Hello, smut readers. I will be sharing my favorite smuts and stuffs because besties share. WE LISTEN AND WE DO NOT JUDGE. Give Me More Olrox Smut Or Give Me Death!!! 18+
Summary: You should have been prey, yet he spared you and marked you as his.
The first time you felt his claws against your skin, you had thought it meant death.
The Yautja warrior towered over you, his dreadlocks slick with rain, his mask glinting in the fading light.
Instead of striking you down, he had drawn a shallow cut across your arm, careful, precise. You hissed in pain until you saw the shape it left behind, a mark.
His mark.
Later, you learned what it meant.
You had not been killed because he had chosen you, not as prey, but as mate.
The clan erupted in fury.
Voices clicked and hissed, mandibles snapping in disgust.
A human was unworthy, they spat.
A human could not bear the bloodline of warriors.
But your hunter had stood firm, shoulders broad, his low growl filling the air.
“No,” his translator barked out in a rough imitation of his voice. “Mine.”
The Elders’ judgment came fast, if you wished to stand together, you would face the Trial of Bond.
Only by surviving the trials could you prove that a human and a hunter could truly belong to one another.
That night, as you sat by a small fire in the makeshift shelter he had built, you whispered.
“What happens if we fail?”
He turned his mask toward you, a series of clicks rumbled in his throat, then the harsh voice of his translator spoke.
“Death. Both.”
Your stomach knotted, but when he extended a clawed hand, you found yourself taking it.
His palm was rough, scarred, yet the touch was careful.
“Then we cannot fail,” you said softly.
He gave a sound, something almost like a purr, and squeezed your hand once.
The first trial was the hunt.
You ran with him through the forest, your legs burning as you followed his lead.
He moved like a shadow, silent and sure, and when you stumbled, he caught your wrist, pulling you upright with surprising gentleness.
The prey was a beast with tusks like spears, its hide thick as stone.
You watched him circle, his plasma caster charging with a whine.
“No,” you whispered urgently, pointing to the ridge above. “Drive it there. The ground is weak.”
He tilted his head at you, then gave a soft clicking sound that almost resembled amusement. Obeying, he lured the beast with a taunting roar. You ran ahead, loosening the rocks.
When the creature charged up the slope, the ground gave way beneath it, and it fell hard.
Together, you struck, your blade to its throat, his spear through its chest. The kill was yours, shared.
When he tore a tusk free, he pressed it into your hand.
“Warrior."
You could not help the smile tugging at your lips.
“Not bad for a human, right?”
His mandibles flexed in what you had come to recognise as laughter.
The second trial was endurance.
The storm broke suddenly, rain hammering down, lightning flashing. Mud clung to your boots, your clothes soaked through.
You swayed, shivering violently, but he stayed close, always at your side. When you fell, he caught you, lifting you with effortless strength.
“Put me down,” you murmured weakly, embarrassed.
“Never,” came the translator’s reply.
His arms only tightened.
That night, you curled up close to him.
His body radiated heat, his breathing slow and steady. You dared to rest your head on his chest, listening to the deep, steady thrum of his heart.
“You could have left me,” you whispered.
His mandibles brushed your hair lightly, almost tender.
“Mine,” he said simply.
The word settled deep in your chest, warming something you had long thought frozen.
The final trial was combat.
At dawn, a rival warrior stepped forward, larger, stronger, his armour marked with many kills.
He demanded proof that your mate’s choice was more than foolishness.
The fight was vicious, metal clashing, roars shaking the air. Your mate met him blow for blow, but the rival pressed hard, slamming him back with brutal strength.
You did not think. You darted in, your blade driving under the rival’s arm where the armour was weakest.
He howled in pain, faltering just long enough for your Yautja to strike. His spear drove through the rival’s chest, ending the fight.
Silence followed, heavy and thick.
Your chest heaved, your blade slick with blood.
Slowly, your mate reached for you, his claws curling lightly around your wrist. He raised your hand high, his deep voice cutting through the quiet.
“Bond. Strong.”
The Elders considered you both for a long moment.
Then, one by one, they raised their spears in salute.
That night, the fire roared high in celebration.
You sat close to his side, his massive hand resting against yours, his presence steady and proud. For the first time, you felt no eyes of scorn, only acceptance.
When he lifted his mask, the sight of his eyes made your heart twist.
He leaned close, his mandibles brushing your cheek in what you now understood was affection.
“No more trials,” his translator murmured. “Mine. Always.”
You smiled, touching your forehead gently to his.
“And you are mine.”
The clan could rage, the universe could burn, but it did not matter.
You had proven yourselves. Together, you had won not only survival, but love.
And nothing would ever break it.
~Masterlist~
ˇAO3ˇ
Wattpad
/DO NOT TRANSLATE, STEAL OR REPOST ANY OF MY WORKS TO THIS OR OTHER PLATFORMS/
You had thought he would be asleep for longer than he had been. He always napped well after a meal of smoked salmon.
Maybe he had just sensed something was off.
It didn't really matter why he was awake. What mattered was that you had a massive werebear smashing through the forest seeking out his tiny runaway mate.
Didn't you know it was dangerous in the woods for a human? Didn't you know he couldn't protect you if you weren't with him?
Why were you being so silly? Was he not taking care of your every need?
Maybe you were just cranky because he hadn't been giving you enough cock!
He sniffed you out and caught up with you easily, pinning you to the ground effortlessly under his furry bulk.
The werebear made even less work of your clothing, pressing his musky cock into you as you struggled.
The monster bear nipped and nuzzled into your neck, drooling dripping down onto you as he had his way with you.
The beast humped into you, each thrust shaking you and battering down your resolve until you were a quivering moaning mass below him.
After that you were relaxed, limp, and quiet. He returned to his human form and carried you back home, content in the knowledge that all you needed was a good mating.
He'd be much more inclined to fuck his seed into you to prevent you from getting so bratty from now on.
summary: you've never let him in. Not once. And still, every night without fail, he comes crawling back to your doorstep. Thirteen centuries old and rotting with want, Remmick worships you from the porch, drooling thick onto the floorboards, begging for permission to taste. And you? You watch. You love the power. Love the ache in him. Love the way he weeps when you deny him again and again.
But the night you finally say come in—he breaks.
Now that he’s inside, he’s never leaving. Not quietly. Not gently. And not until he crawls all the way inside you and makes a cathedral of your skin.
wc: 5.4k
a/n: based off this prompt that blew up!! It's been exactly one month since I released my first Remmick fic Mercy Made Flesh so it felt fitting to release something today, as a thank you for the tidal wave of love and support I've received since!! Seriously it's insane!! So, as a further thank you, I'm hosting a giveaway for followers here if you're interested, as a way to give back to all of you <333 thanks to @ddlydevotion for finding the photo refs for the banner!! and thanks to Liz @fuckoffbard for once again beta reading for me!! credit to Diana @hyoscyxmine for the photo of Remmick she initially edited <333
warnings: vampirism, blood kink, obsessive behavior, feral begging, oral (f! receiving), sub!remmick, somno-adjacent sleepiness, religious undertones, predator/prey dynamics, begging kink, worship kink, voice kink, monsterfucking, marking, blood drinking during sex, degradation, dark romance, possessive partner, crawling kink, aftercare, bite kink, creampie, power imbalance, bodily fluids (drool, blood, etc), control kink, manipulation by omission, mildly blasphemous themes
likes, comments, and reblogs are always appreciated, please enjoy!!
Masterlist
You've never let him in. Not once.
And still, every night without fail, he shows up like clockwork—barefoot and bloodstained, wife beater stained and torn, revealing a sliver of lean muscle beneath, reeking of smoke and obsession.
Slouched on your porch like a dying dog, scratching at the threshold with dirt-caked nails, mouth open and drooling thick, almost foamy, like hunger’s rotted him from the inside out. His voice is raw from begging. But tonight? Tonight he’s feral.
You've got one leg draped over the door frame, robe hitched up just enough to taunt, a cool glass of iced tea sweating in your hand while he writhes just inches from your feet.
“You cruel little thing,” he rasps, drawl dragging slow and syrupy, his tongue catching on the words like they hurt.
“Y’gon’ make me crawl again, huh? ‘Cause I will. I’ll fuckin’—I’ll get on my belly like a damn animal, just for a taste. Just for a breath of you, sugar.”
His jaw’s slack, saliva roping down his chin, staining the porch dark beneath him as he grips the floorboards hard enough they creak.
“Let me in,” he whimpers, voice cracked and desperate, eyes blown wide.
“Please, I—I cain’t stand it no more. I cain’t fuckin’ breathe without you. Let me in. I’ll behave. I’ll worship you. I’ll—I’ll starve if you don’t.”
Your just watch him, tilt your glass.
“You've lived thirteen centuries, and you're on your knees for a girl in a nightgown?”
He nods, drooling harder, trembling.
“Yes ma’am. I’d beg for thirteen more if it meant you’d finally say the word.”
You don’t answer him at first.
Just lift your drink—slow, lazy, like the heat has made you sun-warmed and lethargic—and watch the ice swirl against the cylindrical sides. Your lips part only enough for a sip, sharp and cold on your tongue, as his voice frays at the threshold like an unraveling thread.
The porch groans under his weight when he shifts, mouth still hanging open, chin wet with the thick rope of saliva that’s already puddled beneath him. He doesn’t even wipe it away anymore. Doesn’t flinch at the indignity. If anything, he leans into it. As if the sloppier he gets, the more beastly and broken, the closer he’ll be to what you want.
Not human. Not civilized. Just yours.
Your bare toes flex against the doorframe—propped up, exposed, painted peach—and his breath stutters when he sees them. His jaw works open wider like he might sink his teeth into the wood instead, like he’s fighting the animal thing in him that wants to bite something until it bleeds.
“You gone quiet, sugar,” he drawls, voice like gravel scraped against wood. “You plannin’ to kill me out here?”
You hum. Just a little. Low in your throat.
Then finally, finally, you lean forward just a bit, letting the hem of your robe fall loose from your thigh, letting him see the curve of it where the porchlight catches golden on your skin. You know what you’re doing. You always know.
“You look like shit, Remmick.”
He moans—moans—like the insult made him hard.
“I—I know, baby. I know,” he gasps, crawling an inch closer on his knees, voice choked with some terrible, trembling reverence. “I’d tear out my fuckin’ ribs if it meant you’d give me one more breath. Just one. I’m—I’m so close to bein’ bones out here.”
His hands drag slow across the floorboards, smearing blood and spit as he chases your shadow like it might feed him. His claws are cracked and dirty, black at the edges, clacking like dull knives as he reaches for you.
But he won’t cross the threshold. Can’t.
Not unless you say the word.
You drag one foot down, let it press lightly against his chest, the ball of it nestling into the place where his heart doesn’t beat. You feel the way he flinches at the touch like it hurts him, like your skin is too holy for his body to bear. He makes a sound deep in his chest—part growl, part sob—and his head drops forward.
He presses his forehead to your ankle. Worships it.
“You’re a goddamn sickness,” you whisper, soft and cruel.
“I am, baby,” he breathes. “You made me sick. Ruined me good, didn’t you?”
And oh, how he sounds ruined.
You tilt your glass again, watch the last ice cube swirl and crack, watch his tongue dart out as if he could taste it from the air. His pupils are blown, wide and dark and endless, and his mouth keeps trying to form the word please like it’s the only one he remembers anymore.
A breeze rolls over the porch, stirring the trees, carrying the scent of you—hibiscus lotion, clean skin, cool linen and blood beneath it all—and Remmick shudders like a dying thing. His hips roll into the floor like he’s fucking the air, like scent alone could push him to the edge.
“Let me in,” he begs again, softer now. “Let me in before I do somethin’ wicked.”
You lean closer, dragging your foot up his chest and under his chin, tilting his face up toward you like a command.
“You already are wicked.”
He smiles, wild and ruined.
“Yes ma’am. And I’d be worse for you.”
You let the silence stretch just long enough for his breath to hitch.
Then you pull your foot away and stand, letting the robe slip an inch lower on your hips as you do. He tracks the movement like an animal locked on prey, hands gripping the wood, teeth bared like he might bite the air between you.
But you say nothing.
You turn, walk back into the house, and the door swings shut with a slow, echoing click.
And Remmick?
He stays there on the porch, slack-jawed, drooling, whispering your name like a prayer he wasn’t meant to know, his muscles flexing as his arms come up over his head in desperation, thick and defined, his face pinched in pain, fractals of dying light dancing off the worn gold of his chain, off the sweaty creases highlighting his biceps.
| six months ago |
You didn’t move here expecting silence.
You expected a little mold, sure. Some creaky floorboards, maybe a wasp’s nest under the porch or a possum in the crawlspace. You expected the gnats. You expected the heat. You expected the isolation.
But not the silence.
Not this bone-deep, split-the-world-open kind of silence. The kind that settles between your ribs and listens to your heartbeat like it’s trying to time its own.
The house—your house now, left to you by some long-dead aunt you don’t remember—is old and sagging at the edges. It leans a little to the right. The paint is peeled and sun-faded, the porch boards bow like a tired back, and the front screen door barely stays shut unless you wedge a rock into it.
But the bones are good. The land is wild and wide and humming with secrets.
And the silence? You’ve started to like it.
Until one night, it breaks.
It’s not thunder. Not a tree branch. Not the slam of a car door or the high bark of a neighbor’s dog. It’s slower than that. Heavier. Like footsteps made of velvet and grave dirt, deliberate and soft, but too certain to be harmless.
You hear it just past dusk, when the sky is soaked in pinks and bruised purples, and the porch light buzzes weakly behind you. You’re sitting on the front step, knees up, the sweat from your lemonade collecting in droplets between your thighs. Your robe’s open at the chest. The heat has stuck it to the small of your back. You haven’t seen a soul all week.
And then—
“Evenin’, darlin’.”
You look up.
There’s a man standing just past the gate. Barefoot. Broad-shouldered. Dressed like a memory from somewhere you’ve never lived—boots slung over one shoulder, sleeves rolled to the elbow, and a face that looks like it’s been carved from heartbreak.
You can smell weathered leather. Wet pennies. Something faintly intoxicating.
You don’t move. Neither does he.
He’s handsome, you think, in a way that feels off. Like he walked out of a photograph too old to be yours. His hair is a mess, dark and sweat-matted at the temples. There’s a thin scar along his throat. He looks...starved. But not in the way that makes you pity him.
In the way that makes you want to keep your distance.
Still, you don’t get up. You don’t speak. The air between you thickens, trembles.
He tips his head slightly, a crooked smile cutting across his face.
“You look like you could use some company.”
You don’t invite him in.
You don’t say much at all.
Just glance toward the horizon, murmur something about supper, and let the screen door slam behind you before he can take a step forward. You watch through the curtains as he lingers at the gate, hands tucked into his pockets like he’s trying to look harmless.
But you saw the way his eyes followed your legs. You saw how he noticed the sweat beading at your neck. How he inhaled when you passed him.
You lock the door that night. And the next. But he keeps coming.
First, it’s flowers.
Not from a store. Not anything wrapped in plastic or tied with ribbon. Just a bundle of wildflowers laid gently on your porch, still dusted with dew. You find them in the morning, no note, no explanation.
Then it’s peaches. Sun-warm and soft, their fuzz still clinging with bits of leaf and dirt. You bite into one and taste sweet nectar.
Then it’s a knife. Clean. Sharp. Ornate.
Then a book of poetry. Tattered, spine cracked, pages dog-eared with a name you don’t recognize scribbled inside the cover.
Then the sound of humming—just past the treeline. Low. Gentle. Almost...worshipful.
You don’t see him again for a week.
And when he returns, he stands on the bottom step like he’s been summoned.
You sit in the doorway this time, robe slipping off one shoulder. You’re not afraid. Not curious, either. Just...ready.
Ripe.
He keeps his eyes low. His voice is softer.
“You ain’t said my name yet.”
“I don’t know it,” you say.
He smiles like that hurts him.
“You don’t need it,” he says. “You already own me without it.”
It’s hot enough to peel the paint from the porch railing.
The air hums with crickets, thick as syrup, the kind of Southern heat that presses down on you like hands. Nothing moves. Not the trees. Not the wind. Not even the birds. The silence is alive—dense and waiting, like the breath before a confession.
And there he is. Again.
You hear him before you see him: the soft scrape of skin on wood, the faintest creak of a loose board under bare feet, the hitch in his breath when your scent hits him like perfume and punishment all at once. You left the door open tonight—not all the way, just ajar—and the porch light off. A single candle burns on the windowsill.
He doesn’t knock.
He never does anymore.
Just leans his weight into the frame, like even that much closeness is enough to tide him over for another day. But it’s not. You know it’s not. You can feel it in the way his fingers twitch. In the way he shifts his hips. In the way the wood creaks beneath his knees when he starts to lower himself.
You don’t speak.
You just watch.
The hem of your robe rides high on your thighs, your legs bare and smooth against the old floorboards, one knee bent, one foot outstretched. You could shut the door. You don’t. You could invite him in—but that’s not the game.
You’ve seen how he suffers.
And you love the way he suffers.
He’s filthy tonight. Shirtless and sweaty, streaked with soot and dry blood that canaled in the defined avenues of his abs, a bruise blooming along one side of his ribcage. His hair’s a mess. His eyes look hollow. His lips are parted, pink and trembling, like he’s been mouthing your name into the dirt all night long.
When he drops to his knees, it’s not a performance. Not anymore. There’s no seduction in it. Just ache. Just need.
He whispers something you don’t quite catch—your name, maybe, or the shape of a prayer that lost its way. You hear him drag his nails against the porch, slow and rhythmic, like he’s trying to carve your initials into the floor.
“I dreamed of you again,” he rasps.
His voice is shredded. Used up.
“You were wearin’ that white thing. The one with the lace at the top. You smelled like vanilla and thunder. You called me darlin’ and I almost cried.”
You breathe through your nose, slow and even, but your thighs shift. You don’t think he notices, but he does.
His eyes flick to the motion and he moans—soft and low, broken at the edges. He presses his forehead to the floor like it’s consecrated ground. Like maybe if he can just touch it long enough, you’ll take pity.
“Please.”
The word is wet in his mouth. He says it again.
“Please, I—I don’t care what you do to me. Don’t even have to let me in. Just talk to me, sugar. Just say somethin’. Let me hear your voice. Let me see you.”
You shift in the doorway.
Then you speak—finally—voice quiet and even, your glass catching the candlelight as you raise it to your lips.
“Why do you keep coming here?”
He whimpers.
“‘Cause I cain’t not. ‘Cause you’ve got me chained up in here—” He presses a palm to his chest, hard enough you can hear the bones creak. “—and I like it. I fuckin’ like it, baby. Ain’t that sick?”
You don’t respond.
Instead, you lean forward just enough to let your fingers curl over the frame of the door, letting your robe fall slightly open at the neck. His mouth opens wider. His pupils blow black like a hungry shark.
“You want to come in?” you murmur.
His breath catches.
Then he nods. Frantic. Wild.
“Yes. Yes ma’am. Please.”
You tilt your head.
“Why?”
He blinks. He’s confused by the question. Then hurt. Then desperate.
“Because I—I need you. Need what’s inside. I cain’t smell nothin’ else but you. You’re in my fuckin’ blood, sweetheart, and I ain’t never tasted you but it’s killin’ me just knowin’ you’re behind that door.”
He leans forward, mouth brushing the frame. His tongue darts out—not quite licking it, but close—and you see the briefest flick of the forked tip, glistening and trembling with restraint. He pulls it back like he’s ashamed of it, like he wasn’t supposed to let you see that part of him.
Your stomach flips.
You almost say it. Almost.
But then you pull back.
And he breaks.
He wasn’t always like this.
You remember that. You remind yourself of it often—because it makes this part better. Sweeter. Sicker.
Because once upon a time, he tried to play it cool. Casual. Almost charming. Leaned against your gate with that low, lopsided smile, said things like ma’am and pleasure to meet you and you sure keep to yourself, don’t you, sugar?
Now?
He’s a wreck.
On all fours.
Spit roping from his lips in long, trembling strands as he drags himself toward your feet like a dog that’s been kicked too many times but still comes running. His pupils bleed red, eclipsing the black. His shirt is gone. His nails are cracked and black at the edges, scrabbling over the porch boards in slow, shivering motions that match the tremble in his voice.
His mouth hangs open. Tongue wet. Forked.
You can see the way it splits when he pants—like he can’t decide whether to speak or taste or crawl inside you and live there forever.
He looks up at you through his lashes, and it’s not seductive.
It’s pleading.
Pathetic.
Eyes wide and glossy, like something half-feral and half-forgotten, a kicked-puppy expression clinging to him even as he drools down his chin. He’s shaking. His knees have long since gone raw from dragging over your porch, and he presses his forehead to the step just beneath you.
You tilt your glass. Take a sip.
He moans. Loud. Unfiltered. Buckling at the sound.
“God, please,” he breathes, his voice hoarse and slurred like he’s drunk on the smell of you. “Please, I can’t—I can’t take it no more, baby. You’re killin’ me. Killin’ me soft and slow and I fuckin’ love it.”
You shift, just enough for your robe to slide up one thigh.
His hands curl into fists. He bites down on a sob.
“I’ll be so good to you,” he whimpers, dragging himself another inch forward. “You don’t—you don’t know what I could give you. What I wanna give you. What I think about every night with my hand on my cock, prayin’ for a dream of your fuckin’ voice.”
You raise an eyebrow. But you don’t stop him. And that’s all the permission he needs.
“I’d eat it for hours,” he blurts, voice breaking. “I’d keep my tongue on you till you forgot your own name. I’d fuckin’ cry for the chance, darlin’. You don’t know what I’d do just to smell you on my face. Let me clean you up with my mouth. Let me keep you sweet.”
He pants like a sinner, sweating through the knees of his jeans, forked tongue slipping past his lips as he mouths at the space near your ankle. Never quite touching. Never daring.
“I’d make it good for you,” he groans. “Better than anyone. I’d hold you down or let you ride. Whatever you wanted. However you wanted. I’d tear my fuckin’ throat out if it made you wet.”
You stay silent.
Let him spiral.
Let him beg.
Let him drown in everything you’ll never give him.
His jaw hangs slack again, saliva pouring freely now, staining the porch with slick, twitching need. He doesn’t even seem to notice. His hips rock forward once—pathetically—like he’s rutting against the air just from being this close.
Then—
“Say it,” he croaks, wrecked and delirious. “Say the word. Just the once. Just once and I’ll die happy. I’ll let you ruin me every night. Let you bleed me dry, fuck me dumb, use me up ‘til I’m nothing but bones and thank you for it. I’ll be your thing. Your pet. Your meal. Just say it. Say it and let me in.”
You watch him twitch.
You don’t speak.
And that silence?
It undoes him.
He presses his face into the porch and sobs—one sharp, cracked sound that makes your thighs clench—and you think, maybe next time.
Maybe.
But not tonight.
It’s late.
Later than you usually sit up for him.
The air outside smells like wet bark and heat lightning. You’ve just bathed—skin still damp, robe clean, lips glossy with something sweet and sticky you let melt over your tongue before you opened the door.
The floorboards are still slick from the storm earlier, and the moon’s a thin thing, half-ash and half-bone. Somewhere in the trees, something howls.
But he’s louder.
He’s already there when you pull the door open, sprawled out like roadkill—on his side, one cheek pressed against the porch wood, arms limp at his sides, knees bent in. Like he dragged himself here and died at the edge of your mercy.
But when he hears the door creak, he moves.
Head jerks. Eyes flash. His nostrils flare, and he moans—low and open-mouthed, like he’s just caught your scent for the first time all over again.
“Sweetheart,” he gasps, trying to sit up and immediately wobbling, weak from hunger or lust or both. “Sweetheart, I—I dreamed you were gonna open it tonight.”
You say nothing.
He drags himself upright, kneeling again, hands in his lap like a penitent priest waiting for permission to sin. His thighs are slick with drool and sweat and something darker—something old. You don’t ask. He’s trembling.
You step forward.
And he growls.
Low. Feral. Possessive. His shoulders hunch, his nails dig into the wood, his tongue flashes out—forked, twitching—and he presses his forehead to the threshold like it burns him.
“You smell like soap,” he whimpers. “Like you’re clean and warm and wantin’. You did it on purpose, didn’t you? You always do.”
You kneel in front of him, robe gaping where the sash has gone loose.
He chokes.
You brush a knuckle down his cheek. He shudders so violently you think he might break apart at the seams.
And then you whisper it.
Soft. Small.
The word.
“Come in.”
He doesn’t believe you at first.
His body goes very still. Breath caught. Eyes searching your face for the trick. His mouth parts around a sob so sharp it cuts his throat on the way out.
“Wh-what?” he croaks.
“You heard me,” you say, voice low. “You can come in.”
And that’s all it takes.
He lunges.
Not with violence. Not with fury. But with such pure, starved need it knocks the breath out of your lungs. He collapses forward into the doorway like a beast finally slipping its leash, dragging himself across the threshold like it hurts—but in a way he wants.
He weeps.
On his knees again. Hands clutching your thighs. Mouth open and dripping against your bare skin as he repeats your name over and over, shaking, whispering thanks like a dying man kissing dirt.
And he wails—the sound muffled against your flesh, trembling like a man who’s tasted Heaven and is terrified he’ll be dragged back to Hell. His arms wrap around your hips, pulling you down with him, until your knees hit the floor and you’re seated right there in the doorway with him cradled between your legs like a body in prayer.
“I’ll be so gentle,” he babbles, licking a stripe up your inner thigh. “I’ll be good. I’ll be sweet, sugar, I swear it—I won’t bite unless you ask. I’ll eat and eat ‘til you shake and sob and soak my chin and then I’ll fuckin’ beg for seconds.”
You let your head fall back, lips parted, robe slipping.
He sees it.
And loses what’s left of his composure.
He goes slow at first—painfully, reverently slow.
Tongue pressed flat to your cunt, hands gripping your thighs like lifelines, the tip of that sinful, split tongue tracing soft, teasing figure-eights just to feel you tremble.
And you do.
Every flick, every moan, every whimper he pulls from your throat drives him deeper into madness. He cries as he eats you. Cries. Big, open-mouthed sobs against your pussy as he whispers nonsense:
“So sweet—so sweet, fuck—never tasted anything like you—please, let me die here—let me drown—let me be your floorboard, your shadow, your fuckin’ leash, baby, I’ll be anything—”
You come on his tongue once, and he doesn’t stop.
Doesn’t even pause.
Just whimpers like your pleasure is sustenance, like your slick is water and he’s been crawling the desert for years.
You tangle your fingers in his hair. Tug. He moans into you. Grinds his hips to the floor.
“Can I fuck you?” he begs against your cunt. “Please, can I? I’ll go slow. I’ll go soft. I’ll make you feel worshipped. You want it rough? I’ll give you rough. Want it sweet? I’ll make you sob. I’ll bite your throat open and make you scream my name ‘til the walls crack.”
He looks up at you, face wet, chin slick, forked tongue flicking out like a serpent sensing the heat of your body. His eyes are glassy. Wild.
“Tell me I can fuck you.”
You nod.
He breaks again.
And then—
He crawls forward, palms flat on the floor, reverent and quiet. His cock is hard, flushed and weeping, twitching against his stomach. You see the way his hands shake as he guides himself to you. The way he groans—choked and low and obscene—when the head of it brushes against your entrance.
He looks up at you, panting. Lips parted.
“You sure?” he whispers. Like he’s asking permission to live.
You nod again.
“Then hold on to me, sugar,” he says, voice raw and trembling. “I ain't never comin’ back from this.”
And he pushes in—
Slow. So slow. Like he’s scared you’ll vanish beneath him. Like your heat is swallowing him whole. Like the walls of your body were carved centuries ago to hold only him.
He moans into your neck, hips stilling halfway through.
“Fuck,” he whimpers, voice shattered. “You feel like—like you were made for me. I’m—I’m not gonna last. I ain’t—please don’t let go of me.”
You clutch his shoulders.
He bottoms out with a sob, every inch of him buried in you, shaking like a man who’s finally come home. His forehead presses to yours. His hips roll once, reverent, like worship.
He doesn’t move at first.
Just stays buried to the hilt, mouth slack against your throat, breathing like a dying animal in your ear. You feel him twitch inside you—thick, hot, leaking—and for a moment you think he might cry again.
Then he growls.
Low. Deep. Possessive.
And moves.
One slow pull out—almost all the way—followed by a brutal thrust that slams your back against the floorboards hard enough to rattle the doorframe. You gasp. He moans. Loud. Open-mouthed. Obscene.
“Fuck,” he chokes, already shaking. “Oh, sugar. Oh, baby, you—you don’t know what you’ve done. What you let loose.”
He doesn’t wait for permission anymore. Doesn’t need it. You gave it the second you said come in.
Now he’s fucking like it’s all he knows how to do.
His hips snap forward over and over, wet slaps echoing through the open doorway, sweat dripping from his brow, tongue lolling out as he pants like a rabid thing. He braces one hand beside your head and the other beneath your thigh, holding you open, dragging you into every thrust like he wants to feel himself hit the back of you.
You’re soaked. Wrecked. Clawing at his back and gasping his name over and over like it’s the only prayer you’ve got.
“You wanted me like this, didn’t you?” he snarls, his drawl thick and guttural now. “Wanted to see me come undone. Wanted to see the monster in me. Well, here he is, sugar. Here I fuckin’ am.”
He grinds down. Deep. You cry out.
He smirks, wild and broken and high off the sound.
“You feel that?” he whispers against your mouth. “That’s me in you. Deep as I can go. You’ll feel me for days. I’ll make sure of it.”
And he does.
He fucks you until your legs tremble, until your voice is raw, until the only sounds are slick, messy, filthy. He presses his chest to yours, forehead to your jaw, panting through clenched teeth as he drives into you like he can’t stop. Like if he slows down, he’ll die.
You feel the sharp tips of his fangs graze your throat. His voice is wrecked.
“Let me taste you,” he begs. “Let me drink while I’m inside you. Let me be full, sugar. Let me be whole.”
You nod.
He doesn’t even hesitate.
His mouth opens wide and you feel the bite—sharp, electric, perfect—right where your neck meets your shoulder, and suddenly his hips are slamming into you harder, messier, feral, rutting through your orgasm as he drinks, drinks, drinks.
It hits you all at once. Heat. Pain. Pleasure so sharp it blinds you.
You come hard, clenching around him, and he sobs into your throat like it’s sacred, like he’s breaking apart inside your body.
You feel him twitch. His breath goes ragged.
“Gonna come,” he warns, voice slurred, tongue lapping at your skin between frantic, messy thrusts. “Gonna—fuck, sugar, I’m gonna fill you—gonna mark you—make you mine—mine—mine—”
And he does.
Hot and thick and endless.
He spills inside you with a guttural cry, hips stuttering, teeth still buried in your skin. You feel it pulse into you—claiming you, over and over, like his body doesn’t know how to stop. Like his need has no end.
He finally stills, trembling.
Still buried inside you. Still panting. Still moaning your name into the crook of your neck like he’s worshipping it.
And then—
He kisses the bite.
Soft.
Gentle.
His hands cradle your face like you’re glass, and for the first time all night, his voice goes quiet.
“You saved me,” he breathes.
And for once, you don’t correct him.
You don’t know how long you lie there.
Could be minutes. Could be hours. The air has gone still, heavy with sweat and sex and iron and him. The storm’s long gone, but you can still smell the rain—sweet and earthy, mixing with the blood drying at your throat.
You feel it when he finally starts to move.
Just a shift.
The slow drag of his hand up your thigh, fingertips curling into the dip of your waist like he’s reminding himself you’re real. His body is still flush against yours, cock soft now but still inside you, holding you open. Keeping you full. Like he’s afraid pulling out will make the whole night unravel.
You reach up, bury a hand in his tangled hair.
He makes a sound—small, shattered—and curls tighter against you.
“Don’t go,” he whispers, voice hoarse and full of something too heavy to name. “Don’t make me leave. Not after that. I’ll—I’ll be good. I’ll be so good.”
You don’t answer. You don’t need to.
Your fingers stay in his hair, stroking gently. His body softens against yours.
There’s blood smeared across your neck, your chest, down your ribs. His bite still stings, the skin pulsing, raw—but it doesn’t hurt. Not really. It burns. Like a seal. Like a signature.
You glance down.
He’s watching you.
Eyes half-lidded. Glazed. Glowing, almost—faint and strange, like he’s lit from within. There’s a little blood on his mouth. More on his chin. But he doesn’t wipe it away.
You wonder if he’s ever looked more peaceful.
“You taste like sunlight,” he murmurs, dream-drunk. “Like nectar. Like the end of the world.”
You huff a laugh, quiet and breathless.
“Don’t get poetic on me now.”
“I ain’t,” he slurs, eyes fluttering. “Just honest.”
He nuzzles into your collarbone, forked tongue flicking lazily against your skin like he’s still trying to memorize it. His hands roam—slow, aimless, like he doesn’t know how to stop touching. One settles on your hip. The other slides beneath your spine and pulls you closer.
“I ain’t lettin’ you go,” he mumbles. “Not after this. You said it. You let me in.”
You nod. You did.
And you meant it.
He presses his nose to your pulse point, breath fogging across your skin. His lips ghost over the bite. He presses a kiss there, reverent.
“I’ll be good,” he repeats, softer now. “You just tell me what to do, and I’ll do it. You want a house? I’ll build it. You want blood? I’ll bring you the whole fuckin’ town. You want me to rot on the floor again? I will. Long as I’m yours.”
“You’re mine,” you whisper.
And he moans.
Like the words filled him with something he’s never had in thirteen centuries.
You feel him soften completely then, sinking into your body like sleep. One leg slung over yours, one arm anchoring you to his chest, his cock slipping free with a wet noise that makes him groan as you shudder. Your body aches, raw and sore and claimed, but you don’t move.
Neither does he.
Eventually, he sleeps.
You know because the grip he has on you loosens—but only a little. He still breathes you in. Still holds you like something holy and fragile and violently his.
And you?
You stay awake a while longer, staring at the door still cracked open, the threshold now crossed, the air inside heavy with what you both became tonight.
The blood on your neck has dried.
The slick between your thighs has cooled.
But his body stays warm against you.
And outside, the sky hasn’t yet begun to lighten.
No birds. No blue.
Just that inky pre-dawn blackness pressing soft against the windows, holding the night still around you like a secret.
Because he can’t survive the sun.
And tonight, for once, you don’t want the morning to come either.
summary: asking out an orc when you’re a tiny bunny hybrid may be a bad idea… or your best one yet.
warning: size difference, belly bulge, breeding
🐰 🐰🐰🐰🐰🐰🐰🐰🐰🐰🐰🐰🐰🐰🐰🐰🐰🐰
Orc that you, a cute little bunny hybrid, see at a party. He's tall and handsome, you're immediately taken by him. But before you can go over and introduce yourself, you see him getting ready to leave.
You follow him out, calling after him. But he walks so fast, his strong legs carrying him away faster than you can walk, so you sprint to catch up.
"H-hey!"
You finally grab his sleeve, and he lifts his arm, bringing you up with it. You yelp as you dangle, only kept in the air by the grip you have on his sleeve.
"Whatcha want, little thing? Hollering after me like a damn banshee."
He shakes you a little, seemingly for his own amusement, and you squeak as your little cotton tail wiggles.
"Just... wanted to ask for your number..."
Your chubby cheeks puff out in a pout, and he softens slightly, lowering you back down onto the ground so he can pat you and pet those fluffy bunny ears of yours.
"Wee thing wants my number? You're biting off more than you can chew, little one."
And he was right.
Two weeks later he held onto your fluffy ears as his cock probed your little hole. You were tiny underneath him, his cock nearly the size of your arm.
All you could do was whine and wiggle your fluffy little tail as he pushed into you, stretching your fat bunny cunt to the limit.
A bulge appeared in your chubby belly, and he kept his hands on your hips as he fucked into you.
"That's it, take it, little rabbit."
You may have been the only thing other than an orc able to withstand his stamina, being the horny little bun you are.
summary: merman bf who's obsessed with your boobs.
content warning: the reader is written as a female, he calls you ‘pretty girl’, mentions of boobs and pussy, nipple play, boobs sucking, cunnilingus, smut.
a/n: this has been in my drafts for soooo long.
Merman!Boyfriend who absolutely LOVES your boobs. He’s constantly wanting to touch them. If you’re in private, his hands are always fondling with them. If you’re in public, then he is constantly back hugging you, his arm grazing the underside of them.
His favourite way of hugging? It’s the kind of hug where he pulls you very close, both hands on your waist and your boobs pressed against his hard, sculpted chest. He grins when you tell him that you do know what he’s trying to do. But all he replies is with a shrug and “What do you mean pretty girl?”
He has always been curious about human bodies, but since he started dating you, he’s always touching some part. Your boobs though? They’re his personal playthings.
He has always just fondled them with his hands, imagine his surprise when he finds out that people suck on them too? He thinks he has never been more excited for anything.
That night you’re laid out bare in front of him as he just suckles on your nipples. Squishing them together and massaging them. When you ask him what has gotten into him, he pulls away hesitantly but replaces his mouth with his fingers playing with your nipples.
“You’ve never told me I can do this too pretty girl. You’ve been holding out on me yeah? Let me have this, I’ll fuck you so good later. I promise.”
Yeah so basically he’s just like a nasty dog, frothing and drooling at the mouth at the site of anything that accentuates your tits.
More often than not, he leaves your boobs very sore, but then he suggests that he’ll massage you very gently. Those times after he’s done massaging you (he never really is done, you just tell him to stop) he keeps his mouth and fingers busy in your pussy.
Absolutely filthy way of eating you out. Staying true to his promise he does fuck you till you see stars <3
summary: He didn't know what you were. Human? You couldn't be. A vampire? Definitely not. All he knew was that your blood sung to him, called his name like a symphony - and you knew it. Toyed with him. Teased constantly. You were an enigma, and your front door called to him every night. Remmick was determined to find out what you were.
warnings: vampirism, supernatural beings, possessive behaviour ish, mentions of blood and gore, death, coarse language, future smut in part two.
unedited.
a/n: Go dté tú slán - "May you go safely / Take care."
let me know what you think reader is!
—
Your porch swing creaks before you hear his boots.
You don't need to look up to know it's him, so you stay resting on your couch, reading a book in a language no one else understood with a name that had long since faded.
Barefoot and hair loose, you lay back into the cushions, hearing his heavy steps in the gravel heading towards your porch. The evening air presses through your open windows, heavy with river fog and something sweeter.
You could feel Remmick's presence long before he even touched your property line - like a shift in the energy, like lightning that you couldn't see. He brought the quiet with him every night, that hush that wrapped around the trees surrounding your home, just enough to make even the crickets and cicadas hold their breath.
Like clockwork. Same time every night. Same route through your trees. Same banjo against his back that his long, pale hands would reach for the moment he was comfortable.
You counted the steps with a whisper - eleven - from the moment his feet left the dirt and climbed the steps to your porch.
There was no greeting, not right away at least. He settles in on your porch swing with a soft grunt, his boot heels clicking against the rail as the swing squeaks under his weight.
Music fills the quiet before you can speak. A slow tune, a lazy melody that spills through the air like the smoke of a dying fire.
Something sad, sweet, older than the Delta itself. Older than him, younger than you, but you wouldn't reveal, no any time soon at least.
"Are ye going to leave a man out here all by his lonesome?" He calls out through the screen, continuing to strum along.
"Might do," You speak with a soft cadence, knowing his vampiric hearing can pick up every word. You flip a page in your book, not yet moving. "You all bloody again like last night?"
He chuckles, deep in his throat, resembling something akin to a growl. Remmick had greeted your porch the night before after a feed, his usual collared shirt and suspenders drenched in blood. Chin dripping with the red liquid. He hadn't cleaned up, nor did he feel the need too.
The blood hadn't startled you, didn't leave you with an ounce of fear - as if it was something you were used too, something you had dealt with many times before.
It left him wondering all the same.
"No ma'am, all clean," you hear him chuckle again. "Why don't ye come out and have a peak? You don't know what y'missing."
"I've got a pretty good idea." Your book is beside you by this point, but you still lay down.
And just like always, his voice carries through, charming and honeyed with that southern drawl warped by old world Irish roots.
“You wound me," He sighs, playful all the same. "You ever gonna let me see you proper, darlin’? Or are you gonna keep me out here singing to the birds 'til judgement day?”
You smile as you stand, your lips barely parting. “We both know you scared the birds away already, besides - the door’s unlocked Remmick. Always is.”
That makes him chuckle, low and rough. He knows that you know that he can't enter without a proper invitation. “Now, we both know that ain’t how it works. I need a better invite to come from those pretty lips of yours.”
You start walking to your front door, bare feet against the hardwood as you see the sun completely set far off through the trees in the distance. "That's you assuming I want you in my house to begin with."
He's already grinning from ear to ear when you reach your front door, looking at you through the mesh from where he sits. He's clean, no traces of any hunts like last time.
You supposed it is too early for him to have fed.
"Oh I know you don't. Not yet at least, figured you like me sittin' out here every night. Keeping' you company and playin' my little heart out for a... What were you again?"
"Nice try."
He pauses, then softer. "Can't hate a man for trying."
"You ain't a man." You lean against the doorframe, arms crossed.
He chuckles again. "No I ain't, guess that means you're not a woman either."
"Seems we're both still pretending to be somethin' we're not." You eye the chair next to your door, a wooden dining chair you had dragged to the threshold when you first realised Remmick enjoyed spending hours on your porch.
You stretch, lazy as a cat, your silhouette brushing through the mesh of your door as you take your seat. Remmick sits up straighter on the swing, his blue eyes no doubt seeing clear as day through the tinted screen.
You hadn't bothered grabbing your robe, the weather here worked around your needs.
The door opens without you lifting a finger, enough for the porch light to fall over your frame, your neck that was usually covered. His breathe catches, looking over your bare legs under your night gown.
“Well now,” He whispers. “Ain’t you somethin’.”
You tilt your head, watching the hunger flicker behind his grin. He’s beautiful, in that ruinous way old things usually were to you. Too still, too perfect.
Death wearing charm like a piece of jewellery.
"Keep playing for me honey."
Remmick obliges, muttering a yes ma'am. The sound of the strings vibrates through the walls, teasing the edges of your senses. It’s familiar - this nightly ritual, but tonight there’s something different, something heavier in the air.
You lean back in your chair, your feet tucked underneath you, watching him over the threshold.
The first notes of the new song drift through the air again, slow and seductive. You close your eyes for a moment, letting the familiar music seep into you, letting it fill the spaces between the boring thoughts you’ve been pushing away all day.
He’s here to keep them at bay.
Just for a little while.
One leg slung over the other, banjo settled across his knee like it belonged there. His pants dusted with swamp pollen, boots scuffed, eyes gleaming that tint of red in the fading light.
You wait. He’ll speak first, like always.
Sure enough, the soft twang of the banjo fades, and Remmick’s voice drifts to you, deep and lilting, like the South itself was speaking for him. "Ye gonna make me ask again?"
"I know you're going to anyway." You cross your arms over your chest, chuckling softly.
"Would it make any difference if I did?" His voice was hopeful, almost childish in a way.
"Not even a little," He nods at your words like he expected them. Which he did. He always does. But he still shows up every damn night. Still asks the same questions. "You stay trying though."
He shakes his head slowly. “I mean, you drop lil’ hints here and there, I’m no fool. I know you day walk so you ain’t like me,” He sighs, deep and full of something you can’t name. “But you’re old - mind my manners, yet you got this glow to ya, like sunlight itself, but there’s somethin’ dark hiding inside there too.”
“And that bothers you?”
“Nah. Not botherin’ me.” He picks a slow, thoughtful singular chord on his banjo. “Just, I can feel your blood when I’m near and I ain’t never felt nothin’ like it. Not in all my years at least.” He strums again. “It hums to me y’know? That blood of yours, like a song with no words. Like… temptation itself made music.”
You tilt your head with a small grin, playing with the ends of your gown. “And here I thought you were above temptation.”
He meets your gaze, unblinking, his own lips quirking. “Never claimed that. Just know when I’m standin’ next to something that might bite me back.”
There’s silence for a beat, stretched between the two of you like an unforeseen thread. “You keep coming back though.” You say softly.
He shrugs. “Because you keep lettin’ me.”
You look at him for a long while. Really look. There’s wild power to him, even if it’s old and tired around the edges. You can smell the years on him, the many countries and the blood, the empires and riots, ballroom ceilings painted with angels and gods alike.
He’s been through the lot. Loved. Craved. Buried. Lost.
Much like you.
Yet he sits on your porch, playing century old songs and telling half truth stories just to pass the time.
"Letting you isn't exactly the right choice of words here," you scoff light heartedly. "You just do."
"I reckon if you wanted me gone," Remmick stops playing again, taking the banjo off and propping it up on the porch railing beside him. "You'd make me gone. Maybe zap me with something."
"Not a witch, but nice guess," You arch an eyebrow as he sighs. "Though I could do worse."
A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. Not his usual smug grin, this one’s quieter. Earned in a way.
“Another hint.” He points to you, tone pleased.
You sit up a little straighter in your chair, looking out to the garden that surrounds the house before looking out to the trees beyond.
Quiet, peaceful, safe.
Even with a man eater on the grounds.
"S'all you're getting from me." You smile, eyes returning to him as he swings on the chair, moving it with one bent leg.
His gaze shifts from your bare legs to your neck, though he holds no hungry expression - just confusion. Like there were a million thoughts running through his mind.
Remmick smiles, the kind that no doubt has spoken for him on more than one occasion. Dangerous.
"I won't ask for more," He murmurs, leaning back against the swing. "I'm startin' to enjoy this little game of ours, me tryin' to get past your walls, you tryin' to keep me out."
You don't miss the double meaning to his words, but you shrug nonetheless. A small laugh escapes your lips, almost inaudible to the human ear. "A game," you repeat, the word tasting like a humorous joke on your tongue. "Been awhile since I've played one of those."
He leans forward, the swing creaking under his weight as he moves. His voice slips through like velvet. "S'that why you like playin' with me then? Remind you of the old times?"
"Suppose it is."
His face beams, evident even under the dim porch light. You can feel the heat of his stare, even from where you're sitting.
"Well, then I guess that's why I like playin' with ye too," He admits, a slow bow of his head as he ponders his next thought. "Actually darlin', can I be honest here?"
You pause for a moment, watching the way Remmick fiddles with his hands. He was anxious. Worried. For a moment, you consider his question. "You saying you haven't been honest with me before all this?"
"Wait, no, no - no I have been," He quickly corrects himself, giving you a pointed stare. "I swear it, just, think it's time I come clean 'bout something I think you're causin'."
Something you're causing.
"Something I'm doing?" You say softly, words mixed with curiosity and mirth.
In the quietest of tones, and the softest of actions, Remmick clears his throat, like he was nervous to confess something he hadn't dared to speak aloud.
"I've been havin' some dreams."
Your head tilts, the hair on the back of your neck prickling - not from fear, but from the unexpected weight in his voice.
"Dreams?" You repeat, your voice barely a whisper. “Good or gross kind?”
Remmick rolls his eyes at your jest. "Now I'm sure you know that we're not supposed to dream full stop, those like me I mean," he continues, his voice low, almost reverent - but there's something else to it it, something raw, something he doesn't know how to name. "Been a millennia since I last did, then you came along."
You can't help the way his words excite you, and your heart beats just a little faster at his admission. "What kind of dreams honey?"
You already knew, it was just surprising it took this long. It happened to most, if not all, that came across you.
Something about the way he speaks makes you lean in closer in your seat, knees now no longer under you but bent and pressed to your chest. You sat on an angle, giving Remmick no chance of seeing between your legs.
He exhales slowly, a long steady breath, as though he was debating whether or not to say more. You can feel the tension in the air, thick, desirable, unbearable.
When he answers, his voice was even softer.
Vulnerable.
"In my dreams," He starts, eyes flashing red as he speaks. "I'm in the sun, but I ain't burnin'," His gaze drifts off, like he was remembering the very memory. "In my dreams, I feel it all again - the sun, the warmth, the heat. Like it’s real.”
Remmick lets the words hang there before his reddened gaze turns back to you, the light bouncing off the vibrant pupils. You can sense him searching for something, an answer you're not yet ready to give.
"And you're there," He continues, his voice just a shade darker, but still smooth like honey. "You are always there. For weeks now, every morning when I go to sleep. Just... Lookin' at me. Smiling - You're there and you're lookin' at me like you know somethin' I don't."
That was new.
You made a lot dream about their biggest desires, but never had you been present in them.
You're back to fiddling with the fabric of your dress, eager for Remmick to continue. He's quiet, like he was letting the weight of his confession settle over you. The air was thick now, heavy with meaning.
Heavy with longing. Desire even.
He yearned for what was taken from him, that much was obvious. The world outside seems to fall away, just the two of you and the haunting vulnerability of his words.
“Sunlight,” You murmur, more to yourself than to him. “Not uncommon for a creature of the night to miss such a gift."
He's silent for a beat, and you can almost hear the soft rasp of another chuckle from his throat. "But it don't seem right, does it?" He chuckles again, but there's a trace of sadness laced in the sound. "A thousand years of nothing but the dark. Then I meet you," He points a now clawed finger in your direction. "And every time I close my eyes, that damn sun's there with you right beside me - holdin' my hand like you're the one causing the warmth instead."
"Ain't that cute of me."
Remmick's eyes close at your attempt to derail the topic, to dismiss his qualms.
Your head now leans against the door, heart calming by the second as you take back control of the situation.
There's a strange, undeniable warmth filling your house.
It’s a warmth that had nothing to do with the world you had created on the land you resided on, and everything to do with the strange connection between you two.
“You think that it's my doing?” You ask, your voice a little breathless, a little teasing, but there’s something deeper behind the words. You know it is, and deep down he does too. “I guess I should be flattered you think so highly of me."
"Nah don't do that," He wags his finger towards you again. "I know it is, I can feel it darlin', you don't gotta lie to me - won't do either of us good. I wonder..."
His voice trails off, like he’s not quite sure he wants to finish that thought.
“What do you wonder, Remmick?” You ask, your voice tender but insistent, feeling a strange thrill curl up your spine.
His hesitancy was exhilarating.
The mans eyes close at the sound of his name on your tongue.
His voice grows even quieter, almost resembling a whisper that only the night shall hear. "I wonder why it's you. Why I can't shake you. Thousand years, countless memories that don't belong to me and so much blood - yet I've never felt anything like this before. It scares me."
You smile to yourself at the revelation, the kind of smile that doesn’t quite reach your lips, but you can feel it stirring in your chest. There’s power in this moment, in the way you both sit on the edge of something untold, something dangerous.
In the way you have a creature as world destroying as Remmick in the palm of your hand.
“Do I try leading you anywhere?” You question, voice still teasing, but eager to know of your own actions.
There’s another pause, and then you hear him sigh slowly, like a man who’s been holding his breath for far too long.
“You do,” He mutters, his voice low, almost lost in the silence. “But I wake up before you can."
Bastard.
"Then maybe you should let me guide you, see where I take you," It was truthful advice, as you were eager to know even yourself. "I can be quite the explorer."
You let the words hang in the air between you, and for a long while, there’s nothing but the sound of his quiet breath, the distant sounds of the creatures that hide in the woods, and the shimmering veil surrounding your home.
"You're still not gonna tell me anythin', are you?" Remmick asks, but you both know it's a rhetorical question.
You've never been to give any old being an easy way out. You let the silence settle, just for a moment, before you respond.
“No,” You whisper the word slipping from your lips with ease. It’s not a denial, but an invitation, wrapped in centuries and millennia of layers. “But you’re getting closer. I know you are."
His breath catches at your admission, and you can almost sense the tension in his body. His aura was riddled with yellows as he leans forward, searching your frame for more.
The swing creaks again, his claws tapping the wood nervously. "What am I missin'? C'mon, have mercy on me baby.”
You smile for what feels like the hundredth time tonight, something you've found yourself doing a lot more since meeting the vampire on your porch. “I've been merciful," You tilt your head, voice low, seductive. “The answer is there Remmick, I can't tell you myself."
Another hint. You wonder if he picks up on it.
The silence stretches out again, but this time, it’s not awkward - it’s electric. You can feel him straining to catch the next thread of your words, to make sense of the teasing mystery you’re spinning around him.
“You say I'm getting closer,” He says, almost desperate now, the rasp of his voice betraying the hunger that’s been gnawing at him, the frustration that’s built up over all these nights of playing this dangerous little game. “But it's a path I can't follow, it's something I cant see."
How wrong he is.
"But you have seen the path," You murmur. "You've walked it, every night now. Just trust me here Rem. Don't wake up next time and let me guide you. Be good for me… or dream me I guess.”
You hear him swallow, and you know you've caught him. He’s listening completely now, not just to your words but to the subtle pull of something deeper. He’s aware of it too now, the dreams - that you are causing them somehow.
You were causing a tug at his soul that he was adamant had died long ago.
“Where are you gonna take me?” He asks, like he's almost afraid to speak. Like you'll laugh in his face and slam the door. “What’s at the end then?”
You smile, your lips curving into something almost secretive. “Can't say, why not just enjoy the walk in the sun with me? I'm sure I look quite nice in your dreams."
You're back to teasing, knowing you were revealing somehow too much but still not enough. But it didn't matter to your people.
These were the rules.
Remmick's fists clench ever so slightly.
Deciding to throw him another bone, you laugh loudly. "You said it yourself you silly man, I've been dropping hints."
His voice is thick with the quiet realization that he's missed something, something important. “Hints?” He repeats.
You let him sit with the realisation. It creeps into his chest before your eyes.
"Mm hm," You hum. "You've had them all along, your old brain just needs to do some thinkin' with everything I've given you, I can't do anything more."
For a long moment, there’s nothing but the soft hum of the night around you. No sound of his banjo, no shift of his weight on the swing.
Just the sound of his breathing, coming a little faster now, as though the pieces are finally starting to click together.
"I just can't wake up." He murmurs, more to himself again if anything, but you nod regardless.
"Let me walk with you in the sun and maybe you'll see."
"In the sun." He iterates, and you stand from your chair, still behind the threshold with another nod.
"In the sun in his jealous sky," You stretch once more, letting your hands fall to your side as you lean against your door frame. "Ignore it, and you might never find out why I just smell so damn good."
He finally cracks a smile after what felt like eternity, nodding over and over at your endless riddles. "Suppose I can try."
"Good, 'cause I've said far too much now for one night," You admit, looking off again into the distance. "You should get going, I don't like how you scare off the deer that come in the yard."
"You kickin' me out darlin'?"
"You were never in honey," You retort with a scrunch of your nose, tilting your head towards the unknown. "Off you go now, I'm sure you're pretty hungry."
"Oh Im starvin', but if you're offeri-,"
"Absolutely not, you would not last a damn second," You cut him off with a scoff, and Remmick doesn't miss the double meaning for once. "Get off the land, I'm missing the fireflies too."
The land.
Not my land.
Something else he doesn't miss.
"Fine, but only because I am pretty starved," He stands, grabbing his banjo from where it rests and throwing it over his shoulder. "But I'll be back tomorrow, don't ye worry now."
"Great, 'cause I was really worried there." Your eyes roll, but it's clear there's no annoyance behind the gesture.
"Night darlin'." Remmick's already halfway down the porch stairs when you close the first mesh door.
"Go dté tú slán Remmick."
His head turns sharply as you close both the doors before he can even respond.
Vampire who wants to breed reader, though vampires cannot have children. The breeding kink still stuck strong 😳
NSFW
pt2
He can’t stand it, the way your pussy squeezes around him so tight, as if you’re trying to milk him dry. You whine and cry out for him to fill you up, to give you a baby…
But he can’t.
That doesn’t mean he isn’t going to try, though. The thought of breeding you, of filling your womb with his cum, and creating a new life with his beloved gets his cock twitching inside of you.
Just the thought of giving you a creampie is enough for his cock to be straining against his shorts.
You just look so cute underneath him, a little woozy after he’s fed on you, your cheeks warm and eyes hazy. Little whimpers leave your plump lips as you beg for him to make you a mommy.
“I will, my love. Don’t you worry, this one will take.”
He can’t help but fuck into you, the tip of his cock pressing against the special spot that has you mewling and digging your nails into his back.
Images of your belly becoming heavy and swollen with his child fill his mind, and he can almost picture how much your breasts will grow and fill with milk. He’s cumming in no time, and it will be far from the last load you take that night.
He’s not giving up on breeding you. You’re his mate, it’s his job to impregnate and protect you and his young. It just might… take a while.
But you never complain when he’s fucking you like that…
A/N: first, i'd like to thank my wonderful boo thang @iceemochaa for this idea. everyone go give her a kiss. i'd also want to thank some fellow people from the server for very horny-fest ideas: @crxw1ey @itsaaudraw @remmicks-salvation @madkingcrowley
ALSO this is in lowercase because i typed it on my phone (default lowercase squad) and i was already so far in that i didn't feel like going back to capitalize everything
synopsis : he catches you one night—drinking from you as you try to get away. but suddenly, something shifts in him; he starts to feel strange, aroused to the point that you can feel him pressing against your backside. a couple of nights pass before he shows up again—only this time, he’s not after blood. he’s hoping you’ll help him release all the pent-up sexual frustration he’s been carrying.
warnings !! (MDNI 18+) : unprotected sex (p in v), drool/spit, overstimulation, handjob, oral (f receiving), fingering, very soft dom remmick, virginity taking (both?), dream sex
blearing, white-hot pain shoots through the side of your neck, and a gasp tears through your throat. it is so sudden—so sudden, and you barely have time to understand how you ended up how you did.
he had grabbed you, holding you so close to him—his arms wrapped around your waist, holding you upright while his tongue licked lazily up your neck.
“shh…don’t cry. it’ll be alright.”
he had murmured against your ear, breath hot and dripping with thirst.
it was a cruel thing.
cruel in the way it stole breath before you could even scream, in the way it mocked the simplicity of your night—how only minutes earlier, your hands had been warm, reaching for the last pair of drawers on the line, the wind tugging gently at your nightgown like a teasing friend. you had only stepped off the porch. just a few steps. just to gather what was yours.
and then he was there.
the roughness of his grip was so sudden, so wrong, it split the air like a crack of thunder. your body flinched on instinct, mind fumbling to catch up to the moment—was this real? did you know this man? were you dreaming? but the pain blooming beneath his fingers on your arm told you otherwise. told you this wasn’t the kind of nightmare you could wake from.
you had opened your mouth to say something—anything, but no words could escape before his teeth—no—fangs punctured your neck.
his rough tongue darts quickly, his mouth slurping as your blood—warm and tangy—leaks down your neck from where his mouth hadn’t been quick enough to catch. the splatter of it spills onto your cotton nightgown.
a movement—sudden, but clear, spills from him. more so, from the space where he is pressed up against you. a stuttering breath passes through your lips at the contact.
he’s flushed up against you, and aside from the blearing pain flying through your body, you feel him pressing into your bottom.
he ruts against you, chasing the friction provided. he lets out a sound—a whine, you assume through the mind fog.
a heat flushes through you—sudden, unprovoked, and sickening. it crawls beneath your skin like a fever you didn’t ask for, one that sets your nerves on fire in all the wrong ways. shame follows fast behind it, swallowing you whole. it pulses in your fingertips, clenches in your gut, coats your teeth like bitterness.
you hate that you feel it.
hate that your body reacts at all.
because the pain—sharp, raw, burning—should’ve been enough. but somehow, it’s the shame that lingers heavier. shame that makes you feel small. shame that makes your skin feel too tight. shame that makes you wish you could disappear, not because of what’s happening, but because some awful part of you believes you’re supposed to bear it.
the suction of his mouth grows sharper for just a second—you swear he’s going to drain you. just before he can, you feel his head snap back, the crimson fluid he just stole from you dripping down his chin, coating his cheeks.
“oh….oh.”
your head slowly turns, and you spot his eyebrows furrowing as he glances down to the space—or the lack of—between you.
he seems confused as his eyes scan the way he fits against you—firm and hard, like instinct. like muscle remembering what the mind had long tried to forget. Like something inside of him is remembering something he had buried and traded for the concept of survival.
his mouth opens with a smack, before it slowly forms into an ‘o’.
you’re sure he’s about to say something when suddenly, he presses forward, flushing his chest to your back, ripping a gasp from your throat.
“i…i don’t think this is ‘posed to happen’”
his breath ghosts over your ruined neck, and the confusion falls from his lips.
a groan, low and abrupt, passes through his blood-stained lips. it’s a sound that doesn’t belong to hunger or pleasure—it’s uncertainty. reluctance. it rumbles like a warning he doesn’t understand himself, and it sends a jolt through your body, sharp as a spark beneath the skin. your breath catches. you’re not sure if it’s fear or revulsion or some terrible, trembling mix of both.
your eyes flit back to the porch—to the basket where your clothes lay, spilled and crumpled in the dirt. a shirt hangs over the edge like it’s reaching for you. the sight guts you.
you had dropped it when he grabbed you.
your arms had been full of ordinary things.
of clean linen, still warm from the sun.
and all you want now—achingly, desperately—is to return to it.
“please,” your voice comes out with a breath—choking up in your throat, “…let me go.”
he pauses.
the arm around your waist tightens and it causes a soft gasp to sound from your throat.
“why you wan’ me to let you go?”
his nose pokes into the bite mark on your neck, eliciting a wince from you. the question comes out a bit uncertain—like he’s confused as to why you want to leave him like this.
“you don’t feel this,” he punctuates his word with a rut against you. “you can’t leave me like this.”
the tone in his voice is desperate—needy even, causes you to freeze.
confusion laced with desire falls from his mouth. his rough, hot tongue darts out to lick at your neck once more.
a sound of disgust slips through your mouth—sharp and guttural, rising before you can stop it. it’s instinct, raw and trembling, the only thing you have left to give.
he pauses.
just for a breath. just long enough for the air between you to shift.
then he pulls back—confused, maybe stunned—and that retreat is all you need. you don’t think. there’s no space for thought. only a surge of heat.
you ram your head back, hard into his chin. bone meets bone. the crack echoes inside your skull like a church bell rung wrong.
a grunt tears through his lips, and his hold falters.
you move. not gracefully, not cleanly—
just fast. just desperate.
you push forward, wrenching yourself out of his arms. your feet slam against the cold grass, slick with dew, and the ground tilts underneath you. your vision veers sideways, spinning from blood-loss, from panic, from the weight of everything all at once.
“s-stop! you can’t leave me like this.”
his voice rings out behind you—desperate, yearning, maybe even startled—but it feels distant, like it’s echoing from underwater. you don’t dare look back. the only thing you see is the porch rising in front of you like salvation.
your legs nearly give out as you reach the steps, but you launch yourself upward, stumbling and scrambling until your body crashes against the door with a dull, aching thud. pain flares along your shoulder, but you don’t stop. you brace for the worst—for the hard slap of wood refusing you, for the cruel slam of a locked world.
but you’d left it cracked.
you don’t even remember doing it, but thank god you had.
your body falls forward, toppling past the frame in a blur of heat and breath and blind panic. the wooden floor meets you with a thud, and for a heartbeat, you just lie there—half-sprawled, half-curled, heart pounding against the floorboards like it’s trying to get free of your chest.
past the threshold.
inside.
safe.
the door was still splayed open, and you could hear the heavy boots of him pacing on the worn wood of your porch, but you didn’t care. didn’t care how or why he couldn’t just walk in and take you right back out.
no. you didn’t think that far, and as the weight of the blood-loss settles over your body like a wet blanket, your eyes roll to the back of your head.
——————
it had been a week.
a week since you had stepped outside your house at night.
that morning—when the light finally broke across your floorboards like a quiet apology—you woke with your head pounding and your mouth dry as cotton. every part of your body felt sore, like you’d been wrung out and left in the sun too long.
he was nowhere to be seen.
no shadow. no sound. no sign he’d ever been there at all.
but you knew better.
you didn’t step outside. not even once.
you stayed inside your home, locked behind the door like it was the only thing keeping the world from splitting open again. a strip of cloth was pressed against your neck, stained from the wound that throbbed beneath it. the ache pulsed steady with your heartbeat—a quiet, cruel reminder.
your fingers stayed curled around the handle of a kitchen knife, white-knuckled and still trembling, long after the sun had crept across the room. even when your hand went numb, you didn’t let go.
he didn’t return that day. or the next.
you didn’t want to worry, but a part of you still clung to the idea that he was out there, waiting. waiting for you to slip up so that he could grab you once more.
by the third day, you decided to continue on with your life. stepping outside onto the porch with your breath held in your throat.
he wasn’t there.
the sun beat down heavily across your home, and the clothes line danced with the wing—rustling gently.
that night, you dreamt.
your body jolted with each thrust, already caught in the storm, and his voice—ragged and wild—only pulled you deeper under.
“say it… s-say my name!”
it came out in a near-snarl, not cruel, but desperate. like the sound of a man barely holding himself together, trying to find something to anchor to as he pounded into you with reckless, trembling need.
but your voice—
it wouldn’t come.
your mouth opened, but nothing formed, just broken gasps and choked cries, your face still buried in the pillow, now damp with sweat and spit. your throat ached with moans you hadn’t meant to make. you were unraveling, bit by bit, your body pulsing around him, clenching tight as the pressure in your belly twisted into something unstoppable.
his hand on your clit didn’t let up. if anything, it grew more deliberate—ruthless in its rhythm. his thumb swirled over you, hot and slick, heavy and rough as your hips twitched uncontrollably. every nerve in your body was alight, the sound of his groans behind you nearly as dizzying as the slaps of skin and the bed frame straining beneath the force of him.
his cock throbbed inside you, each stroke deep and hurried now, dragging against your swollen walls like he was trying to carve his name into you from the inside out. the sound of it—wet, sharp, filthy—filled the room like a song that only your bodies knew how to sing.
and then it happened.
your body locked.
your toes curled.
and your lungs emptied.
a sharp cry tore from you—his name half-formed, almost there—as your climax hit, sudden and all-consuming. your vision blurred as your body convulsed, waves crashing through you so hard you nearly forgot where you were.
he let out a strangled groan behind you, his hips jerking erratically, chasing your release with his own. his cock twitched deep inside, and with a hoarse, broken sound, he spilled into you—warmth flooding you, filling you, marking you.
he rode it out, his body pressing down on yours, hand still moving, dragging the orgasm from you until it left you limp and shaking beneath him.
your fingers finally released the sheets, trembling, and you gasped into the pillow like it was the first breath you’d taken in years.
your mind blanked.
you woke with a startle—your body jerking, breath caught sharp in your throat like you’d been yanked from the depths of something unspeakable. heat flooded you, thick and sudden, pooling beneath your skin as if you were still there, still lost in it.
your chest rose and fell too fast, lungs aching from how hard they worked to steady you. your hands clutched the sheets without realizing, the fabric damp beneath your palms. your mind, still fogged with fragments, tried to twist back into itself—tried to make sense of what was real and what had only felt that way.
your thighs rubbed together—and you felt it.
a wet, sticky warmth clinging to the soft skin between them. slick and unmistakable. your breath hitched as the realization hit you, and a wave of shame surged through your chest so suddenly, you flinched.
“fuck…” you whispered under your breath.
your fingers curled tightly into the fabric of your nightgown, bunching it against your stomach as if the pressure alone could make the feeling go away. like you could press the memory down, flatten it, bury it under cotton and guilt.
your mind spun, trying to make sense of why him.
why that.
you didn’t understand why you dreamt of him in such a scandalous, filthy way—why his hands, his mouth, his body had felt so real.
why your own body responded like it wanted it.
like it remembered.
your face burned.
hot and clammy to the touch, even in the cool quiet of your room.
you squeezed your thighs together, trying to contain the pulsing ache that hadn’t yet faded. it sat there, low and heavy in your gut, begging to be soothed. your fingers twitched at your side, and for a split second, you almost let them drift lower.
but you stopped yourself.
you clenched your jaw and shut your eyes tight, pressing your legs together like a seal. like that would hold back the memory of his name falling from your lips, the feel of him stretching you open, the sound of skin slapping and breathless groans in your ear.
————
by the end of the week, you felt as though he was truly gone for good.
the silence had settled again, not like a threat this time, but like dust returning to undisturbed corners. no voice behind you, no shadow in the tree line, no sudden breath against your neck. just the wind. the sun. the familiar creak of the porch beneath your steps.
it didn’t take long before you slipped back into the rhythm of your days—those quiet, outdoor chores that had always grounded you. you began hanging clothes again, your fingers brushing the warm fabric, sunlight catching the edges of the sheets like a blessing.
in the back of your home, you knelt beside your small herb garden, pressing your fingers into the dirt like it could anchor you. rosemary. sage. thyme. they greeted you like old friends, unaware of what you’d endured. or maybe they knew—and simply chose not to ask.
the peace didn’t last long.
on the sixth night, he returned.
you’re taking the clothes down that had been drying all day—like you had before, when he first got you.
a crack sounds behind you.
sharp. sudden. too close.
your body jerks, instincts sharper than thought, and your head whips around—fists clenched tight around the soft fabric of a freshly-dried gown. your heart lurches upward, caught somewhere between your ribs and your throat.
your body knows before your mind.
knows the rhythm of danger. the hum beneath the skin.
and without a thought, your feet begin to move—gravel crunching beneath them as you pull yourself toward the front door like safety is just inches away.
“wait.”
you hate how you stop.
how the sound of his voice roots you in place.
there’s something in it—something cracked open. desperate. searching.
and for some godawful reason, it reaches you.
your feet freeze.
your head turns, slow and reluctant, toward the right.
and there he is.
dressed in dark pants, suspenders hanging loose like they’d been tugged too hard, too fast. a pale blue button-up clings to his frame, sleeves rolled, top buttons torn clean open. it might’ve once looked neat. now it clings to him like second skin—filthy, sweat-soaked, streaked in places with grime and something far worse.
blood.
so much of it.
his brown hair is tousled and damp, the front sticking to his forehead in matted curls. and beneath the fabric, the white of a wife-beater peeks out—though it’s barely white anymore. more a rusted red, like someone had tried to scrub the stain but it refused to fade. a thin gold chain glints against his collarbone, catching the moonlight like it doesn’t realize it’s resting on a monster.
your eyes widen.
your breath catches.
you take a step back. your heel digs into the dirt. and still, your gaze is fixed on him—on the smear of blood across his cheeks, dried and flaking at the edges, like war paint. it trails down his throat, painting the lines of his neck, seeping into the cotton of his shirt. it looks fresh.
his mouth opens as he takes a step forward.
you take a step back—slow, deliberate, your heel skimming the earth like you’re testing the ground beneath you, unsure if it will hold.
“i ain’t goin’ to hurt you.”
his voice is soft. too soft. like he’s trying to fold himself into something harmless, like he doesn’t still have blood on his face, like he didn’t tear through you once already. it’s a tone that might’ve calmed you in another life. in this one, it makes your stomach turn.
your fingers clutch the dress tighter, knuckles paling with the strain. you can feel the seams of the fabric pressing into your skin, grounding you, even as your body begs to run.
you want—desperately, urgently—to look back. to see how many steps remain between you and the safety of your door. but you don’t dare move. not even your eyes. not when he’s watching you like that. not when you know how quick he can close the space between you.
even the smallest glance away might invite him forward.
“you hurt me before.”
the words fall from your lips before you’re ready. soft. strange. unfamiliar.
the sound of your own voice jars you. it doesn’t sound angry. it doesn’t even sound afraid. it sounds… disoriented. like the memory has begun to blur around the edges, melting into something that doesn’t make sense anymore. like you’re not certain if it happened the way you remember. if it happened at all.
and that terrifies you more than anything.
because you know what he did.
your body still remembers, even if your voice has started to forget.
your mind flits back to the dream—the dream that had you gasping for air once you’d awaken.
it’s strange.
here, in front of you, was the man—the beast—who had held your life in the palm of his hand, threatening death with a final pull of your blood into his mouth.
and now, all you could think about was the way he rubbed against you—like the feeling was both foreign and enticing to him.
he lets out a strained laugh.
“yeah. you’re right about that, b-but, i ain’t goin’ to do that again.
“how can i trust you?”
your voice is more certain this time around, and your hands fall to your sides, still holding the dress in your hand as your chest moves with your breaths.
the wind sweeps between you.
he takes another step forward and you mirror by taking another step backward.
his arms lift, elbows jutting out wide as his hands settle on top of his head. his fingers thread through his messy hair, gripping at the roots like he’s trying to hold something inside from breaking loose.
then comes the sound.
low, cracked—something between a groan and a whine.
“please… why is this happenin’ to me?”
his voice trembles at the edges, and for a moment, it almost sounds like grief. like confusion twisted into something uglier. and that unsettles you even more. because this isn’t remorse. this isn’t shame. it’s self-pity—sharp and misplaced.
you blink, heart rattling in your chest.
you have no idea what he’s talking about.
and the not knowing—it’s beginning to twist in your gut, cold and tight.
he starts pacing, erratic and restless, but still a good distance off. far enough that you can breathe. far enough that you don’t yet have to run.
“i’ve been runnin’ ‘round everywhere,” he mutters, almost to himself, his voice thick with something that borders on frustration. “drainin’ folks left an’ right…”
he pauses, his body stiffening.
“but i ain’t do this with them.”
his arms drop heavily to his sides, and then one hand presses flat against his pants—lower. against himself.
your breath stutters.
the gesture is crude, almost unconscious, like his body is betraying him, like he doesn’t know what to do with what he’s feeling. and that’s what makes it worse. not the motion itself, but the fact that he’s unraveling—right there in front of you.
and you’re the one he’s unraveling over.
you take a step backward, slow and cautious, and the snap of a small branch beneath your foot cuts through the quiet like a shot.
he stops.
his head turns toward you—slow, deliberate, like he already knows exactly where you are. his eyes lock onto yours, and something in your chest flinches. not from fear. not entirely.
no, it’s something else.
something low and stirring, unwelcome but real, curling hot in your belly beneath the weight of his gaze. it shames you the moment it blooms, but it doesn’t leave. it sits there, twisting—because the look in his eyes isn’t hungry for blood. not right now.
he looks torn.
like a man fraying at the seams.
like something inside him is breaking open under the weight of a need he doesn’t understand—had forgotten was possible. a craving that wasn’t sharp teeth and crimson thirst, but touch. closeness. something unbearably human.
he takes a step forward.
you don’t move.
“help me…” he breathes, voice cracking as if the words pain him. “i won’t hurt you. just help me feel better. yeah?”
he inches closer, each step careful, almost reverent, until he’s within arm’s reach. and now, this close, you can see it all—his chest heaving, the tension in his shoulders, the way his pants strain from how tightly he’s wound. how unbearably pent up he is.
your eyes flick down. just for a second.
your cheeks flush hot, instant and humiliating, and you curse yourself silently—clenching your jaw as if that alone could rewind the moment. your body had again. as if it hadn’t learned.
he doesn’t let you answer.
he takes another step forward, slow and deliberate, like he’s afraid any hesitation might send him unraveling again.
your empty hand flies up on instinct, palm raised between you like a barrier made of sheer will.
“stop,” you say.
but your voice—god, your voice—comes out too soft, too unsure, trembling on the edges. it betrays you, just like your body does.
he doesn’t stop.
he keeps moving until your hand meets his chest, firm and burning beneath your touch. his skin is hot through the thin fabric, and the moment you make contact, a sound spills from him—deep and broken. a groan laced with something softer, needier. a whine.
his head dips slightly, his breath brushing your skin.
“see?” he murmurs, voice thick, ragged. “see what you’re doin’ to me?”
it takes every ounce of strength to keep your gaze on his, to hold steady beneath the weight of him. but the tension in his body, the ragged rise of his chest, the way he looks at you like you’re both his torment and salvation—it all pulls your eyes downward.
just for a second.
just long enough to see his hand again, pressing against himself, slow and deliberate.
resuming what he had started.
and your breath stutters.
“stop. i don’t know you.”
your voice is firmer this time, but there’s a crack running through it.
a hairline fracture of fear, of confusion, of something far more complicated than either.
his eyes stay locked on yours, wild and pleading.
“remmick,” he breathes.
“what?”
you blink. it comes out before you can process it.
“my name,” he says again, faster this time. “remmick.”
he says it like it means something. like it should unlock something in you.
he pauses, as if waiting for it to take hold, and then looks up—right into your eyes.
“say it. please.”
your hand is still on his chest, trembling now, caught between pushing him away and holding him there. your lips part, hesitating, uncertain. but the sound slips out anyway.
“remmick.”
that’s all it takes.
his body shifts—subtle but unmistakable—as if the word pierced straight through him. he leans forward, just slightly, like he’s being drawn into you by gravity itself. one of his hands lifts, and he presses yours harder against his chest, like he needs to feel it. like he needs proof that you said it. that it’s real.
a soft moan escapes him, low and shivering, the sound pulled from somewhere deep. it curls around you like smoke—dangerous, intimate, and far too close.
a sensation shoots through you—sharp and strange—sparking low in your belly and crawling up your spine like a current. your body shudders, betraying you before you can make sense of it. you suck in a breath through parted lips, and that’s when you catch it.
he’s close.
so close, you can smell him.
not just blood, though that’s there—metallic, sharp, and thick like it clings to him from the inside out. not just dirt either, though earth clings to his clothes, the scent of sweat and soil mingling on his skin. there’s something else. something older. colder. something that reminds you of decay, of things buried and forgotten. it lingers in the air around him like a warning.
your voice trembles as it slips past your lips, low and unsure.
“if…”
you pause, swallowing hard as your thoughts struggle to take shape.
“if i help you… will you let me live?”
your eyes dart away from his, just for a second.
you don’t mean to. but holding his gaze for too long feels like surrendering.
remmick pauses.
it’s slight—barely a beat—but you feel it in your bones.
“i was always plannin’ on keepin’ you,” he murmurs, and something about the way he says it makes your stomach twist. “couldn’t do that if you’re dead.”
his voice has changed. not just the words—his whole way of speaking. the southern drawl softens, thins out, and something else bleeds through. a different cadence. older. maybe even his real voice. it startles you, but you can’t quite place why. it sounds less put-on. more him.
he studies your face—eyes flicking across your features like he’s trying to read a language only he remembers.
then, a slow smile curves his lips. not smug. not cruel.
curious. certain.
“tell me you feel it too.”
you want to say no.
you want to recoil, to push him away, to scream that this is wrong, that none of this makes sense, that nothing about him feels safe.
but your body—traitorous, aching, alive—gives you away.
because as you look at him, at the hunger and confusion tangled in his expression, something warm begins to spread through you again.
you gather the courage to turn from him, your eyes flicking toward the back door—your door. the one that had always meant safety, the one you weren’t sure would feel that way ever again.
“i can’t let you in.”
the words leave your mouth like something sacred. like a boundary you hope he might honor.
his smile deepens, slow and knowing.
“i know, darlin’,” he says, voice like worn velvet. “you’re not stupid.”
the way he says it isn’t mocking. it almost sounds like admiration. like he means it.
you glance back at him, chest tight, and exhale a shaky breath. your hand softens against his chest, settling there beneath the warmth of his palm—no longer resisting. not quite yielding. something in between.
“okay.”
you barely get the word out before the world shifts.
suddenly, you’re in his arms—lifted with startling ease, pressed tightly against his chest like you belong there. a shocked gasp rips from your throat, your arms instinctively grabbing hold of whatever they can, unsure whether to brace or cling.
his feet move fast, sure, and then the cool slam of the outside world hits you again—your back porch beneath you, the creak of old wood under his boots.
your feet touch down onto the dirty boards, but you barely feel them.
your back hits the wall of your house, and his chest meets yours.
you’re trapped—surrounded by the scent of him, the warmth of him, the tension that radiates off his body in waves. the wall behind you is cool and hard, but his body in front of you burns like fever. he’s close. too close. and yet somehow not close enough for him.
something in him shifts—slow, subtle. like the current inside him changes direction and he doesn’t know how to follow it. you feel it in the way his body stills, then trembles slightly, pressed so tight against you that every breath he takes stutters against your chest.
you can feel him—hard and insistent—pressing into your thigh through the worn fabric of his pants. the weight of it, the heat, the way it pulses with no rhythm but his rising need.
he seems… lost.
remmick’s eyes flicker, wild and unsure, and when you meet them, there’s something desperate there. not hunger like before—but confusion. like his body remembered something his mind didn’t. like he had no idea what to do with this kind of ache.
you search his gaze, trying to find a map inside him. something that tells you what he wants. what he expects. but there’s nothing clear. only the trembling look of a man who doesn’t remember how to feel without violence.
then he lets out a groan—low and helpless—as his hips push forward, grinding against your thigh with a need he doesn’t seem to know how to contain.
your body jerks in surprise.
a sharp breath tears from your lips as the movement drags heat through you, low and dizzying. it coils in your belly, thick and sudden.
you hadn’t meant to respond.
but now that you have, you can’t pretend not to feel it.
“do something, please.”
his voice breaks apart as he speaks, breath coming in fast, shallow bursts. he begs through it—through the way his hips keep chasing the friction, rutting against your thigh like it’s the only thing anchoring him to the earth.
you swallow hard, nerves tangled with something warmer, something you don’t want to name. your fingers twitch where they rest, and you shake your head, barely able to speak.
“i–i don’t know what to do,” you confess, voice thin with uncertainty.
and it’s true.
you’d never been with a man like this—never one so far gone, so undone, so completely at the mercy of his own body. and even if you had… you never learned how to give this kind of touch. never learned how to bring pleasure to anyone other than yourself, never thought you’d have to.
but something about the way he presses into you, so frantic and confused, stirs a reluctant kind of empathy in you—mixed with fear, with heat, with a strange pull you can’t understand.
your gaze drops.
his hips are still moving, slow but desperate, grinding into your leg like he needs more and doesn’t know how to ask for it. something about it makes your breath catch.
almost without thinking, your hand moves down—hesitant, shaking—and you press your palm gently against him, through the fabric of his pants.
he freezes.
utterly.
and then a sound tears out of him—a moan, raw and broken, rising from the pit of his throat like it surprised even him.
his body shudders under your touch, rigid with restraint, but trembling like he’s seconds from falling apart. your hand stills where it rests, the heat of him burning through the cloth and into your skin.
your palm presses down harder, instinct guiding your movements more than experience. and that’s when you truly feel him—solid, straining beneath the fabric, the heat of him radiating through your skin like a fever. the bulge stretches wide beneath your touch, filling your entire hand, every inch of him throbbing with need you can’t begin to comprehend.
he lets out a choked breath, and then his hand shoots down—larger, rougher—covering yours. he presses it harder against himself, hips stuttering like he’s chasing something that keeps slipping just out of reach.
“it’s not enough,” he pants, voice cracking as his brows draw together, his face twisted in a mix of agony and need.
you feel your face burn at the words—at the implication of what “enough” might mean. your breath falters, throat tight, but your hand doesn’t move away.
instead, your fingers twitch.
they curl slightly, without thinking, just enough to grip.
the reaction is immediate.
he winces—a shudder running through his body like a jolt of lightning—and his mouth parts with a sound that’s somewhere between pain and pleasure.
“don’t stop.”
his voice is strained—hoarse, almost fragile beneath the weight of his own desire. like stopping would shatter him entirely.
your mind flickers back, unbidden, to the dream from a few nights ago. the one that clung to your skin even after waking. in it, he had been so sure of himself—so commanding, so in control. his hands had known where to touch, his mouth had known what to say, and you had given yourself over without question. there had been no trembling. no hesitation. only heat.
but this—this trembling, panting version of him pressed against you now—this was the opposite.
and yet it didn’t cool the fire in you.
it stoked it.
your heart pounds harder, your face flushing hot as the realization settles deep: he hadn’t felt this in a long time. maybe ever. the touch, the friction, the aching pleasure that left him shaking in your hand—it was unfamiliar to him. and yet he clung to it like it was the only thing keeping him whole.
and you… you were the one giving it to him.
there’s power in that. not the kind that demands or dominates—but the kind that hums quietly under the skin. the kind that says he needs you. not just for blood. not just for survival.
but for this.
and that truth alone makes your breath catch, your thighs press closer, the warmth between them blooming hotter, heavier.
you tighten your grip just slightly—just enough to feel him shudder again.
his breaths come out ragged now—uneven, trembling, like every second that passes without release is too much for him to bear. his hand stays pressed over yours, holding you there, grounding himself in the heat and pressure of your palm.
“take ’em off.”
your voice is steadier this time. firmer.
and it surprises even you.
not because of the words, but because of the confidence. the realization blooming slowly but surely in your chest—that you hold him. literally. completely. his need is cradled in your hand, and his body responds like it’s never known this kind of touch before.
remmick glances down, eyes locking onto the way both of y’all’s hands are still cupping him. and something flickers across his face—raw, unfiltered desire.
he doesn’t speak. doesn’t hesitate.
he scrambles, fingers fumbling at his belt, unbuckling in rushed, uneven motions like he’s afraid you’ll change your mind if he takes too long. the sound of metal scraping against metal, the zip of fabric—it’s frantic, loud in the quiet space between you.
you watch the way his hands move—desperate and clumsy—and when you glance up, your breath catches.
drool.
thick, glistening, slowly spilling from the corner of his mouth. it stretches into a line, gleaming in the light, trailing from his parted lips as if his body is unraveling faster than he can control it. his jaw hangs slack with need, his eyes half-lidded and glazed.
then his pants fall open, and your hand moves without thought—slipping beneath the waistband of his underwear to grasp him fully.
he gasps—loud and shuddering—and his hips buck the slightest inch forward, as if chasing the warmth of your palm. in that same instant, the line of drool falls, landing wet and hot on your wrist, sliding down over your skin like a mark.
the feeling of his drool sliding warm over your wrist sends a jolt through your body—strange, electric, exciting in a way you can’t fully explain. your thighs press together instinctively, the heat between them building with every breath he takes.
he’s heavy in your hand.
hot. stiff. pulsing with need.
his body leans forward, barely held up by the tension in his muscles. his head tips back, exposing the column of his throat, jaw slack as he pants through parted lips. he’s a mess in your hand—completely undone, breathless and sweating, helpless to anything but the touch you’re giving him.
but your strokes falter.
he’s slick with sweat, and it’s more of a struggle than you expected. your hand catches slightly with each movement, and you glance back up at his mouth, remembering the way that thick drool had spilled from his lips.
you pull your hand from his pants.
at the loss of contact, he stutters—broken and breathless.
“why?”
your face flushes, warmth rising all the way to your ears at what you’re about to ask.
“spit in my hand.”
his eyebrows pull together—not from refusal, but from the sharp spike of desire and confusion. his mouth parts slowly, and then he obeys, cheeks hollowing as he draws the drool forward.
his tongue slips out, mouth wide and willing, and thick strings of spit fall heavily into your waiting palm.
you watch it.
watch how it glistens, how it coats your skin, warm and obscene and intimate.
your hand stills for a beat as you take in the weight of the moment—how close he is, how his body is giving you what you need to bring him pleasure.
then, slowly, you lower your hand again.
your fingers wrap around him, slick now, and the difference is instant. your strokes glide smoother, faster, and his body reacts with shudders and gasps. his hips twitch and his head falls forward, forehead nearly brushing yours.
a ragged moan rips from him, and his hand slams against the wall beside your head, bracing himself—because now he’s truly falling apart.
“s–shit!”
it rips from his throat, a sharp groan laced with more than just surprise. there’s something else in it—something raw, starved. hunger, yes, but not just for release. for you. for more of your touch, your attention, your hand wrapped around him like it was meant to be there.
you move with growing confidence now, dragging your hand up his length until you can tug him fully out of his pants.
he winces as the cool air brushes over his flushed skin, a tremor running through him at the sudden contrast. the heat of his body meets the cold of the world, and he shivers—but doesn’t stop you. not even close.
you see him fully now.
hard and flushed, the tip red and glistening, a thick vein running the length of him like a path carved straight to your hand. pre-cum beads at the head, already smeared down his shaft from where your palm had moved over him before, mixing now with the slick sheen of drool still coating your fingers.
your fist wraps around him again, deliberate and slow, and the combined wetness allows you to stroke him with ease. the sound is soft, wet, and rhythmic—his breaths syncing to the motion like he can’t help it.
his body bows slightly, every muscle tensing, like he’s trying not to collapse from the overwhelming pleasure you’re building in him.
he tenses beneath your hand, muscles locking as your strokes grow faster, more assured. his body is trembling now—not from fear, but from how close he is to falling apart completely.
another thick line of drool slips from the corner of his mouth, trailing slowly down his chin. you watch it for a moment, caught in the daze of his unraveling, until your eyes lift—drawn instinctively to his face.
and then you gasp.
his eyes are open.
not fully, but enough.
cast downward, glazed over with pleasure. but just enough to catch it.
a glint. a glow.
red.
dark, pulsing, unnatural—like embers caught in the low light. your breath hitches in your throat as you stare at it, transfixed, and then—almost like he knows—he slams them shut, a sharp whine escaping him.
“aah… wait,” he pants, his voice trembling. “something’s happening…”
you know exactly what.
you feel it in the way he twitches in your hand, in the pulsing warmth building at your palm, in the desperation threaded into every sound that falls from him.
so you don’t stop.
you go faster. tighter. focused.
his hips jerk forward, chasing the friction like he can’t help it, and a strangled moan breaks from his throat. his whole body hunches over you, trembling, until his forehead comes to rest against your shoulder, breath hot and ragged against your skin.
“please,” he gasps—voice small now, breathless—as his head turns just slightly, his mouth nearly brushing your neck.
you smell it.
blood.
copper-sweet and heavy on his breath.
then a deep, guttural sound tears up from his chest—a growl soaked in something ancient, primal—but it breaks halfway through, collapsing into something softer. weaker. almost… pathetic.
and then he tenses, hard.
his whole body locking, shaking in your grasp as he finally lets go—spilling into your hand and across the front of your nightgown in hot, thick pulses.
there’s a moment of silence.
thick, heavy.
the only sound is his breathing—hot and uneven—ghosting over your neck, brushing the skin there with every exhale like he’s still tethered to you by need alone.
your hand remains around him, even as he begins to soften, your fingers still slick and warm. only once he’s completely spent do you slowly pull your hand away in one long, fluid drag. the motion makes him flinch, a gasp slipping through his lips at the sudden overstimulation. his hips twitch, but he doesn’t speak.
he stays still, suspended in the hush between you, before his head tilts up. there’s something open in his expression—tender, maybe. something you’re not ready for. his lips move closer, and you know before it happens what he’s trying to do.
he wants to kiss you.
your head turns, just slightly. your eyes soften, but the word comes quiet.
firm.
“no.”
it’s barely louder than a breath, but it lands like a weight between you.
his eyes close slowly, and he leans his forehead back against your shoulder—not angry. just… quiet.
your legs are still pressed together, thighs tense, breath held. your nightgown clings damp against your stomach, the fabric sticking to your skin where he’d spilled across it. the reality of it hums through you, the scent, the heat, the knowledge that you let it happen. that you made it happen.
then you feel it.
his nose against your neck.
the slow inhale.
he’s smelling you.
your body stiffens.
for a second, terror scrapes at your spine. you think—maybe he lied. maybe this is the moment. maybe he’s going to sink his teeth into your throat and finish what started a few days ago. your heart races.
but he doesn’t bite.
instead, he pulls back slightly, brows furrowed, nostrils flaring as he sniffs the air—curious. drawn.
you follow his gaze.
he leans in again, closer this time, his softening length pressing faintly against your stomach, dragging heat across your skin through the nightgown. and then, his voice—low and hoarse—scratches its way up.
“what’s that smell?”
your stomach tightens.
you hear it—that hunger tucked just beneath the question. not for blood this time. something else. something that makes your skin tingle with anticipation and shame.
his hands move slowly, tracing the shape of your waist, until they settle at your hips—gripping them gently, but firmly enough that you feel the intent behind it.
your brow creases in confusion… until his eyes drop.
you follow the look.
and then it hits you.
you know exactly what he’s asking about.
because while you were focused on him—while your hand moved over him, while you whispered his name and watched him fall apart—the warmth between your thighs had bloomed into something undeniable. your panties are soaked. clingy. shamefully damp against your skin.
your face burns hot as the realization settles.
he smells you.
remmick’s eyes slowly rise to meet yours, and what you see there sends a ripple through your chest—hunger, thick and molten, pulsing just beneath the surface. another line of drool spills from the corner of his mouth, thicker this time, stretching as he breathes through it.
his hand moves—slow, sure—and drags down, curling behind your thigh. then, without warning, he lifts. your leg rises with the motion, guided by his strength, and your breath catches.
a gasp slips from your lips as your hands press instinctively against his chest, trying to ground yourself, maybe even push him back—but your limbs are shaking.
“what are you doing?” you stammer, voice barely stable as you feel his hand slide higher. it skids up your thigh, rough fingertips brushing hot skin, slipping under your nightgown like they’ve done it a hundred times before.
“you’re leaking,” he says, simply.
like it’s an observation. a fact.
like it’s not the most shameful, intimate thing he could’ve said aloud.
drool slips over his chin, unbothered by the mess he’s making, by the mess you’re in.
your body burns. flushed and twitching beneath his touch, thighs trembling around the hand that now glides so easily against your damp skin. his fingers drag through the heat gathered between your legs, and your hips jolt, a quiet sound caught in the back of your throat.
his mouth hovers just beside your cheek now, voice ragged and breath thick.
“let me taste ya,” he says.
almost pleads.
and there’s something so raw, so utterly stripped of pride in the way he says it—like he’s not asking just to take, but because he needs it. like the ache inside him will never fade unless you let him have this one thing.
you turn your head slightly, breath hitching as you meet his eyes—his mouth still hovering beside your cheek, so close you can feel the heat of his breath skating across your skin.
“i…” you begin, voice quiet and uncertain, “i ain’t never had that done before.”
he lets out a groan—deep, throaty, almost pained.
it vibrates against you like a confession.
“let me do it,” he murmurs, eyes dark and pleading. “please. show me where you like to be licked.”
the words make your heart stutter, but before you can even respond, you feel it—his fingers pressing firmly against your clothed heat, dragging slow and deliberate along the soaked fabric.
“remmick—!”
your voice breaks, sharp and startled, rising without your permission.
your face floods with shame, your body trembling at the sound that just tore from your throat. but desire drowns it out, thick and surging—because the pressure feels too good to ignore, and his touch is reverent, not cruel.
he pulls his head back, just enough to look you in the eyes.
and he waits.
there’s no smirk, no demand. just remmick, gaze burning into you with raw need, silently asking for something he doesn’t know how to take without permission.
you stare at him for a long, aching second—heart racing, chest heaving—before you nod.
slow.
shy.
but real.
that’s all he needs.
he sinks lower, descending to his knees with a hunger in his movements, yet careful—like you’re something sacred. both his hands slide along your legs, settling at the backs of your thighs, his thumbs rubbing gently into your skin as he looks up at you from below.
his face is flushed, his hair damp with sweat and clinging to his forehead, his lips parted and still shiny from where drool had spilled earlier.
“tell me what to do,” he groans, voice rough with restraint, with admiration.
his mouth is inches away.
but he won’t move until you tell him how.
your body is burning now.
inside and out.
the sound of his voice asking to be guided—tell me what to do—echoes through you, wrapping around your spine and sending a shiver up your back. no one’s ever asked that of you before. not like that. not with that kind of hunger barely held back by restraint.
when you glance down at him again, you find his eyes already on you. waiting. not impatient. not demanding. eager. wide, dark, full of wanting—but still waiting. like you’re the only one who can give him permission to breathe.
“use your fingers,” you say softly.
your voice wavers, shaky at the edges, but it doesn’t matter.
he hears you.
he obeys.
you catch the way the corners of his lips twitch upward—just for a moment—before one of his hands slides up, lifting your thigh gently and settling it over his shoulder. the stretch of it opens you, exposes you, and you gasp as the new position presses your nightgown higher.
then, his other hand moves—slowly, reverently—until his fingers are back at your panties. they’re soaked now, clinging to you, and you can feel every brush of his knuckles against the sensitive skin there.
his eyes flick up to yours again—checking. asking.
and then he slips a finger past the damp fabric, the tip curling just inside you.
your breath stutters in your chest, a sound catching in your throat that you didn’t mean to let out. he watches you. his gaze never leaves your face.
and then—
with a sudden tug, he rips your panties clean.
the sound is loud, sharp in the silence—the tear of fabric quick and final—and the cold air hits you immediately.
your body tenses, thighs quivering around him as the sudden exposure leaves you breathless. every nerve is awake now, burning, aware of the way his hands hold you open, how the cool air contrasts against the heat pooling between your legs.
you’re bare to him.
and he’s still kneeling.
still looking at you like you’re holy.
you let out a soft pant, your breath catching as you feel his finger slowly trail up the inside of your thigh. his touch is warm—rough in texture, but gentle in pressure—and your skin tingles beneath it. his movements are slow, careful, like he’s learning your body inch by inch.
he stops just at your entrance.
he doesn’t go further right away.
he lingers there—testing. waiting. seeing how you react to the nearness, the quiet promise of what comes next.
then, without warning, he slides a finger in.
his middle finger—long, thick—and the stretch of it makes your walls flutter around him.
a low moan tumbles from your lips, your head tipping back slightly as your muscles clench. it’s more than just the intrusion—it’s the heat of him, the weight of that single finger inside you, the way it already fills more than you expected.
your hand reaches down, gripping the hem of your nightgown tightly, bunching the fabric against your stomach as if anchoring yourself to the moment.
he draws his finger back out—slowly, deliberately—and then pushes it back in with a soft, wet sound that makes your cheeks burn. your body clenches around him again at the sensation, and the lewdness of it, the intimacy of being this bare and open, sends another wave of warmth washing over your skin.
he breathes in through his nose, like he’s memorizing the scent of your arousal, and you can feel him growing more confident in the way his finger curls just slightly on the next thrust.
the thrusts of his finger continue—steady, slow at first, then building into a rhythm that leaves your legs weak. each movement sinks in with purpose, the tip curling ever so slightly, brushing against a place inside you that makes your hips twitch.
your walls clench around him, instinctive and aching.
“you’re so warm,” he pants, voice husky with awe, like he’s never felt anything like this before.
you glance down—eyes glazed, breath uneven—and see his free hand working at himself again. his fingers wrap around his cock, now slowly thickening with each stroke. the sight makes your stomach flutter, your lips parting as another moan slips from your mouth, uncontained and needy.
your mind is fogged with sensation—his hand inside you, his hand on himself, both moving in tandem like some unholy harmony of want. your body is no longer your own. it belongs to the rhythm, the heat, the burn of it all.
then you feel it.
another finger at your entrance.
his ring finger this time—thicker than the first. he eases it in beside the other, stretching you slowly.
you wince. not from pain exactly, but from the sudden fullness.
you’d touched yourself before, sure. but your fingers had never felt like this.
his are longer. rougher. firmer.
they reach deeper.
your walls stretch to accommodate him, muscles fluttering as both fingers begin to pump in and out of you. slick sounds fill the air—soft, obscene—and every time he curls them just right, you whimper.
meanwhile, his other hand strokes himself in slow, languid motions, the pad of his thumb brushing over the tip. he groans aloud, the sound low and wrecked, spilling from his throat like it’s being pulled out of him.
and all of it—his fingers inside you, his pleasure building in front of you—pulls you deeper under.
he starts to move closer.
you can feel it in the way his breath warms your skin, see it in the way his shoulders shift, the subtle rise of his body as he inches toward you like gravity’s pulling him into place.
a low growl rumbles in his throat as he presses his face in, and when the bridge of his nose brushes against that sensitive bud, you tense—hard. a full-body shudder rolls through you, your breath catching sharp in your chest.
then suddenly—his fingers leave you.
you gasp at the loss, clenching around nothing, your body pulsing with the need to be filled again, to feel something.
“let me eat you, baby,” he pleads, voice raw, mouth just a breath away.
his words hit you deep—both filthy and tender, desperate and reverent.
you hesitate.
not from fear.
but from the overwhelming weight of it. the way your body is already responding without needing to be told.
then, you nod.
he doesn’t look up.
but he must feel it—through the way your thigh tenses over his shoulder, through the way your hips shift just the slightest bit forward, offering yourself.
he takes that as his answer.
his mouth descends, and you feel it—his tongue drawing a slow, deliberate line between your folds, tasting you for the first time. your back arches off the wall, sharp and sudden, your thigh slipping, and he readjusts it with one hand, holding you steady with a strength that borders on possessive.
then he licks again.
this time deeper, firmer—and a moan tears from his mouth. the sound vibrates directly into you, and your head falls back with a strangled cry.
“you’re so sweet,” he breathes.
then he presses a soft, almost reverent kiss to your entrance—like a promise—before his tongue pushes inside of you.
you cry out, the stretch of it unfamiliar and overwhelming, but so, so good. his tongue thrusts harshly, rhythm building fast, and every movement sends you spiraling, moan after moan clawing out of your throat as your body writhes against the wall.
your hand flies down instinctively, fingers diving into his hair, clutching at the thick strands. you don’t even realize how hard you’re holding on until you feel him groan again, deeper this time.
and then—his mouth rises, lips closing around that bud.
he sucks.
you break.
completely overwhelmed, shaking with the intensity of it, clenching around nothing but air and the feeling of him devouring you.
your head flies back, colliding with the wall behind you with a dull thud, but you hardly feel it. the pleasure ripping through you overshadows everything else. your free hand reaches up, grasping at your hair, tugging gently—desperate for anything to ground yourself as his mouth continues to assault your core with relentless devotion.
“remmick…”
his name falls from your lips in a moan, soft and broken, like a prayer caught halfway through a plea.
he doesn’t stop.
his tongue licks, flicks, drags through your folds, then closes around your clit again, sucking it into the heat of his mouth with rhythm that borders on sinful. the sounds he makes—low, guttural moans and hungry grunts—vibrate directly into you, sending fresh waves of sensation surging through your thighs, your belly, your spine.
he’s pumping himself with the same desperation, his hand moving fast and slick over his length, the sounds of it mixing with the wet noise of his mouth working between your legs. and every time he moans into you, you feel it—feel it everywhere.
then he shifts.
the hand that had been resting firm on your thigh over his shoulder suddenly moves. it slides down—strong and sure—until his fingers press into the flesh of your inner thigh, right beside your entrance. and then he pulls—gently but firmly, opening you wider for him.
a soft gasp slips from your mouth at the stretch, the exposure. you feel so bare, so utterly open. his tongue immediately returns, working deeper now that you’re spread wider for him, and it feels devastating—like you might come apart entirely just from the way he holds you open and tastes you like he’s starving.
your eyes squeeze shut as a stuttering moan tears its way out of your throat—uncontrolled, raw. your fingers twist tighter in his hair, clutching at the only thing tethering you to the earth as his mouth continues to work you open and undone.
and then—
something shifts.
a feeling. strange. unfamiliar.
it starts low in your belly—tight, electric, and rising fast. it coils, curls, builds like pressure behind a dam, and you don’t know what it is, only that it’s coming hard and fast and you don’t know how to stop it.
your breath hitches.
panic flutters in your chest.
your eyes snap open, wide with the sudden fear of losing control, and your body tenses as if to brace for impact.
and then—
it hits.
a violent, blinding explosion rocks through your body.
your mouth opens, but no sound comes at first—just the air being pulled from your lungs as your release rips through you.
your eyes roll back, vision swimming, and your legs nearly buckle beneath the weight of it. your thighs twitch, body quivering uncontrollably as your climax washes over you like a crashing wave you were never prepared for.
but remmick doesn’t let you fall.
his hands grip you steady, firm and reverent, holding you together even as you come apart in his mouth. he moans into you, greedy and satisfied, lapping up every drop of your release like it’s the only thing he’s ever wanted—like it’s the only thing that’s ever mattered.
you tremble above him, caught in the aftershocks, completely undone.
when he finally pulls back, his cheeks and chin are drenched—slick with you, shining in the low light. his mouth parts slightly as he breathes, dazed and wild, and you can still feel the ghost of his tongue between your thighs. you’re still catching your breath when he moves again—this time, pulling you gently down with him.
your back meets the wood floor of your porch with a soft thud, the cool surface a harsh contrast to the heat blooming in your skin. before you can process it fully, he’s leaning over you, body caging yours in, his cock already hard again, flushed and leaking at the tip. the sight of him above you, thick and heavy, makes your breath stutter.
you barely have time to react before you feel him—his tip brushing against your entrance, slicking over sensitive skin, nudging.
you snap out of it instantly.
your hands press to his chest.
“w-wait! stop!”
his body stills.
he freezes above you, panting, chest heaving as he stares down at you. the desperation in his eyes is immediate—sharp and pleading—but he doesn’t move. instead, you feel his fingers tighten around the bunched fabric of your nightgown, clinging to it like an anchor.
your mind is racing.
he wanted to go this far.
he was going to go this far.
and you—god, your face burns even hotter as the thought settles—you’d never done this before.
not with anyone.
not like this.
and the fear coils tight in your belly.
“i won’t hurt you.”
his voice comes soft.
echoing what he said earlier.
but it lands differently now—closer to a promise.
you look up at him, searching.
his hand on your hip is strong, grounding, and though he grips you tight, there’s no force in it. only restraint.
you search his eyes for anything that might read as a lie, some shadow of cruelty or indifference—but there’s nothing. only tension. only waiting.
so you nod.
his gaze softens, and the hand holding your gown lowers, moving between your bodies. he grips himself, lining up carefully, guiding the head of his cock back to your entrance.
you inhale, slow and deep, trying to ready yourself.
then—he meets your eyes.
and begins to push in.
your jaw clenches hard as the stretch begins. the pressure is immediate, unfamiliar, so much. he’s thick—thicker than anything you’ve ever felt before—and your walls struggle to accommodate him.
“s-slowly…” you manage to stutter, breath caught in your throat.
he nods, sweat beading at his brow, his own face twisted with the effort of going slow—of not losing himself completely in the heat and tightness of you. your walls clench around him, instinctively, and he groans low in his chest.
inch by inch, he presses deeper, until—
you feel a pinch. sharp.
not enough to cry out, but enough to make you tense again.
your hand flies down, gripping the wrist on your hip.
“wait!”
he halts immediately, eyes flying up to yours.
“almost there…” he moans, voice strained. “i’m almost there.”
his hand tightens, holding himself still—waiting for you to give him more.
and when you finally nod—heart hammering—he moves again.
he pulls out slowly, carefully, then pushes back in with more urgency this time. the stretch returns, but this time the pain dulls quickly, fading into something else. something thicker. warmer.
his hand plants beside your head, fingers splaying against the wooden floor for balance, and he pushes the rest of the way in until he bottoms out inside you.
you both still.
your bodies tangled, your breath ragged, your skin burning where it touches his. and for a long, pulsing moment—there’s nothing else.
just the sound of panting.
just the feel of him inside you.
just the overwhelming, terrifying intimacy of being this connected
slowly, but surely, he pulls out—just an inch, just enough to make you feel the loss—before pushing back in with a deep, guttural groan. the sound of it vibrates through your chest, and your own moan answers his as your hand flies up, gripping the wrist of the hand planted beside your head.
your grip is so tight your knuckles turn white.
“aah… yea…” he stutters out, breath shaking as his hips roll forward again, his thrusts slow but deliberate, each one more assured than the last.
the drag of his cock inside you leaves your body stuttering—your breath catching in broken gasps, your thighs trembling with every deep, slow stroke. he’s thick. so thick. every movement stretches you wide, your walls struggling to take him and clenching around him with a mind of their own.
he groans—mouth falling open in something pathetic, raw, aching—and the sound shoots straight through you. the hand on your hip tightens, guiding your body with each thrust, steadying you, grounding himself in your warmth.
your walls flutter around him, and he sees stars behind his eyes.
every time you clench, it’s like heaven and hell collide inside him.
your back begins to slide against the porch beneath you, the wood warm and rough, dragging lightly at your nightgown as his thrusts gain rhythm. the pace builds—not fast, but firm, deeper. every push rocks your body just enough to knock the breath from your lungs.
the sound of skin meeting skin fills the air now—wet, rhythmic, desperate.
his grunts are low in his chest, slipping out between clenched teeth.
your eyes open slowly, jaw slack, mouth parting as choked moans tumble past your lips.
and then—
you see it.
his mouth hangs open, panting, and in the haze of your half-lidded gaze, something catches the light. not just teeth. fangs.
sharp. monstrous.
inhuman.
you let out a sharp gasp as his hands suddenly move—grasping the backs of your thighs with a strength that steals your breath. he drags you toward him with ease, your slick skin sliding across the wooden porch until your thighs rest on his, legs spread and trembling as he settles into the new angle.
once you’re in place, his hands return to your hips—strong, possessive—and without pause, he begins pounding into you again.
but now, it’s different.
his rhythm grows more erratic, more primal. he groans through gritted teeth, fangs fully bared now, glistening with spit as his mouth hangs open in pleasure-drunk awe.
he finds that spot inside you again—
and again.
and again.
each thrust is a strike of lightning behind your eyes, drawing stars out of thin air, making your body convulse in helpless rhythm beneath him. you try to say his name, to moan it into the thick air between you—but all that escapes is garbled, slurred noise. syllables tangled in pleasure too strong to form words.
you don’t notice it at first—
the way his fingers change.
the grip on your waist grows tighter, rougher.
his nails stretch, curling longer, sharper, claws forming in real time as his body reacts to you. to this. to everything he’s holding back.
he groans through clenched fangs, jaw twitching with restraint. it takes everything in him not to pierce your skin. not to lose himself to what he is.
your hands reach down, fumbling for the hem of your nightgown, wanting it off, wanting to feel the air, feel him. remmick sees the motion, and something feral flashes in his eyes as he helps you—tearing the gown up and over your head.
it now lays beneath your upper back, your spine pressing into the fabric as your body arches.
the cold air hits your bare skin and a shiver runs through you. your breasts bounce with each thrust, each impact sending them upward and down in hypnotic rhythm.
remmick lets out a guttural sound—desperate and overwhelmed all at once—as drool escapes the corner of his mouth and spills messily across your stomach. you gasp at the sudden warmth of it, the contrast between cold air and wet heat making you twitch.
then his hand moves again.
he lowers it between your legs, and suddenly he’s rubbing your bud—rough and unrelenting. the pad of his thumb swirls over it in frantic circles, careful not to scratch you, using just enough pressure to send another bolt of pleasure through your spine.
you cry out, louder this time, your back arching as your body tenses up around him.
his other hand rises, large and trembling, and cups one of your breasts, kneading it with a kind of reverence that’s quickly undone by the bite of his claws. one scratches just slightly—a soft sting blooming across your skin—and instead of pulling back, you moan louder.
the pain only sharpens the pleasure.
and remmick…
he watches you fall apart like he’s witnessing something sacred.
and he’s the one dragging every sound, every shiver, every tremble out of you.
you’re losing yourself.
your vision blurs at the edges, body flushed and trembling, unable to hold on to anything solid—except him. your hand reaches blindly, desperate to touch, to anchor yourself in something, someone. your fingers find it—the chain. that gold chain around his neck, damp with sweat and heat.
you loop your fingers through it, gripping tight.
the moment you do, his body responds—his thrusts picking up speed, harder now, deeper. his hips crash against yours with ferocity, the sound of skin meeting skin echoing across the porch. each thrust sends his balls slapping against your ass, adding to the filthy rhythm of it all.
“l–look at you…” he pants, voice breathless and broken, eyes wild as he stares down at where you’re joined. “so beautiful… and speared on me…”
your head falls back, jaw slack as he slams into you again—rough, desperate. his thumb is still on your bud, circling fast and tight, and the pressure spirals out of control.
you feel it.
again.
rising.
but this time, you don’t panic.
you welcome it.
your walls flutter, then clamp down hard around him, squeezing his cock in perfect rhythm with your unraveling. your moans tear from your throat, raw and choked, as your body convulses beneath him.
remmick chokes on a moan of his own, hips stuttering as you clench around him. but he doesn’t stop. not for a second.
he pounds through it—thrusting through your orgasm, keeping the rhythm alive, drawing it out until you can’t tell where the high ends and the overstimulation begins.
the sounds are obscene.
each time he pulls out, it’s wet and loud, a slick drag that makes your stomach tighten—and then he slams back in, deeper, filling you again with a moan.
your walls twitch, overly sensitive now, and a sharp little wave of discomfort flares in the middle of the lingering heat. it stings, but not enough to stop. not when he keeps going like that. not when your body can’t decide if it wants to push him away or pull him deeper.
your grip on his chain tightens.
remmick moans—loud and broken—as the gold links dig into his neck, and still, he doesn’t stop.
his hips drive into yours with punishing need, his chest brushing yours with every thrust, and you realize—
he’s not just trying to fuck you.
he’s trying to stay inside you.
to live there.
to lose himself in the place where you melt around him.
and it’s becoming too much.
your body is trembling, wrung out and burning, nerves raw from how he keeps moving inside you—deep, relentless, nonstop. the sensitivity spikes, each thrust dragging along your pulsing walls like fire and silk, sending you over the edge and right back again before you’ve even caught your breath.
your mouth opens in a soundless moan, your legs twitching, body locked in that unbearable space between pleasure and pain.
remmick groans above you—deep, rough sounds torn straight from his chest. they rumble through his body and into yours, and you feel the way he’s struggling. holding back. holding in.
his fangs flash as his lips part again, saliva stringing between them as he pants like an animal. he’s trying—truly trying—not to sink them back into your neck. not to bite down and mark you like instinct is screaming at him to do.
you see it in the way his head tilts, the way his mouth hovers near your throat before he jerks back again, forcing himself to focus.
your hands are full now—
one clutching his gold chain so tightly the links dig into your fingers,
the other gripping his wrist, fingernails pressed to his skin, grounding yourself as your body thrashes beneath his.
you whine, high-pitched and breathless, overwhelmed as your thighs threaten to close, but his grip on your hips is unyielding.
his eyes glow—deep, dark red—and when he looks down at you, it’s through that glowing haze of instinct and want and near-unraveling. his jaw clenches hard, fangs bared as he fights the shift overtaking him.
then he tenses.
you feel it—
in the way his rhythm falters,
in the way his thrusts grow sloppy, uncontrolled, missing that sweet spot as his hips jerk with no pattern.
he’s close.
he hunches forward, his whole body curling in on itself, and a loud, broken groan tears from his chest as he spills inside you—hot and thick, pulsing with each wave of release.
you moan, long and soft, as you feel him flood you—coating your walls in warmth as his hips keep moving, fucking his orgasm into you.
he pounds through it, chest heaving, sweat dripping onto your skin. the mixture of you both—slick and steady—drips down from where he stretches you open, forming a glistening ring around the base of him each time he pulls back.
“remmick—!”
his name bursts from your lips, sharp and breathless, as your thighs snap tight around his waist, trying to anchor yourself to him—to anything.
your entire body trembles beneath him, and you feel like you might fall apart again, even though there’s nothing left in you but the aftershocks.
“i k-know, baby…” he groans, voice low and shaking, still thrusting inside you. his movements are uncoordinated now, sloppy and feverish, driven more by need than rhythm. his hips jerk like he’s chasing the last of it, like he doesn’t want to let go of the feeling of being inside you.
your eyes squeeze shut, and your fingers finally release their grip on his chain, the gold slipping from between your knuckles.
you trade it for flesh.
your now-free hand reaches up to grab his other wrist, mirroring your other hand—holding him completely. your body, your breath, your trembling form says stay.
his breathing stutters again, another broken groan ripping through him as he thrusts deep—hard—like something inside him is unraveling one last time.
at this point, you feel it—
the steady leak of your shared pleasure slipping out of you, warm and wet, trailing down your thighs and pooling on the floorboards beneath you. the sounds between you are slick and endless—every movement, every shift punctuated by the lewd, messy wetness of it all.
then he pulls back—just slightly—to look.
his eyes drop to where his cock still moves in and out of you, glazed with the evidence of everything you gave him. you feel his stare deepen, and you swear he’s ascending—his lips parted, eyes wide, breath stolen by the sight of you stretched around him, milking every last wave of his orgasm.
his hips slow.
slow again.
until they still.
his chest rises and falls, frantic and wild, then slower, steadier—as he begins to return to himself.
he looks up.
eyes searching yours.
his mouth opens, like he wants to say something. like he needs to.
but nothing comes out.
instead, he leans down.
his lips hover just above yours, breath brushing your mouth, waiting—asking. not like before, when you turned your face away. this time, he lingers.
and this time, you don’t pull back.
you tilt your chin just slightly, and your lips meet his in a kiss.
slow. warm. breathless.
not demanding. not frantic.
just real.
and in that quiet moment, with him still inside you, your bodies still joined in the mess of it all, he kisses you like it means something. like he’s trying to remember what it feels like to be human again.
Summary: Orcs have invaded your world and you're tasked with taking care of a very angry, very injured imprisoned orc. But he's not the only one that's going to be taken care of.
Author’s Note: Hello, lovelies! A little while ago I got sent an ask here about the captured orc in the movie Warcraft (you can read the post here). I love the concept so much that I just had to write about him. He's unnamed in the movie so I just refer to him as an orc throughout this. This can be read as a generic orc x human story but just know this was written specifically with this big drooling guy in mind. Hope you enjoy!
Warnings/tags: 18+ MDNI, fem! reader, orc x human, canon divergent, smut with some plot, teratophillia/monsterfucking, injured character, conversation about mates, teasing, size difference (this orc is bigger than you no matter your size), let's pretend that Warcraft orcs would actually fit for a moment, fingering, standing sex, rough sex, unprotected p in v, some degradation, possessiveness, he's mean I don't know what else to tell you, choking, hair pulling, semi public sex (?), Lothar makes an appearance, no aftercare, NOT beta read
Word count: 4.7k
Your job had been straightforward for the most part. You were a handmaiden often tasked with cleaning and maintaining the kingdom's dungeons. There had never been many prisoners kept in the lower parts of the castle, not while you had been of service there at least. Most of the time the cells were empty and you were often tasked with taking care of other parts of the castle instead, places frequently overlooked by the other maids.
But all of a sudden you found yourself busier than usual when a handful of knights dragged in a nearly dead creature of the likes you had never seen before. It took multiple men to pull him down the steps of the dungeons and into a barred cell.
Lothar, a man you had become friends with, followed behind his fellow knights, watching as they hovered around the prisoner.
“What exactly is he?” you asked quietly.
You had met all types of denizens of Azeroth. Elves, dwarves, worgen….but never anyone like the large, tusked man that laid before you.
Lothar shrugged, not knowing the answer to the question.
“If I knew I would tell you. They just…showed up. I don’t know where they came from. Or how many there are. We took the other one to the king for questioning. She’s tiny compared to the rest of them,” he mumbled.
You looked down at the floor, staring at the smeared trail of blood leading from the stairs to the cell.
“He’s wounded?” you questioned, looking back at the cell.
“Yes, he was going to attack the other one we captured. Can you keep him alive?” Lothar asked.
You nodded. You had cared for injured and sick prisoners before. Some of them probably wouldn’t have lived if it wasn’t for you.
“I’ll need supplies though.”
“I’ll get you everything you need. Just be careful and try to keep your distance as much as possible. He doesn’t seem to be the friendliest,” he said.
Lothar left you with the other knights, disappearing up the stairs. After a few minutes, he returned with a box of supplies, far more than enough to heal any wounds. He ushered the other knights out and wished you luck as he sauntered away.
You had unlocked the cell and spent a considerable amount of time trying to remove the rugged bone armor and leather from the sleeping creature's chest. You then began cleaning and stitching the stab wound, silently cursing Lothar for creating such a nasty wound to begin with. Never once did the being move or wake. His breathing was weak and a part of you thought he might die right then and there from the amount of blood he had lost.
But his chest continued to rise and fall as you snipped the end of the stitches with your shears. A sigh of relief escaped your lips as you sat there for a moment, watching the sleeping creature.
He was large, bigger than any human you had ever seen. He had long greying hair and an untamed beard. Although his eyes were closed you could tell that one had been previously injured, the skin around it scarred and almost red. On the opposite side of his face, a deep scar ran from his lip up the side of his face. There were pieces of metal embedded in the skin where the wound had been closed and healed over the metal.
There was a part of you, deep inside your mind that found the rugged stranger quite attractive. But you ignored that part of your mind, pushing those thoughts aside. You knew nothing about the being that laid before you and you weren’t going to let curiosity get the better of you.
You wrapped a bandage around his shoulder and chest, something that proved to be quite difficult with how large he was. But you managed to do it regardless, securing the bandage so it wouldn’t move.
You stood up and walked out of the cell, closing the door behind you.
There was still blood all over the floor and you quickly turned your attention to that, scrubbing the floors by hand, something you had done time and time again.
About an hour passed and as you found yourself on your knees, scrubbing the last bit of blood off the floor you heard shuffling. You glanced over your shoulder to see the creature waking up, slowly sitting up, reaching for his chest and grimacing in pain.
He shook his head and looked around, growling as he slowly became more conscious. His head turned, stopping when his eyes laid on you. For a moment neither of you moved, staring at each other, but then the creature lurched forward toward the bars and let out a roar. You jumped back in surprise, almost knocking over the bucket of water sitting beside you.
The roar ceased as he grabbed his chest once again, falling onto his knees in pain. Your fear was quickly replaced with worry, standing up quickly and walking closer to the cell.
“You can’t do that. You’ll make the wound open back up,” you said.
He snarled and said something in a language you had never heard before. He sat back against the wall, glaring at you.
“I don’t understand what you’re saying,” you said.
He didn’t say anything else. He just sat there, grumbling and holding his chest.
And that’s how almost every day had gone for weeks. He would over-exert himself out of anger, trying to break through the bars of his cell. You would scold him, telling him he needed to rest, which he would ignore. He would yell at you in his native tongue and you would ignore him, setting down food and water in front of the bars, just enough for him to reach the plate but not you.
Some days the yelling and banging on the bars would get so loud that the knights that stood guard at the entrance of the dungeon came rushing in, scared for your safety. You would shoo them away, assuring the worried knights that you were fine. They were honestly happy to leave, not wanting to be so close to the creature behind the bars.
Not all days were like that though. Sometimes he was quiet, too tired to do his usual routine of raging. On those days you would talk to him while you cleaned or while he sat and ate, filling the void of silence with your voice.
You would just talk about things on your mind, gossip from the other handmaidens, stories you had heard from the knights that would try to flirt with you and impress you with their war stories. The table and chair that had been set out for you slowly inched closer every day as you sat and talked to him during lunch.
You rarely ever had anyone to talk to throughout the day. Sometimes one of the knights would join you for lunch or Lothar would talk with you as you cleaned when he wasn’t busy, but it was a rare occasion. So now you found yourself droning on to the prisoner during your time spent cleaning and your breaks. He didn’t seem to mind but you honestly couldn’t tell. His face often had some form of a grimace on it, a snarl always daring to creep up.
You weren’t sure if he could understand you either until one day, while the two of you ate, you finally asked him a question that had been on your mind.
“What exactly are you? Lothar hasn’t answered the question yet. You’re not human…not an elf. Your teeth are kind of like a troll’s teeth. A bit smaller than theirs though,” you rambled.
You didn’t expect him to say anything. On days like this, he never said anything. After a moment, he broke the silence with one word.
“Orc.”
You looked up from where you sat, glancing through the bars of the cell. He was looking back at you, his working eye staring at you.
“An orc? That’s what you are?” you asked.
“Yes,” he said.
“So you’ve been able to understand me this entire time?”
“Yes.”
He leaned his head back against the wall, looking up at the ceiling. He didn’t say anything for the rest of the day.
A couple more weeks passed and the caged orc had seemingly calmed down. He no longer yelled and raged on, often sitting in silence.
But sometimes he would speak, occasionally answering questions you had about orcs and his culture. He was often cold, even mean when it came to replying, but you simply shook it off.
You asked him about his cloudy eye and the large scar running up his face. That seemed to perk him up. For the first time in almost a month, his cold demeanor dropped. He told you about the fights he won, boasting about how many times he had come close to death. It was the first time he had ever been talkative. Usually, he would give short responses to your questions but now he was painting vivid pictures for you as he told a story for every scar.
“And this,” he brought his hand up to the healing stab wound on his chest, “is nothing. A scratch.”
You couldn’t help but chuckle.
“You laugh, but it’s true. Your tiny knights couldn’t kill me if they tried,” he said.
“Lothar came pretty close,” you chuckled.
He frowned, a growl escaping his lips as he stood up and slowly walked towards you. You sat just out of reach from him, you had moved your table even closer to the cell over the past few days. Despite his gruff attitude he had begun to grow on you. You enjoyed talking to him and maybe even staring at him a little.
You took a sip from your water as he stepped closer, gripping his hand around one of the metal bars.
“You talk about that one a lot. Is he your mate?” he questioned, his voice low.
The question took you by surprise, causing you to choke on your water.
“No…no. He’s not. We’re not…no,” you said in between coughs.
The orc hummed, sounding almost amused by your answer and frantic coughing.
“No? One of the other knights then? Or one of those handmaidens you’re always talking about?” the orc asked.
You shook your head as you sat your glass down.
“I don’t have a…mate.” The word felt foreign to your lips. You could feel your face heat up as you frowned, averting your eyes from the orc.
There was a small moment of silence before you heard him chuckle, the sound of his voice echoing off the stone walls.
“Don’t be embarrassed. I’m sure you’ll find a puny little knight one of these days. Although I doubt they could keep you satisfied,” he said.
Your jaw dropped a bit, shocked by the sudden forwardness of the orc.
“I think I’ll be satisfied,” you said, scoffing.
“I highly doubt it. The men of your species seem…inadequate,” he said, sitting back down.
You couldn’t help but stare at him. Why was he talking about this? What was he getting at?
You shook your head, deciding to change the subject.
“How is your wound?” you asked.
“I told you. It’s just a scratch,” he mumbled.
“You were stabbed with a sword. You’re lucky you’re even alive,” you sighed.
He scoffed, sounding offended that you would even suggest that he could’ve died.
“May I please check it? To make sure it’s not infected?” you asked.
“I guess,” he grumbled.
You stood up, walking closer to the cell. You swore you could hear Lothar in your mind scolding you for doing exactly what he said not to do. But you couldn’t exactly keep your distance if you wanted to do your job properly.
The orc leaned towards the metal bars as your hands snaked through, untucking the bandages and slowly pulling them off of his chest. The orc grimaced at the sensation, traces of dried blood had caused the bandages to stick to his skin. You hadn’t had the opportunity to clean it. It was the first time since he had first arrived that you felt comfortable enough to get close enough to examine him.
“It looks…fine. It could use a little cleaning though. Wish I had a healing potion to give you but I don’t know any alchemists,” you said in a quiet voice.
“I don’t need any of that,” he grumbled, looking down at you.
“At least let me clean it. Surely dying from infection isn’t the way you want to go,” you joked.
“Fine,” he chuckled.
You smiled. It was odd hearing the orc laugh but you found it slightly endearing.
You turned, grabbing your supplies from the table and turning back around to the orc. You hummed to yourself as you cleaned his skin with a washcloth, wiping away all of the traces of dried blood.
“No mate,” the orc said, snapping you out of your thoughts.
You looked up at him, confused.
“What?”
“You have no mate,” he said.
Really, this subject again?
“Yes, I thought we established this?” you asked.
“Why?” he asked.
“Why are you so interested in this subject?” you mumbled.
“You ask stupid questions all the time. Why can I not ask you a question?” he said.
You rolled your eyes and looked away from him, focusing your attention back on his wound.
“I don’t know. Just haven’t found the right person. Why do you care anyway? It’s not like we could be mates,” you huffed.
“And why is that?”
He was looking down at you. You felt your face heat up a bit as you averted your gaze.
“You’re too…mean. And grumpy. And I’m ninety percent sure you were going to try to kill me for the first few weeks you were here,” you said.
You turned away from him, grabbing a new roll of gauze.
“I’m not trying to kill you now,” he said.
You unrolled the gauze and started wrapping it around his chest.
“Yeah…I know. Can we please drop this subject? It’s not like I would be your type anyway.”
“Type?” he questioned, not understanding the phrase.
“Your type. It’s what you’re attracted to. Now shush and let me finish,” you said.
There was a moment of silence between the two of you. All of a sudden it was becoming very hard to think clearly. Something about being so close to the orc while he was watching your every movement was managing to make your head foggy. Sure, you found him attractive. Something about his ruggedness and size was alluring. But you never expected him to make your knees weak. And he hadn’t even done anything to you.
You did your best to ignore whatever feelings were brewing inside of you as you finished bandaging his chest.
“There,” you said, “all better.”
“Thank you,” the orc grumbled.
The rest of the day came and went quietly, all without a word about the previous conversation. You found yourself staring at him. Your stomach felt fluttery and it was becoming more and more difficult to suppress what you had felt all along.
When you went to bed that night you couldn’t help but repeat the conversation in your head, completely puzzled by the orcs’ fascination with the fact that you were ‘unmated’.
Such an odd thing to be hung up on.
What was worse was that your own fascination with the orc seemed to be getting stronger.
So much so that you couldn’t sleep. You tossed and turned all night, your mind racing just at the thought of the imprisoned orc.
So much so that when you finally did fall asleep, you dreamed about him. You were being held by him in your dream, the same way you had hoped to one day be held by a knight or maybe even a skillful mage. But for some odd reason, the thought of being held by the orc brought you more comfort than every silly knight fantasy you ever had.
So much so that the next day you found yourself scooting your table and chair closer to his cell. Something you had already done but now you were repeating the process every day for a week, slowly inching it closer and closer.
So much so that you started to purposely loosen the laces at the top of your dress. At this point, you weren’t sure what was overtaking your mind. You found yourself wanting to tease him, something you never thought you’d do.
So much so that you had been lingering in the dungeon well past the curfew given to the maids. You wanted to be in his presence. To say he was growing on you was an understatement.
So much so that about a week later when you bent down to pick up his plate, something you had done every day since he arrived, you didn’t walk away from the cell.
This time the orc gripped you by your hair, yanking you back hard against the bars of the cell. You yelped as the plate dropped to the floor. He let go of your hair and his hand snaked through the bars, wrapping it around your throat. His other hand rested on your stomach, holding you in place.
“Are you done teasing?” he asked as his grip tightened around your throat.
“Teasing?” you squeaked.
“Do you really think I’m clueless? Every day you get closer and closer to this cage. You’ve been staying in here late at night. And your breasts have practically been falling out of your dress. It’s almost like you’re begging me to rip it off you,” he growled.
He was absolutely right. You had been caught red-handed.
“Are you going to explain yourself, human?”
He had you pressed against him so tightly that it was almost hard to breathe. You could feel something hardening against your backside and that fluttery feeling started building in your stomach.
“I just…”
“You just what?” he said.
“I just want you to touch me,” you said just above a whisper.
“Say that again. I didn’t quite hear you.”
You couldn’t see his face but you just knew there was a smirk plastered across it.
“Touch me. I want you to touch me,” you repeated.
“Just a few days ago I was ‘too mean’ for you but now look at you. All needy. Maybe if you ask nicely. Maybe if you beg,” he hummed.
Now he was the one teasing. He didn’t move, his hands didn’t even flinch. He just held you tight, pressing you against his erection.
“Please. May you please touch me?”
You were almost whining, pushing back against him. He chuckled, finding your neediness amusing.
He let go of your throat and turned you around so you were facing him. Sticking his hand through the cell, he brought it up to your bust and gripped your dress, ripping the fabric down the front like it was a piece of parchment. You gasped as it fell to the ground, leaving you in nothing but your underwear.
“I liked that dress,” you pouted.
Not to mention the fact that it was technically your work uniform. A problem you would deal with later you supposed.
“You look better without it. Now take those off unless you want them ripped as well,” he said, looking down at you.
You nodded as you slipped off your undergarments, tossing them to the side.
He pulled you closer to the bars until you were almost pressed against them, lifting up one of your legs with his hand, cupping underneath your knee. His free hand snaked down and one of his large fingers found its way to your cunt, spreading apart your folds.
“You might as well be dripping. Already so wet and I haven’t even got started yet,” he said.
The orc didn’t give you time to respond as he slowly began pushing his finger inside of you, stretching you out as your walls wrapped around his massive digit. A moan escaped your lips and it echoed throughout the room.
“Sshhh, be quiet,” he shushed you, as he began to pump his finger inside of you.
His thumb rubbed against your clit, drawing little circles around it as his other fingers thrust in and out of your pussy.
You mindlessly ground into his hand, adding to the friction and causing ripples of pleasure to shoot through your body. You had never felt this full before. The size of one of his fingers was almost triple the size of a human’s.
Soon he was adding a second finger, gathering your wetness and pushing into your entrance, curling with every thrust of his hand.
“Gotta stretch you out if you want to take me,” he mumbled, fucking his hand into you at a quicker pace.
Your legs were trembling and you could feel yourself clenching around his fingers. His thumb rolled over your clit faster, pressing down on the sensitive bud.
You did your best to stifle your moan as your orgasm hit you.
“There you go. Cum on my hand,” he said.
One of your hands gripped onto a cell bar while the other reached through, reaching up and pressing against his shoulder for support.
He didn’t give you time to recover before his fingers slipped out of you and his other hand let go of your leg. His hands unfastened his pelt, revealing his hardened cock underneath. It felt like there was a lump in your throat as you swallowed, looking down at it. You could see why he insisted on stretching you out beforehand. You were a bit worried about it fitting inside of you.
“Don’t worry, it’ll fit,” he said as if he could read your mind, “Now turn around and bend over.”
You did as he said, turning your back towards him and leaning down. His hand grazed over your ass for a moment, giving it a light squeeze before he reached forward and grabbed your arms. He held your wrists behind your back, his large hands covering them completely. His other hand held his cock, sliding it against your clit, teasing you with the head.
You groaned, wanting to push back on him, but he held you firmly in place.
He slid his cock towards your entrance and began slowly pushing into the hole. You stretched around him, the feeling felt so new to you that it sent shivers up your spine. Although his fingers had done a good job stretching you out, it was still nowhere enough to accommodate the size of the orcs’ cock.
You felt him tug ever so slightly on your wrists, pulling your entire body closer to him, sliding into you at an agonizing pace.
Another moan began to slip from your mouth, unintentionally loud. Before it could come all the way out, his hand moved from your wrists to your mouth, muffling your moan as he continued slowly pushing his cock into you. He growled, a low rumble coming from his chest.
“Shush, you don’t want your little knights to come running in here, do you? You want them to see you like this?”
You shook your head, slightly horrified at the thought of a knight walking in, especially if that knight happened to be Lothar. You hadn’t even given that possibility a thought.
“Then be quiet for once,” the orc said.
You nodded, and his hand slipped away from your mouth. This time it settled on your shoulder, his other hand slipping off his cock and gripping onto your hip.
He held onto you as he began to slowly rock into you, thrusting the rest of his length into you. Your back arched as pain and pleasure crept up inside of you.
“Is this what you wanted?” he asked in a patronizing tone.
His hips were slamming against you, he was giving you no amount of time to adjust to his size. His balls slapped against your cunt with every thrust. That and the sound of you squelching around him radiated through the dungeon.
He reached forward, gripping your hair once more, pulling you all the way to the bars. You hissed as he yanked your head back.
“I asked you a question. Is this what you wanted?” he questioned.
“Yes. Ah-yes, this is what I wanted,” you said.
He let go of your hair, pushing you back down with his hand as he continued to pound into you through the cell bars.
“Look at you. Pathetic human. Taking my cock like a greedy slut,” he chuckled.
It was becoming increasingly difficult to hold back your moans. Every thrust was unrelenting. You could feel him sliding against that spongy spot inside of you and it was slowly pushing you closer to the edge.
You were getting louder and louder, whimpering as the orc fucked you.
His thrusts suddenly halted and you whined.
“No, why’d you stop?” you asked, near tears.
“I thought I told you to be quiet?”
“You did but-“
“But what?” he said.
“Please keep fucking me. I don’t care if they hear us. I only care about you,” you pleaded.
You weren’t sure what had overcome you but it was true. In that moment all you cared about was the orc behind you.
There was a brief pause before the orcs’ hands were wrapping around you, pulling you as close as he possibly could despite the cell bars between you. It was like something snapped in him as he began rutting into you, burying his cock deep inside of you with every roll of his hips.
You moaned, not caring if anyone heard you. You were so wrapped up in the pleasure that you weren’t even sure if you cared anymore if someone walked in.
“You’re mine, do you understand? I’ve ruined you. None of those pathetic knights can have this,” the orc growled behind you.
You were at a loss for words as ecstasy washed over you, too in a daze to answer.
“You don’t want them anyway, huh? I’ve stretched you out so much that only I’ll be able to satisfy you.”
You didn’t say anything but your body answered for you, clenching around his cock as he fucked you. And he noticed, grip tightening around you almost immediately like he was afraid you’d somehow slip away.
“Oh, you like that? You like that I’ve ruined you for everyone else? You want me to make you my mate, don’t you?” he said.
You found yourself nodding your head, not even thinking about it. Maybe it was just the pleasure or maybe there was truly something else. Something there deep in the back of your mind that wanted more of him.
“All mine,” he groaned.
Your body shook as you reached your second climax, moaning as you tightened around him.
“That’s it. That’s it. Cum on my cock. Just like that,” he grunted, still thrusting into you.
You were whimpering underneath him, slowly becoming overstimulated as he chased his own high, bucking into you. His cock twitched as he moaned, cumming deep inside of you. His hands were still wrapped around you, holding you through the bars as he filled you up.
Before you could pull away there were sounds of footsteps coming down the stairs.
Your mind was too foggy to even react when you looked up, seeing the all too familiar face of Lothar stopping at the dungeon entrance.
“Oh my….what are you two…put some clothes on!”
Lothar had covered his eyes with his hand, completely in shock.
The orc chuckled, letting go of you completely. Your legs buckled underneath you and you stumbled forward, slipping off his cock and falling to the ground.
You heard the jingle of keys before they were tossed near you, sliding on the stone floor.
“I was coming to let him out. He can thank his chieftain. I’m just…I’m going to go,” Lothar said, rushing out of the room.
You laid on the floor for a moment. Too exhausted to move, too embarrassed as well. You could feel the orc’s cum leaking out of you onto the stone. You would’ve fallen asleep right there if it wasn’t for the voice of the orc pulling you back to reality.
“Are you going to lay there all day or are you going to let me out, my sweet mate?”
Monster Bestfiend Accidentally Finds Your Only Fans
Monster best friend that accidentally finds your only fans. As soon as he sees your face, he goes to get off your page, but when he sees the giant monster dildo in your hand, he pauses. His finger hovers over the play button, his mind at war with itself on whether to see more. His conscience screams at him to put the phone down and forget he saw you there, but everything else screams at him to see more.
He gives in and clicks on your page, and his cock throbs as he realizes that every video is of you playing with all different monster dildos. He starts a video and can’t help but moan as you bounce up and down on a very large dildo, clearly modeled after a werewolf cock. Your tiny cunt stretched more than he would have thought possible for a little human.
His hand is immediately wrapped around his throbbing cock and stroking in time with your movements. He growls as he watches your face scrunch up in pleasure, feeling his own release getting closer, far faster than he would like.
As you let out a scream and gush all over the dildo, he finally cums, shooting all over his hand and the floor. He releases a small moan as he glances at his phone and sees the cum covering the screen over your naked body.
The guilt slowly creeps in as he comes down from his high, and he vows he will never do this again. And he continues to break that vow every night as he crawls into bed, his cock cumming hard as he watches your videos, only to swear it’s the last time all over again.
And when he sees you next, and his cock starts hardening immediately, he knows he is truly fucked. He’s just going to have to find a way to claim you for himself. At least he knows you have a thing for monsters and riding monster cock. He can’t wait to see you bouncing on his.
Imagine how hard it must be getting out of bed in the morning with your massive orc husband passed tf out on top of you.
Snoring in your ear, arms slung over you to pull your back into his chest, his leg over yours too. You're not going anywhere lmao.
Feeling all his dead weight on you makes you realise how gentle he is with you when he's awake.
You have to shuffle around quite a bit before stirring him, even then he only digs his tusks into the crook of your neck and mumbles some sleepy gibberish.
Asking him to let you get up will get you nothing but a grumble as he brings the sheets up over your shoulders and traps you in a cozy prison.
The only possibilities for escape are:
1. Telling him you have to pee, in which he'll begrudgingly let you go. He follows you to the bathroom door, blanket around his shoulders, waiting for you to do your business. He'll then snatch you up the second you open the door and carry you back to bed so you can make up for lost cuddle time.
2. Waking him up with a morning fuck. Just grind back on him and he'll hum lowly, kissing up your neck, his cock waking up as he grinds back on you. Emptying his balls in your hole seems to be the best way to get him up and going for the day. Afterwards, you'll be fucked out in bed while he walks around the bedroom, all awake and cheery while getting dressed, making the bed, asking you what you want for breakfast and what the plans are for the day.
you always knew your orc boyfriend was a sloppy eater. he drooled, growled, tore into his food like it owed him something — but gods, he was your favorite mess.
what you didn't know was how filthy he'd get when it was you he was hungry for.
you barely made it three steps into the house after work, your clothes clinging to your sweaty skin, hair stuck to your neck, when you heard his heavy footsteps. before you could say a word, he had you pinned against the wall, inhaling deeply like your scent alone could get him drunk.
"fuck... you smell ripe," he growled, voice thick with hunger. "don't shower. don't you dare wash this off."
"can I at least–" you tried, but he was already dropping to his knees, yanking your pants and underwear down in one rough motion.
He shoved his face into your pussy, groaning like a beast in heat. "been thinkin' about this all day. Needed to taste you like this — sweaty, worked up... fuck, you smell so good."
you gasped as his tongue flattened against your folds, dragging slow and filthy. he lapped at you like he was starving, moaning into your cunt, mouth so wet and messy it had your thighs shaking in seconds.
"god," you whimpered, fingers sinking into his hair. "you're making such a mess.."
he pulled back just enough to speak, his mouth slick with spit and you. "good. wanna drown in it. you want me messy, don't you? want me to lick this pussy clean till you're cryin' my name?"
then he dove back in, tongue fucking you deep while his thumb circled your clit. "tastes better than anything i've ever hunted. better than blood, better than meat. this—" he growled, licking up a fresh drip, "—this is what I was made for."
Half-orc bf x fem!reader— groping, delicious sloppy sex, riding that dick, and some niiice after care
You honestly didn’t know what life would be like living with your half-Orc, half-Giant, boyfriend. The two of you have been together for so long but never shared your space for more than a week long vacation or a weekend sleepover at each other’s houses.
Of course, every part of his house was a little too big for you given his tall stature. But ever since the very first time you’ve slept over at his place he’s had an abundance of step stools and other little tools to help you move around the place with ease.
It’s been an adjustment but he’s done everything he can to make it an easy one for you.
There are many things you love about living your boyfriend but your favorite one is by easily by far watching him workout in his home gym. He has it all set up in the garage so it’s not exactly in the way of anything in the house. But accessible enough that even you can hear him in there if you’re downstairs.
At the first sign of his loud grunting your face brightens into an excited smile. You practically throw yourself off the couch and scramble your way through the house. Racing toward the doorway to the garage which always just so happens to be left open. Almost as if a certain someone wants you to hear him, wants you to watch him.
When you reach the doorway he’s right where you expect him to be, at the bench press machine looking way too good to handle. Your knees go weak at the sight of him and you have to lean against the door just to keep upright.
His large muscles ripple under the weight he’s pressing and saliva pools in your mouth, freaking drooling for your sexy hunk of a boyfriend. He grunts softly each time he lifts the weight and it does something to your insides. Making you hot and tingly all over, arousal gushing out of your pussy and soaking your panties.
You watch him work through his sets, your body growing hotter with each new machine he uses. You know he knows you’re there. And you know that he’s making all his work outs look even sexier because he’s trying to get you all hot and bothered. You hate how much it’s working. You’re practically itching to jump his bones.
It’s useless to try and fight it. The more he works out the more his light green skin glistens with sweat. You imagine yourself falling to your knees to lap it up, to kiss down his dark happy trail, and inhale deeply at that scent that’s specifically his and his alone. Fuck, you wanna devour him and he knows it.
He’s purposefully taunting you, egging you on, wanting to make a mess of you before he even gets his hands on your burning needy skin. You may be growing hazy with lust but you don’t miss the sly glances he keeps throwing your way or that stupidly smug smirk he’s been sporting since he was curling those weights. It shouldn’t make you hornier than you already are but it is.
Just as you think your pussy is throbbing so bad you’re about to cum untouched, he finally turns toward you with a raised brow and a classic ‘come hither’ look.
“Come over here and help me with these hip thrusts, pretty,” he says and you know it’s not a question. It’s a demand. Letting you know he’s been wanting you just as badly as you want him.
Walking closer to him in the gym you can see just how true that is. The thick outline of his cock pushing against the fabric of his sweats and just begging to be released. Even seeing it twitch once you finally reach him.
“I said c’mere,” he growls, claws gripping at your plush waist and dragging you against his sweaty stomach with a light smack.
The tension between the two of you is boiling as he swoops down and captures your lips in a ravenous kiss. You both groan as your lips meet in a sloppy needy dance, stumbling back until he’s lying down on the mat covered floor with you straddling his waist.
You press against him as hard as you can, hips already rocking, needing to grind against any part of him you can. He moans into the kiss, tongue dipping into your mouth just to get another taste of you. Claws run over your skin, making you shiver with anticipation as they dip lower and lower. Slowly pushing off all your clothes as they go.
“Look at you, humping me like a bitch in heat,” your bf rasps against your lips, pushing off your panties with a single claw and leaving your delicious curves open to him.
You gasp as your dripping folds are exposed to the cool air. He pushes you back down on top of him, his hands guiding you, rolling his abs all over your clit and causing your head to spin. He’s just so much bigger than you that he can easily jerk you around like his own personal fuck doll. Your toes curl at how damn good it feels and your jaw drops in a silent moan.
“Don’t act like you didn’t do this on purpose,” you accuse.
He chuckles, watching you get wrecked before he’s had a chance to really touch you. You don’t even realize when his hands drift off of you, too caught up in the pleasure rolling through your clit. He makes quick work of skillfully pulling his sweats down just enough to release his cock. It springs out of its confines, hitting your back with a fat smack.
“I can’t help it that you’re such a fuckin’ slut for me…” he purrs and you prove him right as you start grinding your ass along his length.
But it seems like it’s just enough to snap him into action. A feral glint passes over his eyes and his hands are on you in the next second. He pushes his massive pulsing tip through your folds, letting your slick coat his entire monster cock till he’s dripping with you.
He can’t seem to look away from it. Mesmerized by the image of your arousal soaking him. He doesn’t even care he just seems to want more and more of you. Low groans leaving him every time you flutter around his twitching head and make a bigger mess.
“God, you’re so wet f’me. So needy for my cock, you should be ashamed,” he scolds playfully, his smirk widening at your gasp.
You know you should actually scold him and you totally plan on it to. Mouth gaping at him like you’re really trying. But he just doesn’t give you the chance. On the next roll of his hips he catches his tip against your entrance, silencing you instantly.
After one more gloating chuckle your bf pushes you down and you go sinking onto his cock, letting out a pretty mewl as he stretches you to your limits. His cock splitting you open till you can’t even think. You’re a puddle by the time he bottoms out, your core squeezing him so tight like you never want him to leave.
“Baby— nngh— yes. Your pussy is being so good, sucking my cock in like she’s missed it. Show me how much, ride me hard,” he demands again and you’re in no state of mind to refuse.
The two of you work in total sync, starting at a frantic pace as you ride his cock like it’s been days since you’ve last got a taste instead of the hours it’s been. Meanwhile your boyfriend stays true to his workout, his hips thrusting out and plunging into your depths.
Your bf is entranced by the sight of you, completely lost in your pleasure. Head rolling back, your fucking perfect tits jiggling with the force of each thrust. His eyes trail down to where your bodies meet and his cock instantly jolts at the obscene way your fat cunt stretches around his giant cock. It’s a miracle you’re able to take him.
As your sweet pussy throbs and flutters around his girth he groans, his claws tightening around the soft rolls of your hips. His hips then move on their own, picking up pace and ramming his hard pulsing dick as deep inside your core as he can go, swirling you around his length and rearranging your guts.
Your loud shrieks of pleasure fuel him to fuck up into even harder, barely giving you a moment to adjust to each new sensation. You try and lift up to take a moment to breathe but he growls and slams you back down on his shaft, making you scream.
“Ah ah ah, don’t run from my cock. You’ve been droolin’ for it so be the good slut I know you are and take it.”
His hips are a blur as they pound into your messy cunt. Obscene noises fill the room with every snap of his hips, the loud squelch of your bodies meeting only sends you closer to your peak. It only takes one brush of his finger over your clit and your orgasm crashes into you.
Your bf groans at the feeling of you clamping down on his cock and suddenly he’s shooting spurt after spurt of hot cum straight into your needy womb. Grinding his length as deep inside you he works you through it till you both sag on the mats in total exhaustion.
His hands caress your back, smirking as aftershocks wrack through your spent form. He grabs handfuls of you, loving how you fill out his big hands and he drags you closer to him.
“What a workout, huh?” He asks with a big sigh, feeling very pleased with himself for getting you so fucked out.
The room stills and your bf fails to stifle his laughter, which only grows as you soon join him. Your happy and sated laughter rings between you both and at this moment you swear there’s nothing better than living with your bf.
Summary: Grommash is determined to have you as his mate. There’s only one problem: Grom is too big.
Author’s note: Oh, boy. I have been OBSESSED with orcs lately. Especially the orcs in the Warcraft movie. Disclaimer btw: I don’t know a lot about Warcraft beyond the movie. I know some lore beyond that. So I apologize in advance. Also I wrote this in a way that you, my dear reader, don’t need to know anything about Warcraft either. Hopefully it can also be enjoyed as just a orc x human fic. And this is my 4th time writing smut, 2nd time writing it in oneshot format so I’m still very new to this lol. Also I don’t know orcish and the internet gave me very mixed translations, so I pieced it together the best I could.
Warning/tags: 18+ MDNI, fem! Reader, Grom might be a little OOC but I don’t care, teratophillia/monster fucking, orc x human, oral sex (f! receiving), size differences (Grommash is bigger than you no matter your size, these orcs are big, okay?), fingering, overstimulation, squirting, just the tip but not actually, unprotected p in v, missionary position, mating press, slight breeding kink if you squint, Grom is secretly a sweetheart, change my mind, love confessions, self indulgent filth, not beta read, yeah I know having sex with an orc this big would be borderline impossible but I don’t care, I swear I made straight A’s in all of my anatomy classes
Also just a for some fun references check out this post and this post about the hand size of the orcs in this movie. I find their size absolutely fascinating and I had to make a fic exploring that.
Word Count: 3.3k
Being the mate of an orc is an interesting experience. It was already uncommon for a horde member to pick a human as a mate. And it was still frowned upon by many orcs. Grommash didn’t care though. Nobody could tell him that he couldn’t have you. From the moment he first saw you he felt himself being pulled towards you.
For the most part, picking you as his mate had been smooth sailing. He had asked you to go on a hunt alone with him. Orcs hunted all the time but asking someone to hunt alone with them tended to be an indication that they were choosing a mate. You didn’t know this when you had agreed to go. But it became obvious when halfway through the hunting trip Grom had pressed you against a tree, his large frame encapsulating you. Soon the hunting trip had turned into a heated make-out session.
Everything was going according to plan. He had gotten you back to his tent and sat you on the edge of his bed. There was only one problem in his plan to make you his mate: Grommash was too big.
There was simply no way that all of him could fit inside of you. You were absolutely sure of it.
There was one undeniable fact about orcs and that was that they were massive. They were bigger than all humans. It didn’t matter your size. They outweighed and towered over every human they came across. And Grommash was no exception. He was a warrior and the Chieftain of the Warsong clan after all, not to mention one of the biggest orcs in the clan.
His biceps were rounder than your head. His hands were bigger than your face. His fingers were incredibly large compared to yours.
You honestly weren’t sure what you were expecting but when you removed his pelt you were at a loss for words.
There was no way.
His cock was heavy and hard, hanging down in front of your face as you sat on the edge of the bed. It was green like the rest of his skin, the head was flushed a purple color.
You lifted it up a bit with your hand, feeling the weight of it. It was long and thick. You couldn’t even wrap your hand around it, your fingertips nowhere close to even meeting your thumb. You were too stunned to speak and your brain was scrambling to figure out the logistics of this massive thing going inside of you.
Grommash seemed to read your mind. He brought his thumb up to your face and rubbed your cheek. He smirked as he looked down at you.
“You don’t have to worry about it just yet,” he said.
As much as Grom wanted to plunge his cock all the way inside of you, he was content with pleasuring you in other ways for now.
His large hand moved down, resting on your shoulder. His thumb grazed your throat as he gently pushed you onto your back. You propped yourself up on your elbows, watching him as he knelt in front of you.
His hand found its way to the hem of your pants, hesitating for a moment to look up at you. After giving him a swift nod of approval his fingers latched underneath the hem. He mumbled something about “humans always wearing too much clothes” as he slid off your pants and underwear.
Grommash hummed to himself as he placed his hands on your knees, spreading your legs as far apart as he could.
“Look at that,” he said.
He was staring at your glistening cunt in awe. You could hear a growl rumble in his chest as he brought his large fingers up to you, gently rubbing across your folds with his thumb. He grazed against your clit causing a gasp to escape your lips.
“So wet for me already,” he said, rubbing slow circles against your clit.
He paused for a moment causing you to whine. He shushed you as he spread apart the lips of your cunt with his large fingers. His index finger dipped down, lingering against your entrance but not entering. He looked as if he was deep in thought.
Maybe, just maybe.
Grommash leaned down further until his face was level with your pussy. He wrapped his hands around your legs, pulling you closer to the edge of the bed. He nuzzled his head in between your legs, tusks pressing into the skin between your thighs, as he licked experimentally up your folds.
You moaned, rolling your hips ever so slightly. Grommash chuckled before licking again, this time dipping his tongue into you. There was another rumble from his chest, the taste of you on his tongue unlocking something feral inside of him.
The grip on your thighs got tighter as he lapped at your cunt, licking and plunging into you in a desperate attempt to taste more of you.
Your hand snaked down, resting on his head as you moaned his name. Your fingers entwined in his raven hair, gripping just a bit. He growled in response, sending vibrations through your body. You shuddered a bit at the sensation.
He dragged his tongue against you, occasionally wrapping his large lips around your clit, sucking at the bud before dipping back down, fucking his tongue into your hole.
“Mmm…Grom, it feels so…good,” you moaned.
Without warning you felt Grom’s thick index finger begin to push inside of you. A guttural moan left your mouth as your back arched, grinding yourself against his face mindlessly. His finger stretched your walls as he entered you. There was some pain but your wetness let him slide in easier than either of you would have expected. It felt so perfect.
His tongue licked upwards before focusing on your clit, sucking it into his mouth once more. Your hips bucked against him causing him to groan. He slid his finger out before pushing it back in. He curled it inside of you, sliding it against your spongy walls. This was pleasure you simply had never experienced until now.
Before you knew it, he was pushing a second finger in, stretching you out more. Your mouth fell agape as you struggled to make any sound. You had never felt so full before. There was more pain than before but he didn’t give you much time to think about it as he plunged both fingers inside of you, thrusting his hand at a faster speed than before.
“Gods, Grom,” you moaned as gripped his hair a bit tighter.
The tent was soon filled with lewd, wet sounds as Grom relentlessly pumped his fingers into you. With every thrust of his hand, your cunt squelched, clenching around his digits.
“Grom, I’m gonna…”
It felt like your breath had been knocked out of you. You squeezed your eyes shut as your orgasm overtook you. Your legs involuntarily clamped down around Grom as he continued to curl his fingers into you, massaging and prodding at that spongy spot inside of you. His tusks pressed harder into your legs as he continued to devour you. You were sure you’d have bruises there by tomorrow but you didn’t care.
Your entire body shook as you rode your waves of pleasure, falling apart under Grom’s touch. You squirmed, your entire body felt too sensitive. Grom continued lapping at your clit, swirling his tongue around it.
“Grom, please,” you whined.
He pulled away momentarily, giving your clit a break. His fingers slowed but continued to slide in and out of you.
“Please what?” he questioned.
He leaned forward, placing his free hand beside your head. You tried to speak but found yourself at a loss for words, too entranced by the texture of his fingers inside you.
“Use your words, my dearest,” he cooed.
You tried to speak but you just couldn’t form the words. All you could do was moan as warmth pooled at your core. Your mouth hung open as Grommash’s hand began to speed up again. He watched you intently, studying your face as it contorted with ecstasy. Something inside of you was building and he knew it, bringing his thumb up to your clit as he continued to work his fingers inside you.
It felt different from the orgasm before. It felt just as pleasurable if not more, but it felt so different, so foreign to your body that it almost worried you. You weren’t fully sure what was happening to you.
“Wait, Grom, wait,” you pleaded.
But it was too late. Another orgasm hit you causing your cunt to clench around his fingers. It felt like something snapped inside of you as his fingers curled, hitting that spongy spot once more. Your hips bucked into him as you gasped, your head falling back onto the furs below you, eyes squeezing shut. Your body trembled, tensing up as you rode out your climax.
“Mmm, look at the mess you’re making,” Grom said, groaning.
Your eyes fluttered open, looking at him in confusion. Your eyes drifted down watching yourself in amazement and mild horror as you squirted around his fingers. The clear liquid spurted out onto his large hands and the bed underneath you with every thrust of his fingers.
You moan at the sight, the euphoria of the new sensation overtaking you. Grom’s hand slowed and then pulled out of you slowly. You whined at the sudden feeling of emptiness, your entrance clenching and fluttering around nothing.
Grommash brought his fingers up to his mouth, licking them.
“Who knew humans could taste so good?” he said.
“I didn’t know I could do that,” you said quietly.
The orc leaned down, pressing his body into yours and placing a kiss on your forehead.
“Well, now you know,” he replied.
You hummed, bringing your hand up to his chest, grazing one of the piercings on his nipple.
He then kissed you on your lips. The cold metal ring on his tusk pressed against your cheek as he did so.
His hand pulled at your tunic, ripping it off completely underneath him. You were now completely bare.
His large hand kneaded at your breast, occasionally pinching at the nipple. You moaned against his lips, letting his tongue slip into your mouth.
As he pressed into you more, you could feel his erection between your legs, occasionally sliding against your sensitive skin. He ground his hips against yours, cock slipping against you, causing himself to groan as he feverishly kissed you.
You knew what he wanted but you weren’t confident that he was going to get it. It’s not that you didn’t want him to fuck you, you were just worried still about him being inside of you.
As you pulled away from his lips you met his gaze, looking into his eyes. They were glazed over, lust-filled, and full of admiration. He wanted you. He needed so much more of you.
He ground his hips against you again.
“Need to be inside of you. Need to make you a proper mate,” he said in a low voice.
His hips bucked, causing you to moan as his cock slid across your folds, desire building up inside of you.
“I know. But I don’t think it’ll fit, Grom,” you said, quietly.
“Nonsense,” he grumbled as he got off the top of you.
He took his cock into his hand. It was already glistening with precum as he gave it a few lazy strokes.
“If you can take my fingers, you can take this,” he stated.
Just the sight of him jerking off was enough to make you spread your legs. You were basically salivating at the sight of him. You wanted him as badly as he wanted you, although the fear of being ripped apart still lingered.
“Take it slow, okay? Don’t put all of it in, Grom. I really don’t think I can take all of it,” you said.
He spread your legs further apart before sliding his cock against your swollen clit, causing yet another moan to come out of you.
“Whatever you say, my dearest,” he said.
You took a deep breath as Grom began to push the head of his cock into you. You hissed as it stretched the tight band of flesh around your walls. You were practically dripping from your last orgasm but your wetness only helped so much.
Grommash let out a low groan as he pushed his member into you at an agonizing pace. Pain was surging through you, bringing tears to your eyes. He was only a few inches in before you placed a hand on his chest, silently stopping him.
“Are you okay?” he questioned, a hint of concern in his voice.
“I’m okay. I think that’s as far as you can go for now,” you said.
He hummed in response.
“Let me know when you’re ready,” he said, rubbing circles on your thigh with his thumb.
You sighed, leaning your head back for a moment. Eventually, the pain began to subside. You brought your hand up to him, sliding it down his chest before giving him a nod to continue.
He pulled out the few inches that were inside you before thrusting them back in. It took everything in him to not push every inch in. He wanted to so badly. He wanted to fill you up so badly but he couldn’t stand the thought of hurting you.
You whimpered as his hips snapped forward, pushing part of his cock into you. The stretch was otherworldly. You knew if he hadn’t fucked you with his fingers earlier there was no way you would’ve been able to take the tip of him. It may have not been much but it felt divine.
“Oh, Grom,” you moaned as he fucked into you.
You could hear your pussy squelching around him as you became more wet by the second.
Your hands found their way to his large arms, holding on to stabilize yourself. Your body had a mind of its own as you rolled your hips forward. Grommash growled, halting his movements.
“Grom, why’d you stop?” you whined.
“Look,” he said with a grunt.
You propped yourself up on your elbows and looked down between the two of you. When you had rolled your hips moments ago, you had taken another inch of him without even realizing it. Too caught up in your pleasure to notice.
Grom rocked his hips into you, almost like he was silently asking you a question with his movements. He wanted to go further and you knew it. You moaned as he slowly began thrusting his hips again.
You were getting so wet. Surely you could take a bit more, right?
“I know you can take it. Let me show you just how good it can feel,” he said.
His shallow thrusts were already threatening to send you over the edge and you couldn’t deny it any longer, you wanted more of him.
You bucked your hips against him causing him to groan.
“Do you want all of it?” he asked.
“Yes…please. I need you,” you said in between broken moans.
“That’s all I needed to hear.”
Grommash hooked his hands under your knees, forcing your legs up as far as they’d go, pressing them against your chest. He replaced his hands with yours, making you hold your legs up. He then leaned forward, climbing on top of you. One of his hands was placed beside your head while the other lined up his cock to your entrance, slowly pushing in. He used his body weight to help sink into you, pushing in further than before, taking his time as he did so.
A choked moan left your mouth as your eyes welled up with tears. It was such a strange sensation. It hurt, a burning feeling seared into your core as Grom stretched you out. But the pain was also laced with pleasure.
Grommash’s hand left his cock, bringing it up and resting it by your head. He was a little over halfway in, sinking into you as he covered over your body. He hadn’t even begun thrusting yet and you already felt like you were becoming unglued.
“There you go. Taking it so well.”
He slid in deeper, another inch. Then another. And another. You whimpered, eyes rolling in the back of your head.
“My sweet human,” he cooed.
He wasn’t all the way in but his hips started moving, thrusting into you slowly, working the last of his way into you.
“You like that, huh? Like being full of my cock,” he said, picking up the pace.
You couldn’t speak. You just nodded your head and moaned.
Grommash pulled out all the way to the head of his cock before slamming back inside of you. You yelped as the sound of wet skin smacking together filled the tent. You could feel low rumbles vibrating from Grom’s chest as he growled, getting louder with every thrust. You were slowly becoming a babbling mess as waves of ecstasy began to overtake you. The pain had subsided and all you could think about was Grommash and how good he felt.
Grom moved one of his hands, bringing it down between the two of you. He circled your clit with his thumb. It felt as if sparks were igniting. Every raw nerve was crackling with pleasure.
You were panting underneath him, growing closer and closer to the edge. You could feel his cock twitching inside of you. His movements were becoming more erratic and you knew he was close to. An all too familiar feeling was forming and your body began to shake.
“Oh, fuck. Grom, I’m gonna…”
“Cum for me, my dearest,” he said.
And that was all you needed. You let out a wail as your vision clouded. Your body spasmed as your cunt tightened around him, somehow managing to suck him in more as if your body wasn’t ready to let go. He kept fucking into you, chasing his own release until his hips stuttered, bucking into you harder than ever. He let out a roar and you were sure the whole clan could hear both of you as the two of you rode out the pleasure, not that any of the orcs would’ve cared.
You could feel his cum, hot and leaking out of you as he slowly pulled his cock out. You closed your eyes as your legs fell from your chest, splaying out in front of you. You were still in a daze as Grommash sat on his knees for a moment, admiring you like you were an art piece. You were officially his mate and he was overjoyed.
You felt the bed shift as he got up. He was only gone for a moment and returned with a washcloth, cleaning you off gently.
You felt yourself drifting off. You were so warm and so very exhausted.
“Falling asleep on me?” Grommash joked as he laid down beside you.
You opened your eyes, looking up at the orc.
“Maybe,” you chuckled.
He wrapped his arms around you, pulling you into his side. You kissed his chest, moving up to his neck, and then his jaw, pecking the inked skin. He held onto you tight as if he was afraid you’d be snatched away from him. You heard him mumble something in orcish that you couldn’t understand.
“What was that?” you questioned.
“Na dova dra,” he repeated, this time hearing him more clearly.
“And what does that mean?” you asked.
He brought your hand up to his lips, placing a kiss against it.
“I love you,” he translated.
Your heart fluttered and you smiled. Admissions of love were another uncommon thing amongst the horde, especially towards humans. But it was true. Grom loved you very much.
You brought your hand up to his face, guiding him to yours. You kissed his lips gently before pulling away.
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