Ah, as a Yandere, Deucalion is an embodiment of possessiveness and obsession. Picture this: He's calculated, manipulative, and charming, using his charismatic aura to ensnare the hearts of his victims. But beneath that charming exterior lies an intense, almost manic need for control. When he sets his sights on someone, he'll do anything to keep them close, even going so far as to eliminate anyone who poses a threat. He views love as a game, where he's always the master.
There's so much more to explore. Beyond the obsession and possessiveness, he's a master of mind games. He thrives on controlling every aspect of your life, carefully crafting scenarios where he can maintain his dominance. He's also fiercely protective, viewing his loved one as a precious possession to be guarded at all costs. But don't let his charm fool you; beneath it all, his love is tinged with cruelty and a hint of danger.
Oh, and when he falls for someone, it's not just your typical romance-novel level of devotion. We’re talking about an all-consuming obsession. He'll watch your every move, learn every little detail about you, and make sure you're constantly reminded that you belong to him, whether you like it or not. He'll use his power and influence to isolate you from others, believing that having you completely dependent on him will ensure your loyalty. He'll make grand gestures of affection, showering you with gifts and compliments, yet beneath it all, his possessiveness knows no bounds.
Picture his voice: a smooth, velvety purr that lulls you into a false sense of security. His words, carefully chosen and delivered, are like a symphony crafted to captivate your mind. And then there are his eyes—oh, those hazel eyes, capable of burning with an intensity that makes you feel like the only person in the world, yet simultaneously sending shivers down your spine as you wonder just how far he'd go to keep you his.
Deucalion's possessiveness takes form in various ways. He could constantly need to know where you are and demand your full attention at all times. He might even go as far as tracking your phone or monitoring your social media. He could also be extremely jealous and suspicious, accusing you of flirting or cheating without any evidence. Furthermore, he might become overly protective and try to control who you interact with, limiting your time with friends and family as he wants you all to himself. He may even resort to isolating you from the world entirely.
In Deucalion's quest for absolute control, he might become extremely obsessive, constantly bombarding you with gifts, compliments, and attention. He may constantly praise you and make you feel like you're the only person who truly matters to him. However, underneath this facade, he may be extremely manipulative, using guilt or threats to ensure you do what he wants. He might even use affection and sweetness as a tool to ensure your loyalty and obedience. While he showers you with love one moment, he could switch to being cold and distant the next, leaving you always guessing.
He could also become physically possessive, constantly wanting to touch you and be near you. He might insist on public displays of affection and become hostile towards anyone whom he perceives as a threat to your relationship. In more extreme cases, he might become controlling and demanding, wanting to dictate your every decision, from what you wear to what you eat. He might impose heavy restrictions on your daily life, making it difficult for you to live independently.
Deucalion's jealousy is intense and all-consuming. He believes you belong to him, and the thought of you being with someone else drives him insane. He may constantly question you, asking where you were, who you were with, and what you were doing. Even the smallest interaction with another person can trigger his jealousy, leading to accusations, arguments, and sometimes even physical confrontations.
When it comes to giving reassurance, Deucalion can be intense and over the top. He could shower you with compliments, declarations of love, and overly affectionate gestures, making you feel smothered. However, his reassurance often comes with a hint of manipulation. He may use guilt or emotional blackmail, saying things like, "If you really love me, you'd do this for me" or "I can't bear living without you, please just do this one thing for me."
Deucalion uses rewards as a manipulative tactic to keep you compliant. He might offer gifts, compliments, or other rewards when you do as he says, reinforcing your dependence on him. On the contrary, he might withhold those rewards when you don't comply, leaving you feeling uncertain and anxious about his approval. This form of intermittent reinforcement (where rewards are given unpredictably) creates a strong psychological attachment, making you crave his praise and seek his approval even more. He may also withhold affection or intimacy, using it as a reward for your obedience.
Deucalion uses punishments to maintain control and assert his authority. He may use physical, emotional, or psychological punishments, depending on the situation. He could use threats, intimidation, or even act violently when he feels his control is threatened. He might also use emotional manipulation tactics like the silent treatment, gaslighting, or emotional blackmail to punish you for disobeying him or questioning his authority. In rare cases, he might also resort to extreme measures like stalking, surveillance, or isolating you from friends and family as a form of punishment.
In front of others, Deucalion might display a charming and charismatic persona. He can be witty, charming, and manipulative, using his quick intellect and persuasiveness to charm everyone around him. However, beneath this facade, he always has an ulterior motive. He's constantly studying people, looking for weaknesses he can exploit and connections he can use to his advantage. He may put on a front of concern or kindness, offering help or advice to those he sees as potential assets, all the while secretly plotting how he can manipulate them to his advantage.
Fights between Deucalion and his partner would be intensely emotional and fraught with manipulation. When arguing, Deucalion would likely dig deep and use manipulative tactics to make you feel guilty or wrong, often making himself the victim and deflecting blame. He might use past grievances or flaws against you, trying to guilt trip you or make you feel like you're the reason for the argument. He might also use threats, intimidation, or emotional blackmail to ensure that you apologize or back down. He wouldn't want to risk losing control, so he'd do whatever it takes to keep it.
Deucalion's affection is manipulative and possessive. He'd shower you with compliments and gifts, constantly making you feel special and wanted. But beneath the surface, his affection would be fueled by a need for control. He'd frequently check in on his partner, wanting to know where you were and who you were with, all in the guise of being caring. He might also use affection as a tool to manipulate his partner, guilt-tripping you or using the threat of withdrawing affection if you don't comply with his demands.
Deucalion's idea of a date would be more about asserting control and displaying his wealth and power to you. He'd likely choose expensive and extravagant locations, all to impress you and make himself look good. However, he'd also use these dates as an opportunity to keep tabs on you, asking questions or making comments that reveal his need to control and possess. He also uses these dates to manipulate you, making you feel obligated to reciprocate his affections due to the expensive date or his constant praise.
Deucalion would absolutely use you to do his dirty work. He'd manipulate you into doing tasks or favors for him that would benefit him directly. He might use guilt trips, threats, or promises of rewards to get you to do his bidding. He'd likely try to frame it as something that would benefit both of you, while in reality, it would only benefit him. He'd also likely use this as another opportunity to gain more control over you, making you feel like you owe him something in return for your obedience.
Deucalion would definitely have a shrine dedicated to you, filled with objects and trinkets that remind him of you. It would likely be a mix of genuine feelings and a need to keep tabs on you. He'd likely include things like gifts you've given him, photos of you together, or even items that belonged to you. He'd use this shrine as a way to feel close to you when you're not around, but also as a way to control and possess you, using the shrine as a reminder of his power over you.
Deucalion's feelings towards marriage would likely revolve around control and possessiveness. He'd desire a commitment from his partner that binds them to him, ensuring they can never leave. Marriage would also provide him with legitimacy and a public way to declare his ownership over his partner. He'd want a big, extravagant wedding filled with people he could impress and show off to. However, beneath the surface, his motivation would be to keep his partner under his thumb, ensuring their compliance and submission to his will.
Deucalion's desire for children stems from a need for control and continuation of his line. He'd see the children as extensions of himself, and he'd want to mold them in his image. He'd likely want a lot of influence over their upbringing, from their education to their beliefs. He may even use the children as a way to manipulate or control you further, using them to keep you compliant. Deucalion might also see the children as a way to perpetuate his legacy or maintain his power and status, which would further solidify his hold on you and the family.
If you were unable to have or didn't want children, Deucalion would be extremely frustrated and disappointed. He'd likely try to manipulate you into reconsidering, using guilt trips or threats to try and get you to change your mind. If you remained firm in your decision, Deucalion might become resentful and bitter, feeling like you had denied him something he desired. He might also try to find alternative ways to secure his lineage, perhaps by adopting or looking for a surrogate mother to carry their child.
"You are my obsession, my drug, my addiction. I can't go a moment without thinking about you, without needing you by my side. I worship you, adore you, and idolize you. You are the center of my universe. My sole purpose in life is to make you happy. You are my everything, my entire world, and my existence revolves around you."
Forced submission - He gets off on seeing someone completely under his control, your bodies at his mercy. The knowledge that you can't resist him, that you want nothing more than to please him, is incredibly arousing.
Bondage - Tying someone up, rendering you helpless, and then using your body however I please. The helplessness and vulnerability only serve to enhance his own pleasure.
Teasing - Playing hard to get, denying you pleasure until you beg and plead for it. The longer you wait, the sweeter the release.
Forced orgasm - The idea of forcing a partner to cum repeatedly until your crying, denying you relief until you're completely spent, is a major turn-on for him.
Hair pulling - Tugging on your hair during sex, whether it's to pull your head back for deeper access or to simply exert dominance, is incredibly arousing for him.
࿄ summary: There’s a reason the townsfolk warn you not to go wandering alone this time of year—but you, with your pride and your temper, don’t listen. It’s only a few miles through the snow, after all, and you’ve never been one to fear shadows. But something walks the woods during the solstice—something old, antlered and cruel, cloaked in heat and hunger. What begins as an eerie journey to a remote cabin turns into a descent into myth and nightmare, where the chains that drag behind him aren’t just for show, and punishment is pleasure in the hands of the creature who’s been watching you all along.
He knows who’s been naughty—and he’s not letting you leave.
(Or: A Krampus au)
࿄ wc: 5.9k
࿄ a/n: Merry Jack O’Christmas 🎄 This fic is part of the Secret Santa Fic Exchange, and I had the absolute pleasure of getting my lovely lycanthropic wife Rosie @cryptidvillage!! I hope you enjoy, pookie!! I was so happy to get your prompt—it feels downright poetic to close out the year with a Remmick monsterfucker fic. Here’s to claws, chains, and unholy yuletide thirst!! Enjoy, my fellow degenerates (banner credit: @iceemochaa, Remmick photo edit: @theabhartachsbride) 💋
࿄ warnings: dead dove: do not eat, noncon, monsterfucking, kidnapping, captivity, size kink, knotting, breeding kink, belly bulge, cumflation, predator/prey dynamics, choking, bondage, forced orgasm, overstimulation, primal play, rough sex, feral behavior, degradation, possessiveness, fear kink
࿄ likes, comments, and reblogs are always appreciated, please enjoy!!
࿄ Masterlist
You left before daybreak.
The kind of dark that clings to your skin, that sinks its fingers under your collar, still half-dream and half-dread. Fog hung thick over the wooded path like it had been spat up from some deeper place, and the trees pressed closer with every step. You kept your coat tight and your hood up, boots crunching through old snow and frozen pine needles, the silence around you growing heavier the longer you walked.
There’d been that look the stablehand gave you when you’d asked for directions the day before—tight-jawed, overly polite. You told him where you were headed, half-laughing, because you couldn’t pronounce the turnoff anyway. His smile didn’t reach his eyes.
“Hope you make it there before sunset,” he said. “Paths can get strange up that way.”
You thought maybe it was a joke. A warning dressed in backwoods charm. But when you asked what he meant, he just blinked slow and handed you the parcel of salted meat. “Just don’t go walking at night. Especially alone.”
You told yourself not to read into it. People are superstitious. People talk.
Still, the pit in your stomach hasn't gone away since.
Now, hours later, the landmarks he mentioned feel more like riddles than guidance. The road had narrowed into a crooked stretch of snow-packed earth lined with bramble and fir. You haven’t passed another traveler in some time. Every so often, the trees break just enough to show glimpses of the snow-glazed forest beyond—white, sharp, endless. And the further you go, the more wrong it feels.
Something’s off in the woods.
Not just quiet, but watching. A presence stretched thin and straining, its eyes somewhere out past the treeline. The sense that if you stepped off the path and stood still long enough, the dark would breathe in.
The trail climbs up into the trees, steeper now. Your boots slip once on a patch of frost, and you brace against a gnarled root for balance. You keep walking. You told yourself this would be peaceful. A getaway. A weekend to breathe and be still. But the air is too thin out here, and the woods aren’t still at all.
You see the first chain hanging from a tree just before the turn.
It’s not draped like a hunter’s marker or a fence. It’s nailed through. Thick links of rusted iron, weather-worn but solid, hanging like something meant to bind or warn. You spot a second one looped around a stump, half-buried in snow. And a third, heavier, dragging across the trail where the frost has hardened it into place.
Your stomach drops.
Whatever they were for, they weren't decoration.
You’re going off directions scribbled on a crumpled scrap of paper, landmarks you don’t recognize. But when the trail finally spills out into a clearing, your breath plumes white in the air with relief.
The cabin waits at the far edge, hunched beneath snow-heavy eaves, surrounded by thick, unmoving pine. The windows are dark. The wood slats have aged silver. Smoke curls lazily from the chimney—already lit.
You didn’t arrange that.
Your heart gives a single hard kick behind your ribs.
Maybe the property owner sent someone ahead to start the fire. Maybe there’s a caretaker. You know that sometimes happens, even when not mentioned. But you don’t remember seeing it promised in the letter. You stand still at the treeline, your hands curled into fists inside your coat, trying to convince yourself it’s fine. It’s all fine.
But the woods are too quiet. The snow too smooth. And somewhere behind the trees, something crunches.
You step forward.
The cold sinks into your boots. You hoist your pack higher on your shoulder and tread carefully across the clearing. The snow is deeper than expected—ankle-high and powdery, glittering like ground glass under the overcast sky. The sound your boots make echoes too loud, too long.
The forest doesn’t absorb it.
The walk to the porch feels longer than it should. With every step, the crunch of snow beneath your feet sounds like it’s being answered. Like something is matching your pace from deeper in the woods. You keep your head down. Ignore the prickle at the back of your neck. Tell yourself you're just being dramatic. You’ve been alone too long. You haven’t slept.
The door is unlocked.
The fire is already roaring in the hearth, spitting heat into a room that smells like pine resin and old cedar smoke. The logs crackle loudly, overcompensating in the silence. The cabin itself is...untouched. Neat. Claustrophobically cozy. One main room, a kitchenette, a lofted bed above. A narrow staircase. Everything lined with thick timber, the grain warped by time and heat.
But there’s no sign of whoever started the fire.
No boots by the door. No coat on the hook. No recent footprints outside. You try to tell yourself someone came early, then left. That they didn’t see you arrive. But the air still smells like something just passed through. Too warm. Too close.
You swallow and step further in.
Your boots leave wet marks on the worn wood floor. The temperature shift from outside to in makes your face sting. You toss your pack onto the armchair beside the fire and rub your hands together, trying to shake off the tension clawing up your spine.
There’s a noise outside.
Not wind. Not animal.
Footsteps. Slow and deliberate, circling.
Your mouth goes dry.
You move toward the window, but the frost-rimmed glass shows nothing. Just snow and dark. You press your fingertips to the pane. The warmth from inside smears the view further. When you back away, your breath echoes in the space behind your teeth.
And then—
Laughter.
Low. Distant. Wrong.
It comes from somewhere out in the woods. Maybe near the edge of the clearing. Maybe closer. It doesn't rise or fall. It just…stretches. Guttural. Inhuman. Like something learning how to sound like a man.
You go still.
Your hands are shaking.
The fire roars louder. Like it knows. Like it wants to drown the sound out, give you something else to listen to. Your heart is pounding so hard now it feels like it’s trying to hammer through your ribs. You can still hear it—the laugh, thinning out into something raspier. A scraping exhale.
And then silence.
Like it was never there.
Like you imagined it.
But you didn’t.
You know you didn’t.
The wind has teeth.
By the time the door is bolted behind you, the blizzard has picked up into a full snarl outside. You can hear it dragging claws down the wooden frame, shrieking through cracks in the beams like something hunting for a way in. But you’ve checked the latches—twice. The shutters are drawn, the fireplace lit. You stand near the hearth, arms folded tight to your chest, trying to keep your breath slow and even as snow continues to pummel the cabin from all sides.
Your coat and boots leave a wet trail behind you as you move deeper inside. You leave them near the fire to dry, fingers trembling as you light the lanterns one by one, filling the room with a warm amber glow that somehow does nothing to ease the hollow in your gut. There’s a single bed pushed against the far wall, thick wool blankets folded neatly atop it. A kettle hangs ready over the hearth. A small table, a few chairs. Someone once kept this place neat, lived-in. But that was long ago.
The dust has settled on the windowsills like grave dirt.
You catch your reflection in the smudged glass of one shuttered pane. There’s something strange about it—the angle, maybe. Your body feels out of place, just slightly off. You blink, and it’s gone.
You’re just tired.
You busy yourself unpacking the satchel you brought—only the essentials. A flask of water. A bit of smoked venison wrapped in linen. A spare set of woolen underthings. A rosary, tucked deep in the side pocket like an afterthought, though you’ve found yourself clutching it too often lately. You set it out on the table without looking at it.
The fire crackles, but it’s the wind that dominates. It moans. Not the usual mournful hum of trees bending to storm, but something closer. Something wet, dragging.
You pause mid-chew—venison tough between your teeth—and strain to hear. The wind has slowed. The drifts have softened. It’s suddenly quiet. Not peace. Not stillness. Just…that awful vacuum when you realize the woods are holding their breath.
There’s a sound.
You don’t know what you heard.
Maybe it was something shifting on the roof. Maybe it was above the roof. Or behind the walls. Or under the floorboards.
You drop your meal, food forgotten on the plate, and check the door again—bolt still drawn, solid.
There’s no one out there.
You tell yourself that three times.
You try to laugh, and the sound cracks in your throat.
The kettle whistles.
You didn’t start water.
You turn slowly, heart in your throat.
The kettle is still. Bone dry.
The sound continues, shrill and rising—but it’s not coming from the hearth. It’s coming from the stove in the corner. Rusted shut when you first arrived. You know that because you tried to open it and it wouldn’t budge. But now it clicks. And again. As if the latch is slowly giving way.
You’re frozen.
Not like in the snow—this is different. This is prey-stillness. This is the moment just before your body decides to run. But your legs won’t move. Your hand goes to your pocket. Not the rosary. The knife. The small one you keep from town. Dull from disuse. You grip it tight and back toward the table.
The latch snaps. The stove door creaks open.
A small object rolls out and hits the wooden floor with a dull thunk.
You stare.
It’s a bell.
An old, iron sleigh bell. Tarnished. Dented. A length of blackened red ribbon tied to the loop like a noose.
Your throat closes.
You know that ribbon.
Not like you've seen it before—no. You know it. In your gut. In that crawling part of your brain that speaks in instinct instead of logic. You can smell the sulfur rising from it. You can feel the heat—just for a second—like a furnace was opened and shut behind your back.
The shadows move.
The fire goes out.
Not dims. Goes out.
All the air is sucked from the room and for one moment, you swear something snorts behind you—hot breath, sharp teeth, a dragging chain across the floor—but when you turn, there’s nothing.
Just the bell.
And the open stove.
You’re trembling so hard your teeth chatter. You bend, finally, to grab the bell with one shaking hand.
It’s warm.
And the ribbon tied to it?
Fresh.
Still damp with something sticky.
You don’t sleep.
You try.
You wrap yourself in every wool blanket you can find and huddle in the corner, knife still in hand, the bell sitting on the table like it followed you there. Like it wants to be near.
You tried tossing it into the stove. Tried burying it in the snow just outside the cabin’s back hatch. But every time—every goddamn time—you turned back around, it was there. Waiting. On the table. Facing the bed. Damp ribbon pooled like blood.
You whisper a prayer into your knees.
You tell yourself you’re safe because the door is locked and the windows are latched and the fire—burning again now, somehow—still glows in the hearth like a promise. But when the shadows flicker and twist up the walls, they make shapes no fire should. Antlers. Hooves. Long, crooked fingers.
And that smell—copper and soot. Like singed hair and curdled milk.
You’re not even sure when you drift. The kind of sleep that isn’t really sleep, but more like your body giving out under pressure. Just enough to dull your instincts. Just enough to make the sound worse when it finally comes.
Because it’s not a bang.
It’s a knock.
Gentle.
Polite.
Three soft taps on the front door.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
You wake gasping, the fire low, the cabin cold. The shadows different.
You sit up, listening. Heart racing.
Nothing.
You almost convince yourself it was a dream.
Until it comes again.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
You know better than to answer it.
Every story you’ve ever been told. Every tale from your grandmother's cracked lips. Every old wives’ whisper, every drunken fireside warning. Don’t answer the knock after dark. Don’t invite what’s waiting in.
The dead can’t knock, they say.
But something else might.
You clutch the knife tighter.
The knock comes a third time.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
Then a pause.
Then—
“…hello?”
A voice.
Human. Young. Male.
“M-my horse got spooked,” the voice calls. “Ran off. I been out in the snow for hours. Please, I—I just need shelter for the night.”
Another pause. Then softer.
“I—I saw the light…”
It sounds like someone from town.
You don’t speak.
You don’t breathe.
You listen.
The voice waits. Then it speaks again, almost embarrassed.
“…’m sorry for knockin’. Shouldn’t’ve bothered you.”
You hear retreating footsteps crunch in the snow.
And that’s what breaks you.
You scramble for the window. Not the front—no. The side window, the one nearest the stove, where you can peek just enough through the frost-covered glass without being seen.
And you see him.
Or something like him.
A boy—barely twenty. Maybe less. Pale, shivering. Wearing a bloodied riding coat. Legs red to the knee with ice and mud. He’s turned away now, walking slow, limping.
You lean closer to get a better look—
And he stops.
He doesn’t turn.
But his head tilts.
He knows you’re watching.
You drop.
Crawl back from the window like it’s burning.
Your breath fogs up in the freezing cabin.
You don’t go back to the window again.
You just listen.
You never hear footsteps.
Not retreating.
Not returning.
Just silence.
Then—
Knock. Knock. Knock.
It comes from the back door now.
You clamp a hand over your mouth.
The knife shakes in your fist.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
Then that voice again.
But closer this time. More knowing.
“I understand,” it says gently. “You’re afraid. But there’s no need for that. Not tonight.”
Silence.
Then:
“I only knock to be kind.”
Another pause.
Then—
“Would you prefer I let myself in?”
You lunge for the fireplace poker. The knife isn’t enough now. You clutch both, back pressed to the wall, every nerve in your body screaming to run—but there’s nowhere to go.
You can’t breathe.
You can’t think.
The knock doesn’t come again.
The silence stretches too long.
When you finally get the courage to creep to the back door—knees barely steady beneath you—it’s empty. No one there.
But hanging on the handle…
Is a second bell.
This one smaller. Delicate.
And the ribbon tied to it is your color. Your stitching. From the hem of your underskirt.
You stare at it, light-headed.
It swings gently in the wind, though the air is still.
You don’t take it down.
You don’t touch it.
You go back to the hearth, curl up on the floor with the poker and knife in either hand, and you pray.
You pray until your throat goes hoarse.
You pray until the sun starts to rise.
And when you open your eyes—
The bell is gone.
The fire has gone cold.
But sitting on the hearth, exactly where you’d fallen asleep…
Is a third bell.
Its ribbon tied in a perfect bow.
Still wet.
Still warm.
The boy never came back.
You stayed up all night listening for him—ears pricked, body frozen in the stiff curl of a worn quilt—but no second knock ever came. No voice pleaded beneath the eaves again. No footsteps dragged through the snow. The lantern you’d left lit above the door burned until it hissed out, the last of the oil snuffed by morning.
And still, he never came back.
He’d never meant to.
Some part of you knows this now.
The boy wasn’t real. Not fully. He’d spoken with the voice of someone from town—a shopkeep you vaguely recognized, maybe a merchant’s son who once offered you an apple during harvest—but the cadence had been off. Like a memory playing in the wrong throat. And you remember it now, how he never turned fully to face you. How the snow hadn’t crunched when he left. How the trail he’d carved between trees had vanished with the dawn.
You’d been tested.
You’d opened the door.
And now you’d been marked.
The air inside the cabin has soured. Not with rot, but something older. Like the dust in abandoned churches. Like wet stone. It clings to the roof of your mouth when you breathe. You’ve tried to scrub it out with the leftover cider—boiled twice, throat scalded—but the taste remains. You can’t stop coughing.
You don’t remember falling asleep, but the sun’s gone when you wake again.
Not set—gone.
Evening has skipped its gentle descent entirely, and the windows now show nothing but thick, void-black forest. Like something pressed a heavy hand over the whole sky and held it down. A single candle burns on the table, sputtering in a breeze you don’t feel.
You sit up. And that’s when you see it.
The front door is open.
Just a crack. Wide enough to notice. Wide enough to imagine a shoulder fitting through.
You hadn’t left it like that.
You know you didn’t.
Heart pounding, you rise slowly, feet bare on the cold wood, quilt still wrapped around your shoulders like a useless shield. The room smells wrong again. More wrong than before. Like burnt sugar and blood and something sour crawling in under the floorboards.
You don’t want to go near the door.
You really don’t.
But it’s open, and you’re too scared not to.
The wind outside has teeth. You taste snowflakes and woodsmoke and something else on it as soon as it touches your face—iron. You look down.
There’s something at the threshold.
A smear.
Then a mark.
Not a footprint.
Not quite.
It’s deep, cleft like a split in the earth, wide at the heel and narrowing into two curling points. You don’t need to see the rest to know what it is.
A hoofprint.
Fresh.
Still steaming.
And not alone.
You follow the trail with your eyes. Not footprints. Impressions. Hooves. Massive. Pacing slow and deliberate around the cabin like a predator. They disappear behind the cabin wall, reappear near the back window, then at the corner by the shed—where something’s been broken. The lock.
And hanging from the doorframe above the broken lock?
Chains.
Heavy and old, the kind used to tie oxen or prisoners or worse. They're looped like a noose and swing ever so slightly, clinking like laughter in the cold.
Inside again, you bolt the door with trembling fingers. You draw the curtains. You light every candle you can find—even the old tallow stub you’d sworn never to use because of the way it always smelled like tanned hide.
You try not to think about the boy again.
You fail.
You remember his voice. The slant of his shoulders. The way he bled too much and not at all. You remember how inviting him in hadn’t even felt like a choice. It had felt right. And that’s what scares you most.
You’d welcomed a lie.
A lure.
And something had noticed.
Hours pass.
Or maybe it’s minutes. Time doesn’t exist properly here anymore.
The forest has gone silent. Not still—silent. You realize you haven’t heard a single bird since yesterday. No foxes. No owls. Not even the wind.
Just the candle crackle and the wild drumming of your own heart.
Until—
CLINK.
It comes from the roof.
Not the rustle of wind. Not a branch shifting beneath fresh snowfall. Something heavier—wet, deliberate—being pulled across the roof, slow enough that you can count the seconds between each scrape.
The chains.
You don’t jump this time. You don’t gasp. You’re already standing, already shaking, the echo of the bell still ringing in your bones from the night before. The cabin is bitterly cold now, the fire nothing but a bed of dying embers in the hearth, their faint glow barely enough to chase the dark from the corners. You never made it to the bed. You never meant to.
The blanket has slipped from your shoulders. The empty glass lies shattered near the chair where you dropped it earlier, the smell of spirits sharp in the air.
Silence follows.
Total.
Too quiet.
The kind of stillness that presses against your ears until you swear you can hear your own blood moving.
You swallow and move anyway, bare feet whispering over the floorboards. The shadows stretch unnaturally long across the walls, bending where they shouldn’t. The windows are black mirrors now, offering nothing back but warped reflections. You pass one and flinch at the sight of yourself—eyes too wide, too bright, like an animal caught in lantern light.
The knife is still where you left it on the windowsill.
You grab it.
The dragging sound resumes, closer this time. No longer above you—around you.
Something is circling the cabin.
You press your back to the front door, holding your breath. The old clock on the wall ticks far too loudly, each second a hammer strike against your nerves. Your pulse stutters in your ears.
Then—
A tap.
Just one.
Against the glass beside you.
You spin, heart slamming, knife raised—
Nothing.
Another tap answers from the opposite side of the cabin.
You turn again, breath coming short.
Still nothing.
And then the whisper slides in, intimate and close, brushing the shell of your ear like a secret meant only for you.
“Run.”
Your scream dies in your throat as you stagger back, eyes flying across the room. No one's there. No movement. No shadow out of place.
You're alone.
But you know you aren’t.
You bolt.
The back door flies open beneath your hands and the cold hits like a blow, snow biting into your bare feet like teeth. You don’t stop. You don’t think. You run.
Behind you—
The front door slams open.
Wood groans. Hinges scream.
Something heavy crosses the threshold.
You look back once.
And that’s your second mistake.
He isn’t a trick of the dark. He isn’t a story.
He's real.
He fills the doorway, too broad for it, shoulders scraping the frame as he steps out into the snow. He’s massive—built like a man who’s spent decades breaking bodies and being broken in return. Thick, matted fur clings to his frame, dark and coarse, shot through with frost and old blood. Rusted chains are looped over his shoulders and wrapped around his torso, biting into scarred flesh, clattering softly with every movement.
His horns curl back from his skull in brutal arcs, uneven, one nicked and splintered near the base like it’s been broken before and never healed right. Moonlight catches along their ridges, sharp and pale.
And his face—
God.
Half of it is ruined. Scar tissue pulled tight and ugly across bone, one side of his mouth twisted upward where flesh never set properly, exposing too much tooth when he smiles. The other half is unmistakably human. Handsome, even, in a hard, weathered way. Red eyes set deep beneath a heavy brow, intelligent and cruel and burning with recognition.
He sees you.
And his smile widens.
Your legs are already burning as you turn and plunge into the trees, snow swallowing you up to the knees as you crash through blindly. Branches tear at your arms, snag your nightdress, slice skin you don’t feel yet. You don’t look back again.
You don’t need to.
You can hear him.
Not running.
Stalking.
Letting you get ahead. Letting your hope stretch thin and frantic in your chest.
That’s what predators do.
They make it a game.
Your lungs scream. Your feet are numb, raw, bleeding. The knife is still clenched in your fist, useless now—more comfort than weapon. You know it won’t help. You know nothing will.
But you keep running.
You slip once, barely catch yourself, sob breaking loose from your chest. Snow burns against your overheated skin. Your vision blurs.
Behind you—clink. Drag. Step.
Chains.
Then—
Nothing.
Silence again.
You stop.
The forest has gone dead. No wind. No shifting branches. Just your ragged breathing and the soft hiss of snow against your skin.
He’s gone.
You turn in a slow circle, knife raised, heart in your throat.
Too empty.
Too still.
“Tired already?”
The voice comes from behind you, low and amused.
You twist—
Too slow.
A hand closes around your wrist, impossibly strong. The knife drops instantly, swallowed by the snow.
You’re yanked backward into a wall of heat and fur and leather, his body flush against yours. One arm locks around your waist, crushing you to his chest, while the other comes up to cradle your jaw—not gentle. Claiming. Like something chosen.
You try to scream.
His hand slides higher, claws curling lightly around your throat.
Not squeezing.
Just holding.
Just enough to remind you how easily he could.
“You’re colder than I thought,” he murmurs, voice thick and slick with pleasure. “Should’ve stayed by the fire, sugar.”
His breath ghosts over your ear—hot, damp, reeking of smoke and iron and something feral.
You whimper.
He shudders.
“God,” he breathes. “I love that sound.”
He bends to scent you, dragging his nose along your neck, your shoulder, into your hair.
“Soft,” he murmurs. “Scared. Sweet.”
You fight uselessly in his grip, kicking back, but he barely notices. He laughs—low, rumbling, more growl than sound—and grabs you properly now. One hand clamps around your thigh, the other sliding up your ribs as he lifts you like you weigh nothing at all.
“Thought you’d give me more of a chase,” he says, faintly disappointed. “Guess I’ll just have to make it last.”
Then he throws you over his shoulder.
Your scream finally breaks free.
He moans.
“Oh yeah,” he purrs. “You’ll do just fine.”
He turns back toward the cabin at an unhurried pace, chains jingling softly with each step, horns glinting beneath the moon. The snow glows silver around you, the night so still you can hear every breath he takes.
He hums as he walks. Low. Tuneless. Almost childlike.
“Better watch out…”
You start crying.
He laughs.
“…better not cry.”
The door doesn't slam.
It creaks open like it’s being welcomed home—like the cabin knows he’s returned, and that he’s brought what it’s been waiting for.
You.
He crosses the threshold with you draped over his shoulder, your limbs limp, your cheek bouncing against the curve of his back. One clawed hand fists your nightgown; the other is splayed low on your thigh—hot, solid, and unshakable. Snow falls from his fur as he enters, scattering across the wooden floor like ash. The fire doesn’t just flicker—it roars back to life, flames curling high in the hearth like they’re trying to greet him.
Or kneel.
The door shuts behind you.
By itself.
He doesn’t speak.
He doesn’t have to.
He walks with slow, deliberate steps across the room, each one echoing with the weight of inevitability. Steam rises from his skin, and the chains slithering behind him move like serpents, hissing across the floor. The heat of the fire hits your face first—then your limbs—then something worse.
Something thick. Animal. Sweet.
A scent.
It rolls off him in waves—rich and pungent, like heatstroke and blood and sap. It clings to the roof of your mouth, curls down your throat. It tastes like sex and danger.
You’re shaking. Whimpering. Nearly insensate from cold and terror and the sick, surreal wrongness of this—all of this—and he hasn’t even really touched you.
Not yet.
Not properly.
Until now.
He drops you.
Not hard. Not like a punishment. He places you on the rug in front of the fire like you’re fragile. Like you’re something precious. Like he’s unwrapping a gift made of trembling skin and heat and fear.
You try to crawl.
You don’t make it far.
Your limbs are rubber. Frozen. You manage to twist onto your back, panting, snow melting off your skin, soaking the rug beneath you.
He crouches low.
Massive. Silent. Inhuman.
You finally see him clearly—no longer just shapes through the trees or shadows at the edge of vision. His legs bend wrong. Fur coils down his arms, dark and matted with blood and soot. His claws flex like they’re eager to be inside something. His breath steams from flared nostrils.
And his eyes—
Blood-red.
Wet and burning and fixed solely on you.
Like hunger. Like promise.
And his cock—God, his cock—hangs low and thick between his legs, heavy and veined like tree roots twisted in hunger. It glistens at the tip, precome already dripping, the flushed head swollen with arousal. It pulses, like it’s alive.
Like it’s searching for a place to bury itself.
You scramble backward, a sob ripping loose from your chest.
He catches your ankle in one fluid motion.
Drags you back to the rug like a doll.
“Shhh,” he murmurs, voice like smoke wrapped in gravel. “The snow’s done. No more running now.”
You kick. Thrash. Scream.
He presses a single finger to your lips. The claw just kisses your cheek.
“Make as much noise as you want,” he says. “No one’s out there. No one left but me.”
He lifts you again—effortless. Like you weigh nothing. Like you’re his favorite toy. He lays you flat and shreds the nightgown in one stroke, claws slicing through fabric like it offends him. It flutters to the floor in limp ribbons, baring your body to firelight and fate.
You cover yourself on instinct.
He tsks.
Catches your wrists in one massive hand and pins them above your head.
His other hand drags down your chest, your belly, lower. The warmth of his palm leaves a trail of heat behind, until it finds its destination.
Between your thighs.
You jerk.
He grins.
“Still warm,” he rumbles. “Good girl.”
His finger parts your folds.
You’re not wet. Not yet.
He doesn’t care.
He presses the blunt tip of a claw against your slit, then down—until it notches at your entrance.
And pushes in.
Just the tip. Just enough.
You gasp.
He growls.
“Tight. Fuck—tight enough to keep me locked in all winter.”
He leans down and inhales at your throat. His tongue flicks out, wet and hot, and licks a stripe up the hinge of your jaw.
“I can smell it,” he purrs. “You don’t want this—but your little cunt does. She’s softening for me. She’s begging.”
You cry out—protest, panic, heat. Your thighs twitch.
He ruts against the rug once, grinding his hips to stave something off.
“Don’t worry, little thing.” His breath is hot against your cheek. “I’ll stretch you open nice and slow. I won’t tear what’s mine.”
He releases your wrists—but you don’t move.
You can’t.
His hand slides under your ass and lifts your hips. The tip of his cock nudges your entrance, heavier than it has any right to be.
“Please,” you sob. “Don’t—please—”
He cups your cheek. Almost tender.
“Shhh.”
“You’ll take me.”
And then—
He pushes in.
The stretch is white-hot agony. Your body fights. You scream. Claw at the rug. At him.
He groans.
“That’s it. That’s the sound. That’s what I came for.”
He presses deeper. Wider.
You’re being split inch by inch. Your pussy seizes and trembles around the intrusion, instinct trying to reject him, to expel the monster forcing its way inside.
“So fucking tight—feels like your cunt’s scared of me.”
Your vision blurs.
Your belly bulges.
He sees it.
Loves it.
He presses his palm to the swell, eyes gleaming.
“Look at that.” His voice is reverent. “Can see me moving inside you. Right there—that’s where I’ll breed you. That’s where it’ll take.”
You can’t stop sobbing.
He starts to move.
Slow. Deliberate. Cruel.
He pulls out halfway, then slams back in. His hips grind in a slow, punishing circle, spreading you wider, deeper.
The pain starts to melt. Into heat. Into slick.
“You hear that?” he pants. “That wet little squelch? That’s you, sweetheart. That’s your pussy.”
You mouth no, no, no—but your body arches into his.
Slick gathers at your slit.
Your walls flutter. Grip.
He groans.
“Ohhh, she likes it. She wants to be bred. You feel that? That little flutter? That’s your greedy cunt trying to pull me deeper.”
You try to fight it.
You lose.
Your orgasm comes hard, tearing through you, high-pitched and shameful and humiliating. Your body locks, clenching tight, milking his cock.
“Fuck,” he moans. “That’s my girl. Squeeze me. Take every drop.”
But he doesn’t stop.
He fucks you through it—drags orgasm after orgasm from your trembling body with merciless thrusts. Your throat is raw from screaming. Your belly rises more with each motion. He’s not just using you—he’s filling you.
And then—
You feel it.
The knot.
It swells. Locks.
“Gonna fill you up,” he snarls, voice breaking. “Gonna knock you up so good they’ll still be leaking come from you next winter.”
You scream one last time.
He slams in deep—and stays there.
The knot locks. Twists. Pulses.
And then he comes.
Hot. Endless. Claiming.
Thick ropes of cum pour inside you. Your belly rises with it. Your thighs are slick with overflow.
He shakes. Growls. Stays braced above you, muscles trembling.
“Mine,” he grits. “Fucking mine.”
Eventually, he lowers himself.
Not to pull out. Not yet.
To stay.
To keep you warm. Full.
His claw drags through his own mess on your skin—and he licks it.
He kisses your throat.
“Told you I’d warm you up.”
The cabin hums. Fire crackles.
Outside, the snow falls.
Inside, your body aches.
And he’s not done.
The storm doesn’t end.
It never does—not really. The snow keeps falling outside the cabin in slow, reverent sheets, burying the tracks you left behind, swallowing the proof that you ever ran at all. By morning, there will be nothing but white. No path. No prints. No memory of a girl who thought she could outrun what winter was owed.
He stays.
You feel it in the way the fire never dies now, in how the cabin breathes with a low, steady warmth that wasn’t there before. In the weight of him behind you—solid, immovable—his chains finally stilled, his presence no longer circling but settled. Claimed territory doesn’t need to be patrolled.
When you dare to look at him again, his eyes are still burning—blood‑red, steady and unblinking, fixed on you with something that isn’t hunger anymore.
It’s certainty.
Outside, the bells tied to the trees begin to ring, one by one, carried on the wind like a hymn. Not a warning.
A confirmation.
The townsfolk will say the woods are quieter this year. That the storms came early. That whatever took the lost ones has been satisfied for now. They’ll cross themselves and bar their doors and thank God the debt was paid by someone else.
Pairing: Remmick x fem!reader
Rating: 18+
Summary: Remmick has been watching you for a while. And Remmick gets what Remmick wants.
Word Count: 1356
CW: dubcon, aphrodisiac spit, coercion, stalking, bondage, oral (m! receiving), belly bulge, slight monster! Remmick
A/N: Happy Birthday @spikedfearn!! Thank you so much for the discord server, because without it I never would have met some of my best friends. Thank you also to @sinfulteeth for beta-ing!
Read on AO3
He had been following you long enough to learn your schedule; Monday to Friday slogging away at your job that you seemed to hate but refused to leave. Saturday mornings you would go to the local coffee shop religiously and read your books while sipping cold coffee, regardless of the weather.
He'd even gotten close enough to know what kind of book you read. The kind you couldn't pull out on a city bus full of children and older adults, the kind that the bookstore clerks side eyed while checking you out.
The kind with morally questionable love interests who kidnapped the heroine, tied her up, and fucked her until her throat was sore from screaming and his cum leaked out of her.
Remmick thought that was especially interesting.
He didn't even have an issue getting into your apartment, on account of the dumb Welcome mat you had sitting next to the clearly fake rock that hid your house key.
All he had to do was wait.
"You just have to calm down," Remmick told you, standing in front of you. He had jumped you the second you had walked in the door. Didn't just jump you, no, he grabbed your jaw in such a way that forced your mouth open and spit right into your mouth. He immediately closed it before you could scream or attempt to spit back.
You felt disgusted, violated.
Before you could fully think, he had tied up and dropped you onto the end of the chaise in the living room.
"You jus' gotta wait, darlin'," he said in a poor attempt to calm you down. You tried to think about what he meant by "waiting", but you were having a hard time focusing. You swallowed, forcibly blinked in an attempt to push the brain fog away. Did you leave the heat on when you left this morning?
You didn't feel… right? No, that wasn't quite right, you didn't feel normal. Something felt different, but the longer you tried to pinpoint it, the farther away you got. It felt like you were trying to reach something in a dream. Were your eyes this heavy a minute ago?
Was Remmick this hot when you'd initially seen his face?
"Wha-" You tried to ask, a thin trail of drool falling from your mouth. You felt like it was harder to breathe, harder to think- maybe if you didn't have so many clothes on it wouldn't be this difficult. You tried to squirm, as if you could simply move enough to remove your pants. On a particularly big movement, the seam of your jeans caught you just right, and you stifled a gasp. When the fuck did you get so wet?
You made eye contact with Remmick and found his eyes dilated, mouth slightly open. If you had been more cognizant, you would have recognized the string of drool from his mouth matched the one from yours a moment earlier.
"What's- what's going on?" You managed to breath out, your voice hoarser than you realized. You swallowed again.
"Aw, you're gettin' there darlin', you just needed a lil' help, is all," he said, his thumb stroking your cheek. When did he get so close to you? His fingers were curled around your head and into your hair, but they felt almost… sharper than they should have. Almost like claws.
He was close enough that you could see his eyes were no longer blue but a glowing red, and his teeth were sharper than you initially remember them being.
He was definitely close enought that you could see him pressing into his trousers. This time you audibly gulped, and his eyes followed yours to where you were staring. He chuckled.
"Oh I can definitely help you with that," he said, keeping his hand on your cheek while the other undid his belt. The clicking was the only sound in the room, apart from both of your heavy breathing.
Remmick unzipped and pulled himself out. He was hard as a rock and thick, a bead of precum on the head. Your mouth watered. Before he could move any closer, you spit on him.
He froze for half a second, clearly shocked by your action. He blinked and grinned, his fangs on full display. Your heart skipped a beat and your cunt throbbed.
He moved closer to you, holding himself at the base. He stopped and stared at you purposefully. You huffed and scooched yourself closer and closer, each time the seam of your jeans rubbed your clit just right and you moaned every time it did.
You stuck out your tongue and made contact before your mouth did, tracing a line from underneath, up and around through the slit, catching precum as you went. Remmick moaned loudly. If you didn't have as much brain fog, you might have noticed his self-control slip dramatically.
You didn't waste time, putting your mouth on him as soon as you could, hollowing your cheeks and sucking. His hand flew to your hair and pulled hard, then a little more gentle when you made a noise. You bobbed your head back and forth, taking a little more of him into your mouth each pass. He was bigger than any man you'd ever had before, but you would be damned if you didn't get him all the way in.
Your nose pressed against his skin, and he smelled like sweat and blood and something dark, something that was probably uniquely him. You took a shallow breath through your nose and swallowed.
"Oh fuck," Remmick exclaimed, pulling on your hair. "Nah I'm not cumming anywhere except inside your wet cunt." You throbbed and clenched around nothing, whining.
Before you even knew what was happening, Remmick had picked you up from the chaise and laid you on the hardwood floor. He didn't even bother attempting to undo your pants, and instead slashed them with his claws. In the morning, you'd find scratches that bled on your thighs, but right now you couldn't bring yourself to care about anything other than his cock inside of you.
Contrarily, he gently peeled off your underwear, a thin string of slick sticking to them. You didn't think you'd ever been so wet in your life.
Then he was on top of you, holding himself up with one arm as he lined himself up with the other to slide home. He bent your legs and your knees pressed into your chest. It felt like it was almost hard to breathe in this angle, but you couldn't focus on anything other than how close he was to your cunt.
The tip of his dick caught in you and your breath immediately stuttered, your pussy sucking him inside. He thrust in and out slowly, the same way you had with your mouth, getting deeper and deeper each time, until finally he was completely inside of you. Even with you being as wet as you were, he was big, and it felt like he was deep inside of your chest.
"Oh look at that," he breathed, and you followed with your eyes to where he was staring. He thrust in particularly hard, and your stomach bulged with the weight of him. Your breath caught again.
"Takin' me like you were made fer me," he told you, and thrust again hard, forcing the bulge again. He pressed down with his hand this time, and it hit a spot inside of you that made you see fireworks. You threw your head back onto the hardwood, ignoring the pain that burst forward. He had barely been inside of you, hadn't touched you before that, and already it felt like you were able to cum harder than you ever felt possible.
He moved his hand from your stomach to your clit and circled once, twice, and then you came with a gasp, gushing around his dick and onto his thighs. You made a noise that was vaguely a sob, then a choked out "please don't stop".
"Oh!" Remmick chuckled and tutted, continuing to bully your cunt with his thick dick.
"We played with this idea of, is she fully seeing through her own eyes what's happening and doesn't feel in control, or if it's kind of like teleportation where every time that she pops back in, it's from the moment that she popped back in before, which is why whenever she's in the house, she comes out and she's like, 'Wait, where am I?’ So we played with both of them, and now that I've watched the film back, I think that she does both. I think that in the very beginning, whenever she doesn't understand what's going on, she's teleporting, and once she realizes what's going on, Nikki’s a fighter, and so her urge to fight the wish just gets bigger and bigger and bigger, and that’s why she has the grief at the end, because she's watched it happen. She's felt it. She has to deal with it. It wasn't her fault. Her life has completely changed. And she just lets it all go." — Inde Navarrette (x)
online communities are so strange because people slip away so easily. you can be on here for years, folding people you've never met into the fabric of your daily life, and then they disappear, leaving only ghost posts scattered across tumblr behind. or their blog stays dormant, for weeks, months, years, until you're only still following them because you remember that they love sunflowers or they were kind to you when they didn't have to be or the last thing they posted was sad and raw and you still worry about them sometimes.
and sometimes they come back when you least expect it, years later, even, and there's this sudden rush of relief like there you are, there you are, even though you barely knew each other.
there's a strange kind of love to it. i don't know you and i want to hold your hand across miles and time zones and oceans. i can still see the imprint of you in this community you left. you don't anyone will notice or care when you're gone, but we notice and we care and we wish you well.
i hope you're all okay out there. i hope the sun is shining on your face and you are breathing deeply. i miss you.
It's warm in your room. Too warm. His bare chest is sticky against your back, his breath heavy and damp where it ghosts against your neck.
You’re tangled up in him, the two of you still half-naked, sheets kicked down to your ankles. He’s curled around you like he’s afraid someone’s going to rip you out of his arms, like the last hour wasn’t proof enough that you finally let him in- for real this time.
Remmick always talks after. He needs to. Needs to fill the quiet like he’s afraid it’ll mean something’s changed if he doesn’t.
And God, he can’t shut up.
"I thought about you," He murmurs into the shell of your ear. "Like this. For too long." He’s still trying to catch his breath, but his hands are already roving again- lazy now, just skimming your waist, mapping the softness of your hips with a desperate adoration.
"Every night I’d lie there and imagine this. Not just the sex- I mean, that too, obviously." He snickers, eyes flitting between your entwined bodies.
"But shit, baby, you’re just so... perfect." He nuzzles closer, planting a kiss under your jaw, voice dipping into that velvet tone he only uses when he’s honest. "But this. You letting me stay. Letting me touch you after. Hold you."
You reach back and tangle your fingers in his hair. It’s damp with sweat. He practically purrs at the contact, pressing a kiss to your shoulder like he wants to crawl inside your skin.
"Wasn't too much, was I?” he asks, quieter now. He murmurs with something raw, almost something boyish. But you know better. The smirk in his tone when he says it- he knows. He knows you couldn't get enough.
When you shake your head, he presses another rewarding kiss to your neck, humming in pleasure.
"That's what I thought." He whispers, squeezing you close. "You gon' let me in tomorrow night too, yeah?"
"Remmick-"
"Shh." He hushes you, shaking his head in mock displeasure, a finger coming up to your lips to quiet you. "Just nod your pretty little head."
You think of what could happen- what you're doing. Letting a killer love you like this. But against your better judgement, you nod, looking into those lovestruck eyes he casts on you.
A slow grin spreads across his face. You're already underneath him when he slides back in- half hard, too sensitive, and still not done. The room smells like sex, humid and sweet, and his chest is flushed as he rolls his hips slow, lazy.
"You feel that? Nah, that’s love, darlin'. That’s me loving you so slow, so deep, so damn good no one else could ever even try." His voice is a broken overstimulated growl.
He kisses your spine once. Then again. Then again.
"This is all ours." He urges, baring his teeth, "Never gon' let anyone take it from us." He promises, almost obsessively into your shoulder, letting you feel him stretch you open.
You believe him. You feel it in every lazy, desperate thrust. In the way he wraps himself around you tighter, keeps you locked against him. You briefly realize that you're all he has.
⋆⭒˚.⋆ Thinking about Paddy Mayne with a spoiled!reader…
cw: mdni, slight cockwarming, creampie, squirting, p in v , I was horny okay? slight bratty!reader, I had @sinfulteeth read it for me and got their stamp of approval. wc-1.4k, if you see any mistakes- no you didn't :)
If you were to ask what was Paddy Mayne's favorite pastime — Besides shooting at enemy frontlines, that is— he would probably say reading a good book with a nice bottle of rum at his side…or any bottle of alcohol at his disposal.
But that would only be a half-truth.
The other truth is probably right here, tucked into a warm bed with your cunt wrapped around him.
He loved having you sit in his lap, facing towards him, so he could watch those beautiful expressions contort when he scratches that itch that’s been bugging you for so long—marvel at the way tears spill down your face when you say it’s too much.
Somehow, Paddy doesn’t think you’ve had enough.
It’s always when he gets back from being out there for too long, when he’s had enough of nothing but rough hands and harsh environments.
Here? He relishes in the soft curves of your body, the warmth that isn’t from the smoldering sun, and the delicate sounds of your voice that he’s missed dearly.
He gets so selfish when he has all of that right in front of him.
Like now, of course.
“I can’t—“ you pleaded, holding his shoulders tightly— nails digging into his skin for the fifth time tonight.
He’s been home for approximately three hours and he only wasted five minutes.
One minute for walking past the door and four minutes for getting you up the stairs and stripped naked.
“Mhmm— sure.” He responded, leaning forward to suck another bruise into your neck. Paddy wasn’t buying your cries, not when you said it before— twice — and damn near cried when he was getting ready to pull you off.
“N-No this time— I really fucking mean it.”
“Aye, I believe ya.” Paddy nodded and kissed up against your neck until it stopped just against your chin. Like a moth to a flame, you instantly tilted your head down to try and capture his lips and he pulled back at the last minute.
“Paddy—“
“Thought you said ya couldn’t handle it.” He teased.
You frowned, “I can’t— but a kiss doesn’t count.”.
“It does.”
“No, it doesn’t—Oh.“ You groaned loudly, the feeling of Paddy jutting his hips up made his cock press against that delicious ring deep inside. You forgot how deep he can get, how fucking big he was that it takes forever for your cunt to mold itself around him whenever he comes back.
Probably why he doesn’t waste time getting you back used to him, having you sit in his lap for hours at a time
“It fucking does.” He punctuates with another thrust that leaves your mouth gaping open and moans dripping past your lips. “A kiss comes with the whole package. If not, then you don’t get anything from me.”
“I’m gonna— oh shit.”
Paddy can feel that familiar tremor in your legs, the telltale signs that you're going to clench around him and soak him— again. That usually happens when you’ve been sitting on him for more than an hour, already spent and still demanding more.
You may not outright say it, but he can feel it.
“There ya go again, squeezing around me like a whore.” Paddy comments and he feels your cunt pulse. ”Yer so greedy—“ Paddy thrusts his hips up once more and you throw your head back, your chest heaving.
“Fuck— keep going and I might—“
“That’s what I’m looking for.” He interrupted.
“Please Paddy, it’s too much—“
Paddy clicks his tongue, “Don’t fucking play with me.” He sneers and your head lifts instantly, his tone terrifying and yet it arouses you just the same.
“But…But I’m so tired.” You whined, eyes glossy already.
“I didn’t know you were such a baby. Tired? I don't think you are.” Paddy looks down between your bodies pressed together, “I can see ya droolin’ on me.” He mentions, grunting when you clench around him, “Yer still tryin’ to milk me dry, dove.”
“It’s your fault— You keep moving.”
“Mouthy aren’t ya? Who said you can talk back to me?” His eyes bore into yours, his grip on your hips tightened, “Yer gonna milk me some more huh?”
That wasn’t a question, it was a statement.
Paddy wasn’t done with you, he doesn’t ever think he’ll be done with you. You fit around him so perfectly, your cunt a safe haven at this point. He takes delight in knowing that he has to reshape your inside so it’ll remember the sheer size of him, every single time.
“Move those hips, dove. Maybe then you’ll get that kiss.”
Like a spark, you do what he says. Use his shoulders as support so you can lift and come back down. You lean forward, your eyes betraying your thoughts because you keep peering at his lips desperately.
“N-Now?” You begged.
“No.”
You lift your hips faster, that white hot need building into your stomach. You can feel tears threatening to drop, so overwhelmed and fucking full.
This was the greatest torture he could give you.
Paddy was in pure bliss.
At some point he took the lead, using your body like his own personal fuck toy. Your hips lifted and dropped down onto his lap with so much force that the sounds bounced against the walls. The head of his cock kept hitting that spot again, bullying its way inside your cervix.
“Oh—mhm, N-Now?” You cried, sucking in your bottom lip.
Paddy actually glared at you, like you were annoying him. ”Not fucking yet.” He sneered, “You don’t deserve it. I gotta do all the work for ya. How fucking selfish.”
“I’m sorry— I’m sorry, I’ll be good. Promise!" You begged, giving him your best puppy dog eyes.
How cute, Paddy thought to himself.
“Then work for it,” he commanded, his voice a low growl that sent shivers down your spine.
You can never resist a command from him, he practically trained your body to the sound of his voice alone. You leaned forward instantly, your chest pressed against his— weight shifting to make it easier to lift and drop. Paddy’s hold was harsh, his nails digging into your hips, you were sure it was going to leave deep marks on your skin for days— weeks after he left for deployment again.
But you didn’t care.
That burn in your cunt was so fucking intense— too much and still not enough.
Somehow he managed to slide his hand between your bodies stuck together—skin slick with sweat. He glided it lower and lower until he found your clit and pressed his thumb down hard.
Your eyes popped open, your mouth going slack, a deep gasp escaping. “P-Paddy, Fuck Paddy—“ you shook against him, grinding down hard. “Please please please— “
“That’s it, dove. Don’t fight it— fucking soak me. Right fucking now.” He demanded. And because he trained your body so well, molded you just for him, your cunt follows his commands like a perfect little soldier. You came on him, squirting on his cock so hard that it practically sprays between your bodies pressed together.
Your so fucking wet and sticky that it didn’t matter anymore. So much shame lost and abandoned, replaced with dying devotion all for him.
Paddy finally kissed you.
His tongue deep into your mouth, eating your moans away, and still demanding more from you.
You pull back slightly to breathe him in, saliva pooling down the corner of your mouth, “Inside— please. Wanna feel you.” You panted into his mouth, pressing your lips back against his like you were dying and his mouth was the only thing keeping you alive.
What he said was true.
You are greedy for him.
Paddy decides to indulge you for once, too caught up and too focused on the feeling of you clenching around him over and over— your hips still bouncing on him. He knows what you're doing, using that perfect cunt against him by forcing him to his end but he doesn’t mind— Delights in the fact that you know how to get what you want even in this position.
Paddy wraps both of his arms around the small of your back, locking you in place. His hips meet your pace and it doesn’t take long for Paddy to join you. He came with a loud groan, stuffing his cock to the hilt, making sure every inch of you was crammed up by him.
You felt it.
His cock pulsing inside and then that delicious warmth soon after.
You broke the kiss to rest your head against his shoulder, his cock still lodged inside— still being milked by your greedy cunt.
Paddy grunts below you, his head turning so his warm breath can fan against your ear. “Tired now?”
“No.” You sighed. Voice tired and spent but that was okay. “Can we stay like this?”
Remmick's fingers traced lazy circles along your bare shoulder as you lay tangled in the sheets of the old iron bed. The room smelled of magnolia and the faint copper of shared blood. Outside, the Mississippi night hummed, but inside it was only the two of you.
"Ye know what I was before ye?" he whispered, voice rough with that familiar lilt. His cold chest pressed to your back, one arm wrapped possessively around your waist. "A ghost wearin' a man's skin. Driftin' from song to song, tryin' to remember what it felt like to belong somewhere." You turned in his arms, meeting those glowing red eyes. He smiled — small, almost boyish — and brushed a strand of hair from your face with surprising gentleness.
"Now I come back to ye every dawn." He pressed a slow kiss to your collarbone, then your throat, lingering there — right where the faint marks of last night still lived in your skin. His breath came slow and deliberate, like a man talking himself back from a ledge. "Not for the blood." A pause. "Not only for the blood." He shifted then, tucking his face against your chest, cheek resting over your heartbeat. A long, quiet exhale — the kind that had nothing to do with needing air.
"God," he murmured, voice low and drowsy with contentment. "Ye're so warm." His arms tightened around you, pulling you closer like he was afraid the heat might leave if he loosened his grip. "Every night I come back to this and I still can't believe it's mine."
A/N: I don’t know if you consider this a drabble but Ig I am so here ya go enjoy! ALSO I have so many ideas of Remmick x human guess I’m projecting myself onto this (am I not suppose too) haha but anyways he is my husband.
Being in Italy and seeing him in civies for like the first time and calling him pretty.
Completely up to u where u go with it or the dynamics!!
Imagine really calling Paddy Mayne "pretty". I'd die to have that chance because LOOK AT HOW PRETTY HE REALLY IS.
(gif by : @poetmayne)
Your café sat tucked beside a stone alleyway where soldiers, tourists, and wandering musicians often passed through without notice. The war had changed the city—everyone looked over their shoulder now—but your little shop still smelled of coffee, cinnamon, and fresh bread.
That evening, six foreign men stepped inside.
Not loud. Not drunk. Just tired.
The leader among them ducked beneath the doorway first, dark-haired and broad-shouldered in a plain wool coat that did very little to hide the strength underneath it. The others followed close behind: a lean officer-looking gentleman with sharp eyes, another with a crooked grin, one already eyeing the wine bottles behind the counter, and two more carrying themselves with the unmistakable posture of men accustomed to danger.
They wore civilian clothes. But they were soldiers all the same.
You knew it instantly.
The dark-haired man glanced around carefully before speaking. “You still serving food?”
His accent was Irish.
“Depends,” you replied, drying a glass with a cloth. “Are you trouble?”
One of the others laughed—Johnny Cooper, though you did not know his name yet.
“Oh, definitely trouble.”
The sharp-eyed one beside him sighed. “Ignore him.”
David Stirling.
You eventually learned all their names over the next hour as they occupied the corner table near the window: Paddy Mayne, David Stirling, Johny Cooper, Pat Riley, Jim Almonds, and Reg Seekings. Men traveling through quietly during a brief leave from the war.
They ate like starving wolves.
You watched them between serving customers. They moved differently from ordinary men—always aware of exits, speaking low, instinctively facing the room instead of each other. Even relaxed, they looked dangerous.
Especially Paddy.
He sat slightly apart from the others, one arm draped over the back of his chair, blue eyes following the street outside whenever the café door opened. There was a scar near his jaw you noticed when he tilted his head toward the light.
You brought over another bottle of wine.
“You’re staring,” Paddy said without looking up.
“So are you.”
That finally earned his attention.
Up close, he was unfairly handsome in a rough sort of way. Wind-burned skin, tired eyes, broad hands covered in old cuts. A man built for violence trying very hard to pretend he wasn’t.
You smiled.
“You’re very pretty, you know.”
The entire table went silent.
Then Johnny nearly choked on his drink.
Pat Riley barked out a laugh while Reg Seekings buried his face in his hands. Even David Stirling looked mildly impressed.
Paddy blinked once, genuinely caught off guard.
“I beg your pardon?”
“You heard me.”
“You call all your customers pretty?”
“Only the dangerous-looking ones.”
Jim Almonds grinned into his cup. “Oh, this is excellent.”
Paddy leaned back slowly, studying you now with open suspicion mixed with amusement.
“What makes you think I’m dangerous?”
You gestured vaguely toward him.
“The shoulders. The scars. The way you checked the windows when you walked in. Also,” you added lightly, “you keep sitting like someone’s about to shoot you.”
The men around him burst into laughter.
Even Paddy smiled then—small and crooked and unexpectedly warm.
“Careful,” he said. “You sound like you’ve met soldiers before.”
“Haven’t we all?”
That silenced the table for a moment.
Outside, distant church bells rang through the evening air.
You softened your voice. “You don’t wear civilian clothes naturally. None of you do.”
David Stirling raised his glass toward you slightly. “Observant.”
“It’s my business to notice people.”
Paddy kept looking at you in that unreadable way of his.
“And what else have you noticed?”
You pretended to think about it. “You’re the one they follow.”
The quiet that followed was answer enough. Johhny muttered, “Christ.”
Pat Riley grinned wickedly. “She’s smarter than you, Paddy.”
Paddy ignored him completely. For a long moment, neither of you looked away. Then you smiled again, gentler this time.
“You don’t have to worry,” you said softly. “Whatever war you boys came from stays outside my café.”
Something shifted in his expression at that. Relief, maybe. Or exhaustion.
He exhaled quietly through his nose before finally reaching for his drink.
“Well then,” Paddy murmured, eyes still fixed on yours, “perhaps we’ll stay awhile.”
They did stay awhile.
Long after the dinner crowd disappeared and the rain began again outside, the six men remained crowded around the corner table with empty plates, cigarette smoke curling lazily toward the ceiling beams. Your café had become warmer through the evening, filled with low laughter and the soft crackle of the stove.
You should have closed an hour ago.
Instead, you found yourself listening to Johny Cooper tell an outrageously exaggerated story involving a stolen truck, three angry officers, and a goat somewhere in North Africa.
“There was no goat,” David Stirling said dryly.
“There absolutely was.”
“There wasn’t.”
Pat Riley pointed across the table. “There was definitely a goat.”
Reg Seekings nodded solemnly. “Mean little bastard too.”
You laughed despite yourself, carrying over another tray of coffee cups.
Paddy watched you the entire time.
Not in a rude way. Just… attentively.
Like he was trying to understand something.
“You keep looking at me like you’re suspicious,” you told him as you set down his cup.
“I am suspicious.”
“Of what?”
“You.”
That made you grin. “Terrifying. A café owner with bread and coffee.”
“A café owner who reads people too easily.”
You leaned one hand against the table. “And you dislike that?”
“No,” Paddy admitted after a pause. “I think I dislike how quickly you read me.”
The others wisely pretended not to listen. You tilted your head slightly. “You’re tired.”
A faint smile touched his mouth. “Go on.”
“You act calm because the others expect it.” You glanced toward the men around him. “You’re the largest one here, which means everyone assumes you’re unbreakable.”
Johnny coughed loudly into his drink.
You ignored him.
“But,” you continued softly, “you haven’t relaxed once since walking through that door.”
Paddy’s eyes stayed on yours. The room had gone quieter now.
Even the others sensed something delicate unfolding between you.
Finally, Paddy leaned back in his chair with a low chuckle. “Christ,” he muttered. “You do notice everything.”
“It’s useful.”
“For what?”
You smiled faintly.
“Knowing when someone needs another cup of coffee.”
That finally drew a real laugh from him.
Deep. Warm. Tired.
It transformed his whole face.
And unfortunately for you, it made him even prettier.
You pointed at him immediately. “There. That.”
“What?”
“That smile. You should do that more often.”
Pat Riley slapped the table triumphantly. “Ha! I told you she fancied him.”
“Oh, she definitely fancies him,” Reg added.
Jim Almonds looked delighted by the entire situation. “Paddy’s blushing.”
“I am not,” Paddy growled.
He absolutely was.
Only slightly—but enough.
You tried not to smile too hard as you moved back behind the counter. “He’s pretty when he’s embarrassed too.”
Johny Cooper nearly fell out of his chair laughing.
David Stirling pinched the bridge of his nose. “I cannot believe this is happening to him of all people.”
Paddy shot them all a look that probably terrified enemy soldiers.
It did nothing to his friends.
“You lot done?” he muttered.
“Not remotely,” said Pat.
The storm outside worsened, rain rattling against the windows while thunder rolled somewhere over the distant hills. The streets would be flooded now; nobody would be leaving anytime soon.
You began stacking chairs onto empty tables.
“You boys have somewhere to stay tonight?”
“A hotel,” David answered.
You looked toward the storm outside.
“In this weather?”
“We’ve survived worse.”
You glanced toward Paddy. “Have you?”
His expression flickered at the question.
Not because of the words themselves—but because you sounded like you genuinely cared about the answer.
Slowly, Paddy stood from his chair and wandered toward the counter while the others resumed arguing over whose fault the nonexistent goat incident had been.
Up close, he felt even larger somehow.
You suddenly became very aware of how near he was.
“You always flirt this shamelessly with strangers?” he asked quietly.
“Only pretty Irishmen.”
“That word again.”
“You dislike it?”
His mouth twitched.
“No,” he admitted. “Just not used to hearing it.”
You studied him for a moment beneath the warm café lights.
For all his size and roughness, there was something oddly careful about Paddy Mayne. Like he was perpetually holding back parts of himself the world had taught him were too dangerous to unleash.
War did that to men.
You reached forward before thinking too hard about it and adjusted the collar of his coat slightly.
“There,” you murmured. “Now you almost look civilized.”
Paddy went completely still.
Behind him, six years of military discipline failed instantly as his friends erupted into scandalized shouting.
“OH, HE’S FINISHED—”
“Look at his face!”
“Paddy, say something!”
David Stirling looked moments away from laughing himself.
Paddy ignored every single one of them. His eyes remained fixed on yours.
Then, very carefully, he covered your hand with his.
His palm was warm and rough with old scars.
“You’re bold,” he said softly.
You smiled.
“You came into my café looking like a wounded wolf. What did you expect me to do?”
Rain hammered against the windows while the wind rattled the shutters hard enough to make the hanging lights sway gently overhead. The café had emptied entirely now, leaving only the six soldiers and the smell of coffee lingering warmly in the air.
Or rather—
Five soldiers.
Because Paddy had somehow ended up leaning against the counter beside you for nearly half an hour while the others sat watching the situation unfold like spectators at a sporting event.
“You know,” Johnny Cooper announced loudly, stretching in his chair, “some of us are exhausted.”
No response from Paddy.
Johnny exchanged a meaningful look with Pat Riley.
“Tragic,” Pat agreed. “Absolutely tragic. We may have to leave without him.”
Still nothing.
You hid your smile behind a coffee cup while Paddy calmly continued speaking to you as though his friends weren’t being insufferable on purpose.
“So you’ve owned this place long?”
“Since before the war.”
“And you stayed?”
You shrugged lightly. “Someone has to make decent coffee for wandering soldiers.”
“Hm.”
He looked around the café again, quieter this time.
There was fondness in the glance now. Familiarity. As though the place had become something restful after too many months of dust, gunfire, and uncertainty.
David Stirling finally stood, pulling on his coat.
“Well,” he said deliberately, “we should probably get some sleep before tomorrow.”
Reg Seekings immediately caught on. “Right. Sleep. Very important.”
Jim Almonds nodded gravely. “Essential, really.”
Pat Riley looked directly at Paddy. “You coming then?”
Paddy did not move.
“No.”
The table erupted.
Johnny slapped his knee victoriously. “I knew it!”
David sighed toward the ceiling like a disappointed schoolmaster. “Unbelievable.”
“You’re all acting like idiots,” Paddy muttered.
“Are we?” Reg asked innocently.
“Yes.”
Pat grinned wickedly. “Funny, because from here it looks like you’ve forgotten we exist.”
You busied yourself wiping down the counter so none of them could see your expression.
Paddy, meanwhile, looked entirely unbothered by their torment.
Which probably meant they did this to him often.
David stepped closer, lowering his voice slightly though not enough to stop you hearing.
“Paddy,” he said carefully, “we are leaving now. The hotel still exists several streets away. You do remember the hotel?”
“Yes, David.”
“And you are aware we should probably avoid being arrested in a foreign country?”
Paddy gave him a flat look. “I’m not planning to start a riot.”
“That’s reassuring considering your history.”
Johny burst into laughter again.
You glanced between them curiously. “He starts riots often?”
“Frequently,” said David.
“Allegedly,” Paddy corrected.
“Paddy,” Reg said, standing and grabbing his coat, “you realize we all know you’re not following us anytime soon, yes?”
“Goodnight, Reg.”
“That’s not a denial,” Jim Almonds pointed out.
Pat Riley leaned toward you conspiratorially. “He likes you, by the way.”
“Pat.”
“Oh, he really likes you.”
Paddy finally looked mildly murderous.
Unfortunately, this only encouraged them further.
Johny stood next, grinning broadly. “Careful, miss. He’ll pretend to be mysterious and dangerous, but deep down he’s just Irish.”
“I can hear you,” Paddy warned.
“Yes, but you’re distracted.”
David Stirling adjusted his gloves calmly. “We’ll see you in the morning, Mayne.”
“You assume I’m returning.”
The entire group froze dramatically.
Then Johny pointed at him. “Did you hear that?”
Pat clutched his chest. “He’s already planning a future.”
“Good God,” Reg muttered. “He’s gone.”
You laughed before you could stop yourself.
Paddy looked over at you immediately at the sound, and something in his expression softened again—that same quiet warmth from earlier.
For a moment, the others all noticed it too.
The teasing eased after that.
Because beneath all the jokes, these men knew each other intimately. Knew exhaustion. Knew loss. Knew how rare it was to see someone like Paddy Mayne genuinely at ease.
David was the first to notice the change fully.
His gaze flicked from Paddy to you thoughtfully before he gave a small nod.
“Well,” he said more gently, “don’t stay up all night.”
Paddy snorted. “Get out.”
One by one they headed toward the door, still muttering smug comments under their breath.
Johny paused before leaving entirely and pointed between the two of you.
“If he starts reciting poetry, run."
The door slammed shut before the argument could continue.
And suddenly—The café was quiet. Only the storm remained outside now. Paddy exhaled slowly beside the counter, rubbing a hand over his face.
“They’re never going to let this go.”
“I think it’s sweet.”
“They’re animals.”
You smiled, setting another cup of coffee in front of him.
“They seem fond of you.”
His expression turned faintly thoughtful as he looked toward the rain-streaked windows where his friends had disappeared into the night.
“Yes,” he said quietly. “Unfortunately.”
You leaned your elbows on the counter.
“And what about you?” you asked softly. “Are you fond of them too?”
Paddy looked back at you then.
There was something unguarded in his face now. Something honest.
“With men like that,” he said, voice low and rough, “you don’t survive together without it.”
For a while, neither of you spoke.
The storm softened outside into steady rain, tapping gently against the café windows while the lamps burned low and golden around the room. Paddy sat at the counter with his coffee untouched now, broad shoulders relaxed for the first time all evening.
You noticed it immediately.
The tension had finally left him.
Not entirely—perhaps men like him never fully relaxed anymore—but enough.
Enough that he no longer looked ready to fight the shadows.
“You’re staring again,” he murmured without looking up.
“You’re less frightening now.”
“That so?”
“Mhm.” You tilted your head slightly. “Now you just look tired.”
Paddy huffed a quiet laugh through his nose.
“Dangerous observation.”
“You keep saying that.”
“Because most people know better than to study strangers.”
“But you’re not really a stranger anymore, are you?”
That made him glance at you.
The warmth between you had changed gradually throughout the night into something quieter. Heavier. Not flirtation alone now, but recognition. Two people seeing each other clearly despite the masks they wore for everyone else.
Paddy’s eyes lingered on your face for a long moment.
“No,” he admitted softly. “I suppose I’m not.”
The café suddenly felt very small.
Very warm.
You became aware of every little thing—the rain, the ticking clock behind the counter, the way his coat brushed against the stool beside him.
And the way he kept looking at your mouth before catching himself.
You set down the cloth in your hands carefully.
“The storm’s not stopping anytime soon,” you said.
“So it seems.”
“You’ll be soaked before reaching the hotel.”
“I’ve survived rain before.”
“I’m sure you’ve survived worse than rain.”
His expression flickered at that.
You stepped around the counter slowly until you stood directly in front of him.
Close enough now that you could smell tobacco, wool, and the cold night air still clinging faintly to his coat.
Paddy looked up at you quietly.
You could see the exact moment he realized what you were about to ask.
“There’s a room upstairs,” you said softly.
He held your gaze.
“And?”
Your heartbeat stumbled slightly beneath the weight of those blue eyes.
“You could stay there tonight.”
Silence.
Not awkward.
Just full.
Your eyes searched his carefully then, asking the question you weren’t quite brave enough to say aloud.
Not just stay.
Stay.
With me.
Paddy understood immediately.
You knew he did because something in his expression changed all at once—his usual rough confidence disappearing beneath sudden restraint.
As though he were trying very hard to behave.
“You’re certain?” he asked quietly.
“Yes.”
“You barely know me.”
“I know enough.”
His jaw shifted slightly.
“That should concern you more than it does.”
You smiled faintly. “You haven’t frightened me once.”
“That doesn’t mean I couldn’t.”
There it was again—that carefulness. That constant awareness of his own size, strength, temper. Like he carried violence inside himself with both hands wrapped tightly around it.
But you had seen the gentleness too.
The way he listened when others spoke. The way his friends trusted him instinctively. The way he had not once touched you carelessly despite clearly wanting to.
You reached forward slowly, fingers brushing lightly against his rough knuckles where they rested on the counter.
“I think,” you said softly, “you’re much kinder than you pretend to be.”
Paddy stared at your hand for a long moment.
Then at you.
And God—
The look in his eyes nearly stole the breath from your lungs.
Not lust alone.
Something far more dangerous.
Want.
Real want.
The kind a lonely man carried quietly for too long.
“You keep saying things like that,” he murmured roughly, “and eventually I’m going to believe you.”
“Maybe I want you to.”
For a second neither of you moved.
He towered over you now, close enough that warmth radiated through the space between your bodies. One large hand settled carefully against the counter beside you—not trapping you, never forcing—just near.
Always giving you room to choose.
“You should know,” he said quietly, eyes fixed on yours, “I’m trying very hard to be respectful.”
Your pulse fluttered.
“And if I didn’t want respectful?”
That finally broke him a little.
A soft sound escaped him—half laugh, half disbelief—as he dropped his head briefly.
“Christ,” he muttered.
You smiled.
Then, very gently, Paddy lifted his hand to your face.
Rough fingertips brushed your cheek with startling tenderness, like he thought you might disappear if he touched too hard.
When he spoke again, his voice was low enough to melt straight through you.
“Lead the way then, love.”
The stairs creaked softly beneath your steps as you led him upward, fingers laced through his. Paddy followed without a word, his grip steady but unhurried. At the bedroom door he paused, letting you enter first, then closed it quietly behind him. The lamplight caught the rough lines of his face, but his eyes stayed soft.
“You’re sure?” he asked again, voice low.
You answered by stepping into him. His hands came up slowly, framing your face as he kissed you—deep, unhurried, tasting of restraint and whisky. He undressed you piece by piece, fingers working each button and clasp with care, pausing to press his mouth to every inch of newly bared skin. When your dress slipped to the floor, he knelt to help you step out of it, then rose again, letting his hands trace the curve of your waist, the swell of your breasts, thumbs brushing your nipples until they tightened under his touch.
He let you undress him in turn. When you freed him from his trousers, he was already hard, thick and hot against your palm, but he didn’t rush you. Instead he guided you to the bed, laying you down and settling between your thighs with deliberate patience. His mouth followed the path his hands had taken—kissing the hollow of your throat, the underside of your breasts, the soft skin of your stomach—until he reached the heat between your legs.
He took his time there, tongue moving in slow, thorough strokes, tasting you with quiet focus. Two fingers slid inside you, working gently, curling just enough to draw a gasp from your throat. He watched your face the whole time, reading every sound, every shift of your hips, adjusting his rhythm to what made you tremble.
When you pulled him up to you, he came willingly. He braced himself on his forearms, keeping most of his weight off you, and kissed you again as he pushed inside—slow, steady, giving you every inch with careful control. He stayed deep for a moment, forehead resting against yours, breathing through the sensation.
“Tell me if it’s too much,” he murmured.
You answered by lifting your hips, and he began to move—long, measured strokes that let you feel every part of him. His hand found yours, fingers threading together above your head. The other hand stayed at your waist, thumb stroking soothing circles even as his thrusts grew deeper, more insistent. He never lost the tenderness; even when your bodies grew slick with sweat and the room filled with the wet sound of skin meeting skin, he kept checking your face, kissing your mouth, your jaw, the corner of your eye.
When you came, clenching around him, he followed soon after with a low, broken sound against your neck, hips stuttering but never losing that careful rhythm until the last tremor passed. Afterward he stayed inside you for a while, stroking your hair, pressing soft kisses to your temple, murmuring quiet words in that soft Irish lilt until your breathing evened.
Only then did he ease out, clean you gently with a cloth from the washstand, and draw you against his chest, one arm wrapped protectively around you.
The madman they spoke of was nowhere in the room. Only Paddy remained—quiet, attentive, and achingly gentle.
summary: reader is engaged to lion, and falling for his older half-brother was never part of the plan.
pairing : au lion kaminski x reader x au paddy mayne
a/n: this is heavily inspired by scenes and characters from jungleland and sas rogue heroes. huge thanks to @cuntbitchandthebottlemen for the brain damage-inducing idea (i still like you). and writing lion getting hurt is physically painful so if i suffer, so do you. probably a 3-part series unless i spiral further. i’ll keep you all updated xx
Part One: The Brother Who Came Home
The house was crowded with people who loved Lion. Laughter spilled from every room, glasses clinked together, and somewhere in the garden a gramophone played softly beneath the warm evening air.
You stood beside Lion as guest after guest offered congratulations. His arm rested comfortably around your waist.
His fiancée.
The word still felt unreal. The word still didn’t fully settle in your mind, even after all the announcements, even after the rings had been discussed and the wedding date circled in half the guests’ mental calendars.
"You look nervous," Lion murmured against your ear.
"I'm about to marry you."
"Exactly. You should be terrified."
You laughed despite yourself. Lion grinned, pleased he'd managed to pull the sound from you.
Everyone adored him for that reason. He could brighten a room simply by walking into it. Everything turned slightly easier around him.
The front door opened, not dramatically. Not loudly. But the shift was immediate anyway.
Lion's smile faded and you followed his gaze.
A man stood in the doorway.
Taller than Lion.
Broader too.
Dark military coat draped over his shoulders, medals catching the light. His expression was unreadable, sharp features carved from stone and exhaustion.
The room seemed to shift around him. Someone whispered his name. Paddy.
Lion stared, "You actually came."
The newcomer looked equally surprised, "I had leave."
His voice was deeper than expected, rough around the edges.
The kind of voice that sounded unused to conversation and for a moment neither brother moved. Then Lion crossed the room and pulled him into a brief embrace.
It looked awkward.
Like two men who cared deeply for one another but had forgotten how to show it. When they separated, Lion laughed.
“Well,” Lion said, clapping Paddy lightly on the shoulder, “now everyone can stop asking if I made you up.”
His eyes moved across the room instead, disinterested at first—until they landed on you. And stayed.
Only for a second. Maybe less. Long enough for you to feel it anyway.
Lion’s hand returned to your waist immediately, slightly more possessive this time, though still casual on the surface.
“My fiancée,” Lion said. “Paddy, this is her.”
You offered a smile, "Nice to finally meet you."
His gaze flickered over your face.
Not even particularly warm.
Just observant.
As though he were memorizing details without meaning to, "You too."
His handshake was firm and cold from the evening air. Then he released you immediately.
No lingering touch.
No smile.
Nothing.
Yet somehow you found yourself watching him walk away.
Odd, you thought. That's Lion's brother?
They couldn't have been more different.
Lion was sunlight.
Paddy felt like a storm cloud waiting on the horizon.
People approached him constantly—curious hands reaching for stories, for medals, for war turned into entertainment. He answered just enough to be polite, then excused himself before anyone could settle in.
You noticed that pattern more than you meant to, you weren’t trying to watch him. You just kept doing it anyway.
Eventually you found yourself alone in the kitchen searching for another bottle of wine.
A voice behind you spoke, "Top shelf."
You nearly dropped the bottle you were holding. Paddy leaned against the doorway. You hadn't heard him enter.
"Sorry," he said.
"You didn't scare me."
"You jumped."
"Maybe a little."
One corner of his mouth twitched. You reached for the bottle on the top shelf.
Missed.
Paddy stepped forward and effortlessly retrieved it. The movement brought him closer than before.
You caught the faint scent of tobacco and rain, "Thanks."
He handed it over, "You're welcome."
Unlike Lion, Paddy didn't seem desperate to fill every quiet moment with conversation.
He simply stood there.
You glanced toward the garden, "Everyone seems happy you're home."
His expression shifted and said, "Home doesn't feel like home anymore." The words slipped out before he could stop them.
A shadow crossed his face.
Regret.
You suddenly realized how tired he looked.
Not physically.
Something deeper.
As if pieces of him were still somewhere far away.
"I'm sorry," you said softly.
His eyes met yours.
For the first time all evening and for a brief moment the walls around him cracked.
You saw loneliness.
The kind that settled into a person and refused to leave.
Then it vanished.
Gone so quickly you wondered if you'd imagined it.
"You should get back to your party."
Your party.
Not ours.
An odd distinction.
You smiled politely.
"Right."
Neither of you moved.
The kitchen suddenly felt too small.
Too quiet.
Too aware.
Then Lion's voice called your name from somewhere outside.
The tension shattered instantly. Paddy stepped back. You looked toward the doorway. When you turned back, he was already leaving.
"Goodnight," he said.
"Goodnight."
Much later, after most guests had gone home, you stood on the balcony overlooking the dark garden.
Lion wrapped his arms around you from behind, "Tired?"
"A little."
"You survived."
"Barely."
He laughed against your shoulder. The familiar warmth of him eased something inside you. This was your future.
Lion.
The wedding.
The life you were building together.
Everything felt exactly as it should.
Yet as your eyes wandered across the garden below, you noticed a figure standing alone beneath the trees.
Paddy.
One hand in his pocket, head tilted toward the stars, and isolated despite being surrounded by family. For reasons you couldn't explain, your chest tightened.
Just concern.
A strange awareness.
The feeling that behind his distant eyes existed a story no one had bothered to ask about.
Lion followed your gaze, "Oh." His voice softened, "Paddy always does that."
"Does what?"
"Stands by himself." A pause, "He's never really come home from the war."
The words lingered in the night air.
Below, Paddy remained motionless beneath the stars.
And without realizing it, you watched him a little longer than you should have.
The house was quiet when you woke. For a moment, you simply lay there listening to the soft sound of Lion breathing beside you.
He was sprawled across the bed, completely tangled in the blankets he'd stolen during the night. You smiled.
Your fiancé looked far less charming when he was asleep.
A pillow covered half his face and one arm hung off the mattress. His hair was a disaster. You gently brushed a strand away.
Lion made a noise of protest, "Don't leave," he mumbled.
"I'm making breakfast."
"No." His eyes remained closed.
You laughed, "I'm not abandoning you."
"You could."
"I'm literally going downstairs."
A pause.
"That's still leaving."
You rolled your eyes affectionately.
Within seconds he was asleep again.
Typical Lion.
The kitchen was filled with early morning sunlight.
You tied your hair back and started gathering ingredients.
Eggs.
Bread.
Coffee.
The simple rhythm of preparing breakfast settled your mind.
Until the back door opened. You glanced up.
And immediately forgot what you were doing.
Paddy stepped inside.
Fresh from a run.
Sweat darkened the collar of the shirt draped over one shoulder.
Meaning he wasn't actually wearing it.
Your brain took several embarrassing seconds to process that fact.
Shirtless.
Completely shirtless.
The morning light highlighted every line of muscle across his chest and shoulders.
Years of military training had clearly left their mark.
Lion had always been athletic.
But Paddy—
Paddy looked like he'd been carved out of stone and bad decisions.
A faint scar crossed one shoulder.
Another disappeared beneath his ribs.
The evidence of a life lived far harder than most people could imagine.
You stared. Unfortunately. You kept staring.
Paddy reached for a glass and turned and had caught you looking.
Your soul nearly left your body. His eyebrow lifted slightly.
Not smug.
Not amused.
Just aware.
Heat rushed into your face. You immediately focused on the eggs. The eggs were fascinating. Absolutely riveting.
"Morning," he said. His voice sounded rough from the run.
"Morning."
Excellent.
Very normal.
Not awkward at all.
The silence stretched. You could practically feel him watching you attempt to recover your dignity.
Eventually he moved toward the sink. You risked another glance.
A mistake.
A terrible mistake.
Because somehow the view was even worse from this angle.
Or better.
Which was the problem.
Lion was handsome.
Obviously.
You were engaged to him.
But Paddy was—
No.
You weren't finishing that thought.
Absolutely not.
"You look concerned."
You blinked, "What?"
Paddy was holding back what might have been amusement, "You're staring at a loaf of bread like it insulted you."
"Oh." Wonderful. Now you looked insane, "Just thinking."
"Dangerous habit."
A surprised laugh escaped you.
For the first time, Paddy smiled properly. It transformed his entire face. A glimpse of the man underneath the hardened exterior.
The smile vanished almost immediately.
Still.
You'd seen it.
And somehow that felt significant.
A few minutes later, coffee brewed between you. Paddy sat at the counter while you cooked. The arrangement felt strangely natural. Neither of you spoke much.
Yet the silence wasn't uncomfortable. It simply existed.
"You always run this early?" you finally asked.
"Usually earlier."
You glanced toward the window, "The sun's already up."
"I slept in."
You nearly dropped the spatula.
Paddy sleeping in?
The idea seemed impossible.
Apparently he noticed your expression, "What?"
"I just can't imagine it."
A hint of amusement returned, "I do sleep occasionally."
"That's reassuring." Another laugh escaped you. This time it lingered. The corners of his eyes softened. And for one brief moment, he looked younger.
Less burdened.
More like Lion.
You realized then that they shared the same eyes.
You hadn't noticed before.
Footsteps thundered down the staircase.
Lion.
Right on schedule.
Your fiancé entered the kitchen looking half-awake and entirely offended.
"You abandoned me."
"I made breakfast."
"You still abandoned me." Lion stopped abruptly. His gaze shifted between you and Paddy. Then to the coffee, "You made coffee?"
Paddy nodded, "I don't trust your cooking."
"That's hurtful."
"It's accurate."
Lion looked personally betrayed. You laughed. And to your surprise, Paddy's mouth twitched too. For a second the brothers looked almost identical.
The same expression.
The same humor.
The same stubbornness.
Lion threw an arm around your shoulders and stole a piece of toast from the plate, "You know," he said, "this is the most conversation Paddy's had with anyone all month."
Paddy sighed heavily, "I've been home less than twenty-four hours."
"Exactly." Lion grinned.
Paddy looked ready to throw him out a window. You hid your smile behind your coffee mug. But as breakfast continued and sunlight filled the room, you caught yourself glancing at Paddy once more.
Not because he was shirtless.
Well.
Not entirely because he was shirtless, but because for the first time since arriving, he looked comfortable. Relaxed and at peace.
And when he looked up unexpectedly, catching your gaze again, neither of you looked away immediately.
Only a second.
Maybe two.
Then Lion started talking again.
The moment disappeared.
Yet something lingered afterward.
Something small.
The faintest spark.
The beginning of a fire neither of you could see yet.
