#remmick x fem!reader

[flixpii]

DOWNHILL TO THE SHACK 𓈒 𓈒 𓈒

remmick x fem!reader one-shot.

your daddy sticks the strange new farmhand in the small house by the barn, figuring it’s safer to keep a man like that close. it isn’t. remmick spends his nights watching you, and when you finally sneak down in your nightgown to “set him straight,” he bends you over his table and fucks the fight right out of you. (wc: 22k). ao3 link

゛notes ⸝⸝.ᐟ⋆ i was mad horny everytime i opened the doc to work on this… this is def one of my fav fics that i have written, and i’m ngl and say i won’t write anything else with this dynamic bc it’s too juicy. beta read by my offline irl bbg (i’m trying to get her to make an acc 😔)

゛ contents ⸝⸝.ᐟ⋆ morally dubious behavior. virginity taking. peeping tom behavior / voyeurism (he’s a creep). m!masturbation. size kink. vaginal fingering. very light choking. groping. manhandling. breeding kink if you squint. messy sex. cum play. light overstimulation. rough sex. table sex. unprotected p in v. power imbalance. period-typical misogyny. small talks of purity culture. predator / prey vibes. praise w a little degradation. possessiveness. mdni 18+

Night eases down over the fields slow as molasses, settling in the furrows and fence lines until everything looks dipped in ink. 

The porch sits right on the edge of it, a little island of yellow lantern light with you cross-legged in your chair, enamel bowl in your lap, fingers slick with bean juice. Crickets grind away in the ditch, frogs answer from somewhere near the pond, and the heat that pressed on your skin all day finally lets go a little, turning soft and damp and heavy instead of mean.

Your daddy, Joe, stands out by the road with a cigarette, just that small orange coal drifting up and down whenever he draws on it.

He’s mostly shadow, hat brim pulled low, shoulders a dark cutout against the pale strip of dirt lane. The smoke hangs around him in thin gray strands, catching the lantern glow before the breeze worries it apart.

The wagon makes itself known before you see it.  A tired rattle carrying over the fields long and low, iron and wood complaining in a way that could belong to any old rig on any old night. 

The mule steps out of the dark first, ears flicking, hooves whispering in the dust, harness creaking, then the wagon-bed, then the man riding it, the whole shape of him hunched against the evening like the road’s been sitting on his back.

He climbs down slow, not careless, one boot testing the ground, then the other. He isn’t tall; not one of those long, scarecrow boys you see come through town sometimes. He’s put together closer to the earth than that, thick through the shoulders and arms, weight settled in the meat of him instead of stretched out. 

Shirt pulls across his chest where the fabric has been asked to hold too much too often, sleeves rolled to his forearms, muscle and old work written in the dust and veins there. Suspenders run straight over his torso, holding everything decent, but there’s something loose under the neatness, a restless set to the way he carries himself, like he’s got more energy than his frame knows what to do with.

His hat sits low enough to shade most of his face until he steps up nearer and the porch light reaches for him.

“Evenin’, Sir,” he says, voice a slow scrape, low and worn, like it’s been dragged over gravel and cigarettes for years. 

The vowels don’t belong to your county, not exactly, but he leans into them like he’s been practicing, trying to make them fit the dirt under his boots.

“Evenin’,” Joe, flicks ash toward the ditch without turning. “You Remmick?”

“Yes, sir.”

He takes off his hat then, presses it to his chest in a gesture that seems to be humble, and in that little bow you see the line of him clear. 

Hair dark and close-cropped, stubborn where it’s tried to wave up and been tamed with water and a hand. Jaw rough with stubble that looks more forgotten than stylish. 

There’s a hardness around his mouth, something that could tilt into a grin or a snarl with not much provocation either way.

When he straightens and lifts his eyes, they cut toward the porch, and you feel it right away when they land on you, as sure as if somebody laid a hand on your bare ankle.

A limp green bean hangs between your fingers, ends torn and wet.

His gaze drifts, following your calves where your skirt’s ridden up, running along the slope of your shins and the span of your knees pressed together, sliding up the line of your apron and the thin open V between your collar buttons where the night air pushes in against your skin. 

He looks like he’s reading you, not just seeing you, taking his time over every line.

You go still, sharp-aware of every place your dress touches your body and every place it doesn’t.

The bean pieces drop into the bowl as you lower your eyes to the boards. The porch wood is dark and warped from years of feet, knot-holes winking like little eyes in the dim.

You fix on those, on the small wet snaps and soft taps of beans piling against enamel. Anything that is not the feeling of a stranger’s stare walking up and down you like a man checking fence.

“Baby,” your father says, voice flat, cigarette smoke curling out on the word. “Say evenin’.”

You wipe your hands on your apron and stand, bare feet quiet on the boards. “Evenin’,” you say, polite as sunday, letting the rest of what you feel sink down where it won’t show on your face.

Remmick smiles like he hears it anyway. It isn’t wide or warm. Just a slow tug at one corner of his mouth, a small, crooked tilt that never quite reaches his eyes.

“Evenin’, miss,” he answers, and there’s a drag in that word miss, the s held just long enough to make it catch.

Miss, when he could have asked for your name, when any decent man might have. Your father hasn’t offered it yet, so you keep it closed up in your mouth.

“Girl oughta be in bed this hour,” Joe mutters, eyes on the yard, not on you. “Ain’t no call for her to be sittin’ out like some boy on watch. Night’s for men workin’, not for women gawkin’.”

The words land on your shoulders like an old coat, familiar weight, old smell.  You bite down on what you want to say and feel it burn on the way down.

“I’m finishin’ the beans,” you tell him instead, hands tightening on the bowl till the rim bites into your palms. You don’t bother trying to explain that the dark sits easier on your skin than the hard white noon does, that the night gives you a little space to stretch.

You can feel Remmick watching you still, not with that sloppy hunger you’ve seen from boys in town, all elbows and gawking.

This is like he’s comparing what he sees to something he’s held in his head a long time. 

“Don’t reckon there’s any harm in her gettin’ some air, Sir,” he says after a moment, pitched low, as if he’s offering reason and not meddling. “So long as she stays where you can see her.” He tips his head, and his eyes make another lazy path over you, unashamed. “World’s rough for a girl on her own.”

Your daddy snorts, jaw tightening just enough for you to notice. “You just worry ‘bout them fields, son. I didn’t hire you to advise on my girl.”

The almost-smile on Remmick’s mouth doesn’t quite leave. “Yes, sir,” he says. “I’ll give all my attention to what you’re payin’ me for.”

He keeps his words aimed at your father, but his gaze is not that obedient. It flicks back to you when he says attention, and there’s weight in it, promise, something that makes your skin prickle fine all over. Something in you bristles right back, lifts its head like a barn cat whose tail’s been stepped on.

You draw a breath and set the bowl against your hip. “Where you want him sleepin’?” you ask your father, eyes fixed out over the yard so you don’t have to meet either man’s stare straight on.

“In the old place.” Joe jerks his chin toward the smaller farmhouse slumped beyond the well—a squat little shape where the lamplight doesn’t reach, half-eaten by shadow. “Closer to the barn. Got a bed and a stove. Man don’t need more than that.”

Remmick turns to look at it, and the lantern light catches his eyes in a strange way, making them flash for an instant like there’s something slick behind them.

The little house sits there like it’s been waiting, windows dark, door shut up tight, roofline sagged just enough to look suspicious.

“That’ll do,” he says. “I’m a night sort myself. Easier workin’ when the sun’s gone and the air ain’t tryin’ to boil you clear through. Less trouble all around.”

He says it easy, like it’s about sweat and shade and nothing else, but you hear the way he shapes night in his mouth, the soft way he lets it roll off his tongue, and something in your belly curls up smaller and sharper.

“Heard you don’t care much for daylight,” Joe says, watching him out of the corner of his eye.

Remmick’s jaw shifts, a muscle ticking like it wants to answer on its own. He glances at you, quick and bright, before he looks down at his boots. “Sun don’t care much for me,” he finally drawls. “Burns me to char if I let it. Always been that way. Doctor said I got delicate skin.”

The word sits wrong in your ear as soon as it’s out, delicate, dangling over this stocky man with forearms roped up in tendon and dirt ground into his knuckles, hands that look like they were made to break things, not handle them gentle. 

It slips out of you before you can catch it, quiet and skeptical. “Delicate,” you repeat, eyes finding his without meaning to.

He catches that and settles into it like a cat into a warm spot. “You don’t think so, miss?” he asks, voice a touch softer now, gaze steady and unblinking.

You ought to let it pass. Ought to dip your head and let the men talk over you, let delicate lie between them like some joke you weren’t meant to get. 

Instead you hold his stare in the lantern glow, take your time looking back the same way he did to you, tracing the faint hollows under his eyes, the line of his nose, the mouth that looks used to biting down on words and maybe on other things too.

“No, sir,” you say finally, after a beat that stretches long. “You don’t look delicate at all.”

Something shifts behind his eyes at that, something pleased and sharp that makes your heart knock once, hard, against your ribs. The corner of his mouth tugs just a shade higher.

“Then I suppose I’ll have to live up to what you see,” he murmurs. “Would be a shame to disappoint you.”

Your daddy grinds his cigarette out under his heel, done with this line of talk. “You can unload what you got, then I’ll show you the place,” he says. “Got work waiting for nobody. You ain’t too tired from sittin’ on a wagon all day, are you?”

Remmick rolls one shoulder, hand rubbing the back of his neck. The stretch shifts his shirt over his back, pulls the fabric across solid muscle there.

You feel your breath snag for half a second and hate that it does.

“Wagon ain’t heavy,” he says. “I’ll get settled quick, then you can put me to whatever needs doin’.”

Joe nods and starts toward the dim outline of that little house, his boots crunching through the loose gravel near the well. The lantern light falls behind him with each step until he’s just another moving patch of dark.

Remmick lingers at the foot of the porch. He settles his hat back on his head, brim bringing his eyes into shadow again, but you can still feel them.

“You finish them beans,” he tells you, voice gone softer, aimed up at you like a secret. “Man works better with a full belly.”

There’s nothing in the words you could point to and call wrong, nothing on the surface you could carry to your father and hold up like proof.

Still, the way his gaze drifts down and back up as he says them leaves something slick and uneasy under your ribs. Heat crawls up your neck, hot in a way that has nothing to do with the air.

“I’ll see to what’s mine,” you say, gripping the bowl till your fingers ache. “Same as you should see to yours.”

His laugh is low, a rough little sound that lives in his chest and doesn’t quite make it to his teeth. He dips his head a fraction, like you’ve handed him a dare instead of brushing him off. “Oh, I intend to,” he replies. “You can count on it.”

Then he turns and walks after your father, stride easy, body moving with a loose sort of purpose. His shadow stretches out along the yard behind him, tossed strange and long by the lantern, then swallowed up as he and Joe move past the well. 

The small farmhouse waits ahead, black windows staring, door a darker cut in the wall. It looks, for one breath, like it’s swallowing the two men whole.

You stand there with the lantern hissing softly at your elbow and watch the dark take them. 

When the yard settles again, when their footsteps fade and the crickets creep back up to full volume, the space between the barn and the house does not feel the same. It’s as if something else has stepped into it and sat down, something you cannot see but can sense just the same, like a pressure change before a storm.

You sit again, bowl back in your lap, fingers finding another handful of beans by habit alone. The wet snap of them breaking sounds too loud in the hush, echoing in the hollow boards under your feet. 

Every few seconds, your eyes drag toward that low silhouette out past the well, toward the little house that is not empty anymore.

You tell yourself you’re only minding where your father put a stranger. 

The first night after he arrives, he walks the fence line while you wash dishes.

You hear his boots dragging through the loose gravel near the yard, then the softer sound of steps in the grass. 

The screen door hangs open to let the air move, lantern burning low over the sink. Your arms are wet to the elbow, suds creeping up your forearms as you scrub at a pan that’s older than you are. 

Out past your own reflection in the dark window, you catch a small shape of motion—the swing of a lantern out near the barn, then the shorter, solid outline of him moving along the fence, checking posts, rattling wire. 

He doesn’t look up at the house that you can tell, doesn’t lift the light toward you, just keeps on with that steady pace, head bent. 

Still, your shoulders hunch like you’ve been caught at something you haven’t done. The glass fogs a little with the breath you don’t remember letting out.

You tell yourself it’s good your father found a man willing to walk the property at night. That’s what you tell yourself as you rinse plates and stack them, as the little yellow circle of his lantern slides back and forth along the edge of your sight.

The second night you have to bring him his supper, because your father ‘forgets.’

It’s late by the time the last of the pots are scraped and put away, your back aching from standing, hair pasted to your neck. Joe leans back in his chair, radio humming low on the table, and says without looking up, “That boy eat?”

You still your hands on the dishrag. “Ain’t seen him at the table.”

“Damn it,” He grumbles, more at himself than you. “Told him come in if he heard me holler and I ain’t never thought to holler. Fix him a plate and take it down. Man don’t work right hungry.”

You swallow whatever you were about to say about whose job it is to feed farmhands, scrape together a plate from what’s left—two biscuits gone hard at the edges, a ladle of beans, a piece of ham with more bone than meat—and cover it with a clean cloth. 

The air outside hits your damp skin and feels cooler than it ought to. The night smells like dirt and hay and whatever’s blooming along the ditch. 

The smaller farmhouse sits out near the barn with a faint thread of light leaking around the edges of its curtain, not bright enough to spill onto the yard. You walk out there, skirt brushing your ankles, plate balanced careful in both hands.

You knock, knuckles soft on the wood. For a second there’s nothing, then the faint scrape of a chair, the hush of someone crossing a small room. 

The door opens only halfway. He fills the gap, shoulder and chest just there, heat and sweat.

“Evenin’,” he says, voice a little rough, like he hasn’t used it since sundown. “You lost?”

You hold the plate out, not stepping any closer than you have to. “Daddy forgot to call you in. Told me to bring your supper.”

His eyes go to your hands first, to the way your fingers wrap the rim of the plate, then to the food, then back up. 

He doesn’t reach right away; he lets the moment stretch, his gaze traveling from your wrists up your arms, lingering on the damp on your skin, on the few stray strands that have worked loose at your temple and stuck there. 

“That’s mighty kind,” he says at last, taking the plate so slow his fingers brush yours. 

They’re not as rough as you expected, just warm and solid, the pads of them catching against your knuckles. “Hope he didn’t drag you out here from your bed on account of me.”

“I wasn’t in bed,” you answer, because lying feels worse than telling him anything true. “Kitchen don’t clean itself.”

He makes a small noise at that, somewhere between agreement and amusement. “No, ma’am. World’d fall apart if it weren’t for everything women do men don’t think about. Least he can do is call me in for a plate now and then instead of sending you.”

You don’t like that it sounds almost gentle, that there’s no clear edge you can grab onto and call wrong.

You nod once and start to turn away, wanting the room behind that door to stay his business and not have to wonder what’s in it.

“Miss?” he says, and you stop even though you don’t want to. “You tell your daddy I’m obliged. To him and to you.”

You keep your eyes on the yard. “He’ll hear you tomorrow.”

“Maybe I like the thought of you carryin’ my thanks,” he says, voice dipping lower.

You don’t answer to that. You walk back toward the big house with your empty hands and you feel his eyes between your shoulder blades all the way to the porch steps.

Another night you pass him by accident at the pump.

You come around the corner of the house with a pail in each hand, too focused on not sloshing well water onto your skirt to notice him right off. 

He’s just there suddenly in the lantern’s edge, sleeves rolled high, suspenders hanging loose at his hips, hair damp with sweat or water; you can’t tell which. 

The pump squeaks once as he lets go of the handle. Moonlight catches the wet on his forearms, the curve of muscle there, the scar that runs pale along his left wrist like a rope burn that never faded.

You stop short, pails swinging. “Didn’t know you were usin’ it,” you say. “I’ll wait.”

He tips his head, that same little crooked half-smile thinking about showing up. “You scared I’m gonna dirty the water, standin’ too near?” His accent is thicker tonight, as if he’s tired of smoothing them for everybody’s sake.

“I ain’t scared,” you say. Your voice comes out flatter than you mean it to, which only makes him watch you harder. “Just got taught not to crowd folk when they’re at work.”

“And here I thought you were just bein’ polite,” he murmurs. He steps back from the pump, gives you room to pass. “Go on, then. Wouldn’t do to have Mr. Joe’s girl haulin’ from the ditch ‘cause I hogged the handle.”

You move past him, the damp of his skin ghosting near your elbow, the smell of iron and sweat and something like tobacco clinging to him. You set a pail under the spout and work the handle, arm moving in a practiced rhythm.

The pump groans, then warm water shudders up from below, splashing cold over your fingers when you misjudge the first rush.

His gaze sits on your hands again, on the bare forearms you didn’t bother covering because it’s night and there’s no sun to scold you. “You do all that yourself?” he asks. “Water, cookin’, everything inside?”

“Me and Mama,” you say, though your mother’s cough has been bad enough lately you both know it’s more you than her. “Daddy’s got the fields.”

“And now he’s got me,” Remmick says, watching your arm work. “Guess I’m supposed to make life easier ‘round here.”

“Then do it,” you answer, a little sharper than you meant. The second pail fills and you swing it away, careful not to splash your toes. “Don’t stand around talkin’ about it.”

For a heartbeat there’s quiet. Then he laughs, low and delighted. “There she is,” he says under his breath, as if he’s been waiting on that bite. 

When you glance over, he isn’t offended. He looks satisfied, eyes bright, lean mouth curled up. “You keep snappin’ at me like that, miss, I might start thinkin’ you’re sweet on me.”

“Or you might start thinkin’ wrong,” you shoot back, lifting both buckets. The weight drags at your shoulders, but you’d sooner drop in the yard than ask him to carry them.

He doesn't offer, just watches you walk away, and you can feel that as keenly as the pull of the water on your arms.

There are other little moments like that, small as splinters. Like, when you cross paths in the barn one evening when you go to check on a cow that lowed funny through your window. 

He’s already there when you reach the threshold, one hand on the animal’s neck, murmuring something soft and nonsense in her ear. 

She calms under his touch, sides heaving slow, eyes rolling less. The lantern hangs from a nail overhead, throwing golden light over the dust in the air, over his shoulders, over the cow’s hide. 

He glances up when he senses you, and for a blink his irises flash almost too light, as if the lantern’s in them and not above him. Then they’re ordinary again, a color you could name if you got close enough, and he’s saying, “She just didn’t like the thunder,” even though the sky’s been clear all day.

You lean on the stall rail, arms folded, watching his hand move in slow strokes along the cow’s neck. 

The steadiness of him with animals makes something twist in you, something like reluctant respect and something like fear, because if he can soothe two thousand pounds of nervous flesh with a voice and a touch, what could he do to yours if he ever decided to try.

On another night you fix a tear in one of his work shirts at the kitchen table because your father plops it there and says, “Stupid fool’s gonna walk around with his arm hangin’ out if someone don’t thread a needle.” 

You mutter that Remmick has two hands and surely they can manage a seam, but you fetch your sewing basket anyway. 

The fabric smells faintly of him, sweat and field and that odd metallic thread that’s been nagging at the back of your senses since he arrived. 

You push the needle through worn cotton and wonder how a man gets a rip that clean across the bicep, by snagging it on barbed wire or nail head, without a single bloodstain around the torn edge.

He shows up to collect it before you take it down yourself. Don’t know how he knows it’s ready, but he’s at the door not long after you knot the last stitch, hat in hand like he’s paying a call.

Your father’s gone out back to piss or smoke or both, your mother’s dozing in her chair, so it’s just you in the quiet kitchen with your fingers still sore from the work.

“You didn’t have to,” he says when you hand the folded shirt over. “Could’ve walked around indecent a day or two, see if anyone complained.”

“My father would,” you say. “Don’t like loose things on his land.”

He takes the shirt with his good arm, the other rolling his shoulder like it aches. The lantern throws his eyes into little warm coins. 

Some nights you only see him from a distance.

Through your bedroom window when you should be sleeping, you catch the sway of his lantern again and again, marking his rounds. In the moonlight, his stride is compact, efficient, not showy. 

He moves like someone who’s spent a long time walking alone, someone who knows better than to waste steps. He never seems to stumble, never misjudges a rut or loose stone.

You watch him slip between the barn and the smaller house, in and out of shadow, and you tell yourself you’re just making sure he’s where he should be, that you are only doing what your father would want.

You notice, too, the nights when the light in his window stays on longer than makes sense. Long after your father’s snores have settled and your mama’s breath has evened into sleep, after you’ve lain there staring at the ceiling until your eyes burn, that far-off square of yellow will still be sitting out there at the edge of your sight. 

Sometimes you think you see the shadow of him cross it, head bowed, shoulders hunched, moving back and forth in a tight little path, but when you squint it’s gone.

Once, you step out onto the porch for air and catch him already looking.

You don’t see him at first; you just feel that prickling awareness that has become his signature in your body. 

Then your eyes find him where he’s paused near the barn, one hand on the fence post, the other hanging loose at his side. No lantern this time, just moonlight on his face, flattening all the hard parts, making his eyes look too bright and his mouth too soft. 

He doesn’t look away when you notice him. He doesn’t call out or tip his hat in greeting. He just stands there in the dark, steady as another post, and lets you decide whether to step back inside or stay where the night can see both of you.

You stay a breath longer than you should, chest tight, heartbeat stepping up loud between your ears. Then you reach for the door, fingers curling around splintered wood, and it feels, for a strange second, like you’re the one retreating and he’s the one who lives here.

By the time a week has worked itself around, his presence has braided into the place.

The horse knows him, ears twitching toward his voice before dawn. The dogs have quit barking when his boots scrape the yard at dusk. Your father has stopped watching him like he might bolt and started calling for him when something heavy needs lifting. 

The small farmhouse doesn’t look so empty now; you’ve grown used to the idea of a man’s breath in there, a man’s boots by the door, a man’s shadow on the curtain.

You’re the one still wary, nerves still stretched thin every time you feel his eyes, even if nobody else in the house seems to notice how often that is. 

You catch him in little reflections—a sliver of him in the pump’s metal, in the window glass, in any surface that throws back light—and he’s always looking your way. 

Not always outright, not always rude, but always aware of you. Always clocking where you are in the yard, whether your sleeves are rolled, whether your hem rides high on your calf or hangs proper at your ankle.

You tell yourself it’s just because there’s not much else worth watching out here.

You don’t quite believe it.

Clouds bruise up toward the horizon, swallowing the moon a few bites at a time. You’re at the kitchen table with mending in your lap when you hear it—one sharp, panicked bawl from the barn that cuts straight through the hum of crickets and the low murmur of your father’s radio.

You’re on your feet before you think about it, thimble still shoved on your finger, needle stuck tight in a loop of thread. 

Your father says something about “damned horses spookin’ at their own shadows” but doesn’t move from his chair.

His back’s been bad all day; he’s been walking like every step hurts. Mama’s dozing, her breath a thin whistle. 

So you grab the lantern from its hook, light blooming up in a hot bloom that stings your eyes, and head out barefoot into the yard.

The grass is cool against your soles, damp from the thick air. The little farmhouse where Remmick sleeps has a strip of light at the curtain-bottom, but you don’t see him outside. The barn looms ahead, big and dark, door standing half-open like a mouth. Another low, fretful sound comes from inside, not as sharp as the first but enough to hurry you along.

“Easy now,” you call as you slip in, lantern held high. “Hush yourself, girl, I’m comin’.”

The barn swallows the outside sounds. In here it’s hay and dust and the soft shuffling of hooves, the rustle of wings up in the rafters. 

Your mare stamps once, snorting, eyes rolling white when the lantern light hits her. You cross the packed dirt quick, set the lantern on a hook so you’ve got both hands, and reach for her halter, stroking her long face.

“It’s just the weather actin’ strange,” you murmur, words more for yourself than her. “Ain’t nothin’ gonna hurt you.”

She settles a little under your voice, but her muscles are still tight, skin twitching under your palm.

You’re so focused on her that you don’t hear him until he’s already in the doorway.

“Somethin’ wrong?”

His voice slides through the gloom, low and rough. 

You jerk a little, head snapping toward the barn entrance. He’s just inside the threshold, lantern in his hand turned down low, throwing more shadow than light. Sleeves rolled, suspenders hooked proper tonight, hair damp at the temples like he’s just come in from a hard walk. 

“Lord,” you mutter, heart kicking hard. “You move too quiet. Thought you were a ghost.”

He lets out a short huff of a laugh. “Not yet.” The lantern swings by his knee as he steps inside, setting the hay shadows dancing. “Heard her fussin’. Figured I’d check before she took it into her head to kick through a stall.”

“She just spooked,” you say. “Storm brewin’ somewhere.”

He comes up nearer, close enough that you can see the sheen of sweat along his throat, the bead of something darker at the cuff of his shirt where it brushes his wrist. 

His gaze does a quick, automatic sweep of the stall—manger, bucket, the mare’s flanks, your hand on her halter—and then it hooks on you, like it always does, like there’s a string between his eyes and your skin.

“You shouldn’t come out here by yourself at night,” he says, quiet, not rebuking exactly but not gentle either. “Barn full of spooked stock, any one of ’em could knock you right off your feet. Ain’t proper for a girl to be runnin’ around after dark alone.”

“That girl’s got ears,” you answer, voice tight, stroking the mare’s neck to hide your own nerves. “She can hear you fussin’ without talkin’ over her head.”

His mouth does that little tilt again, amused. “Reckon she can,” he says. “Reckon she don’t listen half as good as she ought, neither.”

You’re just shaping a sharp reply when it happens.

Something cracks outside, a dry, sharp sound—maybe a limb breaking, maybe a board settling wrong, maybe thunder grumbling way off where the clouds are thickest. 

It doesn’t matter what it is. The mare flinches hard, shoulder slamming sideways. The stall rail shudders under the hit, and you’re standing too close, lantern throwing crazy shadows as the world jolts.

Your first instinct is to get out of the way. You jump back, skirts swishing, hand flying off the halter. You pivot toward the stall opening and catch—not air, not clear space, but the edge of an old nail head that’s been working itself loose from the post for years.

The sound of fabric tearing is loud as a gunshot in the barn.

It rips from just below your hip down the side of your thigh, a long, rude run that opens your dress like a mouth. 

Cool air hits bare skin where cotton should be.

You gasp, more from the exposure than pain, and slap your hand down, fingers clutching at the split to keep it from gaping wider.

For a heartbeat you stand frozen, lantern light swinging, breath shallow, your leg half-bared through the torn seam.

You don’t have a slip on under this dress, not a proper one. It’s too hot. You’ve got plain cotton drawers and a whole lot of skin, and you know without looking that the tear has gone high, high enough that if you weren’t grabbing it shut he’d be seeing places no man has any business looking at on you.

“You all right?” Remmick’s closer before you register him moving, his boots whispering over packed dirt. His lantern clanks against a beam as he hangs it up. He reaches for you by pure reflex, hands coming to your arms, steadying you where you’ve stumbled.

“I’m fine,” you snap, too quick, humiliation burning your face, neck, chest. “Let go.”

You twist away from his grip, turning your hip, trying to angle the torn side away from him. 

The dress shifts anyway, hem dragging through straw, and there’s a flash of thigh where your fingers don’t quite cover everything. You feel the rush of blood under your skin like you’ve been slapped.

His eyes drop before you can stop them.

It’s an instinct with him just like yours, hungry and automatic. His gaze hits the split, the glimpse of your leg, and sticks. Time slows down around that look. You see it happen, see the way his pupils widen, see the quick, sharp inhale he tries to hide.

“Jesus,” he breathes, almost soundless.

You yank the torn fabric tighter, the motion making the rip strain up higher, edge brushing the curve where your thigh meets your hip. Your whole body feels like a lantern flame, exposed and flickering. “Don’t you look,” you hiss, low and furious. “Turn around.”

One of his hands lifts, like he might actually offer to cover the tear for you, fingers curling as if they want to fit over the place you’re guarding. He stops himself, hand hovering for an awful second near your hip, close enough that you feel the heat of him even through the thin cotton. 

“Ain’t my fault you went tearin’ yourself open on every nail in the county,” he says, tone trying for light and landing somewhere rougher. 

His eyes drag up slow, from your knuckles clenched in the fabric, up the bare strip of thigh he already saw, up the shape of your waist and the heave of your chest. “Maybe you should let me look and make sure you didn’t cut that pretty skin to ribbons.”

The way he says pretty makes your stomach flip and your teeth set.

“I ain’t cut,” you spit. “And I sure as hell don’t need you inspectin’ me.”

He should look ashamed. Though, he doesn’t. There’s color high in his cheeks now, not from heat, not from work. His mouth’s gone a little slack, like he’s holding back words. His gaze keeps sneaking back to the place your hand guards, greedy, any time you aren’t staring right at him.

“If you say so,” he murmurs finally. “Wouldn’t want to offend your delicate sensibilities.”

You hear the echo of his earlier lie in that word, delicate, and decide if you stay here another minute you might do something you can’t take back, like slap him or cry or both.

You shift your grip to catch more fabric, bunching the torn side up in your fist so nothing shows. It makes walking harder; you’re hobbling, half-skipping, desperate not to let the skirt fall. “You see to the mare,” you manage, chin up, eyes burning. “I’ll fix my dress.”

He steps back enough to let you pass. As you squeeze by him in the narrow space, your shoulder brushes his chest, your bare calf bumps the hard line of his boot. 

“Careful,” he says, voice quiet, right by your ear. “Would be a shame if the rest of that dress gave up and left you standin’ in nothin’ at all.”

You don’t give him the satisfaction of a reply. You duck your head and hurry out, every step measured so the torn seam doesn’t pull, one hand clamped between your thighs, lantern bumping at your knee. 

The night air on your exposed skin feels wrong, every stray breeze finding its way up under the rip.

You keep your eyes fixed on the glow of the house, on the square of the kitchen window, on anything that is not the barn behind you.

You slam the kitchen door with more force than you mean to, startling your mama awake, mumble something about a nail catching you and make straight for your room. You don’t light your own lamp; you don’t want to see what he saw. You stand there in the dark with your back to the door and your dress torn open under your hand, heart hammering, ears roaring, shame and something hotter and uglier twisting up together in your belly.

Down by the south fence, in the smaller farmhouse, Remmick sits on the edge of his narrow bed with the easy, humming satisfaction of a man who’s been saving something up.

He lit the lamp as soon as he stepped in, not out of any real need for light but because he likes the way it throws shadows, likes the way it paints dim gold over bare wood and gives him something soft to look at while his mind runs back over the evening. 

The room is small and warm from his own body heat, close enough that every breath feels shared with the walls. Old wood, dust, a curl of tobacco from the roll-up he finished outside, and under it all the ghost of you clinging to his clothes—soap and starch and sweat—make a thick little stew in the air.

He shrugged out of his shirt as soon as the door shut, tossing it over the chair without bothering to check if the seam you mended had held. 

The rip in the fabric is nothing next to the rip in your dress that he can’t stop savoring. He works the buttons of his trousers loose without hurry, fingers moving with the contented patience of a man about to sit down to a meal he’s been smelling all day.

He doesn’t try not to think of you. That would be a waste of a perfectly good night.

He leans back against the wall, boots kicked off, pants open at the fly, and lets the picture come as easy as breath. 

You in the barn with your hand clapped between your thighs, dress split wide, that slick little strip of thigh flashing when the cloth slipped. The way your eyes flared when you realized he’d seen, outrage and mortification and something bright under both. The sound of your voice when you told him not to look, like you already knew he was going to anyway.

“Hell,” he mutters, half laughing under his breath as his cock swells heavy against the thin barrier of his briefs. “Ain’t nothin’ on this earth I’d rather think on.”

His palm drifts down over his belly, fingers tracing a slow path to the bulge at his groin. Even that light touch makes him suck in air through his teeth. 

He presses his hand over the outline of himself, feeling the hot, solid weight of his cock straining upward, and a low, pleased sound curls up out of his chest. He palms it once, a lazy roll, enjoying the way it kicks against his fingers like it’s eager too, then he slides his hand inside.

Warm cotton gives way to hot skin. He wraps his fist around the thick base of himself and exhales like he’s been holding that breath since the barn, relief and hunger tangled up in it. His cock sits heavy in his grip, veins standing up, the head already wet where precum has gathered from how long he’s been walking around hard on the memory of you.

“Look at that,” he murmurs, voice low and rough, thumb smearing that slickness over the swollen tip. “Worked up over one little tear. You’d laugh yourself sick if you saw me now, wouldn’t you?”

The thought of you seeing him like this, spread out on his narrow bed with his trousers open and his cock standing full in his hand, only makes him harder. 

He drags his fist down slow, savoring the drag from head to base, then back up again, the friction sharp and sweet all at once. The first few strokes are measured, a man settling into a rhythm he plans to enjoy, not something hurried and guilty he has to choke down.

He lets his head tip back against the wall, eyes slipping shut so he can see you better behind his lids. 

Not the church version, not the good girl with the hem tugged just so and the buttons done up high. 

The barn version. Lantern light sliding over your bare thigh, the tremble in your fingers when you clutched at the rip, that split second when your hand wasn’t fast enough and he got the clean, unearned look he’s been replaying ever since.

“Shit,” he breathes, hand tightening, the slide of skin on skin picking up a little speed. 

He drags his fist down again, slower, getting a feel for every inch, for the way his cock swells harder in his grip with each pass. Arousal slicks his thumb, gathers at the crest of the head, and he spreads it with an easy, greedy little twist, working it around until the slide turns wet and smooth. 

His hips lift into his own hand without much prompting, body eager after nights of walking around with you on his tongue and in his teeth and under his nails.

“Bare leg,” he mutters, watching his hand move now, eyes half-lidded, lashes throwing shadows on his cheeks. “Goin’ about your business like you ain’t got that tucked up under your skirt. Like I ain’t seen it now.”

He remembers exactly how the tear opened, how the cotton gave and the seam surrendered, how your thigh flashed in the jumpy lantern light. 

That first raw glimpse lives in his chest like a hot coal. Skin smooth and soft-looking, the curve of muscle under it, the sweet thickness where it met your hip. 

He remembers your drawers too, plain white cotton clinging to you, riding that line between demure and lewd when the fabric shifted wrong.

His hand moves faster at that, instincts catching up with memory. He curls his fingers a little tighter, pulling from the heavy base up to the slick crown, milking a fresh bead of precum up with each stroke. 

“Bet you went home and stitched that dress up neat as a Sunday virtue,” he says, voice roughened by breath. “Head bowed, lips bit, pretendin’ that leg ain’t still there underneath, smooth as cream and just as soft. Bet you can’t stop thinkin’ about me seein’ it neither.”

He can picture you at your little table, lamp burning, needle in hand, fingers trembling just enough to make the thread snag. Your face hot, your mouth set, your thighs pressed together under the cloth as you sew shame into every stitch. He imagines you tugging that seam tight, that same hand that clutched the torn fabric now working the needle, every pull a memory of his eyes on you.

His free hand slides down his belly, fingers pressing over the flexing muscles there, holding them tight as he fucks up into his own fist. The bed creaks under him, wood complaining, but he doesn’t slow. He spreads his legs wider on the mattress, giving himself more room to move, and the extra slack lets his strokes lengthen, his hips roll, everything turning into a slow rhythm.

“You know what I see when I close my eyes?” he asks the ceiling quietly, dragging his thumb across the slit. “Not that pretty little mouth tellin’ me not to look. I see that hand of yours slip. I see that dress fall open just a little more.”

The picture in his mind sharpens: you, back against a stall post, hand too busy clutching at rough wood to hold your skirts closed, light catching on the full line of your thigh as the rip edges skid higher. 

He imagines the flap of cloth falling aside, full view of your leg from knee to hip, drawers pulled tight over the mound between your thighs, a faint darker patch where heat and sweat have gathered.

His cock throbs in his grip at that. He grits his teeth, pushes his palm down hard, and his hips jerk, chasing the pressure.

“Yeah,” he growls softly. “That’s it. Dress up around your waist, showin’ all that sweet flesh. You holdin’ on to that wood like it’s gonna save you, eyes full of righteous fury while your body’s tellin’ on you.”

His fingers slip lower on the stroke, pausing to cup his balls, rolling them in his palm, feeling the tight, heavy pull there. The sensation punches another sound out of him. He goes back to his cock with renewed urgency, arm working harder now, hand pumping.

He lets himself wander further than any real moment has gone. Lets the memory of that tear turn into something else, something he can taste.

He imagines stepping in close before you can bolt, one hand catching your wrist, the other gathering your torn skirt up and out of his way. Imagines your gasp, that little sharp intake he already knows, your bare thigh hitting his hip as he pins you to the stall. Your panties stretched tight over the soft swell of your cunt, his fingers pushing up against the dampening cloth, feeling how hot you are through the barrier.

“Pretend you don’t want it,” he murmurs, throat rasping. “Try to act like you ain’t gettin’ wet for me while you fuss.”

The words sound vulgar and right in his mouth. His cock swells at it, the head aching now, sensitive with every pass. He squeezes at the top, thumb pressing just under the crown, and his whole body shudders, pleasure rushing up his spine.

“Be a good girl,” he hears himself whispering to the woman in his head, the one pressed to barn wood with her dress in tatters. “Spread ’em for me, let me see what you’re hidin’.”

His hand flies now, finding a quick, dirty rhythm. His breath comes rough, each inhale catching, each exhale spilling out in curses and half-formed praises.

“You’d flush right up to your hairline,” he pants, head rolling against the wall. “Act all offended while your thighs tremble and that pretty thing between ’em throbs. Might even cry a little, wouldn’t you? All sweet and scared and soaked.”

The image of you crying—eyes bright, lashes wet, lips bitten—while your body betrays you sends him right to the edge. His balls draw up tight, cock jumping in his fist, veins standing out under his skin. Heat coils at the base of his spine, that familiar pull gathering everything in, ready to snap.

He spits into his hand for more slick, doesn’t even bother wiping his mouth. The added wetness turns his strokes into something obscene, the sound echoing in the small room. His forearm snaps, muscles burning, chasing the crest bearing down on him.

“Come on then,” he grits. “Show me.”

He imagines hooking a finger under the edge of your drawers and pulling the cotton aside. Imagines the first sight of you bare between your thighs, folds swollen, maybe already glistening, all that heat finally out in the lantern light instead of tucked away in shadows and good manners.

“That’s it,” he rasps, voice breaking, hips jerking harder into his fist. “Knew you’d be pretty there. Knew you’d be soft.”

The wave hits with no ceremony; it slams through him like a mule kick. His whole body locks, stomach clenching, heels digging into the thin mattress, head thumping dully against the wall. 

A groan tears out of him, rough and strangled, half-swallowed behind clenched teeth. His cock jerks in his hand, once, twice, then again, spilling hot over his fingers and across his stomach in thick, pulsing ropes.

He rides it out, hand still working, strokes shortening but not stopping, milking every last drop. Cum coats his knuckles, drips over his fist, slicking his grip until his palm slips on the softening length. 

“Fuck,” he breathes when he can breathe again, voice low and wrecked.

His strokes slow, then ease off altogether, fingers loosening their grip. 

For a moment he just sits there, chest rising and falling, wrist slick and heavy, cock giving a few last, half-hearted twitches in his hand. Sweat cools on his forehead, a bead sliding down along his temple.

He looks down at the mess on his belly, streaks shining in the lamplight, dripping off the side of his hand. There’s no disgust in the way he examines it; if anything, there’s pride. A crooked smile tugs at his mouth, lazy and satisfied.

“Look what you pulled out of me, and you weren’t even here,” he murmurs, more pleased than ashamed. 

He wipes his hand across his stomach, smearing instead of cleaning, fingers drawing idle patterns through the stickiness before he drags them off onto a wadded-up shirt at his side. 

The cotton takes the worst of it, darkening where it soaks, but he doesn’t fuss about the rest. Let it dry on his skin. Let it sit there as a reminder.

He tucks himself back into his briefs, though he doesn’t bother fastening his trousers all the way, leaving the fly gaping a little for air. 

His body feels loose and heavy now, bones sunk deep into the thin mattress. The edge is blunted, that sharp hunger dulled to a warm, low thrum, but it’s not gone.

He leans his head back and lets his eyes drift half-closed, the lamp still burning low. 

In the quiet, he can almost hear you tossing under your own quilt up the rise, feel the echo of your indignation, imagine the way your fingers might trace absent circles over the mended seam of your dress while you tell yourself you hate him.

He runs his tongue along the back of his teeth, savoring that thought as much as any touch.

“Gonna see it torn again,” he says softly, not quite a promise, not quite a threat. 

The lamp flickers, a tiny flame fighting sleep. Outside, crickets scream and something small scurries through the grass. 

The little house settles around him with soft creaks and sighs. He closes his eyes fully at last, the picture of your bare thigh and your furious face smoothing together into one sweet, ripe ache he’s already wondering how soon he can taste again.

Most nights Remmick does his rounds like he’s supposed to, lantern swinging at his knee, gate latches checked, fence wire plucked and listened to like strings. 

But once he knows the map of the place in his bones, once he has counted every post and measured every path, his feet start wandering off the straight lines your daddy would like him to walk. 

He learns where the shadows fall thickest under the pecan tree by the side yard, where the dark under the eaves hides a man from anyone glancing out through lamplight. 

He learns just how far back he can stand and still see into the kitchen window when you’re up late, sleeves rolled, forearms wet to the elbow, talking to your mama while you scrub a pan. 

He learns that when you think everybody’s settled, you lean your hip against the counter and tilt your head a little while you dry your hands, and that little shift of weight does things to your dress you’d never let it do in town.

He finds out you like the back porch at night even more than you like it at dusk. That when the work is done and your parents are loud in their sleep, you slip out with a glass or a cup and sit with your legs stretched, ankles crossed, toes tracing idle circles on the board beneath them. 

From the fence line he can see the shine of lamplight on your bare shins when your hem rides up, can see the loose, tired way you soften back into the chair. 

He watches you tilt your face toward the dark yard like you’re asking it questions it hasn’t answered yet, listens to the little sounds you make—half-sighs, half-hums—that never show up when anyone else is awake. 

He leans on a post with a cigarette hanging from his fingers and looks until he’s had his fill, no hurry in him, nothing but a lazy, steady satisfaction in knowing you have no idea.

He learns your bedroom window, too. Where it sits in relation to the oak, how far up the slope he has to stand to see its square of light. 

The first time he notices the curtain isn’t quite shut, it’s by accident; he’s walking back late, boots slow on the path, when a slice of movement catches his eye. 

Curtain gapping, lamp turned low, you moving around your room in that soft circle people make before bed. 

He stops in the shadow of the tree without even thinking, shoulder to rough bark, the leaves above him murmuring in a wind that doesn’t get down into the yard. 

From there he can see you in fragments—an arm as you reach up to unbutton, a brief glimpse of the side of your neck, the line of your shoulder as fabric slips. 

He tells himself he’ll move when you’re done, that he’s only making sure you got in safe. He stays until the lamp goes out.

The night he sees you in the bath, there’s not even that thin excuse.

It’s late enough the frogs have worn down to a sleepy chorus and the crickets sound drunk. A low, warm fog sits over the fields, pressing scents in close: damp earth, animals settled in their pens, soap drifting thin from the open kitchen window where somebody forgot to latch it right. 

He’s finished his rounds early, all the work of the night sitting behind him instead of ahead, and he feels that restless itch under his skin again, that soft, prowling urge that has nothing to do with fences and everything to do with you.

The house is a square of softer dark against the sky, only a couple of windows holding light. 

He knows which is which now without having to think about it. Kitchen, front room, your parents’ room. The little back room off the side where the big galvanized tub sits when somebody’s been lucky enough to haul enough water. 

Tonight it’s that one glowing gentle behind its thin cotton curtain, lantern hanging somewhere just out of sight, making the fabric look like a pale, breathing thing.

He circles wide, slipping along the edge of the yard where the grass meets the packed dirt of the lane, where the shadows from the trees throw him one more thin cloak. 

The bath window is low, glass fogged a little from steam. The curtain is drawn but not all the way, left a thumb’s width open on one side—enough for light to leak out in a narrow spill. Enough, if a man stepped in close and angled himself just right, to see inside.

He comes up under the sill, breath slow, boots quiet, and lays his palm flat against the siding to steady himself. The boards are cool and rough under his fingers. He leans his shoulder into them and tilts his head, lining his eye up with that careless little gap.

Heat hits him first, a wet, sweet breath rolling out into the night. The lantern inside throws shadows high on the wall, flickering over the curve of the tub, over the length of you in it.

You’re sunk down in the water with your knees bent, one leg drawn up just enough for him to see the shape of it under the surface, the other stretched straighter, foot braced on the far side. 

The water glows around you, gone cloudy with soap, clinging in beads to your skin where it’s out of the tub. 

Your shoulders show above the rim, bare and slick, drops running down in slow trails. 

Steam curls off your chest, off the slopes of your breasts where they rise from the water, soft and heavy, nipples pebbled tight from the heat or the air or both. The lamplight loves them, catching on every curve, laying little gold crowns on each peak.

Your head is tipped back against the rolled towel you’ve wedged between neck and tin, eyes closed, lips parted just enough for breath. One arm drifts along the tub’s edge, fingers dragging lazy patterns through the thin scum of soap there, the other resting across your stomach.

He watches your ribs move with each inhale, the slight swell and fall of your belly under your palm.

You're so unaware of him that it feels almost holy.

He drinks it in like it’s what he came here for all along, no flinch in him, no apology. His gaze roams where it will. 

From the line of your throat down to the hollow between your collarbones, where a small puddle has gathered and overflowed in slow rivulets; down over the slick, shining hills of your breasts, the way they shift just a little with every breath, the way the waterline cuts across them. Lower, to where the curve of your stomach disappears under the opaque water, hinting at more, promising everything.

You shift, lifting one arm to drag the washcloth over your shoulder. The washcloth trails over the round of your shoulder, down the outside of your arm, across the swell of your breast, nipple tightening even more when the rough cloth skims past.

You don’t seem to notice the way your own body responds; you’re too busy chasing day-dirt away, lifting your arm to scrub your neck, tilting your head to give yourself better reach.

From his vantage, he sees everything. His hand tightens on the siding, knuckles going white, that buzzing hunger flaring up bright and hot behind his eyes.

He stares, not making a sound.

You work the cloth down your arm and set it aside, then slide both hands into the water, scooping and pouring over yourself. 

You lift your leg a little, knee rising higher, water spilling off in sheets, showing him the smooth length of your thigh all the way to the place where it vanishes back under the cloudy surface. The muscles there flex as you shift, your toes stretching, calf defined a moment before settling again. 

For a brief second, the water thins enough he can see the shadowed shape where your thighs meet, softened by the haze but there, real and mouth-watering.

His eyes go dark on it, pupils swallowing light. He leans in a fraction more, cheek almost touching the glass, breath fogging the edge of the pane where it meets the frame. 

Every small move you make sends little waves across your body, playing light over the parts he can see, hinting at the parts he can’t.

You sigh, the sound faint through the wall but clear. Your head tips a little to the side, cheek turning toward the window without quite facing it. 

One hand skims over your sternum, following the center line of your body until it disappears under the water. 

Your fingers paddle lazily there for a moment, moving along your own stomach, over the soft give of your lower belly. 

He imagines exactly where they’re drifting, what warm, slick places they’re brushing, even if you’re not thinking of it like that. Your face gives nothing away but relief, a tired little slackness, the expression of someone finally easing aches out of their bones.

“You ain’t got a clue,” he breathes, lips ghosting the words against the flaking clapboard. There’s satisfaction in it, not cruelty. “Bathin’ like Eve in a picture book with the curtain open and the devil on the outside lookin’ in.”

His hand, the one not braced on the wall, shifts restlessly by his side, brushing the front of his trousers. 

He doesn’t touch himself proper, not yet; this is looking time. He wants to be empty enough of the last time to fill up on this one entire. 

His fingers flex anyway, his palm pressing for a moment against the growing bulge, acknowledging it. His cock swells quick and eager, remembering the barn, welcoming the new fodder.

You lean forward to reach the soap, and the angle changes. 

For a breathless few seconds he gets the long line of your back, the way it curves from nape to waist, the hollow above your hips, the dimples that show when you move just so. Water slides off you in glittering trails, trickling down along your spine, pooling in the small of your back before spilling lower. 

As you sit back again, that same water slips over the round of your ass where it breaks the surface, catching the light along the curve, then vanishes under the cloudy bath.

He closes his eyes briefly, just to fix it, then opens them again. He doesn’t want to miss a thing.

You lather your hands, work the soap into your skin, fingers massaging into your shoulders, down along your collarbones. 

The more you scrub, the slipperier you become, water beading and running, foam clinging in thin streaks before melting away. 

When you finally slide your hands under the water, scrubbing lower, your elbows move in a rhythm that makes something low and obscene curl in his gut. 

He knows you’re only washing, just doing what needs doing, but to him it looks like a preview, looks like a rehearsal of things you haven’t yet learned to want.

He watches until the waterline creeps lower on the lantern as the bath cools and you sink down, chasing warmth. Watches as you finally let yourself relax fully, shoulders sliding under, just your face above the surface, eyes closed, breaths slow and even.

Only when you sit forward and reach for the towel hanging on the peg beside the tub does he ease back from the window. 

He knows if he lingers another second, if he sees you stand, water sheeting off every inch as you step out, he’ll plant roots under this sill and never leave. 

There will be other nights, he tells himself.

He peels himself off the wall, body humming, and slips back into the darker yard, breath still measured, strides easy. 

By the time he’s at the edge of the light, he has his lantern in hand again, held low, the picture of a man just passing through on his way to some small piece of work.

He doesn’t feel a lick of shame. What would be the use of it, when the memory of you in that tub is already lodged in his body like a polished stone, something he can roll under his tongue whenever he chooses. 

You’ll go to bed clean and soft, thinking maybe about chores and storms and the seam you mended this morning. 

He’ll go back to his little house with your wet skin behind his eyes and no confusion about what he plans to do with it.

The day’s been long, the kind that starts with a rooster and ends with your back feeling twice your age. 

By the time supper’s put away and the kitchen wiped down, your father’s in his chair with his boots off, socks so full of holes you don’t know why he bothers wearing them, radio mumbling low out of the corner. Your mother’s gone to bed early with a headache, door cracked just enough that you can hear her cough now and again.

You’re halfway through folding the dish towels when you remember.

Mama’s good jar of salve.

You can see it plain in your mind’s eye: small tin with the blue lid, the one she guards like treasure. 

She sent you looking for it just after dinner, when she noticed the raw place on your father’s wrist from rope burn and the darkening bruise on your own hip from where the stall rail caught you days ago. 

You’d gone to fetch more wood for the stove first, meaning to get the salve on your way back, and somehow it slipped right out of your head, chased off by smoke and scolding and the rush to get biscuits off the fire before they burned.

Your father’s already grumbled twice about the barn nail and told you if you’d been paying mind you wouldn’t have torn your dress, wouldn’t have bruises, wouldn’t have needed fussing. 

You can hear him in the morning if he finds that wrist still angry and your hip still tender. Can hear that disappointed click of his tongue.

You’d seen him hand the tin to Remmick earlier in the week, mumbling something about “keep this on hand, boy, in case you tear yourself up,” and watched the new hand tuck it into the pocket of his coat before heading down to the little farmhouse.

“That’s where it is,” you murmur, more to the quiet kitchen than to anyone. A little knot between your brows loosens when you place it. “Down there.”

You glance at the clock. It’s late enough the newsman’s gone off the air, early enough the world hasn’t quite tipped into the dead hours where the dark feels thickest. 

Outside the window, the yard is quiet, the barn a heavy shadow, the smaller house beyond it just a darker square against the field.

“Where’s that boy?” Your father mutters around his cigarette, not really expecting an answer. “Ain’t heard him come in for coffee. He out checkin’ fence or sleepin’ on my dime?”

“Out, I reckon,” you say, folding the last towel with a sharp little snap.

Truth is, you haven’t heard his boots either. You haven’t seen his lantern bob by the window. It’s been a soft, blank stretch of night, no sign of him.

You tell yourself that means he’s at the far end of the pasture or walking the ditch line. Exactly where he’s supposed to be.

“I’ll fetch Mama’s salve,” you add, already untying your apron, tucking it over the back of a chair. “She’ll want it first thing in the mornin’.”

Joe nods, smoke curling out of his nose. “Don’t you linger,” he says, not looking up. “Get what you need and bring your tail back in this house. I don’t want you down there visitin’ like it’s social hour.”

You bite back the urge to say you’d sooner visit the pig pen. “Yes, sir,” is what comes out instead.

The night air catches you on the porch, damp and soft, smelling of cooling dirt and a hint of something sweet blooming out by the fence. 

You step down barefoot, skirts whispering around your calves, the boards’ splinters familiar against your soles. The big house’s light spills just to the bottom of the steps, then gives up, letting the yard roll out into dark.

The little farmhouse sits a ways off, past the well, past the worn track where the wagon turns. All its windows are black. No orange seam under the curtain, no silhouette rising and falling against the glass. The barn is quiet too, doors thrown shut, only a thin line of moon-silver along the roof.

You latch onto the sight of that dark little house like proof. He’s not there. He’s out somewhere with a lantern and a bad attitude. 

You’ll be in and out before he knows you’ve even left your room.

You wrap that thought around yourself like a shawl and start across the yard.

The grass is cool and a little slick with dew under your feet, clinging between your toes. Crickets saw at the edges of things, frogs mutter down in the low spots. The well’s stone lip rises out of the ground like something old and patient; you ghost past it, keeping your eyes on the squat shadow of the farmhouse.

Up close, it looks smaller, somehow meaner. The door is shut, the porch bare save for his boots lined up neat off to one side. You take in that detail with a little flick of relief—boots off means man in bed, not loose in the yard—before another thought slides in behind it: or just inside.

You hesitate only a heartbeat.

The want to not get scolded in the morning, the want to have Mama’s salve where she can lay hands on it, outweighs the whisper of sense telling you this is foolish.

You lay your palm on the door and push.

It gives with a small, tired creak, the smell of the place rolling over you in a warm wave: wood, straw, tobacco, sweat, and that faint metallic thread you’ve started to think of as his alone. There’s a lamp turned low on the table just inside, wick pinched till the flame is barely more than a coal in a glass throat, enough to lay out the shapes of things and nothing more.

“Remmick?” you call, voice barely above a whisper, more habit than hope. When nothing answers—not a word, not a shift of boards—you let your breath out slow and step over the threshold.

The door eases halfway shut behind you, not latched. You don’t bother with it; you don’t plan to be here long enough to worry about what’s open and what isn’t. 

The room is small and spare, just like your daddy said it was. Bed against one wall, blanket rumpled from someone sitting, if not lying. Chair with a coat thrown over the back, shirt draped careless on top. Table with the lamp, a chipped cup, a folded knife. A shelf holding a few tin plates, a jar of coffee, the heel of a loaf.

You move quick but careful, eyes trying not to linger on the smaller things that say a man’s been living here—his belt coiled on the chair seat, his hat hanging from the peg, the empty space on the floor where his boots were. 

You head straight for the coat, remembering your father’s hand dropping the salve tin into its pocket.

You pinch the fabric between your fingers, easing it aside, but the weight you expect to tug at the hem isn’t there. The coat hangs light. You pat the pockets; they’re empty, save for a wadded rag and a stray button.

“Damn,” you breathe, annoyed, under your breath.

Maybe he moved it. Maybe he took it out so the tin wouldn’t fall and get lost when he shrugged the coat on.

You cast your eyes around the room, searching high shelves, low boxes, any place someone might set a small, important thing.

The table catches your attention next. You circle it, gaze skimming over the knife, the cup, the lamp. 

There, near the edge, half in shadow—a squat little tin no bigger than your palm, blue lid dulled with age.

You smile in spite of yourself and reach for it. “Got you,” you murmur, closing your fingers around the cool metal.

You pop the lid just enough to see the salve inside, pale and thick, smelling faintly of herbs and camphor, then press it back down with a soft click. The job’s done. Simple as that.

You turn, already thinking about the path back to the house, about slipping this into Mama’s hand and letting yourself be proud she won’t have to wonder where it is in the morning.

You don’t make it two steps.

There he is.

Standing in the doorway that leads to the small back room, shoulder braced against the frame like he’s been leaning there a while, like he grew right up out of the wood.

He’s shirtless, skin slicked faint with sweat, the rise and fall of his chest slow and easy. Suspenders hang loose against his hips, clipped to his trousers but fallen off his shoulders, framing the cut of his torso in dark lines. 

The lamp’s low light paints him in gold and shadow both, dipping into the hollow between his collarbones, skating over the plane of his stomach, catching on the trail of hair that runs down from his navel into the waistband of his pants. 

His arms cross over his chest, veins standing faint along the backs of his hands where they rest against his biceps.

His feet are bare. His eyes are not gentle.

“Find what you was lookin’ for?” he asks, voice soft, too soft, the scrape of it wrapping around the words like a touch.

Your heart gives one wild jump, slamming up against your ribs hard enough to hurt, then starts to run. 

You hadn’t heard him come in. Hadn’t heard the back door, hadn’t heard the floor protest, hadn’t heard anything but your own little fussing search and the tiny pop of the salve lid.

For a foolish second you think about hiding the tin, tucking it behind your back like a child caught in a pantry. You don’t. There’s nowhere to put it he wouldn’t see, and you refuse to give him the pleasure of watching you scramble.

Instead you hold it up just enough that he can see the blue lid glint in the lamplight. “My mama’s salve,” you say, surprised at how even your voice comes out. “Daddy gave it to you. He forgot where he put it. I came to fetch it.”

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t look at the tin for more than a passing glance. His attention stays on you, heavy as a hand between your shoulder blades. He rakes his gaze from your face down to the salve, then lower, slow as a man looking over a field he’s about to plow.

You suddenly know exactly how your dress is sitting—where the fabric pulls across your chest from turning too quick, where the skirt clings to your thighs from the damp in the grass, where your collar gapes just a breath more than it should because you didn’t bother with the top button in the heat. Your skin prickles under each place you picture his eyes touching.

“You always just walk yourself into a man’s house without knockin’?” he asks after a beat, one brow ticking up.

“This ain’t a house,” you reply, chin lifting a shade. “It’s a shack my father stuck you in so you’d be closer to the barn.”

Something like amusement flickers across his mouth. “Still mine for now,” he says. “Door was shut, wasn’t it?”

“You left the lamp on,” you shoot back. “Anybody with decent sense would take that as invitation in case of emergency.”

He uncrosses his arms then, letting them drop to his sides. The motion makes muscles jump in his chest, the lines of his shoulders shifting under skin. “And what’s the emergency, miss?” he asks. “That your mama’s medicine was sittin’ ten yards farther than you like it?”

His tone isn’t mocking. It isn’t kind either. It’s something in between, something testing. Like he’s poking at you with words just to feel where you’re soft.

You swallow, the salve tin suddenly heavy in your hand. “I said why I came,” you answer. “I’ll be goin’ now.”

You move to head toward the front door, the one you came in, but the room is small, and he doesn’t move. One pace brings you close enough to smell him. Another pace would put you near enough to brush him if you misjudged your route.

He shifts his weight to fill the doorway more fully, one hand lifting to rest on the frame to the side of him. It leaves his ribs bare, that patch of hair under his arm catching the lamplight. There’s a faint scar along his flank, pale against the warmth of his skin, old and ugly, like something tore him open once and he lived anyway.

“Seems a shame,” he says, looking at you. “You comin’ all this way just to snatch up a tin and run.”

Your pulse hammers harder. “It ain’t far.”

“For you,” he agrees. “For me it’s a long, lonely walk most nights. I might be grateful for a little company.”

“You got company,” you say, words a little sharper than you intend. “You got every cow, every dog, every fence post on this land. You don’t need me.”

He lets that roll over him like water off a duck’s back. “Maybe I’m tired of talkin’ to things that can’t talk back,” he murmurs. His eyes flick down to the salve again, then to your hand, to your wrist where your pulse beats visible in the hollow. “You tore yourself up any today, or you just borrowin’ this for show?”

“Bruise on my hip,” you admit before you can remind yourself you owe him nothing. The words come out stiff. “Ain’t your concern.”

“Everythin’ that happens on this farm’s my concern when it means workers showin’ up busted in the mornin’,” he says. “You do work, don’t you? Or are you just here to keep the place pretty.”

Heat flashes through you, quick and mean. “You've seen me work,” you say. “You've seen me at that pump, at that stove, out in the yard. Don’t you stand there half-dressed and ask if I do my share.”

His mouth twitches at half-dressed. He doesn’t bother to hide the way his gaze drops, quick, down the front of himself and back up, as if to say he knows exactly how much he’s wearing and how much you’re seeing. It’s deliberate, that small, shameless acknowledgement of his own body.

“Believe me,” he says, voice dropping lower, “I’ve seen you.”

The words land between you, heavy and thick. They mean more than they say. Every peek he’s stolen presses into the space they open up: your bare leg in the barn, your shoulders shining in the bath, your tired posture on the back porch, one strap slipping careless down your arm before you hitched it back up.

You don’t know about most of that. What you do know is enough to make your throat go dry.

“I ain’t supposed to be down here visitin’,” you say, trying to wrestle the conversation back onto some ground that feels steadier. “My father told you that when you got here. Told me too.”

His eyes gleam at the mention of your father, some dark amusement sparking there. “He told me to show you respect,” he says. “And I have. Haven’t laid a hand on you that you didn’t walk too close to yourself.”

Your mind trips over the memory of his fingers catching your arm in the barn, steadying you when your mare spooked. The way his hand hovered near your torn dress, heat just shy of your hip. The way he stood in the yard with his eyes on your mouth and called you miss like it was something he wanted to lick.

You draw yourself up as tall as you can manage in the little room, salve tin tight in your grip, refusing to yield the step he’s trying to take without moving his feet. “Then you’ll move,” you say, voice low but steady. “So I can go on home and keep livin’ my life with all that respect you’re so proud of.”

For a moment, you think he might laugh in your face. His lips part, teeth catching on his bottom lip, eyes glinting.

Instead he just looks at you.

It’s worse than if he’d laughed. He looks like a man deciding how honest he feels like being tonight. Like he’s weighing whether to keep playing at politeness or lay something sharper on the table between you.

The lamplight flickers, shadow jumping along his jaw as he tilts his head. “You walk out that door,” he says finally, nodding toward the porch, “and I’ll let you. I ain’t gonna drag you nowhere you don’t step first.”

Relief and something colder flick through you at the same time. “Good,” you start to say, but he isn’t done.

“But,” he adds, and that one little word lands heavy, “you come walkin’ into my place after dark again, all alone, dressed like that, lookin’ at me like you don’t know whether you wanna slap me or cry on me—well.” His gaze drops to your mouth and back. “That’s you steppin’. And I’ll take it as such.”

Your heart stutters, one hard misstep in its rhythm. “You overestimate yourself,” you snap, even as your fingers twitch on the tin.

He smiles then, slow and wolfish, the expression finally reaching his eyes in a way you haven’t seen yet. 

“We’ll see,” he says.

For a long, tight second, nobody moves. The walls feel closer, the air thicker, the lamplight too intimate. You hear the frogs outside, the creak of the house settling, the little wet sound of your own swallow. His bare chest rises and falls, steady, like he’s got all the time in the world.

Then he steps to the side.

The doorway opens up behind him, a narrow slice of night visible over his bare shoulder. It’s more space than you expected him to yield, less than you’d like.

You duck past, your shoulder nearly brushing his chest, the heat pouring off him making your skin prickle. You feel his eyes on the side of your face, on the line of your throat, on the way you have to hitch your skirt just a little to keep from tripping as you step over the threshold.

“Goodnight, miss,” he says softly, right by your ear, breath warm as it ghosts over your neck. “You be careful now. Dark’s full of things you don’t know about.”

You don’t trust your voice not to shake, so you don’t give him the satisfaction of hearing it. You just walk, bare feet hitting the packed earth hard, fingers biting into the salve tin so tight the metal cuts a little crescent into your palm.

Rough wood presses into your hips, edge digging a little where your nightgown’s ridden up, breath catching in short, shallow pulls because he’s got one big hand flat between your shoulder blades, holding you there, and the other is on your ass, fingers clawed into the thin cotton, bunching it up and away from your thighs. 

The lamp in the corner throws a low, mean light over the kitchen, just enough to show you the knot in the tabletop and the chipped plate someone left on the shelf, just enough to catch the shadow of his arm when it moves.

You came down here hot with it. Anger, mostly. 

At him for looking at you how he does, for crowding doorways and talking low in your ear. At yourself for feeling anything besides disgust when he does it. 

For weeks that feeling has sat under your skin like a burr under a saddle, rubbing everything raw—every brush of his eyes, every sly comment, every late-night glimpse of his lantern out in the yard when you should’ve been sleeping. 

Tonight it tipped over. Tonight you lay in your bed and stared at the ceiling and saw his bare chest in that little house instead, heard his voice saying we’ll see, felt your own body answer in a way that wouldn’t quit.

So you got up after the house went quiet, barefoot on the boards, heart in your throat. 

You didn’t bring a lamp. You told yourself you were just going to tell him off, to say plain that you didn’t want him looking, didn’t want him speaking to you sideways, didn’t want the innuendo and the smirks and the way he made you feel peeled without ever laying a proper hand on you. 

That was the story you wrapped yourself in as you crossed the yard, nightgown clinging to your knees.

He opened the door before you could knock, like he’d been standing right on the other side with his palm on the handle, listening.

You remember the way his eyes moved over you, slow, no shirt, just those loose trousers hanging low on his hips, lamp behind him making his shoulders look broad and his face unreadable. 

You remember his mouth forming your name, quiet and satisfied, like he’d been waiting to say it like this. 

You remember the way all that anger and want surged up together in your chest, wild and tangled, and how you said something too sharp, voice shaking, about him needing to keep his eyes to himself if he wanted to stay on your daddy’s land.

Now here you are with his hand on your back, pressing, holding you down exactly where you came—over his small scarred table in his small farmhouse kitchen—your own fingers gripping the edge in a white-knuckled clutch.

“Thought you weren’t supposed to be down here visitin’,” he drawls above you, breath warm near your ear, words rolling over your spine. “That what you told me?”

You glare at the knot in the wood like it did you personal harm. 

Your face is hot, your body even hotter, a slow, heavy throb deep between your thighs that started halfway across the yard and hasn’t done a thing but grow. 

“I ain’t visitin’,” you say, the words a little muffled by the way he’s got you folded. “I came to talk sense into you.”

His laugh is low and pleased, hand on your back sliding a little, fingers spreading, thumb settling along your spine. He presses down just enough to remind you who’s holding you where you are. 

“Is that what you call it,” he says, “showin’ up in your bed things after dark, sneakin’ through my door with your hands empty and your eyes wide? Talkin’ sense?”

His other hand cups your ass through the thin fabric, palm wide over you, squeezing like he’s testing a piece of fruit at the market. 

The nightgown has twisted up, hem caught high over your hips, leaving the bottom curve of you bare to his touch, only the cotton of your drawers between his fingers and your skin. 

Heat floods that spot, a sharp, shameful pulse that makes your breath catch.

“You been walkin’ around twitchy as a cat for days,” he goes on, hand kneading, thumb digging into the give of your flesh there. “Snappin’ at me, snappin’ at your daddy, gettin’ that look on your face every time you see me like you don’t know whether to spit or spit somethin’ else.”

“Shut up,” you hiss, mortified at how true it feels in your bones. 

You shift your hips, trying to wriggle away from that hand, and all it does is grind you back against his palm, soft cotton dragging over the swell of you, catching on the seam that runs right over the place you’re trying not to think about.

He makes a sound at that, low in his throat, rough and appreciative. “Yeah. There she is,” he says, words coming a little thicker now. “All that fire. You walked your own self down here, girl. Nobody dragged you.”

“I came to tell you to stop,” you manage, though the way your voice climbs at the end takes the bite out of it. His fingers curl, grab a little handful of your ass cheek through the cloth, and you feel the ache spike hotter. “Stop lookin’. Stop talkin’ like that. Stop—stop–”

“Stop makin’ you feel all twisted up?” he supplies, not unkind, just plain. 

His hand on your back softens, spreads, rubbing along your spine like he’s soothing a spooked animal even as the other keeps kneading at you. 

“Stop remindin’ you there’s more to be had in this world than hymns and beans and mendin’?”

You suck a breath in through your teeth. “You ain’t the only man alive,” you snap. “You ain’t special.”

His grip tightens, a hard squeeze that makes you gasp. “No,” he agrees easily. “But I’m the only one you marched down here to cuss out in your bare feet and nightclothes, so I’d say I’m doin’ something right.”

You hate how your body answers that, how something low in you liquefies at the thought of it, at the truth you don’t want to name. You hate the way your thighs press together of their own accord, seeking pressure, seeking relief, even as you hold yourself rigid under his hand.

He feels it. His palm slides down, fingers curling under the heavy curve of you, thumb dragging along the crease where your ass meets the top of your thigh. 

You’re hyper-aware of every inch, every callus on his skin, every place the old wood digs into your hips. When his hand moves inward, fingers bumping close to the center of you, you flinch.

“Don’t—” you start, panic and want knitting together, but the word thins out when his touch presses just a little firmer over the damp cotton there.

“You’re soaked,” he says softly, no mockery in it, just raw, hungry wonder. “Walked through my door mad as sin, all full of pretty speeches, and your cunt’s already cryin’ for somethin’ to hold on to.”

Shame scorches up your neck. “Don’t call it that,” you choke, mortified, the word hitting you deep and low and making everything worse.

He hums, thumb tracing a slow circle over that swell, pressing right where the cloth is clinging. The pressure is perfect, unbearable. 

“What you want me to call it, then?” he asks, voice brushing the shell of your ear now. 

“Your virtue? Your purity? That sweet spot between your legs that ain’t nobody touched?” His thumb moves again, firmer, and your hips jolt against your will. “’Cause I see it all over you, darlin’. You came here wantin’ me to stop, but your body came here wantin’ somethin’ else entirely.”

You shake your head, even as your toes curl, even as your lungs drag in another sharp breath that tastes like him and the lamp smoke and the hot, close air of this little house. 

“You’re—you’re foul,” you say, but it comes out thin, breathy. “You been lookin’ at me, watchin’ me, talkin’ to me like—”

“Like I know what to do with you,” he cuts in, a hint of impatience threading through his heat. “And I do. You think I don’t see what’s eatin’ at you every time you glance down at my hands, or my mouth, or lower?”

His fingers slide along the seam of your drawers, finding the little ridge where cloth meets cloth and pressing right there. 

It sends a jolt through you big enough you can’t muffle the small sound that drops out of your throat. 

His hand on your back pushes down, keeping you bent, letting you grind into that touch without rising off the table.

“Listen here,” he says, voice roughening, patience fraying. “You came. You’re here. You can tell me to stop and I will. I ain’t gonna take what you don’t hand me. But don’t stand there in my house, drippin’ on my floor, and try to lie about what you’re feelin’.”

The room seems to shrink around those words. 

You know he’s right. You also know how far you are from where you were supposed to be, from the girl who said she’d never let a man like him get close, from the girl who swore she’d keep herself intact till some tidy, respectable husband came along with a ring and a house and his hat in his hands.

You think about those men. Faces you’ve seen in church, in town, men who look at you when they think you’re not noticing with a hunger they don’t know what to do with. Men who’d apologize if their fingers brushed your wrist too long.

Then you think about this man, bare-chested behind you, hard and unashamed, his hand pressed between your shoulder blades, the other on you like you’re his to handle. 

You think about his eyes in the barn, on your torn dress. About the words he said in this very room, about stepping. About how you’ve been walking around with your jaw clenched and your thighs pressed together ever since.

“Tell me the truth,” he says, thumb pressing a little harder, his other fingers spread wide over the swell of you. “You want me to let go of you and send you back up that hill with your temper, you say it. I’ll move. You can go pray extra loud come Sunday.”

The lamp crackles softly, a tiny sound in the heavy dark.

“And if I don’t?” you hear yourself ask, voice small but steady. “If I say I don’t want you to move?”

His hand stills on your back for one beat, then both of them tighten—one pressing you down, one grabbing a handful of your ass like he’s staking a claim. A breath leaves him in a long, shuddery exhale that ghosts hot over your neck.

“Then I’m gonna take real good care of what you brought me,” he says, tone gone hoarse and thick, the restraint in it the only thing keeping you from shaking. “Gonna give you somethin’ to think about next time you lay awake in that bed of yours. Gonna fuck you on this table till you don’t remember what you came down here mad about.”

The word fuck lands hard in you, a punch and a promise all at once. 

You grip the edge of the wood like it’s all that’s keeping you upright, though you’re already bent, already braced.

“Say it,” he murmurs, leaning in until his chest brushes your back, bare skin hot where it touches the thin cotton. 

The admission sits in your throat like a hot stone. It feels enormous. It feels like stepping off a ledge.

“I want—” The word catches, but his thumb flicks over you again, sharp and sure, and your hips roll without permission, a little helpless grind that betrays every fight you’ve been waging with yourself. “I want you,” you gasp, shame and relief crashing together. “I want you to—to do somethin’ about it.”

He lets out a sound that’s almost a groan, almost a laugh, almost a curse, his body crowding you tighter, his weight a solid wall of heat at your back. “That’s my girl,” he says, and the possession in it makes your knees wobble, makes that core of you clench hard around nothing.

His hand leaves your back long enough to grab a fistful of your nightgown at the hem, yanking it up in one rough motion that leaves it bunched around your waist. 

Cool air hits your drawers, the bare backs of your thighs, the soft part just under your cheeks, and then his palm is there, skin to skin at last, cupping you hard. 

His fingers dig in, thumbs pressing outward, spreading you slightly, mapping the give.

“You’re shakin’,” he says, sounding pleased. “Ain’t even touched you proper yet.”

“You’re takin’ your time,” you manage, though the words shake too.

He chuckles, low. “First time’s never good when a man rushes,” he answers, matter-of-fact. “And I know you ain’t had nobody in you yet, feelin’ the way you do under my hand.”

Before you can answer, his fingers hook into the waistband of your drawers and tug. The fabric resists for a second, elastic biting into soft flesh, then slides down, dragging over your hips, over the swell of your ass, down the backs of your thighs until they tangle around your knees. 

He leaves them there, trapping your legs just enough you can’t kick or close up, just enough that you’re open and vulnerable and aware of it.

Cool air kisses you everywhere the cloth just left. 

You feel filthy, bare from waist to mid-thigh, bent over his table with your nightgown rucked up, your cunt exposed to the room, to him. It makes your head swim.

Then his hand is back, and there is no room for anything else.

He cups you from behind, fingers sliding through the slick heat of your folds, and you hear a sharp breath hitch out of him. “Oh, hell,” he says, reverent.

You make a broken, helpless sound that doesn’t sound like it belongs to you. 

No one’s ever been there before, not like this, not with fingers spreading you, rubbing through you, middle finger catching on that aching bud you’ve only ever touched in the dark with guilty hands. 

The sensation is lightning-bright, stabbing up your spine.

“Easy,” he murmurs, palm flattening across your low back again, his body curving over yours, caging you. “I got you. Gonna make it good for you before I stretch you around me. Don’t want you too scared to enjoy your first fuck.”

The way he says first fuck, like he’s staking a flag there, like he’s carving his name into it, makes something fierce flicker through you, a strange pride knotting up with the fear. 

You push back against his hand without meaning to, chasing more.

He feels it. “That’s it,” he encourages, fingers pressing deeper between your lips now. “Ask for what you want with that pretty body. Tell me where it hurts.”

“Everywhere,” you pant, honesty ripped out of you on a wave. “It hurts everywhere.”

He laughs, breath hot against your neck, mouth close enough you feel the shape of it. “That ain’t hurt, girl,” he says. “That’s need.” 

His fingers finally find your entrance, slick and hot and clutching, and he presses the pad of one inside, just the tip, testing. Your whole body clenches around that intrusion.

“You relax for me,” he tells you, tone sliding into something commanding. “Breathe.”

You suck in air, lungs burning. 

He slides the finger in a little further, thick and probing, opening you. 

The stretch is sharp, uncomfortable, but there’s an undercurrent of relief in it. He works it in and out slowly, letting you get used to the feel, letting your body learn the shape of him.

“That’s good,” he murmurs when he feels you soften around him, the praise lighting up something small and hungry in your chest. “See? You take my finger just fine. Gonna take my cock too when I’m done with you.”

He adds a second finger before you can brace, and this time the stretch makes you gasp loud, muscles clamping down. It burns, a deep, insistent ache, like you’re being pried open.

“Shh,” he soothes, his index finding that little bundle of nerves again, circling steady, sending sparks to chase the hurt. “I know. I know. We gotta loosen you up some or you’ll split yourself on me.”

The blunt truth of it makes you squeeze your eyes shut, face hot against your forearm. 

You can feel him behind you, solid, his chest glued to your back, his arm moving between your legs. When you manage to breathe past the initial shock, the burn eases, replaced by a full, pressurized feeling that fills your head with nothing but sensation.

He moves his fingers, slow at first, pumping them in and out of you in short strokes, stretching, coaxing. 

Your body starts to answer despite itself, hips rocking back in tiny motions, seeking that deep, sweet drag. 

Every thrust brushes against something inside you that makes your legs tremble, makes your breath hitch. 

“Listen to that,” he says, voice thick, and it takes you a second to realize he means the wet sound loud in the little kitchen as his fingers work in and out of you. “You hear yourself takin’ me in? That’s you wantin’ it.”

It’s filthy and true and you can’t deny it. 

There's a coil tightening low in your belly, every nerve in your body funneling to where his hand is. Your grip on the table edge goes slippery with sweat.

“Remmick,” you gasp, not even sure what you’re asking for, only that you’re strung too tight.

“There you go,” he groans, fingers driving a little deeper, curling just right.

It hits without much warning. One second you’re climbing, the next you’re over the edge, everything snapping. 

Your body seizes around his fingers, clenching so hard it almost hurts, that coil unspooling in a rush of pleasure so intense it blanks your mind.

A breathless moan tears up your throat. Your thighs shake, knees nearly buckling, if it weren’t for his hand on your back and the table under your palms you’d be on the floor.

“That’s it,” he groans, riding you through it, fingers still working, still moving until you’re whimpering, too sensitive, twitching with each little aftershock. 

You sag against the table when it finally lets you go, chest heaving, sweat cooling on your neck. He eases his fingers out of you slow, gentle for the first time since you walked in, his hand sliding up to rest on your hip. You can feel his other hand at your back again, rubbing small circles, keeping you grounded.

“First one’s always a little wild,” he says, sounding almost fond. “You doin’ all right?”

You nod, or try to. Your head feels full of cotton, floaty and heavy all at once. “I—” Your voice comes out hoarse. You clear your throat. “I’m fine.”

“You’re more than fine,” he says, and there’s a smile in it. “You’re perfect.” He shifts behind you, and that’s when you feel it, really feel it—his cock pressed up against the back of your thigh through the fabric of his trousers. 

He’s been hard this whole time, you realize dimly, all that while he was working you open. The blunt head drags over your skin when he adjusts, the thickness of him obvious even through cloth.

Your stomach flips, fear and anticipation knotting together. “You’re really—”

“Oh, I’m really.” He sounds almost amused. “You wanted me to take you on this table, remember?” 

His hand leaves your back and you hear the soft, familiar sound of a belt coming loose, a buckle clinking, the rasp of leather through belt loops. Then buttons, quick and practiced, fabric shifting.

You suck in a breath, every sense straining.

A moment later, something hot and slick—not his fingers this time—nudges against your entrance. He slides the head of his cock through your slick folds slowly, up and down, coating himself in you, bumping your clit on the downstroke, making you twitch.

“Jesus,” he mutters, more to himself than you. “You feel that? How you’re grabbin’ at me already and I ain’t even in?”

You do feel it, and it’s terrifying. Your body recognizes him as something it’s meant to hold, meant to take, even as your mind stumbles over the size of him, over what this means.

“I—wait,” you say, panic flaring for a second, the reality of it looming. “Remmick, I’m—”

“I know,” he says, and for once there’s no teasing in it. “You listen to me. It’s gonna burn at first, then it’s gonna feel like you never should’ve gone without it this long. You trust me?”

You hesitate. He feels it in the way your muscles tense around the head of him. His hand comes up, fingers wrapping loosely around your throat from behind, thumb tipping your chin just a little. The touch sends a different kind of shiver through you, sharp and grounding.

“I ain’t gonna break you,” he says quietly, close to your ear. “I want you comin’ back to this just as bad as I want you right now.” His hips roll just enough that the blunt tip presses hard against your opening. 

The hand at your throat, the tone in his voice, the memory of his fingers and the way your body just came apart on them thirty seconds ago—they all crash together, and you find yourself nodding before you know you’re doing it.

“Go,” you whisper, the word trembling, but there.

He makes a sound then that’s half-growl, half-groan, all man. His grip on your throat tightens just a hair, his other hand clamping down on your hip.

“That’s my girl,” he says again, rough with need. “Hold on.”

The head of him breaches you with more resistance than his fingers ever met. 

Your body tries to clamp down, to keep him out, muscles fighting the stretch. He doesn’t slam in, but he doesn’t baby you either. He works himself in slow, steady pressure, teeth gritted, hips driving forward inch by thick inch.

The burn is real. It’s sharp, like you’re being split open from the inside. You gasp, nails scraping at the wood, whole body bowing. For a second it’s too much.

“Breathe,” he grunts through his own strain, hand at your throat sliding up to your jaw, thumb pressing at your cheek. “Breathe through it. You’re takin’ me. Look at you. You’re takin’ me.”

He isn’t wrong. Beneath the pain, there’s this breathless awe—at the size of him, at the way your own body yields, at the feel of being filled in a way you never have before. 

You force yourself to inhale, exhale, again, again. Your muscles flutter around him, protesting, then slowly easing.

When the broadest part of his head passes the tight ring of your entrance, the rest slides in easier, still stretching, still burning, but less violently. 

He sinks deeper, stopping only when his hips are flush with your ass, his pelvis pressed to your backside, balls snugged up against your cunt. You can feel him everywhere, heavy and solid in your core, pulsing faintly.

“Christ,” he rasps, the words hot against your neck. “I can barely think straight. Sweet girl, you just swallowed every inch of me.”

You exhale shakily, overwhelmed. Full doesn’t begin to cover it. You feel stuffed, stretched to the point of coming apart, and yet under the ache, something else is already starting—a low, thick pleasure that moves like honey, spreading outward from where you’re joined.

He holds still for a long moment, breathing hard into your hair, chest rising and falling against your back. His hand at your hip rubs little circles, the one at your jaw softening its grip.

“You tell me when it stops hurtin’ so sharp,” he says. “I ain’t in no rush, even if my cock’s yellin’ otherwise.”

You try to focus. The worst of the burn ebbs, leaving a throbbing soreness, but the sense of him—deep, impossible, yours—is starting to bloom into something almost good.

“Move,” you whisper, surprising yourself. “Just a little.”

He laughs, breath short. “Greedy already,” he says. “Alright.”

He pulls back, just an inch, maybe two, dragging that thick length along your walls. The friction is intense, raw and tender and electric all at once. Then he pushes in again, slower, watching for any flinch. 

Your fingers dig into the table, but you don’t cry out, don’t tell him to stop. Your body clutches at him on the way out, sucks at him on the way back in.

He does it again. And again. Each shallow thrust smooths the hurt a little more, replaces it with deeper sensation. The initial sting fades into a deep, stretching fullness that makes your knees weak, that makes heat lick up your spine in waves.

“That’s it,” he murmurs, hand sliding from your jaw back down to your throat, wrapping around it more firmly this time, not cutting your air, just pinning you, reminding you where you are and who’s holding you. “Now we’re gettin’ somewhere.”

He lengthens his strokes, pulling back farther, pushing in harder. The wet slap of his hips meeting your ass starts up, quiet at first, then louder, the sound of skin on skin obscene in the still night. 

Every push drives him deeper, nudging at something inside you that makes your breath jump, that sends little shocks through your belly, like he’s bumping the edge of something tender and secret and his.

Your body has learned the shape of him, stretching you from the inside. 

You can feel every ridge, every vein, the way the fat head spears through the tight clutch of you and then disappears into that deep, hot place that was empty your whole life and now is nothing but him.

His hand at your throat tightens, just a little. Not enough to cut your air, but enough to make each breath a thing you have to pull for, chest heaving against the table edge. His palm is broad and warm, thumb resting under your jaw, fingers curved along the side of your neck. 

Every time his hips snap forward, that grip reminds you he’s there; it pins you in your own skin so you can’t float away from what’s happening, can’t pretend it’s anything but what it is: you getting fucked open on a man’s cock in his kitchen like you were meant for it.

Then his hand drops. It slides down the column of your throat, over the dip of your collarbone, fingers spreading wide as they drag lower, rough palm grazing the top swell of your breast through the thin cotton. 

He cups you from behind, big hand wrapping around the weight of it, lifting, squeezing. The nightgown bunches under his fingers as he kneads, thumb rolling over your nipple until it stiffens hard, the fabric rasping just enough to make you whine.

“There,” he mutters, voice gone thick, like he has to taste every part of you. “Knew these’d feel good in my hand.”

He squeezes once more, harder, the pressure sending a sharp line of sensation straight down to where he’s buried in you, your nipple trapped between his thumb and the heat of his palm. 

Your back arches, pushing more of your tit into his grip even as his cock grinds deeper. 

For a second you’re caught between the drag inside and the rough, greedy hold on your breast, pleasure ricocheting between the two.

Then his hand is moving again, leaving your aching nipple peaked under the cotton, skimming back up over your breastbone, returning to your throat like it owns the place. His fingers curl back into their collar around your neck, thumb settling under your jaw, holding you where he wants you while his hips keep driving.

“Listen to you,” he groans, and you realize he doesn’t just mean your voice—wrecked and breaking on every inhale—but the wet, filthy noise your body’s making, the slick drag of his cock pulling out of you, the obscene squelch when he pushes back in, the slap of his balls hitting the curve of your cunt. “You hear that? That’s this pussy lovin’ every inch I’m givin’ her.”

The word makes your stomach flutter and your cunt clench down around him so tight he curses, hips stuttering. 

There’s no room for modesty now; everything between your legs is wide awake and telling on you. 

Every time he pulls back, your inner muscles chase after him, hugging, clinging, like you’re frightened of losing that fullness, like your body’s praying he’ll push right back in—and he does, like he’s answering a call.

He adjusts his stance, feet shifting on the rough floor, and angle changes. The next thrust lands different, deeper, the thick head of him driving up and forward to grind against a spot inside you that makes your vision white out around the edges for a beat. 

You jolt, a strangled noise ripping out of you, fingers scraping along the tabletop as your whole body goes tense.

“There it is,” he pants, catching that reaction, chasing it. 

He does it again on purpose, hips rolling instead of just snapping, driving that same path, making sure he hits that spot with the crown every time. 

“You feel that? Right there? That’s what you been needin’, girl. That ache way up high you ain’t never had a name for.”

He's right on it now, relentless. 

Each stroke is a steady assault, steady enough your body starts to learn the pattern, tension building with every collision. The soreness from taking him the first time smooths into a deep, hot throb that wraps around the pleasure, one feeding the other. 

Your toes curl, your thighs tremble, your stomach ripples around the intrusion like you’re trying to swallow him even deeper.

He slides the hand from your hip back around your front, into the slick heat between your thighs, and finds your clit like he’s been doing it all his life. 

His fingers are slick with your own mess, rough pads moving in tight, ruthless circles over that swollen bud. It sends lightning directly up your spine, straight to the base of your skull. 

You choke on a sound that isn’t quite a word and jerk against his hand; his arm around your throat holds you in place.

“Goddamn, you’re twitchy,” he groans, grinding his hips down so the bone of him presses your ass, so his cock bruises into that soft spot inside while his fingers roll your clit. “You gonna fall apart on me again? You gonna let me feel you squeeze all over my cock proper this time?”

Your answer is a breathless, broken, “Please,” your voice ragged, half sob, half prayer. 

The table shudders under the force of his thrusts now, the legs complaining in small creaks that match the rhythm of his hips. The lamp flame jumps in its glass, throwing wild shadows against the wall—a tangle of your bent body and his frame hunched over you, shoulders rolling as he works inside you like he’s plowing up hard ground.

Spit slicks your lips; you realize at some point your mouth fell open and just forgot how to close, breath dragging in ragged, wet pulls. 

You couldn’t be bothered to care if you tried; everything is narrowed to the hot place his cock is sawing through and the bright, brutal pulses from his fingers on your clit.

He can feel you climbing, feel your body drawing in tight around him, feel your channel starting to flutter. He growls, low and guttural, the sound pressed against the back of your neck. “That’s it. That’s it, squeeze me.”

His hand at your throat tightens a hair more, narrowing the world to his breathing and yours, the rush of blood in your ears, the drag of wood under your palms. 

The smallest bit of pressure makes every sensation hit harder; your body goes light and heavy at the same time, limbs tingling, cock-deep pull inside you the only thing that feels solid.

He pistons into you now with a steadier, punishing rhythm, cock dragging from the fat base at your entrance all the way to that deep end that makes your belly flip, then back again. 

Your ass jiggles from each impact, flesh rippling under his grip. His fingers at your clit don’t falter.

You can hear yourself now, high and ruined, begging without even knowing what for. “Don’t stop—don’t—Remmick, don’t—oh—oh God—”

“Mhm, use my name,” he hisses, hips crashing into yours, the wet slap echoing off the close walls. “You say it when you can’t hold yourself together no more.”

He leans forward, the sweat on his skin slick against the thin cotton of your nightgown bunched at your waist. 

His mouth finds the side of your neck, teeth scraping over the delicate skin there, then biting down just hard enough to make you gasp. He sucks, draws blood closer to the surface in a hot sting that only makes your cunt flutter harder around him.

Between the choke of his hand, the sharp pinch of his teeth, the relentless grind of his cock, and the ruthless attention on your clit, you don’t stand a chance.

The orgasm slams into you hard enough your knees buckle, your body trying to curl in on itself while he holds you stretched over the table. 

Everything constricts at once—your throat around his hand, your belly around the deep ache, your cunt around his cock. You clamp down on him with startling force, walls seizing, milking, clutching like you’re trying to suck him straight out of his skin.

You cry out. There’s no pretty word for it. Sound rips out of you high and raw, your voice cracking on his name. 

Your vision goes fuzzy with white at the edges, the kitchen shrinking to the rough wood under your hands and the thick, unyielding length splitting you and the brutal roll of pleasure ripping through you in waves.

“Fuck—fuck,” he grunts at your ear, the feeling of you spasming around him cutting through every ounce of control he has left. “That’s it, that’s it, girl, grip me—Jesus—”

He doesn’t stop moving, not really; he grinds through it, forcing his cock to keep sliding, short, deep thrusts, using the vice of your orgasm to wring everything he can from you. 

You’re shaking all over, thighs trembling so hard your feet skid a little on the floor, toes digging uselessly for purchase. 

Another rush of slick gushes around him, soaking his cock, dripping down over his balls, sliding warm along the inside of your thighs.

Your body keeps clenching in pulses, the pleasure cresting and breaking over and over until it tips toward something sharp, too much. You whimper, the sound small and shredded. His hand leaves your clit finally, stroking shaking skin instead, but his hips don’t stop.

The rhythm goes ragged, less measured, more frantic. His thrusts turn into short, hard ruts, like his body’s the one begging now. His fingers flex around your throat, then loosen just a little, thumb stroking your jaw instead as his breathing unravels.

“Gonna fill you up,” he groans, voice pitched low and rough. “You want that? You want me shootin’ deep in you, huh? Want to feel me leakin’ out you all the way back up to that house?”

The words, filthy as they are, punch right through your oversensitivity and light up something molten in your gut. 

Your sore, flooded cunt tightens around him involuntarily at the thought of carrying him inside you, his spend rolling down your thighs later when you climb into your own bed. 

You can’t shape the answer into full words; what comes out is some strangled mess that sounds like y-yes and a choke.

“Yeah, you do,” he snarls like he heard it. “You greedy little thing, comin’ down here pretendin’ you just wanna talk when your cunt’s hungry as hell.”

He drives in hard, once, twice, three more times, each thrust bottoming him out, pelvis grinding against the round of your ass. 

The slap of his hips is loud now, sloppy, wetter, your combined mess making the impact slick.

Then his whole body locks.

His stomach clenches tight against your back, jaw clamped against the side of your neck. A sound tears out of him, not quite human, something between a growl and a groan. His cock jerks inside you, swelling even thicker for a heart-stopping second, and then you feel it—hot, heavy spurts of him spilling deep, pounding against your cervix, flooding that space that’s been empty your entire life with a hot, liquid fullness.

He curses low and hoarse on each pulse, hips rocking in tiny, helpless movements as he empties himself, his own climax dragged out by the way your slick, oversensitive walls keep squeezing and fluttering around him. Every time your cunt milks him, another rope of cum kicks out of him, painting you inside.

“God—damn—” he grits, shuddering, one hand sliding from your throat to slap down next to your own on the table, fingers splayed wide, knuckles white on the wood. “You feel that? Feel me givin’ it to you?”

You do. You feel all of it. Every pulse, every twitch, every deep throb of him lodged inside, filling you, staking a claim. Your whole body feels stuffed, weighty, like he’s poured something molten into your bones.

The shakes take him then. You feel them where his chest is plastered to your back, quivers running through him in waves as his orgasm tapers off. 

His cock softens a little inside you but doesn’t slip free; your swollen entrance and the spent thickness of him keep you plugged together. Each small movement sends a slow, slick ache radiating outward.

For a long moment neither of you says anything.

He slumps more of his weight onto you without meaning to, and you sag under it, cheek pressed to the tabletop, breaths coming in harsh, uneven pulls. 

Sweat has glued your nightgown to your ribs where it’s still covering your upper body; where it’s bunched around your waist, the fabric clings damp to your skin with a mixture of your own wetness and his.

Eventually, he finds his voice, though it’s wrecked, scraped raw at the edges. “Jesus,” he mutters, words ghosting hot over the shell of your ear. 

For the first time since he pushed into you, he eases his hips back.

You gasp, a little shocked moan slipping out as his softening cock drags along your raw walls. 

When his head slips past your entrance, your muscles clench on instinct, reluctant to let him go, but gravity wins. He slides free, leaving you empty in a way that feels sharp, unfinished, even with his cum already starting to seep down, warm, from inside you.

Something thick and wet trickles out immediately, a slow, viscous roll that slides over your swollen folds and down the curve of your inner thigh. You feel it clearly, a hot trail in the cooler air of the kitchen. The knowledge of what it is, whose it is, makes your face burn and your belly tighten all over again.

He sees it too.

“Look at that,” he says softly, voice full of rough, satisfied awe. 

His hand leaves yours and slides down, palm cupping the underside of your ass, thumb catching one of those white streaks, spreading it lazily over your sensitive skin. You flinch, a little gasp escaping before you can stop it.

“Too much?” he asks.

“A little,” you admit, breath still stuttering. 

He makes a pleased sound at that, thumb dragging one last lazy stripe through the mess before he rubs his hand off on his own thigh. 

He straightens slowly, the absence of his weight making you sway for a second. His hands, empty now, come to your waist, smoothing down the bunched nightgown. He tugs it back into place over your hips, hiding what he’s done as best cloth can hide it.

Then he crouches a little, fingers catching the waistband of your drawers. They’re still tangled around your knees, sticky with your slick. 

He coaxes them up, guiding the cotton over your tender flesh, covering your cunt, trapping his spend where it is. 

The pull of the fabric against your oversensitive skin makes you hiss and bite your lip, but it also feels lewd and intimate in a different way—his cum pressed up against you, soaked into the cloth that sits right over your entrance.

He knows exactly what he’s doing, sealing you up like that. It shows in the way his thumb lingers a second too long at the gusset, pressing lightly, as if to make sure the material is snug, as if to feel one more time that he’s right there even with clothes between you.

“Gonna be walkin’ home with your panties stickin’ to you and a piece of me tryin’ to leak right back out,” he murmurs, voice a dark purr. “You’ll be thinkin’ of me every step.”

You make a weak noise, somewhere between a protest and something softer. Your legs feel unsteady when he finally helps you pull them fully into place, when he urges you upright with hands at your waist. 

When you stand, it’s like your bones have gone wrong—heavy at the hips, light at the knees, a deep, interior throb that makes you aware of your own body in a way you’ve never been.

He turns you gently, so your hip leans back into the edge of the table instead of your chest, so you’re facing him. His hair is damp and rumpled, a curl fallen low over his forehead, chest and stomach slick with sweat. 

His gaze sweeps over you, taking in the mussed nightgown, the bite marks blossoming at your throat and shoulder where his teeth worried your skin, the slackness of your mouth, the glassy shine to your eyes. 

Confidence sits easy on him; he looks like a man who’s put in a long night’s work and is proud of the job he’s done.

“You’re gonna cuss me tomorrow,” he says, voice low and a little smug. “When you sit down. When you walk. But you ain’t gonna regret it.”

You swallow, throat thick, his words settling warm and heavy between your ribs.

“No,” you admit, even quieter than before, and there’s no sense lying now. “I don’t… regret it.”

His mouth curves. “Good.”

You look away, suddenly aware of the time, of the silence of the big house up the hill, of how your mama and daddy are sleeping through something that’s gone and rearranged their daughter from the inside out.

“I need to go,” you say, voice small but steadying. “Before my father wakes up for water, or Mama starts callin’ and finds my bed empty.”

His hands fall from your waist, though not without one last, slow sweep along the curve of you, like he’s committing it to memory. 

“Go on,” he says. “Before I talk you into layin’ down on that bed in there and not leavin’ till the rooster screams.”

Your body responds to the image with an exhausted throb, a clench around nothing. 

You push off the table and take a careful step. Your thighs rub, slick, the damp cotton of your drawers pulling against you; you feel a fresh little leak of him inside you, a warm ooze that soaks into the fabric and clings. It makes you stutter a little, the soreness set deep in your core.

Remmick watches the way you move, jaw flexing, something like pride and hunger both tightening his face. 

He reaches for his trousers, tucking himself away, but he doesn’t bother with a shirt yet, doesn’t bother pretending he’s anything but what he is: the man who just fucked you on his kitchen table and filled you til you’re walking crooked.

You make it to the door on legs that still shake. Your fingers land on the frame as you pull it open, the cool breath of the night spilling in. 

Before you step out, you glance back. His eyes are on you, unreadable now, dark and steady in the lamplight.

“You come down here again,” he says, voice quiet, sure, “don’t pretend you’re just here for salve or scoldin’. You knock on my door after dark, I know what you’re askin’ for.”

You hold his gaze, the soreness between your thighs, the fullness inside you, the ache in your muscles all speaking louder than any denial you could muster. 

His eyes follow you out into the dark, low and pleased, and as you cross the yard barefoot, nightgown brushing your knees, his cum warm and sticky between your legs, you know he’s standing there in that doorway shirtless, watching you go with no shame at all, already planning just how he’ll take you the next time you come scratching at his door.

remmick 🏷️ @nigelology @cosmicpro @jakecockley @saintlucretia @justalittlefreaksblog @madkingcrowley @sonnensche1n @saaficat0311-blog @shewants7 @scannainscanrula @heyylolitaheyy @skankhvnt42 @ceobuggy @carriemill @valvalvalval-val @nlnny @soggynuggies0 @bleedingsunlight @theabhartachsbride @h3r3t1c @mysticvi @damnbamb @hexqueensupreme @vamp-fuxker @iamheretoread1234 @z0mb13xxxx

[spikedfearn]

LET THE RIGHT ONE IN

ONE-SHOT

pairing: Remmick x fem!reader

summary: There’s something strange about the new farmhand. He’s too watchful, too polite, too hungry in ways you can’t quite name, and your drunk husband is too cruel to notice the danger he brought home. But when you ask the night for mercy, it’s not god who comes knocking.

wc: 12.4k

a/n: happy sinnersversary <333 I genuinely can’t believe it’s already been a year since Ryan Coogler blessed our screens and Remmick blessed my coochie. truly don’t think I’d still be here without this absolute landmark of a movie reigniting both my love of vampires and my deranged crush on Jack O’Connell. Sinners is still the best film of 2025 fuck what the Oscars say!! putting this together felt weirdly full circle in the best way, and i’m honestly a little emotional about it,thank y’all so much for all the love you’ve shown me and my writing this past year. every like, reblog, share, and comment got me here, and hitting 6k in 12 months still feels unreal. truly, my heart is so damn full

warnings: dead dove: do not eat, graphic violence/gore, cheating/infidelity, domestic abuse/violence, monsterfucking, piv, oral (f! receiving), aphrodisiac drool, spit kink, body worship, begging, manipulative/coercive undertones, fingering, creampie,  breeding kink, overstimulation, praise kink, begging, possessive behavior, alcohol abuse

MASTERLIST

The first thing you noticed about the stranger your husband brought home was that he stopped at the steps.

All day the farm had sat beneath a wet, choking heat that made every chore feel heavier than it ought to, like it was bowing under the weight of the muggy atmosphere.

By sundown the fields had gone dull gold and black-green, the tree line cut hard against the sinking light, and the air smelled of dust, hay, animal musk, and the earthy promise of rain that never seemed to come. Cicadas droned from the cottonwoods by the creek. Somewhere in the barn, a horse stamped and blew hard through its nose, the sound knocking hollow through the boards.

You were on the back porch shelling peas into a chipped enamel bowl balanced in your lap, your apron damp at the waist, the cotton of your dress pasted to the small of your back. The day had left a fine film of grit over everything. It filmed your skin, dulled the porch rail, worked itself into the seams of your hands and under your nails no matter how many times you’d rinsed them at the pump. Your knuckles ached. Your shoulders ached. A small, mean throb lived between your brows from bending over rows, hauling feed, and scrubbing out the skillet your husband had flung into the sink that morning because the eggs had gone cold by the time he bothered to come in and eat them.

You were used to aches. To heat. To silence. To swallowing whatever wanted saying.

The truck announced itself before you saw it, coughing and rattling down the dirt road with that uneven, unhappy growl it always made when your husband drove it drunk. You didn’t look up right away. There wasn’t much point in greeting what you already knew was coming.

The brakes squealed. The engine shuddered dead. Then the driver’s side door banged open hard enough to set the hens fussing in their coop.

Your husband’s voice reached the porch before he did, thick and slurred around whatever he’d been drinking in town. “You still sittin’ there?”

You dropped the last pea into the bowl and set it carefully aside before standing. Your knees complained. At last a breeze moved across the yard, so faint it barely counted, lifting the damp hair at the nape of your neck before letting it fall again.

“I’ve got supper near ready,” you said.

He came around the side of the house smelling like sweat, dirt, and whiskey pushed back out through his pores. His suspenders hung half off one shoulder. His shirt was buttoned wrong at the throat. Red dust caked the hems of his trousers. There was a temper in the set of his mouth that made your stomach tighten on instinct, not because he’d said anything yet, but because you knew how little it took to turn him mean.

Then you saw the man standing a few paces behind him in the yard.

He’d kept back from the porch without seeming to make a point of it, posture easy and still in a way that didn’t fit the restless shabbiness of most men who came looking for work. For one strange second he looked less like a man standing in the yard than something the dusk itself had shaped and set there. The last bruised-red edge of daylight caught on one side of his face and shoulder, sank into the dark sweep of his hair beneath the brim of his hat, and carved the hollows under his cheekbones deeper. He wore a faded blue button-down with the sleeves rolled to his forearms, suspenders, worn denim work pants dusty at the hems and held up by a belt. The chain at his throat caught faintly in the light, more bronze than gold. Nothing about him looked rich or polished. Nothing about him ought to have stood out so sharply as he did.

But he did.

Maybe it was the stillness. Or the deliberate way he looked.

He was looking at the house. At the porch.

At you.

Not boldly enough to be rude. Not shyly enough to be proper. Just intent.

Your husband jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Picked up a hand in town. Says he can work.”

The stranger lowered his eyes then, like he knew he’d been caught staring. “Evenin’, ma’am.”

His voice was low and smooth as creek stones, touched by the South in a way that ought to have sounded familiar. But there was something else under it too, some faint shape to the words you couldn’t place, as though the accent had been learned and learned well but not first.

You looked at him properly then.

He was handsome. There wasn’t any use pretending otherwise, not even in the privacy of your own mind. Handsome in a weathered, rough-made way, all hard planes and shadowed eyes and a mouth that looked too expressive when it wasn’t smiling and somehow more dangerous when it was. Not young in the careless, bright manner of farmhands who passed through town showing off their shoulders and their teeth. He felt older than that. Not necessarily in years. In presence, maybe. In the quiet. In the way he stood like no one had ever had to learn how to take up space.

He made no move to come up on the porch.

Most men would’ve come tromping right on up after your husband without a second thought, boots hammering the porch boards, tracking mud across your clean floor and expecting coffee for the trouble, as though their very presence were favor enough.

This man didn’t.

He kept his place in the yard, quiet and still in the last bad light, as though he knew better than to cross any closer.

As though he was waiting.

Your husband wiped his mouth with the back of one hand and squinted at you through the sour red haze of whatever he’d been drinking in town. “Got any coffee left?”

“There’s some on the stove.”

“Good. He can take his supper out back with the others.”

At that, the stranger’s eyes flicked to your husband. Not with fear. Not with the dull, careful deference most hired men wore when they needed a roof and a meal badly enough. It was something smaller than that. Sharper. A flash so quick you might’ve convinced yourself you imagined it if not for the cold little certainty it left behind. Contempt, maybe. Or the beginning of it, smoothed flat before it could settle properly on his face.

You knew something about that trick.

You’d gotten good at not letting your own face betray you. He seemed the same.

Your husband clomped up the porch steps, one hand catching the doorframe for balance, then shouldered his way into the house hard enough to send the screen door banging open behind him. The stranger didn’t follow.

You stood there with the bowl of peas cooling at your elbow and him down in the yard beneath a sky turning mean and purple at the edges.

The cicadas rasped from the cottonwoods by the creek.

From the kitchen came the noise of lids being lifted, drawers yanked, crockery knocked about before you were ready for any of it. Something in you flinched toward the sound and away from it in the same breath, the way a body learns to answer a storm long before the thunder cracks.

When you looked back at the stranger, he was exactly where he’d been before, hat in his hands, eyes on you.

“You can come up,” you said before you could think better of it. “At least out of the dirt.”

Something moved across his face then, quick and difficult to name. Surprise, maybe. Or something older and stranger than surprise, something that seemed to pass through him rather than over him.

“Appreciate that,” he said softly.

He came to the steps, but not quickly. He moved with a kind of care that might have been caution and might have been courtesy, as though he had no wish to startle you. It made no sense in a man built like that—broad through the shoulders, strength laid plain in the forearms his rolled sleeves left bare, every line of him suggesting he could lift more than most men and do it with ease. Yet there was something almost hesitant in the way he mounted the steps, something watchful.

When he set one boot on the bottom board, the porch gave its usual complaining creak. When he climbed the next, Blue shifted in the barn and let out a sharp, uneasy snort that rang hollow through the dim.

You glanced toward the sound. “Blue’s been in a mood all afternoon.”

“Animals know more’n they can explain,” he said.

There was the beginning of a smile at one corner of his mouth when you looked back, faint as a crease pressed into cloth, but it didn’t stay long enough to become anything easy.

Up close, he smelled like cut grass and evening air and something colder running underneath it, something that didn’t belong to a summer night in this part of the country or any other. Clean earth after a hard rain. River water over stone. The mineral chill of a cellar that had never once felt the sun. It caught you off guard badly enough that you breathed him in twice before you realized you were doing it.

His eyes were dark. So dark in the lowering light they were nearly black.

You realized, a little late, that you were staring.

He tipped his head. “Beg pardon, ma’am.”

“It’s all right.”

Inside, your husband shouted for his coffee again, louder this time.

Your shoulders tightened before you could stop them.

The stranger’s gaze shifted toward the kitchen window, where the first lamplight had begun to turn the glass a thin buttery gold from within. When he looked back at you, something in his expression had changed—not much, not enough to name outright, but enough that it felt like he’d stepped closer without moving at all. He hadn’t done a thing but stand there and notice, and still it felt intimate in a way that unsettled you.

“You ought not be made to jump at your own home,” he said.

He said it softly, and that only made it worse.

You gave him the sort of smile women learned early and used often, the one that passed for politeness when truth was too costly. “You don’t know anything about my home.”

His eyes held yours with a steadiness that made the warm evening seem to hush around the edges.

“No,” he said after a moment. “Not yet.”

The air caught somewhere halfway into your lungs.

From inside came the scrape of a chair, followed by another slurred curse. You stepped back, reaching for the bowl. “I should—”

“I can take that in for you.”

The offer was so unexpected you just looked at him.

Men offered labor, sometimes, when it made them feel useful in a manner visible enough to be praised for. They carried feed sacks, split kindling, fixed hinges. They did not offer small kindnesses without wanting something named in return. They did not offer to carry a bowl from a woman’s hands so she didn’t have to balance too much at once. That belonged to another kind of life entirely, one you’d stopped letting yourself picture because it only made the life you had feel more threadbare by comparison.

“I’ve got it,” you said automatically.

His gaze dropped to your fingers around the enamel rim, then traveled back up the length of your arm to your face.

It shouldn’t have felt like a touch.

It did.

“As you like.”

You carried the bowl in yourself.

The kitchen was thick with stove heat and smelled of bitter coffee, onion, scorched fat, and the lingering damp of dishwater. Your husband was already at the table, hat tossed aside, sleeves shoved up, one boot heel hooked on the rung of the chair like he owned not only the house but every room inside it. He had your mug in one hand and was glaring at the kitchen as though personally wronged by the fact that supper hadn’t yet risen up and served itself.

He looked toward the door behind you. “He comin’ in?”

You set the peas by the sink and turned back toward the porch, where the stranger had stopped just shy of the threshold.

There it was again.

That pause.

That waiting.

“He can,” you said, because now that you’d noticed it once, you couldn’t seem to stop noticing it.

Your husband barked out a humorless laugh. “What’s wrong with you, boy? Floor bite?”

The stranger’s mouth twitched faintly at one corner. “Didn’t want to presume.”

That odd edge in his voice slipped a little more on the last word. Not enough to place. Just enough to unsettle. Something old seemed to catch under the Southern drawl and glimmer there for a second before vanishing again.

Your husband snorted and waved him in with his mug. “Well, get in then.”

The stranger crossed the threshold.

Something in the room drew taut the moment he did.

You couldn’t have said why. Nothing visible changed. The lamp still hissed. The spoon still knocked softly against the pot when you stirred the beans. Outside, the cicadas still rasped from the trees. But his presence altered the room all the same, as though a draft had moved through that no one else could feel, touching the back of your neck with a coolness that didn’t belong there.

Once he stepped inside, you saw him more clearly. His hair was dark and a little too long at the collar, falling just enough to soften the sharpness of him without gentling it. His face was finer-boned than you’d first thought from the yard, all that hard severity eased only by his mouth. There was something travel-worn about him, but not in the ordinary sense of dust and road fatigue. It was more that time seemed to sit on him at an angle, as though it touched him differently than it touched other men.

Your husband pointed toward the back stoop with his chin. “Eat out there after. Don’t need muddy boots all over.”

The stranger glanced down at his boots.

They were no dirtier than your husband’s.

“Yes, sir,” he said mildly.

Sir. The word should’ve sounded submissive. Somehow it didn’t. Somehow it sounded like a man humoring a child too foolish to know he was being indulged.

You served the plates in silence. Your husband complained that the meat was tough, the coffee weak, the bread left in too little, the beans too salty, though he kept eating all the same. He talked with his mouth full and reached for your wrist once when you were too slow topping off his mug, squeezing just hard enough to remind you he could. Your face stayed still. You’d learned that too. How to go smooth and blank as a washed stone. How to leave nothing lying out where someone else could bruise it.

The stranger sat at the far end of the table until your husband jerked his head toward the back door again. “I said outside.”

For one stretched beat, the stranger didn’t move.

Then he stood, collected his plate, and did as he was told.

But before he stepped out, he looked at your hand where your husband’s fingers had already left their marks under the skin, discoloration beginning to rise there like something surfacing.

Nothing much changed in his face.

Only his eyes.

The look of him went darker somehow, quieter, the way deep water goes dark before you understand how far down it runs.

Like he’d put the sight of it somewhere he meant to keep.

By the time the dishes were washed and the table wiped down, the windows had gone black with night. Your husband had wandered off to the parlor with his bottle and the radio turned low and crackling, while you took the dishwater to the back door and stepped out to throw it into the weeds.

The stranger was still there.

He’d long since finished eating, but he remained on the steps instead of heading for the bunkhouse or the barn loft or wherever your husband planned to put him. The moon hadn’t climbed high enough yet to silver the yard, but there was enough weak spill of light from the kitchen behind you to sketch the line of his shoulders and the sharp angle of his jaw.

He rose when he heard the screen door open.

“You don’t have to stand every time I come out,” you said.

“That so?”

“No.”

He smiled then, small and crooked and gone almost as soon as it arrived, but it changed him more than you expected. Not softer. Just more alive. It drew your attention straight to his mouth and left it there a second too long, long enough for you to notice how pale his teeth looked in the dark.

You stepped off the porch and threw the water into the weeds by the path. The splash came back warm against your ankles, dampening the hem of your dress. When you turned, he took the bucket from your hand without a word. You hadn’t asked him to. One moment the handle was biting into your fingers and the next his hand had closed over it with such careful precision he managed not to brush your skin at all.

Even that shouldn’t have mattered.

Your body noticed anyway.

“Thank you,” you said.

“It’s nothin’.”

But he stayed close enough that you could feel the cooler current of him moving through the heat. Not cold exactly. Not dead. Just wrong for July. Wrong for the South. Wrong for any human body standing this close in summer dark.

Up close, his eyes looked darker still, rimmed in lashes too thick and fine for any man who worked with his hands. There was a pale scar near one temple, half-lost in shadow. His fingers, still curved around the bucket handle, were long and narrow-boned and oddly elegant for farm work. You could picture them wrapped around a shovel, a post-hole digger, a horse bridle.

You could picture them elsewhere too.

The thought came so fast and so shamefully it felt less like thinking than like being struck by it.

You dragged your gaze away.

The screen door banged behind you in the wind.

When you looked back at him, his head had tilted slightly, as though he’d sensed the path your mind had taken and was waiting to see if you’d follow it again.

“What’s your name?” you asked, because your husband hadn’t bothered to give it, because not knowing now seemed stranger than asking.

“Remmick.”

The name sat oddly in the warm dark. Not impossible. Just foreign enough to catch on the ear.

“Remmick,” you repeated.

Something shifted in his expression at the sound of it in your mouth.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Where you from?”

“Far from here.”

“That doesn’t answer me.”

“No.” The ghost of that smile touched his lips again. “S’pose it doesn’t.”

You should’ve left it there. Gone back inside. Bolted the door. Said goodnight to the dark and to him and to the strange low flicker he’d stirred up in you purely by being kind when you’d been starved of kindness so long even the smallest portion of it felt indecent.

Instead, you heard yourself say, “Your voice doesn’t sound like any place around here.”

For the first time, he seemed genuinely caught.

He lowered his gaze, then raised it again, and when he spoke the words still carried that soft Southern ease, but the edges of something older glimmered beneath it, something rougher and stranger and not from here at all, a burr hidden under velvet.

“I get told I’ve traveled enough to sound like nowhere at all.”

The answer was evasive. The voice wasn’t.

A shiver moved down your arms despite the heat.

Behind you, the radio buzzed and popped from the parlor. Your husband coughed wetly, then shouted something you couldn’t make out.

The sound spoiled the moment like spit in clean water.

Remmick’s gaze shifted toward the house. His face gave nothing away, but the night around him seemed to sharpen.

“He always speaks to you that way?” he asked.

You stiffened. “It’s not your business.”

“No,” he said. “Not yet.”

There it was again.

Not yet.

Not a threat. Not quite. But it opened somewhere low inside you all the same, like a stuck door giving way under steady pressure.

You took the bucket back from him, meaning to end the conversation, but your fingers brushed his this time.

He was cold.

Not corpse-cold. Not dead. Just startlingly chill against the heat-swollen dark, like he’d been standing in cellar shade instead of summer night.

You must’ve shown something, because his gaze flicked to your mouth. “Somethin’ wrong?”

“No.”

“Your hands are warm.”

The way he said it made the words feel less like observation and more like the beginning of something.

You swallowed. “I’ve been working all day.”

“I know.”

“You don’t know anything about me.”

His eyes held yours with unnerving steadiness.

“I know you’re tired,” he said. “I know you work more’n anyone on this place. I know he leaves marks.”

The words fell one by one and landed heavy.

For a second you couldn’t speak. Could barely breathe.

The porch lamp hissed overhead, drawing moths that battered themselves against the glass until their wings made a powder there. Somewhere at the tree line, something moved through the brush and then went still again.

“You shouldn’t say things like that,” you managed.

“Why?”

“Because you don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t I?”

He hadn’t moved any nearer, and yet the space between you felt thick with him. With his attention. With that low, terrible patience of his. It felt like standing too close to the edge of something and knowing, without being able to say how, that one more inch might change everything.

You should’ve gone inside.

You should’ve left him there in the yard, whatever he was, however strange.

Instead you stood with the empty bucket hanging from one hand and let him look at you the way no one had looked at you in years—not politely, not carelessly, not with ownership, but with a devastating sort of notice that felt almost worse.

At last he stepped back.

“Forgive me,” he said, and there was something very old in the phrasing, not just in the words themselves but in the weight of them. “Didn’t mean to press where I wasn’t welcome.”

It ought to have eased you.

Instead it left you rawer than before.

Because now you were thinking about welcome. About thresholds. About the way he’d stood waiting earlier as patient as a man with all the time in the world. About how carefully he watched until spoken to. About the horse going skittish in the barn whenever he came too close. About the slice of bread on his supper plate—the one you’d rubbed with garlic and set down without thinking—which he had left untouched.

You noticed that last thing only now, too late and all at once.

A small, cold prickle walked the length of your spine.

His gaze dropped again, not to your throat, not exactly, but close enough that your pulse suddenly felt visible. Something shifted in his face then—subtle but unmistakable. Hunger moved over it like a shadow over water and was gone just as quickly.

Then, very gently, he said, “You ought to get some rest.”

The parlor floorboards groaned. Your husband’s tread, heavy and uneven.

You turned toward the sound on reflex.

When you looked back, Remmick had gone still again, all traces of whatever had just passed between you tucked away beneath that patient, watchful composure. The bucket slipped slightly in your damp hand.

“Goodnight,” you said.

His eyes stayed on your face.

“Goodnight, darlin’.”

The endearment should’ve offended you coming from a stranger.

Instead it moved through you slow as liquor and settled low.

You went inside and fastened the back door with fingers that didn’t feel entirely steady.

Your husband barely noticed. He was slouched in his chair with the bottle dangling from one hand, eyes gone muddy with drink, mouth loose with all the ugly thoughts liquor made meaner. The radio muttered low. The room smelled of old smoke, sour whiskey, and sweat soaked into fabric too long to ever come clean. Home, in other words. Or what had passed for it.

You banked the stove. Blew out one lamp, then the next. Stood at the sink a moment longer than necessary with both hands braced on the edge, staring at your own thin reflection in the kitchen window.

Nothing moved behind you.

Still, you turned.

The room was empty.

You told yourself not to be foolish.

Upstairs, the bedroom was close and airless. Your husband came to bed late, swaying as he undressed, and reached for you the way he always did after drinking—careless, entitled, more interested in taking than seeing. You turned toward the wall and left your body where it was. The mattress dipped under his weight. The room filled with the smell of whiskey, sweat, and damp linen. You fixed your eyes on the dark seam where the plaster met the floorboards and went blank the way you’d taught yourself to do.

Afterward he rolled away and began to snore.

You lay awake.

Moonlight crept through the curtains in thin, dusty bars. The house settled around you with its usual night sounds—timbers creaking, pipes ticking, a branch scraping once against the outer wall. The room held the shape of a marriage and none of the shelter.

Your body ached in old ways and new ones. Your throat felt tight with all the words you’d swallowed over the years until silence had become second nature. Outside, the wind had finally picked up. You could hear it moving through the corn in long whispering passes, like something walking the rows.

You closed your eyes.

And because there was no one there to hear but God, and because you were too tired to keep pretending piety made suffering easier to bear, you whispered into the dark with your hands clasped beneath your chin like a child.

“Please,” you breathed. “Please. I can’t—”

Your voice broke.

The bedroom smelled of sweat, damp linen, and the sharp medicinal tang of the liniment you rubbed into your wrists on bad nights. Beside you, your husband snored on, dead to the world and no use to it waking or asleep.

You stared at the ceiling and let the tears come soundless.

“Please send me somethin’,” you whispered. “Anything. Help me. Please. If there’s anything listening at all, let it in.”

The dark took the words and held them.

Outside, somewhere below the bedroom window, the porch boards gave one long, low creak.

You stopped breathing.

Beside you, your husband snorted and rolled deeper into sleep.

The house went still.

So still that when the next sound came—soft, measured, unmistakable—it seemed to speak straight into your bones.

Not the wind.

Not the branch.

A knock.

Very polite.

Very patient.

From downstairs.

At the back door.

The knock came again.

Not loud. Not hurried. Just three measured taps against the back door as if whoever stood on the other side had all the patience in the world and every reason to believe he would be answered.

You lay rigid in the dark, every part of you suddenly alert.

Beside you, your husband snored on with his mouth open, one arm flung across the mattress, dead weight in every sense of the phrase. Moonlight striped his shoulder and the rumpled sheet over his hips. The room smelled of stale whiskey and sweat gone sour in the heat. Somewhere in the wall, something tiny scratched and settled. Outside, the corn whispered in the wind like a hundred careful voices rubbing together.

Then came the third knock.

Your pulse stumbled so hard it almost hurt.

You’d asked for something.

Help me. Please. If there’s anything listening at all, let it in.

The words rushed back through you with sick, breathless clarity.

The mattress shifted when you slipped from it, but only just. You froze at once, your eyes darting to your husband’s face. He grunted, smacked his lips once, then dropped deeper into sleep, the sound of his breathing turning wet and ugly again.

Slowly, carefully, you stood.

The floorboards were old enough to complain about everything, so you placed each bare foot with care, avoiding the spots you knew would creak the loudest. Your nightgown clung light and damp to your thighs as you crossed the bedroom. The moon had turned the room thin and gray, all the familiar shapes made ghostly—the washstand, the chair in the corner, the framed verse your mother had once given you hanging crooked on the wall. At the window, the curtain stirred.

You did not look out.

You didn’t think you could bear to and still keep moving.

The hallway was darker than the bedroom, the narrow runner faded soft in the middle from years of footsteps. Downstairs, the house held itself in a strange, listening quiet. Even the radio in the parlor had gone silent. The bottle on the side table caught a sliver of moonlight and glimmered faintly as you passed.

At the back door, you stopped.

The lock felt cold under your fingers.

Not just cool from the night. Cold.

A little shudder moved down your spine.

For one foolish, suspended second, you considered turning back. Going upstairs. Pulling the sheet over your head like a child and pretending you hadn’t heard a thing. Pretending prayers vanished into the rafters like smoke and didn’t end up heard by the wrong thing.

Then, from the other side of the door, came his voice. Low. Gentle.

“Darlin’.”

It was barely above a murmur, but it slipped through the wood and the dark and under your skin all the same.

Your hand tightened on the latch.

“Remmick,” you whispered, though there was no one near enough to hear but him.

A pause.

Then, very softly, “May I come in?”

The question should’ve sounded absurd after everything—after the knock in the night, after the strange chill of his skin, after the old weight in his words and the way he’d stood at every threshold as if he knew them better than you did.

Instead it did something awful and tender inside you all at once.

He was asking.

No one ever asked.

Your mouth had gone dry. “You’re already on the porch.”

“Mm.” The sound was almost a hum. “But not inside.”

The wind moved through the yard, carrying in the smell of damp earth, cut weeds, and something richer beneath it. Not rot. Not blood. Something mineral and dark and old as river stones buried in mud.

You stood there with your palm over the latch and thought of your prayer upstairs. Thought of your husband asleep in the room where you’d left him. Thought of the way Remmick had looked at the marks on your wrist like he’d taken the sight of them somewhere private and permanent inside himself.

“Why are you here?” you asked, and hated the unsteadiness in your voice.

The silence on the other side of the door lasted just long enough to make you feel it.

“Because you asked,” he said.

Your breath caught.

The lock gave with a tiny metallic click that sounded far too loud in the still house.

You eased the door open.

He stood on the other side with the night gathered around him.

For one startled second he looked much the way he had on the porch earlier—dark hair wind-touched and curled at the brow, shirt sleeves rolled, shadow lying clean in the hollows of his face. But moonlight changed him. It poured silver over one cheekbone, caught strange red at the very center of his eyes before it vanished, and left the rest of him in a darkness that didn’t quite behave like ordinary dark. The yard behind him seemed to lean away from the back steps. Even the cicadas had gone quieter.

He did not move.

Neither did you.

Then his gaze dropped, not rudely, just long enough to take in your nightgown, your bare feet, the loosened braid over your shoulder. When he looked back up, there was a voracity in his face so naked it ought to have frightened you.

It didn’t.

Not because it wasn’t there.

Because it wasn’t the same kind you knew.

“You let me in,” he said quietly.

You swallowed. “I suppose I did.”

A faint, almost disbelieving smile touched his mouth, then was gone. “You did more’n suppose.”

The cooler drift of him moved into the kitchen when he finally stepped inside. It wasn’t dramatic. No storm of shadows, no crack of thunder, no sudden spectacle to prove you’d done something foolish and irreversible. Just the unmistakable feeling of a boundary giving way. Of something entering that had been kept out until now. The little hairs at the back of your neck rose all the same.

You shut the door behind him.

The kitchen was all shadows and silhouettes. The table. The stove. The basin by the window. The dish towel hanging limp from the chair back. Your own breathing sounded too loud. Somewhere upstairs, your husband snorted in his sleep, rolled, and settled again.

Remmick’s head turned slightly toward the ceiling.

“He won’t wake easy,” he said.

There was something in the certainty of it that made you look at him harder.

“How would you know?”

His eyes came back to yours. In the dark they seemed darker than black, taking light in and returning almost none of it.

“I know more’n I ought,” he said.

He said it with no swagger at all. Just fact.

You wrapped your arms around yourself without meaning to. The kitchen suddenly felt too small for what was happening in it, for the strangeness of him standing there with his hands loose at his sides and his gaze fixed on you as if nothing else under Heaven mattered half so much.

“I don’t know what I’ve done,” you said.

His expression did not change.

“Opened the door,” he said softly.

You let out a breath that trembled on the way out.

“That’s not what I mean.”

Something in his face softened, and that frightened you more than if he’d smiled.

“I know,” he said.

He took one step closer. Then stopped, leaving enough space between you that you could still pretend you weren’t choosing to stay where you were.

Up close, his scent reached you again—night air, rain-soaked soil, river stone, and something faintly sweet beneath it now. Not flowers. Not fruit. Something warmer. Something that made your thoughts turn heavy and strange for just a second before righting themselves again.

His gaze slid to the side of your throat.

Not hidden. Not polite.

Hungry.

“Tell me what you are,” you whispered.

His eyes lifted.

For a moment, nothing moved between you but the thin curtain at the window breathing in and out with the wind.

Then he said, “Somethin’ old. Somethin’ mean. Somethin’ that ought to’ve left this world alone and didn’t.”

The honesty of it sent a chill through you.

“And yet you came when I asked,” you said.

His mouth moved at one corner, not quite a smile. “Aye.”

There it was.

That slip.

Just one small sound, but it cracked the Southern ease at once and let something older gleam underneath.

Your eyes narrowed. “You don’t sound from around here.”

“No,” he said softly. “I don’t.”

There was more of it in his voice now, worn smooth by time and distance but not gone. Irish. Old enough and buried deep enough that when it surfaced, it felt less like hearing a different accent and more like hearing the bones of him.

You should’ve been afraid.

Instead you found yourself taking one slow step forward, studying him the way he’d studied you all evening.

“You knew,” you said. “About him.”

Remmick’s gaze flicked toward the ceiling again. Toward the room above. “He doesn’t hide much.”

“He does behind closed doors.”

“Not from me.”

A pulse of silence passed between you.

Then, very quietly, “How much have you seen?”

His expression darkened. Not with shame. Not with embarrassment. With anger held on a hard, thin leash.

“Enough.”

The word left no room.

You looked down at the floorboards for a second, at your own bare feet in the puddle of pale light, the hem of your nightgown brushing your ankles. When you spoke again, your voice came rougher. “Then why didn’t you do anything?”

The question seemed to strike him harder than you’d expected.

His jaw shifted once. “Because I didn’t belong to you yet.”

Heat rose over your skin so fast it felt almost like humiliation.

He went on before you could speak. “And because if I’d put my hands on him before you asked it of me, I’d have taken more than I meant to.”

Something in the way he said taken made the room seem to still around it.

You looked back up.

His eyes had changed.

No, not changed. They were changing.

The dark center of them had thinned enough to show red beneath, not bright and theatrical but deep and living, like banked embers disturbed in a hearth. The shadows around his face seemed sharper too somehow. Not larger. More defined. Too defined. The line of his mouth. The cut of his cheekbones. The breadth of him under the work shirt. Everything in him looked suddenly less like a man in a kitchen and more like a thing wearing the memory of one.

And still he had not moved closer.

“I asked for help,” you said.

“Yes.”

“I didn’t ask for…” You gestured weakly, unable to name what stood in front of you.

His gaze remained steady on your face. “No,” he said. “You didn’t.”

A floorboard groaned overhead.

Both of you looked up.

The sound came again—heavier this time. A tread. Then another.

Your husband.

A cold knot drew tight in your belly.

You hadn’t heard him wake. Hadn’t heard the bed. Hadn’t heard the bedroom door. But there he was above you now, moving with clumsy, uneven purpose across the upstairs floor.

“Where the hell—”

The shout broke off as if he’d lost his place in his own thought. Then came the unmistakable slam of a hand against the banister.

“Woman?”

Your stomach dropped.

Remmick’s face went utterly still.

The stairs began to creak under your husband’s weight.

You turned toward the doorway to the hall just as he appeared there, one hand braced on the frame, hair mussed, face flushed with drink and sleep and sudden suspicion. He wore only his undershirt and trousers, the latter barely buttoned, belt hanging loose. In that thin, unforgiving light, he looked harsher than he had at supper. Meaner. More pathetic, somehow, in the way mean men often were when they lost control of a room.

His eyes went from you to Remmick.

And stayed.

The silence that followed was raw as a wound.

Then your husband laughed once, hard and humorless.

“Well,” he said. “Ain’t that somethin’.”

He pushed himself fully into the kitchen. The smell of liquor came with him like a second skin. “I turn my back one night and you’re spreadin’ your legs for the help?”

Shame burned hot and instant up your throat, followed almost at once by anger so sharp it made your vision clear.

“I’m not spreadin’ anything,” you bristled.

His eyes snapped to you. “Shut your mouth.”

Remmick moved then, but only enough to turn his body slightly, placing more of himself between the two of you without making a show of it.

Your husband saw that too.

Something reckless lit behind his eyes.

He looked Remmick up and down with the swagger of a man too inebriated to understand when fear should come. “What, you think you’re gonna stand there in my house and stare me down?” He spat on the floorboards near Remmick’s boot. “I took you in, you ungrateful bastard.”

“Took me in?” Remmick’s voice was almost mild.

The Irish edge had sharpened again. Not broad. Not performative. Just there now, impossible to miss.

Your husband sneered. “You heard me.”

Remmick’s head tipped slightly. “Funny way to describe it.”

The atmosphere in the room changed so fast it felt like weather.

Your husband felt it too. You saw it in the tiny hesitation that broke across his face. Then he doubled down, because men like him always did.

His gaze slid back to you and curdled. “You little whore.”

Before you could flinch, he lurched forward and grabbed your arm hard enough to wrench you off balance.

Pain shot from wrist to shoulder.

At the same instant, Remmick moved.

He crossed the space between them so quickly your mind couldn’t keep pace with it. One second your husband’s hand was clamped around your arm, hot and brutal and familiar. The next he was making a strangled, shocked noise as Remmick’s hand closed over his wrist.

Your husband went pallid.

Not with fear. Not yet.

With pain.

“What the fuck,” he hissed, trying to wrench himself free.

Remmick didn’t raise his voice. “Let her go.”

There was nothing strained in the words. Nothing hurried. His hand stayed locked around your husband’s wrist with an ease that made the whole thing worse.

Your husband bared his teeth. “You touch me again, I’ll—”

The threat broke apart when Remmick tightened his grip.

A sharp, wet pop split the kitchen.

Your husband screamed.

The sound tore through the room. You stumbled back, breath going ragged, as he dropped your arm and crashed half against the table. A plate left unwiped in the drainer hit the floor and shattered, pieces skidding across the boards.

He clutched his wrist, already swelling crooked, and looked up at Remmick like he was seeing him clearly for the first time.

“What are you?” he breathed.

The kitchen went very quiet.

The wind moved at the window. The curtain breathed in and out.

Then Remmick smiled.

It wasn't human.

The change didn't happen all at once. It moved through him like something remembered. His eyes burned fully red from within, swallowing the last of the dark. The bones of his face seemed to sharpen under the skin, elegance gone predatory. His fingers lengthened where they hung at his sides, nails darkening into dirty, curved points that caught what little light the room held. And when his mouth opened, it wasn't canine fangs you saw but all of it—every tooth too fine, too pointed, too meant for tearing.

Your husband made a sound you'd never heard from him before.

Not rage. Not bluster.

Panic.

He looked from his ruined wrist to Remmick’s face and seemed to shrink where he stood. “Jesus Christ.”

Remmick’s voice when he answered was lower now, roughened by that old burr until it sounded like velvet dragged over a blade. “No,” he said softly. “Not Him.”

Your husband bolted for the counter.

You knew what he was reaching for before he grabbed it.

The silver-handled carving knife you’d used on Sundays when there was enough meat to make one worth carving.

He turned with it in his good hand, wild-eyed, breath sawing in and out.

“Don’t,” you said, though whether you meant him or Remmick, you couldn’t have said.

He lunged.

The knife flashed in the moonlight.

Remmick moved his head just enough to avoid the first strike. The second he caught by the wrist. The third never landed. There was a hiss like fat spitting in a cast-iron pan, and Remmick’s face went terrible and still.

The silver edge had sliced across the meat of his palm.

Smoke curled up in a thin gray thread. The smell hit a second later—burnt skin, metal, something bitter and wrong.

Your husband saw it. Saw the burn. Saw that it had worked.

Triumph flared across his face, ugly and wild.

Then Remmick looked up.

What happened next hit the room like a storm breaking.

He slammed your husband backward so hard the table skidded and one leg splintered against the floor. The knife flew, struck the stove, and spun away into shadow. Your husband crashed into the wall, hard enough to crack plaster and shower chalky dust into his hair and eyes. He barely got a breath before Remmick was on him.

Your husband swung anyway, broken wrist hanging useless, good fist flailing drunk and desperate. Remmick let him land one hit—more insult than injury—then caught him by the throat and drove him sideways into the cabinet.

Wood burst.

A door tore off its hinge and hit the floor.

Stoneware crockery toppled and exploded around their boots in a spray of broken ceramic and flour dust. Your husband yelled something that came out half curse, half animal noise, his heels scraping furrows into the boards as Remmick hauled him up off the floor like he weighed nothing at all.

“Please,” he choked, grabbing at the wrist around his throat with both hands now, one broken and swelling, one slick with his own sweat.

The word sounded obscene in his mouth.

Remmick’s red eyes burned without a flicker. “Did you ever say it so sweetly for her?”

Your husband’s mouth worked. No sound came.

Remmick snarled then—a low, guttural sound that seemed too deep to belong inside one body—and the sight of all those fanged teeth drove the last of the fight out of your husband’s face. He kicked wildly, caught the edge of a chair, knocked it over. One boot slipped in spilled dishwater and blood from Remmick’s palm, smearing the floor slick and black.

He looked at you then.

Not Remmick.

Your husband.

As if maybe you might help him. As if you owed it.

You didn’t move.

Something in your stillness must have told him exactly what he needed to know, because real terror came over him at last. Total and naked and humiliating. He tried to beg again.

Remmick didn’t let him.

He turned his head, bared that impossible mouth, and tore into him.

There was nothing elegant about it.

It was wet. Violent. Horribly intimate.

Teeth sank in where throat met jaw and ripped through skin, muscle, tendon. The sound was thick and meaty, a tearing wetness that seemed to split the room in half. Blood didn’t spray so much as burst—hot, dark, and forceful—across Remmick’s mouth, down the front of his shirt, over the wall, the table leg, the floorboards, your husband’s own chest. He made one shredded, bubbling scream that collapsed almost immediately into a gargling choke as his windpipe came open under Remmick’s mouth.

Your stomach lurched.

You couldn’t look away.

Remmick wrenched back once, hard enough to open the wound wider. Flesh peeled. Blood pulsed. Your husband’s knees buckled, boots thudding uselessly against the floor while both hands flapped toward his ruined throat as if he could somehow hold himself closed. He couldn’t. Blood pumped between his fingers in glossy black-red sheets, splattering the cabinets, pattering hot onto the boards.

He tried to breathe.

The attempt made a hideous sucking rattle.

Remmick let him drop just enough to watch him fail.

For one awful, suspended moment your husband knelt there clutching what was left of his neck, eyes blown wide, mouth opening and opening around nothing. Blood spilled through his fingers, over his wrists, down his undershirt in thick hemoglobin pools. Every breath was a wet choke. Every swallow impossible.

Then Remmick caught him again, one hand locking into his hair, yanking his head back.

Your husband’s face turned toward the ceiling.

Toward God.

Toward nothing.

Remmick bent and fed once more.

This time the sound was lower. Greedier. A deep, animal pull broken by the crack of cartilage and the soft, sickening give of torn flesh. When he tore away again, there was hardly a throat left to speak of. Just ruin. Torn meat. Blood. White gleam of something beneath that should never have been seen in moonlight.

Your husband convulsed.

His boots drummed once, twice, against the floor.

Then stopped.

When Remmick finally let the body fall, it hit the boards with a weight that jolted the whole kitchen. Blood spread at once, quick and black in the dim light, finding every groove in the old wood. The smell of iron flooded the room so thick it coated the back of your tongue.

The house rang afterward.

That was the strangest part.

Not the body. Not the blood sheeted over the wall and cabinets. Not the way one of your husband’s left hand still twitched weakly near his chest before going still for good, wedding band a gleaming taunt.

The ringing.

As if something inside the house had broken and was still vibrating from it.

You stood frozen with one hand over your mouth.

Remmick straightened slowly.

Blood marked his chin. His throat. The torn front of his shirt. It glazed his mouth dark and wet, ran in thin lines down his neck, gathered black beneath his claws. One side of his shirt still smoked faintly where the silver had burned him. His chest rose once. Fell.

When he turned to look at you, his face was still monstrous.

Eyes red as coals. Mouth full of those terrible teeth. Fingers ending in dark, curved points slicked crimson at the tips.

And all you could think, in that first impossible second, was that he was beautiful.

Not despite it.

Like this.

Like the truth had only sharpened him into what he’d always been under the borrowed mask.

You lowered your hand.

Remmick’s expression changed the moment he saw your face. Not back to human. Never that. But something in the violence eased. Wariness entered him instead. Care.

“If you want me gone,” he said quietly, voice still rough with that old Irish tune underneath it, “say the word.”

You looked past him once, down at the body on the floor.

At the man who had filled this house with his temper and his stench and his hands and his taking.

At the blood spreading dark between the floorboards beneath him.

At the awful, strange lightness in your own chest.

Then you looked back at Remmick.

His mouth was red. His claws glinted wet. He stood in the ruined kitchen like a thing from some old story mothers told to keep children from wandering after dark.

And he was waiting for your answer.

You took one step forward.

Then another.

“I don’t want you gone,” you said.

The words came steadier than you felt.

Something flickered in his face. Not triumph. Not relief exactly. Something deeper and more dangerous than either.

“You should,” he said softly.

“Why?”

His gaze moved over you, from your loosened braid to your bare feet to the marks on your arm. When it returned to your face, there was hunger in it again, yes, but reverence too. Possessiveness already taking shape beneath restraint.

“Because I’m not kind,” he said.

You almost laughed.

The sound that came out was too frayed to be one. “You’re kinder than he ever was.”

The sentence hit him like a blow.

He went very still.

Then, slowly, he lifted one hand—those awful, elegant claws dark with blood—and stopped with it hanging between you, offering rather than taking.

It was the same gesture a gentleman might’ve made in a ballroom. The same one a monster might make at the mouth of a grave.

Your heart turned over in your chest.

You put your hand in his.

His fingers closed around yours with impossible care.

The contrast of him nearly undid you. The promise of danger, the touch of devotion.

His skin was cool despite the blood on it. The rough pad of his thumb traced once over your knuckles, almost absent-mindedly, as if he were confirming to himself that you were really there.

“You’re shakin’,” he murmured.

“So are you.”

The faintest smile touched his ruined mouth. “Aye.”

You didn’t know what moved first—him or you. Only that the distance between you disappeared as if the room itself had decided it no longer mattered. One moment he was standing before you with your husband’s blood on him. The next your free hand had found the torn front of his shirt and his head had bent and his mouth had found your throat.

Not biting.

Not yet.

Just there.

Breathing you in.

The sound he made was low and wrecked and terribly intimate. It shivered through you, straight down your spine.

His lips skimmed the side of your neck with a softness so at odds with the teeth behind them that your knees nearly gave. The scrape you expected never came. Instead you felt the warm wetness of his mouth, the drag of it, a touch too slick to be wholly human. Heat bloomed under your skin almost instantly, strange and deep, radiating outward from the place he’d kissed as though something in that touch had gone searching for your pulse and found it.

You inhaled sharply.

Remmick froze.

His hand tightened around yours by a fraction. “Too much?”

You could barely think past the rush moving through you. Whatever wet warmth he’d left at your throat hadn't stayed there. It moved. Not literally. Not like a living thing. More like heat spilled into cold water, spreading through your chest, your belly, the backs of your thighs, making every nerve feel newly awake. The room sharpened around the edges. The smell of him—blood, rain-dark earth, night air, something sweet and wrong and male beneath it all—went through you like liquor on an empty stomach.

“No,” you whispered.

His eyes closed once, briefly, as though the answer cost him something.

When they opened again, that ember-red burn had gone molten.

“Sweet girl,” he said, so softly it was almost a prayer.

No one had ever called you anything that made you feel more seen.

You made some helpless sound and his mouth found yours before you could stop it.

The kiss was nothing like your husband’s had ever been. Nothing careless in it. Nothing taken for granted. Remmick kissed as if he meant to learn what your mouth wanted and then give it back tenfold. His lips were cool at first and then not cool at all, the wet warmth of him dizzying and addictive, carrying that same strange heat through you all over again when his tongue touched yours. You tasted blood there too—salt-rich, metallic, unmistakable—his and your husband’s both, turned shocking and intimate in the dark. It wasn’t the clumsy thrust of a drunk man looking to get to the next thing. It was slow. Intent. Shamelessly intimate.

His hand rose to your face.

Even with claws, he touched you like something breakable and adored.

Your fingers knotted in his shirt. The cotton was damp and ruined beneath your grip. The kitchen smelled of death and summer and desire, all of it tangled so tightly there was no separating one from the next.

When he pulled back, it was only far enough to look at you.

Your lips felt swollen. Your breath came quick and shallow. That heat was everywhere now, low and aching and impossible to mistake.

His gaze traced your face as if he was memorizing the aftermath of his own kiss. “You’ve no idea,” he said roughly, “how long I’ve wanted this.”

“How long?” Your voice didn’t sound like yours.

“From the first evenin’ I saw you on that porch.” His thumb drifted once along your jaw. “Maybe before. Hard to say with things like fate.”

You ought to have flinched at the word.

Instead it settled into you deep and heavy.

Upstairs, the house creaked and then quieted again.

Your husband—no, the body that had been your husband—lay cooling on the floor only a few feet away. The fact should have horrified you. Maybe tomorrow it would. Maybe next week. Maybe never.

Right now all you could feel was the terrible, clean absence of fear.

Remmick looked over your shoulder toward the stairs, then back at you. “This isn’t where I’d have had you first.”

The possessive tenderness of it made your stomach drop pleasantly.

“You’ve thought about it, then,” you said.

A dark, almost disbelieving sound left him. “Darlin’, I’ve thought about little else.”

His claws brushed the side seam of your nightgown, never catching, never pressing enough to hurt. Just enough to make you aware of what they could do and what he was choosing not to do.

You looked at his hand. At the rough curve of each claw. At the blood dried along one knuckle.

Then, very deliberately, you covered it with yours and guided it to your waist.

The sound he made then was worse than any groan. It was too low, too hungry, too full of restraint fraying at the edges.

“Tell me to stop,” he said.

You shook your head.

His forehead dropped to yours. “You must tell me if you want it to stop.”

“I don’t.”

“You don’t know what I am when I’m hungry.”

The confession came out ragged.

“I know what men are when they don’t care if they hurt you,” you said.

That did it.

Something in his face broke open—not control, exactly, but the last of the distance he’d been trying to keep between himself and wanting you. His eyes shut tight for a second as if in pain.

When he looked at you again, there was nothing hidden in them.

“I care,” he said.

You believed him.

That was the most dangerous thing of all.

He kissed you again, harder this time but no less careful, his hand at your waist drawing you into the length of him. Through the ruined shirt and your thin nightgown you felt the hard line of his body, the strength in it, the restraint. Not because he lacked appetite. Because he was drowning in it and still holding back for you.

His mouth left yours only to wander—your cheek, the corner of your jaw, the place beneath your ear that made your knees soften. Every touch left that same fevered shimmer beneath your skin, each one building on the last until you could hardly stand the sweetness of it.

When his teeth grazed your throat at last, it was so careful it almost hurt more than if he’d simply bitten. A testing pressure. A promise. Every point there and none of them cruel.

You gripped his shoulders.

He went still immediately. “Too sharp?”

“No,” you breathed. “Don’t stop.”

The words transformed him.

His head bowed. One clawed hand spread over the small of your back, the other cradled the side of your face, and then he mouthed at your throat with a patience so devastating it made your eyes burn. You felt the wet heat of his mouth again, the slide of it, the strange, aphrodisiac warmth chasing through your blood until your whole body felt languid and alert at once.

“God,” you whispered.

He drew back just enough to look at you, eyes blazing. “No,” he said again, softer this time, almost amused despite the roughness in him. “Just me.”

A laugh broke from you then, breathless and wrong-timed and half a sob with it. To your own surprise, he smiled.

The sight of that monstrous mouth softened by fondness nearly undid you.

He led you backward by inches until the backs of your legs met the kitchen table. The same table where your husband had sat and complained and grabbed and taken up air as if he owned all of it. The symbolism of it flashed through you hot and vindictive. Remmick seemed to understand at once.

His gaze searched your face. “Here?”

“Yes.”

The answer came quicker than your shame could.

His mouth brushed yours once, tender. “That’s my girl.”

The praise struck straight through you, lighting every inch of you from the inside.

He bent, monstrous still, and the whole room seemed to tighten around the sight of him there between your knees—red-eyed, blood-marked, impossibly careful, looking up at you like he’d been starving for the chance to worship before he ever got to taste. His voice against your skin was ruinous. “Let me take care of you.”

No one had ever said those words and meant them.

You nodded, fingers already in his hair, and the sound he made at your permission was almost feral in its gratitude.

His lips were warm. His tongue traced a slow, wet line upward, along the sensitive skin of your inner thigh. You gasped, your fingers curling against the table’s edge.

“So sweet,” he breathed against your skin, his hot exhalation making you shiver. “Taste the fear on you. The want. It’s divine.”

His claws, curved and sharp, hooked gently into the thin cotton of your nightgown where it covered your stomach. A soft tearing sound filled the space between your ragged breaths as he ripped the fabric open from navel to neck. The ruined garment fell away from your breasts, pooled around your waist. The night air, thick with summer heat and the copper tang of blood, touched your skin everywhere.

He looked up at you, his fanged mouth glistening. “Perfect.”

Then he lowered his head between your legs, and his tongue found your pussy.

The first touch was a flat, hot press that made your back arch off the table. He licked you slowly, thoroughly, from opening to clit, his tongue broad and wet and impossibly clever. A low, rough sound escaped him, a groan of pure pleasure that you felt against your most sensitive flesh.

“Dripping for me,” he said, his words muffled against you. “Soaked. Let me drink you.”

He did. His mouth sealed over you, sucking gently at your clit, his tongue flicking, circling, pressing. The sensation was immediate and overwhelming—a sharp, bright coil of pleasure that tightened low in your belly. You cried out, a broken sound, that had you yanking at his hair.

He encouraged you, pushing his head more firmly against you, his nose nudging your pubic bone. “Use me, darlin'. Take what ya need.”

His saliva was warm, slick, more viscous than any human spit. It coated you, dripped down your inner thighs, and where it touched your skin, a strange, languid heat bloomed. It felt like honey and whiskey in your veins, a slow-burning aphrodisiac that made the edges of the room soften, made your hips roll against his mouth of their own volition.

One clawed hand slid from your hip, down through the slick mess he was making of you. A single, terrifyingly sharp fingertip traced your opening, not entering, just circling. The contrast—the lethal point against your swollen, desperate flesh—made you sob.

“Please,” you heard yourself beg, the word torn from a place deeper than thought.

“Please what?” he asked, lifting his mouth just enough to speak. His breath was hot on your wet skin. His red eyes gleamed up at you, watching you fall apart. “Tell me.”

“Inside.”

He smiled, a flash of fangs. “My good girl.”

The claw tip pressed inward, just the very point, a sharp, impossible stretch. Then he turned his hand, carefully, and the curve of the claw slid into you, a smooth, thick intrusion. It wasn’t the claw itself—it was the back of his finger, the first knuckle, sheathed in you, the sharpness a constant, thrilling threat just beside the filling pressure. He crooked it, and the world went white at the edges.

He fucked you with that one finger, slow and deep, his mouth returning to your clit, sucking in time with the thrusts. The dual sensation, the precise, ruthless stimulation inside and out, built a pressure in your core that was agony and ecstasy. You were babbling, words you didn’t know, your thighs trembling violently around his head.

He pulled his mouth away again, his chin gleaming with your wetness and his own silvery spit. He was breathing hard. “Look at me when you come.”

He pushed a second finger in alongside the first, the stretch breathtaking, the curve of his claws cradling your inner walls. His thumb found your clit, rubbing tight, frantic circles. His eyes held yours, red and burning and utterly focused.

It broke you. The orgasm ripped through you, a silent, seizing wave that locked your throat and arched your spine. Tears sprang hot from your eyes, tracking down your temples into your hair. You shook, helpless, pinned by his gaze and his hand.

He watched you cry with a look of rapturous devotion. He leaned up, catching a tear on his tongue as it fell from you jaw. “Beautiful,” he whispered, his own voice ragged. “Every part of you.”

He withdrew his fingers slowly, making you gasp at the emptiness. He rose to his feet in one fluid motion, his trousers already open, his cock free—thick, veined, flushed dark and leaking at the tip. He guided himself to your soaked entrance, the broad head nudging against you.

“This is yours,” he growled, “all of it. Say it.”

“Mine,” you breathed.

He pushed inside.

The stretch was profound, a burning, perfect fullness that stole the air from your lungs. He sank into you to the hilt, his hips meeting yours, and you could feel him, every inch, buried deep in your belly. A low, guttural sound ripped from his chest.

He didn’t move for a long moment, just stayed there, joined, his forehead pressed to your shoulder, his claws digging gently into the wood of the table on either side of your hips. You could feel his cock pulse inside you.

He said your name, a prayer and a claim.

Then he began to move.

Your hands found his back, your blunt nails digging into the hard muscle beneath his shirt, scoring lines through the fabric. You met his next thrust with a roll of your own hips, a raw, answering push that drew a ragged groan from his throat.

He shifted his weight, lifting your hips higher, driving himself deeper. The angle changed, pressing him against a place inside you that made your vision spark. Your legs wrapped around his waist, locking him there, and he fucked you into the table with a steady, relentless rhythm.

The wet slap of your skin filled the hot kitchen, a obscene counterpoint to the distant crickets. Each thrust pushed a soft, slick sound from your body, a filthy squelch that echoed the perfect, brutal fullness.

“That’s it,” he growled, his face buried in the crook of your neck. His breath was fire on your skin. “Take all of me, darlin'. Every last inch. Feel how deep I am in you.”

You could. With every drive of his hips, you could see the faint, impossible bulge low in your own belly, a fleeting shape beneath your skin where he filled you. The sight undid you.

“You see it?” he whispered, his voice cracking with reverence. He watched your face, his red eyes burning. “You see what you do to me? What I give to you?”

You could only nod, a choked sound escaping you as he sheathed himself completely again, making your body stretch and accept him. He was so deep it felt like a brand in your bones.

“My good, perfect girl,” he murmured, the words a hot prayer against your lips. “So tight around me. Made for this. Made for me.”

One clawed hand slid from the table, coming to rest low on your abdomen, his palm pressing down gently. He rocked into you, and his own hand moved with the force of it, exaggerating the the thick bulge from the outside.

“I’m going to fill you up,” he promised, his thrusts losing their rhythm, turning urgent, desperate. “Going to plant myself so deep inside you, you’ll feel me for days. You’ll carry me with you.”

The promise wasn’t a threat. It was a gift. A filthy, tender vow that coiled the tension in your belly tighter than his fingers ever had. A fresh, shocking wave of wetness spilled from you, easing his frantic pace into a slick, driving glide.

“Remmick—”

“I know,” he breathed. “I feel it. Come for me again. Let me feel you milk my cock. I want to come inside you while you’re screaming.”

His words were the final key. The coil snapped, and your second orgasm tore through ypu without grace, a raw, convulsing thing that locked your muscles around him and ripped a broken wail from your throat. The world dissolved into white heat and the pulse of your own blood in your ears.

He followed you over. A guttural, inhuman sound ripped from his chest as he drove into you one last, punishing time and held, his body bowing over yours. You felt the hot, sudden flood of his release inside you, a claiming spill that seemed to have no end, filling the empty spaces he’d carved out.

He collapsed against you, his weight a solid, welcome anchor. His forehead rested on your shoulder, his breath coming in harsh gusts against your skin. His cock, still buried deep within you, gave a final, weak pulse.

For a long time, there was only the sound of breathing, the cooling night air on sweat-slicked skin, and the distant, indifferent chorus of the summer night.

Slowly, carefully, he withdrew. The loss was profound, a hollow ache followed by the warm, trickling evidence of what you'd done. He didn’t move away. He stayed between your legs, looking down at the mess he'd made of you, his eyes dark with something like awe.

He bent, pressing a kiss to the quivering skin of your lower belly. His tongue traced a slow, tender path through the sweat and spend. “Mine,” he whispered, the word a final seal.

By the time the worst of the night’s fever had burned itself through, the kitchen looked like the aftermath of a storm. Broken dishware. Turned chair. Blood drying on the boards. The curtain stirring at the open inch of the window latch. Your husband’s body covered now with a blanket Remmick had dragged over it without ceremony. The silver-handled knife tossed far out of reach.

And you, half-wrapped in Remmick’s torn shirt where he’d settled it over your shoulders, sitting on the table with your braid loose and your mouth tender and your whole body thrumming with a strange, deep quiet.

Remmick stood between your knees, back in shadow though not in human guise. He hadn’t hidden himself from you again. Red eyes. Claws. Too many sharp teeth when he parted his lips. A faint scorch still marked his palm where the silver had kissed him, angry and dark against the paler skin.

You reached for his hand before you thought better of it.

His gaze snapped to yours at once.

“Does it hurt?” you asked.

He looked down at the burn, then back up. “Less now.”

You turned his hand over in both of yours and studied the mark. The line of it. The way the skin around it seemed wrong, injured in a language different from ordinary wounds.

Then, before you could overthink it, you lifted his hand and pressed your mouth to the center of his palm.

He went utterly still.

When you looked up, his face had changed.

Not softened. Something worse.

Laid open.

“Darlin’,” he said, and your heart turned over at the sound of your endearment in that old, rough voice.

“You killed him,” you said quietly.

“I did.”

You waited for guilt to rush in and fill the kitchen. To fill you. To make itself known as the proper thing.

It didn’t.

“He would’ve killed you if he’d understood what you were,” you said.

“Aye.”

“And he would’ve gone on hurting me if you hadn’t.”

Remmick said nothing.

His silence let the truth settle where it liked.

You looked toward the shape beneath the blanket, then away again. “I can’t seem to feel sorry.”

At that, he moved closer. Not enough to crowd. Just enough that the coolness of him found your overheated skin again.

“There are worse sins,” he said.

A tired laugh escaped you. “That sounds like somethin’ the devil would say.”

One corner of his monstrous mouth lifted. “Wouldn’t know. Never met him.”

The answer was so dry, so unexpectedly easy, that another laugh slipped out of you before you could stop it. This one was real enough to make your eyes sting after. Remmick watched your face as if the sound had left him a little stunned.

Then he reached up and tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear with a clawed finger so careful it felt almost absurd.

“What happens now?” you asked.

His gaze moved over you slowly, as if considering not the question but the life inside it.

“Now,” he said at last, “we clean what needs cleanin’.”

Practical. Calm. The answer of a man who had buried many things, literal or otherwise.

You looked down at the blanket, at the blood, at the kitchen that no longer felt like yours and yet for the first time didn't feel like his either.

Then back at Remmick.

“And after that?”

Something dark and tender moved his face.

The wind pressed once at the windows. Dawn was still a long way off, but not forever. Somewhere out in the fields a night bird called and was answered from farther off.

Remmick brought your hand to his mouth.

His lips touched your knuckles with a devotion that made your throat ache.

“After that,” he said softly, “if you’ll have me, I stay.”

He looked past you then, toward the black window over the sink where the house reflected only you, the moonlight, and the thing you’d let in.

When his gaze came back to yours, his smile showed every wicked fang in his mouth.

The first thing to ever love you right and it had to be invited in.

[matrixfangs]

blessed be the whore - part 1

Priest!Remmick x fem!reader

summary: The old priest in your small town has died a gruesome death. The new one has an... eccentric way of doing things. 18+ READERS ONLY PLEASE!!!

word count: 6.3k

warnings: smut, sacrilegious actions, blood, praying, quoting the Bible during sex, sex in a church, sex on an altar, P in V, Oral F! Recieving, cum play, reader's first time, religious themes/imagery, blood play, blasphemy, abuse of a rosary, drool, squirting, degradation if you squint, praise kink, allusions to murder

a/n: HELLO! I have been working on this fic for weeks, and I finally came to the conclusion that it just needs to be a two-parter. I want to keep this A/N short and sweet because I have so many people to credit, all from Rosie's lovely Discord server! Firstly, my two beta-readers, @confetti-cakemix and @fuckoffbard! LIZ, YOU ARE MY NORTH STAR WHEN I'M WRITING, THE BESTTT, and CONFETTI!!! YOUR DESCRIPTION OF IMAGERY, EVEN WHEN YOU'RE JUST BETA READING, IS PEAK. Now that that's out of the way, I'd like to tag each and every person in the server that also gave me suggestions and helped me in ANY way! @spikedfearn @somnolenthour @citrinedigital @eternalstrigoii @le-temps-viendra36 @iceemochaa @hyoscyxmine @otxiycohcoy @flixpii @faestunna Clown (also not sure if they have a tumblr but that's my twin!!) @cherryxhaze. If I forgot ANYONEEE please please comment or DM me and I'll add you immediately! I got so much help in the server, and I had to scour through almost a month of messages to find everyone!

tags: @moyavsemoya @slasherflickchick @reneeswrld @made2wait @horror-moviehoe @arminstopguy @weirdblob21 @writersp3n @endofradio @thecontortionistsportal @notabot2 @spikedfearn @fuckoffbard @madkingcrowley @manyimaginativemuses

The new pastor of your quaint village church was strange.

The village itself was old. You’d grown up with wrinkled hands drawing ash crosses on your forehead, strings of garlic hanging on doorways, barefeet in hot, red dirt. When you were younger, you were never allowed out after dark. No exceptions. Kids who went out after dark went missing. Their names became prayers on the congregation's lips at each church service.

The old pastor, Monsignor Quinn, had been so kind. He’d listen to your panicked confessions, fleeting feelings of lust with a boy from school. Brushes of fingers against skin that kept you awake at night. 

He’d died so suddenly. He hadn’t been very old, not even past his thirties. And the weirdest part - the local sheriff wouldn’t tell you or anyone in your village how he died. You heard rumors of blood-streaked walls and screams that had only been heard by those awake that late into the night. You watched people cross themselves as they passed his boarded-up house. Little children crossed the street to avoid passing it.

And now, you were shaking the new pastor’s hand, rough and firm. Father Remmick. His lips curled like he could tell what you were thinking, his tongue running through the folds of your twisted mind. His eyes, calm and clear blue, never left yours when he introduced himself. Your father’s arm rested protective and heavy on your shoulders, the heat radiating from him comforting you like a blanket.

“Pleasure to meet y’all.” Father Remmick drawled, hand still wrapped around yours. His accent was strange - deep, and Southern, but mixed with something old that you couldn’t place. Something thick and gooey, honey falling slowly off a wooden spoon. “I’m sorry for what happened to Monsignor Quinn. Tragic… truly.”

He didn’t look sorry—not really. His other hand pressed to his chest in sorrow, but his eyes shone with a playful gleam that was sinister, bloody, and cold. 

Your voice was dry when you spoke to him for the first time, having to turn your chin up to look at him. “What happened to him?”

“Oh,” Remmick’s smile fell, but the concern didn’t feel real. It felt mocking. You felt his thumb stroke your knuckle. “Nothing that needs to fall on ears as sweet as yours.”

Your father’s arm tightened, and you were grateful for his presence. When Remmick released your hand, you fought the urge to wipe your palm on your dress, to wipe him off of you. His crooked grin remained, and his tongue slowly ran over his bottom lip, licking the sweat from his chin.

“I can’t wait to get to know you.” He looked away from you like he had to force his eyes away, like it was painful not to be looking at you. His gaze left you feeling naked, the inside of your body tingling like someone had dug around inside and pulled out everything sacred.  “All of you, of course.”

His sermon had been even stranger than he was. He said all the right words, but they came out of a twisted mouth. A serpent’s tongue ran over the words of God, words meant to comfort and uplift, but coming from him, made your stomach twist. Your fingertips ran over the silver rosary underneath your shirt as he spoke, his eyes never drifting down to the Bible before him. He knew the words by heart, and they still sounded so wrong. 

When you got on your knees to pray, you felt something so deeply, internally wrong in your chest. You couldn’t help but look up while everyone else’s heads were down, their lips moving silently in prayer. You found Father Remmick, hands wrapped tightly around the lectern, looking at you. His knuckles were white, his eyes roaming over you ardently. A rust color flashed over the blue of his eyes, like the nictitating membrane of a reptile. His gaze violated you, drilled a hole through your chest.  

For a single heartbeat you kept your gaze locked on his. When he smiled at you, you swore you watched something crawl under the skin of his forehead, two points—like horns—begging to poke out of his skin.

That night, and for many nights onward, you dreamt of Father Remmick.

The church was empty, save for you and him. His clerical collar glowed against the black of his button-up shirt, the sleeves rolled up to reveal veiny forearms and slender fingers following it. Fingers that reach for your rosary beads, let them clatter to the floor. He spoke in a language you didn’t know, touching you in a way you’d never felt. A way that felt too good to be holy.

When you woke, you prayed. You prayed for hours into the early morning until the skin on your knees was raw and your eyes were sore from being squeezed tight. The rosary left a red and stinging imprint on your hand that would be there for days. 

But what frightened you most was the throb between your legs, pounding rhythmically and making you yearn for… fullness. After every hour of prayer it seemed only to get worse. 

At church, you couldn’t listen to the sermon. You couldn’t even look up at Father Remmick. Not without images flashing behind your eyes, sounds so vile and loud in your ear that you couldn’t even hear the words he was saying.

Throaty moans. A hot, wet tongue between your legs. The feeling of rhythmic thrusts, something pressing into a spot inside of you that made you feel more euphoric than God himself ever could. You felt weak every time you looked at him, your fragile body giving in with every glance. 

“My child-” His voice echoed through the rickety church, but you knew he was speaking to you.

“You look distracted.”

Your throat ran dry as you stared at the scabbed-over skin of your knees, just below your dress. You could feel your father's demanding elbow digging into yours. Be respectful.

A flash of something else when you looked up at him again. Something softer, something tender. Lips pressed to your skin, dragging against the top of your breasts. 

“What could be more important to you?” He was smiling. Smiling like he knew what you’d seen, and the devilish things you’d heard. “Than worshipping and praising God with your community… with me?”

His tongue ran over his bottom lip as he raised his arms to grip the sides of the lectern. The muscles under his shirt tensed, and your eyes lingered. By the way his smile widened, he noticed.

“Be sober-minded and alert, Miss.” He nodded his head toward you, like some kind of twisted teacher. “Your adversary, the Devil, prowls around like a roaring lion…” His eyes, gleaming again like something inhuman. “Looking for something to devour, like a lamb wandering from the flock.”

Remmick paused, smiling to himself. “Be glad that I arrived here at the right time, to lead you down the path of righteousness.” 

Your skin had grown cold, like spiders were running up your arms and the back of your neck. But it wasn’t just what he’d said that made you rigid, a dripping of cold sweat rolling down your spine. It was the agreeing hums of the congregation, like they knew what you’d been thinking.

You couldn’t sleep that night. The pillow's satin fabric was coated in sweat, which clung to the back of your neck and made your butter-yellow nightdress stick to your back. You stood from your bed, bare feet pressed against the hardwood of your bedroom floor. As you left your room, you knew every creaky spot to avoid, opening the door with close precision to keep it from making a sound.

You could hear your father snoring from the cracked door of his bedroom as you slipped through the hallway like a ghost. You blindly slipped your feet into slippers in the dark, your hand wrapping around the gold door knob of your front door. 

The cool breeze of a late July night kissed your skin, making your hair prickle against the fabric of your nightdress. The sky was black, stars spilled across it like bleached sugar against molasses. 

The walk to the church was by memory, your feet crunching above the gravel road in the cool dark of your village. No light was lit in anyone’s homes; the only sound was the cicadas whining in the trees surrounding you. As you passed Monsignor Quinn’s home, the foundation seemed to creak before you, the sound almost like a weeping in the air. You didn’t cross the street and kept your head forward to pass by it. It was just another house. Just another death. 

The church was dark but buzzed with an energy that made the air feel electric. You could see its indent in the darkness. It was made of white siding sun bleached from hundreds of years under the sun of the South. The smokey-colored brick spires reached out into the dark sky, pointing to the stars. Their elegance had entranced you as a child. Now it just made you feel sick. 

A rectory with a gabled roof and dead bushes surrounding it stood next to the church, just a few yards away. There was no light to be seen, no sign of life. Father Remmick would be asleep in there, sleeping soundly despite his completely taking over your mind and your body. 

As you entered the church, you didn’t make a sound, creaking the door open just wide enough to slide your body through.

You moved blindly down the pews, hands running across the cool wood, hoping it would comfort you. It didn’t. You fumbled around until you found a box of matches and lit the candlesticks at the table behind the altar. It didn’t provide much light, but you could at least see the flickering expression of Jesus on the crucifix before you, He who had died for your wretched, terrible sins.

Knees hit wood, your hands gripping the fabric of your nightdress as you prepared to grovel. But you wouldn’t get the chance to. Not to God, at least.

“Couldn’t sleep, sugar?”

A voice that echoed through the dark like it- he owned it. You stood, turning around and searching the dimly lit dark for him. 

Father Remmick was sitting in the pew furthest from you, legs crossed and arms stretched long behind him. He was smiling; crooked,pointy teeth nearly glowing in the dim light. Your eyes roamed over the clerical that remained against his neck.

Your throat had gone dry. You swallowed hard, one hand reaching out to steady yourself on the altar rail. 

“You could say that, yeah.” 

Remmick’s legs uncrossed, spreading out in a way that felt like it couldn’t be anything but disrespectful. His eyes didn’t look blue in this light. They seemed almost amber, gleaming and ever-changing in the flickering candlelight. 

“In peace, I will lie down and sleep,” Remmick said quietly, a teasing little smirk on his face. “For you alone, Lord, make me dwell in safety.”

Your knuckles had turned white against the altar railing, and the sudden realization that you stood before him in nothing but a nightdress made you freeze. You should have felt empowered by his words, but instead, you felt like prey under that violent gaze. You kept your expression blank. 

“Yes, I will perhaps follow those words when I know peace.”

Remmick’s head cocked to the side, like a dog sniffing out a treat. His eyes rolled down your body, stopping at your bruised knees. 

“You troubled, darlin’?”

He didn’t sound concerned, not really. He sounded starved the question dripping off his tongue like drool rolling down a chin. He looked at you with mock-concern, eyebrows just a little too furrowed, his lips just a little too downturned. 

“Have somethin’ you’d like to confess?”

His eyes flickered to the confession booth. Two purple, velvet curtains opened to a small wooden box—one side for the priest, the other for the sinner. 

You didn’t know what it was. Maybe it was the throb between your legs, or the puppy-dog shine of his eyes in the candlelight that made them look almost like melted caramel. Or perhaps the way his voice lingered in the room like steam after a hot bath. But you nodded, quicker than you’d meant to. 

Remmick stood on long legs, the sleeves of his black shirt rolled up to reveal curling veins that traveled along his forearms. He gestured toward the booth, lips curling deviously like he’d won something. Like he was collecting a prize he’d been patiently vying for.

“Ladies first.”

The confession booth was dark, except for the little light that flickered through the intricate carvings on the wood door. The worn leather cushion sank beneath you, full of cracks and creases from years of use. You could hear Remmick shuffling on the other side as you closed yourself in. You could hardly see him through the lattice-patterned window separating him from your booth, just the shadows cast over his face and the bright white of the clerical covering his throat. 

Your hands were tangled in your lap, your leg bobbing up and down under your nightdress. You listened to Remmick’s calm breath as he settled into his seat, closed your eyes for a moment, and envisioned his hands running over his pants, his head bowing in silent prayer. The thought of it made more heat travel down your body, your heartbeat loud in your skull.

“Sign of the Cross, yes?” 

His voice seemed even deeper, even more irresistible in the dark—something as velvet as the curtain before you. Your hands trembled as you made the Sign of the Cross over your face. 

“Bless me, Father,” you paused, licking your dry lips. “For I have sinned. It has been… far too long since my last confession. These are my sins.”

Remmick was smiling. Hands clasped in his lap, burning eyes staring into the wood of the booth. He could hear every shift you made, every breath coming from your heaving chest and out of your beautiful throat. The throat that pulsed with your heartbeat. The heartbeat that hadn’t left his mind since he’d laid eyes on you. He thought of your blood pooling in the dip of your collarbone and shifted in his seat.

Your chest was heaving, your nails digging into the seat's leather. You pressed your legs together, glanced at what you could see of Remmick’s face.

“Father, I have impure thoughts. I fear that the Devil has his hold on me, making me yearn for…improper things.”

Remmick’s smile curled, teeth sharp against his lip. You were right where he wanted you. Hot, pulsing, panting. His hands unclasped, his palm pressing into the seam of his pants. His head fell back, eyes slipping closed at the pressure against him.

“Improper things?” he asked you, his voice leveled as much as possible, but you caught the hitch. “Do you think the Lord would accept this confession… if you can’t even say what sin you’re thinking of?”

Your throat bobbed as you realized he was right. You were a sinning coward, unable to tell God what He needed to forgive you for. Your hands left sweat marks on the seat, palms raised to grip the rosary around your neck. The marks on your knees from groveling for God had started to sting, as if the Devil himself scratched down your legs. Reminding you of who you thought of and who you wanted to be on your knees for.

“I think of someone… touching me. Their hands against my skin, defiling me in a way that-”

A sound, guttural and desperate, left Remmick’s throat. His hand had continued to press against him, thick tendons and veins straining under his skin. His eyes opened, pupils nearly flooding his entire iris. All that was left was a ring of red on the outside, the color of blood stained on satin white sheets. He was silent, marinating in how you gasped at the sound he’d released. You were so deliciously untouched.

“And who is that you think of?”

The question lingered in the air, heavy and charged with something dangerous. It felt as if the rosary in between your hands were being tugged from your grasp, until you looked down and realized that it was just you releasing it, letting it clatter onto the floor.

The point of no return. Letting the Devil take you by the hand and dance you into Hell. You’d called to God so many times and He’d never answered, but Remmick was here. Real, tangible, beautiful. You dug your nails into your palms, prayed for your soul one last time before diving into the deep end.

“...I think you know, Father.”

Silence, at first. Something that made the air hot, that made your breath catch in your throat. 

The wood groaned as Remmick shifted, his feet scuffing against the floor. You could hear the screech of metal rings against a rod, Remmick pushing the curtain open. 

He didn’t ask for permission. He pushed your curtain open slowly, filling it with his broad frame and slender fingers. His fingers gripped the velvet, and a brass ring around his finger caught the light. He was a wolf in wolf's clothing, teeth sharp and bright in the dim light. 

One hand left the curtain, reaching out to touch the lines of your collarbone. He ran his nail up your neck to rest the pad of his finger against your pulse. 

“I do know,” he hummed, applying pressure to the pulse, just enough for you to feel him there. “And I always knew you’d come.”

His other hand flew from the curtain with a speed that didn’t seem human, fingers gripping your hair and tugging your head back to expose your throat. 

“God.” You moaned low in your throat, breath ragged as Remmick lowered himself enough to be straddling your lap, thighs warm and solid on top of yours. He leaned forward, his mouth finding your ear. You felt his tongue run over the shell of it, something long and cold like a serpent.

“Not sure your God is here, sugar.” His voice was low and sweet, rattling the inside of your body. “He woulda saved you by now, right?”

Remmick looked down into your nightdress, lip caught between his teeth. He was quiet as he raised his hands to the fabric, gripping it tightly before tugging. The nightdress split apart as easily as tearing paper, your skin prickling with goosebumps as the cold air hit your naked chest. He looked at you like a sinner did the cross, eyes nearly glowing. He waited; waited for your invitation to touch you, thick drool rolling down his chin like a rabid dog. It dripped onto your chest as you nodded, your hand shaking when you wrapped your fingers around the white clerical collar at his throat. You tugged it off, letting it fall to the floor beside your rosary. 

“Touch me, Father.”

Remmick was on his knees in a second, tearing away the rest of the ruined nightdress from your body as he nestled his shoulders between your thighs. The only thing that remained between you and him was a thin pair of underwear, lacy trim at the edges that he ran his fingertip over with a twitching smile. 

The pad of his rough fingertip pressed over the fabric of your underwear, firm against your clit. Your body jolted forward, legs falling open for him as the pleasure traveled up your spine. 

Remmick laughed, his head thrown back and mouth open wide.

“So wet for having never been touched, little lamb.” Remmick’s fingers hooked into the waistband of your underwear, tugging it down your smooth legs. “Do you want to be worshipped, as your God is…” He tucked your underwear into the back pocket of his black pants. “Or ruined, like the Devil would do to you?”

“I want…” Your words cut off with a whimper as he pulled his finger from you, only to open your legs wider. “I want what you want, Father…”

Remmick hummed, weighing his options. “Lil’ bit of both then, I reckon.”

His head dove in between your legs like he’d been starved of water for years, and you were the first drop of salvation he’d found. He groaned, deep and low in his throat, that sent a vibration through you that had your hands flying to the dark waves on top of his head, pulling him against you.

His hands gripped your thighs hard enough to bruise as he licked against your cunt, long tongue rolling around your clit like he’d been made to worship it.

“So sweet,” Remmick smiled against you, warm and wet for him. “Like the Lord made you just for me.”

Remmick’s hands left your thighs, palms searching the floor as he continued to suck on your clit, pushing his tongue into you, curling it up in a way that didn’t seem possible. When he found what he needed, he pulled away, looking up at you through half-lidded eyes and your wetness dripping from his lips.

His hand raised, your rosary beads tangled between his fingers. With careful precision, he lowered the necklace against your cunt, the coolness of the beads making you shiver and scratch marks into the leather seat beneath you. As the beads pressed on either side of your clit, your head fell back against the wall, heat traveling up your neck as if the flames of Hell were already licking against your skin. 

“Thy two breasts are like two young roes that are twins, which feed among the lilies.” He cocked his head to the side, eyes penetrating and sharp on your face. He could sense your impending release, the way your heartbeat quickened, your back arching off the seat.

“Don’t.” 

Once low and ragged in the dark, his voice had become clear. He closed your legs with one large hand and dropped the rosary beads back to the floor so he could lean forward, pressing his other hand against the wall next to your head. His face was inches from yours, and his breath was hot on your neck. 

“Not yet, darlin’. Not ‘til I say.” His lips found the pulse point on your neck, nipping before kissing tenderly. “The Lord teaches patience, lamb.” 

Remmick’s hand left the wall to grip your hair again, tugging your head back. It made your scalp sting in a way that made you want more, your mouth parting to whimper against him.

“That bein’ said,” A crooked smile - lips baptized in your essence. “I’m bettin’ you sound real pretty beggin’.”

His tongue was long and rough against your cheek as he tasted your sweating skin, a deep rumble in his throat as if he was tasting the sweetest nectar. He stopped at your temple, placing a gentle kiss there. His lips remained there, teeth grazing skin.

“So go on, darlin’. Pray for me to fuck you.”

Your breath caught, your entire body going hot from his words. He laughed against your skin, like he could feel the very chemistry in your body change, the way you grew slicker from his twisted request. The way you knew that you would do it for him. You’d pray to be spread open by him, explored in a way not even God could do.

“Oh, you will do it, won’t you…” 

It wasn’t a question. Remmick knew you’d beg; he knew how far gone you were. He laughed against your skin.

“Doesn’t matter how good of a girl you are… how much you love Him. You’ll give it all up just to get off, won’t you?” 

Remmick pulled back, hands sliding down to hold firm on the flesh of your hips. He lifted you from the seat like you weighed nothing, turned both your bodies around until you were straddling him. Your naked core rested against the rough material of his pants and made your body shiver. He smiled.

“Go on… hands together in contrition. Do it right…” His rough hands grabbed your wrists, pulling your hands flat together between your bodies. When they were pressed together to pray, he let his fingers linger on the bare skin of your thighs, fingers just too long and nails just too sharp against your skin. 

Your lips were dry, and Remmick’s eyes drifted to them like he wanted to lick across them, make them wet again. 

“Heavenly…”

 Remmick hummed in glee already, just from a single word. His head bowed, as if to join you in prayer, his eyes slipping shut.

“Heavenly Father… forgive me for what I am about to ask of you. I know I do not deserve such a blessing as being touched…” Your words faltered as one of Remmick’s hands slid up your thigh, gathering the slick in between your legs. His finger pressed against your clit, and you gasped, hands pressing together tighter. “As being touched by someone so good, so…”

Remmick’s finger pushed inside of you, pressing up to a spot that made your throat close up, the only sound coming out a pathetic squeak of a whine.

“Aww, darlin’, that’s so sweet of you. But you don’t have to lie.” His body leaned forward, his wet mouth pressing against your ear. “Tell your Heavenly Father what I am. What you know I am.”

“I’m…” You continued the prayer, voice deep and rasping. “I’m going to fuck the Devil… and Lord, I beg you to have mercy on my wicked soul.” 

Remmick laughed against the skin of your neck, drawing thin beads of blood with the sharp points of his teeth.

“Are you now? Going to fuck the Devil?”

All you could do was whine at the pleasurable pain in your neck, your hands shaking with the desire to pull them apart, to grab at his skin and his hair. 

Remmick hummed to himself, pulling his finger out of you with a slowness that made you bite the inside of your cheek. His cold hands slid up your arms, pulling your hands apart from their prayer. 

“Get up.” He said quietly, with that same thick, gooey voice he’d had when you’d shaken his hand for the first time. You did as he asked, spreading your legs and backing off his lap. His eyes traveled up your bare body as he stood, towering over you inside the booth. With a firm hand on your hip, he nudged you toward the curtain.

“To the altar.” 

Remmick’s breathing was heavy behind you, his gaze burning holes into the bare skin of your back as you slowly walked to the altar. You looked to the cross just above, and you felt no remorse, not anymore. Whatever God could do to punish you, you were sure Remmick could do worse. Maybe you wanted him to. 

You ceased walking once you had reached the altar, your belly just close enough to feel the cool wood against your skin. Remmick was behind you, his breath hot and wet on your neck. His eyes ran over your skin, from the top of your head to the balls of your feet. The expanse of a human body that he was now free to ruin. That he’d be begged to ruin. 

With one swift movement, he grabbed your wrists, raising them and placing them flat on the altar. Your fingers brushed the closed Bible there as your breath hitched. Remmick made no effort to remove it. He only slid one hand down your body, as soft and languid as a serpent, and pressed down on the arch of your back. 

“Look at you…” Remmick murmured, fingers sliding into your folds, finding you warm and wanting there. Your legs quivered at his simple touch, so his other arm found its spot under your belly, assisting in holding you upright. “So nervous… shaking. You must honor God with your body, little lamb.”

Two fingers entered you, pushing in and out with a torturous speed. Your legs spread wider, your nails scratching into the leather-bound fabric covering the Bible before you. 

“Please..” Your voice quivered as you tried to keep it level. Your head fell against the Bible, leaving sweat marks. “I need you inside me, I need it more than I need God.”

Remmick’s fingers pulled out of you, and you heard the faint sound of his lips licking his fingers clean. He moaned at the taste of you, his other hand pulling the clasp of his belt buckle apart. “Aw, sweetheart, that’s so kind of you.”

By the press of him against you, hot and pulsing, you could tell that Remmick was big. But nothing could have prepared you for the way it felt when the head of his cock began to press inside you, hardly able to breach your entrance. He pulled back, body lowering to press lips against your sweat-slick spine.

“Gotta open up for me, baby.” He said against your skin, running the length of himself against your folds. His tongue was cold and barbed as it ran up the expanse of your back and to the shell of your ear. “Take me all at once, and maybe I’ll make you see Him. Denying yourself would be the true sin…” Remmick tried once again, his cock slowly able to start stretching you, inch by torturous inch. Only babbles came out as your mouth fell open, tears beading at the corner of your eyes from the sheer size of him.

“Haven’t even fucked you good yet,” He groaned as he pushed in. “And you’re already speaking in tongues.”

When he’d bottomed out inside you, pressing deep on a spot inside you that only made a guttural sound escape your throat, his large hand pressed against your belly. 

“Feel all that pain, lamb. You’re just getting used to me… your body will learn quick.” He slid back slowly and pushed back in with just as much resolve. Your legs nearly gave out, hands scrambling for purchase on the lectern as he fucked into you. “Soon, all you’ll feel is me.”

Remmick was right. 

Soon, the only feeling that remained was deep, wicked pleasure. Every thrust of him inside of you felt like another ring lower into Hell, the souls eternally damned there shaking their heads at you as you made the same mistakes they did. But the problem was - you didn’t fucking care.

A whine escaped your throat as Remmick picked up the pace, just a little bit. One hand on your belly, the other gripping your hip so hard you were sure you felt the cold prick of blood on your skin. Every thrust was hitting something inside you that somehow made you wetter, something that had you dripping onto him like some kind of deranged baptism.

Remmick was grunting, getting louder with each thrust into you. He tried to hide with honeyed words, but you felt too good around him.

“So easy, aren’t you?” Remmick was grabbing one of your arms, pulling your hand into his to press onto your own belly. You felt the bulge of him with each thrust in, and the pressure on your stomach made your cunt flutter around him. He groaned, words faltering as you squeezed around his cock. “You…” He nearly whined, hand gripping yours on top of your belly. “Just a few words about your corrupt God and you... you spread your legs for me?”

He laughed, hand leaving your stomach to grab at your hair, tugging until your head reeled back just enough to see him. He was beautiful like this, pupils blown out, and the first few buttons of his clean shirt popped open. Blood streaked down the corner of his mouth from the wound on your neck, and his tongue was unnaturally long as it unraveled out to wet his lips.

“Do you know something, sweetheart?” He asked, dark eyes meeting yours. “Your God isn’t here.”

A whine broke through your mouth as he rolled his hips in a particularly torturous way, hitting the spot in you that he’d found with his fingers in the confession booth. There wasn’t anything you could do but let your body go slack against him, head kept in place only by his grip on your hair. 

“What would your God say, hm?” Remmick asked, pressing into that spot again, making your vision go white. “If He saw you split open for me?”

Remmick released you, and your head fell forward to the altar. He leaned forward, and you felt the cold press of something against your neck, a chain or something of the like.

“Do you still believe in Him?” He asked against the nape of your neck, pressing deep into you. He nipped at you again and lapped the blood up with his tongue with a soft moan. 

“Maybe you should apologize to Him, hm? How does that one go again?” Remmick pulled out, almost entirely. You felt the cold air hit the wetness of your cunt, and you whined at the loss of contact from him.

“Forgive me my sins, Oh Lord,” Remmick spoke, moved both of his hands to your hips, and thrust in with one swift move that made you cry out in shock, in pleasure, in shame. “The sins of my youth.” Another deep thrust, and back out again. “The sins of my soul,” Another. “And the sins of my body-” 

The last push inside of you made you see streaks of color in your vision, your mouth hanging open, and your lips wet with drool. You felt something like a spool form in your stomach, desperate to unravel. It was an odd feeling that you’d never felt before, akin to the feeling of nearly wetting yourself, and it made your face burn with embarrassment.

“Father,” Your voice was gone, raspy and unrecognizable. “Father, I feel…” You whined as the feeling grew, doing everything in your power not to let the spool unravel. “I think I‘m gonna pee… it feels like-” Remmick chuckled, increasing the speed of his thrusts. 

“Oh, my poor baby.” 

You could hear the smile in his voice. He was the Devil himself.

“You don’t even know what your sweet little body can do, do you?”

 And with that, Remmick was reaching around your body, pressing two of his fingers against your clit and rubbing, coaxing something out of you. The more he coaxed, the tighter the spool wound.

And then it snapped.

You didn’t recognize your voice as you came, nails scratching into the altar so hard that the wood began to splinter, piercing the tips of your fingers. Remmick was laughing as wetness coated him, the front of his pants and the fingertips at your clit. You’d provided an entire baptism for him, and he wouldn’t let it go to waste.

He pulled out of you, gripping your hips tightly and whipping you around so your back hit the altar. Remmick’s knees hitting the floor and his tongue diving inside of you happened in one action, in one second. He licked up everything you gave him, your essence leaking onto his face and dripping down his chin. 

His cock remained hard, long, and red below you as he sucked on your clit. You wet your lips, a shaking hand lifting from the altar to grip at his auburn waves.

“Touch yourself,” You whimpered, voice coated in overstimulation. “Please… let me see the image He created you in…” 

Remmick’s eyes slid open, peering up at you needily. His nose brushed your clit as his tongue pushed up inside you, and he grabbed at his cock with a strong, blood-covered hand. Immediately, he was moaning, the vibrations in his throat traveling through your entire body and making your head feel airy. His hand was so beautiful pleasuring himself, pulling up and down the length of his cock and making himself leak. His hips thrusted up into his fist, and you found yourself longing to see the muscles that flexed beneath his shirt. 

Your trembling hand scratched at his scalp, and Remmick sighed happily underneath your touch. He wasn’t even eating you out, not anymore, just nuzzling his face into your skin and breathing you in as he touched himself.

“Beautiful…” You whispered to him. “Like an angel.”

Remmick growled, hand tugging on your thigh and yanking you to the floor. Your back slid against the altar as he pressed the head of himself against your cunt. His forehead pressed against yours as he came with a groan. The warmth of him spilled against your clit and downward, and Remmick’s fingers gently pressed into you, making sure it stayed tucked away inside you.

Your body trembled as Remmick pulled his forehead from yours. His thumb came up to brush against your lips, and for a brief moment, he pushed it inside, humming as the pad of it pressed against your warm tongue. He leaned forward, replacing his thumb with his mouth. A small squeak sounded in your throat at the feeling of his tongue pressing against the roof of your mouth, licking away the last of the prayers that stuck there.

Remmick’s lips remained connected to yours as he helped you stand on shaking legs, his hands pulling you up effortlessly by your waist. His hand reached behind him, grabbing the underwear he’d tucked in his back pocket as he’d prepared to stick his tongue between your legs. 

He leaned down, untangling the delicate material and holding it out.

“Step in, sweet thing.” He peered up at you through half-lidded eyes. “Gotta keep everything I gave you inside… keep you close to me.”

Your hand gripped his strong shoulder as you stepped into the holes of your underwear. Remmick pulled them up slowly, leaving soft kisses on your skin as he went. When they were fully up, getting soaked with the mix of Remmick’s and your release, he straightened. His lips pressed against your forehead for a brief, sweet moment.

“I’ll see you at Sunday service.” He said as he pulled back, his voice just as fucked out as yours had been. 

“Front pews. Don’t think you can hide from me in the back.” 

His hand grazed your arm, almost innocently.

 “Or anywhere, for that matter.”

pls comment if you’d like to be tagged in part 2 <<3

[cookieebutter]

pollen-sick remmick/f!reader this request

word count : 1k. sex pollen (plink) / vampiric heat, feral / uncontrolled behavior, knotting, overstimulation, rough sex, size kink, creampie, light power imbalance, reader pinned / held in place

you knew something was wrong the moment he came through the door—heat rolling off his body, breath coming in rough, uneven bursts that scrape through the dark like something feral hunting for a place to put its mouth, its hands, its dick.

and once he finds you, once he gets his hands on you, there’s no hesitation at all. his fingers dig into your hips hard enough to leave deep marks, pulling you in close while his face buries itself in your neck, inhaling like your scent is cutting straight through him.

his chest is heaving against yours, muscles twitching under skin that feels too hot, too tight, like every instinct inside him is tearing its way up through his ribs.

he gets you on the couch before you can even process how fast he moved. one second he’s in front of you with that heat rolling off his body, the next your back sinks into the cushions, your thighs parting instinctively as his weight settles between them.

remmick tears at whatever clothing still blocks his access. his breath hits your jaw in ragged bursts, soaked in heat, shaken by growls slipping past his teeth because he’s already too far gone to swallow them back.

his dick is swollen and heavy, flushed so dark you can see the veins pulsing along the length, the head leaking thick precum that warms your skin as he grinds it against your slit.

he doesn’t line up gently—he ruts, sloppy and frantic, sliding through your slick with wet, obscene noises that echo between your bodies. every drag of his tip along your pussylips makes him grunt, makes his hips stutter, makes the muscles in his back stand out like cords pulled too tight.

there’s no words—just breaths in these rough, ragged bursts like each inhale scrapes through his ribs. his mouth falls open as the head of his cock nudges your entrance, leaking onto your skin, throbbing so hard you can feel the pulse through it. his grip tightens on your thighs and his eyes lower. then he pushes in with no warning.

his hips snap forward and your cunt stretches around him with a filthy, wet choke of a sound that vibrates up your spine. the swollen length forces you to take him inch after inch until your back arches into the cushions, your breath catching in your throat.

your walls clamp around him and he lets out a broken snarl against your throat, his whole body trembling at the way you squeeze him.

his forearms stay hooked under your legs, keeping you bent open as starts thrusting almost immediately—hard, deep, unsteady movements that shove your body up the cushion with every stroke.

the room fills with noises that don’t sound human at all: deep, guttural groans dragging through his chest, sharp panting breaths.

his rhythm is fast and messy, hips slamming into yours, the couch jolting beneath you, wet slaps echoing through the room as your slick splashes against his thighs.

the sound of your cunt squelching around his dick gets louder each time he pulls back and pushes in again, movements driven by instinct rather than thought or restraint.

his cock feels wrong in the best way—too thick, throbbing harder the longer he fucks you, the base swelling slowly, pushing insistently at your entrance every time his hips drive forward.

you feel the pressure building there, that firm mass pulsing against your stretched lips, growing with every frantic thrust he gives you.

he tries to pull back once, maybe out of instinct or struggle or confusion, but your cunt clings so tight around him that he shudders violently.

remmick snarls when the knot strains against your rim, a sharp, desperate sound that sends a shiver down your spine.

he grips the couch with one hand for leverage, the other locked around your thigh like he’s afraid you’ll slip away. his hips slam forward with a brutal, shoving thrust, and the knot forces its way inside you.

it’s a deep, overwhelming stretch that makes your back arch hard, a raw cry ripping out of you while he shoves himself all the way in and stays there, shaking through it.

your body tightens around the sudden stretch as he buries himself to the hilt, his knot wedged deep, sealing him inside.

he moans—loud, trembling, a broken animal sound—forehead dropping to your chest as his body shakes violently. he holds your legs up with one arm, body caged over yours, and pumps thick, hot spurts into your cunt with each deep pulse.

his whole body tightens as he cums, dick throbbing violently, pumping thick heat deep into your pussy.

he whimpers—actually whimpers—as each pulse forces more of it inside you, his forehead pressed to your cheek, his breath hot and broken.

the knot swells even more during it, sealing everything in, stretching you so full your vision flickers. his hips keep twitching, small, involuntary thrusts that drag more sticky noises out of your body.

even after the first wave passes, he doesn’t stop.

his hips give slow, grinding movements—trapped by the knot, unable to thrust fully, but desperate to move inside you anyway.

every grind pushes his cock deeper against your swollen walls, making wet, sloppy noises. he groans into your neck, fangs scrapping lightly, chest rumbling against yours like he’s coming apart all over again.

his hands roam blindly—squeezing your thighs, pressing your back deeper into the couch as if he needs every part of you to stay close and warm and locked around his cock while the rut drags him deeper into instinct.

and when remmick finally lifts his head just enough to look at you, eyes blown wide and glossy, sweat beading at his temples, knot still throbbing inside you… he forces out a single, wrecked sentence, clipped and raw and barely human:

“don’t—move.”

the words are short, bitten off, almost a growl, like he’s using the last of his control to get them out before instinct takes over again.

his hips twitch hard, the knot pulses deeper, and another ragged sound climbs out of his throat as he drags you tighter against him, clearly nowhere near finished.

﹫𝑐𝑜𝑜𝑘𝑖𝑒𝑒𝑏𝑢𝑡𝑡𝑒𝑟

i’m open to requests !

check this post’s hashtags to see who i’ll write for

[iceemochaa]

Repair

pairing : Farmer!Remmick x Reader

˗ˏˋ ωᥴ : 5.3kˎˊ˗

⟢ synopsis : You ask Remmick to come and fix your sink.

⟢ authors note : If you haven’t already please go and read @flixpii farmer!Remmick content and know that I have a massive boner. I hope I did him justice.

⟢ content warning: 18+ mdni, blowjob, face fucking, shy!remmick, farmer!remmick, human!remmick, remmick isn’t safe with me, praise kink, cum eating, gagging, I edited this 4 o'clock in the morning oops.

𓂃 𓈒𓏸

He arrived at your house early in the morning with a toolbox in hand and butterflies in his stomach. When you asked him if he could fix your sink he practically jumped at the opportunity. 

The night before, he made sure his toolbox was packed, picked out an outfit, and saved his best cologne for the occasion—just in case. 

Who knew what could happen?

He knocked twice— counted the seconds— and when he didn't get a response, he knocked again. 

Then he heard the soft click of the lock and the knob turning— quickly, he straightened his back. A small smile plastered on his face.

The first thing he saw was your tired eyes, barely open. The slip of your nightgown hanging off your shoulders, and your hair frizzed to the side. You looked like you just stumbled out of bed— probably right on that part.

You opened the door slightly, eyes squinting from the sun peeking past his shoulders, and then gradually opened them— realization crossing through your face.

"…Remmick?" You yawned, pulling the door open wider.

He cleared his throat, tipping his hat down. “Mornin'," he said with a nervous smile on his face.

"You're early." You said softly, turning your head to look at the clock on the wall. "I thought you said you'll be here in the afternoon?"

"I-I know— sorry." He shifts his weight from one leg to the other. "I just thought if I came early—" he faltered, embarrassed. "You know what? I could come back—"

"No, No— it's fine." You assured him, covering your mouth to yawn again. “Come on in." You walked back, pulling the door open to let him in.

 He stepped inside, removing his hat immediately. It was dimly lit inside, the curtains drawn closed. There was a hint of cinnamon apple that graced his nostrils, and the smell of Pine-Sol somewhere else. 

"I hope you don't mind the mess— I've been rearranging." You sighed.

"I-It's not a problem—" A flush slowly creeps up his face when he notices your nightgown. It's short, stopping just above your knees. He can see how sheer the fabric is, the shape of your breast outlined, your nipples hard against the material.

He gulped, averting his gaze to the pictures on the walls instead.

"W-Where's the um—"

"Kitchen." You pointed, already moving. 

You led him towards the back of the house and he followed right behind you, keeping his eyes up.

There were different family portraits on the wall: Family vacation, horseback riding, and a high school graduation portrait. He couldn't help but admire how pretty you looked in all of them— Especially the one you took during your last birthday party.

You were dolled up, wearing this tight-fitted dress that he could remember in perfect detail. You had the sweetest perfume on, heels that made you taller, and hair pinned up. He remembered he could barely talk to you without feeling embarrassed. 

"I'm glad you came— regardless if it was early as fuck. I wasn't sure who else to ask." You said softly.

"Y-Yeah…" Besides that, he wasn't going to mention the way he can see the pattern of your panties from the back of the gown either. Pink with white flowers scattered around, lacy trimmings that outlined your curves. How it hugged against the fat of your ass— Shit, he just mentioned it.

“Remmick.”

“What— yeah?” he blinked. Stopping abruptly.

“I said thank you for coming,” you repeated, stepping into the kitchen. “You're the only one who probably won't charge me a ridiculous amount of money.”

"It's not a problem.” he smiled wryly, “I um— I wasn't doing anything today anyway." he continued, stepping into the kitchen as well.

"Clearly,” You noted, leaning against the counter while he strode off towards the sink.

He placed his toolbox on the counter and stood in front of the sink. He checked the faucet by turning the handles back and forth. A low hum alerted him but no water came out. Then, he pulled a flashlight out from his back pocket and leaned over to look inside the drain. When he didn't see anything he quickly got down on one knee.

You continued talking, dragging your eyes over his form. “—Why else would you be here so early if you did?" You teased, watching as he worked.

Remmick glanced at you while he opened the cabinets, pushing a few things to the side. "T-That's not true… I'm always early.”

You raised a brow. "You? Early?"

"Yeah?" his voice wavered, averting his eyes back to the items in the cabinet. He took out dish soap and cleaning products from under the sink, placing them off to the side.

“I have things to do later— stuff,” he said, hoping it doesn't come off cheap.

“Like what?” you pushed. 

 You weren't buying it, but you were amused by how long he could try.

He paused, “I've got other things to fix…like my…like my bed.”

“Your bed?" He was a terrible liar. "What's wrong with it?"

“It's been…um…creaking— like, a lot.”

You quirked a brow. “Wouldn't be creaking if you're not doing things on it,” you said offhandedly but it made Remmick pause, his ears turning red immediately.

“T-Things?” He stuttered, almost knocking over a can of Ajax. "I'm… I'm not... w-what are you implying?"

“Suspicious activities— cardio?" You said out loud, like you were naming things off a checklist.

Remmick reached around to feel the pipes, ducking his head underneath.

"—A lot of movement? Active stuff?" You continued, "You're a man aren't you? I'm sure you don't just sleep on it.”

He almost banged his head against the ceiling of the sink.

"G-Goodness— Darlin' I think ya have me for somebody else." He pulled his head back from underneath the sink and turned to look at you.

"Yeah? Really?"

"I don't—" he stopped, trailing his eyes off to the side. "I don't…um…do those things."

"Things?" You pressed, a small smirk forming over your lips. "Now, what are you implying?"

He gulped. Feeling self-conscious suddenly.

"I-I didn't—"

"You know, I can tell when you're lying."

The kitchen felt smaller— like the walls were moving in on him. 

In the presence of someone like you, always so aware of things—especially him, it made it harder to compose himself. You looked at him like you already knew the next words that were going to come out of his mouth— probably the correct tone of wording as well.

"…How—"

“You do this thing where you look away, like people won't be able to tell what you're thinking if they're not looking straight at you.” You tilted your head, gaze sharp. “…Or maybe you're just that obvious.”

"Obvious?" He scoffed, "ain't nothing about me 'obvious'."

"Yeah?" You questioned.

"Yeah."

Remmick doesn't have anything left to say to that, but he knows you caught him when your eyes shift and the next words out of your mouth sent him into a spiral:

"Why are your ears red then?"

He cleared his throat, trying to calm the growing heat elsewhere. He goes back under the sink, hoping it could hide him away— or at least try to.

"J-Just hot in here— that's all."

You hummed, tapping your finger against the counter.

“I'm gonna go freshen up— I'll be back,” you announced and left without waiting for his response.

He couldn't help the need to glance back and watch you leave. He noticed how the fabric of the gown brushed the back of your knees and swayed with each step you took. You turned to walk up the stairs, stretching your arms, and once you disappeared— he quickly went back to working.

"Your ears are red." Echoed in his head. 

He wasn't that obvious…Well…maybe a little— but that's beside the point.

He opened his toolbox and pulled out a handful of tools, sorting through them with a furrowed brow— trying to remember which one might do the trick. With a heavy sigh, he lowered himself to the floor, twisting to lie on his back and scooting halfway into the cramped space beneath the sink.

The cabinet’s edges pressed into his shoulders as he reached up, entirely too small to fit a grown ass man, and he felt around blindly. The texture felt scratchy against the pad of his thumb, the smell told him that something was wrong.

A few twists here, a turn there— rusted knobs resisting him at every angle.

It doesn't take long to spot the issue: clogged pipes and the wear of an old, neglected house.

He doesn't know when the house was first built but the rusted pipes tell him it's probably no more than 40 years old— maybe more.

No wonder the sink had stopped working.

He tightens his grip on a wrench he pulled from his box, and gives another valve a turn—too far, too fast. A deep rumble shudders through the pipes, and a moment later, a sudden spray of cold water blasts him in the face— drenching the top portion of his body.

Coughing and blinking through the mess, he wrestles the pipe shut, the valves screeching as he cranks it tight. The spray cuts off. A second later, he hears the satisfying gurgle of water flowing properly—this time into the sink above.

He shimmies down, pulling himself back from under the cabinets, and wipes the water away from his face. He stood up slowly, feeling the way his shirt clung to his skin— dripping down onto the floor leaving a wet puddle at his feet.

So much for picking out an outfit today.

He shook his head, like a dog— hair ruffled every which way. He threaded his fingers through his strands, moving some that were stuck to his forehead.

He hears you a few minutes later, trailing down the stairs, humming a soft tune that abruptly stops when you notice that he looks disheveled.

“Remmick?!" You quickly jump the last steps, moving towards him in record time. You could see water dripping from his hair, the wide puddle at his feet.

“What—” your voice goes quiet when he slowly starts to unbutton his long-sleeve shirt, pulling it off his skin.

He was wearing a t-shirt underneath but it left little to the imagination. You swallowed— hard — eyeing the way his biceps bulged through the fabric. His chest was large, his nipples prominent through white. 

The fabric clung to his skin like a glove.

“Loose pipes, old house. The usual when you fix a sink,” he said simply, turning around to ring his shirt.

Your eyes trailed over his back, the muscles working every time he twisted his shirt,  squeezing the water out.

"I did what I could, but you'll have to replace the pipes soon. Maybe in a few months." He turned back around, holding his shirt out. "I don't suppose you have a dryer?"

You smiled sheepishly at him, "Nope, broken." You pause, and then: "But I have a towel?"

"Sounds good to me."

You walked around, opening a few drawers. Rummaging through the contents.

"So, how much will that be?"

"Will what be?" he questioned, watching you intently.

"New pipes? Someone to come fix it?" Suddenly, you remembered where you kept the towels stored.

"Well…Joe's Supplies could probably sell them to you for cheap, but—" Remmick's eyes almost pop out when he sees you bend down, opening a cabinet. 

The sheer nightgown was enough but shorts were overkill. It hugged you tightly, riding up enough to give him a peek at your underwear from the bottom—

"—So what you're really saying, is that I'm fucked?"

He gulped, quickly fixing his posture. His jeans suddenly felt too small. "Y-Yeah."

"What do I do now?" You stood up, towel in hand, and turned to face him.

He cleared his throat— something he's been doing a lot since he's been here. "If you, um, buy the pipes— I could, you know? Probably…replace it for you."

He could see your face light up.

 "You will?"

He nodded when you stepped closer, reaching up to pat the towel against his neck.

"Thank you, Rem." You smiled, patting the towel down his chest. "How much do I owe you?"

Something as innocent as this shouldn't be working him up— but it was.

"F-For?"

"Fixing my sink, duh."

"O-Oh, it's nothing." He smiled softly, leaning back against the counter. "F-For you, it's on the house."

You dabbed the towel over his forehead next, making sure to soak as much water as you could. "Oh? Am I that special—"

"Yes." He said a little too quickly.

When you quirked a brow, he coughed slightly.

"Yes," he tried again, keeping his voice steady. "Just let me know when."

You ruffled the towel through his hair, laughing to yourself when you moved it to see his hair mussed.

"Thank you, I don't know what I would do without you." You grinned, dropping the towel around his neck.

He gave you a face. "R-Really?"

You hummed, nodding to yourself. "What other person I know fixes things as good as you?"

"I-I don't know…"

"You're supposed to say 'nobody' ." You laughed, pulling the towel away.

Remmick gulped, "Sorry—"

"Maybe the right word isn't obvious, but, oblivious." You scanned his face, "Are you always this fidgety?"

He shifted on his feet, "I don't…um…know what you mean."

"You're the only guy I know who struggles so badly when it comes to the signs."

"The signs?"

"You know? When someone takes interest? Like that girl in fifth grade."

Remmick frowned, rolling his eyes like a kid. "Who? Suzie?"

"Mhm, you couldn't tell how much she liked you?"

"She used to bully me— called me a vampire cause she made me spill my mama's famous tomato soup down my face!"

You made a face. "'Famous' is an understatement."

"Understatement?! How— you know what? I'm not even gonna talk about it." He folded his arms, visibly seething in front of you— scrunching his face, biting the inside of his cheek.

He looked adorable.

You couldn't help the loud snort that slipped out.

"I'm just teasing ya, Rem."

Silence.

"Rem?"

His nose twitched.

"Rem~" You sang, "come on, Remmy, I was just joking. You really mad at me?"

You placed your hands on his shoulders, smoothing them over his wet sleeves. "Want me to apologize?"

"…Yeah."

"I'm sorry. How's that?"

"You don't…sound sorry."

You pressed closer.

His eyes immediately dropped to your lips.

Obvious.

"I'm sorry, Remmick." You said, hands moving to grab his narrow waist.

His eyes quickly snapped to the side.

Oblivious. 

“Look at me Rem— I'm sorry. Okay?"

The way you were looking at him, eyes soft and lips puckered. Face mere inches away and God— your hands. They were rolling delicate little circles in his side— playful and full of hidden meanings that he was afraid to understand. 

Afraid that it was what he was thinking. 

Could it be? 

It can't…can it? 

"Rem?" You asked, tilting your head. 

If you kept calling him that— he doesn't know what he'll do. 

"Rem, I'm sorry, okay? Can you talk to me—" 

It happened so quickly you barely had time to react. Your eyes widened, mind blank when he pressed his lips to yours. They were slightly cold but it wasn’t unpleasant. 

He doesn't know what came over him, doesn't know why he did it— but it felt right. He leaned forward, his lips on yours— kissing with that sort of clumsiness that made it known that it was real. 

He had to shut his eyes to keep from staring into yours.

His hand snaked behind your back, holding you close like you might vanish— like all those times in his dreams where it played out exactly like this. You, him, alone. Different scenarios but it all ended in Remmick kissing you. Whatever happened after he woke up instantly. 

You dropped the towel and quickly cupped his face in your hands. Just like his lips, his skin was cold but it warmed the minute you pressed your hand against it. 

You tilted your head, deepening the kiss, and the moment your tongue pressed against his—  the faint taste of you invading his mouth— he pulled back abruptly, sucking in air like a fish out of water. His hands dropped away like he was just burnt, eyes darting around your face.

His mouth moved before it could stop, "I-I'm s-sorry." He apologized, trembling like a baby deer. "I-I don't know what came over me— Oh m-my — I just couldn't help myself, and you were so close— and you smelled so good— a-and I thought that it was—"

"Rem, slow down." You laughed, shaking your head at the display of nervousness rolling off of him. "Do you see me complaining?"

He blinked. "…N-No?"

"Do you see me getting mad and yelling at you?"

"…No?"

"So, then, it's fine."

"B-But, it's not right for a man to come onto a woman like that— especially someone like you. I-I'm supposed to ask first, make sure you're okay with it, and then—"

"Remmick, if it wasn't okay, you would have been kicked in the balls by now."

He froze. "O-Oh."

A smirk played along your lips, "I'm not so delicate, you know?" You moved into his space again, wrapping your arms around his neck.

"A-All women are—"

"Not me." You said softly, threading your fingers through the back of his head,  fingers twirling the short locks of hair on the back of his neck.

He sucked in a breath.

"There you go again, acting all shy." You quipped. "Obvious, oblivious— maybe you're somewhere in between."

"B-But—"

"Remmick, I like you."

He opened his mouth but no words came out. He was permanently in shock, unsure if he was dreaming or if he was dead in his sleep right now. 

"I asked you to fix my sink— yeah, but also because I think you're cute."

"W-Wait— You do?"

You nodded. "I think you're so hot when you work.” You pressed your chest against his, the wet fabric staining the front of your clothes. “Especially when you get this look on your face when you're trying to figure out how to do something."

He looked like a tomato at this point. 

He slowly wrapped his hand around your waist, still careful and shy. "I think you're also…c-cute."

"I know, it's so easy to tell from you."

"Am I…really that obvious?"

"Yup."

“I-I’m sorry. I just…you make me so… I—“

You chuckled, “You don’t have to apologize.” 

“I-I’m sorry—“ he clicked his tongue. “I mean, I didn’t know you liked me. I just assumed that you thought of me as a friend…only.”

“Want me to show you?”

“Show me what?”

“That I don’t think of you as just a friend?”

“H-How?”

"Easy. All you have to do is keep your eyes on me, Rem.” Slowly, you got down on your knees, the water wetting your skin, and you peered up at him through your lashes. Your fingers hooked through his belt buckle, working them open.

Remmick gulped— his eyes averting off somewhere. But then they snapped back when you tugged his hips forward. 

“What did I just say?” You teased, finally pulling his belt apart.

“I-I’m sorry—“ he took a breath, “ o-okay.”

This can't be real.

He covered his face with one hand, peeking through the gaps of his fingers. His other hand was holding the edge of the counter, squeezing, trying to hold on as you worked him open. 

You pulled his pants down, smiling at how small Remmick was trying to make himself. “You're always so shy, I’ve never seen a man—“ your eyes widened when you pulled his briefs down after. 

He was leaking already, the head of his cock flushed red. Swollen and hard against his naval. He had a vein running along the side of his skin, twisting like a vine. He was big— bigger than you've ever seen. 

Probably the biggest you're ever going to get. 

"I-I know," he said, sighing through his hands. Flustered. "Y-You've probably seen better— something more of your style. I-I'm not normal— probably disgusting—"

"N-No." You quickly said, using the pad of your thumb to run soothing circles against his thighs. "Baby, look at me."

Remmick slid his hand down his face, chest rising and falling with desperation. He looked so scared, afraid that you wouldn’t like it— wouldn’t like him. 

"You're perfect." You smiled up at him.  

He felt warmth slide across his chest. "R-Really?"

"Mhmm, of course. Just look at ya,” you wrapped your hand around him and he jumped. “already weeping for me just from kissing." 

“I-I’ve never—“

"Kissed anybody? So that makes me your first?”

He nodded, shamelessly. 

“It’s okay.”

“Y-You sure?” 

"I wouldn't be on my knees in front of you if I wasn't sure."

“S-Sorry—” and then he huffed when he caught himself apologizing again. “Okay...” 

“I just want you to keep your eyes on me— that means you can’t cover your face and look away.”

“O-Okay, I can do that.” 

“Yeah?”

“Y-Yeah.”

You pumped him once, getting a feel— watching the way his stomach tensed. He was staring at you with such intense eyes, like he couldn’t believe that you were here— on your knees with his cock in your hand. 

"You're so cute, Remmick." You pumped him again and he swallowed. "You're always so shy, so nice— Unlike any man I've known before."

He sucked in a breath when you leaned forward to kiss the vein pulsing on his skin. 

"Am I the first one to see you like this too?"

"Y-Yes." He answered breathlessly. Honestly.

"A farm boy, nice, his first time— you're just wrapped in a pretty pink bow for someone, huh?” 

“W-What does that—“

You delved forward, sucking him into your mouth and he shuddered. Your tongue lay flat under the weight of his cock, but that didn’t stop you from rolling it underneath. You watched as his face contorted, his eyes darting from your mouth to everywhere else.

You could tell that this was hard for him. 

He gasped when you pulled back just enough to suck the tip of his cock, your hand pumping the base of him. 

He clenched the edge of the sink tighter, "D-Darlin'—" he choked, jolting when you pushed forward to swallow him whole again.

“G-Goodness.” He moaned, “I-I…you're doing so— o-oh.”

You pulled back, his cock slipping out and you grinned at him. “Keep your eyes on me, okay?” 

“O-Okay.”

You made a show of licking the tip, precum beading against your tongue and he couldn’t help the high-pitched whine that escaped. 

“Darlin’— p-please.” He doesn’t know what he was begging for but the thought of you, the way your tongue kept rolling off of him felt so good— he had to feel more. 

Sensing that, you spit into your hand and grasped him in your hand again— moving your hand back and forth with an antagonizing slow pace. 

“What’cha beggin’ for, Rem? Don’t tell me you thought about this before?” 

“N-No—“

“Liar.” You chuckled. “Your face is already red. I think we’re far past embarrassment.” 

“P-Please— can…can you go faster?”

“Faster?”

He nodded, “Y-Yes.” 

You rolled the pad of your thumb against the slit of his cock and he groaned. “Ask me the right way then.” 

“I-I want your mouth on me—“ he gasped when you cupped his balls with your other hand, rolling them in the palm of your hand. He visibly shuddered when you squeezed, playing with them like stress balls. 

“Keep going. You got it, Rem.” 

“Y-Your mouth— felt so good on me.” He sighed, “A-and your tongue.” 

“Want me to taste you again?”

“Y-Yes please.”

You laughed, going back to pumping him and he moaned out loud. 

“You're so polite, Rem. But I’m afraid you have to tell me exactly what you want.” 

“I-I can’t.” 

“You can. Lemme help you.”

You kissed the tip of his cock, moving to lick the underside of him with messy trails of spit and precum. He felt his stomach tighten, the image of you like this was almost too much to bear. 

“G-Golly—“ his breath hitched when you licked lower, swirling your tongue over his balls, his cock resting on your face. The size of him was so obvious like this. 

You slipped him from your mouth, moving to kiss him once more. “Say it, say you wanna fuck my mouth.” 

He felt his heart skip a beat. “D-Darlin’—“

“Say it,” you demanded.

“I c-can’t—“

“If you don’t, I’ll stop. Leave you here just like this.” You gave him a devilish smirk, clutching the base of his cock without mercy. “Want me to leave?”

“N-No, I don’t want you to—“

“Then say it.” 

He sucked in a breath, trying to find the confidence to repeat your words back. But his hands shot out, fingers interlocking into your hair when you tilted your head back— tongue lulling out to rapidly slap the length of his cock against the flat of your tongue.

It was loud, wet, and obscene. The type you only saw in pornos. He broke eye contact, shutting them closed. Whimpering shamelessly. 

He was putty in your hands. 

"O-Oh— P-Please—" he groaned, rutting his hips forward without meaning to. 

“Please what?” You questioned. 

"C-Can you— can you do that again?" You felt his leg tense. 

You peered up at him, “Watch me then.” 

The moment he finally opened his eyes to look at you, you squeezed him in your hand and slapped his cock against your tongue once more. He let out a low groan, pulling your hair tightly without meaning to. 

“I wanna—“ He curled his hand against your scalp, threading his fingers through your hair. “Wanna f-fuck your mouth.”

“Say it again, baby.” You pushed, watching as he opened and shut his mouth like a fish. 

“P-Please— I wanna— f-fuck your mouth—” 

You barely gave him time to finish before your mouth was on him finally. Pumping what you couldn’t fit into your mouth while swirling your tongue over the tip. 

He rocked his hips forward, watching intently as his cock disappeared and reappeared from your mouth— wet streaks of saliva and cum coating him in a messy show of display. You looked so pretty like this, on your knees, working him over. Face flushed, eyes teary.

 "Darlin— mhm, n-not gonna last—" he moaned, rutting his hips forward. "F-Feels so good— so warm, tight— suckin' me in whole—"

You felt heat pool into your stomach, your cunt clenching around nothing. The sounds he was making were slowly starting to get to you.  

“O-Oh, that’s it,” he groaned. Desperate and needy, holding your head tighter when you pushed forward, making sure that the tip of his cock kissed the back of your throat. 

“R-Right there—“ he moaned, loud and high-pitched. 

Your hand guided back to cup his ass, squeezing him in your hand— pulling him forwards to help him fuck into your mouth more. You wanted to feel him, pull him in deeper. Your moans vibrated against his cock, sending an electric shock through his body. 

"G-God—" he rasped, both hands placed on your head to hold. “ Y-Your so perfect— dreamed about this.” 

You moaned, shutting your eyes, listening while your throat worked around him. 

"Baby— c-can't believe your doin' so well— so perfect—" he thrust into your mouth— once. Pulling your hair gently.

You could feel your cunt leaking, dripping into your panties with no shame. 

"I-I dreamed about this— you." He thrusted up again, kissing your throat with clumsiness. "T-Thought you would be scared of me—mhm, thought you might run away— " another thrust into your throat has your toes curling, stomach lurching forward. 

You clutched the globe of his ass, teetering on the edge of sliding a finger past. 

He locked his hands around your head— a warning not to stop, a silent plea to keep going— on the verge of breaking. 

"I was s-scared— T-Turns out, I should have been scared of you—Oh! K-Keep going." He begged, tipping his head back, jaw slacked. Moaning in broken whimpers of pleasure. "G-Gosh— feel so good— you— feel so good. Takin' me in like this."

You pulled back to pop him out of your mouth, catching your breath,  drool pooling from the corner of your mouth. You kissed the underside of his cock, and then dragged your tongue across the length of him. Coating him once more. 

He rolled his hips forward, his cock gliding over your tongue in one swift motion. "You're gonna— darlin' if you keep— mhm, keep working' me— gonna make me—"

"Y-Yeah?” You breathed, throat slightly sore. “Gonna come?"

He nodded profusely, petting his fingers in your scalp. “A-Almost—“

"Now?" You kissed the slit of his cock, cum coating your lips. 

"C-Close— so close."

“You know what to do.” 

You slipped him back into your mouth and he broke. Holding your hair tight into his hand, jutting his hips once, twice, three times— until he found a rhythm that made him dizzy. 

"I-I'm, darlin' I'm gonna— g-gonna come—"

You moaned around him, digging your nails into the fat of his ass to keep him close. Maneuvering his hips, helping him thrust into your mouth.

"B-Baby— s-soon." He gasped, throwing his head back. "I-I'm sorry for doing this— just, ohh— j-just hold on f'me."

You weren't sure what he meant but you quickly understood when he took a deep inhale and he used both hands that were tight on your head and pulled you forward— shoving himself all the way into the back of your throat, leaving no room for you to breathe. 

The size of him was too much for you to handle— so fucking big, suffocating you— leaving you to gag around him. Tears slipping past and down your cheek. 

A loud, whiny moan slipped from his open mouth. His fingers curled more into your head when your throat clenched around him and he saw white cross his vision. 

He spilled just like that, on your tongue, stuttering his hips— burying himself as deep as he could go. Your throat contracted around him while he rutted forward, trying to keep you in place. Your nose was buried against thick, coarse, hair that tickled. 

“T-That’s it— y-your draining me dry, baby.” He moaned, drenching the back of your throat with everything he had. 

You shut your eyes tightly, gag reflex screaming at you to pull him out— but you refused to. You felt warmth flood your taste buds— too much and still not enough. He groaned out loud, frozen in place, still cumming into your mouth, like you were milking him dry. 

Not once did you move until he was done— his cock spurting its last with his thighs shaking, and loud, breathless moans from his mouth.

He crashed back against the edge of the sink, letting go of your hair, his cock slipping out to lie flaccid against his thigh. 

You opened your mouth, tongue lolling out to show him streaks of white lying on your tongue like a work of art. 

"G-Gosh." He breathed.

He watched as you closed your mouth and visibly swallowed, smiling up at him— face a mess and tears dried against your cheek. 

You stood up, abruptly, dragging his pants up with you, and lazily zipped him back up— belt buckle still hung open, his body twitching every so often from shock. 

You wrapped your hand around the back of his neck, pulling him in close to press his lips against yours. He could still taste the faint traces of himself on your tongue— salty and sweet. 

You placed a kiss on the corner of his mouth, resting your hands on his shoulder. He looked so cute, face still red, ears burning— his chest still heaving.

You opened your mouth to speak, "How was that—"

"Incredible." He beat you to it.

"Was I?"

"Y-Yes…"

"Did you like it?"

"A-A lot… like, more than I can describe."

"Yeah?"

He nodded slowly, biting his lower lip.

”I have another sink for you to fix.” you smirked at him, pulling him by the hand. He followed along with you on wobbly legs while you directed him towards the stairs.

“A-Another one?” he questioned.

“Yeah, it's in my bedroom.” You took a step, Remmick trailing behind you.

“Bedroom…?"

You hummed, "This one might be tricky, but I trust you.” You looked back, taking another step. “And lose the shirt, you won’t need it.” 

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ secret admirer: @pearlstiare ‎‏‏‎‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‎ ‎‏‏‎‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‎‏

[foxtufts]

「Swipe Right」 - Part 1

Masterlist

AO3 Link

Pairing: Pathetic Remmick x fem!Reader

Word Count: 1.5k ๋࣭ ⭑⚝ Summary: You match with a Remmick on a dating app, and obsession takes hold swiftly before the two of you even meet. ๋࣭ ⭑⚝ a/n: Part 1 of a fic where I'll probably do two versions for Part 2. ๋࣭ ⭑⚝ Warnings: 18+, MDNI, masturbation, obsession, delusion, drool, Remmick is a loser, pathetic Remmick

It started with a swipe, as most dates do now. Not that many of yours have successfully come to fruition. Most of the time, you've been ghosted or stood up. It's enough to make you want to uninstall the dating app altogether, but you can't quite commit to removing it, just in case it works.

It's late into the night; far later than you have any need to be up still. You're only looking for something casual when his profile shows up; Remmick. Handsome enough, works nights but at least he has a job, unique enough interests that he certainly didn't appear to be some bot programmed to waste your time. All with the added bonus that he's already liked your profile.

It takes all of three seconds before you match. Less than two minutes later and he's already writing you a message.

'Hey there, you are up awfully late, sugar.'

Another message pops up.

'Not that you need any beauty sleep, mind.'

You roll your eyes at the message despite the tiny grin it wins from you. The time catches your attention: it's almost three in the morning. Between your doom-scrolling habit and being unable to stop obsessing over finding someone who wouldn't get spooked out of a date, you've stayed up far longer than you planned. Instead of turning the light out, you open up the message to respond.

Your thumb hovers over 'send' for a beat longer than it should. It's bold, but you're tired of waiting for someone else to make the first move. It's worth biting the bullet and letting him know you intend to meet up eventually.

'I could say the same about you <3 If you think those pictures are good, then you should see me in person'

Remmick gasps at your message. Actually gasps at the thought that you want to see him already, that you think he's handsome. He takes it all at face value, as it were. The lit cigarette stays perched in his mouth while he smears his bloodied hands over his shirt. Remmick is still messy from tonight's feed; some random man whom he hasn't bothered to remove from his studio apartment yet. Not that there was much left to clean.

As he settles into the grey of his tatty sofa, taking a drag of the cigarette and smiling excitedly around the exhale of smoke. His fingers are already sending out a response before he considers how rushed it is. He hasn't had anybody on here show the same level of interest, it's got him light-headed.

'Want to??'

The three dots appear and his heart rate doubles. His brows lightly furrow when they seem to disappear, then reappear again, and his stomach drops with doubt.

'Somebody's eager'

Then immediately another.

'I like eager'

The stale breath from the smoke catches in his throat, and immediately he inhales the remainder all the way to the filter. There's another breath of smog as he adds the leftover piece to the collection of ends in the ashtray. Remmick's response is frantic, beside himself to the point that his hands are starting to tremble while typing.

'I guarantee you will love me then. What else do you like?'

It's a smooth-enough exchange of messages between you for a while; each one feels like some intricate dance to test boundaries and figure the other out. You take a short break while you leave to get a drink and potter about. It's only between five and ten minutes but you eventually return to your bedroom to continue.

'I almost gave up with this app, I only ever get ghosted or disappointed'

'Thought you left to get some sleep. I would never ghost you.'

Remmick waits eagerly for your reply, previously scared that he had lost you.

'Not quite yet. Aren't you tired either?'

He lets out a faint exhale, amused at that.

'Not until the sun comes up.'

'What are you, some kind of vampire?'

Remmick wets his lips, writing out his answer and leaving it for a moment before sending it.

'Yes.'

He doesn't breathe again until your response comes through, unsure how you might take the news. He can feel himself begin to sweat at the thought that you could reject him.

'Suuure, 'energy vampire' i'm sure.'

There's a little uncertainty of whether you don't believe him, or if you actually think he would be that sort of vampire.

'Just the regular kind.'

Remmick rushes to supply with you with whatever proof he can, he needs you to know that he isn't lying even if the thought makes him nervous.

'Want to see?'

'I bet you're all talk'

Remmick swallows as his fangs nibble at his lower lip; he never bothers to hide them when he's alone. The challenge of your message makes something stir in his belly, and his eyes slide over to the remnants of the body as it were simply a piece of furniture.

'Thought so.'

He didn't realise it had been such a long pause, long enough for you to call his bluff again. Something prickles inside of him as he opens up the camera to take a photo; he hooks his finger under his lips to pull his cheek to the side, enough to expose his fangs. The rush of showing you takes hold of Remmick, your word 'disappointed' rattling inside him, and all he wants is to please you. A thrill surges through him as he hits 'send'; he hasn't shown anybody that before.

[1 Attachment]

'I assure you, my bite is much worse than my bark.'

There's a short pause as he waits with baited breath, eyes scanning over the phone and desperate to know what you think.

'Then maybe you need to be muzzled'

It knocks a breath lose from him. Remmick is smiling, feeling floaty that you didn't recoil from the sight of him.

'Not if I muzzle you first.'

'Kinky'

Remmick's pants start to tighten in seconds. He wets his lips at the thought; gods, you must really like him to already be suggesting something like that.

'Where did you get those anyway?'

'What do you mean?'

'The fake fangs, they look good.'

The misunderstanding makes the question go over Remmick's head completely.

Good. You think they look good; you do like them. A faint laughter sounds from Remmick's chest; you're so funny, asking him where he must have bought them when you know they're real.

'They are real. I can prove it when you are next free.'

'We'll see'

'Goodnight Remmick'

It feels like the wind has been knocked out of him. Remmick can't believe how much you've taken a liking to him; you don't even mind his vampiric nature at all.

Remmick is hard just looking at one of your photos, the one with a more revealing outfit. He eventually figured out how to take a screenshot on the phone he recently acquired from a recent victim. Now he doesn't even need to open up the dating app to look.

The photo is currently zoomed in, nearly all the way, so it's mostly your face looking up at him from the phone. His eyes relax as he stares back down at you, cock in his hand and occasionally letting it slap against his screen so that it looks like it hits against your cheek. He huffs sharply, frustrated and excited by the fantasy of it.

Remmick partly lifts his shirt to hold it in his teeth; he wants to see your face properly. A quiet whine slips out around his muffled words. "Got me so wound up, baby. Look at what you've done t'me."

You must be so fond of him already to allow him to see those pictures on your profile. Just for him. Remmick knows you're so lucky he isn't one of those assholes who probably sneak into your messages constantly. You'll see. He's much better for you, actually wants you, so much already before you've even met. That's how Remmick knows this is meant to be. Why else would he feel this way? You must do so too because you stayed up until almost dawn just for him. Gods, the thought that a screen separates the two of you is almost too much to bear; you poor thing, probably trying not to touch yourself at the thought of him, too. But you're so good, he just knows you'll save yourself for him.

"Yeah? Ready for me? Gonna make a mess of your pretty face." Remmick's hips jerk as a choked noise is wrenched from him, and he flinches as his cum splatters over the screen. The sight of it has his teeth gritting with want, and his chest is heaving even as he sits up. He's still hard from the way you look up at him; so sweet, covered in his release as he sits up to smear it over your face with his tip.

The corner of his lip curls up into a grin as his eyes go half-lidded. "Again? So soon? Greedy girl… I'll give you whatcha need." His cock pulses in his hand as his drool runs down his chin and drips onto the screen. The sight has him pumping himself desperately and swearing under his breath as he becomes lost in himself, until he's coming over the screen again with a giddy afterglow.

In the silent hours of the morning, Remmick decides then and there; he needs to have you.

Remmick just knows you feel the same.

[cherryxhaze]

You Gotta Earn It First

Professor!Remmick x Fem!Reader

Part Two ->

Fic Playlist & AO3 Link

Summary: The new Irish Folklore professor seems to have it out for you. Constant critiques and unfair grades. There's a strange air to him, beyond the passionate lectures and the other students who seem to adore him. As much as you'd like to deny it, you too find yourself under his spell. WC: ~14.2k Tags/Warnings: NSFW/MDNI 18+ ONLY. heavy dubcon: somnophilia (f!receiving oral), power imbalance & manipulation. modern day professor AU. no use of y/n. dom!remmick, brat tamer!remmick, cheating/infidelity (reader cheats on bf w/ remmick), hive mind plot device, semi-public masturbation & sex, panty stealing, panty sniffing, blood kink, marking, spanking, degradation, praise, oral sex (f! & m!receiving), anilingus/rimming (m!receiving), unprotected vaginal & anal sex (f!receiving), classroom sex, hair-pulling, creampie, possessive language, obsession, rough and soft sex, jealousy. A/N: I could not have written this without the support, help & ideas from these lovelies: @confetti-cakemix @weavingduck @madkingcrowley @fuckoffbard @remmicks-salvation with a special thanks to my love @eternalstrigoii for beta reading! Credit to @cafekitsune for dividers.

When you first signed up for the Irish Folklore course this semester, you never imagined it’d turn out like this. Every student is required to take a Humanities course for their degree and this one seemed to be the perfect fit. It piqued your interest, fit into your schedule with work and other classes with a meeting time in the evenings, and you (foolishly) figured it’d be easy enough to pass without much effort. 

You were very wrong.

It’s a Tuesday night when class convenes, a handful of students scattered about at their desks in the small room stationed on the first floor in one of the oldest academic buildings on campus. You preferred small classes like this, it was more intimate, helped you be immersed, and provided better opportunities to connect with the professor. If only this Professor didn’t seem to have some personal vendetta against you, targeting you every chance he got. Professor Remmick, he insisted you all call him. Not Dr. O’Brien or Professor O’Brien, just Professor Remmick. 

“Alright, now. Before we pick up where we last left off on the discussion of Filidh, I’m returnin’ your last graded assignment.” Remmick peers down at the stack of papers in hand through the clear lenses of the glasses fixed on the bridge of his nose before he shifts, standing from his spot leaning against his desk to begin walking down the aisles. “Most of y’all did well.”

Most.

The word echoes in your ears and a heavy weight settles in your gut, churning with each appraising comment he gives to the other students upon returning their graded work.

Nice work, Chris. 

Good job, Jess.

Your teeth begin to nervously chew on the inside of your lip as he draws nearer, hoping for the string of praises to continue but dreading for more of the endless criticism you’ve received since the start of the semester.

Polished black cap toe shoes scuff against the linoleum as he stops by your desk. You chance peering up at him, but he doesn’t even glance your way before sliding the paper onto the desk like it’s a discreet, dirty secret.

A silence passes, quiet but resoundingly loud, before he moves on to the next student. He doesn’t say a word and that’s somehow worse than if he had told you it’s the worst work he’s ever seen in front of the entire class. Your eyes immediately search for the damage, landing on the C- circled and written in red ink at the top of the paper.

Disappointment floods through you before frustration, and finally anger. You’ve never gotten a C in any college courses until this class, until this Professor. If someone had told you before that the hardest class you’d take in college would be an Irish Folklore course, you would’ve laughed and looked at them like they grew two heads. 

Your eyes trail down the paper, glancing over every note written in red. 

Grammar.

You’re rambling a bit much here. 

Not quite. 

?

There is room for improvement. I expect better on the next assignment.

You don’t get it. You could’ve sworn you did everything right and had all the correct information. Hell, you probably could’ve spent hours working on it and he still wouldn’t give you an ‘A’. A heavy exhale huffs out through your nostrils as you lean back into the hard plastic seat, arms crossing over your waist. 

This class is shaping up to be more trouble than it’s worth, and you can’t help but wonder how you’d have fared with the original professor, Dr. Hughes.

It was only a few months ago when Remmick found himself in this little college town. He didn’t seek it out intentionally, only meaning to pass through on his journey to an undesignated destination. He’d been wandering for so long, he couldn’t tell you a specific number of years. After so many failed attempts to find connection to his old home, he’d begun to lose hope. That was until that December night when he found himself strolling across the quiet, concrete paths and grassy patches of your campus. When the familiar words of the legend of Fionn Mac Cumhaill and the Giant’s Causeway floated through the night air and to his ears, it stopped Remmick in his tracks. He followed it to an open window in one of the campus buildings where he lingered in the shadows, watching and listening as this Dr. Hughes butchered the retellings of the legends and myths from Remmick’s homeland, the stories near and dear to his heart. What else could he have expected from a damn Englishman. Worst of all, these students were victims of it. 

And Remmick… Well, he just couldn’t have that.

So he continued watching Dr. Hughes’ flimsy lecture until the class adjourned, waiting as the students filtered out of the old building until finally, the professor emerged. Remmick followed him as he made the walk to the Faculty parking lot, oblivious to the danger lurking in the shadows. By the looks of the dark and quiet campus there didn’t seem to be many night classes, and after that night the college would lose one of its professors.

After that, all it took was a forged degree and resume, which along with his vast knowledge on the course subject landed Remmick a position as an adjunct professor. 

He’d finally found something to give him purpose.

Remmick, oblivious or uncaring to the anger simmering within your body, continues on with class as usual, picking up where he last left off in the discussion of Irish filidh and traditional music. Palpable enthusiasm and confidence ooze from him as he lectures with an undisputable knowledge on the subject. Qualities that initially sparked excitement at the beginning of the semester, that now annoy you like an itch under your skin you just can’t scratch.

Remmick leans back against his desk as the oldest recording of The Rocky Road to Dublin plays through the computer speakers, the only time he elects to utilize electronics in class. You should be paying attention, immersing yourself in the tune, but your mind wanders elsewhere. 

Still ruminating on your bad grade, on your workday, other classes, upcoming exams, your boyfriend, James. 

At the thought of your boyfriend, your eyes fall to the Claddagh ring fixed on your right ring finger. A soft smile graces your lips, briefly remembering the moment James had gifted it to you on your birthday, telling you it symbolized love and loyalty with two hands holding a crowned heart. 

You’re distracted as you admire the ring before the hairs on the back of your neck rise with the unmistakable feeling of being watched. Slowly, your eyes lift to seek out the culprit of the discomforting sensation in the surrounding classroom. A look to the left toward your classmate Chris makes you pause, catching his eyes slowly trail up your legs to the curve of your ass and up to your breasts, until they finally lock with yours. He catches your look of disgust and before he can even react Professor Remmick clears his throat, loud and abrupt from the front of the classroom. Chris’s head snaps forward like an obedient dog following a command before it lowers, whether from shame or embarrassment, you aren’t sure.

Remmick doesn’t look at you, only exhales sharply and licks his lips before delving back into the lecture as the song comes to a close. The distraction of catching Chris undressing you with his eyes pulls your focus back to the lecture for a moment, but as Remmick discusses the significance of the traditional ballad, your mind drifts once again. This time, it isn’t toward thoughts of your boyfriend, work, or your other courses. It’s solely focused on your professor. Your frustration with him is still tangible and simmering in your body, but it begins to mix and fuse with another emotion.

Your eyes follow Remmick’s movements as he slowly paces at the front of the class. 

The way he talks with his hands.

Thick, calloused fingers. You imagine they’d feel both rough and soft dragging along your bare skin.  

The gold chain hanging from his neck. You wonder how it would catch the light as it swings back and forth above you.

That crooked, almost boyish yet calculating smile. 

The soft curve of his cupid’s bow, plump bottom lip shining under the overhead lights as his tongue darts out to lick them once more.

The way those lips wrap around each word, moving in a way that seems downright vulgar.

Biceps outlined by a light blue button up shirt, sleeves rolled up to the elbow. You imagine how much strength is harbored within them.

The ego that earlier wrought your irritation now mixes with admiration for his passion and knowledge.

Your mouth grows dry as the heat rises in your body with the wavering thoughts. Remmick’s eyes catch yours briefly with what you perceive to be a heavy weight of unspoken words within them, and it’s enough to send a tingle right between your clenched thighs. His eyes leave yours just as quickly as they met, but the undeniable signs of arousal pulse through you, a wet warmth resonating at your core.

A glance at the clock on the wall. 9pm. Still another hour left.

With each passing minute the hunger residing in your body only grows, becoming harder to ignore. You can’t make it another hour like this.

“-explores the mostly misfortunate adventures of a man on his journey to-”

“May I go to the bathroom?” You blurt out with a raised hand, too impatient to wait for him to call on you.

The classroom falls silent as Remmick takes a deep inhale, his lips forming into a thin line from exasperation at your interruption. His gaze meets yours before he reluctantly gives a curt nod, freeing your thrumming body from the seat. Your feet quickly follow the path to the door at the front classroom, only for his voice to stop you.

“Aren’t you forgetting something?” 

You can’t help but roll your eyes before turning to face him. A fiddle bow turned bathroom pass sits in his outstretched hand, though his gaze remains cast forward to the rest of the class. You huff under your breath at the ridiculousness of it, no one else is even in the goddamn building. Nevertheless, you cross the short distance to retrieve the bow from his hands, but he doesn’t release it.

A sharp tug jerks your body toward him, close enough to feel his breath fan over your skin as his eyes finally meet yours.

“Don’t take too long.” He murmurs a low and gravely warning that practically sets your body ablaze, flames licking at your most sensitive, aching parts.

As soon as his hand drops from the bow and eyes shift back toward the other students, you turn and exit the classroom as quickly as your feet can carry you.

One of the advantages of taking a night class was having the entire academic building to yourself. Something you’re grateful for as your fingers part your slick pussy lips in the bathroom stall. You’re so goddamn worked up and throbbing for release with the confusing mix of anger and arousal.

You can’t decide if you hate Professor Remmick or want to fuck him, but it’s becoming painfully obvious that it’s both.

Who the hell decided to hire him in the first place? He’s far too hot to be a professor, let alone a hard-assed one. 

You sigh softly with a jerk of your hips, a finger finding the sensitive bundle of nerves.

Your thoughts drift to wonder how his tongue might feel instead of your fingers, imagining he knows just the right places to lick and suck, since he seems to know everything.

“Fuck” The soft moan fills the empty bathroom, mixing with heavy breaths as you rub your clit in tight, slow circles.

You can’t decide if you want more of his punishment or to take your anger out on him.

If you want him to bend you over that mahogany desk and spank your bare ass until you give him the correct answers,

Or if you want to straddle him in that desk chair and ride that cocky grin off his pretty, plump lips.

Your walls pulse and squeeze, body vibrating with waves of pleasure as your fingers move faster, teeth biting your bottom lip to muffle the whimpers.

He’s big and thick, stretching you wider than any other man has, but the way you wrap around him would have him a whimpering mess beneath you, suddenly devoid of arrogance as his hands grip onto your body like it’s the only thing keeping him from blowing his load inside you.

The pleasure builds in your core, a single thread on the brink of snapping. 

You’re so goddamn close.

His calloused hands would soothe your reddened, sore flesh before moving to the wet patch of your panties. “How badly do you want that ‘A’?”

With a stutter of your hips and a muffled cry, the thread finally snaps, granting the release of intense pleasure to course through your shaking body. The tight, fast circles on your clit slow and loosen as you ride out the high until your breaths finally even out. 

It isn’t long before guilt replaces lust. You have a boyfriend for god sakes and here you are, in the bathroom of the lecture hall masturbating to your professor. With a groan, you pull out your phone and open the Messages app.

Are you coming over after class?

You hit send before setting to clean up the evidence of the escapades between your thighs and head back to class, unsure if you’ve been gone long enough to raise suspicion. Head down and gaze averted, you hope not to draw attention to yourself as you slip the bow back onto Remmick’s desk and return to yours with a silly worry that everyone knows exactly what you just did.

And he does.

Remmick takes note of the flush of your skin, the shame written all over you, the smell radiating from between your thighs and into his flared nostrils. He’s unable to stop the small smirk that tugs at his lips before steeling his mask and resuming the lecture as if he wasn’t aware of your very presence or absence.

The cool night air is a welcomed respite against your still warm skin as you step out of the building and onto the concrete pathways of campus. You love walking around at this time of night, sidewalks and roads devoid of the daytime bustle of bodies and cars. A few straggling students camping out in the library until closing time and the small group of your classmates being the only signs of life.

“So, what did you think of tonight’s lecture?” The cheery sound of your classmate Sarah’s voice pulls you from your thoughts as she comes into step at your side. You cock an eyebrow at her with an exasperated, scoffed laugh.

“What?” She questions with an oblivious but amused tone, to which you sigh.

“I mean… the subject matter is interesting.” 

“Okay…? What, you don’t like Professor Remmick?”

“Like? I think he’s a bit of an asshole, actually. I had an easier time in Chemistry, for christ’s sake.” The bitterness for what you perceive as unfair treatment seeps into your voice.

In the solitude of the now empty classroom, Remmick listens in through Sarah, letting out an amused chuckle at your crass retort.

“Yeah, I guess he can be a hard grader. At least he’s kinda cute though, right?” Sarah counters with a shrug and a coy smirk. Your eyes widen slightly and you’re caught off guard for a moment before quickly brushing it off with a laugh.

“I have a boyfriend, remember? I’m not worried about how cute a professor is.” It’s a flimsy lie, you know it is, but it’s all you can conjure up in the moment. You can hardly handle the confusing feelings the professor provokes in you, let alone admit them outloud. 

Remmick rolls his eyes. 

“Okay.” Sarah murmurs, sounding unconvinced. “How are you and James doing anyway?”

Your phone vibrates at that moment, the screen illuminating with a new text.

Not tonight, babe. Me and the boys are watching the game.

That stupid goddamn fraternity. You fight back the urge to let the irritation reflect in your expression before dimming the screen and turning your attention back to Sarah, just as the lights from the dorms begin to come into view.

“Oh, you know. We’re both busy with classes and work but we’re good.” 

Not for much longer. 

You give Sarah a tight-lipped smile, unsure how effective it is, but she returns it and nods nonetheless.

A bid good night sends the two of you parting ways where the sidewalk splits, leading to your respective buildings. Under Remmick’s selfish influence, Sarah’s eyes follow your movements. Watching the way your hair flows with the wind, the bounce of your ass with each step until your form disappears through the glass doors of the dormitory.

It turns out turning a few students had its advantages. At first, it was merely for information, inserting a few spies into the web of the college. It didn’t take long for Remmick to lose himself in the role of a professor, and even a centuries old vampire like himself wasn’t immune to falling into the allure of petty professional rivalries. Particularly that bastard of an English professor Dr. Michaels, who seemed to turn every compliment Remmick received into a boast about himself.

That was until you. Until he first saw your pretty face and that tempting body strut into his classroom. Everything Remmick’s done since then has been with tunnel vision. 

And boy, has he learned a lot about you and that boyfriend of yours.

It doesn’t take long for exhaustion to overtake you upon returning to your room and stripping off the clothes carrying the weight of the day. A few hours later, you’re deep in the throes of sleep. Campus is dead silent at this time at night with the exception of a few students pulling an all nighter for one reason or another. That meant no witnesses as Remmick helps himself through the window you conveniently left open in an attempt to seek the cool night air to aid in your slumber. Remmick just can’t help himself as it becomes increasingly harder to stay away from you. And after what he knows you did in that bathroom tonight, he needs more. He needs something to hold him over until he can have you completely. 

Upon entering, his eyes immediately fall to your sleeping form scantily clad with the covers thrown about. Restless sleeper, it seems. An oversized shirt hands loosely around your body, the hem ending dangerously close to the curve of your ass, leaving your bare legs on full display. A deep, shaky inhale passes through him in an attempt to offset the onslaught of raging emotions and desires seeing you like this spurs within him. He forces his focus to shift to the surroundings of your room, to soak up the opportunity to be in your space.

He takes everything in, from the trinkets that line the desk and shelves, to books housing stories of romance and mystery, fingers running along them as if to commit every memento that is you to his memory.

Posters of musicians and movies line the painted brick walls, along with pictures of you with friends, family… that loser boyfriend. Remmick scoffs lightly at the photograph, knowing soon enough he’d be out of the picture. He’d make sure of it.

His exploration continues until his eyes land on the laundry hamper by the foot of the bed, a discarded pair of underwear lying on top. The faint smell hits him as soon as he sees it, beckoning him closer step by step.

Hands grasp the flimsy lace material before lifting it to his face. A deep inhale of the unmistakable scent that was wafting off of you earlier fills his nostrils. The smell of pure, lustful desire. He can’t help but groan softly, the sound of satisfaction and hunger rumbling in his chest. His hand curls, balling your underwear in his fist before slipping the fabric into his pocket. He’s not leaving without a token of yours and this is just what he was looking for.

Just as he considers it’s time to leave, Remmick’s eyes fall to your sleeping form once more and his feet draw him closer to the side of the bed. You could only look more beautiful than you do now whilst in the throes of pleasure, he imagines. A sight he aims to see for himself very soon.

His breathing slows as his hand gently clasps around your ankle, warmth radiating off your body and into his palm, a sensation that both balms and ignites the restless desire for you residing in his chest. Even as his heart hammers against his ribcage, his fingers trail up your skin leisurely but with full intent. Intent to memorize the feeling of this, your warm, soft skin beneath his hands at last. The touch is tender, ghosting, and reverent.

“Rem-”

The movement stills over the plush flesh of your thigh, eyes darting up to your closed ones at the sound of the muffled groan. You’re still sleeping soundly, eyes moving behind the closed lids. His heart stills, breath catching at the realization he hadn’t imagined the beautiful sound.

“You dreamin’ about me, doll?” A low and raspy whisper leaves his dry throat. Teeth digging into the plump flesh of his bottom lip, his hand presses more firmly against your skin, caressing the meat of your thigh and inching higher and higher to the hem of your shirt.

“Remmick…”

There it is. The airy, needy murmur of his name from your parted lips goes right to his hardening cock. You put on a good front in class, but even in the depths of sleep he is the one you want, the one you desire. The one you call out to within the realm of filthy dreams, fueled by unbridled lust. There’s no denying it now.

And fuck, look at you. So tempting. Laid out like a platter of ripe fruit, begging to be tasted, to be savored. And who is he to deny you, to deny himself? He only came for a token to keep with him while you’re gone but now, he’ll have the memory and lingering taste of you on his tongue. Just a little taste, right from the source. 

The path of his hand continues traveling up the back of your thigh until reaching the hem of your shirt where he pushes past, hiking the fabric up to reveal the bare globes of your ass.

“Fuck…” Remmick mutters under his breath, mouth salivating at the sight of your juicy ass and pussy completely bare with no panties on. A wicked smirk pulls at the corner of his lips, “Always hoped you were a naughty girl.”

Carefully, his body lowers onto the bed between your parted thighs, one leg bent and hiked up. Your swollen lips aren’t even parted yet and he can still see the wetness held within them, seeping out of the glistening folds. His hands gently squeeze the fat of your ass, eyes fixed on the way it makes your puffy lips spread to give him a glimpse of the paradise held within- like digging into a succulent, juicy peach.

“So wet for me…”

He leans closer, the tip of his nose nudging along the slit before taking a deep inhale that sends a wave of shivers down his body, filling his mind with a hungry, lustful haze. Parting your slit with a flat tongue and a breathy moan, he collects the juices from your clit to your throbbing hole,  taking a moment to savor the flavor spreading along his tongue, like a man dying of thirst cherishing that first sip of water. 

You’re magnificent.

With a groan, he dips back in for more. Curled tongue delving into your tight, wet channel, licking up every drop of your sweet nectar he can. Remmick moans at the taste, the feeling of your walls squeezing around his tongue, the soft, breathy moan that slips past your lips. He’s drunk on you, on your taste, the sounds you make. He needs more.

Satisfied he’s licked up every drop, his mouth lowers to your swollen clit. With a glance up toward your sleeping, blissful face, his tongue flicks against the bundle of nerves teasingly, eyes watching for any reaction. Satisfied you won’t stir, he presses the muscle more firmly against you, swirling around and licking the sensitive bud. A mix between a sigh and moan rises from your throat, like beautiful, sinful music to his ears. It spurs him on, eliciting his lips to seal around your clit and gently suckle it into his mouth.

Your pussy pulses against his nose with a slight jerk of your hips, the movement pushing your cunt firmly against his face. He obliges your unspoken plea, fingers digging into the meat of your ass as he sucks harder on your tender clit. Within the confines of his pants, his cock strains and throbs against the material, pre-cum no doubt staining them.

“Remmick…” The words slip from your lips so quickly in a stifled, high-pitched moan, but he hears it, the sound sinking in and echoing in his ears. Even in your slumber, your body and mind associate pleasure with him and it only strengthens his raging desire for you, the resolve to make you cum on his tongue before he leaves.

A low groan rises from deep in his chest, muffled against your slick folds as his mouth continues to work your throbbing clit to a heightened bliss. Until he hears your breath hitch, your body tense beneath him, and a shaky gasp burst from your mouth. Remmick’s eyes roll back behind closed lids, moaning softly as you cum with a buck of your hips. He softens his attack on your clit as the waves of pleasure course through your lush body, and only when you relax and fall slack against the sheets does his tongue return to your still spasming channel, lapping up your release like a reward. 

With a sigh, his face turns to rest against the delicate flesh of your inner thigh as the haze of lust in his mind and body calm to a low thrum, one he won’t be able to ignore for much longer. He can take care of that later, for now he knows he needs to depart with your token stored in his pocket and lingering on his taste buds. But, not before he leaves you with a token of his own. Remmick’s lips kiss your tender skin before latching onto it, sucking gently to leave behind a small bruise to form overnight, effectively marking you as his.

Reluctantly and with one last kiss along your skin, Remmick carefully rises and slips off the bed, pulling your shirt back down to its previous position. With your arousal stained panties in his pocket and one last look over your peaceful form, he leaves the way he came, through your window and out into the dark depths of the night.

It isn’t until hours later with the sun risen above the treeline, the chirping song of birds flowing into your open window that you finally awaken to the obnoxious alarm on your phone. You silence the nagging sound with a tired groan before sitting up, legs lazily shifting to hang over the edge of the bed. As the full depth of your senses slowly return, you’re unable to ignore the slick, wet feeling between your thighs. You can’t usually remember your dreams beyond small details and flickers of images, but you know last night’s sleep consisted of another ‘wet dream’ involving your professor. 

Only when your vision drops to your legs do you see something purple and part them to reveal a small bruise on your inner thigh. Your brows furrow in confusion regarding its creation. Was it from the last time you and James had sex and you just didn’t notice until now? Maybe you need to get your iron levels checked at your next doctor’s appointment…

Regardless, you don’t linger on questioning the source of your new bruise for long as the reality of your day full of work and exams comes to the forefront of your mind.

The following night, you return to the old, cracking stone building for your next Irish Folklore class. Your movements are sluggish upon entering the classroom and taking your seat, brain exhausted but anxious as your eyes mindlessly survey the antiqued items and posters reflecting Irish culture hanging along the walls. You’d already had a number of exams today with more scheduled tomorrow, not to mention the one you’d be taking in the next few minutes.

You hadn’t studied as much as you probably should’ve for this exam with your other classes taking priority, and it leaves you with a growing pit in your stomach. You fool yourself into believing you can still perform well on it, all while knowing Professor Remmick would no doubt slap that hope down just as quickly as it bloomed. The thought beckons a restless bouncing of your leg under the desk as class convenes and Remmick begins to walk down the aisles, handing out the exam to each student. With a nervous gulp, you don’t dare to meet his eyes as he passes your desk, wordlessly sliding the multi-paged, stapled test on top.

You close your eyes and take a deep inhale that does little to unravel the knot residing in your stomach before diving in. There’s no turning back now. As you begin, the questions seem easy enough, mind readily recalling the information from previous classes. Then there’s the questions you have no recollection whatsoever of going over, and with it a wave of embarrassment passes through, realizing you may have missed those moments while daydreaming about fucking your professor. Then, there’s the questions that are worded in a misleading way. The kind of question that you think you immediately know the answer to, only for there to be another very similar answer… fucker. It prompts you to begin second-guessing all your other answers thus far, eyes tracking over every single word until you feel an ache begin to form in your temple. He’s gotten in your head, making you doubt yourself even when you were so sure. 

Your hand moves to your forehead, supporting the weight as your fingers massage your temples. Your mind is foggy and exhausted, frazzled from lack of sleep, hours of studying, classes, and work on top of the very specific stress of this course you just can’t seem to function in. Suddenly, a crimson drop splatters onto the test beneath you, dark red staining and spreading into the white paper.

Remmick’s nostrils flare and eyes squeeze shut as the scent hits him like a wave. By connection and nature, the other students can smell it too, but as Remmick’s eyes open to land on you, he directs them to focus elsewhere. With brows furrow in confusion, your fingers seek out the source at the opening of your nostrils where the slickness of blood quickly coats them. 

One second, you’re staring down at the drops of blood along the pads of your fingers and in the next, Remmick is standing before you, expression concerned as his hand gently curls around your bicep.

“Let’s step outside,” His tone is soft and hushed with a cocking of his head toward the classroom door.

You nod absentmindedly, standing from the desk to follow behind him with fingers pressed against your bleeding nose.

The empty silence of the hallway engulfs the two of you, the classroom door shutting behind to leave you truly alone. Your eyes catch sight of a white tissue in his hand as it lifts toward your face. 

“Oh, thank-” You attempt to take the tissue from Remmick’s hand only to be immediately cut off by an “aht” as he shakes your hand away, raising his own to dab the tissue against your nose.

Your eyes widen, staring up at him dumbfounded and confused by the seemingly tender gesture, a stark contrast to the treatment you’ve received from him thus far. You hate the way your body reacts to it, the flip in your stomach, the breathless hitch in your throat, the flutter in your chest. 

He notices your confused expression and a smile tugs at the corner of his lips, “What? It’s just blood.” 

Just as your vision flickers down to admire the plumpness of his lips, he gently tilts your head back, pressing the tissue gently against your nose.

“Didn’t know I was workin’ you hard enough to bleed.” He murmurs, but you can hear the subtle amusement in the words. Your face twists up with a weak scoff, a mixture of bewilderment and frustration flaring at the weak concern, but it fizzles out just as quickly with his close proximity and caring touch. 

Does he not know how much of a pain in the ass he is to you?? Surely he does, there’s no way it’s not intentional.

“It’s just been a stressful week is all.” You manage to reply, earning a soft hum in response.

He pulls the tissue from your nose and you sniffle in response, tilting your head back down to meet his eyes.

“Well, you need to take better care of yourself then, darlin’.” The pet name stuns you, spurring a warmth to bloom and grow inside you. Still stunned as you watch his fingers close around the bloodied tissue before it disappears into his pocket, not thinking anything strange of it.

His nostrils flare with a deep inhale, squaring his broad shoulders and expression growing stern. “I’ll have to mark your exam as incomplete. You’ll just have to come back tomorrow night and make it up.”

Taken aback, your head shakes side to side at the directive.

“Seriously? On a Friday night?” You blurt out, anger flaring by what you perceive to be yet another set back personally handed to you by Professor Remmick.

“Oh, I’m sorry. Do you have more important plans to attend to?” He feigns concern, leaning closer and daring you to argue further, effectively fizzling out the protest that was dancing on your tongue.

“No…” With a quiet mumble and deep sigh, your shoulders slump in defeat.

“Good.” A flicker of that cocky grin flashes across his lips before it disappears. “Now, go collect your things and head home. Ya need to get some rest.” He leaves no room for argument, reaching for the handle and holding the door open for you to reenter the classroom.

Even with stubborn reluctance you follow his instructions, collecting your bag and now blood-stained exam, returning the latter to his desk where he stands.

“Tomorrow at 8. Don’t be late.” Remmick’s low voice stops you just as you’re about to depart the classroom, eyes locked from over the rim of his glasses.

You nod curtly before stepping out and back onto the cement pathways leading to your dorm room, a nervous excitement bubbling in your gut at the prospect of being completely alone with Remmick in the empty classroom tomorrow night. James won’t be happy about your delayed Friday night plans, but part of you that you’re afraid to acknowledge doesn’t really care.

Given your spectacle in class, you know you should be in bed, likely mindlessly scrolling through social media while trying to fall asleep. But instead, you’re sat in the desk chair, laptop open and idly sitting on the google home screen as your professor permeates your thoughts once again. Your thumb nail has found a temporary home amongst teeth as your mind tries to make sense of the confusing mix of emotions he’s brought onto you, trying to make sense of him. This feels beyond the scope of a standard crush, and there’s something… off about him.

Within the solitude of the now empty classroom, Remmick sits at his desk replaying the events and images of you over the last few days in his mind. Your now dried and bloody tissue rests in his palm before he lifts it to his nose, taking a deep inhale of the intoxicating, coppery scent. A groan rumbles in his chest, the smell sending an electrifying frenzy through his body all the way to his already hardening cock. He palms it as his mouth begins to salivate and fill with thick drool, bringing the tissue to his lips and sucking, trying to taste the little bit of your blood that’s trapped within the fibers.

You can’t quite put your finger on what it is about him. He looks rather young for a professor, especially compared to the others at your university. Despite this, there’s an older, wiser air to him in the way he speaks and runs the class. Old-fashioned, for sure. No electronic assignments, a stark contrast to what’s been the standard for as long as you can remember, instead insisting that everything be hand-written and physically turned in. Then, there’s the way he speaks during lectures. You’ve always appreciated professors that are passionate in their taught subjects, but Remmick seems to be on another level. He speaks of the Irish folklore myths and legends with such reverent fondness and innate knowledge, knowing the information like the back of his hand.

The hints of your blood spread across his taste buds, making his cock throb and strain against the tight fabric of his slacks. Hands make quick work of the button and zipper to free his hard, red cock from its confines, the swollen head leaking as he sucks the last little bit of your blood from the tissue. It tastes just as divine as your cunt. He hums, reaching for the panties kept within his back pocket with his free hand. He wraps the fabric stained with your juices around his leaking tip, letting his own arousal mix with the evidence of yours.

Then there’s the somewhat off-putting love all the other students in class seem to have for him, the kind of power he seems to hold. Like Chris. The way he ripped his eyes from ogling your body the second Remmick seemed to notice, like a dog heeding its owner’s command. The Google search bar reflects back to your blank stare, questions and suspicions looming in your mind. You need to know more. With a sharp breath, your fingers land on the keyboard and type out “Remmick O’Brien” into the bar and hit search. Within seconds only 2 results are presented back, both of which are from your university’s website. One from an article welcoming him to the department, another from the department’s staff listing page. Your brows furrow and brain short-circuits for a brief moment of bewilderment. Everyone has some kind of digital footprint bigger than this. Shouldn’t there at least be some kind of result from whatever college he attended?

Remmick’s head falls back as the fabric slides down his thick, throbbing shaft, his hand guiding the slow, stroking movement. He imagines it’s your tight, wet cunt wrapped around his girth instead, squeezing and pulsing around him. His chest rises and falls with heavy breaths, tongue darting out to wet dry lips, low groans slipping out as he squeezes the flimsy fabric around the base of his cock. 

You think, searching for any memories where Remmick might’ve shared where he got his degree, surely he mentioned it during your first class. Boston, that’s it. “Remmick O’Brien Boston”. Search. 0 results. You huff, crossing your arms and leaning against the back of the chair. There’s just no way. No social media, you can understand. But not even a Dean’s List or Commencement article? Shit, did your university even verify his degree? Surely, they’d have had to… right? Teeth dig into your bottom lip, chewing on the cushioned flesh as your thoughts race with confusion. 

Remmick’s hand moves faster, jerking himself off with your panties and the lingering taste of your blood dancing on his tongue. The swollen tip continuously leaks and soaks into the fabric as his mind is filled with images of you in every goddamn position imaginable, remembering the way you called for him in your sleep, the way your cunt tasted, the sight of your doe eyes, the way your cheeks burn with a heady mix of frustration and desire for him. It’s just enough to get him there, to hold him over until tomorrow night, when this little game you’ve been playing finally comes to a head. When he can finally have you all alone and make you his.

You’re left with no answers to your questions, your lack of findings only fueling the conflicting emotions swirling inside you, adding to the nervousness residing in your gut ahead of tomorrow’s ‘make-up exam’ all alone with him. Sure that you can’t possibly get anywhere farther tonight along with the exhaustion weighing heavily in your body, you slam the laptop shut before standing from the desk, cutting out the lights and crawling into bed. It’s another in a string of recent nights where your professor has overtaken your thoughts and dreams, and as much as part of him is unsettlingly mysterious and frustrates you to no end… you don’t object to his residence there in your mind and fantasies, with an undeniable craving for more growing hungrier every day.

A choked groan of your name, a stutter of his hips, and a hard squeeze of his cock sends Remmick barrelling over the edge, his seed seeping into your panties. A dazed, sloppy smile adorns his lips at the sight before using the fabric to clean himself up as the high slowly wanes. Only one more day and he’ll have you fully within his grasp.

There’s an anxious gnawing in your stomach, a quickening of breaths with every step toward the old stone building that houses the Folklore class. It’s quiet. Not a soul in sight wandering the buildings this time of night on a Friday. You can hear the distant buzzing of cars, people in town just down the street starting their festivities for the night. Festivities you’d otherwise be partaking in, likely at your boyfriend’s frat house. Another sweaty party filled with drunk college kids, loud music, and meaningless conversations. Your boyfriend surprisingly didn’t seem too upset about your absence for the first part of the night, and you yourself aren’t too upset about it either.

The creaking of the building’s glass entrance doors echo down the empty hall, followed by your singular footsteps. You chew on your bottom lip as your feet bring you closer to the classroom door, taking a deep breath before entering. He’s the first thing you see, sitting at the desk fashioned at the front of the classroom grading papers. At the sound of your steps, his gaze rises from the collection of papers, meeting your eyes over the brim of dark framed glasses with the flicker of a smile and a murmur of your name.

“I do hope you’re feeling better tonight.” Remmick leans back into the leather chair, gaze slipping to taking in your form.

You step closer toward the edge of the desk, skin tingling under his probing gaze.

“I am, thanks.” A beat of silence. “So um, am I just finishing yesterday’s exam?”

“Oh, no. Of course not.” He chuckles as if you cracked a joke. “I made a new exam entirely for you. Can’t trust that one of your classmates didn’t give you the answers.”

There’s that cocky grin again, a playful gleam in his eyes. You stifle the scoff bubbling up your throat, eyes closing with a deep inhale at the insinuation you’d cheat. “Okay…”

Another stretch of silence hangs heavy in the air as you survey on another.

“You know,” He speaks up just before you can try to break the tension. “I suppose I’m glad things worked out this way. I’ve been meanin’ to have a talk with you.”

“Okay. A talk about what?” You ask, despite already knowing it must be about your ‘performance’. Preparing for the onslaught, you stand before him confidently, arms crossing as your hip leans against the edge of his desk..

“About your grades. Should come as no surprise to you that you- well… you’re not doin’ well.” His fingers interlock, hovering above his chest as if contemplating. “Lackluster papers, missin’ assignments, often distracted in class… Quite frankly, I don’t think you’re puttin’ in the effort.”

You sigh, briefly looking away to collect your thoughts. Confrontation has never been one of your strong suits, let alone being put on the spot like this.

“Look, I know I’ve missed some assignments or turned them in late but it’s just… I’m busy-” You regret the words as soon as they come out and in turn, word vomit the rest. “I’m taking a lot of classes. I work. I have club meetings. Sometimes I just forget or I’m too tired to-”

“Well,” A scoff cuts you off, shaking his head with a smirk at your excuse. Your body grows fidgety with a wave of frustration at his interruption and dismissive gesture. “Your classmates have the same responsibilities and still manage this class just fine.”

His eyes bore into yours as he stands, sliding one hand into the pocket of his slacks as the other plants onto the desk, propping up his leaning body. “In fact, I’ve spoken to a few of the other professors and they all speak very highly of you. You seem to excel in their courses. A star student.” His words are almost mocking as he takes another step closer.

“So tell me… why is that?” His gaze is scrutinizing all the while that soft smile plays on his lips. He’s enjoying this.

You falter for a moment, mind racing as you contemplate what to say.

“I just… sometimes I don’t have time to do everything and I have to decide what’s more important to work on…”

“Oh. So what you’re saying is this class isn’t a priority for you, is that it?” 

“No, that’s not-”

“That just because this class isn’t in your major, it’s not just as important and worthy of the same attention?” 

It feels like the walls are closing in around you, like he is closing in around you. Judging and critiquing, pushing your buttons to get a rise. 

“No.” The word comes out weakly as your mouth goes dry, a lump forming in your throat as your heartbeat quickens.

“What is it then, hm? Does all the intelligence in that pretty lil head of yours just dissipate the moment you cross that threshold?” He motions dramatically with the words, tilting his head to survey you, waiting expectantly for whatever grand explanation you’ll give.

Your eyes widen with a scoff, mouth falling open in shock before resentment replaces it with the furrow of your brows.

“You’ve got some nerve…” You bite back with a little surge of confidence, even as his face softens in amusement. In that moment, your mind flutters back to your findings, or lack thereof, on his background and credentials online. 

“It’s funny how hard you’re hounding me right now, considering it’s unclear if you’re even a real professor. Yeah, I looked you up and there was nothing to be found. Nothing from the college you attended, no Dean’s List or Commencement mentions, no social media. In fact, if you hadn’t started working here, there’d be no evidence you even existed!” The volume and confidence in your voice rises with anger at the disrespect that tainted his words, reflecting his own scrutinization back onto him as you place your hands on your hips.

You watch his expression, looking for any signs of panic or his smirk faltering. But it doesn’t. The lines around his eyes crinkle as a rumbling snicker slips past his lips that pull into a wide grin. He nods, almost out of respect at your little outburst before leaning in closer.

“Ya know, if you put this much effort into your classwork, you wouldn’t be failin’ miserably… maybe think about that.” He mutters lowly, eyes trailing over your faltering expression before he steps back and turns away, leaving you to stand there dumbfounded.

You’ve always known yourself to be a little sensitive at times and you can’t deny the way his words sting.

“You don’t have to be so mean about it!” Your voice has lost its edge despite you, faltering along with your resolve.

“Aw, sensitive lil thing aren’t ya?” A low hum as he looks toward you again, tone lacking any actual sympathy or concern. “In more ways than one I bet…” His voice lowers, gaze faltering to trail down the curves of your body.

“What?” The question comes out in a shocked whisper, brows furrowing as you question if you actually heard him right.

“Maybe it’s somethin’ else that’s affectin’ your performance in class… maybe it’s this boyfriend of yours.” His eyes fall to the inaccurately placed Claddagh ring on your finger. “Or maybe it’s just me…”

You roll your eyes at the first suggestion before they narrow with the second. Of course it’s him. 

“Uh, yeah. I’d say it’s you.” You retort matter of factly. “You’re the one being an ass and critiquing every little thing I do-”

“No, no…” Remmick shakes his head softly, his voice a breathy rasp. “I’ve seen the looks you give me, even when you think I’m not lookin’. Not to mention those long bathroom breaks you take. Ya think I don’t know what you’re doin’ in there?”

Your eyes widen in surprise, had you really been so foolish to think he wouldn’t notice? You didn’t think you were that obvious, but you’re definitely not about to admit it to him.

“You’re crazy. I don’t know what you’re talking about.” You hope your words are more convincing than you feel. 

He grins at you, seemingly unconvinced by your proclamation. Despite your words, you feel your body ignite with his close proximity and unwavering gaze from your eyes and body, prompting the return of that familiar pulsing between your thighs that he always seems to awaken.

“Well, let’s just see about that then, hm? If that’s the case, you should be able to pass this oral exam no problem.” 

Oral exam? 

The words send a spike of anxiety through you. Written exams are enough of a pain in the ass, but being expected to verbally recall the answers on the spot with no time to contemplate? You grimace, watching as he steps back to return to the leather chair like he’s settling in for a show.

“Please,” Remmick gestures. “Both palms on my desk.”

“W-What?” Your body stills, staring at him like a deer in headlights.

“Both. Palms.” The deep timbre of his words sends an electric charge through your immediately flushing body.

With a gulp and lick of your dry lips, you obey. Stepping closer, you turn to face the desk, your back facing toward him merely a foot behind you and lay your palms flat against the cool, polished wood surface.

You mentally chastise and thank yourself for wearing a skirt tonight, the slight lean forward of your body causing the fabric to hike up just a fraction, enough to feel the air hit the tender flesh of your upper thighs. You can only imagine the view from his seated position behind you, heat spreading up your neck and across your face at the thought.

“Let’s start with something easy, hmm?” Remmick’s eyes glide up your bare legs to where the hem of your skirt rests dangerously close to the curve of your ass. 

“Name 5 of the ancient Celtic gods.”

A brief moment of silence passes as your brain catches up to your ears, recalling the names repeatedly mentioned throughout class.

“Rhiannon, Morrigan, Lugh… Dagda… Bridgid.”

No praise or criticism, he simply moves on.

“And the four cycles?”

“Mythological, Ulst-” You stutter, feeling the sudden touch of calloused fingers gently caressing the back of your knee, a ticklish sensation that shoots up your thigh and throughout your body.

“Ulster… Fenian… Cycle of Kings.” Your voice and breaths waver as his touch, feathery light and painfully slow, glides up the back of your thigh, leaving a trail of rising goosebumps behind.

“Good.”

“Profes-”

“When is St. Brigid’s Day?” A swift cut off, moving onto the next question.

“The first day of spring?”

“Which is?” The dancing of his fingers along your thigh ceases, waiting as you hesitate and struggle to recall the answer. You’re almost ashamed of the way your body reacts to his halted touch, spurring a flicker of panic and racing heartbeat. 

“Um, February… 1st?” It’s a guess you’re only half-confident in, but a lucky one nonetheless as his touch resumes, hand moving under your skirt to caress the bare skin of your ass.

A shaky exhale escapes your parted lips, eyes fluttering closed as the stroke of his fingers turns the kindling fire flickering in your core into a wild blaze. Your body automatically reacts by bending forward slightly to lean into the touch, the meat of your ass pressing fully against his palm. You hear his hum of approval, the palpable hunger in his low, breathy voice.

“The mother goddess of Tuatha Dé Danann?” Remmick pushes the fabric up, fully revealing the round globes. No panties… He groans at the sight of wetness already slicking your puffy folds and the sound goes right to your core, a shiver running up your spine as the air hits your bare cunt. You can’t think straight, mind focused solely on your professor’s groping and caressing hand, your most private regions exposed to his ravenous gaze.

Remmick himself is distracted until a moment passes and he realizes you haven’t answered the question. “Oh, don’t disappoint me now, darlin’. You’re doin’ so good.”

The soft creak of leather hits your ears, his presence shifting behind you until the fabric of his clothes brushes along your skin, mouth hovering by your ear.

“Fuck,” You mutter under a breath, palms growing sweaty against the polished wood. Think. “Morrigan?”

The tsk hits your ears as a disappointed chide, all movement stalling before his gravelly voice whispers, “Lay your chest against the desk.” Breath fanning over your ear, a sick and anxious thrill shoots through you with the command.

You obey and bend over fully, upper body flush against his desk. The coolness of the polished wood is a welcomed shock, a stark contrast to your blazing, flushed skin. He makes you wait, only just for a moment to make you antsy and anxious, fidgeting with anticipation for what you know will inevitably come. 

Knowing doesn’t prepare you.

Remmick’s hand collides with your bare ass, a smacking sound that echoes off the walls of the empty classroom, pulling a broken gasp from your parted lips pressed against the desk. 

“One more chance. Try again.”

He’s trying to utterly wreck and humiliate you. You try your best to think of the correct answer, at this point you’ve nearly forgotten the damn question.

“Fuck. Eriu? I don’t know!” He grins at how pathetically desperate you sound, returning the incorrect answer with another resounding smack against the tender, already reddening skin of your rear. 

Your body jerks against the desk with a whimper and then a yelp when he spanks you again, unexpectedly and hard. He’s not sure he wants to stop, seeing the way his handprint is beginning to mark the flesh, watching the way it jiggles with each smack. “That one was for being a mouthy little brat.”

Another smack. 

The pain bleeds into pleasure, reverberating throughout your body and spreading right to your soaking cunt. You don’t think you’ve ever been so wet in your entire life. Remmick seems to take notice too as his calloused hand soothes the red, beaten flesh.

“I think I’ve found the root of your problem, sweetheart.” He hums before his hand trails down and two digits slowly part your puffy, slick lips. The two of you moan softly in tandem, body trembling with the touch as your pussy throbs with want, with need.

“Too busy thinkin’ with this,” A flinch and a gasp as his hand spanks your cunt. “instead of your brain. Isn’t that right?”

You can barely nod, too focused on the way his fingers soothe your pussy just as they’d done with your ass.

“Answer me.”

“Yes, Professor.” You answer obediently, voice thick with barely restrained desperation that mirrors your restless body, unable to resist the impulse to rock your folds back against his hand.

“Poor thing. ‘Course you can’t pay attention when all the blood in your body is between your legs.” The outline of his hard cock nudges along your thigh, breath hot against your ear. “I could give you what you need, darlin’. If you want me to fuck you, all you have to do is ask…”

His touch stalls, waiting for you to obey, to beg him for what you both know you want. But even in the haze of arousal, a moment of clarity passes through as you remember your supposed commitment, the loyalty you’ve already broken.

“I shouldn’t… I- I have a boyfriend.” Your protest is shamefully weak and your cunt, well she has a mind of her own, pulsing pathetically in protest from the lack of your professor’s touch. Remmick knows it too, can hear it in your voice, can see it in your eyes.

“Ah, yes. James…” A breathy laugh and devious smirk. “Quite a flirt from what I hear.”

Your eyes widen, visibly taken aback. “Excuse me?” You question despite knowing you have no ground to stand on to be hurt or upset, given you yourself have already crossed the line.

And Remmick, well, he’s more than heard that James is a flirt. He happens to know that in this very moment under the guidance of that powerful little hivemind, James is currently tangled up with his spawn and your classmate, Sarah. It hadn’t taken much convincing at all. 

He won’t tell you that part, though. You don’t need to know. You’ve already let Remmick in, let him touch you in your most intimate area and now, all you need is a little push.

“You heard me, darlin’. Your little ‘relationship’ clearly isn’t serious to him… and judgin’ by the way you’re soakin’ my fingers right now, I’d say it’s not serious for you either.”

A muffled gasp slips past your lips with a flick of his calloused fingers stroking your throbbing, needy clit.

“This pretty lil pussy is all wound up. She needs a man to take care of her… all you gotta do is beg me for it.” He practically growls, hunger lacing the filthy words as his lips brush against your ear.

The little voice reminding you of your commitment to James grows quieter until fizzling out all together, leaving just the raw arousal for your professor behind. Your body is trembling and aching for it, to give into your forbidden carnal desires.

“Yes,” The words slip eagerly from your tongue with a languid nod. “Please.”

The pad of his thumb continues its ministrations against your clit as his other hand grabs your jaw, not enough to hurt but enough to exert his power. His fingers flex against your soft skin, grip forcing your lips into a pout that you’re sure looks as pathetic as it feels, even as a newly discovered part of yourself loves it.

“Please what? You’re gonna need to get more specific, darlin’.” Remmick taunts, lips moving to the blazing skin of your cheek.

“I want you to fuck me. Please, Sir.”

Remmick’s cock aches behind the confines of his slacks at the pure, unbridled need in your voice. He could push you further, make you beg and edge you until tears stain those pretty blushing cheeks. Hell, maybe he will later.  But for now, even he can’t hold back anymore.

Remmick uses his grip to turn your head to face him, the rest of your body quickly following suit as his lips crash against yours in a demanding kiss. It’s wet, sloppy, and full of ravenous hunger as you readily return it, lips moving in a frenzied, passionate dance. There isn’t an inch of space between your bodies pressing flush together, his hands greedily roaming your backside as your own grip onto his biceps to ground yourself amidst the dizzying sensations of his touch.

As soon as your lips part, his tongue delves in to explore and claim the depths of your mouth. He swallows your wanton moan at the feeling of his tongue against yours, licking and tangling together as one of your hands trails up his arm to thread your fingers into his short, curled strands of hair. Rumbling groans rise from his throat with the mixing of your spit and you’re too lost in a daze of arousal to question the thick, viscous consistency of his. You readily lap it up as the throbbing between your legs intensifies with every brush of his tongue against yours, every breath that presses your chests closer together.

With a shuddering gasp, Remmick pulls his lips from yours, a thick string of saliva still connecting your lips. He sees the same glazed over look in his eyes reflected in yours. With his hand cupping the side of your jaw, the calloused pad of his thumb slowly rubs along your now swollen bottom lip, breaking the chain of spit and collecting the rest off the plump skin. 

A grin appears as he pushes his slick thumb into your mouth, eyes locked in an intense gaze as you softly suck the remnants of the kiss from his finger. 

“Good girl” The raspy praise washes over you in a wave of sweet relief, settling into your knees that wobble under the weight of it. His praise is a refreshing drop of water down your parched throat, a substantial load off your shoulders that leaves you stumbling after weeks of persistent criticism.

A soft smacking sound leaves your lips with a slow pull of his thumb, dragging down to your chin before his palm leaves your face entirely. His body follows, eyes locked onto one another as he steps back, watching in amusement when your brows furrow in confusion from the loss of touch.

Your eyes follow as he casually sits back into the leather cushioned desk chair before you, thick fingers working the button and zipper of his slacks with practiced ease. “You wanna pass this class? Want me to fuck you? I can give you everything you want, baby, but you gotta earn it first. On your knees.”

All it takes is a slight push down of the waistband for Remmick’s aching cock to spring free and stand at attention in all its engorged glory, the swollen head red and leaking. Your eyes take in every detail, following the pulsing veins that run the length of his thick girth, mouth watering at the sight alone. It feels like you’re in a trance as your body slowly lowers until your knees land on the cold tiled floor, lips parted with every heavy breath flowing freely. On hands and knees you crawl toward him and his waiting cock, his own eyes flickering between your hungry expression and the sway of that sinful ass with each shift of your hips.

The movement halts once your shoulders become caged between his knees. A tentative glance up to those eyes staring back, shadowed by the overhead light behind him. There’s a light twinkling within them. It flickers, the white glimmer shifting to crimson before it disappears just as quickly. It should scare you, should send a shiver of fear down your arched spine… but it doesn’t. The heat radiating throughout your body, the hunger residing in your core only grows. The moment only adds to the looming mystery around your professor, but also, his intoxicating allure and pull.

Your gaze settles back onto Remmick’s leaking cock before you, watching as it twitches in anticipation before you can no longer deprive the both of you. With your tongue sticking out flat, it slowly drags along from the base to the tip, gathering a taste before curling to flick at the cleft marking the underside of his swollen head. A swirl to collect the drops of dripping pre-cum onto your tastebuds sends a shudder through his heaving chest, eyes falling half-lidded as he watches your pursed lips pepper kisses between kitten licks along his throbbing shaft.

“That’s it.” He breathes out, fingers anchoring into the hair on the back of your head when your lips finally wrap around him. The warm, wet cavern of your mouth feels better than he could’ve imagined, hot saliva engulfing his length with the teasing wiggle of your tongue that makes his breath hitch. 

The grip on your hair tightens with each inch that disappears past the plump curve of your lips, testing just how much of him you can take before a gag, pop, and a gasp bursts from your lips with the incessant nudging of his head deep down your throat. He smirks, tongue darting out to wet his lips when you do. But if anything, you’re determined and already craving more of the salty, heady taste of him.

A deep satisfaction settles into his bones, mixing with the sparks of toe-curling pleasure your mouth ignites throughout him. “Look at that,” A breathy chuckle rumbles from his chest. “Turns out you are good at somethin’ besides runnin’ your mouth.” He comments as his fingers work to undo the buttons of his shirt, voice beginning to strain when your tongue swirls around the tip with each bob of your head.

His words only spur you on more, prompting your fingers to reach for the waistband of his slacks and impatiently push them all the way down and off until there’s no barrier, no resistance to keep you from fully sliding yourself between his legs. Your arms straddle his strong, thick thighs, hand joining your mouth to move in sync stroking up and down the thick girth, eliciting a deep groan of approval.

Despite his fingers remaining tangled in your hair, he doesn’t try to guide or force your movements. He can tell by your closed eyes, the moans that vibrate through his length, the deeper you take him, the faster your mouth moves, the harder you suck, that you’re enjoying this as much as he is. So he lets you, reveling in the most pleasure he’s had in a long time, so long that the past pales in comparison to this, to you.

Then, you open your gorgeous eyes to lock onto his just as your free hand falls to cradle and rub his heavy, aching balls. All the strength in his body can’t stop the drawn-out moan that leaves his mouth or keep his eyes from rolling back. “Fuck… so good, darlin’.” The shaky guttural praise only heightens your resolve and hunger to a degree you’ve never felt before. You’ve been horny and aroused, but this, this is a different level entirely. 

Your lips pull from his cock with a wet pop while your hand continues to pump him, body lowering and back arching as your mouth moves down to his heavy sack. Your hot, heavy breath surrounds his balls before your mouth does, licking and swirling before gently sucking them into your mouth. Remmick practically growls at the intense stimulation and your eyes watch as his head falls back against the cushioned headrest. His jaw tenses, chest shaking with every exhale, veins protruding along the thick column of his throat.

You lather his sensitive sacks with attention amid the dripping arousal between your legs. You crave more, you need more. More of him, every inch you can get, every depraved sound and moan you can pull from those plush lips. You’re lost in the throes of hunger, with the desire to please him, to taste every inch of his alluring body you can. 

With a mind of its own, your tongue slips lower in hopes of exploring more of him and his pleasure, moaning as it lavishes the stretch of skin below his balls. An experimental zigzag of your tongue against it elicits a shaky moan, Remmick’s eyes opening to watch you sink lower and lower. Your own eyes lock onto his as your tongue flicks out, giving a testing lick against his puckered hole. It’s uncharted territory for you, but you can’t resist the intoxicating urge to keep going, especially with the way his breath hitches.

“Fuck, I knew you were a filthy girl.” He groans as the feeling of your mouth becomes dizzying, his cock rock hard in your still stroking hand. His grip on your hair tightens as he spreads his legs wider, shifting lower on the seat to grant easier access as your tongue presses firmer with another lick and swirl against his asshole. 

“Oh god,” Remmick’s head begins to fall back before he catches himself, forcing his eyes to focus on the dirty, sinful sight of you. On all fours, back arched with that perfect ass in the air, glazed eyes fluttering up at him with your mouth buried beneath his balls. “You eat your boyfriend’s ass like this?” His breathy, strained voice reflects his quickly crumbling composure, only furthered by the way he can practically feel your smile in response.

“Uh uh,” You gasp, only pulling from his core enough for him to hear you. “Just you, Sir.” He groans as you waste no time diving back in, your tongue incessantly licking and prodding at the sensitive hole with a one-track minded hunger that reflects his own.

Fuck, you’re going to be his unravelling. Body, flesh, soul… his entire being.  

The pleasure coursing through him builds at a rapid pace, balls drawing up tight with the coil in his lower stomach with each lewd lick and moan muffled against him.

Using the leverage of his fingers in your hair, he pulls your mouth from him with a guttural curse, almost busting right there on the spot upon seeing your expression. You gaze up at him like a newborn dazed and drunk off their first taste of blood. His cock aches and twitches at the sight before his lips collide against yours with a swift speed.

Strong arms lift your body with his as he stands from the chair, tongue invading your mouth to taste himself from you. A few stumbling steps and the cool surface of the desk presses against your backside. “Bend that ass over the desk again, now.” Long gone is the cool, snarky and collected persona from earlier, stripped away to leave only the primal, feral lust behind.

There’s no time wasted on stripping off the remainder of your clothes, the impatient need to be connected on the most carnal level taking precedence. With your body resuming its previous position bent over his desk, Remmick settles behind you and flips up the flimsy fabric of your skirt. His cock slots between your puffy lips, thrusting slightly to coat the length with your slick. 

“Tell me you want it,” He pleads, rasping your name against your ear with his last bit of restraint, your sweet, depraved begging the last thing he needs to hear before he fully lets go. You swear you’ve never heard your name sound so beautiful and with such desperation before.

“Yes. God, yes! Please, Professor. I need you.” Your bottom lip trembles as you beg, your entire body thrumming with need, hips rocking back in an attempt to chase the promise of what you both know only he can give you. Ecstasy beyond your comprehension, beyond what you’ve ever experienced. 

The swollen head of Remmick’s cock breaches your cunt with a shuddering exhale before slowly sinking deeper. He leans back to watch his length disappear inside you, the tight, wet warmth of your pussy surrounding him inch by inch until he’s fully hilted inside. Your gasping whimpers are like music to his ears, tight walls fluttering as they attempt to accommodate his thick girth. So thick it makes your eyes roll back, stretching you farther than anyone before ever has, filling your walls with an intoxicating ache that borders on painful.

“So fucking tight.” He grits out through clenched teeth, fingers digging into the fat cushioning your hips. His eyes follow the slow unsheathing of his cock from your cunt before a roll of his hips sends him plunging back into you with a deep, hard thrust that knocks the breath from your lungs.

Remmick doesn’t give you time to catch it, setting a rough and fast pace as one hand slides up the curve of your spine to land at the nape of your neck, curling his fingers around the tender skin with a tight grip.

“Oh, fuck!” A high-pitched whine bursts from your lips, body jerking against the desk with every sharp thrust that sends your fingers searching for purchase along the cool, smooth wood. His body brackets you against the solid furniture, forcing you to take the full brunt of his relentless pounding.

The desk begins to shake, sending pens, papers, and books clattering to the floor. The sound joins the echoing symphony of your combined, debauched moans and the slapping of skin against skin.

“This is what you wanted, isn’t it?” Remmick’s hand moves from your neck to collect your hair, gripping and tugging it back. “For me to fuck you and put you in your place, hm?” His voice takes on a unrestrained, feral quality that matches the way he’s fucking you, juxtaposing your choked, wanton cries.

“Yes, Sir!” The way your words jumble with each thrust only makes his cock twitch and pulse inside you, you’re already so fucking wrecked and drunk off him.

“Yeah? You wanna be my good little pet?”

“Oh god, yes!”

“Yes what?” A harsh tug on your hair and a sharp smack against the bouncing meat of your ass. “Yes, Professor!” Actual tears begin to brim your eyes with the overwhelming sensations, your pussy throbbing from the unrelenting abuse of his cock while aching for more.

A near animalistic growl rises from his throat, sweat beading and slipping down his forehead. His eyes are locked onto the way your ass recoils with each stroke, the sight of his length repeatedly disappearing inside you, the feeling of your tight cunt squeezing him like it never wants to let go.

A shift in angle sends your hands grasping at the edge of the desk with a high-pitched gasp, stars beginning to bloom behind your eyes. Remmick’s length rubs against that spongy spot inside you that James could never find, sending radiating waves of intense, hot pleasure through you. It rapidly builds, walls fluttering with a deep throb.

“Fuck, harder!” You beg, craving more of that intoxicating feeling that already has your body trembling.

“Louder!” He demands, not caring if anyone left on this side of campus at this time of night hears the utterly depraved sounds he’s pulling from you.

“Please! Harder, Sir!” You use all your breath to raise your voice into a desperate cry, one that seems to satisfy as his cock hits that sweet spot even harder. It’s nearly too much to handle as your nails dig into the wood, feeling yourself begin to slip. “I-I think I’m gonna-”

“Let it out. Give it to me. Now.” 

Your body immediately reacts by obeying his command, releasing a flood of pure, blinding ecstasy with a scream of carnal rapture. Remmick’s guttural groan joins you at the feeling of your juices flooding his shaft, walls spasming around him with a vice grip. He fully hilts himself inside you as his own release crashes over him, cock twitching as it fills up your cunt with his seed, possessive satisfaction mixing with pleasure.

The sounds of your heavy breaths fill the room, chests heaving and cores pulsing together, still joined. Remmick slowly pulls his now drenched cock from your pussy, smirking at the way it clenches around nothing from the loss. Despite the intense orgasm and his seed stuffed deep in your cunt, he’s not done with you yet as desire still simmers between your bodies.

He tears off the already unbuttoned shirt hanging off his arms, one hand rubbing along the arched curve of your back as the other grips the base of his cock. His tip slides up and down your soaking slit, collecting your combined juices before teasingly rubbing the swollen head against your puckered, unused hole.

“Ya ever let your boyfriend fuck you here?” The raspy question meets your still ringing ears with the feeling of his tip teasing your asshole.

“No, Sir…” Teeth dig into your bottom lip and even as your body tenses with the unfamiliar territory, a thrill shivers down your spine with the prospect.

A grin pulls at his lips, muffling a short, rumbling chuckle before he lets the thick saliva pooling in his mouth drip out onto his cock and your unused hole.

“Good…” His voice hits your ears like honey laced whiskey, twinged with an undeniable dark, defiling possessiveness. 

He braces a hand on the desk next to your waist as the other guides his cock, steadily pushing forward until the head breaches your opening. A grunt and heavy breath escapes him at the feeling, your ass is even tighter than your pussy, the walls resisting his exploration. 

“Just relax, baby. Let me in.” The cooing of his voice combined with the soothing touch along your spine sends sparks fluttering throughout your body. You try to focus on steadying your breaths, relaxing your muscles to ease his way inside.

With each inch he sinks deeper, his body lowers until he’s fully hilted inside your pulsing walls and his chest is flush against your back. The uncomfortability slowly fades as he holds himself there, waiting for your breaths to even out until all that remains is a foreign ache and you fully relax around him.

“There you go.” Remmick praises as he withdraws and thrusts back in at a leisurely pace with less resistance, hearing the soft gasps that begin to leave your lips. “You’re takin’ me so well, baby.”

The praise goes right to your head, already spinning and hazy from the stark shift in his disposition, from rough and feral to the now slow and tender that makes your stomach flutter. This, it’s just as charged with hunger and desire, but far more intimate. 

His hips set a steady rocking rhythm, thick cock stretching your virgin ass with long and deep strokes. You feel every heavy breath tickle the sensitive skin along your neck and ear, making your walls squeeze around him, rewarding you with another wrecked moan from his lips.

Soon, the shift in your moans and body is palpable, eyes fluttering as waves of pleasure flow through you with each plunge of his dick inside you. “Yeah… you like that, darlin’?” A breathy whisper fans across your cheek with a tilt of Remmick’s face, pressing his forehead to rest against the side of yours.

“Yes. You feel so good, Sir.” You answer with a needy whimper, turning your face slightly to lean into him. A shuddering sigh passes through him in response and despite already being inside your tight ass and feeling the parts of your body flush with his, he still needs more, needs to be even closer, needs you to feel absolutely surrounded by him.

“Such a good girl for me, aren’t you?” He murmurs, lips brushing against the flushed skin of your cheek as one hand searches for more, reaching around to grasp at the low neckline of your shirt. A slight tug is all it takes for the soft mounds of your bare breasts to fall free, his hand immediately moving to grab and massage the tender flesh.

“Yes, Professor.” You practically purr for him, the added stimulation of his fingers tweaking your sensitive nipples making your eyes roll back.

“Say it, baby. Tell me who you are.” Remmick pushes further, shifting his other hand to cover yours that’s holding onto the edge of the desk. He flinches as the silver of your Claddaghs ring burns, but he doesn’t pull away, instead slotting his fingers into the spaces between yours.

“Oh, god. I’m your good girl, Sir.” You answer with a broken, breathy moan, eyes opening to meet his half-lidded ones.

They gaze back at you with affection and desire, his lips parted for every breath and groan to slip freely. “Fuck, you’re so beautiful like this.” The blissed out expression on your face, the glazed look in your eyes, put there by him. 

There’s no time to respond before his lips capture yours in a deep, passionate kiss. The speed of his thrusts picks up slightly, spurred on by your moans that muffle against his lips. You part them, tongue freely and languidly sliding in to tangle with his. That familiar blinding heat begins to bloom in your core once again, heightened and building with each added layer of stimulation.

The full, pleasureful ache of his cock in your ass. The feeling of his body and skin flush against yours. His hand fondling your breast, teasing your hard, sensitive nipples. The other covering yours, fingers laced together. Mouths swallowing each other's moans as your tongues engage in a dance as old as time.

The forbidden filth and yet intimacy of it all.

Remmick can tell you’re getting closer, can feel it in his own tightening coil. Your breaths quicken, tight walls squeeze rhythmically around him, your sweet, muffled sounds growing higher-pitched.

Your orgasm hits you like a freight train, waves of pleasure crashing over your trembling body. Remmick holds you through it as he cums with you, the tight grip of your ass around his thick girth spurring on new heights of ecstasy. Your moans and heavy breaths mingle, chests heaving in sync as he pumps you full, laying claim to both of your holes with his seed. 

You remain there together joined over the desk, basking in the afterglow of your orgasms until it eventually wades. Remmick presses a soft kiss to your lips before easing his length out of your sensitive, still pulsing hole. You remain there on the desk, catching your breath and waiting for the haze of ecstasy to clear from your mind amidst the sound of shuffling clothes, the buckling of Remmick’s belt. 

When you lift your chest from the desk to stand straight and turn around, Remmick’s stepping back toward you. His slacks are back on, shirt pulled back over his arms but still unbuttoned. His hands quickly return to your body, moving to adjust and fix the neckline of your shirt as you look at him with those doe-eyes.

“Now, given our… discussion, I’m willin’ to look past those missing assignments.” A wide, bashful smile pulls at your lips, matching his own grin as his hands drag down your sides.

“And my exam? Do I get an A?”

“Greedy now, are we?” He chuckles at the tilt of your head, the innocent batting of your eyelashes. “I’ll give you an A… but you’re still gonna run home and do your reading for the next class like a good girl, aren’t you?” His voice grows deeper, hands sliding to smooth the now wrinkled fabric of your skirt back down over the curve of your ass.

“Yes, Sir.” You answer with a dazed smile, heart still pounding against your ribcage.

Remmick’s gaze shifts down as his hand moves to take yours in his palm. His expression falters for a moment upon seeing the Claddagh ring gifted to you by James before a smug grin returns.

“Ya know, the way you’re wearin’ this ring… it means you’re single.” Your eyes shift down to watch as he reaches for it, already prepared for the burning sting once he grasps and slowly pulls the silver band off the column of your finger. He turns it so that the heart is facing inward and slides it back onto your right ring finger. “That means you’re in a relationship.”

You blink in confusion, unaware there was a significant meaning in the ring’s placement, James had surely never told you so either. The feeling of your professor’s fingers along your jawline snaps you from your thoughts as he gently lifts your face to meet his once more.

“And don’t be mistaken. It’s not with that boy, either… You’re mine now, ya understand?”

Part Two ->

[flixpii]

╋━ 𝐂𝐈𝐑𝐂𝐋𝐄 𝐎𝐍𝐄 : 𝐋𝐈𝐌𝐁𝐎 .

remmick x fem!reader. oneshot.

“the space reserved for those souls who died before baptism and for those who hail from non-christian cultures.”

ִ ࣪𖤐 ˓ . synopsis your great-great-grandmother once opened herself to the dead and called something hungry instead. decades later—in the 1960s—her gift belongs to you and, after one dangerous dream-walk, so does her monster. (wc : 7.3k) ao3 link

𝜗ৎ . notes ; happy one year to sinners ! 📢 yes yes ik i’m still supposed to be logged out until i’m finished with exams but i had to drop this for sinners bday. i will be going back into the void now… i will be back in abt 2-3 weeks, so not long ilyg ♡

ִ ࣪𖤐 contents ⸝⸝ DEAD DOVE : DO NOT EAT. NONCON. unprotected p in v. blood drinking. biting. somnophilia-adjacent. creampie. messy sex. vaginal fingering. dark!remmick. incubus-like!remmick. rough sex. drool / spit. murder. tons of kissing. size kink. forced orgasm. graphic violence / gore. restraints. supernatural elements. gifted!reader. canon blue-eyed remmick (warning in itself LMAOO i’m jk). MDNI 18+

The hush in your bedroom has a body of its own tonight, something warm and close and faintly oppressive, as though the dark settles into the corners hours ago and waits there with patient attention for you to notice it. 

Summer presses itself against the house from every side, laying its damp palms over the roof and the porch and the thin-paned windows until even the air inside feels used, breathed through too many times, heavy with old wood, drying lavender, and the ghost of candle smoke that never fully leaves your room no matter how often you open the sash. 

Beyond the screen, the night stretches wide and black over the fields, full of cicadas and distant frogs and the occasional rustle of something small moving through the grass, yet none of it disturbs the stillness gathered around your bed.

You sit cross-legged atop the quilt with your nightgown loose around your knees and your grandmother’s saucer resting in your lap. Its white glaze crazed with age, its shallow center holding a pinch of rosemary, a few bruised mugwort leaves, and the little stub of candle you press into place with your thumb earlier that evening. 

Wax has already softened beneath the flame and runs in pale streams over the china, pooling around the herbs until the scent rising from it turns sharp and green and just bitter enough to stir old memories from wherever they go when daylight is still around. The candlelight reaches only what lies close enough to claim and leaves the rest to shadow. It glows over your hairbrush on the dresser, your folded stockings on the chair, the Bible on the nightstand with its ribbon marker hanging limp over the edge, and most of all over the photograph you take down from the hallway and bring in here without fully admitting to yourself why.

She looks small in photographs, your great-great-grandmother, though everyone in the family who still speaks of her insists that she carries a presence large enough to fill whatever room she enters. 

Perhaps photographs are poor at carrying certain things across time. They give you the dark dress buttoned high at the throat, the severe line of her mouth, the hard intelligence in her eyes, and the suggestion of a woman who trains herself never to flinch in public, yet they cannot hold the stories clinging to her name, and it is those stories, rather than the image itself, that keep drawing your attention back across the room. 

Your great-great-grandmother, daughter of a woman who read signs in smoke and tea leaves and churchyard dirt; mother of the son she loved until grief hollowed her out after he died; and the woman from whom your own uneasy inheritance comes. 

The gift never belongs to every woman in the family, which only makes it more ominous when it appears. 

It skips daughters and granddaughters, lies quiet in one branch and flares up in another, turning up in children who never ask for it and elders who pray it will pass them by. With your great-great-grandmother, it came strong. With you, it comes stronger than anyone seems comfortable naming out loud.

You have been called touched, blessed, sensitive, and once, by an aunt who does not care whether you cry over it, poorly guarded. None of them are wrong. There has always been something loose at the edge of your sleep, some part of you that does not remain neatly in place once your eyes close. 

When you were little, it was dismissed as imagination, though imagination didn't explain the drowned calf you dreamt of three days before it surfaced in the neighbor’s pond. Nor the image of your cousin’s split lip that arrived an hour before he stumbled up the front walk after a bar fight in town. Nor the morning you woke with your heart beating like a frantic bird and begged your mother not to let your father take the west road because the bridge will give, only for the county men to shut it down by noon. 

By the time you were old enough to understand that other people do not move through sleep the way you do, dream-walking had already become a private fact of your life, something you practiced in secret and spoke of only to the women who shared enough blood with you to believe it.

It was your grandmother who finally gave it a name, and your grandmother who told you that naming a thing never makes it smaller, only easier to recognize when it begins circling your life. 

She was the one who explained that there are ways of settling yourself before a walk, ways of quieting the mind until it loosens from the body without tearing, ways of protecting the doorway you make when you reach too far into memory or grief or longing. 

It was she who told you the story of your great-great-grandmother properly, not the softened Sunday version spoken for children, but the one that had survived because the women in your family had never fully agreed to let it die. 

Your great-great-grandmother had lost her son and never recovered from it, not in any ordinary sense. Grief took up residence in her house and sharpened the gift in her until sorrow and sight became almost the same thing. She began dream-walking farther than she ever should have, searching for the boy she had buried, believing with the stubbornness of a brokenhearted mother that love could reach where death had put its hand. 

Then, one night, she sat down to call for him and opened herself too wide. By dawn the front door stood open, one lamp had burst on the floorboards, the bedclothes were half dragged to the floor, and there was blood dried down the front of her nightdress. Nobody ever made a proper earthly sense of it. 

What remained, passed carefully between kin and spoken low after dark, was the certainty that she had called across the veil and something else had heard first.

You lived with that story so long that it no longer feels like a tale handed down but an inherited bruise, something tender lodged beneath the skin of the family. 

Tonight it tugs at you with more force than usual. 

Perhaps it is curiosity, that reckless urge that has always lived at the center of your gift, the need to look directly at what other people cross themselves and turn away from. Perhaps it is loneliness, or that peculiar ache that sometimes comes over you after sundown, when the house quiets and every unanswered thing in your bloodline seems to draw close. 

Whatever the reason, you find yourself here in your room with the photograph, the saucer, the candle, and the old half-sacred, half-foolish ritual your grandmother warns you never to attempt in a state of longing.

You let your hands settle loose on your knees and lower your eyes until the candlelight turns red through your lashes. Beneath your fingertips, the saucer holds a little heat. The fan overhead moves too slowly to help much, though it lifts a damp strand of hair at your neck and lets it fall again. 

You breathe until the room begins to lose its hard edges, not visibly at first—but inwardly, as though the distinction between one thing and another softens somewhere beneath thought. 

The rosemary smell deepens. The sounds outside stretch thinner and farther apart. Your body remains where it is, cross-legged on the bed in your narrow room with the window cracked and the wick burning low. Though, another part of you—the part that has always proved difficult to keep tethered—begins to slip free with the same familiar yielding that comes whenever you walk too close to the edge.

It never feels like falling in the common sense of the word. There is no drop, no shock, nothing so clumsy. It feels more like stepping backward into dark water and discovering depth already waiting for you, cool and soundless and ready to take your weight the moment you stop insisting on keeping it.

When the vision opens, it does so with such quiet certainty that for a moment you cannot tell whether you have gone elsewhere or whether the world itself has shifted beneath your feet and let an older one rise through. 

Moonlight lies over a yard you have never seen waking and know at once. The house ahead is narrow and weathered, its porch leaning, one weak lantern burning near the window and throwing more shadow than comfort. Oak branches bend over the roof. Tall grass moves in slow dark ripples. 

There’s such exactness in every detail that invention becomes impossible. 

This is not the loose wandering texture of an ordinary dream. This is memory, inheritance, vision—whatever name belongs to the place where what happens refuses to remain buried.

It is your great-great-grandmother’s house, her yard, her last night.

And the knowledge of it settles into you before you can resist.

A pressure comes over you almost at once, low in the body and sharp as warning. 

Before you see another soul in the yard, you feel the presence of something hidden just beyond sight, something patient enough that waiting does not seem like effort to it, only habit. The grass bends. The branches stir. Nothing in the ordinary shape of the night announces danger—but the sense of being watched moves over your skin with terrible intimacy, close as breath against the nape of your neck. 

You turn toward the tree line and find nothing you can name there, though that only makes the certainty worse.

Then the porch boards give a faint groan, and she steps out with a shawl around her shoulders despite the heat, a candle in one hand and a shallow dish in the other. 

Even from where you stand, you can see it in the hollows under her cheekbones, the tension at her mouth, the bruised darkness beneath her eyes. She moves with the steady, exhausted resolve of a woman who spends too many nights arguing with the same pain and finally chooses action over obedience to fear. 

The dream draws you closer without asking permission, and then you’re inside the room with her, standing in a space small enough for sorrow to fill completely.

The bed sits neat against the wall. A washstand holds a basin, a pitcher, a comb. On a hook near the door hangs a man’s coat kept too carefully for a house no longer occupied by the one who wears it. 

She kneels beside the bed and arranges the contents of the dish with reverent, practiced fingers while her mouth moves in a low stream of prayer and plea. Not nonsense or fever talk, but the braided old language of women who learn to ask heaven and memory for the same impossible mercy. 

When she speaks her son’s name, the room seems to draw inward around it.

You want to call out to her then, to tell her to stop before the door opens any wider, but dream-walking never offers intervention, only witness, and witness can be crueler than helplessness because it leaves you standing still long enough to understand what is coming.

The candle flame thins and bows until the wick shines red through its weak gold halo. The curtain at the window stirs though no wind enters. The boards under the bed give a soft complaining sound. 

Your grandmother goes still. 

It’s a small stillness, the held breath of someone who has lived with sight long enough to recognize the moment a thing answers back.

Fear crosses her face then, and not because she lacks faith. Faith never keeps knowledge from entering a woman whole.

The shadow beneath the bed thickens slowly, deepening until it ceases to resemble ordinary dark and begins to suggest an opening, a seam in the room from which a figure might emerge. 

A hand appears first, pale at the knuckles, the fingers long and rough rather than elegant. Then the slope of a shoulder, the line of a bowed head, the full shape of a man easing up out of the shadow with a smoothness so unnatural it makes your stomach draw tight.

He doesn't look like some villain dragged up from a storybook grave. 

That would be easier to understand, easier to set apart from the ordinary world. 

He looks, instead, like a man who might come off a road at dusk and ask after work or water, the danger in him hidden under the plainness of his body until you notice how wrong every stillness around him feels. 

His hair is dark and damp, pushed back in places and fallen over his forehead in others, not arranged so much as roughened by the night. A pale face lifts into the candlelight, open enough in its structure that another expression might make him look almost approachable. A faint rasp of stubble shadows his jaw and upper lip. His mouth is broad and wet at the corners, too soft in shape for what it is about to do. He wears an ordinary shirt with the collar loosened, sleeves rolled to the forearms, the stripped-down plainness of a workingman at the end of a long day, and that plainness makes the sight of him worse, because there is no theatrical distance in him, nothing to warn the eye that it has left the realm of men until you meet those eyes and find the cold, washed blue of them fixed on your great-great-grandmother with patient appetite.

When he smiles, it comes with false warmth, almost companionable, the smile of a stranger too ready to charm himself welcome.

“So that is who you sought,” he says, and his voice is low and lovely and wrong, touched by an accent the dream cannot place cleanly, only old enough to make every syllable sound drawn from someplace far from these fields and older than the church at the crossroads. “Poor grieving thing.”

He bends his face to her with obscene tenderness, inhaling her fear as though it has perfume in it. His mouth brushes her cheek. His spit shines wet on her skin. He turns his head slightly, listening, and in one horrible moment you understand that he hears you too, not just her but you across the years, you in your borrowed witnessing place, blood-bound to the woman beneath him.

You take a step back without meaning to. Not because he sees movement in the ordinary sense, but because recognition has already crossed the distance between you. 

Your grandmother begins to scream in earnest then, and the dream breaks into violence. 

You see his hand knot in her braid and wrench her head back. You see the white baring of his teeth. When he bites into her throat, it is with the closeness of a kiss turned sacrament and slaughter all at once. 

Blood goes everywhere in a rush too fast for the mind to prepare for, sheeting down the front of her nightdress, spattering his cheek, pattering onto the quilt and the floorboards and the overturned dish where rosemary drifts in red. His throat works as he drinks. His eyes close. A sound leaves him then that has no business being so soft, a sigh almost, full of relief so profound it feels blasphemous to witness.

You try to wrench yourself free of the vision, but nothing happens.

Your grandmother’s hands beat weakly against his shoulders. Her legs kick once against the side of the bed. Her face goes slack with shock and pain and some final incomprehension that perhaps this, of all things, is what answers a mother’s call. 

He pulls back only enough to look at her while she dies. Blood slicks his mouth and chin. Saliva and crimson mingle there, stringing from his lower lip to her torn skin. He watches the light leave her with the absorbed fascination of a man studying a sunrise.

Then he turns his head again, and this time there is no mistaking it. He is looking directly at you.

Recognition comes instantly and completely, as though your blood has already spoken your name to him. Across the years, across your great-great-grandmother’s last terror, across the raw passage the vision opens through the family line. He finds you standing there and knows exactly what you are.

You try—again—to pull yourself out of the dream, but it holds long enough for his expression to shift, just slightly, that false warmth deepening into something more terrible. 

The room lurches. Your grandmother’s body sags. The candle flame thins to a furious wire of light.

Then you are coming up out of the vision with your back arched against the mattress and your breath broken in your throat, panic climbing through you faster than waking can settle the world into sense.

The fan moves overhead in its slow, useless turn. The saucer sits crooked on the quilt. The candle has burned nearly to nothing. The photograph leans dark on the dresser. 

Everything ought to be familiar enough to anchor you, yet the weight pressing into your hips reaches you before thought does, and the certainty of another body above your own arrives all at once.

He’s there, braced over you with one hand beside your head and the other around your wrist, not squeezing hard enough to bruise, only holding with easy certainty, and he looks even more dangerously ordinary at close range than he does in the vision. 

Moonlight from the open window slips over one side of his face and catches in the damp disorder of his dark hair. The blue of his eyes looks washed out in the low light, almost gray until they shift and turn colder. Stubble darkens his jaw. The line of his mouth is generous and human and glistening wet. He wears the same plain loosened shirt, sleeves shoved carelessly to the forearms, as though he has come in off some muddy road rather than through the torn edge of a dream. 

He looks like a man somebody might trust too soon.

“You called for me,” he says, and his voice in the close hush of the room carries the same unplaceable oldness you hear before, though now there is something crueler in it. Just a conversational softness that makes the words worse rather than better. 

Fear moves through you so sharply that it clears the last remnants of sleep from your blood. 

You try to pull your wrist free, but his fingers only tighten enough to tell you how little effort it costs him to keep you still. The damp patch on your nightgown cools against your skin. Another thread of drool gathers on his lower lip as he leans closer, breathing you in as though the scent of terror and sweat and rosemary becomes something irresistible.

“I didn’t call you,” you whisper, though the lie comes weak and frayed.

A smile ghosts across his mouth. “Did you not?” His gaze travels over your face with minute attention, lingering at your eyes, your mouth, the pulse moving too quickly at your throat. “You opened yourself. You went wanderin’. You stood in a dead woman’s room and watched with all your little soul laid bare. That is a call, darlin’, whether you mean it as one or not.”

The endearment lands with the intimacy of a trespass. He speaks to you like a man already acquainted with the shape of your fear.

You pull against him harder this time. The bed frame knocks faintly against the wall. He doesn't budge. Up close you can see the fine damp at his temples and the way his nostrils flare each time he breathes you in. His attention keeps slipping to your throat, to the base of it, to the place where the neckline of your nightgown has gone translucent with his saliva.

“I saw what you did to her,” you say, and the words come unsteady.

His expression alters at that with a slow considering pleasure, like he is delighted to discover that the old story reaches you with its horror intact. 

He lowers his face until his mouth hovers near your ear. His breath is cool in a way no living breath should be.

“Yes,” he says quietly, then lowers himself nearer, that cool breath skimming your cheek. “I figured you did.”

The simplicity of it hollows you out. 

He confesses the way he might admit to weather, casual and untroubled, as though what happens to your grandmother long ago ceases to be tragedy and settles into memory so familiar it no longer deserves ceremony.

“You shouldn’t have gone rummaging among the dead,” he goes on, the corners of his mouth tilting just enough to suggest humor. “They answer poorly, more often than not.”

That false ease in him is almost worse than open menace. It is the friendliness of something that does not feel the need to hide its teeth because it already has you under it.

“Why are you here?” The question trembles out of you before pride can stop it.

His tongue slips over his lower lip, collecting what remains there. It is a shockingly human gesture, almost thoughtful. “Because you reach beyond the veil, and I am what answers.” He raises his head again, studying you in the weak moonlight. “Because I remember your blood for a very long time. Because gifts such as yours are bright things, and bright things are visible from very far off when the dark is hungry enough.”

The room seems to draw inward around his words. You feel every place where the old house fails to keep the night outside, the cracked pane at the window, the gap beneath the door, the unlatched world.

You think suddenly, wildly, of your grandmother rising from her ritual too late, finding that grief opens what prayer cannot close.

His eyes drift shut for a moment. He breathes in against your throat, and a shudder goes through him so pronounced you can feel it where his weight rests over your hips. His mouth brushes the damp fabric at your chest, not quite a kiss, not quite a taste. When he speaks again, his voice has roughened.

“You’re sweeter than she was.”

Your stomach turns over.

He must’ve felt the motion beneath him because he gives a low, almost soothing sound that belongs nowhere near a predator’s mouth. “Don’t look so bothered by it. Your terror ain’t all that I smell.”

Humiliation strikes hotter than fear. 

You turn your face sharply toward the wall, but he catches your chin with one cool hand and brings you back. 

“Look at me,” he says softly.

Up close, his features are all the more unsettling for their lack of excess.

“You women,” he says, almost to himself, “always opening doors and then grieving what enters.”

The words send a chill clean through you. “Get off me.”

He smiles again. “I might. In a little while.”

His head dips. The tip of his nose trails slowly along the side of your throat. 

You flinch when his tongue touches the place just beneath your jaw. The sensation is shockingly wet, unhurried, exploratory. He tastes you as though confirming what his hunger already knows. By the time he reaches the pulse at the base of your neck, your breath has gone shallow enough to hurt.

His mouth opens there, not biting yet, merely resting. Drool warms your skin. You feel the shape of his teeth with exquisite clarity.

“Please,” you whisper, though you no longer know what the plea is asking for: mercy, delay, waking, a different lineage, a sealed door two generations back.

He makes that quiet sound again, almost affectionate, and lifts his face enough for you to see the new sheen in his eyes. 

In the blue there’s red now, faint at first, then deepening from the center outward until each iris looks lit from behind by banked coals. 

“You should not have wandered so far tonight,” he says.

His hand releases your chin and travels downward with infuriating patience, over the damp lace at your collar, along the trembling line of your throat, between your breasts, pausing where the nightgown clings. 

Your whole body goes rigid. The old cotton has grown nearly transparent where his drool soaks it.

His palm presses there, broad and cool, over the frantic beat of your heart. He watches your face while he does it, not the movement of his hand. He watches every reaction, every involuntary tremor and tightening breath—your fear itself is a language he intends to master.

“You carry the sight like a fresh wound,” he murmurs. “No one teaches you how to close yourself after.”

You would deny that too if you could think around the path of his hand. 

He glides lower, deliberate enough that anticipation becomes its own injury, and stops just above the knot of your gathered nightgown at the waist. 

Your body betrays you then with a convulsive shiver. 

“There,” he says under his breath, more to your body than to you. “There you are.”

Shame and terror and something darker twist together until you cannot separate them.

He has not done enough to earn the heat rising through you, and yet your flesh begins to answer danger with a confusion older than sense. His pupils widen further. A fresh line of drool slips from the corner of his mouth and falls against your collarbone.

His fingers curl in the fabric at your waist, bunching it slowly. The old nightgown pulls tight over your knees, your thighs, the vulnerable length of you laid out beneath him. He seems to take a dreadful pleasure in each inch of surrender the moment forces from you: each breath you fail to steady, each futile shift beneath the imprisoning weight of him.

“No,” you manage, though it comes out breath-torn.

“Not no,” he says gently. “Not after a call like that.”

Before you can gather enough air to protest again, he bends and puts his mouth to yours.

His lips are cool, wet, and devastatingly slow, parting against yours with such patient certainty that for one stunned instant your body forgets fear in order to register detail, the silk-slick drag of spit, the faint metallic trace of old blood, the shape of his mouth, beautiful and monstrous in equal measure. 

He kisses as if feeding and prayer were once the same art where he comes from. 

When you turn your face away, he follows. When your lips press shut, he tastes the seam of them until panic forces you to gasp and gives him the opening he wants.

The sound that escapes him then is low and hungry enough to make the bed tremble beneath you.

He savors your first helpless breath against his tongue, the involuntary yielding of your mouth, the way your body arches under him only to recoil from its own response. By the time he lifts his head, your lips are wet with him. 

“You see?” he says, not unkindly. “You call for an answer, and now you’re listenin’.”

You hate him for making the room feel altered around the shape of his words, as though everything before this moment is merely the narrow vestibule to some deeper chamber of your life. 

The candle in the dish has long guttered out, but the dark does not feel complete. His eyes provide their own terrible light. Each glance from them brushing over your skin like heat from a hidden coal.

He slips one hand beneath the pillow and finds the little cross you keep there out of habit more than belief. 

When he holds it up between two fingers, the chain dangling, your breath catches. He examines it with interest, then lets it fall onto the bed beside your head.

“That is not what keeps me out,” he says.

Your pulse stumbles harder. “What does?”

He leans close enough that his face is inches from yours, shutting out the rest of the room. “You.”

The answer chills you more than any threat. 

For all the old stories about thresholds and charms and spoken permissions, the truest gate is never the house at all. It is your reaching, your call, your gaze meeting his over a dying woman’s body in the bent shape of a dream. 

The word hangs between you like a hook already sunk, and his mouth returns to yours before the echo of it can fade. 

This kiss is deeper, slower, a purposeful claiming. His tongue slides in with the same unhurried patience he has shown every other inch of you, tasting the faint rosemary still clinging to your lips from the ritual. He licks into you like he is learning the shape of your fear and the first reluctant bloom of heat beneath it. 

His free hand finally moves. It slips beneath the hem of your nightgown and drags up the inside of your thigh, fingertips rough with calluses tracing sweat-damp skin until the thin cotton bunches uselessly around your waist. 

You’re bare underneath—nothing but the humid summer air and the slick heat already gathering between your legs. Panic spikes sharp and sudden in your chest. Your thighs clamp together instinctively, trying to trap his wrist, but he’s stronger—so much stronger—and he simply pries them apart again with a low, amused sound.

“No—wait—” The words tumble out breathy and cracked as his palm cups your cunt fully, two thick fingers gliding through the slick seam of you without warning, parting you open.

The sound that leaves you is half sob, half gasp, and you buck hard under him, one hand shoving at his shoulder, nails digging into the fabric of his shirt.

“Shh,” he murmurs into your mouth, swallowing the protest before it can grow. “Let me feel how sweetly you called.”

He strokes you slowly at first, parting your slick lips with the broad pads of his fingers, spreading the shamefully abundant arousal that has leaked out despite every ounce of fear still clawing through you. His middle finger finds your clit—swollen, throbbing—and circles it with lazy  pressure, then presses down just hard enough to make your hips twitch.

Suddenly, two fingers push inside you at once, and your cunt clenches around the sudden stretch and he groans quietly, the sound vibrating against your lips. He curls them slowly, searching, pressing firm against that spongy spot until your hips jerk.

He doesn't thrust yet. He simply holds them deep, scissoring gently, opening you while his thumb keeps working your clit in slow, wet circles.

“Look at you,” he whispers, pulling back just far enough to look at you. “Already drippin’ for the thing that killed your blood. Does that shame taste as good on your tongue as it does on mine?”

You turn your face sharply away, but he follows, licking a broad, filthy stripe up the side of your throat, collecting the salt of your sweat, then does it again, slower, teeth grazing the tendon.

His fingers begin to move—long, dragging strokes in and out, curling each time. 

The wet sounds are loud in the quiet room: the slow squelch of his fingers fucking you open, the slick slide of his thumb over your swollen clit, the helpless little gasps you cannot swallow down.

“Feel that,” he whispers, voice rough and pleased, mouth brushing your ear. “You hate how good it feels, don’t you, sweetheart?”

He adds a third finger, stretching you wider, the burn sharper now as your walls part around the thick intrusion. You gasp, back arching, and he swallows the sound with another deep kiss.

He keeps you pinned like that, one hand still holding your wrist above your head, the other thrusting into you.

His stubble scrapes your jaw as he kisses down your throat, sucking a bruise into the soft skin just below your ear. His eyes stay fixed on your face the whole time, drinking in every flutter of your lashes, every bitten-off whimper, every involuntary roll of your hips as you chase the pressure building low in your belly.

Your thighs are trembling now, spread wide and glistening with your own slick. The muscles in your stomach clench visibly with every curl of his fingers. He watches it all, that smile curving his mouth like he’s proud of the way your body betrays you.

He keeps the rhythm devastatingly slow, drawing it out until you’re whimpering, until your cunt is making wet, filthy noises with every thrust, until the pressure coils so tight you feel like you might shatter. 

Only then does he pull his fingers out completely, leaving you empty and clenching around nothing, a string of your arousal stretching between his fingers and your dripping hole before it breaks.

“You’re trying so hard to stay still. It’s sweet,” he murmurs, wet fingers trailing along the inside of your thigh while you shake your head frantically and try to close your legs again.

You shiver at the contact, eyes squeezing shut as he shifts above you.

He sits back on his heels, eyes dragging over your ruined state: nightgown shoved up around your ribs, breasts heaving with every ragged breath, nipples tight against the thin fabric, thighs spread obscenely wide and shining with slick. 

His own cock strains against his trousers, a thick, heavy bulge that twitches visibly when he finally opens his fly.

He frees himself with one hand, and his cock springs out—thick, flushed dark at the head, veins standing out along the heavy shaft, already leaking a steady bead of pre-cum that drips down the underside. It’s obscenely hard, curving slightly upward, the head glossy and swollen. He strokes himself once, twice, smearing the slick over the entire length while he watches your face, that patient hunger burning in his glowing eyes.

“On your back, just like this,” he says, voice low and rough.

He hooks your knees over his elbows and folds you open wider, spreading your thighs until your cunt is completely exposed—puffy, dripping, clit swollen and glistening. The blunt, leaking head of his cock nudges your entrance, hot and heavy against your cooler, soaked folds. He pushes in with one long, inexorable stroke.

Inch after thick inch sinks into you, stretching your walls wide around his girth. The burn is intense, your cunt fluttering and clenching as he fills you completely, bottoming out with his hips pressed flush against your ass. 

He stays buried deep for a long moment, letting you feel every throb, every vein, the way his cock pulses inside you like it belongs there.

“Fuck,” he groans, the sound low and guttural. 

He starts to move then—slow at first, dragging almost all the way out so you feel the thick head catch on your entrance before slamming back in to the hilt. 

The slap of his hips meeting your ass fills the room, loud and rhythmic. He fucks you deeper, harder, the angle perfect so every stroke drags over that sensitive spot inside you while the base of his cock grinds against your swollen clit.

His hands grip your thighs hard enough to leave marks, holding you open while he pounds into you. Sweat glistens on his chest where his shirt hangs open, dark hair damp at the temples, face catching the moonlight as his head tips back for a moment in pleasure. 

You give weak kicks of your heels against his back—but every movement only drives him deeper and makes your cunt clench tighter around him.

He leans down, mouth finding yours again in a hungry kiss. “You feel that?” he rasps against your lips, voice wrecked. 

The pace turns punishing. Long, brutal strokes that make the bed creak and knock against the wall.

Your thighs shake uncontrollably, cunt clenching and fluttering around his cock as the pressure builds again, hotter and sharper this time. He feels it, and his smile turns feral against your mouth.

“Come on, darlin’. Let me feel you fall apart on my cock. Squeeze me just like that—fuck, yes.”

The orgasm crashes over you without mercy, your cunt clamping down hard around his thick length in rhythmic, pulsing waves. He fucks you through it, never slowing, hips snapping harder while he groans low and filthy at the way your walls milk him.

Only when your shaking starts to ease does he chase his own release. 

His thrusts turn short and brutal as he drives as deep as he can. His cock throbs inside you, swelling even thicker, and with a low, guttural groan that vibrates through your whole body, he comes.

Thick, hot pulses of cum flood your cunt—endless, heavy ropes that you can feel leaking out around his cock with every shallow thrust he gives to push it deeper.

You push weakly at his chest one last time, but he keeps moving through it, slow and lazy now, grinding his hips in circles to fuck every last drop into you, making sure it stays deep inside.

When he finally stills he stays buried to the hilt, chest pressed to yours, cock still twitching with aftershocks inside your cunt. A thick trickle of his release leaks out around where you’re stretched so obscenely around him, dripping down your ass in warm, sticky trails.

His chest stays flush to yours, sweat-slick skin sliding together, the fabric of his shirt rasping against your nipples through the bunched nightgown. His eyes drift half-lidded over your face, a smile deepening as he feels the way your body keeps clenching around him, milking the last drops he’s already given you. 

One of his hands slides up your side, possessive and slow, fingers digging into the soft give of your waist, then higher, until his palm cups the side of your throat. His thumb strokes along the frantic jump of your pulse.

“You feel so good like this,” he murmurs, voice low and rough, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “All ruined. Full of me.”

He rolls his hips in a slow, lazy grind, stirring his cum deeper inside you. Your breath hitches, a broken little sound you can’t swallow down. He chuckles softly against your skin—warm, almost affectionate—and then his mouth moves lower.

His lips part over the tender spot where your neck meets your shoulder, the same place he tasted earlier with nothing but teasing licks. His breath ghosts hot and cool at once over your skin, and then his jaw opens wider, unhinging just enough to bare his teeth.

You feel the blunt scrape of his teeth first—human enough to feel intimate—then the sharp, serrated points denting the soft flesh, pressing harder until the skin splits with a faint wet pop.

He bites.

The pain is sudden and blinding, a white-hot explosion.

His teeth sink in with a brutal, meaty crunch, punching straight through skin and muscle like a knife through ripe fruit. The jagged edges tear deeper as he clamps down, ripping a ragged, gaping wound that splits muscle fibers and nicks the artery beneath.

Blood explodes into his mouth instantly—hot and coppery—pulsing out in violent, rhythmic jets with every frantic beat of your heart. It floods over his tongue in heavy gushes, spilling from the corners of his lips in bright red rivulets that run down his chin and drip onto your chest in warm, sticky splatters.

He groans deep in his chest, the sound guttural, vibrating straight into the torn meat of your neck as he locks his jaw tighter, grinding his teeth deeper into the wound to widen it.

The pull is savage, greedy, like he’s trying to drink you down to the bone. He sucks hard—violent, rhythmic pulls that make the torn edges of your flesh flutter and gape wider with every tug.

His tongue flattens against the ragged, pulsing hole he’s made, lapping and slurping up the hot rush of blood with wet, filthy sounds that fill the room like an animal feeding.

It pours down your collarbone in thick, glossy sheets, soaking the front of your nightgown instantly, turning the pale cotton dark and heavy as it clings to your breasts. It runs in warm rivers between your bodies, smearing across his chest where his shirt hangs open, mixing with the sweat and the cum still leaking from where he’s buried inside you. The metallic smell is overwhelming, sharp and iron-heavy in the humid air.

Your whole body seizes violently beneath him.

The agony blooms outward in white-hot, shattering waves, radiating down your arm and up into your skull until your vision sparks with black stars. It crashes against the lingering aftershocks of your orgasm, twisting pleasure and pain together so viciously you can’t tell where one ends and the other begins—your cunt still fluttering and milking his cock even as your neck feels like it’s being torn apart.

You convulse, back arching hard off the mattress, legs kicking uselessly against his hips as fresh blood sprays across the pillow and the headboard with every frantic pump of your heart.

He works his mouth against the wound like a starving man, sucking harder, deeper, swallowing loud and greedy with audible, wet gulps that make your stomach turn even as your body betrays you again.

His cock throbs inside you in time with every pull at your throat, like the taste of your blood is making him hard all over again.

You feel your vision starting to tunnel, the edges going dark and fuzzy. Your hands scrabble weakly at his shoulders, nails clawing bloody furrows down his back through his shirt, but he only moans louder into the gaping bite and thrusts once more, grinding the head of his cock against that spot deep inside you while he drinks.

The scream builds in your chest, raw and terrified, clawing its way up your throat past the blood and the pain and the unbearable fullness of him still buried inside you. 

You finally find the air for it, shooting upright in bed with a scream that tears out of you like it’s being ripped from your lungs.

The sound dies in the empty room the instant your eyes fly open. 

Your heart is hammering so hard it feels like it might crack your ribs. Sweat soaks your nightgown, plastering the thin cotton to your breasts and stomach, and between your legs you are shamefully, impossibly wet—thighs slick, the quilt beneath you damp and warm. 

You’re alone. 

The fan turns lazily overhead. The candle in the saucer has burned itself out hours ago, leaving only a stub of blackened wick. Moonlight still spills through the open window, silver and ordinary and completely harmless.

You press both hands over your mouth, trying to muffle the next sob that wants to escape. Tears spill hot and fast down your cheeks, dripping off your chin onto the quilt. Your throat burns like it’s been torn open, but when your trembling fingers fly up to check, the skin is smooth. 

“It was a dream,” you whisper, voice cracked and shaking. “Just a dream. Just a nightmare. He’s not here. None of it was real.”

You repeat it again, slower, like the words might anchor you if you say them enough times. 

Your hands drop to clutch at the quilt, knuckles blanching, trying to steady the wild tremble running through every limb. 

The room smells only of rosemary and old wood and the faint, distant night air drifting through the screen. Nothing else. No cool breath on your skin. No weight pinning you down. No thick, leaking heat still deep inside you.

You draw in a ragged breath, then another, forcing your shoulders to drop, forcing your racing heart to slow. Tears keep slipping down your face anyway, silent now, as you stare at the dark photograph on the dresser across the room.

“It was just a dream,” you tell the empty air one last time, barely more than a breath.

But even as you say it, the phantom ache between your legs refuses to fade—the slick, full feeling of being used and filled still clings to your body like a memory that hasn’t quite realized it was never real.

remmick 🏷️ @nigelology @cosmicpro @jakecockley @saintlucretia @justalittlefreaksblog @madkingcrowley @sonnensche1n @saaficat0311-blog @shewants7 @scannainscanrula @heyylolitaheyy @skankhvnt42 @ceobuggy @carriemill @valvalvalval-val @nlnny @soggynuggies0 @bleedingsunlight @theabhartachsbride @h3r3t1c @mysticvi @damnbamb @hexqueensupreme @vamp-fuxker @iamheretoread1234 @z0mb13xxxx @artsymaddie @sirjimmycrystals @minedofmoria @biebster @b1bbles @tatadara25