sitting on clark's face while he's jerking off 18+
clark talked about it all the time. begged you to sit on his face, said that his head just between your legs wasn't enough anymore. he needed you closer.
"c'mon, baby" he whined. "it's gonna be good for both of us." his hands already tugging you closer, bringing your hips to his face. your body hovering over his face, thighs locking around his head as you slowly sink down, pressing your weight onto him. you feel his mouth attaching to your pussy immediately, his tongue pressing flat and rough against your clit.
one hand on your hip, holding you steady, the other one going to wrap around his hard, throbbing cock. he gives himself a few fast pumps, hand already covered in precum, all sticky and messy. his needy moans vibrating against your drenched folds, sending more and more pleasure to you.
you grind your hips against his face, so close to falling apart at his touch. thighs squeezing tighter against his head, when his tongue dives deeper inside you. his hips jerking slightly, fucking himself more into his hand, the coil in his belly tightening more with every second, bringing him closer to his orgasm. he doesn't need a lot of time to finish when it comes to you.
you both finish at the same time. a string of curses leaving your mouth. your pussy clenching around nothing, and clark's tongue lapping up your juices eagerly. his cock twitching, hot, thick ropes of cum covering his hand when he hits his climax with a loud moan against your clit.
@the-real-punk-rock told me about the Taylor snark Reddit, you’re not alone as tons of fans, WOC included are meeting there
i don’t use reddit.. and i don’t know how to, but its good people are actually picking up on the bad behaviour.. its very unfortunate but the last thing i would ever do is defend someone who’s obviously virtual signaling to their more red leaning fanbase… ://
ehhh guys i know im like one of the biggest swifties you know but im also a poc, more specifically a black woman and this recent album is very dog whistle like :/
on one hand i love taylor’s music and her songs and the messages behind most of them and how the lyrics speak to me. but recent antics of hers like hanging out with maga supporters, some lyrics being a bit too weird for me i may have to withdraw on a lot of support and aesthetics i have surrounded around this blog pertaining to her.
if you guys don’t agree, that’s fine you are entitled to your own opinion same as me. however i just can’t really support her like i used to anymore :(
edit: as well as this she had used ai for her promotion, i know the difference between cgi and ai as a previous art student so do not come to correct me. but that was obscene!
✦ synopsis : you help him one night, and he doesn’t forget it. the care in your tone paired with the softness of your hands entices him to return back to you.
a/n : another kinktober post ! originally titled, ‘he’s a perv’. this is very old, and i’m so glad to get it out of the pits of my google docs. i made this before i even thought of joining in on kinktober, so there’s other themes aside from the main focus.
focus for today : voyeurism/masturbation, sacred defilement
warnings (mdni 18+) : dark/obsessive themes, predatory/perverted!remmick, voyeuristic themes (watching you sleep, masturbation while you’re unaware), ribbon/makeshift cockring use, possessive & desperate behavior, no prep, rough unprotected sex (p in v), breeding kink, sacred defilement/religious undertones, marking, no aftercare
the first night, you find him on your porch—
barefoot, bloodied, and silent.
moonlight slicks his skin like sweat, turns every wound silver. his shirt is torn clean through one shoulder, the fabric clinging wet to his chest. there’s blood down his temple, thick enough to shine, pooling in the hollow beneath his jaw before slipping lower. his hands tremble where they hang between his knees, but his eyes—dark, unblinking—stay fixed on you.
he doesn’t ask for help.
you offer it anyway.
“you’re hurt,” you whisper, stepping closer, your voice catching on the hush between crickets. “i’ve got supplies. come inside.”
he flinches when you reach for him—more instinct than fear, like something wild remembering the trap. a creature starved of gentleness.
but then… he lets you.
inside, he sits stiff on the kitchen chair, back too straight, boots leaving streaks of mud on your floorboards. you fetch a basin of warm water, a pile of clean cloths, your grandmother’s old tinctures lined like little soldiers across the counter.
he watches you, shoulders tense, chest rising and falling like he’s afraid of taking up too much air.
when you press the damp cloth to his brow, his lashes flutter.
he exhales, a low, broken sound that’s almost a sigh. the heat of him seeps through the air between you, heavy and sharp, and for a moment you forget to breathe.
you murmur soft things—habit, maybe. “easy now… it’ll be alright… hold still.” the words catch in your throat when you find the gashes along his ribs, too deliberate to be an animal’s. you dab until the blood thins, until only the warmth of his skin remains under your fingers.
“this’ll sting,” you say.
he doesn’t move when it does. only a muscle in his jaw flickers, his breath cutting sharp through his nose. something in the way he endures it makes your stomach tighten—quiet, reluctant awe.
you wrap his arms, slow and careful, palms grazing the fine hairs along his forearms. his skin smells of iron and salt and something faintly sweet—like cedar smoke and sweat. you can feel the pulse beating hard beneath the surface.
when you lift the cloth to his jawline, his mouth parts just slightly. your thumb ghosts across his lip without meaning to, catching the corner where the blood’s dried dark.
you pull back fast, throat tight. “you can rest, if you need.”
he finally speaks, voice rough as gravel dragged through smoke.
“…you didn’t ask what happened.”
you look at him. “i didn’t need to.”
the air hangs thick between you, ripe with copper and something else—something you can’t name but feel down to your knees.
he holds your gaze too long. he doesn’t speak. doesn’t move.
because if he does, he’s going to touch you. he’s going to grab your hips and pull you into his lap. he’s going to fuck you on this kitchen floor.
he thinks about that for the rest of the night.
the softness of your voice. the way you smiled, even though he was soaked in blood. the little cross you wore around your neck.
he thinks about it the whole next day—palming himself hard and rough in the woods behind your house, growling into his hand like a dog. his body slowly healing. cock flushed and leaking just from the memory of your hands on his skin.
the second night he comes back, he doesn’t limp.
he isn’t bloody.
there’s nothing for you to fix.
only him, and the hunger curling under his ribs.
your door is still unlocked. the house still smells of lemon soap and lavender. he moves through it silently, his boots soft on the wood, until he reaches the crack of your bedroom door.
moonlight spills over your bed, drowning your skin in pale-blue. you’re curled on your side, one knee slightly bent, the thin cotton of your nightgown clinging to your hips and breasts. your hair is mussed over your pillow; your lips part as you breathe.
he stands there for a moment, jaw clenched, before sliding inside.
there’s an old rocking chair in the corner near your bed, the one you use when you read at night. he takes it like a throne, lowering himself slowly, elbows on his knees, eyes fixed on the small rise and fall of your chest.
the wood creaks faintly under his weight but you don’t stir. the only sound in the room is your breathing and the faint rasp of his own.
he stares at you. stares until his cock thickens against the seam of his jeans.
then, at last, he unzips.
he frees himself into his palm, flushed and heavy, already leaking from how long he’s been thinking about this. he strokes himself once, just to feel it—then stops. his other hand slips into his pocket.
when it comes out, he’s holding something small.
a strip of pale‑red fabric.
your ribbon.
the one that had been tied neatly around the handle of the basket you’d used to carry salve and bandages to him the night before. he’d pocketed it when you weren’t looking. he’d been carrying it all day like a relic.
he twines it slowly around his cock, winding it just beneath the head until it bites at the base. a makeshift cockring. a crude ring of your color, your scent.
the ribbon is still warm from his body heat, still faintly smelling of you.
his breath catches as it tightens.
he leans back in the rocking chair, eyes never leaving you.
the moonlight touches the sweat at his temple, makes his eyes shine darker.
he starts to stroke himself—slow pulls from base to tip, the ribbon tightening each time. the friction of it is sharp, almost painful. it makes his cock swell, makes his breath break open into ragged little gasps.
the chair creaks faintly as he moves. a soft back‑and‑forth, in time with his hand. his thighs tense. his fingers drag slick up and down the flushed length, thumb circling the head until it pulses in his grip.
you sigh in your sleep. your nightgown rides an inch higher over your thigh. you don’t wake.
he grits his teeth, hips lifting slightly from the seat as his hand speeds up, the ribbon biting deeper. his gaze devours you—the curve of your hip, the soft pulse at your throat, the little gold cross glinting at your collarbone.
a soft, broken sound leaves him. he keeps it low, swallowed between his teeth.
the chair creaks softly beneath him.
slow, back and forth.
wood shifting under his weight.
his grip tight. slippery. working his cock in steady strokes, the pale-red ribbon biting deeper every time his fist slides down.
his thighs are tense, shaking.
he’s leaking—dripping down over his knuckles. slick pooling in his palm. it makes everything louder. filthier. every pump of his hand glides easier than the last.
your name rolls off his tongue in a whisper. not a word—just breath. cracked and ruined.
he’s trying to be quiet.
but he’s losing.
you shift in your sleep. your body curls tighter under the blanket, and for a split second, his heart stops. his hand stills.
but then you sigh. a soft, warm sound. your lashes flutter, then go still again. your breath evens out.
you don’t wake.
he nearly whimpers.
“fuck,” he rasps, voice low and broken.
his eyes are glued to your thighs. the nightgown’s ridden high again—too high. there’s a flash of skin now, bare and smooth and maddening.
he jerks himself harder. faster.
the ribbon strains at the base of his cock, pulsing with every twitch.
the chair rocks louder.
he doesn’t stop.
his free hand drifts up beneath his shirt, dragging blunt nails down his own stomach as his hips twitch, fucking into his fist now. desperate. starved. filthy.
he wants to come all over himself. wants to spill in his hand and lick it off like a beast. but he doesn’t dare yet.
not until he’s closer.
not until he’s staring straight at the soft dip between your thighs and he can almost smell your skin, like sugar and sweat and soap and mercy.
“so fuckin’ pretty,” he mutters. “soft thing…”
he swallows hard. eyes glazed.
“gonna fill you up one day,” he breathes. “fuck you open slow ‘n wide… make it stick.”
the ribbon’s digging in, keeping him hard and swollen—painfully full.
he strokes faster.
grinding into his hand like it’s your cunt. like you’re beneath him. like you’d let him.
the chair creaks. again. again.
and still, you sleep.
he’s right at the edge. jaw tight. breath coming in ragged pulls through his teeth. the ribbon’s biting into the base of him so hard it almost hurts, a throbbing pulse under his palm.
he slows his strokes, then speeds up again. stops. squeezes himself just below the head, trying to keep it down, trying to savor it.
the chair creaks every time he rocks his hips forward.
his eyes never leave you.
you shift slightly, a sigh escaping your lips. your fingers flex once against the sheet, and he freezes, holding his breath. but you don’t wake.
he rises from the chair like a shadow. his cock still in his fist, slick and glistening in the faint moonlight, and pads closer to the bed, until his knees bump the edge of the mattress.
your scent hits him stronger now—warm skin, soap, and a faint trace of something sweet.
he braces one hand on the bedframe, the other still stroking himself. slow, desperate drags of his palm. his hips twitch forward.
“fuck…” a broken whisper, barely a sound.
he edges himself again, thumb circling the head, then squeezing the base where your ribbon is tied. his eyes flick from your face to the soft dip between your thighs beneath the blanket.
his whole body shudders.
“shit…”
a breathy moan leaves him, almost a whimper.
and then he gives up.
his hand moves faster—sloppy, wet pulls, the ribbon biting at his cock until the pressure tips him over.
he spills with a low, shaking sound.
thick, hot ropes of cum flood his palm, spilling over his knuckles, dripping between his fingers. some of it falls onto the blanket just inches from your hip, a pale smear soaking into the fabric.
he keeps stroking through it, hunching forward, teeth gritted, breath breaking.
your ribbon still wrapped tight around him, streaked now with his release.
he trembles where he stands, looking down at you, your soft breath still even, your lashes still resting against your cheeks.
his hand falls away from himself, slick and trembling.
the ribbon stays knotted at the base of him for a moment longer, pulsing, until he untwines it with a slow, shuddering drag. it’s damp now, streaked with his spend. he balls it up in his fist like a prize.
his cock twitches once more before he tucks himself back into his pants, fingers fumbling at the zipper, still shaking from the force of it. his release is still wet on his skin, smeared across his knuckles, some of it cooling on your blanket inches from your body.
he doesn’t bother to wipe it off.
he just stands there for a beat, looking at you.
your breathing steady. your mouth parted. the blanket stained just beside your hip, a pale, sticky bloom in the dark.
his jaw tightens. his eyes go darker.
he slips the ribbon back into his pocket. his boots find the floorboards again. he moves like a shadow to the door, careful not to make a sound.
the house smells like you. his fingers smell like you and him together. his pulse still hammering at his temples.
on the porch, under the cold night air, he exhales hard. his breath fogs and disappears.
he doesn’t even look back.
because the thought in his head is already louder than the crickets, louder than the creak of the steps under his boots:
next time.
he’s not just gonna touch himself over you.
he’s gonna have you.
gonna push you down and make you say his name, fill you until it sticks.
the thought makes his cock stir again even as he walks off into the dark.
the third night breaks different.
no wind. no crickets. just heat and silence, heavy as a held breath. the woods behind your house feel closer, like they’ve crept up while you were sleeping. the moon is high, silver and sharp.
remmick stands at the tree line for a long time, hands shoved deep in his coat pockets. the pale‑red ribbon is still there, dried stiff from the last time. every time he touches it, his cock swells with the memory of what he did in your room.
he’s been thinking about nothing else all day.
thinking about the smell of your skin under the blanket, the little sigh you made as you shifted in your sleep. thinking about the streak of his cum on your sheets and how you didn’t even know.
tonight, he’s done watching.
tonight, he’s going to take what he’s been imagining.
your window is cracked for air. the thin curtain lifts and falls with each slow draft. your house is dark except for the small lamp in the hallway you leave on at night.
he doesn’t bother with the porch this time.
doesn’t bother with the door.
he climbs. silent and sure, boots finding the slats, palms pressing against the siding until he’s crouched at your window. he slides it up and slips inside like he’s done it a hundred times.
you’re asleep on your back tonight. one arm above your head, the other resting low on your stomach. the nightgown has twisted higher in your sleep, bunched up at your waist. your thighs are bare, knees parted slightly, a breath spilling from your open mouth.
his cock throbs instantly.
he stands there at the edge of your bed, looking down at you. his jaw clenches, breath shallow.
his hands shake as he unbuttons his coat, then his shirt. he moves slow, deliberate, like a man performing a ritual.
he slides the ribbon from his pocket, brings it to his face, inhales it once. it still smells faintly of you. faintly of him.
he ties it back around the base of his cock, watching the flesh swell under it until it’s red and angry. his breath hitches.
he leans over you.
“sweet girl…” the words barely a whisper. “wake up for me…”
he drags his knuckles up your thigh, testing, trembling.
you stir. lashes flutter. your lips part on a small, confused sound.
he strokes himself with his other hand, bent over you now, the ribbon biting deeper, the head of him leaking against his palm.
“shh,” he murmurs, low and hot against your ear. “it’s just me…”
his fingers curl at your hip, pressing you back into the mattress.
your lashes flutter once, then again. a sound brushes against your ear—low, rough, like a prayer. heat radiates above you; there’s a weight on the edge of the bed that wasn’t there when you fell asleep.
at first you think you’re still dreaming. the smell of sweat and woodsmoke. the faint squeak of the mattress springs. the ghost of a hand on your hip.
then you blink, and it’s there.
leaving above in the dark, shirt open, his face half‑lit by the moon. one hand on your hip, the other moving slowly between his own legs. the pale‑red ribbon glints at the base of him, his palm sliding slick over the thick length of his cock.
“shh,” he breathes. his voice cracks on it. “don’t be scared.”
his thumb strokes the inside of your knee as he leans closer, forehead almost touching yours. his eyes are black, wet with want, feverish.
“been thinkin’ ‘bout you all day,” he murmurs. “couldn’t stay away.”
your stomach flips. the room feels small, hot. your pulse stumbles as you realise what you’re seeing—what he’s doing right above you, in your bed.
he keeps moving his hand, like he’s showing you. his breath brushes your mouth, smells of iron and something darker.
“you’re so fuckin’ soft,” he whispers. “don’t even know what you did to me.”
your mouth opens but nothing comes out. confusion flickers across your face; your fingers clutch at the sheet.
“wha—”
the sound breaks in your throat.
he leans in a little closer, his breath ghosting over your lips.
“shh…” the word is a rasp, low and hoarse. “don’t be scared. you remember me, don’t you?”
his thumb strokes a slow circle against the inside of your knee, voice soft, coaxing.
“you helped me,” he murmurs. “that night. on the porch.”
you blink up at him, lashes wet, still half‑caught between sleep and waking. his eyes burn into yours, searching.
“you saved me,” he says again, like a confession. “patched me up. held me like i was worth somethin’.”
his hand squeezes just above your knee, not rough yet, but firm enough to keep your leg from shifting away. the ribbon glints as his other fist moves slowly down the length of him.
“and now i can’t stop thinkin’ about it,” he breathes. “about you.”
he presses his forehead gently to yours, eyes closing for a beat.
“let me ask you somethin’, sweet girl…” his voice cracks on it, low and desperate.
his thumb drifts a little higher on your thigh.
“you wanna help me again?” he whispers. “just one more time.”
your lips part but nothing comes out at first. your heart’s hammering so hard you can hear it in your ears.
his forehead is still pressed to yours, his breath hot and ragged against your mouth, his thumb drawing little circles higher and higher on your thigh.
“remmick…” your voice is a whisper, cracked and unsure. “what are you—”
“shh,” he murmurs again. “just me. the man you fixed up. the man you saved.”
his eyes flick up to yours, feverish and shining. “you’re the only one who’s touched me like that. you don’t even know what it did to me.”
his hand slides an inch higher, but he’s still watching your face, waiting.
“let me ask you again…” his voice is a rasp now, low and desperate. “do you want to help me? just once more?”
you swallow hard. every nerve in your body is screaming to move, to run, to push him away, and yet the smell of him, the warmth of his hand, the memory of his state that night all flicker through you at once.
your fingers clutch the sheet tighter. you draw in a shaky breath.
“i…” the sound breaks. you bite your lip, trembling.
his thumb presses a little higher on your inner thigh. his forehead still against yours.
“please,” he whispers. “just say it.”
your eyes flutter shut. your pulse jumps. and finally, soft and shaky:
“yes.”
it’s barely a sound, a tiny quiver of a word. but his whole body stiffens at it, like he’s been waiting hours for that syllable. his breath leaves him in a shudder.
“good girl…” he mutters against your mouth, voice breaking on it. “good girl…”
he moves before you can count the seconds.
one hard, possessive hand tilts your hip; the other pins your wrist above your head with a strength that startles you even as it steadies everything.
his weight tents the sheets, his breath is hot and ragged in the hollow between your throat and jaw.
“keep still,” he growls, not unkind, but feral—like a promise and a warning folded into one sound.
his mouth closes over yours in a bruising kiss, teeth grazing your lower lip, tongue demanding entrance.
every sound in the room contracts to the scrape of his hand along your thigh, to the wet slap of skin when he drags his palm down and up again, testing, claiming.
he doesn’t take time for gentleness.
whatever tenderness was left from the night before is a thin film he peels away with his thumb.
his other hand slides beneath your nightgown, fingers hot and sure, mapping the soft, bare skin of your hip, wandering until they find the dampness there—your arousal caught like bait.
he smiles against your mouth, a crooked, hungry thing.
“you look so pretty like this,” he hisses, voice low enough that it buzzes against your ear. “all mine. gonna keep you all mine.”
then he’s moving, shifting his weight so the headboard knocks a little as he leverages himself up.
the ribbon at the base of his cock is taut, the knot a pale loop of your color, and when he positions himself between your thighs, you can feel every inch of him pressing at the seam of you—thick, hot, impossibly wide.
you gasp as he presses inside in one impossible, greedy pull.
it’s rough, immediate—no slow easing, only claiming.
he buries himself to the hilt, and his name tears out of you like a half-breathed prayer. the room tilts. the mattress groans.
his hands find your hips and drag, not gently, not tenderly—he anchors himself as if to fuse you together.
“say it,” he rasps, one palm braced at your throat not to harm but to tether, to make you look at him and speak his name. “say my name, so i know you know who you’re for.”
your voice is raw when it comes out. “remmick,” you choke, and the sound is both surrender and pleading.
he moves then, hips pistoning with a rhythm that’s all hard edges and animal impatience.
first deep and slow so you feel the width of him, then faster, angrier, as if each thrust is a stake, driving you both into something that feels like ruin and salvation at once.
he buries his face in the crook of your neck and huffs your scent like a benediction.
his hands are everywhere—one bracing your knee, the other roaming up your ribs to your throat and then down, nails dragging, marking you with shallow crescents that sting later as proof.
every scrape, every grab, presses you further into the bed until the ceiling splinters into stars and the only thing that exists is the pressure of him filling you, the obscene slick warmth that coats both of you.
“you like that?” he pants into your ear, voice broken on the edge of a curse. “you like bein’ taken? my soft, little saint?”
the words are sacrilege and worship tangled together, and something hot and ashamed thrills through you at the way he calls you saint—like he’s defiling something holy and calling it beautiful.
you ache, torn between resistance and the hungry, dumb need pooling low in your belly.
you try to move, to reach for him, and his grip tightens, guiding you, enforcing a rhythm that leaves no space for thought—only sensation.
he slams into you with bruising pace now, each thrust deeper than the last, pushing you into a haze of white light behind your eyes.
your breath comes in ragged staccato, your hands clawing at his shoulders, at his back, at anything to anchor you to yourself.
he snarls when you clench around him, the sound raw and delighted. “yeah?” he growls, voice rough with want. “you gonna take it? gonna take all of me?”
his palm flattens across your belly, holding you open, and he drives harder, angrier, like he’s trying to bury something inside you that won’t stay buried.
you feel it—the slick, wet press, the way he bottoms out and fills you, so full you see stars. each piston makes him bite back a sound that’s half prayer, half animal.
the room is a chorus of low moans and the slap of skin. his thighs tremble against yours; his breaths are small and quick.
there’s a maddening edge to the way he fucks you, as if the very world will slip if he stops.
“i’m gonna fill you,” he hisses, the ribbon at the base of him pulsing with each heartbeat. “gonna leave you full of me.”
you can barely answer; your voice is a raw wire. “please…” you manage, and it’s not a plea to stop.
it’s a plea to not be abandoned in the emptiness the next morning—an asking to be held even as he violates the quiet holiness of your body.
he takes it as permission, and it makes him crueler and kinder at once.
his pace becomes a fevered stampede. his hands clamp to your hips, fingers digging bruises that bloom immediately, and he drives into you with a final, punishing pull that leaves you trembling and gasping.
and then he begins to let go.
the ribbon digs, the traction makes his release a violent, hot thing.
he curses your name, like a benediction and a blasphemy—and his body shudders. thick ropes of cum spill inside you, hot and overflowing, and you feel him flood you, filling you with something that’s both possession and promise.
you cry out as he collapses forward, forehead pressed to your collarbone, one hand splayed over your heart as if to steady himself against the damage he’s done and the devotion he’s claimed.
his breath is ragged and wet against your skin; he tastes of salt and himself and you.
for a long, trembling minute you lie there with him, the world narrowed to the sound of his breathing and the heavy, obscene warmth pooled inside you.
his fingers trace idle, possessive lines along your hip, marking you again, softer now.
“mine,” he whispers into your hair, the single syllable a vow. “you’re mine.”
he slides off slowly then, the ribbon still tied at the base of him, his body sticky and trembling. he presses a bruising kiss to your mouth—hungry, urgent—and then he’s up, hauling his clothes on with hands that fumble only once before he’s gone.
as he leaves, he doesn’t look back. he doesn’t need to.
the promise is already lodged in the ache between your legs and the smear of him inside you:
next time, he’ll come with less mercy and more ownership.
so basically, i got hacked and now i can’t access my old account, which i’m so so mad about :(
this is now my new main account, so please come back n join, i’m gonna continue posting all my writings here, spread the word that i’ve changed blogs if you can and please PLEASE block my old account so no one falls for the same scam 🫶🏼🫶🏼🫶🏼
☆ 18+
𖹭 corruption kink , oral (m & f. receiving), dub con
kinktober
clark doesn't know what compelled him to open the door that rainy night. the wind rattled the shutters behind him, and the smell of wet earth seeped through the cracks in the threshold. he saw you there first— standing soaked, hair plastered to your face, mascara streaking down like a river running from your eyes.
"well now, darlin," he said, voice slow and warm, each word rolling smooth on his tongue, "what in the world brings you to my doorstep in a night like this?"
he saw the way your eyes flickered to the ground, how your hands twisted together like you were trying to gather courage from thin air. something about it made his chest tighten, and not with sympathy, exactly— more like a hunger disguised as concern.
"your car.. broke down?" he prompted, stepping aside to let you walk inside. the light from inside caught on the wet strands of your hair, and he let a soft chuckle escape. "bless your heart. don't you worry. come in, warm yourself a bit."
you barely sat down on the couch clark guided you to before a man in a starched suit appears from somewhere in the house, holding a tray with tea that smells faintly of honey and herbs. "miss," he says softly, "i brought you something warm to sip, and some clothes. clean clothes."
you blink at him before taking the cup, watching the butler disappear behind one of the doors of this huge house. clark settles into the chair facing you.
"you look like you've been carrying a whole storm in that heart of yours. tell me... what weighs so heavy?" clark asks, a soft smile plastered on his face.
you hesitated, clutching the mug, your hands shaking enough for him to be able to see them. and somehow— something about the way he said tell me made it feel safe, like confessing to him might lift a weight off your chest. and so you did. you spoke of him, the boy you had loved blindly, the one you had run away for. you spoke of the fights, the pleading with your parents, the heartbreak when he didn't feel the same. you admitted how lost you felt now, stuck in the middle of a southern town, the rain soaking your skin, nowhere to go, no one to turn to.
clark nodded slowly, and every movement of his hands, every tilt of his head, was like a sermon.
"child," he said softly, "sometimes the lord puts us in the storm so we can see just how strong we really are. but you... you don't need the storm to find yourself. you just need someone to guide you through it."
he smiled, gentle, almost holy in the lamplight. "come, rest your head a while. we’ll talk, and you'll see— even the most lost lamb can find her way home, if she lets the right hand guide her."
and as he spoke, you sipped the tea, shivering less now, lulled by the cadence of his words. and clark, watching you relax into him, let a small, satisfied smile play at his lips. your gratitude, your fragility, your need.. it was all exactly what he had been waiting for.
it's been weeks since that rainy night, but the memory of it feels like a story you weren't entirely sure was yours. clark has a way of weaving himself into your days, into your thoughts, until you barely remember how lost you were before him. he always knows the right word, the exact touch, the perfect pause that makes your chest unclench.
"darlin’," he murmurs, voice soft and thick, low like warm whiskey, "let me take it all from you."
and you lean closer without thinking, chest tight, hands trembling, because every word of his has always felt like the only truth in the world. he’s warm, commanding, and somehow tender, and when he kneels in front of you, all the "guidance" he's ever promised curls around your mind like smoke, confusing the line between help and want.
he doesn't rush. every movement is deliberate, every flick of his tongue, every press of his lips feels like a command disguised as care. you’re trembling, hands clutching his shoulders, heart hammering in your chest, because it’s not just pleasure— its him. him guiding you, teaching you, making you melt under his touch.
"look at me, darlin.." he murmurs, voice low and reverent. you do, breath shaky, because even in this, he makes you obey, makes you feel seen. his mouth slides over you, slow, worshipful, memorizing every inch like scripture. and you shiver, thighs trembling, chest rising and falling too fast, because it's so intense, so consuming.
his hands grip your hips, tilting you just right, holding you still while his mouth devours you, and the world outside his presence— the rain, the dark, the memory of your heartbreak— it all falls away. all that exists is him, warm and firm and commanding, and the way your body responds to every careful, precise movement he makes.
"that's it, baby.." he whispers, low and deep, "let me take care of you. let me guide you... fully."
and you do. every moan, every shiver, every small gasp is a word of thanks, a prayer in your mind. and he drinks it in, slow and deliberate, making sure you feel every second, every wave, every trembling surrender.
his tongue moves over you until your body goes soft, trembling against his palms, and when you break apart— panting, shaky, eyes wide— he pulls back just enough to look up at you. his hands stay on your hips, steady, guiding, like a shepherd keeping a lamb from wandering.
"see?" his voice is low, honey-thick. "that's how you let go. that's how you let someone take your pain from you."
he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, still kneeling between your thighs, and smiles. not cruel, not quite kind either— just sure. sure of what he's built in you. you know what comes next. because clark never had to say it outright, not after the first few weeks. his rules live under your skin now, as natural as breathing. you never take without giving. never receive without returning.
your breath is still uneven as you slide down to the rug in front of him, knees sinking into the soft pile. your hands reach for his belt on instinct, like a prayer you've been taught to recite. he tilts his head, watching you with a calm, subtle spreading across his face. "that's my good girl," he drawls. "that's how you show gratitude. that's how you give back."
you slide your hands over his hips, fumbling a little, heat pooling in your chest as your lips find him. you’re eager, desperate to repay him, and it shows— your tongue is messy, teeth bumping him, a small whimper escaping your throat when you gag a little. you feel yourself trembling, knees pressing into the rug, hair falling over your face, and it’s all a tangle of nerves and need.
clark doesn't flinch. he hums low, deep in his chest, the sound vibrating against you like a benediction. his hands settle on your shoulders, tilting you slightly, guiding your sloppy rhythm just enough so he’s always in control, always getting exactly what he wants.
"thats it," he murmurs, voice slow and dripping with approval. "take me all in. show me your gratitude. every bit of you belongs right here."
you moan around him, hands moving faster, lips dragging over him, tongue swirling desperately. little whines escape your throat every time you gag or slip, but it only seems to excite him more. you're hot and messy and wet with need, trembling against him, and every sloppy bob, every eager suck, every gasp, feeds him.
"good girl," he groans, deep and reverent, thumbs brushing over your cheeks, tilting your head just enough so he can watch every movement. "bein' so sweet."
and you shiver, sloppy and breathless, completely consumed by him, by the act— by the need to give back to the one who's taught you that taking means returning.
you're tongue is moving over him, sloppy, eager, desperate to give back, when you feel him stiffen in your mouth, a low grunt vibrating in his chest. his hands grip your shoulders, holding you still, and you feel the sudden surge of heat— the tight, hot pulse of him filling your mouth.
you gag lightly, muffled moans and gasps escaping as you struggle to take him all in, hands gripping his hips to steady yourself. he hums, deep and approving, like a preacher savoring his sermon.
"that's it, baby.." he murmurs, voice low and thick. "take it all.. let me see you mean it."
you swallow and work quickly, desperate, trembling against him, tasting him fully, wanting him to know you're giving back everything— your trust, your obedience, your body. when he pulls back slightly, he tilts your chin up with one finger, watching your lips.
"show me," he commands softly, a dark edge under his calm. you part your lips, trembling, letting him see that you've swallowed, that you’ve given it all back.
"good girl," he says, voice thick with satisfaction. hands slowly brushing your hair back reverently.
and you shiver against him, breathless, messy, utterly devoted, because in that moment you are his— mind, body, and will— and he's claimed every part of you with quiet, commanding reverence.
a/n : hey! i just got some clarity on what i want to do for kinktober's scandal au! which means kinktober will go on in the same order, just this one coming out early because i'm going out for a couple of days (last minute plans?) the scandal au will be out on 8th oct unless stated otherwise.
also i know that this fic is all over the place. i had a half written draft of it all the way back in the second week of september, but i abandoned it halfway through and i couldn't remember what was the plot i had in mind for this initially.
synopsis : in the sticky heat of a 1970s southern night, a silly sleepover game turns dangerously real when you summon something you shouldn’t.
warnings (mdni 18+) : dub-con/non-con elements, wet dreams, phantom/ghostly touches, supernatural sexual predation, size kink, rough unprotected sex (p in v), dark atmosphere, marking
The cicadas scream as you leave, their chorus high and unrelenting in the thick Southern night. The air is syrup-heavy, clinging to your bare arms as you walk the narrow stretch of road back home, a paper bag of sleepover things slung against your hip. Candle smoke clings to your hair, and every so often you catch the faint waxy sweetness of it when the breeze shifts.
You can still hear your friends laughing, feel the echo of it in your chest. The way they crowded in close around the coffee table, daring each other, shushing each other when the floor creaked upstairs. The paper sigils smudged under sweaty fingers, your palm marked faintly with ash where you pressed it down too hard. All of it was supposed to be a joke—some silly, wicked little game to pass the time.
But you can’t shake the silence that followed when the candle guttered. That moment where nobody laughed, nobody spoke. Just wide eyes in the dark, staring at each other until someone coughed and the spell broke.
Now, alone on the road, the memory sits heavier. The night around you feels different—charged, as if holding its breath. Every step carries the sensation that you aren’t really by yourself, that something slipped loose in that moment of silence and followed you out the door.
And under your skin, faint but undeniable, is the strangest feeling of all: the ghost of a touch. Like fingertips grazing your thigh, light and lingering, though your hands stay at your sides.
Your sandals scuff against gravel, the sound swallowed too quickly by the night. Shadows stretch long and strange across the dirt road, reaching for you like dark fingers when the moon dips behind clouds. The crickets falter once, twice, then stop altogether—so sudden it makes your chest tighten.
You glance back. Nothing moves. No one follows. Yet the hair at the nape of your neck prickles, and you swear you hear the faint drag of footsteps just behind yours, soft as breath.
A bead of sweat slides between your shoulder blades.
The air feels hotter here, heavier, though a shiver races down your spine as if the night itself has leaned too close.
And then—there it is again. The ghost of a touch. A weightless brush across your thigh, higher this time, as if testing.
You flinch and hug the bag tighter to your hip, pulse thundering in your ears. But when you glance down, there’s nothing. Only your own legs, your own steps, carrying you home.
Your porch light flickers weakly in the distance, a dull gold glow through the trees.
Relief should come with the sight of it, but instead your steps quicken, as though something unseen might catch you before you cross that threshold.
Inside, the silence feels gentler—safe. You set the bag down on the little chair by the door, toe your sandals off, and pad down the hall toward your room. The floorboards creak in places you know by heart, and you tell yourself that’s all you heard out there, too—just old wood, just tricks of the night.
Your bedroom is dim, moonlight stretching across the quilt from the open window. You close it halfway, leaving the air thick and humid but at least still.
A sigh escapes as you peel your shirt over your head, the fabric sticking a little to your skin. You toss it aside, unfasten your shorts, and push them down with a small shimmy until they puddle at your feet.
You catch sight of yourself in the mirror—a flash of bare skin in the blue-dark—and for a strange moment you hesitate, suddenly self-conscious. As if someone else might be watching. You shake it off quickly, telling yourself it’s nothing but leftover nerves from the silly game, from the long walk home.
Still, when you unclasp your bra, you do it faster than usual, slipping beneath your nightgown as if to cover yourself from eyes that aren’t there.
The sheets are cool when you slide beneath them, and you exhale hard, forcing a laugh into the stillness. Foolish. Worked yourself up over nothing.
But as you turn onto your side, pulling the covers up to your shoulder, that ghost of a touch returns. Faint as breath, sliding over your thigh. Then gone.
The sheets are cool, but your body isn’t. Heat clings to your skin, sticky with sweat even after undressing. You shift, tugging the blanket down, but the air feels no lighter.
Your thighs press together, restless, a nervous hum under your skin you can’t settle.
It starts as it did before: a whisper of touch at your leg, so faint you almost dismiss it. But then it lingers. Slides higher. A phantom hand shaping the curve of your thigh, rougher this time, like calloused skin dragging against you.
Your breath hitches. You squeeze your eyes shut, mumbling into the pillow, It’s nothing, you’re imagining it.
Except the touch doesn’t fade. It spreads—another press at your hip, a weight at your side as though the mattress dips, though nothing’s there when you crack your eyes open.
The shadows don’t move.
And yet your body responds like they do. Heat sparks low in your belly. Your nipples harden beneath the thin fabric of your nightgown. The phantom fingers tease the hem, trace it up, and you feel air cool against newly bared skin.
By the time sleep finally takes you, you’re already trembling, thighs damp with wanting.
You wake to the first slant of morning light sneaking through the blinds, and immediately every muscle protests. Your thighs ache, your lower back throbs, and your arms feel leaden from where they were pinned—or at least it feels that way in the memory of the dream. You’re sticky, damp, coated in sweat and something else, your nightgown clinging uncomfortably to your skin.
A shiver runs through you, part from the heat, part from the memory. The phantom weight of him still presses at your ribs, ghost fingers dragging over your skin.
You close your eyes, groaning softly, trying to convince yourself it was just a dream—but the ache in your hips, the heat between your legs, says otherwise.
Drained. That’s what you feel. Hollowed out and trembling, as if your body isn’t entirely yours, as if something—someone—siphoned more than just your energy.
You force yourself up, every movement slow, and dress in the plain cotton of your volunteer uniform.
The mirror greets you with disheveled hair, dark-rimmed eyes, flushed cheeks. Even your reflection seems off, like it carries traces of something lingering in the night.
The morning passes in a haze. At the church, you straighten hymnals and wipe down the pews, your hands trembling slightly, leaving faint streaks on the polished wood.
You smile at the few parishioners who pass by, but your laughter tastes hollow. Every glance, every whispered greeting reminds you of him—the phantom press of fingers over your thigh, the weight of his body pressing down in the darkness.
You kneel to sweep beneath a pew, and a shiver races up your spine. Your pulse hammers, and your stomach twists. You close your eyes for a heartbeat, imagining his fingers curling through your hair, dragging along your shoulders, teasing as if you were still beneath him.
By midday, sweat sticks your blouse to your back. You retreat to the garden to water the few stubborn plants that cling to life in the summer heat.
Each drop of water beads against your skin, and the brush of leaves against your arms makes you jump.
Your thighs ache again, and the memory of him coils tight inside you, making your knees weak.
Even as you eat your simple lunch, you can’t stop thinking of the night, your fingers tracing invisible shapes across the tablecloth, imagining him dragging his mouth along your shoulder, hips grinding into you until you’re trembling and wet.
By late afternoon, the sun is low and molten.
You sit in your room once more, stripping off your apron, pressing your face into the pillow, and let the heat curl through your body.
The phantom touches swirl again, teasing and curling through your nerves, making it impossible to rest, impossible to forget.
By evening, exhaustion has won.
You’re in bed, but you aren’t alone.
Something looms over you—broad, heavy, blocking the moonlight. You can’t make out his face, only the glint of teeth when he smiles, sharp and wrong.
His hand, though—oh, his hand is real. Rough, spreading over your stomach, sliding down until his palm cups you through the cotton of your panties.
Your hips jerk. The sound that leaves you is obscene, needy—and he chuckles low, approving.
His thumb presses, circles, drags. Every motion sends wetness seeping through, filthy, slick, soaking until you swear you’ll leave stains on the sheets.
“Look at you,” he rasps, voice a rasp of gravel, of hunger. “Little thing, already begging. I haven’t even split you open yet.”
The words coil around your spine like smoke, making your cunt clench, flutter. You want to deny it, but all that comes out is a whimper as his fingers ghost beneath the fabric, hot and thick and so much bigger than they should be.
He pushes them inside without care, stretching you until you ache, until your body grips down around him with greedy, wet pulls. His other hand pins your wrists above your head, unyielding, his weight pressing you down as if you belong underneath him.
You gasp, choke, cry out—but every sound is swallowed by his mouth at your neck, sucking hard enough to bruise. The slick slide of his fingers quickens, curling just right, dragging more filth out of you, until you’re arching against him, desperate, ruined.
And then—he replaces them. Something hotter, harder, thicker than you could ever take—splitting you open, opening you full. You cry out into the dream, half pleasure, half terror, while he sinks deeper and deeper until you can’t breathe, can’t think, only feel the stretch, the dirty drag of him splitting you apart.
“Mine,” he growls into your ear, hips snapping forward until he’s buried to the hilt. “You called me. Now you’ll take me.”
Your body trembles uncontrollably, drenched in your own sweat, and he doesn’t ease up.
Every thrust is relentless, filling you completely, stretching you until you feel impossibly full, impossibly exposed.
He drives deeper, groaning low in your ear like it’s the most natural sound in the world.
Your hands are pinned, but your body writhes against him, slick sliding against slick, your thighs trembling as his hips snap with perfect, punishing rhythm.
He leans closer, teeth grazing the shell of your ear, murmuring filthy things that make your stomach curl, your cunt flood hotter and hotter.
Every inch of him presses against you, impossibly large, impossibly hard, and your body aches to feel more—hungry, desperate, utterly ruined beneath him.
The phantom sensations from earlier are nothing compared to this. Every nerve endings scream as he drags in and out, dragging his nails across the sheets, across your own thighs, marking you with each filthy, powerful stroke.
“Look at you,” he hisses, voice a rasp of dark pleasure. “So wet, so greedy for me. You called me here, darlin’. Now feel what you begged for.”
And you do. You shiver, you shake, you cry out, gasping as the coil in your stomach tightens and snaps.
He drags you through it, cock buried, riding your body, forcing your walls to clench and flutter around him. Every movement leaves you dripping, ruined, your hips jerking, grinding into the impossible weight and size of him.
Your orgasm hits first—sharp, shattering, overwhelming. You scream into the darkness, your body clamping around him, hot, wet, and desperate.
He doesn’t slow. He just keeps driving, filling, dragging you through pleasure that leaves you whimpering and shaking, wrung dry and still burning for more.
Then his hands tighten, holding you down as his body coils, trembling, and you feel him shudder deep inside you. You feel it spilling into you, slick and hot, his claim marked inside of you.
He doesn’t leave. He hovers over you, heavy, impossibly close, fingertips dragging down your cheeks, across your breasts, leaving slick streaks on your skin.
Your breath comes in ragged gasps. You’re coated in him, ruined and trembling, and the phantom touches linger even as he fades, a ghostly weight in your sheets.
summary: more co-worker scott thots but only smut this time while i work on kinktober :P / part one -> ✿✿✿
paring: friends (-ish) with benefits!coworker!scott x fem!reader
wc: 0.6k
warnings: angry sex, oral sex (m and f!receiving) car sex, hickeys, smutty smut smut! not proofread
a/n: I NEEDDDD need need need a twister sequel and scott has to be in it or im going to rage.
SMUT UNDER THE CUT | 18+ MINORS DNI </3
co-worker!scott would take out his frustrations on you during sex all the time. and since you’re always around him you can tell when it’s coming. the more aggravated and pissed he gets, the sorer your legs are gonna be the next days. he’d barge into your hotel room—or if the place is short on room, your shared room—and grab you by the neck. his kiss would be rough and angry. ripping the clothes off your body and shove your face into the pillow. it would be wet from you open mouth, giving your best effort to keep your sounds quiet, but the brutal speed he would go at made it almost impossible. he’d be complaining and mumbling angrily. calling the root of his rage “stupid fucking idiots” who think they can “walk in and own the place.” but what he’s saying goes in one ear and out the other.
co-worker!scott wasnt the type of guy to go down on the girl, let’s be honest. but hes different with you, everything was different with you. somehow it would be brought up and much to your dismay he says “yea ive done before, i just prefer not to.” you scoff, roll your eyes and go back to whatever you were doing. but something deep inside him didn’t like the idea of you being sexually frustrated with him. so he’d texted later that night.
scott: we can do what we talked about earlier
you: you mean eating me out?
scott: yeah, that.
you: i thought you preferred not to?
scott: don’t make me change my mind.
he didn’t expect to like to so much. you hips pressed down into the cheap mattress as he ate you hungrily. eyes locked on yours, gripping your thigh hard if you tried to close your eyes. a mix of his saliva and your wetness would be dripping down from his chin. once you cum all over his mouth he has the smuggest look on his face afterwards. calling you cute and pathetic in the same sentence. but he liked this. a lot. he’s not finished. you squirm and quiver after the your 4th orgasm. you’d think he was done once he presses kisses on to your folds and nudge your puffy clit with his perfect nose. and then he’d start lapping at you again.
co-worker!scott loves to leave hickeys all over you thighs and your legs and you’d be pissed off. for about a week. you, personally feel like it’s an assholes thing he does to make your angry on purpose. and to an extent it definitely is, he loves it when your mad but feeling your soft skin in his mouth, sucking dark purple mark all over your legs as he fucked you. leg pressing against his chest and leaning down to suck the flesh on your calves. you’d try to protest but your mind would be too dizzy to communicate at illegible words.
co-worker!scott parking his company car into a random parking lot after you guys return back from your destination, only you guys in the vehicle. you’d lie to rest of the group and say you asked scott to pull over so you could buy something but you mouth would be stuffed with his fat cock. lips pink and glossy as you bob your head, gripping on to part that wasn’t in you mouth. he’d gasp, moan, whimpering. lips swollen as his teeth tugged on the bottom one, thick fingers moving your soft hair out of your face. “f-fuck…you look so pretty with my cock shoved down your throat—“
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feeling to change my theme up now that winter/fall is coming!! where i lived in washington summer always looked like spring hence the evermore theme but now that it’s getting colder we need a change!!
synopsis: it begins simple enough—just a drink at the bar, the air thick with smoke and low music. one drink becomes a touch, a hand leading you away. by the time you’re pressed between them, their hunger is laid bare. you learn what it means to be claimed twice over.
a/n : never written a threesome before... why is it so hard to write mutiple people ??? 😭 i put this off for sooo long because i kinda wasn’t liking it but, alas, it is here
warnings (mdni 18+) : threesome (m/m/f), hive-mind shenanigans, oral sex (receiving & giving), face riding, throatfucking, overstimulation, unprotected sex (p in v), creampie, multiple orgasms, messy sex, crying during sex, hair pulling, fingering, handjob, praise kink, voyeuristic themes, dubious consent themes (engaging in intense acts while physically exhausted or overwhelmed), vampiric feeding, nipple sucking/stimulation, possessive language, body worship, minor breeding kink, soft/dom contrast, light aftercare
“Come on, baby,” he murmurs, voice a slow, honeyed drawl that drips against the shell of your ear. Every syllable seems to cling to your skin, thick and warm, sliding over you like molasses poured straight from the jar.
His breath is heat and whiskey, sinking into the fine hairs at your nape until your stomach twists and your thighs press together beneath the table.
You can’t help the laugh that slips out—soft, nervous, but real. Rolling your eyes, you set your palm against his chest to temper the closeness.
The cotton of his shirt is warm from his body, stretched tight across muscle, the faint thump of his heartbeat rising up beneath your fingertips. You don’t push him away, not really. Just enough to keep it playful, enough to let him think you’re still in control.
“You gonna make me walk home all by myself?” he asks, tilting his head in mock injury, lips curling like he’s pouting for you. The light hits the edges of his grillz when he smiles, a flash of sharp gold against the dim glow, and for a beat you swear you can feel that smile tugging at a deeper place inside you.
His eyes hold yours too long, not just amused but weighed down with something slower, something thick. Watching. Measuring.
You nod toward the table across the room, chin tilting as you breathe, “You got your friend over there…”
The words die on your tongue when your gaze lingers.
That man.
He hasn’t touched his drink. The glass sweats untouched at his elbow, the amber inside catching what little light there is, but he doesn’t move. He’s draped in a long coat that looks wrong for this heat, heavy and dark, shoulders drawn high like it belongs to another season. The pale blue shirt beneath is buttoned up neat, sleeves fixed stiff at the elbows, suspenders carved in clean lines over charcoal slacks. He looks like he shouldn’t be here, like he had meant to leave as soon as he arrived—and yet he hasn’t left. He just sits.
Every now and then, his hand rises, thumb dragging slow beneath his brow, like a man easing some quiet ache. His eyes find you sometimes—never long enough to be impolite, never long enough to hold claim. Just enough to make your breath falter, to make your back straighten like you’re on display, to make a flutter stir low in your belly where the heat has already been building.
When you turn back, the man at your side is already grinning. His mouth is crooked now, sly and lazy, teeth flashing in a way that makes you think of promises he’ll never keep. His eyes have gone heavy, lidded, dark at the edges with something that throbs like a pulse.
A laugh slides out of him, deep and low, private in a way that feels indecent, like he’s laughing at the thought of what he’ll do to you when no one is watching. It vibrates against your palm, still resting against his chest, the sound trembling through your arm and catching in your own ribcage.
“Oh, come on now,” he says, tongue sweeping over his bottom lip before his gaze drops squarely to your mouth. His look lingers there, hungry, as if he could pull the taste of you out just by staring. “He ain’t been with no woman like you before. Wouldn’t know what to do with you.”
The boldness of it coils through you like fire catching kindling. Your brow lifts, but the tease has already wrapped around your spine—warm, sharp, and shamelessly hot.
“Is that so?” you hum, voice pitched lighter, though your pulse gives you away. You lift your glass, steady fingers curling around the rim. The lip of it catches the light, drawing his eyes like bait, and you take a slow sip just to feel him watch.
The liquor burns down your throat, pooling heat in your stomach, spreading it low where your thighs press tight.
And then you let your gaze drift.
Back across the room.
That’s when the stranger looks up—slow, deliberate, as though your attention tugged at something invisible in him. His eyes catch yours and hold. Not bold. Not long. Just steady, quiet, enough to make the air thin in your chest and your stomach twist with that strange, fluttering ache.
But before you can name it—
“What ‘bout you?” you ask, voice like sugar melting on your tongue, light but edged with glass.
The man beside you leans in closer, pulled forward like your words have hooked him by the mouth. His grin spreads wide across his face, too many teeth, too much promise, the smell of heat and sweat and smoke rolling off his body as his shoulder brushes yours.
“Ain’t never met a woman who could handle me,” he says, the words low and thick, heavy with the weight of every filthy thing they imply.
The boldness of it lands sharp, sparking hotter than the liquor in your veins.
Your face heats, the flush rising quick and traitorous, and your thighs press tight beneath the table before you’ve even realized it.
The pressure is instinct, your body answering in ways your mouth doesn’t admit. A small laugh slips out, breathy and almost coy, as you lean back in your chair. The glass in your hand tips lightly before you set it down, careful not to spill.
The click of it on the wood is soft but final, the kind of sound that draws a line even when you’re not sure where you want it drawn.
“You’re funny,” you murmur, letting your eyes skim past him like he isn’t worth the weight of a full glance. Your lips curl just enough, sweet but sharp. “Not funny enough to get in my pants, though.”
His laughter comes loose and low, rolling out of him unbothered, like your little dagger hadn’t cut at all. He leans back in his chair, stretching himself out slow, the movement casual but deliberate, the kind that lets you take in the breadth of him.
The amber glow from the overhead light slips down the slope of his cheekbones, gilding the cut of his jaw, catching on the line of sweat at his temple. It slides lower, down his throat, a golden sheen marking the curve there.
His skin gleams in it—rich, warm, smooth—and for longer than you should, you find yourself staring. Watching the pulse at his neck, steady and slow, beating just beneath the surface like it’s something rehearsed, like even his blood knows how to perform.
The hush of music and low laughter folds around the both of you, a blanket too thin to comfort, too heavy to ignore. The bar breathes with dim light and shadows, voices humming like bees in the distance, the scent of bourbon and tobacco threading through the air until it clings to your skin.
It feels safe the way a storm cloud feels safe before it splits open—calm only because it hasn’t decided to break yet.
You don’t drink again. Not after those first few sips. The hum in your head had risen fast, too fast, warning you not to chase it deeper. Not here. Not with him. So your body stays close, your smile easy, but your clarity—your edge—stays sharper.
Stack—that’s what he told you to call him—has crept closer as the night stretched on. He talks like a man testing fences: smooth here, stumbling there, seeing how far charm carries him before truth has to step in. His stories twist between funny and strange, and you laugh at the right moments, even when they don’t land.
Sometimes, without meaning to, your fingers brush against his forearm when you lean in, when your laughter tips you forward, when your body betrays the careful space you meant to keep. The muscle beneath is warm, alive, thrumming faintly. He doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t move. He just lets you touch.
But your eyes—your eyes keep wandering.
Back across the room.
The man hasn’t shifted. He sits as if carved into the chair itself, drink untouched though his fingers cradle it like a prop. Not sipping. Not savoring. Just holding. Just watching.
Not the way other men do. Not obvious, not indulgent. His gaze never lingers long enough to mark him. He doesn’t trail you with hunger. It’s colder than that. Sharper. Precise.
Every time you laugh too loudly, every time your body tips toward Stack a little too far, something in you strains toward that still figure. Like you can feel him across the distance. And when you give in, letting your gaze slip, it’s never an accident—even if you pretend it is.
Sometimes there’s a twitch in his jaw, small and hard. Other times, nothing at all. Just that eerie calm, like the quiet surface of water you know is deeper than it looks.
Once, his eyes catch yours.
Only for a second.
No blink. No smile. No polite retreat. Just held you in place, steady, until the moment snapped.
You were the one who turned back, your throat tight, the taste of dryness spreading over your tongue.
Stack is still speaking, though his words have gone hazier, slower, thickening with each sentence as though some of him is drifting elsewhere.
You notice it—the way his voice falters, the way his eyes flick just once toward the corner where the other man sits.
A glance. Quick. Barely there.
You could’ve written it off. The time, the shadows, nothing. But then he does it again. And again. Subtle, careful, but enough to make the air bend around you.
Like he’s waiting.
For something.
For someone.
You tilt your head, studying him through the haze of smoke and light. His face is a mask of ease, that same half-smile stretched wide, painted on like it’s all he’s ever worn. He doesn’t explain. He doesn’t offer.
And you don’t ask.
“Let’s get outta here, yeah?”
The words uncoil from his mouth like smoke—soft, a little breathless, like they’ve been waiting all night at the back of his tongue for you to give him a reason. They curl between you and linger, thickening the air the way smoke does when it refuses to rise.
You glance up, meeting his eyes. You don’t answer right away. Instead, you let the silence stretch, let it grow heavy and slow until it presses into both of you. You tip your head slightly, pretending to weigh it, as if you haven’t already decided. But deep down, you know.
The corners of your mouth twitch into a smile—slow, deliberate, the kind that’s half warning and half dare. A smile that says you’ve seen this game before, maybe even played it better.
You rise, smoothing your palms down the length of your dress. The fabric clings to the heat of your thighs, sliding only with gentle resistance as if even the material doesn’t want to let you go. The motion draws his eyes; you can feel it—the way his attention drags like fingertips down the length of your body.
Your voice drops low when you speak, sweet and light, but there’s a blade hidden in the softness, the gleam of something playful and sharp.
“Bring your friend.”
You don’t blink as you say it, keeping your gaze locked on Stack, but your chin tilts the barest degree, gesturing back toward the shadowed figure still seated.
“He seems… lonely.”
The smile you give is soft enough to be mistaken for sweet, but your eyes stay cool, untouched.
Stack’s gaze holds yours for a beat too long. Something flickers there, brief and electric, before settling back into his easy grin. Then a quiet laugh rolls out of him, low and knowing, like he’s caught onto something and doesn’t mind the weight of it.
He doesn’t move yet. Just watches you. Watches the way your hips shift as you turn toward the door, each step deliberate, the sway unhurried but pronounced. You don’t wait for him. You don’t need to.
The door is ahead. The air cools as you near it, faint relief whispering against your skin.
You glance back once—just once.
And you catch the moment his tongue drags slow across his bottom lip, savoring the very idea of you, like he’s already tasting the night ahead.
Outside, the street hums with the quiet after rain. The pavement glistens in fractured pieces beneath the lamps, puddles catching slices of neon and broken moonlight. The air hangs heavy, damp with liquor and dust and summer heat—it clings to your skin like a second dress, slick and unrelenting.
You walk the center line, heels clicking against wet asphalt, steady as a metronome keeping time with your own breath. Each step deliberate. Confident. Controlled.
Stack falls into rhythm beside you, hands shoved deep in his pockets, shoulders loose, mouth curled in that lazy half-grin like he’s already inside some private daydream where you belong to him.
But it isn’t his presence that tightens your nerves.
It’s the footsteps behind you.
Measured. Certain. He doesn’t walk loud, but the weight of him presses against the air. The sound of it feels permanent, like each step is carved into the earth. Like he doesn’t believe in being forgotten.
And you feel him. Not just behind you. On you.
That gaze. It crawls steady over the nape of your neck, heat sinking into your skin like sunlight filtered through stained glass. It slides down the length of your back, lingers lower, drawn to the tilt of your hips and the curve of your thighs.
The awareness prickles, hot and deliberate, leaving your stomach tight and your chest too full.
You don’t turn right away. You let him look. Let him trace you with his eyes until the silence between the three of you feels stretched too thin, trembling at the edges with everything unspoken.
Then, finally—
“You good back there?”
Your voice cuts clean through the hush, casual on its surface, but dripping with heat beneath.
You glance over your shoulder, turning just enough to catch his eyes.
And there it is.
His gaze jerks up from the dip of your hips to your face—too fast, too sharp, the motion of a man who knows he’s been caught.
You don’t look away.
You hold him there, steady and knowing, lips curling at the edges in a quiet challenge—an invitation wrapped in defiance.
He says nothing. Doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t blink. Just dips his chin in a single nod, small and deliberate, like a mark carved into stone.
His gaze slips from you, sliding off smooth as water, drifting instead to the line of Stack’s back—as though there’s something written there in invisible ink, something only he can read. Still, he offers no words.
But the silence is loud enough to scrape against your skin.
When you face forward again, your lips are already curling—subtle, secretive, the kind of smile meant for no one but yourself. A quiet laugh escapes before you can stop it, low and knowing, tucked down into the slope of your throat as though you could hide it there.
You shake your head once, breath spilling out in a soft sigh that feels like a scold aimed at your own recklessness.
But Stack catches it.
The look he throws you lands low in your belly—hot, sudden, invasive. It spreads like fire on dry grass, sharp and fast, blooming where you hadn’t asked for it.
His gaze drags over you slow, that same lazy heat coating every inch, but now there’s something else woven in. A glint. A grin waiting behind his eyes, like he’s already read the joke you never spoke aloud, like he knows the punchline and he’s just letting you sweat before he says it.
“What’s your plan?” you ask, your voice easy, almost languid with curiosity, though the weight of it slides slick and heavy into the space between the three of you.
You take a few steps backward, turning to face them both. The streetlamp above spills its glow across your skin—golden and soft, gilding your collarbone, warming the curve of your cheek, catching fire in your eyes. You tilt your chin, lips parting around words drawn slow and sweet, stretched like silk.
“Gonna follow me home,” you muse, pausing just long enough to let the hook set, “and then what?”
The air hums, thick and charged, pulling taut between your bodies like a rope strung tight. Your tone stays soft, playful even, but the tease underneath it shivers right on the line between challenge and invitation.
You see it immediately.
The twitch in his jaw. The quiet one.
He doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. But his silence carries more weight than Stack’s laughter ever could. It thrums in the space between your ribs, a tension that feels dangerously close to touch.
“Plan to fuck me?”
The words leave you like sugar and smoke—sweet at the edges, but with enough sting to brand. They float out slow, sticky, clinging to the night.
Stack’s laugh bursts out fast, loud, barked from the chest. His grin is wide and bright, teeth flashing under the glow, like you’ve just made his evening.
But behind him, the other one’s eyes snap to yours, sharp and sudden, as if the force of your question had pulled him bodily into the moment. His mouth parts, small, almost imperceptible. Not enough to speak. Just enough to betray the slip.
Your lips curve higher. You lift a hand and tap your index finger thoughtfully at your chin, a mock-innocent gesture that only underlines the gleam in your eye.
“Though…” you hum, head tilting, finger trailing lightly against the corner of your mouth now, “how would that even work? There being two of you and all.”
The words drip slow. You look to Stack first, holding his gaze long enough for him to see the suggestion glitter in your smile. Then you let your eyes shift.
To him.
The silent one.
You catch the swallow—the way his throat works around it, slow, tight, like the thought itself is something heavy sliding down.
Stack laughs again, but it’s not the same. It’s darker now, dragged up rough from somewhere deeper.
“You got a naughty mouth, girl,” he says, his voice low, rasping, eyes crawling over you like they haven’t fed in days.
“Do I now?” Your tone stays light, cool, unbothered, but the spark in your chest belies it.
And then you turn. Letting your hips sway harder now, more deliberate, a rhythm built for being watched. Purpose written in the movement of your body. The kind of walk that dares them both to follow.
You don’t hear the footsteps. But you know they’re there, a careful pressure at the edge of the night, a step-for-step shadow that slides in time with your own.
No one speaks; the world seems to have folded itself small around this moment, swollen with expectation and want. You can feel their eyes like hands on your skin. You like the way that feels—dangerous and delicious both.
When you turn down the narrow path that cuts through the trees toward home, something shifts—subtle, like the rules you’d been bargaining with in the streetlamp’s glow have been left behind.
The trees press overhead, limbs arched like watchful arms, leaves whispering against one another in restless counsel. The birds make small, alien calls somewhere above; it’s the sound of a warning hummed through feathers, thin enough that you don’t quite understand it and too close to ignore.
Through the curving dark your house sits patient and small, porch swallowed by shadow, the windows dark as closed eyes.
It waits.
So do you.
You haven’t said much since your challenge—
“Plan to fuck me?”
—fell out like a joke. In the flush of the street it had sounded like bravado; now it tastes less like a quip and more like prophecy.
A slow heat uncoils in your chest and slides down, curling into your belly, a warm ache that gathers low between your thighs. With each step the pressure there answers you: instinctive, urgent, unthinking.
Their presence settles over you like dusk.
“Not getting scared now, are we?” Stack’s voice is a low rumble at your side, molasses-smooth and full of the certainty of men who think they already know the story’s end. His hand brushes yours—almost nothing, a pawn’s test rather than a claim—fingers grazing the back of your wrist.
Your face warms, teeth finding the inside of your lip as you look at him and smile soft, as if his touch is a thing that does not mean what it does.
“Scared of what?” you ask, playing dumb and keeping your tone light.
The smallest lie.
Because the second his eyes meet yours, your breath stumbles; the air seems to thin. He tilts his head, gaze sliding over you like smoke, and somewhere in the slide, a flash: a faint, uncanny blue in the center of his eye.
Not reflection, not the streetlamp’s pale wash. Something else entirely—old, cool, like moonlight pooled in ice.
You blink once. Twice. It’s gone. Maybe.
His arm slides around you then, slow and sure, anchoring at your waist. Fingers curl, not tight but intimate, and he draws you in until your shoulder presses into the warm bulk of his chest.
The cotton of his shirt is damp where it clings; his heartbeat is a lazy drum under your palm.
His head dips so his breath ghosts the hollow of your neck—warm and whiskey-sweet—and you feel it before you hear him speak.
“Girl,” he murmurs, voice heavy and low, vibrating along the line of your clavicle, “you playin’ a dangerous game.”
The word slides through you like silk and a blade. A shiver runs down your spine that is not fear so much as a recognition of something older and more primitive.
You look ahead: the house grows nearer, its silhouette sharpening out of the dark, porch lightless and holding its breath the way everything else seems to. The night here is taut.
You don’t hear the footsteps behind you—only feel them—the silent one moving like a shadow lengthening. He steps up, an even presence at your other side, closing the small space around you like a door eased shut.
The heat on your back could be his nearness or the ache that tightens between your legs; you can’t tell which is making your pulse stutter.
“…You’re not gonna kill me, right?” you say, trying to laugh it off—airy, a breathy chuckle threaded with something like false lightness. It lands thin. It fools no one.
You don’t meet their eyes. Don’t need to. The reply comes from your left, not Stack’s loose drawl but the other voice—the one you’ve watched like calm water all night.
Your feet stop moving, breath folding tight in your chest. Your head turns slow, as if your muscles remember before your mind does, and then you hear him speak.
“We ain’t gonna kill you.” His voice wears human but only just. It slides out of him older than the path under your feet, older than the hush that follows a prayer left unanswered.
There is no glow in his gaze like the one you thought you saw in Stack’s. instead, his eyes are steady, deep, carrying a patience that has nothing to do with this street or your small life. They hold something older, something that tastes of long nights and long hunger, and the look pins you in a way that is not cruel but absolute.
For a second the world narrows to the press of bodies, the heat of breath, the sound of fabric and the river of your own blood in your ears.
You realize, with a clarity that makes the edges of your vision sharpen, that none of this is innocent anymore. The blue flash, the silence that speaks until it’s louder than speech, the way his hand rests on you—these are not random.
They are steps in a choreography you didn’t know you’d agreed to learn.
You let out a small sound—half laugh, half surrender—and the dark man beside you doesn’t move. He simply watches you, and in his watching there is a promise: not of kindness, not of mercy, but of something old and inevitable.
The porch boards groan beneath the three of you—old wood complaining like joints, each footfall a hollow note swallowed fast by the night. The sound follows you up the walk and into the porch, then dies, leaving a kind of waiting that makes your skin prickle.
You reach the door firs. The world narrows to the brass under your fingers and the soft drag of the screen as Stack lingers behind you, that small polite distance he keeps when he thinks it decorum.
The screen protests in a tired little groan, thin as a held breath, and when you press the knob the front door swings inward on a low, reluctant sigh.
It feels less like relief than an intake of air before something somewhere exhales—an almost-warning that scrapes along your teeth.
Darkness blooms inside the house, not merely the absence of light but a thick, patient thing as if it had been folded there and waiting for you to disturb it. Moonlight threads through the parted curtains in pale, indifferent knives, drawing cool slashes across the hallway floor and catching dust in slow, suspended movement.
You step inside with the careful hush of someone who doesn’t want to wake the bones of a place. Your heels make small, tentative taps on the threshold—an animal testing ice. You glance back automatically, expecting the warmth and press of two bodies to follow, the easy closeness you’d left in the street.
There’s nothing.
Stack stands with one hand still on the screen, a half-shadow at the lip of the porch, as if politeness has turned into a rule he can’t quite name. His friend is there too, coat sleeve bunched where his hand is buried in the pocket—unmoved, eyes steady on the house.
“You guys just gonna stand there?” Your voice is smaller inside than it had been out on the street, fragile in that way a candle is fragile held to wind. You turn fully, hand pressed to the doorframe, the grain biting into your palm, and watch them both.
Stack doesn’t look at you. His gaze is fixed at the threshold itself, where porch gives way to home, like there’s a line there neither of them will cross without an invitation offered.
The other man’s eyes never shift from you. He watches with the intimacy of someone who has read a map drawn on skin. You can feel him as much as see him—the presence like another layer of clothing, close to your back, press of air and intent across the hollow of your spine and the inside of your thighs.
Then his voice comes—smooth, thick, the kind of low that hums in chests and slides across floors warmed by embers. “You gotta let us in, sweetheart.” It’s almost tender, the way it rolls out, and utterly wrong at the same time; warmth that doesn’t warm so much as seep, the kind that finds its way underneath ribs and sets up residence.
The words curl around you, and for a moment the house seems to lean in to listen.
Something in the sound makes the hairs along your arms lift. It is a command masquerading as a caress, a request that sits close to a promise. The night holds its breath with you.
You blink, trying to shake the feeling loose—a small, animal flutter at the back of your throat—but it clings.
For a breath you pretend nothing has changed. Then, maybe from instinct or something older that lives under instinct, the sound comes out of you quicker than you mean it.
“Come in.”
The moment the syllables leave you, the night answers.
The air inside the house exhales as if something has been holding its breath. The walls seem to lean a touch closer, the dark thickening until it tastes viscous at the back of your mouth. Light that was once careless becomes a blade, cutting pale ribbons across the floorboards.
Every inhale you take tastes different now—a little metallic, a little like the edge of a promise.
Stack’s grin twists, the crooked line of it suddenly too wide, and the sight of it makes your stomach drop like a coin in deep water. The thing beside him changes, too. Not in shadow or hue but in something more intimate and raw. Hunger deepens the set of his eyes. It’s not flicker or glitter but a slow, patient dark that spreads under the surface like ink into water. When they step across the threshold it’s not just feet on wood.
The air rearranges itself around them. The motion reads like a ceremony, small and binding, and you feel the shape of it settle into the house like a new piece of furniture.
“We got ourselves a dove, Remmick,” Stack hums as he follows, voice suddenly softer, almost reverent.
The name stabs at you—Remmick—something out of place. The syllables shouldn’t belong to this decade or this porch. They belong to an older map, a buried language that slides out of memory to claim whatever in you it finds.
Stack, you could explain. It fit.
But Remmick—
That didn’t belong here.
You step back, not because you’re afraid but because clarity arrives like a cold hand. “What are you?” you ask. The question is simple, but it presses.
They don’t fit, not exactly. Something about the stitching of them is off if you look too long. The bone of them is human, but the seams show a history that isn’t yours.
You watch Stack as he catches his tongue quick—a flash of motion, anxious, too eager—like a man smoothing a mark away before anyone else sees it. He wipes at his mouth as if to prove the nothing you saw was nothing at all.
“I’m Stack,” he says, easy as a sigh. “And he’s Remmick.”
You fold your arms across your chest. “Yeah…” you murmur, the single syllable doing the work of patience. Your eyes narrow. “I got that. But what are you?”
Stack stays mute.
Remmick moves.
He steps a single pace closer, no fidget, no blink, nothing about him trying to make himself smaller or more human. He is simply what he is. Up close you can see the small details: the way his pulse threads under the smooth skin at his throat, the faint line of something—not a scar so much as an old map—along his jaw.
“It doesn’t matter,” he says. The words are velvet and a blade both. His voice drops lower, as if something ancient shifts up through him to meet your ear. It reverberates in your sternum and leaves goosebumps in its wake.
“How ’bout,” he murmurs, the phrase like honey poured into hot tea, “we make you feel good…”
He leans in as he finishes; breath hot in the hollows of your ear. The promise that follows is almost physical, a suggestion that slides across your skin and makes the hairs along your arms stand to attention. “...and you do the same for us. Yeah?”
There is no coercion in it. Only the pull of inevitability and the raw clarity of his want.
Your body answers before your mind has finished tallying reasons to refuse.
The house seems to note the change, the dark settling closer like a shawl, and somewhere in the hollow of that silence you realize you have opened the door to more than guests.
His mouth parts.
No pretense.
No quick wipe, no embarrassed tuck of his jaw.
A ribbon of thick saliva beads at the corner of his lips, glinting in the dim. It trembles there a moment before he lets it fall, slow and deliberate, sliding down the angle of his chin and catching on the light like something shameful and holy all at once.
He doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t bother to hide it. The gesture is a claim—messy and intimate—and it slides straight under your skin.
Your breath stutters. Your thighs press together without thinking, an instinctive clamp that does nothing to ease the ache building low in your belly. Your pulse doesn’t just skip; it stumbles and trips, a wild, drunken rhythm that knocks against your ribs.
The danger has sharpened into a shape you can see and smell and hear. It stands in your doorway and fills the room with the slow, patient promise of teeth and hunger. And yet—your body does not pull away. It leans. It answers.
Stack moves then, the first to close the distance. He steps in with the quiet confidence of a man certain you won’t bolt. His weight is heat; his presence presses into the corners of the house like sunlight pooling.
Your heels hardly make a sound on the old boards, but his approach resonates through the air, heavy and sure.
He stops close enough that you can feel the warmth against the fabric at your chest, close enough that his breath stirs the hair at the back of your neck.
When his hand finds your waist it’s patient, possession not force—broad fingers splaying, thumbs grazing the soft line where dress meets skin. He draws you forward a fraction, not with violence but with the familiarity of someone who knows the exact place your body folds when it yields.
The gesture is worse because it is tender; it reawakens something your body confessed long ago without your permission. His nose ghosts against your cheek, breath hot and metallic with whiskey, and you feel your knees soften a degree.
“Say it,” he murmurs, lips close enough that the words vibrate along your skin. It’s not a shout. Not a demand so much as a coax, honey-thick and coaxing, a hand pressed to the small hollow of your throat until you remember how to answer.
You don’t answer because your eyes are fixed on him across the room—Remmick—who stands with one hand buried in his coat and the other hanging easy at his side.
He breathes like a clock: unhurried, regular, and wrong. His silence is taut. His watching is a blade. That mouth that had dripped a moment ago sits small and still, and the memory of it—wet and gleaming—clings like a warning. But then you look into his eyes, and there is something there that rearranges the inside of you: recognition, not need; a cool, deadly knowing that feels more intimate than desire.
You could step back. You could slam the door and bolt it and run until your legs gave out in the dark. For the slimmest of heartbeats your mouth opens to do exactly that, to spit out a refusal like a stone.
Your jaw loosens and your shoulders drop in a slow surrender, not of fear so much as of acceptance. The fight leaves your limbs like steam. Your eyes soften at the edges. You nod—once, deliberate and small—and the single movement feels like lowering a flag.
“Yes.”
The word falls from you quiet and fragile, but it lands with weight. It is a vow and a yielding, whispered over the pulse under your skin.
The decision hangs between you like heat shimmer.
Stack exhales into your ear—soft, half groan, half laugh—but there’s something like reverence threading it, like you’ve just said a prayer he’s been waiting to hear. His hand tightens at your waist, just a degree, enough to mark you without claiming you outright.
Behind him, Remmick finally moves; the sound of his footfall is nothing, but it lands like a punctuation in the air.
Stack hums low, as if your answer has been feeding him. The hand at your hip slides down, fingers pressing into the curve before looping to the small of your back.
The touch is light and certain, like a bow drawn across a violin—meant to find a note, to coax something tender and true. He applies the softest pressure and you go with it.
Each step backward feels like drawing too-deep breath, like the air itself thickens around you with every inch you give.
Your shoulder blades meet the wall and wood presses into your spine.
Stack doesn’t cage you. He melts into you—warm, solid, necessary. Muscle and heat settle against your chest, a presence you can lean into.
His other hand lifts, cradling your jaw with knuckles rough and honest. His thumb drags beneath your lower lip, slow and testing, tasting the weight of the moment.
“You’re real soft, dove,” he murmurs, molten and heavy, eyes already hooded.
You don’t answer. Your breath catches on your tongue. His lips hover first, grazing yours in a question-that’s-already-answered—light, teasing, a promise in a whisper.
When his mouth finally meets yours it is no rush, no greedy snap. It is full and claiming and patient, as though he’s taking back something small and owed to him in some private dream. His tongue finds yours and you shiver—warmth sparking down your spine like a live wire. His body presses into yours, not hard but undeniable: solid, the ache of him waiting to unfurl.
And all the while, Remmick watches.
Even with your eyes closed in the press of Stack’s kiss, you feel that gaze—sharp, constant, the kind that maps you in silence. It is a second set of hands that until now have only held an outline. They have not touched, yet they possess.
Your chest rises against Stack’s, breath hitching as his mouth trails down the hinge of your jaw to the soft hollow beneath your ear, open and wet.
The knot low in your belly winds tighter.
“Fuck,” he breathes, voice ragged. “You smell so—so sweet.” His hand slides up under the fabric, thumb brushing the curve of your breast through the dress, slow and possessive, then trailing down and up again as if savoring the map of you. When his fingers find the hem and lift, it’s a small transgression—an electric line drawn between cloth and skin.
Fingers slip beneath. Skin against skin. Your breath hiccups. His hand is warm, steady, making you tremble from within. He pulls back just enough to look at you—lips parted, jaw set, eyes heavy with need.
“You gonna let me touch you, baby?” he asks, and in the tilt of his head an apology hides for the softness of the question; in the hunger behind his words there’s a promise.
Your head tips back against the wall and your hips answer before your voice does.
You nod—barely—and that is all he needs.
His mouth crashes into yours again, hungrier now, but still tethered to that slow, patient rhythm. His hand slides your dress higher—up your thighs, over your hips. His palm spreads across your stomach, thumb teasing the soft underside of your breast, drawing another gasp from your lips.
The cool night air kisses the newly bared skin and you gasp as his palm spreads across your stomach, thumb teasing the nipple, with deliberate cruelty, rolling it between two fingers.
His other hand anchors you at the small of your back, pulling you deeper into the heat of him, securing you while he takes his time unraveling you.
You don’t look at Remmick. You cannot look away from the press of Stack, from the way his hands and mouth know how to make you forget the rest of the world.
But you feel him like gravity.
When Stack’s mouth leaves yours, when his lips drag down the curve of your throat and return to the swell of your breast, you know with a sinking clarity that nothing happens in this room without Remmick seeing every inch.
He watches the way your lips tremble, the way your back arches and your fingers splay against his shoulder. He watches how you offer and how you yield. There is no judgment in his gaze—only a long, unhurried recognition. It cuts through you, colder than Stack’s warm, urgent need.
Stack works slowly, reverently, like someone unwrapping a thing sacred and dangerous. He kisses and kneads and hums—a low sound that vibrates through his chest and into yours—while his fingers trail where they please, daring, exploring: the line of your ribs, the soft hollow above your hip, the wet press of your inner thigh. Each touch is an invitation to forget caution.
You let yourself fall into it—the sensation, the need, the tug between fear and hunger. Your hands move, clumsy and sure, finding the back of Stack’s neck, anchoring him to you. You taste him—salty and warm—and in the corner of your vision you feel Remmick lean just the slightest degree forward, as if what he sees requires a closer look.
His eyes glow with something beyond desire—something like calculation folded into longing. He who had been silent, who had let the moment spool, now carries a patience that terrifies and thrills you in equal measure. He watches as Stack teases you and claims you and begins to map the places that make you go still.
And when Stack’s mouth finds the bloom of your breast and his hand creeps lower, fingers gentle as prayer against your slick skin, you realize with a curious calm that giving isn’t the same as surrender. You are choosing this. The heat, the danger, the ache—every one of it.
Between Stack’s weight and Remmick’s gaze, you feel both held and exposed—safe in a way that scares you and seen in a way that burns. The room hums, low and close, and you surrender again, this time with eyes open.
Stack’s mouth never strays far from your skin. He trails kisses along the line of your jaw—slow, open-mouthed presses that leave a map of heat in their wake—then slides lower beneath the curve of your ear, along the soft valley of your throat until his lips find the side of your neck. There he lingers, warm and wet and dangerous, the press of him soft and claiming.
His mouth sucks at the pulse there, tongue dragging over that spot in long, wet strokes until the rhythm matches your inhale and your exhale.
You feel the flutter of your heart beneath his lips, feel him mouth over it like he’s tasting something made only for him. The sensation is obscene and holy at once.
Your breath stutters, your knees threaten to give.
One of his hands stays at your breast, fingers exploring the tender peak in lazy, methodical circles. Each small motion coaxes your chest higher into his palm; your body leans forward as if answering a language it learned long ago. A quiet moan slips out of you, muffled by the thick press of his mouth against your skin, and you do not pull away—you press back, hungry for more of the claim.
He groans then, low and animal, and his hand drifts down. The brush of knuckles over ribs is feather-light at first, but every inch he travels feels deeper, as if he’s carving a path through more than skin. When he reaches your belly he slows even further, moving with deliberate care.
His fingers pause just above the waistband of your panties. He makes small, slow circles there, feeling the heat pooled beneath cotton, reading the tremor of your muscles under his touch.
Your breath leaves you in a sharp exhale. Your hips tilt forward by reflex, searching for the friction his hand barely gives. Stack watches that movement.
He lifts his mouth from your neck—lips swollen, breath thick—and looks at you properly, as if seeing the shape of you for the first time.
“Still good, baby?” he asks, voice coarse and low.
You nod. Your fingers knot into the back of his shirt, anchor and plea both.
“Yeah,” you whisper.
His eyes soften like the night itself. “You’re warm,” he murmurs, and the tone makes your heat flare hotter. Then, with the same patient brutality he’s shown all along, his fingers dip beneath the waistband.
When his hand slides down between your thighs and parts you, a guttural sound escapes him—half moan, half prayer. His forehead drops to yours for a heartbeat, eyes fluttering closed as if memorizing the curve of your face, and then his fingers move into you with a slow care that nearly undoes you.
The first slide is careful, testing; the second finds a rhythm. He breathes, “Shit, you’re wet,” voice breaking around the edges. “You been like this the whole fuckin’ time?”
You nod again, lips trembling, thighs weak. Your hips answer him, rolling forward to meet his hand, chasing the friction you crave.
His thumb finds the soft nub tucked along your mound and begins to circle—soft, small, then more insistent—each little orbit a slow, devastating pressure that sets your skin alight. His other hand cups the back of your neck, steadying you as your body begins to fold under him, as breath and sound and need scatter into raw, delicious surrender.
You come apart under his fingers—quiet at first, then louder, a ragged unraveling that leaves you trembling in the aftermath. The world narrows to the press of his palm, the slick slide of his touch, the taste of him on your lips. Every tremor of release echoes in your bones.
And behind him—always behind him—Remmick watches. His eyes are patient and cold and everything you cannot unlearn.
Stack’s hand never leaves your breast, fingers working the tender peak in lazy, deliberate circles. You arch into him, letting the motion coax you higher, and the moan that rises is muffled by the thick press of his mouth against you.
You don’t pull away. You press back, hungry for the claim.
Then—his middle finger eases in.
You gasp, a sound that throws your hips forward. Your back arches and your fingers clench into his shirt as if you could hold him there forever.
A low, ruined sound rumbles from his chest—the kind of groan that means something in you is breaking open.
“Fuck,” he breathes, forehead to your temple. “You’re so tight.”
His movement is patient, deep, curling just so with every thrust to hook that hot, electric spot that makes your legs tremble and the room tilt around the sound of your own breath.
The cool kiss of his ring at the entrance—metal against wet skin—sends a sharp, delicious jolt through you, a contrast that stings and sings.
Your thighs shake. Your grip tightens. Breath hitches high in your chest.
“Oh—God,” you whisper, eyes fluttering closed.
He smiles against your skin, lips soft as he keeps moving. His finger curls again. His palm presses flat against your mound, spreading you open in slow, greedy circles. The slick, wet sound of him moving fills the small room, blunt and intimate.
You might have felt sheepish if he hadn’t responded with a hoarse, appreciative moan that made any shame dissolve.
Remmick is closer now.
No longer a distant shadow by the door, he’s leaned against the wall a few feet away, arms folded as if to keep from touching. He watches—head tipped, jaw working the tiniest fraction—eyes fixed on the way Stack’s hand disappears under the fabric, on the way your lips part and your back bows for more.
The look in his face is heavy, not still but humming; his fingers tap once, twice, lazy against the muscle of his arm, and he does not blink.
Stack’s tempo shifts. His finger plunges deeper, more sure, palm slick with you. The ring drags and catches on the wetness with each stroke, the sound punctuating the hush.
Your thighs tremble under him, your head knocking gently against the wall as a louder moan tears from your throat—raw, unruly, impossible to fold back in.
Remmick tilts his head, watching the way your body responds—how it betrays you and offers itself. He watches how Stack draws the music from you with nothing but a hand and his heat; he watches how your breath fragments, how your fingers claw at his shirt. He watches, and the patience in his gaze tightens.
Stack doesn’t stop. A second finger slides in—fuller, wider—the stretch flares, hot and electric, and you arch, spine curving as the burn blooms into an unbearable, delicious heat.
“Shhh,” he murmurs, and though it’s meant to soothe, the command is edged. His fingers begin to thrust harder, faster, like he can feel you tipping over the edge.
You moan—high, needful, hands scrabbling along him for purchase—fingers finding the back of his neck, the scrape of skin under shirt. “That’s it,” Stack breathes, voice thick against your cheek. “Take it. You feel so fuckin’ good around my fingers, baby.”
Sound spills from you: low gasps, small cries, the raw music of release. Your hips lift and meet him; your lashes flutter; the world narrows to the slick stroke of his hand and the weight of his mouth. Your muscles clench and spasm and then unravel; the orgasm arrives like a wave, hot and complete, riding every fiber until you tremble through and through.
You look up.
Lashes heavy, pupils blown, and there he is—still against the wall but lower now, posture lazier, hungrier. His hips push forward a fraction. His jaw clenches until the tendons stand out. His chest rises slow, controlled, like something wild is folded tight in his ribs and he’s keeping it caged.
And his mouth drips. A ribbon of saliva beads at the corner of his lips, gleaming in the dim and sliding down in a filthy, deliberate line. He lets it fall.
His hand is moving, measured and slow. Palming himself through the fabric of his trousers, long, unhurried strokes that match the cadence of your sounds. The rhythm he keeps is obscene in its patience, synced to the pitch of your moans, like he’s conducting the room with a single, steady motion.
Your breath stutters. Your hips clamp down around Stack’s fingers as if to hold the world together. Remmick’s eyes lock with yours—cold, intent—and he does not stop. Not for a second. He wants you to see him, to see everything, and the way his fingers tighten makes a small sound at the back of his throat.
Stack’s thumb presses harder, rougher now, scraping sweet, raw circles over your clit. Heat blooms; your thighs quake. He groans—deep, guttural—at the way your walls squeeze his fingers. The sound is an animal thing.
He doesn’t ease. He leans in, breath hot along the shell of your ear.
“He likes the way you sound,” he rasps, voice thick with something fierce.
You unravel. Thighs trembling, hips stuttering forward into the motion, breath ripping in short, frantic pulls.
Stack’s hand pistons, faster, harder—fingers curling, plunging, fucking you from the inside with blunt, merciless rhythm. His palm slaps flat to your mound each stroke, spreading your wetness, making a slick, obscene sound that fills the hollow house. Your nails dig into the warm meat of his shoulder; your mouth opens on a raw, involuntary cry.
“Shit, you’re close,” he breathes into your skin, teeth grazing the tender spot at your jaw. “You gonna come for me, baby?”
You can’t speak. Only nod, frantic, the motion a plea and a promise.
He holds you there—on the knife-edge—thumb driving steady, fingers pounding, until the pressure in your gut merges into one white-hot point. The coil breaks. You come with a moan that shakes your ribs, body convulsing, hips jerking into his hand as orgasm rips through you—violent, bright, endless in its waves.
You clamp down, spasming around him, and Stack moans your name into the hush, teeth scraping your skin as he keeps you suspended in the aftershock.
His fingers don’t abandon you; they slow, coaxing each tremor out.
Your legs quake. Your pulse thrums in your temples. You hang there, raw and open, while the heat drains slow from your limbs.
Remmick watches. Now he’s no longer casual. His hand moves faster, desperate, palm working the shaft beneath fabric, hips hitching with each stroke. The tight sound he makes is small and strangled at first, as if he’s surprised by his own response.
He shudders once; the whole of him tenses like a wire pulled taut. His breath stutters out, slow and then rushing, trembling at the edge. Then he draws a long, controlled inhale, chest lifting and falling.
Stack eases his grip, slow, drawing the last tremors out of himself as his fingers slide from you. He doesn’t hurry—there’s a ritual to it—then lifts those slick digits to his mouth and licks them clean. Long, deliberate strokes over each one, eyes never breaking contact with yours as if tasting you keeps him tethered.
“That’s one,” he murmurs, voice thick.
Your legs still shake. Your chest heaves, belly fluttering with aftershocks. You try to find the floor under you and the world is all heat and hush. Stack’s hands clamp to your hips again—warm, sure—and before the thought of bracing forms, he pulls you down. The motion is easy, practiced.
Your back hits the boards with a soft gasp as the air whooshes from your lungs. He doesn’t rush. He moves like a man who knows how you’ll fold.
He tugs your panties down with slow ceremony; the fabric clings and peels away from slick skin. Cool night air slaps at your bare heat and you instinctively lift your hips to meet him, breath ragged. He drops back, eyes dark with something feral and tender both, then reaches for you again.
His hands lift your thighs and brace them on either side of his head—solid, anchoring—and his breath fans hot across the inside of your thigh.
“We wanna taste you,” he says, voice wrecked with want—we.
The word quilts you in the knowing that you’re not alone in this hunger.
Then his mouth finds you.
It’s immediate, greedy, worshipful. He settles over you, jaw and tongue and mouth plunging into the slick fold of you like prayer. His tongue is hot and exact—lapping, sweeping, pressing up into the softness with a deliberate curl that hunts every sweet place. He sucks, he slurps, the sounds raw, and the vibration of his groan travels through you like a second pulse.
You claw at the floorboards, fingers clawing into wood and fabric as his tongue explores, as his lips seal and draw.
He works you slow, then building, alternating between broad, wet laps and sharp, insistent flicks at the nub that have you arching hard, hips pushing down into his face. Stack’s hands hold you steady. His grip is a promise and an anchor.
Your hips begin to rock, first on instinct, then in time with the wet, hot rhythm of his mouth.
Above the thunder of your riding breath you feel him move—Remmick.
You feel him before your eyes find him—that weight in the air, dense and close, as if the room tightened around an invisible axis. He’s there, watching: the way your back arches under Stack’s mouth, the way your thighs tremble and clamp around his head.
You can’t look. You can barely breathe. Stack eats you like he means to swallow you whole—his tongue plunging deep into your overheated cunt, greedy and sure, then retreating only to latch onto your clit.
He sucks with long, wet pulls that set your hips grinding, searching for more friction, more pressure, more of whatever he can find to hold onto. Your moans spill out, louder this time, raw and animal.
Stack groans into you, a low, filthy sound, fingers digging bruising marks into your hips as if to anchor you to him, urging you to ride his face like it’s the only thing that will keep you whole
“Fuck,” you gasp, voice cracked and thin. When his lips clamp back down over your clit you cry out—high, helpless— nd a second orgasm coils tight in your gut, fierce and imminent.
Your hips don’t stop; they roll in messy, insistent circles, your skin slick, his tongue alternating between deep thrusts and vicious, ruthless laps. Again. Again. Again. Your thighs flutter; your toes curl; the moans that tumble out of you are torn and honest, close to the edge of sobbing.
Your eyes lift, heavy-lidded and hazy, and find Remmick only a foot away. Your hand—the one balled in the fabric of your dress—lifts, trembling. It moves with its own mind, reaching forward until your palm presses hard against the bulge straining his trousers. Heat and thickness answer under the fabric and he shudders. Breath stutters and breaks in his chest, a low, guttural sound leaking free as his hips push forward into your touch like a man who aches to be held.
You rub, slow and deliberate, feeling the weight and the pulse, fingers dragging with messy, impatient urgency for want of something steadier. Your hand fumbles the zipper, teeth of metal scraping as you pull it down—clumsy, driven, raw with need. He watches you do it, his gaze fixed on your face, half-lidded and blown wide at once, memorizing each hitch in your breath.
The moment he realizes what you’re doing, his reaction is animal and immediate: a soft, deep growl that vibrates through his chest and into the floorboards.
His hands find yours—bigger, colder—and ease them gently aside.
Not to stop you. To take over.
His fingers move with practiced speed, urgent but silent, undoing the last of his trousers. Breath comes ragged now; his jaw is slack and his lips drip. A thick bead of drool escapes the corner of his mouth and lands hot and sticky on your forearm where it rests across your lap.
Then—he frees himself.
You freeze for the fraction of a second that stretches like a held note. You stare. He’s heavy in his hand: long, thick, flushed darker than the rest of him, veins standing out like taut cords. The head gleams, already wet, leaking slow and needy.
Your mouth goes dry. Your breath snags in your chest.
You drag your eyes up to meet his. He watches you—not with a cocky grin but with a flat, blazing hunger that makes your thighs clamp harder around Stack’s head even as his tongue redoubles its work below.
He strokes once—slow, deliberate—right in front of your face. The slick head twitches under his hand; his knuckles ghost your chin in a feather-light scrape that makes your lips part on instinct.
Below you, Stack moans into your cunt, the sounds raw and eager, as if watching you at the threshold of this is feeding him too. His tongue flicks faster, desperate and precise, the vibrations of his breath trembling up through your core. Your hips jerk forward with the motion.
Remmick’s cock hangs inches from your mouth, hot and heavy, the tip gleaming with the wetness you can taste on the air. The heat of it brushes your lips before you touch; your throat tightens—not from fear, but from want and the weight of the moment.
You’ve never been here like this before, not above another man’s mouth while another’s cock rests at your lips, and the novelty cuts a sharp, bright edge through the haze.
You lean in, cautious and curious, and let your tongue drag slow across the underside of his head—wet, tentative, tasting salt and promise.
He groans low, wrecked; his head tilts back for a breath, eyes fluttering closed, then snaps down to lock on yours, wild and blown wide.
You take him in a little further. Your mouth is warm and soft; the shaft throbs against your tongue. Your jaw opens more and your lips seal, breath puffing out through your nose as you sink deeper.
He finds the back of your head with one hand—not rough, not rushing—just holding you where he wants you.
“That’s it,” he rasps, voice hoarse, reverent, gravelly with want. “Easy.”
You draw back—slow, wet, deliberate—and sink in again.
A little deeper.
Your rhythm builds: tentative at first, then steadier, more sure. Your mouth works him slowly, worshipful and careful, taking time to taste and learn him even as your hips keep rolling over Stack’s face below. Each slide of your tongue maps him—the slick head, the line of vein, the warm groove—until the throbbing pulse on your tongue becomes a drumbeat you can’t ignore.
You are surrounded: filled by heat above and heat below. Stack doesn’t stop. His tongue flicks at your clit in alternating strokes—slow then quick—dipping into your entrance and dragging back up again, sloppy and focused and starving. Your body rocks between them, your mouth full and your cunt clenching around the face beneath you. The sensations dovetail into a dizzy double burn.
The moans you make are muffled now—thick, soft around Remmick’s cock—but they vibrate in your throat and into him. His hips stutter; his hand tightens on the shaft; his breath shivers like someone barely holding a storm inside.
Below, Stack groans in time—his face slick with your slick, his hands anchoring you to his heat as he hunts for the next collapse.
The room is a chorus of wet sound and ragged breath.
You bob your head again, lips wrapped tight, movements more confident. Your tongue tracks every pulse; your jaws flex as you take him deeper. Your lashes are damp, eyes half-lidded and hazed with want.
Remmick’s hips roll forward—just enough—to meet your rhythm, not forcing, only answering. His thumb brushes your cheek in a single, gentle stroke, and the small contact sends a lightheaded thrill through you.
Stack’s mouth is relentless, coaxing you open again and again, sliding through your soaked folds. Your clit swells under the pressure; every nerve screams. His hands clutch your thighs like anchors, the pads of his fingers bruising the flesh as he moans—hot, guttural, like each taste is salvation. His face is a mess of desire, lips and tongue worshipping at the place you’ve become.
Above, Remmick twitches in your mouth—thick and hot, leaking wet onto your tongue in slick pulses. You taste him in waves. With every hum and moan you offer into him, you feel his control slipping, the veneer of calm breaking into raw reaction.
When you moan again—low, steady, intentional—it runs through him like an electric current. His eyes flutter shut. His jaw clenches, and something wrecked and fierce spills out of him, half a curse, half a confession.
“Fuck… you’re—god, your mouth—”
You sink down again.
Your throat opens, stretches. Your lips seal tight around him as you take more. Your jaw aches with the reach, but you breathe through your nose, focus, feel him twitch against the back of your tongue and ride the pulse there.
You’re on fire now.
Your mouth works him slow, then surer: glide, curl, slide. Tongue beneath to catch every twitch, every pulse. You learn the map of him with each slick pass, taking him in farther, tasting salt and want.
Remmick’s hand stays in your hair close to the scalp—tight but not cruel, an anchor more than a shove. You glance up and find him; eyes meet and the world stills. His chest is ragged; his breath shallow. His face looks shattered, as if something inside him just broke loose.
Then something snaps.
His hips jerk forward—sudden, rough. You choke, caught off guard as his cock plunges deeper into your throat; your nose brushes the warm hollow of his belly. His groan shatters out of him, raw and jagged. His hand crushes into your hair.
He does it again. Harder.
No more patience. No gentle claiming. He fucks your mouth with need and desperation, each wet thrust fast and punishing.
Your hands scramble to his thighs, fingers digging in to brace you as his rhythm hammers into the back of your throat.
You gag. Once. Then again. Your throat burns; your eyes blur. Tears sting and spill, hot and silent, tracking down your cheeks. Drool beads and spills from the corners of your mouth, slicking your chin and soaking the front of your dress, sliding down between your breasts where it mingles with sweat.
You do not pull away.
You moan around him—quiet, wrecked—because the sound of him above you, torn between torment and pleasure, breaks something open in you. The vibration of your moans rattles against him and drives him harder.
Remmick’s other hand slams to the wall beside you, palm flat, fingers splayed as his muscles flex with every thrust.
“Fuck—fuck,” he pants, voice raw. “Look at you… takin’ it so good—Jesus, your fuckin’ throat—”
You try to look up through the blur, through the mess dripping from your lips and chin. You meet his eyes again, glassy and full, and the instant your gaze catches his—he growls.
Low. Feral. The sound tears out of him, the last thread holding him back snapping clean.
His hips stutter—once, twice—each movement a promise that presses deeper into the hollow of your throat.
You’re pinned between them. It’s too much and not nearly enough.
Remmick thrusts again and again—deep, heavy, a rhythm coming undone at the edges—fucking your mouth with brutal need. His breath is ragged, torn into choked gasps and strangled moans as control frays with each messy push. The sound of him—slick, filthy, urgent—fills the small room.
Your throat clenches as he hits the back; the gag reflex spasms, tears spring hot, spit and drool stringing from your lips to soak your chin and chest. You taste yourself and him and salt and want, and somehow you keep taking it. Your jaw burns, your throat aches, but the weight and heat of him hold you—mouth stretched, lips loose around a cock that punishes and pleases with equal force.
Below, Stack doesn’t relent. Each wet sound, each guttural groan from him shoots through you like lightning; his vibrations tremble up into your core and tear at the edges of your composure.
You grind against him, chasing the friction, thighs trembling, slick soaking his face and staining his lips.
Remmick’s thrusts ramp higher, harder and your moans build into a frantic, muffled chorus around his shaft. You’re drenched—stretched, spiraling—fingers clawing at his thighs, nails biting into muscle for anchor as the fire coils tighter in your belly. Stack’s groan heightens, near and raw against your clit, and in that moment you break.
Your hips convulse. Your moan chokes and becomes a sob, ragged and fierce. You come with a force that rattles through your spine, body seizing as orgasm rips through you. You cry out around him, jaw locked, the back of your throat clenching around the slick, deep stretch.
Remmick groans long and low, wrecked and hoarse, like your tightening is drawing something explosive out of him. His voice splits as he pounds in again, cock twitching hard at the back of your throat.
“Fuck—you’re gonna come again, aren’t you?” he pants, voice raw, undone.
Your thighs clamp like steel around Stack’s head as you drive down, orgasm tearing through you—hot, raw, unstoppable.
You come hard: loud, gasping, everything folding into that single molten point. Your body goes limp forward, too spent to hold itself up, shaking and sobbing and completely undone.
They don’t stop. Not one of them.
Stack keeps at you—softer now, but still circling, still pressing, still keeping you open with patient, worshipful mouthwork. His tongue moves in slow, deliberate circles, coaxing out the aftershocks, tasting you again and again. His hands anchor at your hips, steady and sure.
Above, Remmick’s cock remains buried in your throat. He holds you there, breath ragged, as your body pulses and trembles between them. His teeth grit; his breath comes in sharp, ragged pulls. Every time your throat squeezes around him, his hips twitch like a man being rewired by the sensation—aching, dangerously close. The tension rides up his spine in visible waves.
Then, just when your lungs ache and your jaw trembles from the stretch and the strain—he jerks your head back. Your lips slip off with a wet, gasping pop; a string of spit threads between your mouth and his tip, glinting in the low light.
You suck in air like a drowning person finding a surface. Your chest heaves. Spit beads down your chin. Tears streak your cheeks. Your lips are raw and slick.
He looks at you like you’re both sacred and profane, and a low groan rips from him.
“Fuck—”
His hand clamps into the nape of your neck—sudden and fierce—and he thrusts back in. Deep, brutal, immediate.
Your throat closes around him again. You keep yourself open, hands braced on his thighs as his whole body shudders above you. His hips jerk, once, twice, and then he bends to the edge.
He breaks with a guttural groan, the sound tearing from his chest as he slams forward one last time and spills into your mouth—hot, thick, endless. You swallow for him, throat working in small, trembling pulls, taking every pulse of him. Your moans are small and wrecked around him; your vocal vibrations draw the last of his release out of him. He groans again, hips twitching as he feels you drink him down, as he feels your throat flutter and clamp in the wake of his release. His body convulses once more, then, finally—he pulls back.
His cock slips from your mouth with one last wet, dragging slide.
Your lips part instinctively, already missing the press of him. Your mouth hangs open, tongue glossy with a sheen of drool and something warmer. You stare up at him—chest heaving, eyes blown and wet—thighs still trembling where you straddle Stack’s face.
Remmick’s cock glistens, still slick; his breath rattles in quick, uneven pulls. One hand remains buried in your hair as if he can’t, or won’t, let go.
His gaze drills into you—not finished, not yet sated. There’s a hunger in it that makes the air between you crackle.
You breathe in small, fragile waves. Each inhale is a tremor through your ribs.
Then Stack’s hands slide up your hips—strong, sure—and he lifts you off his face with an easy, practiced motion. The wet sound your cunt makes as it peels from his mouth is obscene and hot and you gasp, the noise ripping out of you like a private prayer.
You look down at him. His face is a map of the work he’s done: slick at the chin, glistening along his lips and cheekbones where your release caught in the low light, like oil on skin.
The sight sends heat flooding your cheeks, a quick, sharp burn that cuts through the fog. Your lips part; your throat works for words and finds none. You don’t need them. You don’t want them.
Stack only smiles—low, hungry, proud—as if he’s relieved and awed all at once.
“Look at you,” he murmurs, voice roughened by want. “Fuckin’ divine.”
He doesn’t leave you long. With a gentleness that makes you dizzy, he eases you down until your back sinks into the cool wood.
The sudden absence of his mouth feels like a physical ache.
You shiver not from cold but from the hollow it makes. He kneels above you now—towering and careful—eyes scanning every inch of you like someone committing a fragile thing to memory.
Slowly, he gathers the damp fabric of your dress, bunches it, and lifts it up and over your head.
You let him strip you bare—no resistance, only the hollow surrender of someone who has been remade.
The air kisses your damp skin. It feels like a new lover, curious and cool.
You blink up at him, chest still rising and falling, nipples peaked from the after-tension, and his breath catches. His eyes drink you in—soft, open, undone—as if he’s never seen anything so vulnerable and so utterly, achingly yours.
His clothes hang loose—shirt gaping, trousers pushed low—and then you see it: his cock, thick and flushed, heavy in his hand.
Wet at the tip, a clear bead of precum gathering as he strokes himself slow and deliberate, palm sliding over that slick head with a rhythm that looks practiced and sure. He kneels between your open legs and his gaze travels your body like a slow hymn—not just the skin, not just the shape, but you: the parted curve of your mouth, the hazy swell in your eyes, the way your chest rises and falls like somebody’s last prayer.
“You ready for me, dove?” he asks—voice low, gentle, but full of gravity, like a line drawn and not to be ignored.
You swallow, whole and hot. Your legs fall open wider without thought. You nod once.
He breathes out a sound that seems older than the room, a shaky pull, then lines himself up.
The blunt head nudges at your entrance, slick and hot, and you feel the first press of him against your soaking lips—an intimate, blunt promise of what’s coming. He begins to push in slow and steady, the first inch spreading you with a heat that blooms and fills from the inside out.
Your walls flutter, clench, yield; your nails score the floor; a soft, desperate gasp tears from you.
He pauses, leans down, presses his mouth to your collarbone—a small, grounding kiss—a breath of tenderness. “Breathe, baby,” he murmurs.
Then he pushes deeper.
Stack remains pressed to you beneath, the base of his cock flush to your swollen folds, breathing shallow as if inhaling your whole. You tremble—soft, wet, pulsing around him—and he does not move. He simply stays buried, deep and sure, letting the new fullness stir every tremor in you.
Your moan hangs low in your throat, too heavy to be spoken, and your walls flutter again.
Stack groans—raw and broken—feeling the way you grip him without thinking.
His hands flex on your hips, knuckles whitening; a muscle ticks in his jaw. “Jesus…” he breathes, almost to himself.
And then—a sound to your left: low, ragged, possessed.
Remmick sits beside you now, bare and open in the pale wash of light, one knee bent, the other splayed. His cock is in his hand, thick and flushed, moving with a slow certainty while his eyes never leave you—watchful, dangerous.
His face is the thing that unravels you.
Mouth slack, a thread of spit hangs from his lower lip and drips slow to his chin. His eyes—dark, wide, burning—are fixed on the sight where Stack disappears inside you.
You feel that stare like a palm pressed flat between your thighs, heat rolling off him in heavy waves, hotter than the body beneath you, heavier than the cock filling you.
“Fuck, look at her,” Remmick pants, voice splintering on the edge of a groan. “Tight little thing… You feel that?”
Stack answers with a growl low in his chest. He shifts his hips the barest fraction—just enough—and your body betrays you: a sharp gasp, a reflexive clench that tightens around him so hard it makes the slick sound between you rise.
“I feel it,” he mutters, eyes fluttering closed as if he can hardly bear it. “She’s clenching around me.”
You whimper, head tipped back, hips arching up into him. Your thighs fall wider—open and exposed—filled to the hilt and watched like something sacred, worshiped by mouths and hands and hungry eyes. Stack leans in, pressing the heat of his chest to your back, breath ghosting along your cheek.
“You feel him watching, don’t you?” he whispers, voice low and thick with wanting. “You feel how hard it’s making him?”
You nod. Your lips part. No sound comes except the wet, ragged intake of breath—need without language.
Remmick groans again, louder, his hand moving faster now. Precum beads and slicks the length of him, catching the light as his fist works him with increasing desperation. The sight—him, bare and intent—drives the pressure inside you tighter until your body aches with it.
Slowly, deliberately, Stack begins to move.
A little at first: a slow drag of his cock from your heat, then back in—deep and claiming—like he’s tracing the exact shape of you again and again.
You cry out, a soft, desperate sound, and your hand reaches blindly for Remmick, fingers finding flesh and the hot span of his thigh—anything to hold, to anchor you as Stack buries himself deeper.
His hips roll again, measured and heavy. The angle brushes some sweet, secret place and your breath snags, a raw sound tearing from your chest.
Your fingers claw along the warm slope of his spine as another moan slips free—half plea, half praise. He’s not pounding—yet. Each stroke is a lesson in patience, a slow carving of memory into your body.
He draws back just far enough to feel your walls clench, to watch them quiver and close around him, then sinks in with a low animal groan, pressing flush to you. You feel every inch—the weight, the heat, the relentless shape of him filling you.
“God—just like that,” he pants, voice hoarse and small. “You grip me like you need it.”
You do.
You turn your head a fraction, cheek scraping the floor, and your glassy gaze finds Remmick—still kneeling at your side. One hand braced behind him, the other working that slow, tight rhythm over his cock. His jaw is rigid with restraint, a hard line under skin, but his eyes are a different thing entirely: soaked in hunger, dark and wide and unblinking, fixed on the place where Stack disappears into you.
When your look holds his, the sound that tears out of him is not neat. It’s a raw moan, as if something ancient has been pulled up from his chest.
“Fuck,” he breathes, hips twitching into his hand. “You hear yourself?”
You hadn’t. Not really. Not until now—the room a choir of sensation: the wet drag of Stack inside you, the slick slide of Remmick’s palm, the incense of your own moans rising hot and heady. It all fills the air, breath and wet and praise.
“She’s moaning like a fuckin’ prayer,” Remmick rasps, voice ragged with panting. “Like you’re fuckin’ salvation.”
Stack answers with a grunt. His pace shifts—still measured, but deeper, sharper. Each push presses harder against your cervix, a delicious, impossible ache that makes your thighs twitch. You whimper—“Please—”—the word slipping out before you can catch it.
His hand finds your face, cupping it, thumb brushing the bone of your cheek. “You want more, baby?” he murmurs, voice thick. “You want us to ruin you for anyone else?”
You nod, helpless and breathless. Your eyes drag back to Remmick. He’s stroking faster now, wet and loud, watching you like a starving thing about to break.
Stack’s breath fans across your neck, lips leaving a trail of slow, open kisses beneath your ear. Every sound you make sends him harder—he learns you by the way you sing. “You hear yourself, baby?” he pants again. “You hear those little sounds you’re makin’? Fuck, you’re squeezin’ me so tight.”
You nod and moan when he answers with a deeper thrust. The room becomes a tangle of slick, hot noise—the slap of skin, the wet press of flesh, the guttural soundtrack of him filling you. Your body arches into it, craving the relentless claim.
You glance to the side.
Remmick’s jaw works like a man holding back a storm. Sweat beads in his dark hair. His hand never slows—stroking himself to the rhythm of your moans, the rhythm of Stack’s cock buried in you. Slow, then faster, harder; the slick slap punctuates the air as he works himself feverish.
When your next cry breaks out—shaky, ruined—his whole frame jolts, as if you’ve touched him.
A strangled sound tears free. His fist moves faster. His thighs tense—breath comes sharp and ragged. Through it all his eyes remain locked on you.
Stack groans again, deeper now, a sound ripped from someplace primal. His hips slam forward—wood creaking beneath the force of every thrust—fueling a hunger that has replaced the slow burn. The drag of him through your soaked, swollen cunt is ruthless.
Your moans break louder—wrecked, unsteady—splintered by each deep drive. Every time he bottoms out, pressure blooms against something sharp inside you. You gasp, nails raking the floor for purchase.
“Fuck, baby,” Stack breathes, sweat slick at his temple. “You’re takin’ it so good—so fuckin’ good for me.”
You choke out a whimper, body rocking beneath him, slick and flushed. Your vision swims, but another breath pulls your focus sideways.
His rhythm has changed, too.
Remmick’s hand is a blur over his cock, long strokes from root to leaking tip. And then—suddenly—you feel his hand close around yours.
Your breath stutters as he drags your palm from its limp place and lays it on him. He covers your fingers with his—big, rough, guiding—and moves your hand up and down himself. Spit and slick catch between your knuckles.
His groan is low and frayed. “Just like that,” he rasps, need fraying his voice. “You feel that, pretty thing? Feel what you do to me?”
Your moan shakes out as your hips roll up into Stack’s next thrust and your fist tightens instinctively. His body convulses beneath the pressure of your touch.
Stack’s groan rips out, rough and jagged, as he drives into you with brutal purpose. Each thrust knocks the breath from you. Each follows faster, harder, finding that place inside that makes your legs kick and your body tremble.
Your cunt contracts around him, desperate and greedy. Your body surges to meet every stroke as if your pleasure is hunting his. Your head falls back, lips parted, eyes fogged with need.
Your hand moves faster over Remmick now—pumping him as best you can through the blur, fingers wrapped tight around him. He groans, low and guttural, hips rocking forward into your grip like he needs it, like the motion of your palm is the only thing keeping him from fraying apart.
“Fuck,” he growls, breath hot and ragged, eyes locked on your face. “You’re drivin’ us both crazy.”
He tightens his fingers over yours, guiding the stroke—slow once, to make you feel every pulse and vein, then faster again, wet and needy.
Above you, Stack grits his teeth. His growl is a raw thing in his chest as he fucks you harder, faster, sweat beading at his temple and slipping down onto your skin. The sound of skin slapping, the wet drag of him in your cunt, the chorus of your moans and their groans—weave into something too loud, too bright.
Your body trembles beneath him, vision swimming; whimpers spill into sobs you can’t hold back.
You spiral—held open by Stack’s relentless cock and anchored by Remmick’s length in your hand.
Your thighs quake. Your mouth parts into a broken moan. You’re close—so close you can feel the edges of it burning. Stack feels it too. He feels your walls contract around him, pulling him in with each stroke as if your body is trying to drink him whole.
He grunts above you, the sound raw and wrecked.
“Fuck, baby—yeah—just like that,” he pants, voice torn. “Takin’ me so good. You feel that? How deep I am?”
Each plunge lands deep and sharp, and your cries echo off the walls.
Then it hits. Your orgasm hits—bright and violent—ripping through you like lightning. You cry out, head thrown back, eyes clamped shut as your back arches, legs wrapping tight around Stack’s waist to lock him in. Your cunt clamps down on him in rhythmic, desperate pulses—tight, wet, ruined.
“Oh, fuck—” Stack growls, hands digging into your hips as he drives into you through every spike of release. “That’s it, that’s it—come for me, baby—fuckin’ hell, you’re squeezin’ so fuckin’ tight—”
Beside you, Remmick loses it. His breath stutters; his hips jerk forward with your tightening grip. A guttural, unholy sound rips from him, raw and broken.
“Goddamn,” he rasps, voice cracking as you work him through the edge. “That mouth, that voice—”
He’s so close.
Your body convulses beneath Stack, trembling as he drives into you—your cunt fluttering and clamping around his cock, milking him with each wave that rips through your core. Thighs shake, locked tight around his hips, holding him there, keeping him deep as you fall apart and piece yourself back together again.
“Jesus—fuck—” Stack snarls above you, voice raw and wild. His hands claw at your thighs, nails biting into skin as he fucks through it—deep, hard, fast—like the feel of you coming around him is dragging the orgasm straight from his spine.
You’re soaked. Absolutely ruined. Your release slick and shining between you, slicking his shaft, coating your thighs and the floor beneath. Every snap of his hips sounds wetter and louder now, a filthy noise echoing through the room like thunder.
“Goddamn,” he grits, pace breaking into something rougher, more frantic. “You’re fuckin’ drippin’, baby—you feel that? You hear that?”
You do. It’s all you hear—the obscene slap of skin on skin, the wet squelch as he sinks in. And beneath it—Remmick’s breath, steady at first, then ragged, the harsh cadence of him still beside you, still watching, still stroking.
“She’s milking your cock, Stack,” Remmick growls, voice low and gravelly as he drives his own hand faster. “She’s fuckin’ perfect.”
His words are losing shape in the heat. He fucks your fist like a man starved, hips jerking in sharp, animal pulls.
“Fuck—oh, fuck—” he chokes, each syllable tearing out of him as his body tenses. Hips stutter—once, twice, third time—and a shuddering growl rips free, raw and uncontained.
Then he breaks.
His cock spasms in your hand—twitching, pulsing—and warm, thick spurts of cum hit your palm. It runs in hot ribbons across your fingers, slick and heavy, dripping down your wrist and soaking into the soft flesh there. The heat of it cuts through the haze, a fresh, searing sensation that makes you gasp.
Remmick grits his teeth as release tears through him, his body jerking and shivering with the force. He pants through clenched teeth as his hand loosens and falls away from yours, letting go as the last of him trails sticky down your skin.
Your body trembles beneath Stack’s, thighs fluttering with the aftershocks of everything you’ve let loose. Breath catches in your throat—half a moan hanging on the edge of your lips—when he slams in, sudden and brutal.
One final thrust, hard and true, buries him to the hilt. His whole frame goes taut, muscles strung tight like a drawn bow.
A raw growl tears from his chest as he breaks. You feel him convulse inside you—hot, thick spurts spilling deep, filling you in slow, heavy waves.
The warmth blooms in your core, slick and searing, seeping out where your skins meet and clinging to the tightness that still holds him. He doesn’t pull back. He shudders, cock buried, hips pressed flush to yours while his release pours into you.
Your cunt flutters around him in reflex, milking each pulse, holding him closer as if you could keep him there by force of need alone.
Stack stays, buried and steady, grinding through the last tremors of his release. Each tiny, needy thrust spreads him farther inside you; his cock twitches with each slackened thrust and every flutter of your walls.
You gasp—an open, broken sound—overwhelmed by how full you are, how impossibly thick and hot the sensation sits in you. Your cunt clenches and unclenches around him, slick leaking, aching, pulsing. Tears track warm down your face, carving wet paths through the flush at your cheeks.
Your fingers dig into the skin of his back, desperate and reflexive, trying to hold him close while the overstimulation stitches you down. Words fail you—only small, ragged noises escape: mewls, whimpers, breathy cries that speak the language your mouth can’t form.
Then Remmick moves.
He shifts closer, the shadow beside you resolving into heat and weight; his breath brushes your shoulder, travels up the hollow at your throat. His lips land at the curve beneath your jaw—wet, intent, and unexpectedly tender—and the tenderness shivers through you.
A raw sound rises from your chest, needy and soft.
He drags his tongue slow down your skin, wiping away sweat and salt, following the pulse that thrums beneath. When he reaches your chest there’s no hesitation. His mouth closes on your nipple, warm and greedy. His lips suck, tongue flicking and circling, a slow, precise worship that makes your whole body quiver.
A soft, low moan vibrates through him and into your skin, and it sends a shiver that rolls clean through your ribs.
You arch—helpless, overstimulated—hips twitching as your cunt still flutters around Stack’s softening cock. Your body protests that it’s spent, and your body replies that it still wants.
Beneath you, Stack groans again—low, spent—his cock starting to soften as it nests in your pulsing heat. He keeps his hips pressed tight for a heartbeat longer, as if leaving would be its own cruelty.
His lips brush your shoulder, damp and salty. The contact is brief, ragged, intimate. He exhales against your skin, breath shivering, still tasting you.
Above you, Remmick doesn’t let up. He groans softly into your chest, indulgent and patient, as he draws your nipple deeper into his mouth. His tongue moves slow and sure, savoring each slick circle.
Then, his teeth ghost along the curve of your breast—gentle enough to sting just so, to make your breath hitch.
Your fingers flex weakly on his shoulder, seeking purchase in the tremor, trying to anchor yourself to something steady.
He lingers with his mouth full of you, head bent, breathing deep like he’s memorizing the scent of your skin. When he finally pulls back, his lips shine with spit, and his gaze slides down your body, hungry and silent. He doesn’t need to speak.
All three of you pant in a chorus. The room smells of heat and sweat and your own release. The air clings heavy, thick as if the night itself has soaked up everything you’ve given.
Stack shifts then—a slow, careful withdrawal. You cling to him even as your walls flutter, swollen and raw, reluctant to let the shape that filled you go.
When he finally slips free the sound is obscene and intimate.
Your breath catches in a soft, broken gasp.
A warm, sticky trickle follows—his and yours—spilling from you in slow, deliberate trails. It runs down the curve of your ass and along the inside of your thighs, slick against skin, leaving damp ribbons that make your legs tremble all over again.
Your body barely has a moment to come down before Remmick’s hands are back—unrelenting, slipping under your hips like they were always meant to be there. His fingers curl with practiced certainty, possessive and sure, and then he lifts you as if you weigh nothing at all.
You gasp—a thin, ragged sound—arms trembling as he maneuvers you with an ease that makes your breath stutter.
He turns you onto your stomach.
Your cheek mmeets the cool floor, sticky against your flushed skin. Your breath fogs the wood in shallow little bursts as his hands pull your hips back, slow and firm, until your ass is high, your back a hollowed arc, thighs spread wide. You hang open and exposed—raw, hollow, aching in the place that still remembers every inch.
You feel the press first: the blunt soft tip of him nudging your entrance, not fully hard but thick and pulsing where it meets your slick. The heat of him makes something in your gut hitch; pressure flares, helpless and immediate.
“W-Wait—” you whisper, voice cracked and thin from crying and moaning and everything that came before.
Stack is suddenly at your face, sliding to his knees with a tenderness that almost hurts. His palms cup your cheeks, thumbs brushing damp tracks from your skin as he leans in close. His voice is quiet and full of something like worship.
“You can take it,” he murmurs. “Look at you, baby. You’re fuckin’ beautiful.”
You swallow as your heart hammers. Your nod is small, trembling—one slow, surrendered motion.
Remmick growls behind you—a low, guttural sound that rolls up from his chest and trembles through your spine. Then he begins to push.
At first he’s soft where he parts you, the first inch a bruising stretch.
You moan into the floor, fingers balling into the wood, cheek pressing the grain as your used walls protest and then dilate for him. You don’t pull away—you accept him, inch by careful inch.
With each shallow press he sinks farther. That initial give is brutal—sensory, electric—and then his length starts to thicken inside you, filling, swelling until your body trembles under the delicious, frightening fullness. Your hips stay lifted, held by Remmick’s hands, quivering as he buries deeper with steady, deliberate strokes.
You feel him harden inside you—the slow bloom of him finding purchase—until he’s thick and heavy and full, stretching you to a place that’s almost too much and somehow exactly right.
Each small movement presses heat through your core, every shallow thrust a new map of sensation.
Your breath is a ragged pull; your stomach flips; the ache and the want knit together into a tight, hot knot.
Remmick’s groans come again—dark, choked—and his grip on your hips tightens until his fingers bruise, anchoring you like iron.
The pressure is everything—overwhelming and exquisite—the kind that takes your breath and holds it. Too thick, too deep, too hot.
Every inch of him presses into a place that’s still raw and still hungry. Then his thrusts begin—slow, shallow, deliberate. He rolls his hips forward and draws back just enough for your walls to drag over him, each movement sending little electric shocks ricocheting through the hollow of you.
Remmick keeps that patient, punishing rhythm, each press deeper into your soaked, swollen cunt. The stretch makes your breath hitch—your whole body braces and then gives as your walls flutter and try to accommodate him. Your eyes clamp shut, mouth parting in a thin, silent moan while the ache and the pleasure braid into one sharp, soft stove of sensation.
Behind you He groans—low and ragged—his voice coming apart at the edges as your body grips him. “So good,” he murmurs, thumbs rubbing slow circles into the curve of your hips, hands steady, possessive. “You feel so fuckin’ good. Just relax for me. Let me in.”
He doesn’t rush. He stays slow and deliberate.
Your moan is muffled to the floor—cheek pressed to wood, tears still wet at the lashes. Your arms tremble under you, but you don’t stop him.
The ache and the heat blur into one smothering wave and your muscles begin to loosen, surrendering as your body melts under the hands that keep you filled.
A soft hand brushes your cheek. Stack—still kneeling at your face—palms gentle as he grazes your flushed skin. “You’re doin’ so well,” he murmurs, voice lowl. “Look at you. Takin’ us so sweet. So perfect.”
You lift your gaze, dazed and glassy, body rocking with Remmick’s slow, grinding thrusts. Your lips part—vulnerable and soft—and Stack’s thumb trails across your bottom lip, a feathered, grounding touch that somehow steadies you in the middle of everything.
Behind you, Remmick moves with devastating control. His thrusts are slow—so slow they almost ache—each motion a long, deliberate roll of his hips that presses into your soaked cunt with a patience that bruises in the best way. He fucks you like you’re something fragile and holy, like each inch matters.
The slow backward drag before each forward press pulls at the raw, swollen places inside you and makes your vision swim.
You unravel again and again.
Every time he draws back your walls cling to him as if afraid to let him go.
Every time he pushes forward you relearn that delicious, tearing stretch from before.
Each deep, patient thrust reads like a confession. An unspoken promise that he knows you, knows how close you are, knows how raw you’ve been made, and still chooses to stay.
Your thighs tremble, hips tilting with his patient rhythm.
Remmick’s hands move slow and sure—tracing up your back in warm, grounding paths. Palms glide along your spine, follow the hollow of your waist, then cup and cradle your hips as he rocks into you again—deeper, patient, unhurried.
“That’s it,” he breathes, voice velvet and low, full of praise and hunger. “You’re takin’ me so well. Not rushin’. Just lettin’ it happen.” The words press into you like a hand on your shoulder; your cunt tightens at them, fluttering around him as if answering.
In front of you, Stack remains a steadier presence—less motion, more worship. He watches you with the same slow, hungry adoration, fingers ghosting when they can, voice a low murmur at your ear.
“You’re doin’ so good for us, baby,” he whispers. His voice is hoarse with heat, but his gaze is soft—so soft. Too soft for what he’s already done to you. For what you’ve let them do.
“We know you’re just human,” he adds, “that you can only take so much.”
He leans in, closer. “But look at you…”
Behind you, Remmick drives again—the push sinking into your core with a patience that bruises deliciously. The motion rolls through you like a tide.
Your body jolts, a sigh slipping from your lips, the sound soft and helpless against the floor.
“Still givin’ us more,” Stack murmurs, almost in awe.
You choke out a wet, broken noise—half-sob, half-moan—eyes glassy, mouth parted as if to breathe him in.
Remmick groans behind you, deep and ragged, words catching on the breath. His hips stutter—the rhythm falters as your walls flutter and clench around him again, reflexive and fierce. Even as he moves like a careful thing, patient and slow, your body seizes, answering with tight, involuntary holds.
"You feel like you were made for this..." Remmick leans forward, chest brushing the curve of your back, lips ghosting against your shoulder.
"Like your body knows who owns it."
Your breath snags, heart stuttering in your ribs like it’s trying to catch up to the feeling, and your body replies before your mind can name it: hips tilt back, thighs shiver, cunt clenches him tighter as if the admission itself had pulled him in.
“Just like that, sweet girl,” Remmick breathes behind you, voice close and rough as iron.
A helpless, broken sound slips from your throat, and it reverberates into the floorboards. Heat floods your face, your skin burning where his mouth and hands have left it raw and shining.
“Look at her,” Stack murmurs, voice softer now, directed more to Remmick than to you. “She’s gone all soft for you.”
Remmick answers with a low, rough groan. For a beat his rhythm falters, as if the tightness of your walls unmoors him, then he thrusts deep and stays, fully sheathed, cock twitching inside of you.
You whimper; the sound is small and hot and ashamed-pleased all at once.
Stack catches your gaze. His thumb finds the curve of your bottom lip again, dragging slow, grounding you to the moment as he watches the way you breathe, the way your mouth parts around the small, stunned noises that spill out.
“You still with us, baby?” he asks, quietly, like he’s asking permission already granted. “Still wantin’ more?”
You nod, like answering someone who already knows. Your body speaks when words won’t: thighs parting a fraction wider, hips angling back into Remmick’s hold, offering more of yourself without bargaining.
Remmick groans, a sound that loosens into something almost tender, and then he eases back just enough to feel you clench and releases himself to the motion again. “That’s my girl,” he breathes, voice thick. “You take us so well.”
His thrusts deepen, each one deliberate and heavy. The wet slap of flesh on flesh becomes its own rhythm in the room. Every stroke pushes you forward, every pull drags the soreness and the sweetness of what you’ve given into a new place. You feel split open and full at once, stretched thin and held.
Each inhalation you take is shared among three bodies. Each exhale is a small, ragged surrender. Their eyes keep returning to you, hungry, and the quiet praise that slips from their lips sounds like a litany.
“You’re doin’ so good,” Stack whispers, palm ghosting over the wet flush of your cheek. “So sweet for us.”
Remmick’s groan rumbles low behind you as he pounds into that wet, pulsing place, voice ragged at your ear.
“Look at her,” he pants. “Takin’ all of it. Givin’ us everything.”
And you are—trembling, open, taking, giving—the center of the room’s heat and sound, held and owned in equal measure.
Remmick’s hands tighten at your hips—fingers crooked into the soft flesh—and there’s a shift: subtle at first, then the next thrust lands with more weight, each push coming heavier than the last.
The second one thuds deeper and your world tilts.
You whimper, breath snatched and small, as your body rocks forward.
Remmick grunts—low, rough, wrecked—the sound of something inside him unraveling that he’s been trying to hold together.
“She’s squeezin’ me,” he breathes, voice ragged, uneven. “Like she don’t wanna let go.”
Remmick thrusts again and you feel him lean over you. His chest presses into the curve of your back, breath hot along your spine.
Stack leans down and presses his lips to your temple, lifts your jaw so your eyes meet his. “You hear how he sounds? That’s what you do to him.”
Behind you, Remmick’s growls edge into something animal. Hips snap forward harder, the rhythm shredding—need snapping the thread of patience.
“She’s so fuckin’ warm,” he mutters, voice raw, breaking. “I can’t—I…”
His thrusts stutter—control frays. His grip at your hips tightens until it bruises, fingers digging in with a white-knuckled hold as he fights whatever’s unravelling him.
Stack’s hand cups your face, steadying, folding you into his gaze until the world narrows to the warmth of his palm.
“Let him have it,” he whispers. “Let him feel all of you.”
And you do.
Remmick’s breathing tears rougher now. The control that held him together frays fast. The rhythm breaks—breath punching out in ragged, raw groans that come from somewhere deep and dangerous. His hips drive forward harder, each push more urgent, more desperate than the last.
You feel him begin to fall apart. The low sounds he makes grow louder and rawer, unraveling like silk pulled too tight at the edges. He’s coming undone inside you.
“God—baby,” he grits, voice shaking. “I’m—I can’t—”
His next thrust slams deeper than the rest, and then—he stills. Buried to the hilt, every inch of him fitting into you and refusing to move.
You hear it before you feel it: the stutter in his breath, the guttural groan ripped from his chest, the single, broken exhale of a man surrendering everything. Then the heat—thick, hot pulses spilling into you, filling you in slow, heavy waves as his cock twitches and presses deeper, desperate to bury himself more fully inside your clutching walls.
Then his weight folds forward. His body presses into your back, chest heaving, limbs trembling under the force of release.
You go still beneath him—every muscle slack and humming. Your breath catches somewhere behind your ribs, and your heart beats slow and hollow as the aftershocks roll through you.
You’re held there—full, trembling, suspended in that impossible place between too much and not enough. Your hips stay lifted, back arched, face cradled in Stack’s palms. You don’t even realize your mouth has parted.
Before sound can form, Remmick begins to pull out. The motion is slow, careful—measured as though he can unmake what he’s given by doing the opposite with the same respect.
You flinch. Your hips twitch. The loss hits like cold water:
The stretch, the fullness, the heat—all easing away in a wet, lewd slide.
For a second the room feels too large, the air too thin—your body oddly raw in the sudden space he leaves.
Then Remmick’s arms are around you. Strong and sure and steady. He lifts you as if you weigh nothing at all and you fold like a thing made to fit against him, cheek pressed to the warm skin of his chest. Sweat cools on his skin beneath your ear; his heartbeat is a slow, solid drum. His breath, deep and even now, steadies you in a way words never could.
You don’t speak.
Neither does Stack.
They move together with quiet purpose—slow, unhurried steps over creaking floorboards—carrying you through the house that seems to have folded down around the hush you’ve earned.
The air is thick with the residue of heat and salt and the small mess between your thighs, but for now the sound is nothing but the soft footsteps and the shared exhale of three chests finding a rhythm. The old hallway yawns ahead, ribs of shadow and silver light.
You drift past the living room with your eyes closed.
They move with quiet purpose toward the bedroom. The door is cracked, moonlight slicing a pale path across the rumpled sheets as if it had been waiting for you to arrive.
Remmick comes in first, folding his body around yours. Stack steps after, hand ghosting your back once.
You don’t lift your head.
You don’t need to.
You feel the bed dip as Remmick lowers you down with careful hands.
The mattress welcomes you like cool water.
Your muscles, wrung raw and trembling, unspool and give. He brushes the damp hair from your forehead with a tenderness that makes something inside you unclench. He peels the sheets back like he’s handling something fragile.
Stack slides in behind you. The blanket finds your hips and chest. His body presses warm to the hollow of your spine, legs curling around yours like a lock. Remmick settles from the other side, arm draped across your stomach—a steady, claiming weight. His hand spreads, fingers splayed, warm and sure, anchoring you to the center of the bed and to whatever this is between you.
No one speaks.
There are no more words to waste.
Only breath—soft, shared, synchronous—rising and falling across your skin. You lie there, naked and bruised and aching, but wrapped in something that isn’t only aftermath.
Their chests rise and fall around you—one in front, one behind.
Your lashes drift closed and a small breath slips from your lips.
And just as your limbs begin to loosen into the heat of the sheets, Remmick moves—slow, intentional, each motion threaded with some careful meaning.
His hand slides beneath your thighs like a cupping thing, and he lifts your hips with a tenderness that makes your ribs ache in a way you didn’t expect.
You don’t resist.. You’re too exhausted, too full, the edges of you raw and soft from what you gave and what was taken.
A small whimper slips out, no more than a question lost in the hush.
He tucks a pillow beneath your hips with the same precise reverence as one might place a relic on an altar. His palm rests there afterward, flat against your belly—not heavy, just steady—thumb drawing tiny circles just below your navel.
There’s no pressure, only a patient, coaxing presence, as if he’s trying to keep something contained inside you, to hold it from spilling away. His mouth brushes your shoulder in a quiet kiss, unreadable, only breath and heat against your skin.
Stack hums a soft, low sound to your other side. You can feel his gaze moving over your face, the map of your cheeks and lashes. His hand slips beneath the blanket and curls round your wrist, anchoring you with a grip that says you belong here in the center of them.
You fold into the space their bodies carve—a pocket of warmth and weight—and something like a decision settles in your chest. Maybe you are theirs. Maybe you already were.
Remmick’s hand tightens at your waist, not in ownership but as a steadying cord, and Stack’s fingers push damp hair from your forehead with a slow touch. His knuckles skim your temple like someone reading scripture, memorizing the lines.
Your breath levels out—deep, slow—your eyes slipping closed as your muscles finally unclench.
For a long, suspended heartbeat there is nothing but the soft press of skin and steady breathing, a quiet that feels almost sacred.
Then the small movement comes: bodies realigning, an almost-invisible shift as both men lean in a fraction closer. The slow stretch of weight as both of them lean in closer, until their presence surrounds you again—hot, purposeful, inevitable.
Remmick’s mouth finds your skin first—slow, deliberate. He doesn’t rush. His breath fans over the curve of your neck, warm and damp, tasting the salt of your sweat before his lips close.
On the other side, Stack mirrors him, lips ghosting just below your jaw.
For a heartbeat you think they’ll only kiss—gentle, parting lips, a soft vow. Then Remmick’s mouth opens a fraction wider, and you feel the sting: a sharp, intimate nip at the hollow of your throat. It’s not teeth tearing; it’s the press of hot fangs—a claim more than a wound—and it sends your back arching, breath catching as your eyes fly open to the dim room.
Stack’s mouth follows, softer and cleaner, practiced. His bite slides in like a line of silk and steel, precise and close, leaving a hot, flaring mark that blooms under their lips.
Pain flares and then folds quickly into something else—an electric warmth that slides down your spine.
You whimper, small and tremulous, fingers clenching the sheets as if they might hold you to the world.
They don’t rush. They close their mouths to your pulse and linger, cupping the hot point as if offering it prayer. They press, breathe, and swallow the warmth of you with quiet reverence—no haste, no vulgar greed—like worship rather than hunger.
Your skin cools under their mouths as the heat of them moves through you.
You don’t pull away. Your breath grows thin but steady.
The sting blurs into the low, coiling heat you’ve felt all night—the same ache that unspools through your belly, your ribs, your throat. It rises in time with the steady beat beneath their lips, a slow filling even as something leaves.
The sensation pulls at something older than thought. You offer yourself again, an answering surrender, and let them keep the mark.
When they finally lift, their mouths wet and soft on your skin, you feel both marked and held. Remmick’s thumb traces the new warmth at the hollow of your throat—gentle, careful—and Stack’s hand rests under your jaw, steadying.
You stay still while the three of you melt back into the sheets,.
In that hush, the mark at your throat feels less like injury and more like a promise—visible and private and entirely yours to keep.
tags [ let me know if you want to be added ! ] : @bleedingsunlight @mintssanctuary @croccy-hoes @avidreader73
snowghoul
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annaxmalina
germansingergirl
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