vision white out around the edges for a beat.
You jolt, a strangled noise ripping out of you, fingers scraping along the tabletop as your whole body goes tense.
“There it is,” he pants, catching that reaction, chasing it.
He does it again on purpose, hips rolling instead of just snapping, driving that same path, making sure he hits that spot with the crown every time.
“You feel that? Right there? That’s what you been needin’, girl. That ache way up high you ain’t never had a name for.”
He's right on it now, relentless.
Each stroke is a steady assault, steady enough your body starts to learn the pattern, tension building with every collision. The soreness from taking him the first time smooths into a deep, hot throb that wraps around the pleasure, one feeding the other.
Your toes curl, your thighs tremble, your stomach ripples around the intrusion like you’re trying to swallow him even deeper.
He slides the hand from your hip back around your front, into the slick heat between your thighs, and finds your clit like he’s been doing it all his life.
His fingers are slick with your own mess, rough pads moving in tight, ruthless circles over that swollen bud. It sends lightning directly up your spine, straight to the base of your skull.
You choke on a sound that isn’t quite a word and jerk against his hand; his arm around your throat holds you in place.
“Goddamn, you’re twitchy,” he groans, grinding his hips down so the bone of him presses your ass, so his cock bruises into that soft spot inside while his fingers roll your clit. “You gonna fall apart on me again? You gonna let me feel you squeeze all over my cock proper this time?”
Your answer is a breathless, broken, “Please,” your voice ragged, half sob, half prayer.
The table shudders under the force of his thrusts now, the legs complaining in small creaks that match the rhythm of his hips. The lamp flame jumps in its glass, throwing wild shadows against the wall—a tangle of your bent body and his frame hunched over you, shoulders rolling as he works inside you like he’s plowing up hard ground.
Spit slicks your lips; you realize at some point your mouth fell open and just forgot how to close, breath dragging in ragged, wet pulls.
You couldn’t be bothered to care if you tried; everything is narrowed to the hot place his cock is sawing through and the bright, brutal pulses from his fingers on your clit.
He can feel you climbing, feel your body drawing in tight around him, feel your channel starting to flutter. He growls, low and guttural, the sound pressed against the back of your neck. “That’s it. That’s it, squeeze me.”
His hand at your throat tightens a hair more, narrowing the world to his breathing and yours, the rush of blood in your ears, the drag of wood under your palms.
The smallest bit of pressure makes every sensation hit harder; your body goes light and heavy at the same time, limbs tingling, cock-deep pull inside you the only thing that feels solid.
He pistons into you now with a steadier, punishing rhythm, cock dragging from the fat base at your entrance all the way to that deep end that makes your belly flip, then back again.
Your ass jiggles from each impact, flesh rippling under his grip. His fingers at your clit don’t falter.
You can hear yourself now, high and ruined, begging without even knowing what for. “Don’t stop—don’t—Remmick, don’t—oh—oh God—”
“Mhm, use my name,” he hisses, hips crashing into yours, the wet slap echoing off the close walls. “You say it when you can’t hold yourself together no more.”
He leans forward, the sweat on his skin slick against the thin cotton of your nightgown bunched at your waist.
His mouth finds the side of your neck, teeth scraping over the delicate skin there, then biting down just hard enough to make you gasp. He sucks, draws blood closer to the surface in a hot sting that only makes your cunt flutter harder around him.
Between the choke of his hand, the sharp pinch of his teeth, the relentless grind of his cock, and the ruthless attention on your clit, you don’t stand a chance.
The orgasm slams into you hard enough your knees buckle, your body trying to curl in on itself while he holds you stretched over the table.
Everything constricts at once—your throat around his hand, your belly around the deep ache, your cunt around his cock. You clamp down on him with startling force, walls seizing, milking, clutching like you’re trying to suck him straight out of his skin.
You cry out. There’s no pretty word for it. Sound rips out of you high and raw, your voice cracking on his name.
Your vision goes fuzzy with white at the edges, the kitchen shrinking to the rough wood under your hands and the thick, unyielding length splitting you and the brutal roll of pleasure ripping through you in waves.
“Fuck—fuck,” he grunts at your ear, the feeling of you spasming around him cutting through every ounce of control he has left. “That’s it, that’s it, girl, grip me—Jesus—”
He doesn’t stop moving, not really; he grinds through it, forcing his cock to keep sliding, short, deep thrusts, using the vice of your orgasm to wring everything he can from you.
You’re shaking all over, thighs trembling so hard your feet skid a little on the floor, toes digging uselessly for purchase.
Another rush of slick gushes around him, soaking his cock, dripping down over his balls, sliding warm along the inside of your thighs.
Your body keeps clenching in pulses, the pleasure cresting and breaking over and over until it tips toward something sharp, too much. You whimper, the sound small and shredded. His hand leaves your clit finally, stroking shaking skin instead, but his hips don’t stop.
The rhythm goes ragged, less measured, more frantic. His thrusts turn into short, hard ruts, like his body’s the one begging now. His fingers flex around your throat, then loosen just a little, thumb stroking your jaw instead as his breathing unravels.
“Gonna fill you up,” he groans, voice pitched low and rough. “You want that? You want me shootin’ deep in you, huh? Want to feel me leakin’ out you all the way back up to that house?”
The words, filthy as they are, punch right through your oversensitivity and light up something molten in your gut.
Your sore, flooded cunt tightens around him involuntarily at the thought of carrying him inside you, his spend rolling down your thighs later when you climb into your own bed.
You can’t shape the answer into full words; what comes out is some strangled mess that sounds like y-yes and a choke.
“Yeah, you do,” he snarls like he heard it. “You greedy little thing, comin’ down here pretendin’ you just wanna talk when your cunt’s hungry as hell.”
He drives in hard, once, twice, three more times, each thrust bottoming him out, pelvis grinding against the round of your ass.
The slap of his hips is loud now, sloppy, wetter, your combined mess making the impact slick.
Then his whole body locks.
His stomach clenches tight against your back, jaw clamped against the side of your neck. A sound tears out of him, not quite human, something between a growl and a groan. His cock jerks inside you, swelling even thicker for a heart-stopping second, and then you feel it—hot, heavy spurts of him spilling deep, pounding against your cervix, flooding that space that’s been empty your entire life with a hot, liquid fullness.
He curses low and hoarse on each pulse, hips rocking in tiny, helpless movements as he empties himself, his own climax dragged out by the way your slick, oversensitive walls keep squeezing and fluttering around him. Every time your cunt milks him, another rope of cum kicks out of him, painting you inside.
“God—damn—” he grits, shuddering, one hand sliding from your throat to slap down next to your own on the table, fingers splayed wide, knuckles white on the wood. “You feel that? Feel me givin’ it to you?”
You do. You feel all of it. Every pulse, every twitch, every deep throb of him lodged inside, filling you, staking a claim. Your whole body feels stuffed, weighty, like he’s poured something molten into your bones.
The shakes take him then. You feel them where his chest is plastered to your back, quivers running through him in waves as his orgasm tapers off.
His cock softens a little inside you but doesn’t slip free; your swollen entrance and the spent thickness of him keep you plugged together. Each small movement sends a slow, slick ache radiating outward.
For a long moment neither of you says anything.
He slumps more of his weight onto you without meaning to, and you sag under it, cheek pressed to the tabletop, breaths coming in harsh, uneven pulls.
Sweat has glued your nightgown to your ribs where it’s still covering your upper body; where it’s bunched around your waist, the fabric clings damp to your skin with a mixture of your own wetness and his.
Eventually, he finds his voice, though it’s wrecked, scraped raw at the edges. “Jesus,” he mutters, words ghosting hot over the shell of your ear.
For the first time since he pushed into you, he eases his hips back.
You gasp, a little shocked moan slipping out as his softening cock drags along your raw walls.
When his head slips past your entrance, your muscles clench on instinct, reluctant to let him go, but gravity wins. He slides free, leaving you empty in a way that feels sharp, unfinished, even with his cum already starting to seep down, warm, from inside you.
Something thick and wet trickles out immediately, a slow, viscous roll that slides over your swollen folds and down the curve of your inner thigh. You feel it clearly, a hot trail in the cooler air of the kitchen. The knowledge of what it is, whose it is, makes your face burn and your belly tighten all over again.
He sees it too.
“Look at that,” he says softly, voice full of rough, satisfied awe.
His hand leaves yours and slides down, palm cupping the underside of your ass, thumb catching one of those white streaks, spreading it lazily over your sensitive skin. You flinch, a little gasp escaping before you can stop it.
“Too much?” he asks.
“A little,” you admit, breath still stuttering.
He makes a pleased sound at that, thumb dragging one last lazy stripe through the mess before he rubs his hand off on his own thigh.
He straightens slowly, the absence of his weight making you sway for a second. His hands, empty now, come to your waist, smoothing down the bunched nightgown. He tugs it back into place over your hips, hiding what he’s done as best cloth can hide it.
Then he crouches a little, fingers catching the waistband of your drawers. They’re still tangled around your knees, sticky with your slick.
He coaxes them up, guiding the cotton over your tender flesh, covering your cunt, trapping his spend where it is.
The pull of the fabric against your oversensitive skin makes you hiss and bite your lip, but it also feels lewd and intimate in a different way—his cum pressed up against you, soaked into the cloth that sits right over your entrance.
He knows exactly what he’s doing, sealing you up like that. It shows in the way his thumb lingers a second too long at the gusset, pressing lightly, as if to make sure the material is snug, as if to feel one more time that he’s right there even with clothes between you.
“Gonna be walkin’ home with your panties stickin’ to you and a piece of me tryin’ to leak right back out,” he murmurs, voice a dark purr. “You’ll be thinkin’ of me every step.”
You make a weak noise, somewhere between a protest and something softer. Your legs feel unsteady when he finally helps you pull them fully into place, when he urges you upright with hands at your waist.
When you stand, it’s like your bones have gone wrong—heavy at the hips, light at the knees, a deep, interior throb that makes you aware of your own body in a way you’ve never been.
He turns you gently, so your hip leans back into the edge of the table instead of your chest, so you’re facing him. His hair is damp and rumpled, a curl fallen low over his forehead, chest and stomach slick with sweat.
His gaze sweeps over you, taking in the mussed nightgown, the bite marks blossoming at your throat and shoulder where his teeth worried your skin, the slackness of your mouth, the glassy shine to your eyes.
Confidence sits easy on him; he looks like a man who’s put in a long night’s work and is proud of the job he’s done.
“You’re gonna cuss me tomorrow,” he says, voice low and a little smug. “When you sit down. When you walk. But you ain’t gonna regret it.”
You swallow, throat thick, his words settling warm and heavy between your ribs.
“No,” you admit, even quieter than before, and there’s no sense lying now. “I don’t… regret it.”
His mouth curves. “Good.”
You look away, suddenly aware of the time, of the silence of the big house up the hill, of how your mama and daddy are sleeping through something that’s gone and rearranged their daughter from the inside out.
“I need to go,” you say, voice small but steadying. “Before my father wakes up for water, or Mama starts callin’ and finds my bed empty.”
His hands fall from your waist, though not without one last, slow sweep along the curve of you, like he’s committing it to memory.
“Go on,” he says. “Before I talk you into layin’ down on that bed in there and not leavin’ till the rooster screams.”
Your body responds to the image with an exhausted throb, a clench around nothing.
You push off the table and take a careful step. Your thighs rub, slick, the damp cotton of your drawers pulling against you; you feel a fresh little leak of him inside you, a warm ooze that soaks into the fabric and clings. It makes you stutter a little, the soreness set deep in your core.
Remmick watches the way you move, jaw flexing, something like pride and hunger both tightening his face.
He reaches for his trousers, tucking himself away, but he doesn’t bother with a shirt yet, doesn’t bother pretending he’s anything but what he is: the man who just fucked you on his kitchen table and filled you til you’re walking crooked.
You make it to the door on legs that still shake. Your fingers land on the frame as you pull it open, the cool breath of the night spilling in.
Before you step out, you glance back. His eyes are on you, unreadable now, dark and steady in the lamplight.
“You come down here again,” he says, voice quiet, sure, “don’t pretend you’re just here for salve or scoldin’. You knock on my door after dark, I know what you’re askin’ for.”
You hold his gaze, the soreness between your thighs, the fullness inside you, the ache in your muscles all speaking louder than any denial you could muster.
His eyes follow you out into the dark, low and pleased, and as you cross the yard barefoot, nightgown brushing your knees, his cum warm and sticky between your legs, you know he’s standing there in that doorway shirtless, watching you go with no shame at all, already planning just how he’ll take you the next time you come scratching at his door.
theartofmadeline
vaporwave
yousharknotpass
2087
tangentwithtanner
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