horny jail

(i think i should know how to make love to something innocent without leaving my fingerprints out) | 18+

[lonely-ey3s]

Pedrotober - Day Four: Agent Jack Whiskey Daniels, Kingsman: The Golden Circle

pairing: jack 'whiskey' daniels (kingsman 2) x f!reader word count: 6.1k warnings: no age gap, flirting, SMUT 18+ MDNI, praise kink, pussy pronouns, fluff, fighting, drinking, semi-public sexual act, f!oral receiving, unprotected PIV, fingering. check out my ko-fi to leave some love main pedrotober masterlist

Tonight, there was one thing and one thing only that you wanted to achieve: drown it all out. 

Being dumped after being with the son of a bitch for 4 years was one thing. But the reason why just made you want to swear off men in general. They were all insecure, arrogant, superficial, and had been nothing but a waste of your time. 

So you were out with your girls—at the cowboy bar that you told yourself you’d never go to. However, your group insisted it would be the best medicine after the last few days you’d had, and you didn’t have much choice with how they practically dragged you here. 

You sat at the bar sipping on your second rum soda while you watched the dance floor—all of your friends already swept off their feet by any guy that called them darlin’ and had a pair of Techovas and a Stetson on their pretty little heads. You shook your head and chuckled to yourself at how easy they all abandoned you after swearing this night was a vow ‘against men and the patriarchy’—or whatever they said in the car on the ride over. 

The bar was alive with music and laughter. The band that stood up on the small stage sang about endless nights, lost love, and the kind of heartache that hit a little too close to home. Boots scuffed across the wooden floor, couples twirling and two-stepping like it was second nature. You took another slow sip of your drink, feeling the burn chase the ache in your chest.

You were doing fine—really, you were, content with your solitude—until the expected incipient town drunk strolled up.

A shadow fell across your peripheral, and you glanced up to see a man in a plaid shirt and faded jeans leaning an elbow against the bar beside you. His grin was sloppy, his eyes glassy.

“Hey there, sweetheart,” he slurred, voice too loud over the music. “Pretty thing like you shouldn’t be sittin’ here all alone. How ‘bout a dance?”

You offered a polite smile, shaking your head. “No thanks.”

He chuckled, like you’d made a joke. “Aw, don’t be shy. One song. That’s all I’m askin’ for.”

“I’m not shy,” you said, turning back to your drink. “Just not interested.”

That should’ve been the end of it. But men like him never knew when to quit. He moved closer, his hand brushing against your thigh as he moved to sit on the next barstool. You stiffened immediately.

“C’mon, sugar,” he drawled, voice turning darker, “just one dance.”

You pulled your leg away, voice firm now. “I said no.”

He leaned in, his hand sliding up to your waist. “Tell you what—I’ll stop botherin’ you after one little spin around the floor.”

Your pulse spiked, irritation and unease twisting in your gut. “Get your hand off me.”

He smirked, unbothered. “Not until you—”

“Now, now… that’s no way to treat a pretty young lady, Rasmussen.”

The voice came from just behind him—smooth, low, and threaded with that unmistakable Texan drawl. You turned, startled, and saw him: tall, broad-shouldered, wearing a dark tailored suit and a Stetson tipped low over warm brown eyes. He looked wildly out of place among the flannel and denim, and yet he fit—like the kind of man who didn’t have to try.

Rasmussen scowled over his shoulder. “Piss off, Jack. This ain’t your business.”

The stranger didn’t flinch. In fact, he smiled—slow, easy, like he had all the time in the world. “Now I know your mama taught you manners,” he said mildly, stepping a little closer. “What do you think she’d say ‘bout what you’re doin’ right now, hmm?”

The drunk barked out a laugh and turned fully to shove him in the chest.

It happened fast—so fast you barely caught it. 

The stranger caught the man’s wrist, twisted, and guided him down with a quiet, efficient grace. One second, Rasmussen was standing, the next he was face-down against the bar, arm pinned, cursing under his breath next to you and your drink.

Jack didn’t even look ruffled. “See, that’s what happens when you skip the lesson on respect.”

Security noticed the commotion and rushed over. A few quick words from Jack—calm, clipped, with just enough authority—and they had Rasmussen hauled up and escorted toward the door, still grumbling.

Silence hung in the air for a beat before the man turned back to you, hat in hand.

“Ma’am,” he said, voice softening, “I apologize for the behavior you just witnessed. Wasn’t fit for a lady to have to put up with that, nor for me to make a scene in front of you.”

You blinked, still processing the whirlwind that had just passed. “You don’t have to apologize. He’s the one who—”

“Still,” he interrupted gently, tipping his hat. “Could’ve handled it more… gentlemanly.”

You studied him for a moment. He didn’t leer. Didn’t stare. His gaze held steady, respectful, and it disarmed you more than you wanted to admit.

So you straightened your shoulders, masking your intrigue with sarcasm, “Well, if that display of chivalry was meant to trick me into a dance with you,” you said coolly, “you don’t look that dumb—but that’s what you’d be.”

A slow grin spread across his face, all charm and warmth. “Darlin’, if I wanted a dance, I’d ask properly.”

“And if I said no?” You tilted your head, challenging him. 

He chuckled, eyes crinkling. “Then I’d respect your decision—say you’ve got good sense—and I’d buy you another drink instead.”

You stared at him, lips twitching despite yourself. You held out your hand, saying your name to introduce yourself.

He smiled as he took it, his grip firm but warm, a polite squeeze before letting go. “Jack,” he said simply. “Pleasure’s mine.”

The bartender drifted back over, and Jack lifted two fingers. “Another rum soda for the lady,” he said, then glanced at you for confirmation. “That is what you’re drinkin’?”

You nodded, amused by how easily he took charge without crossing the line. “Yeah. And what about you, Jack? What’s your drink?”

“Whiskey,” he said with a grin that could’ve sold sin. “Neat.”

You smirked. “Of course it is.”

As the drinks were poured, you found yourself sneaking glances at him—the tailored suit, the confident posture, the quiet way he seemed to see everything. He didn’t fidget. Didn’t scan the room for prettier girls. He just… observed, calm and sure.

When the bartender slid the glasses across, Jack pushed yours gently toward you. “To poor taste in men,” he offered lightly.

You huffed a laugh, raising your glass. “And to better ones who know how to keep their hands to themselves.”

Your glasses clinked, and for the first time in days, the drink tasted like relief instead of regret.

“So,” you started after a beat, curiosity getting the better of you, “you make a habit out of rescuing women from creeps, or was tonight a one-time performance?”

Jack tipped his hat back just enough for the low light to catch the edge of a smirk. “Depends,” he drawled. “Most nights I’m somewhere else entirely. Tonight just happened to be the right place, right time.”

You raised a brow. “What, you some kinda cowboy vigilante? Southern version of Batman?”

He chuckled, eyes twinkling with something unspoken. “Somethin’ like that. Let’s just say I’ve seen my fair share of bad behavior… and worse consequences.”

There was weight behind the words—a quiet sharpness, like a blade hidden in charm. You caught it, even if he shifted effortlessly back to that easy grin before you could press.

“So you travel a lot?” you asked, sipping your drink.

He shrugged one shoulder. “More than I’d like. But it comes with the job.”

“And what jobs’s that?”

Jack smiled over the rim of his glass, meeting your gaze. “The kind where folks don’t much care ‘til somethin’ goes wrong.”

You blinked, trying to decide if he was joking, but his expression gave nothing away—only that lazy, teasing glint.

“You’re not gonna tell me, are you?” you asked, smirking.

“Now, where’s the fun in givin’ away all my secrets on the first drink?”

You leaned an elbow on the bar, matching his grin. “So you’re mysterious and charming. Dangerous combo that is...”

“Only dangerous if I’m tryin’ to be.” He winked, and for some reason, it didn’t make your stomach twist the way it usually did.

You let out a small laugh, shaking your head. “I have a feelin’ you don’t play fair, do you, Jack?”

He set his glass down, leaned just close enough for his voice to drop low—warm, honeyed. “Darlin’, fair’s never been my strongest suit. But I do know right from wrong. And that poor excuse of a man?” His gaze flicked toward the door where Rasmussen had been dragged out. “He was both.”

You studied him again, really studied him this time. There was more there—layers beneath the cowboy charm and polite manners. A man who carried himself like someone who’d seen too much, done too much.

“Thank you, by the way,” you said softly, surprising even yourself.

He tipped his hat again, a ghost of a smile on his lips. “Ain’t nothin’ to thank me for, sweetheart. Just doin’ what’s right.”

You snorted lightly. “You always talk like that?”

His eyebrow arched, smirking, “Like what?”

You bit the inside of your cheek, “Like a cowboy from one of those John Wayne films…” You matched his tone and drawl, mimicking him, teasing, “Just doin’ what’s right.” 

He watched you, entertained by you. He shrugged, grinning, “Only when I’m tellin’ the truth.”

You rolled your eyes, but couldn’t stop the smile tugging at your lips. For the first time tonight, you weren’t thinking about your ex. Or your heartbreak. Or the stupid promise you made to swear off men.

You were thinking about Jack—and the way he looked at you like you were worth more than a pity drink and dance. 

You looked down as you swirled the straw in your glass, letting the ice clink lazily as you glanced back toward the crowd as the music shifted. A familiar country tune sent a ripple of excitement through the room—a nostalgic classic playing over the speakers. Cheers rose from the dance floor as people clapped in rhythm, boots stomping, laughter echoing off the rafters.

You couldn’t help but watch—the swirl of denim and twirling skirts, couples laughing as they missed a step and fell into each other, the easy joy of it all tugging at something deep in your chest.

Jack caught the look instantly.

“You still firm on that no in joinin’ me for a dance?” he drawled, voice full of teasing warmth.

You turned back to him, lips parting in mock protest—but his grin was soft, not pushy, and something about it made your resolve crack just a little.

You tilted your head, eyes narrowing playfully. “Ask me again. You know… properly.”

His smile spread slowly, deliberately. He stood, tipping his hat with a little bow, eyes never leaving yours. “Would a beautiful woman such as y’self do me the honor of this dance?”

You set your drink down, heart fluttering in a way you hadn’t felt in a long time, and teased, “I thought you’d never ask.”

He offered his hand, warm and steady, and you let him guide you toward the dance floor. The crowd welcomed you easily. Strangers turning into partners, couples staying glued together—laughter weaving through the music as the rhythm picked up.

“Teach me?” you asked, not quite knowing the exact steps. 

He chuckled and stood next to you, “Follow my lead, ok?” 

You nodded and felt his hand on the small of your back, stretching your hand over his chest to take it with his other one as he guided you through the steps, talking you through it with a grin so wide his cheeks started to ache. 

It was chaos in the best way: quick steps, clapping, half-spins, and playful shoves. You stumbled once, but with Jack’s hand at your back, steadying you, laughter spilling from his lips, you quickly fell back into the rhythm.

“Careful now,” he teased. “You’ll make me look like a bad dance instructor if we fall.”

You laughed, breathless, shaking your head. “We’ll be just fine with you holdin’ me like you are, cowboy.”

He grinned at that and was sure to stay right where he was. 

For those few minutes, everything fell away—the heartbreak, the noise in your chest, the ache of being left behind. It was just you, the music, and Jack’s voice somewhere near your ear, low and easy, drawing you back into the rhythm.

Soon the song faded, the applause rising for the band—and the next tune began.

It was a slow melody, soft and low. The lights seemed to dim as couples turned inward, hands finding hands, arms slipping around waists.

You froze, and the laughter in your throat caught.

Jack glanced at you, reading every flicker of hesitation, and offered his hand again—palm open, eyes gentle. “Just one, a real dance this time,” he promised quietly. “No tricks. No pressure.”

You searched his face for a reason to say no, but found none—not even a sliver.

So you slipped your hand into his, and he slowly pulled you close—not too close, just enough for warmth to settle between you. His other hand rested respectfully at your waist, and you felt his thumb trace a slow, steady arc through the fabric of your dress.

The world seemed to slow with the music—the chatter fading, the lights softening, the ache in your chest easing under his touch.

You let your head tip slightly toward him, voice barely above a whisper. “So, tell me… how long you in town for, Jack?”

His gaze lingered on you, something wistful flickering in his eyes. “Just tonight,” he said softly. “Plane leaves in the mornin’. Europe.”

The word hung between you—heavy and hollow all at once.

“Just tonight?” you echoed, something aching quietly in your voice.

He nodded. “Job keeps me movin’. Can’t ever stay too long in one place.”

You swallowed, your fingers curling slightly against his shoulder. “So this is it, huh?”

His lips curved into a small, sad smile. “Reckon it is.”

The music swelled around you both, and you could feel it—that shift, the quiet urgency. The fleeting spark that whispered to you, ‘it’s now or never.’

“Seems a shame,” you murmured, “to waste a night like this wishin’ it didn’t have to end.”

His gaze softened, and he pulled you closer—just a touch—before his hand slid from your waist to your cheek, the motion so tender it made your breath hitch. “Darlin’,” he whispered, thumb brushing your skin, “I couldn’t agree more.”

You looked up at him, eyes locking—and then you leaned in, closing the last inch between you.

He met you halfway.

The kiss was soft at first. It was careful—like he was memorizing the shape of you, committing you to memory. But then it deepened, slow and certain, a pull that felt inevitable. The kind of kiss that made time blur and slow down all at once, that made you forget the noise, the crowd, everything but the quiet click of something falling perfectly into place.

When you finally parted, your forehead rested against his, both of you smiling—breathless and dazed. 

Jack hesitated only for a moment, but then nodded towards the door, “I’m all for manners ‘n all, but I’m also for not livin’ a life of regrets.” He continued to sway with you, moving his hand from your cheek to take your hand and hold it to his chest, “Would you wanna get out of here? Grab a bite to eat or somethin’?” 

You kept his gaze and smiled up at him, a slight teasing to your tone, “Or somethin’?” 

A grin spread across his face, and for once—he started to blush, “Yeah… or somethin’.” Then brought your hand to his lips, gently kissing your knuckles, “What do you say?” 

You nodded, “Yeah, ok, cowboy.” A small chuckle escaped, “Take me to do somethin’...”

He leaned back in and kissed your lips once more, unable to help himself, “I’m goin’ to go pay our tab and grab your purse. Meet me by the door?” 

You pecked his lips once more and nodded, but then, before he could step back, you took his hat off his head and placed it onto yours, “Sounds like a plan, cowboy.” 

He smirked and gently gave your waist a squeeze, “Ever heard of the cowboy hat rule, darlin’?” 

You shook your head and shrugged, “No… why?” 

He pecked your lips once, then whispered against your lips, “I’ll teach ya about it tonight.” Then he was gone, weaving through the crowd back to the bar—leaving you flushed and racking your mind as to what you just got yourself into. 

Jack met you by the door just as promised after a few moments, his jacket slung over one shoulder, your purse in his grasp, that easy grin still lingering on his lips as though he couldn’t quite believe what was happening either. He offered his hand, you laced your fingers with his—the warmth there sent a thrill through you all over again.

Outside, the night air was cool, crisp—stars glittering above the glow of the bar’s neon sign. Laughter and music spilled faintly through the doors behind you as Jack led you toward the edge of the lot, where his truck waited under a flickering streetlight.

The click of your boots echoed on the pavement, your shoulders brushing occasionally as you walked. Every small touch hummed like static, the tension growing with each step.

When you reached the truck, he opened the passenger door, ever the gentleman. But instead of climbing in, you leaned back against the doorframe, the brim of his hat tipping low over your eyes.

You looked him over—slowly, deliberately—and there was a glint in your gaze he hadn’t seen all night. Something mischievous. Bold. Dangerous in all the right ways.

Jack paused mid-motion, one hand still on the door handle, and reached for your waist. “What’s that look for?” he asked, voice low, eyes flicking down to the way you’d crossed your arms under your chest.

You tilted your head, teasingly close, the edge of your smile brushing against temptation. “Tell me the cowboy hat rule,” you murmured, drawing out each word as he stepped up to stand in front of you. “I need to know what I’m gettin’ myself into before I get into that truck.”

Your noses brushed as you leaned in, a whisper of contact that made his pulse jump. He could smell your perfume—something soft and sweet, tangled with the faint scent of rum on your breath—and it was undoing him fast.

For a moment, he didn’t move. Just stared at you, drinking you in like you were the only thing that mattered tonight. Then, slowly, deliberately, he reached up and slid the hat off your head. The motion was gentle, reverent almost, his fingers brushing through your hair before he set the hat back on his own head.

His other hand found its way to your waist again, fingers pressing lightly against the fabric of your dress as he stepped in closer, close enough that the heat of him chased away the night air.

“The unspoken rule,” he murmured, voice dropping to a drawl that rumbled low in his chest, “is when a lady steals a cowboy’s hat… she then has to ride that cowboy.”

His eyes dipped to your lips as he spoke, his breath warm against your skin, before flicking back up to meet your gaze—steady, unflinching, waiting for your move.

Your hands slid slowly up his chest, fingers curling around the collar of his shirt before looping behind his neck. You twirled the hair at his nape, playful, slow.

“That so?” you whispered, the words soft but laced with challenge.

Jack grinned, crooked and hungry, his thumb tracing a lazy circle against your waist. “That’s the rule, darlin’. ’Course, I don’t make ‘em—I just try to live by ‘em.”

You leaned in until your lips hovered a breath from his, your voice a whisper against his mouth. “Well then,” you teased, “I guess it’s good thing a good thing I’m an avid rule follower, isn’t it?”

He laughed quietly, the sound low and rough, and then he closed the last inch between you.

The kiss was different this time—hotter, deeper. All that playful tension igniting into something fierce and wanting. His hand slid up your back, pulling you flush against him, and you melted into the warmth of his body, the scent of whiskey and leather surrounding you.

He broke the kiss just long enough to rest his forehead against yours, breath uneven. “You sure about this?” he asked quietly, the softness in his tone belying the fire in his eyes.

You smiled, brushing your thumb along his jaw. “I told you, cowboy… I’m done wastin’ time.”

Jack’s grin returned—slower, rougher this time as he leaned back in for your lips, “Then let’s not waste a second more.” Then lips found yours again, deeper this time, and the rest of the world disappeared.

The night air pressed cool against your back as his hands roamed—steady, sure, full of want and reverence all at once. Every kiss grew hungrier, every breath shorter, until the line between soft laughter and longing blurred into one.

When he pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes were dark, the brim of his hat shadowing the raw heat there. “Tell me what you want,” he whispered, voice rough, “I’ll give you whatever you want.” 

You met his gaze, heart hammering. “You,” you breathed. “Right now.”

He grinned and nodded toward the open passenger door, “Be a good girl, hmm?” However, his gaze stayed on your lips—hungry and needy.  

You bit your lip and blushed a bright shade of red before you leaned up one last time and kissed him deeply and slowly before pulling back—leaving him wanting more as he continued to lean in for your lips again. You slid from his grasp and got into the truck, leaning out of the open door to gently grab the lapel of his jacket, pulling him in with you, sliding back across the bench seat. 

He grinned, climbing in and shutting the door behind him, settling between your legs as you laid back across the bench. You helped him tug his jacket off his shoulders before he tossed it into the back seat, then reached for your cheek and leaned down for your lips, “Come ‘ere…”

You giggled and met him halfway, kissing him deeply and slowly, the heat and passion simmering in the undertones of it. 

His other hand slid up your thigh, up and underneath your dress, groaning at how soft your skin was. 

You gasped when his fingers brushed the soft lace of your panties, his lips trailing down to your jaw, neck, and collarbone—anywhere his lips could find skin. 

You moaned softly as his hand slid down into the front of your panties and began slowly pressing slow circles onto your clit with his fingers, whispering as he gently sucked on your pulse point, “Let me take care of you, baby girl.” 

You flushed at the sudden rush of blood to your core, the instant pooling between your thighs. He was a man who knew what he was doing just by how quickly you felt your peak rising, “Jack…” 

He came up to your lips and kissed you, slow and gentle, “Please…” 

You moaned against his lips and nodded, words getting lost on your tongue, “You—” 

“Shh, I know, baby. I know…” he smirked as he watched your brows pinch together, the flush of your cheeks, the pace of your breath getting faster with each moment, “Mm, you’re close, aren’t you?” 

You moaned the faster his fingers seemed to move, driving you closer and closer to release, “Fuck—” You bit your lip to silence yourself. 

He shook his head and stroked your hair back with his free hand, “Don’t you dare hold those pretty little noises in…” 

Your eyes rolled back and your back slightly arched up, as you came, a louder moan bouncing off the cab of the truck. 

Jack grinned, “That’s a good girl,” and began to slowly rub his fingers on your clit, coming to a stop. He slowly dipped his middle finger through your seam, collecting a sample of his work before pulling it out and up to his lips and sucking on it, “Mm, fuck baby. You taste so sweet.” 

You had never seen something so fucking sexy in your life. It was enough to make you moan softly. 

He grinned and leaned in, “I think I need more than just that…” He kissed your lips once, a hint of your sweetness on his lips—it was dizzying. He then deepened the kiss by tangling his tongue with yours, groaning against your lips when your hand tugged against his belt. 

He pulled back, his forehead resting against yours, “Can I have a taste, baby?” He almost sounded like he was begging, his eyes soft with want. 

You bit your bottom lip at the neediness in his voice; somehow that made you want him more—the want, the pleading of a man to taste you—God, you were in trouble. You nodded and leaned in for one last kiss before he slowly moved down. 

He kissed your inner thigh and kept his gaze on yours as his hands wrapped around the strap of your panties around your hips, “Lift your hips for me, darlin’...”  

You lifted your hips, and he slid your panties down and off you, proudly putting them around the throttle like a trophy—taking his hat off and putting it there as well—before he unbuttoned his sleeves and rolled them up to his forearms. Then, with dark eyes and a grin, he sank between your thighs, his gaze back on you. 

You gasped and moaned when his tongue began slow circles on your clit, your jaw slacked open, “Mm, fuck Jack,” 

He groaned against your cunt and sucked at your sensitive bud—his hands holding your thighs open. 

Your breath quickened, and you flushed at how good it all felt, his tongue flicking your clit at the most earth-shattering pace, “Just—Just like that,” you moaned. 

He grinned and kept up what he was doing, watching every reaction you gave him from the gasp of your moans to the way your stomach tightened. 

You felt another wave begin to build, shocked by how quickly he could bring you to release, “Oh God, your tongue feels so good!” You mewled and moaned. 

One of his hands moved down to his belt and undid himself, pulling himself out and began stroking himself to the image of you coming undone on his tongue, moaning his name. 

You saw what he was doing, and that was all it took—the wave crashed as you came—and it crashed down hard. You moaned and your thighs trembled, closing around his head, your back arching, head rolling back in pure pleasure, “Oh god—” 

When your thighs fell and you began to come down, Jack lapped up every single morsel he could of your cum, groaning into your pussy as you moaned and gasped with each sensitive touch of his lips and tongue, “Fuck baby, you taste so fuckin’ good…” 

You smiled as you looked up at the ceiling of the cab, completely fucked out and floating, then you started to giggle, “God, you’re good at that.” 

He chuckled and sat up a bit more, watching you from where he sat, stroking himself slowly, pupils blown wide, lips soaked with your mess, “Well, thanks, darlin’...” 

You sat up on your elbows and saw what he was doing. You bit your bottom lip and tilted your head against your shoulder, “Remind me of that rule again, handsome?” 

He grinned, “Steal a cowboy’s hat and you have to ride that cowboy, baby…” he said as he slowly crawled back up to meet your lips. When you leaned him to meet him, he kissed you slowly, his head tilting the other way after a few to change the angle, “Mmm, but, first I want you like this,” He dragged his cock through your folds, making you gasp against his lips. 

“Mm, and why’s that, cowboy?” You bit his bottom lip softly, pulling at his tie. 

He groaned and gripped the seat under his grip before nudging the tip of his nose with yours, “Wanna feel you with your thighs wide open for me,” he pecked your lips, “Wanna be in control,” he moved to kiss your nose, “Wanna draw this out,” Then he moved to kiss your chin, his lips lingering as he pulled back slowly, “Wanna take my time with you,” he tapped the head of his cock on your clit a few times, “Wanna see this pretty pussy take me so well,” He whispered against your lips.

You gasped and couldn’t help the moan that came out when he said that last sentence. You nodded, eyes flickering to his lips, “Fuck me, that’s the hottest thing a man has ever said to me—” 

He chuckled and leaned in for your lips, “Yeah? What else do you like being told?” He kissed your lips once, then moved down to your neck as he lined himself up. 

Your hand came to the back of his head and held him close, moaning as you admitted sheepishly, “I like it when you call me a good girl.”   

You could feel him grin against your skin, “You gonna be a good girl and take my cock?” He lightly pressed himself up against your entrance, teasing you. 

“Yes,” You panted, spreading your legs more for him. 

He hummed and kissed your skin, “We’re going to take this nice n’ slow, baby.” He kissed your throat, ”I don’t wanna stretch you out too fast…” Then your jawline, “Wanna make this feel good,” He cupped your cheek with his free hand and breathed against your lips, “Wanna make you feel good.” 

Your breath hitched as he pressed his head against you, “Jack…” 

He nodded and coaxed you through it as she slowly began to sink into you, “That’s it, baby.” 

You felt yourself stretch around his girth, the overwhelming feeling of being filled by him, “Oh god, you’re so big,” You whimpered. 

He stroked your hair back affectionately, “You’re doing so well.” He grunted as he buried himself deeper, taking it as slow as his hunger would allow him, “Fuck—you feel so good.” He groaned. 

You moaned and continued to pant softly, then, before you knew it, he was completely sunk into your warmth. He groaned and put his hand on your waist, “Shit, you’re so tight—” His jaw clenched and he let out a chuckle at how good it felt then he cupped your cheek, “Mm, I can’t wait anymore,” before he slowly started to move his hips in gentle thrusts, kissing your lips deeply—with each thrust. 

You moaned against his lips, legs coming up to wrap around his waist. 

He continued to grind his hips into you, slow and deep, pulling every little sound out of you before he pulled back and put his forehead against yours, groaning and grunting. 

Your breathing started to quicken, and he felt you clench around him, “Mm, you gonna cum on my cock like a good girl?”  

You nodded and cried out softly, “Yes…Yes, Jack, fuck—” 

He moved his hand down between your bodies and pressed his thumb against your clit, rubbing circles into it as he continued to fuck you, “Fuck, I love it when you moan my name like that,” 

You moaned louder and clenched onto his wrist as his thumb continued, “Fuckfuckfuck, I’m gonna fucking cum, fuck Jack—” You cried out, your moans more frantic as you climbed higher, the coil winding tighter before it snapped, “Ohmygodohmygod—” you rambled, cuming hard.

He leaned back as his hips continued and watched himself come in and out of you, his cock covered in you. He groaned, smirking at the sight, “God damn darlin’, ain’t that a beautiful sight.” 

You moaned, looking at him, “Admirin’ your work?” 

He looked up at you and nodded, “Exactly.” 

You moved back to lie on your elbows, eyes filled with lust and something else—something deeper, “Why must you be a one-night stand?” 

He softened and his hips slowed as he leaned back for you, but then wrapped his arm around your back, “Hold onto me, baby.” 

You wrapped an arm around his neck and pushed off the back of the seat when he lifted you, staying inside you, moving to sit in the middle of the bench. Your legs bracketing his hips as you straddled him, looking down at him. 

He looked up at you, his eyes still soft, “Tonight ain’t gonna be the last time we’ll be together.” 

You leaned down for his lips, fingers threading through his hair, “Promise?” 

His hands landed on your hips, and he met you halfway, whispering before his lips fell onto yours, “I promise.” 

You pulled yourself close to him, kissing him deeply—words you felt too early to say inside each kiss. Your hips slowly start to bounce up and down on him—you both moaning against each other's lips.

His hands climbed up your body and pulled your dress down and off your shoulders to sit around your waist, “I need to feel you,” he muttered between a kiss. 

You nodded and pulled his tie loose before frantically helping him with unbuttoning his shirt, you both eager to feel skin. 

The second his shirt was undone, he was leaning forward—his lips kissing yours, his hand splayed against your back as you leaned with him—eagerly getting it off and tossing it across the seat before leaving your lips and holding you against him, softly sucking love bites into your neck. Both of your bodies thrumming, hot with pleasure, sticky with heat—but craved for the feeling of the other. 

Your hips grinded as you rolled them back and forth, moaning with each pass, “Jack…” 

He panted, groaning into your skin, a pull starting behind his navel, “Fuck, baby—” 

You felt him twitch inside you and knew he was close. You leaned back a touch and put your hand against the now foggy window, changing the angle, “Oh god—” 

He held onto your hips, gripping tightly, throwing his head back as he groaned, moaning your name, “Shit—can I cum inside you?” 

You looked down at him, your cheeks flushed, breath heaving, moaning softly, “Please…” Then you cupped his cheeks and kept the same rhythm as you continued to ride him, “Please cum inside of me,” You mewled before crying out softly, gasping against his lips as you came, fluttering around him. 

He grunted and his jaw clenched as his hips thrusted up and spilled inside you. 

You moaned at the feeling, and before you could say anything, he captured his lips with yours, kissing you slowly and lazily, whispering between kisses: 

You’re so beautiful.

I’m the luckiest damn fool in that bar.

I can’t get enough of you.

He kissed once more—slower this time, like he wanted to hold onto every second. The world beyond the truck didn’t exist anymore—just the fogged glass, the rhythm of your breathing, the heat of his skin against yours. Every touch was unhurried, every sigh a quiet promise that this night would stay with you.

When it finally stilled, Jack held you close, his hand tracing lazy circles along your spine. The scent of whiskey and sex clung to the air, mingling with your warmth. You rested your head on his shoulder, feeling the steady beat of his heart under your palm that sat on his chest.

He tilted his head toward you, brushing a strand of hair from your face, “I should be back in the States after this job,” he murmured, voice rough, almost uncertain. His gaze searched yours, “Can I find you when I’m back?”

You smiled softly, moving your head to look at him, your fingertips brushing along his jaw. “You better.”

A breath of laughter escaped him—quiet, relieved. He leaned in and pressed one last kiss to your lips, lingering like a promise.

no pressure taglist: @thebeautytoyourbeat, @sarahhxx03, @blahkateisdone, @sunnytuliptime, @pedroscurls, @docharleythegeekqueen @pedritosgirl2000 @fancyyoouu @greendudenumber7, @queenofdisaster12 @axshadows @mystickittytaco @yxtkiwiyxt @alltheirdamn @punkshort @stylesispunk @iheartoldermem @mermaidgirl30 @mountainsandmayhem @brittmb115 @poor-unfortunate-soul9927 @spacelatinos4life @pedge-page @pedropascalfab @readingiskeepingmegoing @sincerelywithheartt @youusunshineyoutemptress @lilasskicker-23 @melsuns00hine @wencontre @pedrofan @suzysface @orcasoul @misstokyo7love @bitchyfestnight @galotti7 @locaparapedrito @harrysrosetatto @bluenightmarepost @mukeovernetflix @pascal-mynightlyobsession @maryfanson @pasc4lfuzz @fancypeacepersona @crlsummer @iloev-heris @picketniffler @christinamadsen @persiar9 @harriedandharassed @copperhalfcent @decadent-hag1 @blog-luvdance @demonsasss @carpediem1219 @mallingcalling-blog @possiblyafangirl @indiegirlunited @kakiki3 @secretlettersfromyourlove @pedrofan @secretlettersfromyourlove @sesdeuxyeux @insertclevernamehereplease @brinapedroswife @kellyxo1 @msdariaknight @sophiagladiator @obiwansito @doblasftcisco @itscaroline77

[flixpii]

— 𝘀𝘄𝗲𝗮𝘁 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝘀𝘂𝗴𝗮𝗿 — three

part i | part ii | part iv

⤷ ‎ ‎ # ‎ ‎ featuring ‎ ‎ farmer!remmick × fem!reader ۶ৎ

— ♡ synopsis ‎ ‎ you get closer to remmick than you ever have before—close enough to see how much he wants you, how much you want him back. and after one impulsive moment, you both cross over into new territory ( wc : 13k )

mdni 18+ ‎ ‎ ‎hyperfeminine!reader. modern au. light slow-burn. mutual irritation / tension. spoiled / airheaded reader. forced proximity. semi-public sex. messy protected p in v sex. shy!remmick. virgin!remmick. oral ( both receiving ). overstimulation. dirty talk. praise. social micro aggressions. size kink / difference. vaginal fingering. teasing. masturbation ( f! & m! ). vibrator / sex toy usage. aftercare.

゛notes ⸝⸝.ᐟ⋆ another long one y’all… i just can’t stop yapping 😭 late post too lmaoo i got home from work and decided to post so i could knock it off the list. as always : warnings are based on all of what i have written so far as a whole, or are set in stone to be written ! this takes place right after part two.

The walk to his bedroom happens in a blur—quiet footsteps down the hall, your hand brushing his, the heat of what just happened between you still humming in the space where your mouth had been on him. 

Remmick moves like he’s afraid to touch you and terrified not to, stealing glances at your lips, at your hips, at the faint tremble in your thighs from kneeling too long.

By the time the door clicks shut behind him, the air feels thick enough to choke on.

He stands there for half a breath, chest rising and falling fast, eyes dragging down your body like he’s memorizing something he never expected to see. 

You take a step toward the bed, thumbs hooked in the waistband of your shorts, and his gaze follows the movement like he’s being led by instinct.

The shorts come off. Then your panties.

He goes still.

You lie back on the bed, spine arching slightly as you settle into the mattress, legs falling open in an invitation even he can’t pretend to misunderstand.

“C’mere,” you breathe.

His body obeys before his mind can catch up.

He moves onto the bed, onto his knees, large hands sliding beneath your thighs. His fingers curl, lifting, adjusting—guiding your legs up until they hook over his broad shoulders. 

The position forces you open completely, pussy exposed to the hot air of the room, folds glistening and already swollen from how wound up you’ve been since the couch.

He looks down at you from between your legs, face flushed, breath shaky.

“Tell me if I’m doin’ anything wrong,” he murmurs, voice rough.

You laugh softly, breathlessly. “Baby… you just have to put your mouth on me.”

His pupils blow wide.

And then his face lowers.

There’s zero hesitation. No warm-up.

He buries himself in you.

His mouth seals to your cunt with a hunger that almost knocks the air from your lungs. His nose presses hard against your clit, smushed up against it, the pressure so sudden and perfect your hips jerk up off the bed. His tongue dives between your slick folds, hot and eager, tasting you with long, greedy strokes that make a broken sound escape your throat.

“Oh my god—” you gasp, fingers flying to his hair. “Remmick, you—fuck—”

He groans into you, the vibration rolling through your cunt like a shock. His hands tighten on your thighs, pulling you higher, pulling you onto him until your pussy is fully smothering his mouth, his face nearly disappearing between your legs.

Your clit drags over the bridge of his nose as he licks deeper, tongue flattening to lap you up like he’s been starving for days. 

You grind without meaning to, cunt sliding against his mouth, wetting his lips and chin with every slick pass.

He moans again—louder this time—and the sound shoots straight through you.

“Don’t stop,” you pant, pulling him closer by the hair. “Please—don’t stop, don’t stop…”

He doesn’t.

He keeps you right where he wants you—legs thrown over his shoulders, cunt pressed so tight to his face you can feel every breath he takes. 

His tongue works your opening, fucking into you in slow, messy thrusts before he drags up again to suck your clit into his mouth, lips closing around it in a wet pull that makes your vision flicker.

Your thighs tremble around his head.

Your hips can’t stay still.

He holds you steady anyway, as if eating you out is something he’s been waiting to do without even knowing it.

And you can’t think, can’t speak, can’t do anything except moan his name like it’s the only language you know.

The pressure builds fast—too fast. Your thighs twitch against his cheeks, your stomach tightening like a wire pulled taut. The wet drag of his tongue, the suction around your clit, the messy glide of spit and slick across every part of you—it’s all too much.

Your hips stutter upward once, twice, and then freeze with a shudder.

“Remmick,” you gasp, voice breaking. “I’m—I’m coming—”

And you do.

You come with your thighs clenched tight around his head, back arched off the bed, your cunt leaking all over his mouth. 

He groans into it, licking you through it like it’s the best thing he’s ever tasted, his hands holding you in place while your body trembles and bucks. 

Your cunt pulses hard against his tongue, spasming around nothing, the slick sound of it obscene in the quiet room.

It takes a moment for you to breathe again.

When you finally peel your eyes open, his face is soaked—chin shiny, lips swollen, eyes dazed.

You reach for him.

“C’mere.”

He’s still catching his breath when you pull him up by the collar of his shirt, dragging him up for a kiss. 

You taste yourself on his tongue and moan into it, legs wrapping around his waist, hands fumbling to undo his jeans again.

“I want you to fuck me,” you whisper against his mouth.

He groans like it’s painful.

“Please, baby,” you add, slipping your hand between your bodies to help push his pants down. 

His cock springs free—already leaking again at the tip—and you shift beneath him until your hips align, your folds slick and swollen and so ready.

You grip the base of his cock, angle it down, and start to guide it through your folds—letting the fat head nudge at your entrance.

“God,” he breathes, “are you sure?”

But you’re already nodding, already rocking your hips up to press the head in—and that’s when the sound hits you.

Tires on gravel.

A distant car door slam.

Then another.

He freezes.

Your eyes widen.

“Oh my god—”

Remmick scrambles backward like he’s been electrocuted. His cock slaps against his stomach, flushed and twitching, and he fumbles to yank his pants up while you throw yourself off the bed, digging for your shorts with shaking hands and a squeal.

“That’s Grandma,” he says in horror, wiping his mouth with the back of his arm.

“No shit!” you hiss, trying to pull your panties up with one hand and smooth your hair with the other. Your lip gloss is smeared, your thighs are sticky, and you’re still twitching from your orgasm.

He’s tucking himself away, red-faced, breathing like he just ran a marathon.

You nearly trip pulling your shorts on.

By the time his bedroom door opens again, both of you are fully dressed—barely.

He glances at you. You glance at him.

Neither of you says a word.

Not about the way your panties are still wet, or the way his cock is still half-hard behind the zipper, or the fact that if she had come home even five minutes later, he would’ve been buried inside you by now.

Remmick clears his throat.

“I should, uh… probably see if she needs help with any groceries she may have gotten after church.”

You nod quickly, still breathless. “Y-Yeah. Sure. Totally.”

He leaves the room, and you flop back onto the bed with your heart pounding like you just robbed a bank.

The bath didn’t help as much as you hoped.

You’d soaked in it until your fingers pruned, head leaned back against a folded towel, steam curling around your lashes and the scent of sweet vanilla bath oil drifting through the room. You even washed your hair, shaved your legs, scrubbed between your thighs twice. But it hadn’t chased the heat away—just made it worse.

Dinner was pointless. A plate of lukewarm leftovers and a slow pick at your food. The bath hadn’t helped, and food wasn’t going to, either.

Now, back in your room, the house quiet around you, you shut the door and twist the little gold lock into place.

Your bare feet pad across the soft rug as you glance around—your makeup-stained vanity, the pink throw pillows on your bed, the little twinkling LED lights you stuck around the edge of your mirror when you first arrived.

Everything’s cute. 

And yet your mind won’t stop circling back to something else entirely.

The way his hands felt wrapped around your thighs. How wet his face had been when he pulled away. How easily he let you tug him around, mouth open, eyes big and eager like he’d do anything you asked. How close you got—so close—before it all fell apart.

You lick your lips.

Your legs feel warm again. Your panties are already damp.

You rise slowly, like you’re not even thinking.

It’s not even a decision—more of an instinct.

You walk straight to your dresser.

Second drawer, left side, tucked beneath a lacy lavender bralette and a tangled mess of satin panties is the soft, velvet-textured toy you haven’t touched since you got here. 

You pull it out without thinking, your fingers already twitching in anticipation, your thighs pressing together from the ghost of pressure alone.

A moment later, you’re crawling into bed, the hem of your oversized sleep shirt sliding up your thighs, no panties underneath. You settle back against the pillows, legs falling open, the cool air kissing the sticky mess already gathered between them.

Your fingers guide the toy over the soft curve of your mound. You’re already wet—slick, warm, throbbing in a dull, pulsing ache. The first pass over your clit makes your hips twitch. The second draws a breathy little whimper from your lips. By the third, your thighs are clenching around your wrist and your eyes are rolling back.

You press harder.

The vibration stutters against your clit, soft at first, then sharper as you angle it just right. 

“Fuck,” you whisper, voice catching.

Your other hand comes up to palm your chest, fingers pinching at your nipples through the cotton of your shirt. Your mind is buzzing, not just the toy—you. Thinking about him.

How big he felt in your hand. How he looked at you when you kissed the head, like he was about to fall apart.

The toy grinds harder.

You circle it, slow then fast, letting your imagination fill in the blanks. What he’d feel like inside you. How your walls would stretch around that thick cock. How it would feel to ride him, his big hands shaking on your hips, trying not to come too fast while you’re bouncing on his lap and laughing into his throat.

The orgasm hits hard. 

You gasp, legs trembling, cunt clenching on nothing as you press the vibrator tight to your clit, riding the rhythm until you can’t anymore. Your toes curl. Your thighs twitch. And then you go still—boneless, buzzing, your mouth parted and your chest flushed with warmth that creeps all the way to your scalp.

The toy drops from your hand.

You lay there, lips slick with spit, chest still heaving, heart kicking in your ribs.

Remmick’s face lingers behind your eyelids—soft and needy, lips bitten, eyes begging.

You close your thighs slowly.

You’ve never wanted a boy this much.

He barely slept. Not because his room was warm or because the old fan in the corner rattled itself silly through the night, but because every time he closed his eyes he felt your thighs tightening around his shoulders again, the heat of you pressing up against his mouth, the taste of you lingering on his tongue as if you had marked him from the inside out. 

His pillow still smelled faintly of the soap he used after he washed his face—twice—yet he swore he could still catch traces of the sweetness that clung to your skin. 

He tossed beneath the sheets with his chest tight and his cock aching, unable to shake the image of how you had looked, eyes half-lidded, breaths broken, lips parted in a helpless little moan each time his tongue curled just right. 

Sleep never stood a chance.

By morning his whole body felt raw with wanting you, though he did his best to move through the chores like nothing had changed. 

He fed the chickens, checked the sheds, filled the troughs, all while trying to ignore the echo of your voice from the day before. He lingered longer than usual by the fence line, pretending to re-tie a latch that didn’t actually need re-tying. The quiet of the early hours usually settled him, but today it only made the memory sharper.

When he hears your steps on the dirt road, he straightens too quickly, nearly fumbling the feed bucket. 

You move toward him with your usual brightness, travel cup in one hand, your glossy mouth wrapped around the straw as you hum to yourself. 

Your sunglasses perch crooked on your nose, and the soft yellow top you’ve chosen fits you in a way that makes his stomach dip. You smile easily, greeting him as though yesterday’s near-fall into something too intimate to ignore had never happened.

“Morning, Remmick,” you say, swirling your drink as if this is simply another day. “Did you feed the little guys already?”

You mean the chickens.

He grunts.

“Uh. Yeah.”

You gasp like he just told you your favorite boutique burned down. “Without me? I like feeding them now.”

“You were running late,” he answers, trying to keep his tone steady.

“I was picking a lip combo,” you say with artistic emphasis, as if it explains everything. “It’s important.”

The faintest tug pulls at the corner of his mouth before he smooths it away. 

He tells himself not to look at your lips again, but they shine in the sunlight and make it nearly impossible.

The day continues with you trailing behind him while you talk about things he only half understands—your show, your nail polish plans, a perfume sample you want to try. 

He nods at the right moments even though his attention keeps drifting. He can’t look directly at your thighs now without a jolt rising through him. 

You bend down to scoop feed into the tin and your shirt shifts, revealing the soft rise of your chest, and he feels a quick sweep of heat up the back of his neck. He grips the fence harder than necessary and silently begs his body to behave.

After a while, you drop onto a wooden crate with a dramatic sigh, dust puffing around you.

“You alright?” he asks, still not looking.

“I mean, yeah,” you mumble. “But I thought today we were gonna paint the porch too. You said we would on Sunday.”

“It is Sunday,” he replies, keeping his gaze on the latch he’s checking.

You blink slowly, tilting your head as if piecing together a puzzle that refuses to cooperate. “Wait. Seriously? Today’s Sunday?”

He inhales through his nose, long and steady, letting the air cool whatever heat is creeping up his chest. 

You pop your gum and swing your foot idly in the dirt, completely unaware of the chaos turning in him. 

When he finally turns toward you, you’re watching him with that bright, helpless sweetness that always gets under his skin. You smile without hesitation, as if yesterday’s intimacy was simply part of the afternoon and not something that has kept him up half the night.

He looks away quickly, terrified that if he holds your gaze any longer he’ll reach for you, pull you in close, and finish what nearly happened in that bedroom. His heart kicks hard against his ribs at the thought.

You go on chattering about something small—maybe your horoscope, maybe your new lip gloss—and he tries to nod, tries to answer, but the words don’t settle right in his throat.

You’re being yourself, unaware of the storm inside him, and he cannot believe how deeply he wants you. It feels dangerous. It feels close. And it feels entirely, horribly wonderful.

He realizes then that liking you isn’t something he can avoid anymore. It has already happened quietly, slowly, in the space between chores and conversation—and now, after yesterday, there is no turning back.

You brighten at something and call his name. He looks up automatically.

You’re smiling.

And he knows he’s done for.

The porch paint cans sit beneath the steps exactly where his grandma left them, the metal warm from the sun, the brushes stiff but still usable. The late morning light filters through the pecan trees, softening everything it touches—dust, railing, your bare legs swinging lazily over the edge of the steps. 

Remmick brings out a drop cloth and spreads it carefully across the boards, smoothing the creases with slow, deliberate strokes of his palms. You watch him for a moment, chin propped on your knee, noticing the way the sunlight catches in the faint curls at the nape of his neck.

“So this is what we’re doing today?” you ask, nudging an unopened paint can with your foot.

He kneels beside it, tapping the lid with a flat tool until it loosens. “Your idea. Said you wanted to make the place look nice.”

You shrug as if this is obvious. “Yeah, but I didn’t think you’d actually say yes.”

“I said it last week.”

“I thought you forgot.”

He lifts his gaze then—slowly, steady, with an expression that borders on gentle amusement. “I don’t forget things you say.”

Your breath catches a little, though you hide it by glancing at the screen door. He doesn’t seem to notice, already turning toward the brush in his hand, dipping it into the pale cream paint with careful precision.

You grab your own brush, plopping beside him on the porch floor. Your first stroke goes on uneven, streaked with tiny ridges, and he glances sideways.

“You’re pressin’ too hard.”

“No I’m not,” you insist, even though you absolutely are.

He shifts closer without thinking, one hand hovering near your wrist. “Here. Try easin’ up. Like this.” His fingers wrap briefly around your hand to guide the motion. “You just let the paint sit on the wood. Don’t make it fight you.”

You blink down at your hand in his. “You make it sound so poetic.”

“It’s just paint,” he replies softly.

“Mm. You say that, but you’re making a whole metaphor.”

His ears flush, and he pulls his hand back quickly, focusing on the railing instead.

The two of you fall into an easy rhythm—brushes dragging softly across the porch boards, the gentle clink of metal lids shifting in the breeze, the faint sounds of chickens pecking in the distance. You hum a song you half-remember from a playlist your friends made for the drive upstate. He listens, glancing over now and then with a curious tilt of his head.

“So,” he says after a while, voice low but steady, “what happened up north?”

Your brush pauses mid-stroke.

He doesn’t push the question, just keeps painting a smooth line along the trim, like he’s giving you space to answer or ignore him freely.

You force a small, breezy laugh. “What makes you think something happened?”

He shrugs lightly. “Folks don’t usually get sent across state lines unless somethin’ went sideways.”

“Nothing went sideways,” you say quickly.

He glances over, and you can tell he’s not convinced.

“It was just… stuff.” You wave the brush vaguely, splattering a dot of paint on your thigh. “Dumb drama. City people being city people. You don’t wanna hear about it.”

He watches you longer than he should, but the moment you look back, he drops his eyes and dips his brush again.

“Alright,” he murmurs. “Didn’t mean to pry.”

You swallow, the guilt settling strangely. You don’t want him to think you’re shutting him out. Or maybe you don’t want to poke at the wound yourself.

So you shift the conversation quickly.

“What about you?” you ask, leaning into him slightly. “You ever think about leaving this place? Or are you just gonna stay here forever and ever until the cows take over?”

His smile is small but real. “It ain’t that bad.”

“I dunno,” you tease, lifting your brush again. “Feels like a hostile chicken takeover is imminent.”

“There’s only six of ’em.”

“That’s enough.”

He shakes his head, but his shoulders relax a little. 

The tension melts from the air, replaced by that quiet warmth that’s started settling between you more and more lately. 

He tells you about the porch—how he helped his grandpa fix the boards years ago, how the nails always loosen after a storm, how his grandma likes to sit here in the evenings with her lemonade.

You tell him about your favorite nail salon back home, about how your friends once got into a screaming match over a pair of heels, about how you used to sit on your apartment balcony pretending you liked the smell of the city even though it made your head hurt.

You paint until the sun climbs higher, both of you speckled in dots of cream and gold, both pretending not to notice when your elbows brush, when your knees knock, when you laugh and he looks at you a little too long.

He doesn’t ask about the north again. But the look he gives you—quiet, patient, almost concerned—tells you he’s still wondering.

He can wait.

He’s good at that.

You’re the one who’s starting to feel uneasy with how easy it is to talk to him now.

By the time the two of you finish the last stretch of railing, the afternoon sun has dipped enough to cast a honeyed glow over everything—the fresh paint, the porch boards, even the little flecks of color stuck to your legs. 

You sit back on your heels and admire it with a satisfied sigh, brushing a smear of paint off your thigh and only smudging it further.

“It looks adorable,” you announce proudly, even though there are definitely a few uneven patches. “Like… way better than before. I think I’m a natural.”

Remmick lifts his head from where he’s wiping down a brush. “I did most of it.”

“I supervised,” you correct, nodding as if this explains everything. “Supervision is important.”

He huffs, something like a laugh tugging at his mouth before he hides it by leaning over the bucket. 

You pull your knees to your chest, wiggle your toes, and glance around with satisfaction while the breeze lifts your hair off your neck. 

Everything feels soft and calm, peaceful in a way you can’t quite name.

The screen door creaks behind you.

“Well now,” his grandma says as she steps onto the porch, dish towel still draped over her shoulder. “That came out real nice.”

You brighten instantly, popping up a little straighter. “Doesn’t it? I helped.”

Her gaze dips to your smeared legs and paint-speckled fingers. “Mm-hm. I can see that.”

Remmick mutters something under his breath that might be a quiet apology for your enthusiasm, but his grandma just smiles wider. She reaches out, running a gentle hand along the railing.

“Pretty work,” she says. “You two should be proud.”

You beam, delighted. “I am proud. And sweaty. And hungry. But mostly proud.”

Her eyes warm, fond and amused all at once. “Well, lucky for you, dinner’s just about ready.” She tilts her head toward the door. “You joinin’ us, sugar?”

You blink, caught off-guard for a second. “Me? Like—inside?”

“That’s usually where folks eat,” she teases gently.

You nod quickly, brushing your hands down the front of your shorts even though it only spreads the paint around. “Oh! Right. Yes. Okay. I mean—yeah. If you’re sure. I don’t wanna, like, mess the vibe.”

“What vibe?” she asks with a soft chuckle.

“I don’t know,” you admit honestly. 

Remmick coughs into his sleeve, trying—and failing—not to smile.

His grandma waves a hand, ushering you toward the door. “Honey, you’ve been helpin’ out here for weeks. You come sit down and eat.”

You hesitate only a heartbeat before glancing at Remmick. His eyes meet yours—quick, hopeful in a small, careful way you don’t fully understand yet.

“Is it okay?” you ask him quietly.

He nods. “It’s okay.”

You perk up immediately. “Then yes. Totally. I’m absolutely starving. Almost-dead starving.”

His grandma laughs as she steps back into the house. “Well let’s fix that.”

You hop to your feet, excited and lightly bouncing on your toes as you brush dust from your skin. 

Remmick watches you stand there with paint on your legs, and a bright, earnest smile that looks far too proud for the amount of actual painting you did.

He gestures toward the doorway, cheeks faintly pink. “Go on in. I’ll be right behind you.”

You nod, already stepping toward the kitchen and mumbling something about hoping there’s cornbread because “your last meal was a single iced coffee.” He follows after a moment.

Dinner leaves you full in a way you hadn’t expected—warm belly, warm cheeks, warm everything. 

His grandma cooked like she was trying to heal something invisible inside you, and you didn’t realize how much you missed that until you were scraping the last of the mashed potatoes off your plate. 

She fussed over you, filled your glass twice, asked if you wanted more cornbread even after you’d said yes three times already. 

By the time she excused herself to wind down for the night, you felt strangely settled, like some piece of you that had been drifting finally touched ground.

The house grows quiet in her absence, soft and humming with the evening crickets outside. 

Remmick gathers a few dishes while you stand uselessly with your hands hovering near the sink, not entirely sure how to help without knocking something over. 

He doesn’t seem to mind, though. Every time he glances your way, there’s this small curve at the corner of his mouth like he's amused you’re even trying.

When the kitchen is spotless, he shifts awkwardly, rubbing a paint-smudged thumb against his palm. 

“If you wanna… uh… hang out a bit longer,” he murmurs, eyes flicking up to yours and then away just as fast, “we can go upstairs. Grandma’s room is on the other side of the house, so she won’t hear us talkin’.”

Your chest jumps with a flutter you pretend isn’t there. “Yeah,” you say, nodding quickly. “I mean—obviously. I wasn’t gonna just leave after cornbread.”

He laughs under his breath, head ducked, and leads the way toward the stairs.

His room is the same space you saw yesterday, but this time it isn’t blurred by adrenaline or the thumping of your own heartbeat. 

You step inside slowly, taking it in with both eyes fully open.

It smells faintly of clean cotton and cedar, with a hint of whatever soap he uses lingering in the air. A stack of worn paperbacks sits on the nightstand beside an old lamp with a shade slightly crooked. 

His boots are lined up neatly near the door, socks tucked inside. The window is cracked open just enough to let the nighttime breeze drift across the simple quilt folded at the end of the bed. 

A few handwritten papers—his journaling, maybe—peek out from beneath a book whose spine has surrendered to repeated reading.

It’s simple, soft, lived-in and so him that you feel a little dizzy.

“You can sit—uh—wherever,” he says, gesturing vaguely, though he’s already lowering himself onto the edge of the bed, shoulders a little tight, hands clasped loosely between his knees.

You drift around the room, fingertips trailing the bookshelf, the edge of his dresser, the uneven frame of a photograph of him and his grandparents. 

“It’s cute,” you murmur, nose wrinkling with a smile. “Like… boy cute. Clean but messy. Cozy. Intimidatingly organized.”

“Intimidatin’?” he echoes, startled.

“Yeah,” you say, turning to look at him fully. “My room looks like a makeup store exploded. Yours looks like you actually know where your stuff is.”

His laugh escapes before he can trap it in his throat. “Ain’t much stuff to lose.”

You shrug and keep exploring. Your eyes skim over the worn denim jacket hanging behind the door, the jar of pennies on the dresser, the calendar pinned crookedly to the wall, the soft indentation on the pillow where he slept last night—probably tossing, turning, thinking.

Finally, you cross the room and stop in front of him. He straightens an inch, eyes lifting to yours with careful expectation, though his expression stays muted, almost shy. 

The lamplight softens him, rounds the edges of all that quiet longing he tries so hard to hide.

You sit beside him on the bed, thigh brushing his for the briefest moment. 

He watches you with a steadiness he doesn’t dare turn into a touch, hands resting still in his lap, fingers tightening once like he’s steadying himself. 

There’s a question hovering behind his eyes, unspoken but unmistakable.

You look around his room one last time before turning back to him, leaning the slightest bit closer. “It’s nice up here,” you say softly, your tone drifting, warm. “Feels calm.”

He nods, throat moving as he swallows. “Yeah.”

“Mm,” you hum, gaze dropping briefly to his mouth without meaning to. “Like somewhere you’d kiss somebody.”

His breath leaves him in a shaky hush.

You smile, absolutely oblivious to how devastating it is.

You lean in slowly. Drawn forward like he’s made of something warm you want to taste again. 

His breath softens, eyelids lowering a fraction, shoulders loosening as if he’s preparing himself to finally feel your mouth on his again.

But then your gaze flicks to the side.

A single, crumpled corner of paper sticks out of his desk drawer—barely an inch, but enough to snag your attention like a loose thread begging to be pulled.

You pause, squint.

He frowns slightly, following your line of sight. “Uh—wait—”

But you’re already standing, brushing off your shorts as you cross the room with that breezy, purposeful float that always unnerves him because it looks careless and confident at the same time.

“That’s gonna bother me,” you say, mostly to yourself. “Everything else is so organized and then that—” You flick your fingers toward the drawer. “It’s like a squeaky wheel or whatever.”

“Don’t—” he starts, rising just a hair too slow.

You pull the drawer open.

And freeze.

Several glossy covers stare back at you—retro-styled, slightly worn Playboy magazines stacked in a neat row, pages ruffled from use, one lying open under the others as if he’d been reading it not too long ago.

“Oh.” The word slips out of you in a small, stunned puff.

Behind you, Remmick goes absolutely still.

Not stiff like anger. Stiff like mortification.

His entire soul falls out of his body and hits the floor. “I—uh—that’s—um—those ain’t—”

You turn slowly, holding the edge of the drawer between two fingers like you’re afraid it might bite. 

Your expression is blank for one long moment while your mind catches up, eyes moving from the magazines then back to him.

He looks like a man awaiting execution—cheeks blazing red, hands hovering uselessly at his sides, lips parted in helpless panic.

You blink once, twice, then whisper:

“… You read these? Like… for fun?”

He winces. “I don’t ‘read’ ’em, exactly—”

“I mean, I guess the articles are famous,” you say thoughtfully, nodding to yourself like you’re piecing together a puzzle with far fewer brain cells than required. “My aunt used to talk about those. Or wait—were those the newspapers? Ugh, I always mix these things up.”

“No, I—uh—listen, you weren’t supposed to—”

You tap one glossy cover where a model poses in a satin bikini, arching dramatically over a couch. Then you point at another where a woman has hair that looks like it was sprayed with a fire hose. “They look vintage,” you murmur. “Like museum vintage. Did you get them at a thrift store? Or were they your grandpa’s or something?”

“No,” he groans, dragging a hand down his face. “They ain’t Grandpa’s.”

“Oh.” You nod solemnly. “Right. Because that’d be weird.”

He exhales, shoulders slumping in defeat.

You glance back at the drawer, then at him again, lips pursed slightly. “Wait—are these for your… um…  personal hobbies?”

He noises something between a cough and a strangled plea. “Can we please not talk about—”

“I just didn’t know guys still used magazines,” you continue, genuinely surprised. “I thought everyone used their phones now. Or laptops. Or tablets. Or those weird VR things. Do those even work? Bri said they gave her cousin a headache.”

He closes his eyes like he’s praying for mercy.

You look at him for another beat, head tilting as a thought finally clicks into place and lights up your expression like a sparkler.

“… Wait. So you were looking at these and not, like… actual videos because you’re shy?”

His eyes snap open.

Then dart away.

Then back.

Then away again.

You gasp softly, hands clasping together. “Oh my gosh, that’s adorable.”

He flinches like you slapped him with a flower.

“I ain’t adorable,” he mutters, ears glowing red.

You grin wide—bright, delighted, entirely unbothered by his public execution. “Yes, you are,” you say breezily. “You totally are. This is like… so old-fashioned and sweet. You’re like a historical reenactor but for… horny stuff.”

He chokes.

You keep going, unaware you’re destroying him.

“I mean, don’t worry. I won’t tease you. Much. But honestly? The girls in these are super pretty. Like, wow. Their tits are really symmetrical.”

He squeezes his eyes shut, shoulders curling inward, dignity leaking out onto the floorboards.

“Please,” he begs softly, “for the love of—can you close that drawer?”

You blink, glance at the magazines again, then gently push the drawer shut with one finger.

Then you turn back around with a soft smile—almost innocent in its sincerity—and say:

“It’s okay, Remmick. Everyone likes stuff.”

You sit back on your heels, hands resting primly on your thighs as if you didn’t just peel open his drawer and catch him red-handed with a whole collection of glossy, soft-lit sin. 

Remmick still hasn’t moved from where he sits on the edge of the bed, jaw clenched, eyes trying not to meet yours again for too long.

But then he risks it. He looks up.

And you’re smiling.

Not teasing or smug, but unnervingly earnest.

“I didn’t mean to embarrass you,” you say gently. “Seriously. Like—everybody does stuff. I mean, maybe not with magazines, but you’re just a little old-fashioned. That’s cute.”

He groans softly, hands scrubbing at his face.

“And if it makes you feel better,” you go on, crossing your legs criss-cross on the floor in front of him, “I’ve totally done things too.”

His hands fall away from his face. His ears go pink. “… Things?”

You nod enthusiastically. “Mhm. With my vibrator. She’s hot pink and glittery. She has settings, like, levels? Sometimes I use level two if I’m tired but still wanna finish.”

He full-on chokes.

You blink. “What? I thought we were sharing.”

He sputters. “I—I didn’t—I wasn’t asking—”

“You didn’t not ask,” you point out, chipper. “Besides, I think honesty is a sign of maturity or whatever.”

He lets out a noise that sounds like it belongs to someone having a minor heart attack.

You're still talking. “I mean… I guess I always imagined stuff too, but not with, like, photos. I just imagine stuff happening. Like someone touching me a certain way. Saying stuff. Grabbing my thighs. Or biting. Or like, humping a pillow. But I didn’t really know what I was doing until my roommate showed me how to edge properly—”

“Okay!” he nearly yells, hands flailing up. “Okay. You—you can stop.”

You blink innocently, lips forming a small ‘o.’ “Oh. Sorry.”

You reach for a random trinket on his desk and begin fiddling with it, looking unbothered. “I just thought since I saw the magazines and all…”

He’s staring at the floor, trying not to die. Or combust. Or leap out the window to escape whatever just happened.

Then you glance at him again, head tilted, eyes soft and a little dreamy now.

“… Do you think I could be in one of those magazines?”

He turns to look at you like you’ve completely lost your mind.

“I mean,” you continue, fluttering your lashes, “they’d probably wanna airbrush me a little. I got a tiny mole somewhere and my thighs are soft—but like, do you think they’d wanna take pictures of me all naked and shiny and laid out like that?”

His throat bobs. His hands clench into fists on his thighs.

You lean forward a little. “Or would you look at them differently if it was me?”

He opens his mouth.

No sound comes out.

He’s not even sure what you just asked him. Or if he’s hallucinating. But his jeans feel tighter again and your eyes are wide and blinking like you just asked him if he prefers apple juice or orange, not whether he’d jerk off to you in glossy centerfold spreads.

“… Girl,” he whispers, almost hoarse. “You don’t even know what you’re sayin’.”

You pout. “Yes, I do. I just said it.”

He exhales slow, heavy, ragged.

You twirl the trinket in your fingers and hum softly. “You’re so weird sometimes.”

He lets out a low, humorless laugh, voice dry as dirt. “You got no idea.”

And when you finally rise to your feet again, brushing your shorts down and giving him a little smile before plopping beside him on the bed once more, his entire body is fighting to stay still—because now all he can think about is you laid out across satin sheets, lips parted, eyes low, glittery toy discarded to the side as you beckon him closer.

He bites the inside of his cheek.

You bump his shoulder with yours and say, “You’re real quiet again. You sure you’re okay?”

“… Peachy,” he mumbles.

You nod, pleased. “Good. Wanna watch something?”

He shrugs, stiff. “Yeah. Sure.”

You grab the remote, settle in beside him like nothing ever happened, still humming some bubblegum pop tune under your breath.

Meanwhile, he’s still hard in his jeans, and all you’ve done is exist.

The two of you end up watching something on his tiny, slightly crooked TV—not really paying attention, not really talking either, just sharing space in that warm, quiet way that only happens when something invisible has already shifted between two people. 

Every so often you lean a little too close. Your shoulder brushes his. Your knee bumps his. You smell like vanilla body mist and fabric softener, and every time you sigh, he feels his stomach do this small, helpless drop.

Eventually, your phone buzzes with a reminder from your aunt, and you stretch your arms overhead, spine arching lightly, shirt lifting just enough to show a sliver of soft skin above your waistband. 

You slip off the bed, slow and lazy. “Guess I should go,” you murmur, smoothing your hair. “My aunt will freak if I walk in after midnight. Again.”

He stands too, hands awkwardly shoved in his pockets like he’s trying to hide how nervous he is… or how badly he wants you to stay.

You don’t notice.

Or maybe you do. It’s hard to tell with you sometimes.

You step closer, hand lifting to his cheek with an easy, casual softness that makes his breath stutter. “Thanks for hanging with me,” you say, thumb brushing just barely under his eye. “You’re always so sweet.”

Before he can respond, you press your mouth to his—soft enough to feel innocent but lingering enough to make his pulse kick.

He freezes.

You kiss him again, slower this time, your hand curling behind his neck.

And then—like you suddenly remember something—you lean in and place a third kiss just behind his ear, lips brushing the sensitive skin where his jaw meets his throat.

“See you tomorrow,” you whisper, and you pull away with a grin.

He stands there, stunned silent, as you float out the door with your bag over your shoulder, humming to yourself, hair bouncing with every step. 

You call goodnight to his grandma downstairs. The screen door clicks. Your footsteps fade down the path.

The following days fold into one another. Morning chores, porch repairs, fence checks, feed runs—every task falls into place like always, yet the air around you two carries something stretched thin between what happened and what hasn’t been discussed.

Remmick feels it constantly.

It settles behind his ribs whenever you walk toward him, when your perfume drifts close enough to distract him mid-task. It lingers each time you smile at him like nothing happened.

He wants to mention the way your lips had felt on his, the heat of your thighs around his face, the quiet sounds you made as you tipped closer to falling apart, but each time he looks at you, you greet him like nothing unusual ever happened. 

You wave, smile, wrinkle your nose at the heat, and talk about whatever floats into your head, unaware that every casual brush of your voice against his memory drives him further into distraction.

Three days pass.

At first he tells himself he’ll wait for you to bring it up. 

Maybe you need time to think. Maybe you’re shy. Maybe you don’t want to talk about it around his grandma or while knee-deep in chores. 

But as the days pass, you remain breezy and unbothered, happily feeding chickens, brushing horses, humming songs that get stuck in his head long after you go home. 

You tease him about his lack of fashion, ask him if goats have best friends, complain about your lip gloss melting, and then drift into a tangent about how you once tried hot yoga and nearly passed out from “all the sweating and bending.” 

Meanwhile, he can’t forget how you kissed him lightly behind the ear before leaving as though it were the most normal thing in the world.

Eventually the weight of it follows him everywhere. 

He fumbles tools, drops feed scoops, nearly walks into a fence post because your perfume drifts too close to him. Even his grandma eyes him one morning as if she can sense some inner disarray he is entirely unwilling to explain. 

By the fourth day, he’s collected enough courage—shaky but present—to finally confront the silence building between you.

It happens in the barn late in the afternoon, where the sunlight filters through slats in long beams that illuminate drifting motes of dust. You stand beside a young heifer, palm flat and open as she nudges into your hand, and you giggle softly, brushing hair away from your cheek with the back of your wrist. 

He watches you for a few seconds longer than he means to. Then he clears his throat. You turn immediately, smiling as though the question in his chest isn’t tightening every muscle in his back. 

“What? Do I have hay in my hair again?”

“No,” he says, taking a small step toward you. “Just… wanted to talk to you.”

“Okay,” you reply, turning fully toward him. “Talk away.”

He hesitates only a breath before moving closer, the barn air thickening around him as he tries to choose his words with care.

“I been waitin’ for you to bring up what happened the other day,” he says, words quiet but unshaking now. “But you ain’t mentioned it once.”

You go quiet, feed still resting in your palm as the heifer noses at it with slow, patient nudges.

He continues, trying not to lose his nerve. “And I ain’t complainin’. I just… I can’t tell if you wanna pretend it never happened. Or if maybe you’re expectin’ me to pretend.”

You shift your weight, chewing softly at your bottom lip.

He steps closer again. “I just—” His voice drops. “I ain’t been able to stop thinkin’ about it. And I ain’t sure what you—”

You interrupt without meaning to with an honesty so simple it nearly knocks the breath out of him: 

“Oh. I thought you didn’t wanna talk about it.”

His breath catches.

“I didn’t mention it because I figured if you wanted to, you would,” you explain, shrugging lightly. “Plus, I wasn’t really sure if you regretted it or if you were embarrassed or something. I didn’t wanna make you feel weird.”

It hits him like a blow—your complete lack of calculation, your unfiltered sincerity.

It leaves him with nowhere to hide.

Heat rises in his neck as he steps even closer, one deliberate shift of weight slightly closing the gap, voice steadying:

“I didn’t regret a single second.”

Your lips part slowly.

The heifer nudges your hand again, but you hardly notice.

Your lips part slowly. Your gaze drifts down his chest before returning to his eyes, soft and curious. When you finally speak, your voice is low, almost daring:

“… Then what do you wanna do about it?”

He draws a deeper breath, dust swirling in the golden light between you as the air thickens around the moment you just opened. 

It takes approximately four minutes before the two of you are inside the farmhouse, moving without remembering who reached for whom first. 

The hallway is dim, curtains filtering the afternoon sun into soft gold that settles over the framed photographs lining the walls. A faint trace of lemon polish clings to the air from his grandma’s morning cleaning.

Your back presses to the wall on the second floor just beside the stairs, and Remmick’s mouth is already on yours—hesitant for half a second, then hungry in a way that betrays how long he’s been thinking about this.

Your fingers tangle in his shirt, tugging him close; he stumbles a little, chest brushing yours, breath shaking against your cheek. He kisses you like he’s terrified you’ll change your mind if he pauses, lips warm and firm, his hands hovering before finally settling at your waist with a careful grip.

He murmurs your name against your mouth, the sound rough around the edges.

You gasp softly, head tipping back, lips parting just enough for him to deepen the kiss. His tongue brushes yours, clumsy at first, then surer, guided by the small whimper you let out when he slides one hand up your spine.

The farmhouse is quiet. His grandma is gone—off at the market, her list long enough to buy the time neither of you should trust but both of you cling to anyway.

He pulls back just a breath, eyes lowered, lips flushed. “Tell me if—if you wanna stop.”

You shake your head before he even finishes the sentence, sliding your hands up to frame his jaw. “I’m not stopping unless you do.”

Color rises along his throat. You don’t give him time to respond; you tug him in again, kissing him with more certainty than he can manage, and he melts into it, one hand bracing against the wall beside your head, the other gripping your hip through the soft fabric of your dress.

You push gently at his chest, guiding him backward. He follows without protest, steps slow and uneven, matching each retreat with another kiss. 

His heel bumps the edge of the runner rug in the hallway; he steadies himself with a shaky laugh you swallow immediately with your mouth.

The two of you inch down the hall in a stumbling dance of lips, hands, breath. 

Your fingers toy with the hem of his shirt, brushing warm skin beneath it. His breath stutters each time your chest presses to his. He tries to speak once—some half-formed thought—but you kiss him again and the words dissolve on his tongue.

He barely remembers he has a bedroom.

But you do.

Your hand catches his, tugging him toward the doorway. He follows, heart pounding, the hallway tilting around him as though the house itself recognizes what’s building between you.

Just outside his room, you pause long enough to kiss him harder, lips parting with a little sigh that sends heat rushing through him. 

You whisper against his mouth, already knowing the answer, “Your room?”

Remmick exhales shakily, nodding.

He pushes the door open without looking away from you, stepping backward into the familiar space with you pressed to him as the door swings shut behind you.

He backs toward the bed without breaking the kiss, knees brushing the mattress before he sits. His palms slide instinctively to your hips as you follow him down, settling into his lap in one smooth, eager motion. 

The weight of you steals a quiet sound from him—half gasp, half groan—your thighs bracketing his, your dress sliding up an inch as you shift to get comfortable. 

You kiss him again, deeper this time, your mouth warm and soft and hungry against his. His head tilts to meet you. 

The kiss grows messy in small ways—your tongue brushing his, his breath catching, the faint drag of your lip gloss smearing against the corners of his mouth as you angle yourself closer.

Your fingers skim the hem of his shirt, the rough cotton damp from work and heat. You tug at it lightly, testing him, watching his reaction through half-lidded eyes. 

His breath stumbles. He tries to steady it, tries to keep kissing you like nothing has shifted, but you can feel the tension in his chest, the flutter beneath his ribs each time your hands move higher.

“You don’t gotta—” he starts, voice a raw whisper into your mouth, but you cut him off with another kiss, your hips rolling the faintest bit over the hard shape straining against his jeans. 

His breath leaves him in a startled exhale. Your fingers slide under the hem of his shirt again, nails grazing his stomach, tracing the line of muscle there. 

“I wanna,” you murmur against his lips, pulling back just enough to meet his eyes. “You’re so warm. Let me take this off.”

His fingers curl into the fabric of your dress, gripping lightly as if he needs the anchor. He nods before he can process the decision, cheeks flushed, chest rising and falling faster with every passing second. 

You smile, bright and wicked in your sweetness, and tug the shirt up. He lifts his arms awkwardly, obediently, and the fabric peels away from his skin in one smooth pull before you toss it aside.

His chest is broad and solid, lightly dusted with hair down the center, muscles shifting beneath warm skin as he tries to figure out where to put his hands. 

You slide your palms over his shoulders, down his chest, feeling the heat of him under your fingers. Your thighs tighten around his hips as you settle deeper into his lap.

“Remmick,” you whisper, voice warm with want.

The kiss that follows is nothing shy of hungry. 

His grip tightens on your hips, guiding your movements without meaning to, each slow grind making his breath hitch in a way that feels dangerously addictive. 

You feel him beneath you, and each shift of your weight presses a little more pressure against him.

Your fingers drift down to work open the button of his jeans, slow and teasing. 

You kiss him deeper, lips plush and warm, your tongue brushing his. “Touch me,” you whisper into his mouth, your voice soft but edged with hunger. 

The request hits him like heat pouring low in his spine. His fingers slide slowly up your thighs, thumbs sweeping along the soft skin as your dress rides higher, inch by inch, until he’s cupping you through the thin fabric of your panties. 

Your breath stumbles, hips rolling into his palm, searching for pressure. His nose brushes yours as he exhales shakily.

His fingers trace the curve between your thighs, feeling the heat gathering there, your body shifting eagerly into his touch. “You want me to…?”

“Yes.” The word slips out without hesitation.

The mixture of boldness and innocence in your voice almost undoes him. Still, he obeys. His hand slips beneath the hem of your dress, dragging the fabric up your hips until the cool air hits your panties. His fingers hook under the edge and slip inside, trembling slightly as they finally meet your bare heat.

You’re wet for him—soft, slick, warm in a way that makes his entire body tense beneath you.

“Oh—” he whispers, the sound choked and awed. 

Your head falls against his shoulder as his fingers slide through your folds, slow and careful at first, tracing you like he’s trying to memorize every curve. 

You grind into his hand, needy and shameless, breath hitching with each pass of his fingers. The slick sound of it fills the quiet room, subtle at first, then unmistakably erotic as he grows bolder and your hips move more insistently.

“Remmick,” you breathe, voice warm and trembling as your lips skim his neck. “Inside.”

He groans into your hair, unable to resist you for even a second longer. Two fingers slip inside you, slow but steady, sinking into the wet heat he’s been aching to feel again. 

Your body tightens around him immediately, and a broken little moan spills against his throat. 

He curls his fingers gently, testing how you react, and the needy whimper you let out nearly unravels him.

You roll your hips into his hand, fucking yourself on his fingers in slow, desperate motions that make his breath stutter every time you squeeze around him. 

His thumb brushes your clit, hesitant at first, then more sure when your whole body trembles in his lap in response.

“That’s it,” he whispers, voice barely holding together.

Your breathing doesn’t settle, not even close. 

Suddenly, the impulse hits: you want him to see you, all of you, no hesitation, no pretending you weren’t aching for this the entire time.

You grab the hem of your dress and pull it up without warning. 

His eyes widen instantly, tracking the slow rise of fabric over your thighs, your hips, your stomach. 

The second you lift your arms and drag the dress over your head, he forgets to inhale. Your panties cling to your heat, still wet from his hand. Your bra strains against your chest, your skin flushed and warm as you toss the dress aside.

He stares like you’ve taken the world out of his mouth.

“God…” he whispers, voice breaking.

You unclasp your bra with a quick tug, letting the straps fall down your arms. The second it hits the floor, his gaze snaps downward—straight to your breasts. His breathing deepens, chest rising harder beneath you as your nipples tighten in the cool air.

He reaches for you without thinking, palms sliding up your waist before they close over your breasts. His thumbs brush your nipples slowly at first, then firmer when you arch into him with a soft, needy sound. 

You feel the heat in his hands, the roughness of his fingertips, the heavy drag of calluses against sensitive skin. 

His cock jumps under you, the denim doing nothing to hide the shape of him. He groans low in his throat, fingers digging into your skin as if grounding himself.

“You feel me?” you murmur against his jaw.

He nods, but his breath stutters when your hips press again, harder this time. The friction pulls a broken sound from him.

You kiss him hungrily, chest sliding against his, your nipples brushing his warm skin with each shift. 

He responds instantly, mouth opening for you. One hand cups your breast, thumb circling your nipple until your hips jolt; the other slips back between your thighs, fingers pushing aside your panties to feel your slick again.

“Jesus,” he whispers into your mouth when he feels how wet you still are. “You’re drippin’.”

You moan at the rough honesty in his voice, grinding down on his hand as he slides two fingers inside you again—deeper this time, confident now, curling into that spot that makes your thighs shake. 

His thumb presses against your clit again, light at first, then with a bit more pressure when you grab his shoulders and gasp against his throat.

“You like that,” he mutters, voice thick and shaking. 

“Don’t stop,” you breathe.

He continues to finger-fucking you. Your slick coating his knuckles while you ride his lap, bare chest pressed to his, hips moving with a rhythm you can’t control anymore. 

“Remmick,” you pant against his ear, “I want more.”

He groans and pulls you harder against him, mouth finding your neck. His tongue drags over your skin, his teeth grazing lightly, his breath hot and uneven. Your body trembles, cunt gripping his fingers with every thrust.

“Tell me what you want,” he says, voice low and wrecked.

You lean in, lips brushing his ear, voice trembling with something hot and breathless. “I want you to fuck me,” you whisper. 

His entire body tightens beneath you. The sound he makes is completely unguarded. Your nipples drag across his chest as you pull back from his lap, and the loss of your weight hits him like a shock; he almost reaches for you without thinking.

But you’re already moving.

You slide off his thighs and settle beside him on the bed, breasts still flushed and warmed from his hands. Your fingers trace the waistband of his jeans with a teasing sort of ease.

He doesn’t waste time—not with you looking at him like that. He unbuckles his belt quickly, fingers clumsy with urgency. 

The metal clinks, the leather slides loose, and he shoves the denim down enough to free himself completely. His cock springs out, flushed dark from how long he’s been hard. 

He wraps a shaky hand around the base, like he’s trying to steady himself for you, but you’re already leaning in—soft, eager, ready.

“Let me,” you murmur.

He lets go instantly, breathing hard.

Your fingers wrap around him, warm and slick from your own arousal still shining on his knuckles. His breath breaks as soon as you touch him, a hoarse, helpless exhale that seems to shiver right through his body. 

You stroke once, and the weight of him in your hand pulls a pulse of heat between your legs all over again.

“Jesus…” he groans, head tipping back. “Sweetheart—”

You stroke again, your grip sliding easily along the thick length of him, thumb brushing over the bead of precum already gathering at the swollen tip. He jerks, hips twitching, thighs tensing. 

He’s bigger than you remembered from the day you had him in your mouth—harder now, thicker, the veins along the length pushing against your palm with every upward glide.

“You’re so hard,” you whisper, leaning close enough that your breath grazes him. “You get like this just from touching me?”

His eyes flutter half-shut. “You know I do.”

You kiss his jaw, your hand pumping slowly, your thumb teasing the underside of the head the way you remember made him shake. His cock throbs in your grip, heavy and desperate for more.

He looks at you, at your hand around him, at your bare chest rising and falling with each slow stroke, and another broken sound slips from him—a quiet, strangled groan that proves just how close he already is.

His voice cracks on your name, low and strained, as he watches your hand pump him again. “I’m ready….”

The desperation in his tone sends a hot shiver through your stomach.

You smile and give him one last slow, tight stroke before letting go. He nearly falls forward from the loss of contact. You scoot back on the bed, settling onto your elbows with your thighs parting just enough to invite him closer.

“C’mere.”

He rises from the mattress carefully, cock thick and heavy in his hand, chest flushed, breath shaky as he steps between your open legs. 

The sight alone makes heat pool low in your belly—his broad shoulders, the faint trail of hair leading down his stomach, the way his cock twitches as he looks at you lying back for him.

His breath wavers.

Yours does too.

Then something flickers across your expression—and you huff a small, breathless laugh. “Wait—condom.”

He blinks, like he genuinely forgot the concept of protection existed. “Oh. Right.”

You reach toward the nightstand beside his bed and pull open the drawer. Inside lies a small stack of items—loose receipts, a pen, an old watch—and one crinkled foil packet wedged toward the back. You grab it and hold it out to him.

He swallows hard, takes it from your hand, and his fingers shake just a little as he tears open the wrapper.

You watch him roll it down his flushed length, your breath catching as the rubber stretches over the head and down the shaft. His cock twitches when your eyes follow the movement, and he lets out a soft, ragged breath that brushes heat across your chest.

Your legs fall open a little wider, the bed dipping under your weight.

“There,” you murmur, voice low and warm. “Now you can come here.”

He moves closer until his thighs brush the edge of the mattress. 

One hand slides beneath your knee, lifting it gently while the other drifts down your thigh, fingers hooking the waistband of your panties. 

They’re soaked—warm, clinging, useless now—and he exhales sharply as his thumb grazes the damp fabric.

“Let me take these off,” he murmurs.

You lift your hips without hesitation. 

He pulls the panties down slowly, the wet fabric dragging lightly over your swollen folds before slipping past your thighs, your knees, your ankles. 

The moment your feet are free, he drops the panties somewhere on the floor—not caring where—because his eyes have already drifted back to the place he just uncovered.

You’re bare. Open. Slick and glistening in the soft bedroom light.

His breath trembles.

He brings one hand to your thigh and nudges it wider. Then wider still. The sight of your cunt, flushed and wet from his fingers, makes his cock twitch against his stomach.

“Get up here,” you whisper, voice hushed and earnest.

He climbs onto the mattress, kneeling between your legs. His hands settle on your hips, thumbs brushing circles into your skin as he positions himself. 

The rubber-clad head of his cock nudges against your entrance, hot and thick, the pressure enough to make your breath catch.

“Tell me if it hurts,” he says softly.

You shake your head, fingers curling at his shoulders. “I want it. Put it in.”

He exhales your name, then tilts his hips forward. 

The blunt head presses into you— stretching you open around him. Your mouth parts instantly, a soft, breathy sound catching in your throat as the thick width of him slides deeper, inch by inch.

He groans low, the sound raw and aching. 

You grip his arms harder, nails digging lightly into his skin as the stretch builds—deep, intense, pulling a helpless roll of your hips as your body adjusts around him. 

He pauses only long enough to let you exhale, then pushes farther, the length of him gliding through your slick until the first deep thrust bottoms out inside you.

Your breath breaks.

His does too.

“God…” he whispers, forehead almost touching yours, “you feel warm… squeezin’ me already…”

Your legs tighten around his hips as you gasp his name, the fullness of him overwhelming and perfect all at once. 

He moves slowly at first, pulling back just an inch before sinking forward again, letting you feel every ridge, every throb, every hot pulse of his cock buried deep inside you.

You cling to him, body trembling with each controlled thrust. “Remmick… more… please…”

His hands slide up your ribs, sweeping under your tits, then back down to your hips as he starts a deeper rhythm—pushing into you with thick, satisfying force. 

He kisses you while his hips roll into yours.

Your nails drag up his back, searching blindly for something to hold on to as the slow grind of his hips pushes deeper, thicker, warmer into you with every thrust. 

He groans into your neck, the sound shaking through his chest as he tries to keep his pace steady. But the way you’re clenching around him, soft and wet and eager, makes it nearly impossible for him to think straight.

You slide one hand up into his hair, fingers slipping into the soft strands at the nape of his neck. 

When you curl your grip and tug him down for a kiss, he makes a sound into your mouth that sends heat rushing between your thighs.

Your mouth opens for him as your hips lift to meet his next thrust. He moans into the kiss, louder now, the sound vibrating against your lips. His rhythm falters for a moment—not from hesitation, but from pleasure crashing into him all at once.

You whisper against his mouth, breath ragged, “Faster… Remmick, come on…”

He nods against your cheek, swallowing hard, breath shaking. “Alright—just—hold on.”

His hands tighten on your hips, grip firmer now, guiding your body up into his as he draws his cock back and pushes in again with more force. The deeper thrust steals a gasp out of you, your nails digging into his shoulders. He hears it—feels it—and something wild flickers through him.

He thrusts again, faster this time, less careful, driven by the raw sound of your breath catching with every stroke. 

The bed creaks softly beneath the two of you, your bodies rocking together with messy, loud rhythm. 

Your slick coats him, making every push easy and filthy, each movement met with a wet, downright pornographic sound that would’ve embarrassed him if he wasn’t already drowning in how good you feel.

“You’re… fuck—” you gasp, pulling him in for another kiss, “you’re doing so good—don’t stop—”

He moans loudly, hips bucking harder as he sinks into you over and over, inexperienced but fueled entirely by your voice, your heat, your body tightening around him. 

His breath comes out broken each time he bottoms out, thighs trembling against the inside of yours.

Remmick tries to talk, to say something, anything, but the only thing that comes out is a desperate, strangled sound as you tug his hair again and kiss him deeper—open-mouthed, hungry, loud enough to fill the whole room.

You’re loud too.

Every time he thrusts just right, your voice breaks into a moan that makes his cock twitch inside you. Every gasp, every cry of his name pushes him closer to the edge. 

He wasn’t prepared for this—your body taking him so well, your voice so raw and unfiltered, the way you beg without shame.

Remmick pants against your mouth, completely undone. “I—I can’t—sweetheart, you’re—God, you’re squeezin’ me so—”

You pull him down, forehead pressed to yours, both of you gasping into each other’s mouths as he fucks you faster, louder, harder than he thought he knew how. 

Your breasts bounce against his chest, your thighs shake around his hips, your nails scratch down his back in frantic, filthy encouragement.

“Just like that,” you beg, voice cracking on the words. 

He loses whatever control he had left.

His thrusts become hard, rhythmic, desperate, each one angled a little deeper as he chases the sound of you coming apart beneath him. His moans get louder, shameless, spilling from him with every thrust, breathless and needy and overwhelming.

Your body rocks under him, every slide of his cock pulling your hips higher, needier. His breath is hot against your cheek, his chest pressed to yours as your hand slips between your bodies.

The moment your fingers touch your clit, your whole spine arches. The pressure is perfect—hot, tight circles that drag pleasure upward with dizzying speed. 

You gasp against his mouth, hips jerking.

He feels the change instantly.

Your walls clamp down around him, and his groan breaks apart, loud and helpless. 

His thrusts falter for a heartbeat, then slam forward again, harder, driven by the sudden squeeze around him.

Your fingers move faster, catching the rhythm of his hips, circling your clit while he drives into you with messy, uneven thrusts that make your breath stutter. Your thighs shake around his waist, slick smearing across his skin, your body opening for him with desperate urgency.

“Remmick—” you moan, barely able to speak through the pleasure building so fast.

His forehead presses to your temple, his breath ragged as your hand works your clit and your cunt squeezes him harder with every thrust. His hips buck without rhythm for a moment—just raw need, sloppy and deep—before he forces himself back into a pace, groaning through clenched teeth as you tighten around him.

“Darlin’,” he gasps, voice cracking on the word, “I—I’m real close…”

Your fingers circle faster, slippery with your own arousal as you push yourself higher and higher. 

He’s panting openly now, moaning into your neck, hips slamming forward with a desperate rhythm that matches the frantic pulse of your clit.

He chokes on a moan so loud it vibrates through your chest as his fingers dig into your hips.

“I’m—sweetheart, I’m gonna come—”

Your free hand drags up your stomach, trembling with the force of every thrust he drives into you. 

The pleasure builds fast—too fast—your clit throbbing under your fingers, your walls gripping him tighter every second.

You reach higher—past your ribs, past the quick rise of your chest—until your fingers brush your nipple.

The touch is electric.

You pinch lightly, rolling the sensitive bud between your fingers, and the shock of sensation tears a gasp from your throat. Your cunt clenches around him instantly.

His voice shatters around your name, hips jerking forward in a rough, uncontrolled thrust that drags the head of his cock against your sweetest spot.

Everything inside you snaps at once.

The orgasm hits mid-thrust—sudden, sharp, overwhelming—your body seizing around him as a cry rips out of you. 

Your fingers clamp on your nipple, the other hand circling your clit in frantic, trembling strokes as your climax slams through your whole body. Your cunt pulses around him, rhythm wild, squeezing him over and over.

He doesn’t last a second more.

The moment your climax hits, the moment he feels you clamp down on him, gripping him like you’re trying to pull him deeper, he breaks.

His head drops against your shoulder as a raw moan tears out of him. His hips slam forward one last time, burying himself as deep as the condom allows, his cock throbbing in your tight heat as his orgasm rips through him. His whole body shakes—thighs flexing, breath stuttering, hands gripping your waist hard enough to leave warm impressions on your skin.

You moan into his ear, voice high and breathless.

He groans against your neck, long and unrestrained.

Your orgasm milks his, each pulse dragging another broken sound from his throat. His cock twitches inside you, filling the condom with thick, hot release while your slick keeps dripping around him, soaking the base of him and the sheets beneath your hips.

You can feel his heartbeat through his chest—fast, pounding, wild.

And for a long, trembling moment, he keeps thrusting in tiny, helpless motions, riding the last waves of pleasure as your cunt continues to flutter around him, overstimulating him beautifully.

He finally collapses onto you—heavy, warm, panting against your throat—still buried deep, still shaking.

“Oh… ” he whispers, breath uneven. “That… that was somethin’ else…”

For a long stretch of slow, shaking breaths, neither of you moves. His weight sinks into you, heavy but comforting, his chest rising against yours in uneven waves as he tries to catch his breath. Sweat cools on both your bodies, your legs still trembling faintly where they hang around his hips, your fingers loosely curled in his hair.

You feel him soften inside you, still nestled as deep as the condom allows, still giving the occasional small pulse like the last remnants of his orgasm haven’t quite figured out how to stop. 

A soft, tired little sound slips out of you at the sensation, and it makes him groan quietly into your throat.

“Sorry,” he murmurs, breath warm against your skin. “Didn’t mean to… keep pressin’ on you like that.”

“You’re fine,” you whisper back, stroking the damp curls at the back of his neck. “Feels nice.”

He melts at that—actually melts. His whole body relaxes on top of you, muscles softening while he nuzzles lazily into the crook of your neck. The shyness returns only now, after everything, creeping softly into the edges of his voice.

“You okay?” he asks, gentle and earnest.

“More than okay.” Your hand slides down his spine, fingertips following the slick warmth of sweat between his shoulder blades. “You were, like… really good.”

He makes a noise that sounds somewhere between a bashful laugh and disbelief. “I just… wanted to make sure you felt good.”

“I did,” you say, and the honesty in your tone leaves him speechless for a second.

He lifts his head enough to look at you. His cheeks are flushed, lips swollen from kissing, curls sticking to his forehead. 

His eyes soften when he takes in your face—your own flushed skin, your parted lips, your hair messy against the pillow. Something tender flickers in his expression, warm and unguarded.

“You’re beautiful,” he murmurs, thumb brushing your collarbone before he even realizes he’s doing it. Then, like the words slipped out too freely, he hesitates. “If—if that’s okay to say.”

Your heart gives a small, unexpected squeeze. “It’s okay.”

He smiles then, small but genuine, like he’s proud of himself for saying it out loud. His hips twitch reflexively, making both of you gasp at the sudden overstimulation. He winces, blushing more.

“Think I should, uh… pull out,” he says, sheepish.

You nod, letting your legs fall open. He pulls back slowly, careful, his cock slipping free of you with a warm, sensitive glide that makes him grunt and makes you exhale softly at the sudden emptiness. The condom stays intact, drooping slightly at the tip.

He ties it off, still blushing, and gets up long enough to toss it in the tiny trash bin beside his dresser.

Then he comes right back to you.

He lies down beside you on the mattress, close enough that his thigh brushes yours. 

One arm slips beneath your shoulders, tentative at first, then more confident when you curl into him without hesitation. 

His body is warm, still humming faintly from the heat of everything that happened. His hand drifts over your hip, thumb tracing absent, sleepy circles along your skin.

Silence settles—soft, peaceful, nothing heavy or awkward.

Just two warm bodies in a small farmhouse room, wrapped in the quiet aftermath of something they both wanted far more than either was ready to admit.

“You stayin’ awhile?” he asks quietly, voice thick with exhaustion and hope.

You smile into his chest. “Yeah. I like being here.”

He exhales slowly, the breath warm against your hair, his hand still tracing gentle circles along your hip.

A few seconds pass. Maybe a minute. Long enough for both of your breathing to settle, for the heat on your skin to cool.

Then you tilt your head up toward him, eyes sleepy but bright with that familiar mischief he’s slowly—painfully—getting used to.

“Hey, Remmick?” you murmur.

“Mm?” His voice comes out soft, half-drowsy.

You trail your fingers lightly down his stomach, stopping just above his soft cock. His breath catches—not enough to make him tense, just enough to remind you how sensitive he still is.

“Next time…” You give him a lazy, teasing smile. “Which position do you wanna try?”

He goes completely still.

A flush creeps up his cheeks so fast you feel the heat rise against your palm. His mouth opens, then closes, then opens again—like he’s trying to respond but his brain is sputtering along with his heartbeat.

“I—uh—well—darlin’, I—” He swallows hard, voice pitching embarrassingly high before settling again. “I don’t… I mean, I haven’t thought that far ahead.”

“Yes you have,” you tease softly, nudging his thigh with your knee. “I can tell.”

He hides his face in your shoulder for a moment, groaning quietly in pure embarrassment.

You grin, fingers stroking along the light hair at his navel. “C’mon. Tell me.”

He lifts his head just enough to meet your eyes. His voice is barely above a whisper.

“Maybe… maybe the one where you’re on top.”

You grin, slow and wicked and entirely pleased.

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[queenoffangsandstars]

Silent Song

Remmick x chubby!you

Tw: fingering, penetration, blood, dirty talk, darkness, outdoors sex, biting

Sweat clung to your skin like syrup on fresh cornbread. The blanket of night had crept up on you while you rocked on your porch, the cicadas singing you a tune while you tried to calm yourself.

You ached down low in your belly.

Since the wedding, your husbands hands never did wander while you serviced him. There was only one part he cared about touching as he moved above you each night. The silence of it all made you wonder if he even enjoyed the act, but only until he grunted quietly and rolled off of you.

On sundays, you listened as the ladies gossipped over tea at church, hushed voices whispering about the obscene things their husbands did to them at night. You'd gotten caught up in the sin and sweetness of it all, foolishly expecting your man to be the same, growing desperate for praise that never came like a farmer praying for rainfall in the heat of august.

So you sit on your dark porch, in your rocking chair, the ache only growing into a deep longing, a fading memory of something you'd never had.

Something sparked a flash of memory. A voice. A face. A woman at church whispered something.

"He told me to touch myself! I know, such an odd thing to say, I was aghast." Another lady chimed in, "Well did you?" "Of course. I couldn't disobey." "And?" "Well, let's just say once I did, I suddenly couldn't stop." And they all giggled.

You thought on it a moment. No one was around. Your husband lay dead to the world upstairs after his 30 seconds of exertion. The song of the cicadas suddenly seemed louder around you, making you feel so alone. No one would hear you, right?

Soon the pad of your middle finger was slipping between the folds of your cunt. It felt better than expected. But what had you expected? Not much really, based on how your husband felt touching you.

This was better.

It felt so filthy, with no one but God watching you please yourself. Though soon you'd find out how wrong that was.

You slid forward in the chair and put your feet on the porch railing so you'd have better access. Seconds later your finger found the jackpot button and you almost squealed. You pulled your hand away, almost scared to touch it despite the pleasure it brung.

It seemed unnatural to you.

In society, women were an afterthought, so having your pleasure be something you could control felt...sinful.

You couldn't help yourself and your finger played with the slippery button until your tight hole clenched around nothing, feeling hollow and aching and desperate.

Your other hand made its way down to help the first, one finger sliding tentatively inside of the hole that'd previously only been entered by a man.

The feeling of spongy walls around your finger was odd but pleasant. Another slipped in, then another, and soon all four fingers were slipping in and out of you while you bore your whole wet mound to nature.

Small whimpers escaped your lips. Your head fell to one side, cheeks burning. The little button between your folds throbbed with need. All four fingers were coated with slick dripping down from one hole to the next. Sweat adorned your face like a veil and ran down your thighs from behind your knees.

A spring coiled in your belly, a feeling unfamiliar and intense, but that pushed you into a frenzy.

It made your fingers work more frantically, feverishly, as though you were a woman possessed. Your lips parted in a silent scream as you shook, seeing stars, toes tingling, scrunched, panting, sweating, exhausted.

When you finished, your wet cunt just ached even more to be filled by the real thing and your clit begged for more.

Tears streamed down your face. Your lips trembled with the sorrow of delicious sin.

You buried your wet cheeks in your hands, feeling so dirty for what you did to yourself. You'd just gone and made it all worse. Empty inside but filled with lust and shame.

Then you heard it.

You almost dismissed it as a rabbit or squirrel but it happened again, a slight shuffling in the dirt beyond the porch.

You were snapped out of your trance now, fully aware of the situation, and the damp, ancient feeling sinking in your gut.

Shuffling grew into footsteps, getting closer.

You quickly threw your feet down and covered up, wondering why in the name of the lord was someone coming up to your house in the wee hours of the night. Fireflies darted around in the distance but you could see nothing else.

Until you did.

A silhouette of a man.

Tall, broad shouldered. His stride seemed cautiously casual.

"Scuse me, miss, I thought I done heard someone cryin' over here. jus' came by to see if yer alright."

Luckily it was dark so he couldn't see your face red and hot from crying. Or need. Or embarassment. His accent was thick but old and slow, almost foreign.

But you couldn't mask the sound of your voice. "I'm fine..."

For some reason it only made you cry more. You couldn't even answer between sobs. Your hands went to your face and your elbows rested on your knees.

The closer he got to you, the more you sensed a certain danger in his presence, but behind that was a certain pull you couldn't escape.

"Hush now, darlin'." He came and knelt in front of the chair, brushing your hair behind your ears. "What's botherin' ya?"

He stayed by you until you could speak. "Its...nothin" you realized you were talking about sex with a man who isn't your husband and felt guilt and shame well up inside.

"S'alright, you can tell me."

You were glad he couldnt see your face very well. "He...the...the sex...isnt...." Your face grew hot and you. "Its stupid I'm being ungrateful I'm a bad wife I should go." You wanted to stand up but he put his hands on your shoulders so you couldn't leave.

"Its not stupid if its got you like this. And you're not a bad wife, you're perfect, sweetheart." A chill went down your spine at the surety his words carried, like he knew something he shouldn't.

"You don't know that." You whispered.

"Oh, I do darlin'." He assures you. "I've been in the woods a while now."

"I hear him come home. Hear him chew the food you prepared for him without so much as a thank you." He stroked your hair, looking into your eyes. You suddenly felt like you were about to be devoured, arousal and shame building again. You cant move, rooted to the spot.

"I've heard it all." His voice soothed your shame, making it all sound so natural, so okay. "I hear the bed squeakin' n' yer little gasps of pain. And then, almost as soon as it starts, he grunts and rolls over n'there's his dreadful snoring n' yer pretty little sobs. Pains me ever' night."

Everything in you screamed to run. To get into the house. To scream at the top of your lungs.

But you were frozen. Feet sinking into the rough wood of the deck. The cicadas stopped singing. The wind died down...

He put his head in your lap and inhaled deeply, mumbling into the fabric of your nightgown. "I saw you. A minute ago. Ravaging yourself. I can still smell it...thick...and sweet..."

His hands squeezed your thick thighs as he heaved, face buried in your lap, his fingers squeezing just enough to be tender, almost reverant.

"Oh so sweet." You feel his hot breath blast against your core and your hips subconsciously slide a little forward to spread open just a hair.

Just as you want to scream, to run away, you know you won't.

You can't.

Your clit still throbs with need and you dont know how to satisfy it alone. Your breath caught in your throat when he looked up at you from between your legs. His eyes glowed a faint, hungy red.

"I could help you, ya know. With your need, just as you can help me with mine." The pleading radiated off of him, drawing you in.

"All you gotta do is spread these 'ere legs and let me clean you up, darlin'. I can clean you up good. I can tell yer still swollen and juicy and needin' me."

You struggled, your thoughts betraying your faith, your loyalty betraying your needs. You didnt know what this creature really was and that thrilled you to the bone. Every puff of hot breath on your core was like blowing air on hot coals. Your head fell back as his strong hands kneaded your legs, trying subtly to get them open.

"What are you?" You whispered in the dark.

"You know what I am." He said between inhales. His red eyes flashed in your mind once more and you knew. Your heart dropped to your stomach.

He chuckled against your crotch, a deep rumbling purr that made your head fall back. "Oh ho ho I think you know what I am and you like it, I can smell you even stronger now."

He ran his hands up and down your legs. "Open up baby, I'll be gentle I promise. I can be sweet, I really can. I wanna taste you."

Your head fell back and his eyes glowed as you finally let your legs fall open. He grabbed behind your knees and slid you forward as you were before when you were defiling yourself, placing your feet on his shoulders, shoving your nightgown up to your waist.

At the first touch you nearly cried out from overstimulation. He grasped your thighs in his hands, thumbs slipping in your folds, a tease that lasted for what felt like hours until he finally lowered his head to your needy cunt.

"Mmm..." A rumble came from deep in his chest. "So sweet and juicy. Guess that's why they call it a peach." His voice worked to break down your walls and you let your legs fall limp, waiting with bated breath for what was to come.

The night acted as a blindfold, allowing you to only feel what happened between your legs. Hot and wet, his tongue lapped between your lips, up and down, coming up to circle around the swollen nub at the top. Your head fell back and you shook, still overstimulated from earlier, but his strong hands on your thighs held you in place.

He wrapped one of his arms around your leg, the other hand sliding two fingers into your dripping orifice, curling, teasing, scissoring, working in tandem with his mouth to coax a cascade of whimpers from your lips. His hair was a perfect handle and you tangled your fingers in his damp locks, squeezing, which only made him chuckle.

"Good girl."

The words made your clit burn and your mind fizzle out, leaving instinct to run the show. Your arms shoved his face into your sopping wet cunt. A moan from him vibrated your whole being and a tear slipped down your cheek.

Another finger joined the two already stretching your walls, it stung just right, making you crave more. He worked and worked, stretching you and sucking on your folds, nibbling the inside of your thighs all slick from his saliva.

He left nary an inch of your skin untouched. Your stomach tightened, instinct told you he wasnt what he seemed, but your body responded so well to the touch of the beast.

Soon he had all four fingers inside. The stretching was exquisite, but fingers didnt compare to what you really wanted, what you hoped he'd give you.

"You gonna relax for me, darlin?"

No response was needed as he focused his lips and tongue on your clit, sucking and flicking at the nub while his thumb joined its four friends playing with your insides.

You covered your mouth with your hand to keep from crying out as every flick of his tongue sent sharp stabs of ecstasy directly to your brain, making you cry, tears falling down your face. Heat pooled in your belly as hot as ever.

Your stretched cunt swallowed his knuckles as he slowly worked his way deeper and deeper inside, each thrust of his arm stretching you more, but you were pliable as ever under his spell.

"Yer taking me so well, sweetness." His voice sounded far away, you barely processed it but it still activated a distant part of your brain.

One more good suck and he sent you shaking and sobbing towards the brink of insanity, still working on you as you came undone around his hand, pulsing and quivering. A sweet liquid gushed out of you, running down his forearm to drip on his pants.

The sucking never stopped even as you came down from your high and it launched you into another one. Your eyes rolled back in your head and your breathing stopped but the pleasure didnt. It burned and ached in your core, stomach aching from the contractions, your toes tingling as the wind was finally cool on your skin from the sweat running down your legs, adding to your sensory overwhelm.

He finally lifted his head as the pleasure ended, his hand sliding out from your insides. He panted heavily, like he'd run a whole mile and it turned you on. Everything did right now.

"Take me." You pleaded. Your hand remained in his hair and you summoned all of your strength to pull him up off of his knees and plant his lips on yours. The taste of your own slick on his tongue sent you almost to the edge once more, your clit still screaming and begging for more.

Thoughts jumbled in your fogged brain, hands moving to rip off his suspenders before he could even speak. Pink painted nails scratched at the thick material of his shirt. You begged him to fuck you between kisses, he tried to pull away but you wrapped your legs around his waist, holding him to you. Your lips moved hungrily, sucking his tongue like you'd die without it, and he let you...for a moment...but just as you got his shirt untucked...

"Enough!" He slammed your hands down on the arms of the rocking chair with just enough force to show you his nature and remind you he IS stronger than you.

His eyes glowed red in the darkness, making you more ravenous. You realized then that you are not a tame woman. You do not do well with tame men. You crave the strange. You pleaded to him with your eyes, pulling out all the stops to try and get him to give you what you want, no, what you need.

He looked down, then back up and let out a chuckle. "You're still so needy. I can smell it all over you. Your blood sings to me, its why I came. I could hear the longing in it from miles away." He leaned in close, smelling your hair, his hot breath on your neck. The point of his sharp fangs traced down your skin, bringing goosebumps to the surface.

He was still hard and it pressed against your needy core, prompting you to grind yourself into him. You cried and moaned and ground over and over, getting wet and needy and sensitive

"Whats your name?" You whispered against his ear.

He shivered. "Remmick."

You moaned his name nice and slow, grinding extra hard against him. It only made the need worse.

"Fuck me, bite me, just dont leave."

The urge to pin you down and have his way with you, to drain you of your luscious life force, thick and hot, coursing through your veins, his cock buried deep inside of you. He fought it. He fought so hard.

"Bite me." You pulled your head back to look at his face, what little of it you could see in the dim moonlight was handsome in a rugged sort of way; brown curls stuck to his forehead, stubble glazing his jaw, full lips slack-jawed at what you just said.

A whimper escaped you as you brought your lips so close to his you could feel them as you begged, nuzzling your face on his, feeling his stubble on your cheeks, the grows that rumbled from the depths of his chest with every breath.

"Please Remmick," between your teeth his bottom lip tasted of blood and pussy, your breasts pressing hard against his chest.

Before his eyes, your neck called to him, the pulsing in his ears didn't stop, the rush like a waterfall of life.

He didnt need light to see your veins pumping.

His lips crushed yours, one hand on the back of your head, the other snaking to your low back to lift you off of the chair.

Couldn't get enough.

Couldn't fight it.

His hair was damp but you fisted your hands in it nonetheless. It was all too much but not enough at the same time, akin to a mosquito bite that itches but hurts when you scratch it. His hands are hot against your skin, burning deliciously. He falls to his knees, laying you on the soft grass just beside your porch. In seconds your nightgown is off, your back cold against the ground, and your lips are still together while you frantically strip each other down to nothing in more ways than one.

Your back arched, soft lips trailing down the hollow of your neck and to your breasts, his hands caressing your torso, tenderizing the flesh of your supple belly. "Yer so warm and soft, I need ya so bad baby."

"Then sink into me." His red eyes met yours as if asking. You tangled your hands in his hair again and pulled him up to taste you, wrapping your arms around his neck. His tongue tasted of sin and slick, arousing you even further. Knowing exactly what he wanted made it easy to get what you craved so badly in your core. You ached. Burned. Just as much, maybe more than he did, you didnt know, you just knew you needed to be satisfied. Remmick kissed your neck, feeling your jugular pulsing against his pursed lips. He licked it, tasting the sweat that frosted your skin.

"Can I? Please? You smell so good baby." The sweet way he begged for you, the longing in his voice did something to your resolve, made you want to make him cum for you.

"Enter me and you can taste me." You breathed as you took his earlobe between your teeth. You felt him shudder between your legs.

Finally the tip of his throbbing cock brushed against your wet center. A whimper bubbled up from somewhere deep, somewhere primal and vulnerable. Your mind clouded with need.

"Please remmick, please. I need it. I need you.." One good thrust and he was in, hot and hard, buried deep where he belonged.

You couldnt help but let out a wail as his fangs sunk into your neck, your fingernails raked down his back, and his hips started to move.

The ache. It...grew. It felt different, the blinding pleasure of a thick cock sliding through your gummy walls mixed with the sharp tugging ache that pulled from deep inside every muscle in your body.

Slowly with each thrust of the vampires hips you brain grew foggy, dizzy. Suddenly the grass felt like a cloud beneath the two of you. Instead of squeezing or pulling, your hands rested in his hair. Moans and wails turned to small mewls of pleasure as you felt everything but could do nothing.

He pulled his teeth out of you, licking up the mess he made, sending shivers up your spine.

"You okay baby?" I only took a little bit."

You could only get up the strength to tell him not to stop. He sat back and pulled you up in front of him.

"I got ya, just relax sweetie, ill take care of you." His voice, smooth like a fine wine, drifted into your ears and set you on fire.

Remmicks big hands sunk into your soft thighs as he slammed you down onto him with a ferocity that made something inside of you snap. His throat tasted of copper with your tongue plunged deep inside of it, a batshit attempt at crawling into his skin so you could finally be where you belonged.

Sharp fangs scraped your lips. You bit his. No holds were barred, you tugged hard at his hair to keep his lips crushed against yours. Tongues danced and teeth clashed. You went as hard as you could, knowing he could stand anything and everything you gave him and more.

The cruching force of his thrusts never wavered. You liked it that way; rhythmic, steady, unending. Your toes curled, pussy clenched, heart began to race.

"Let go, cum for me darlin'." His panted words pushed you past the tipping point and you cried out in ecstasy, trembling as he continued to lift you up and down, not stopping in the slightest.

"There ya go." He groaned out as he felt your walls clamp down around his shaft, your cries echoing in his ears.

His thrusts began to falter slightly as he grunted, head buried in your neck. Fingers dug into the meat of your ass, gripping on for dear life as the ancient man whined pathetically and dumped his seed in your womb. You felt the hot liquid pooling at your cervix and seeping out at the base of his cock still firmly planted inside of you.

You panted together, chests rising and falling in time, his eyes no longer red, teeth back to normal. You alolmost liked him better the other way.

"Would you like to come in for a glass of iced tea?" You half-whisper-panted.

"Of course." He smiled lazily, eyes almost takign a reddish hue at your words.

[velvetground-6]

another round 18+, remmick smokes while he fucks

. . .

“d’you just fuckin’ squirt on me, slut?”

you can only mewl while your hole clenches in weak periodic beats around remmick’s dick. wincing when he yanks his wet meat out and slaps your puffed up pussy with it, laughing maniacally while your hole squeezes more helpless juices out in his absence. trying to clench a hold onto something.

“dirty little slut leakin’ a damn puddle all over us. who woulda thought this pussy does more when she’s fucked and filled right.”

“r-rem—remmick please, keep giving it to me, need you to keep me full—“

“greedy hole still wants it even after slobberin’ all over me twice already. christ. alright, you want it so bad, imma make you work for it,” he teases, rutting the lips of your rim with his pudgy tip before sitting back, patting his thighs in an invitation. the wet spot you left is still squished and stained on the sheets beneath. his red glowing eyes dilate just feeling the warmth you squirted, smelling the insatiable want all over you. he knew your time of the month was coming from how fast and willing you’ve bent over for him tonight. sticking your ass out and spreading. definitely ovulating. he knows it’s gonna take a couple more rounds than normal to fill your weeping little hole.

“here. get in this lap, ride all the dick you need, cowgirl.”

and so you did, boy you fucking did. locking him up so he stays put beneath your thighs, scrambling to take his dick and point it back home. remmick is more than impressed with your stamina. keeps his eyes trained on your shiny, fucked out hole while you rut and slip and slide against him before hurrying to sit down and claim him all the way in. he winces when he feels your possessive muscles clench, cute happy bounces while you sigh with relief while his cock fulfills all your horny wishes.

remmick groans a low, animalistic oohhh before swiftly picking up his pack of smokes just to the left of the bed on your nightstand, lazily sticking it in his lips. he can’t even light it immediately from the gushing sensation of your pussy taking him, growling on him, rubbing all your spots with him like he’s the best toy you’ve ever had. once he’s sure he won’t bust prematurely for you, he moans more with the cigarette still tucked in the corner of his lips, and finds the strength to nab the lighter and light the tip, blowing out a relieving puff of smoke while his other hand dances across your lower back, occasionally raising his hips up to surprise you with going even deeper.

remmick blows another cloud of smoke out, hardly keeping up with your bounces while catching his breath. the cigarette just added another hazy buzz, his dirty grin practically stitched to his cheeks while he zoned in on your meek little hole, noisily creaming around him.

“yeah, yeah I know that’s s’right, keep hoppin’. hop on that dick. go on, squirt on me again, wanna watch it happen this time,” he huffs. hissing while your pussy clenches down some more, rounding your hips around and finding more breathtaking angles that have you both howling.

“I’ll cum for you, I’ll make another mess just for you, just for you baby—god, can’t help it when this dick’s so good,” you whine, feeling his length accidentally slip out in the middle of a good thrust. his cock automatically slaps up onto his stomach, riddled in your juices. you whip your head back and stare down, trying to get a grasp on him again without even an ounce of patience left in your body.

“shhh, shhh hunny I got it, I gotcha. I’m puttin’ ‘em back in now, don’t stress that little pussy out. it’s comin’, comin’ right back in. thereee we go. feel that?”

his cigarette is stuck back between his lips while he holds one of your hips, gliding his tip right back in your needy, sopping hole. the sigh of relief you felt turns into another loud moan, sinking all the way back down on him and getting your rhythm back on like nothing in the world could ever interrupt you again.

“that’s it little bunny, little bunny needs her dick, hmm?”

“mmmhmmm.”

“oh I know that’s right, look at her, look at her go.”

he marvels at your speed winding up, watching you sink back down and pump back up, filling yourself over and over again with his cock balls deep, little splashes coating his thighs and your inner lips during the ride.

he blows more smoke out, so distracted he almost forgets it’s still lit. “so proud of you angel, little pussy’s gotten so good. you gonna gimme what I want? you gonna squirt a pretty little flood? c’mon, c’mon you can do it. you got it baby, fuck, fuck, keep bouncin’ little vamp, I’m gonna fuckin’ nut—“

“nut inside me, cum in my pussy, cum in my pussy, my pussy needs it—need my fuel, I’m gonna cum with you baby, your cock makes me feel so good,” you howl, clenching hard enough to trap him inside before you feel that all too familiar tense grip of both his palms right on your hips, squeezing like you’ll float away if he lets go. he grinds his teeth with a raspy, throaty moan, cigarette barely staying lit while he humps upwards to fully nest himself in.

“mmmm feel this baby, feel it shootin’ inside you, keep fuckin’ yourself on it hunny, yeah.”

remmick takes one last long hit of his smoke, blowing it out in a hurry while he pumps his hips up one last time. his balls felt blue, tightening up before the tingling feeling in his belly overpowers him. he makes a strangled noise that sounds like he got punched in the gut, first squeezing his eyes shut when the first spurt leaves him, scorching hot cum now unstoppably flooding your pussy, your womb. remmick forces his eyes to stay back open, watching with eagle eyed intensity while your pussy keeps hopping up and down on him, his cream oh so subtly making thick milky drips down, adding to more to this fucking mess. he hums so long while you pump him through it, tightening and whimpering while your own orgasm whips you out of it, leaving a hot, sticky wet mess behind and a shy little spurt of more cum right onto him.

“yeahhhh, knew that cunny had it in her. squirtin’ on this dick good. that’s it, that’s fucking it!—mmm slow that pussy down a sec, slow down,” he gasps, feeling the highest extreme of intensity, sensitivity, while his balls helplessly shrivel up again to let out another weak, sorry ass stroke of cum. beads of white sticking to your labia, a disgusting mess that he already wants to stuff his face in.

“darlin’, oh—mmmm you gave it to me good, got me so good this time. cain’t fuckin’ handle that pussy’s greed,” he gasps, halting your hips with desperation so his only his tip stays stuck in. his dick is three shades redder than he’s ever seen, wiped out from all the rounds your pussy took him on.

“alright, alright. tell you what. we clean up, I finish my damn smoke, then I’ll give this dick to ya nice and good again, sound good baby? sound fair?”

your mouth has stayed open, stuck in an o-shape while you finally allow him out. sticking your hips up to let his tip leave you, feeling a striking emptiness when his cock left your body. trying not to pout on him, knowing you’ve put him through enough rounds that most people wouldn’t get all month, you lazily agree with a smile, a little pinch of your lip, biting down while wiggling yourself back a little to give him a good show of what he’s done to you.

a stringy, thick glob slowly but surely dribbles down, landing right back down on the base of his dick. remmick’s blood boils just looking at it, reaching up to smack your cheek and spread a lip open just to watch even more fall out.

“five fucking minutes,” he grumbles, taking two deep drags of his smoke again, already feeling the heartbeat in his dick start accelerating up again. “gimme five minutes, then I’m all yours again, baby. I’ll fill that pussy up with s’more nut, all the nut you need,” he promises. snakes just a middle finger over your bulging, ruined clit, swirling a little circle there to soothe you.

“getchu plenty of dick, got plenty to fill my cute ass slut. here, sit down. grind it down on me, just rub. yeah, like that, just like that. good girl. get it hard again, we’ll pick right up where we left off. fuckin’ cleanin’ you up later. mmmmhm.”

. . .

another repost from my old blog I have a lot more to go through

[thecontortionistsportal]

[fairyysoup]

so it goes...

pairing(s): jack wilder (now you see me) x fem!reader

summary: You did a number on me, but honestly, baby, who's counting?

(Or, whoever said magicians aren't hot has never met Jack Wilder.)

words: 7.3k

cw: explicit, smut, fingering, piv sex, unprotected sex, biting, scratching, hypnotism, (absolutely unrealistic 'now you see me' style hypnotism anyways), hand & finger kink, forced orgasms, exhibitionism, teeniest bit of choking, alcohol consumption, hook-up, pick-pocketing, card tricks as foreplay, jack steals our heart AND our wallet, we're ignoring red flags for the sake of the porn, takes place sometime post-first film, no nysm3 spoilers because i haven't seen it lol

a/n: This was born from a fanfiction that I began writing, literally, ten years ago to the DAY of my beginning to write this one. I wrote the first version when I was not the seasoned writer I am now, and I was too scared to just write what I wanted. So, this is a very (very) heavily reworked version of the original I started all those years ago, as an ode to my inner teen, who just really wanted dave franco to seduce her with card tricks. Never give up on that old fic etc. etc.

ALL MY WORKS ARE 18+ MINORS DNI

I'm yours to keep, and I'm yours to lose You know I'm not a bad girl but I do bad things with you So it goes...

You clocked the man at the bar nearly as soon as you walked in; you wanted to eat him for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. You liked a man with strong, beautiful hands, and his were perfect. He wore a black leather jacket, and his palm dwarfed the Old Fashioned he drank— or was it a Manhattan? Whichever it was that came with a maraschino.

His forefinger tapped absent-mindedly on the rim of the glass. He leaned back in his chair, then leaned forward. He bounced his leg, then cracked his knuckles, then lifted his drink to his lips. It was like he was doing some kind of nervous choreography that you just couldn't land on a reason for.

You singled him out. Maybe he could tell that you did.

Now, when you sit one seat down from him and order a Nikolashka, you see him glance over at you and smirk in the mirrored backsplash.

"Classy." His voice is boyish and light. You press your lips together and turn to find him peering at you over the rim of his glass, and god help you. His eyes are like two smoldering embers.

"I'm sorry?"

"A Nikolashka. It's very… elegant. Refined." He waves his hand. You track the movement with your eyes hungrily, and you definitely catch the twitch at the corner of his mouth.

"And which are you?" you ask him mildly, "Elegant or refined?"

He gives you a slight grimace as he hisses through his teeth. "Neither." His dimples are something otherworldly, and you find yourself wanting to bite the cheek that made them.

"So, what are you, then?"

"Depends," he hums. He looks thoughtful for a moment, and then squints at you. "How do you feel about card tricks?"

Dark eyes, good hands, dimples, and card tricks. He's going to kill you. "Intrigued."

He chuckles, and sets down his glass with a quiet tap onto the mahogany bartop. Somehow, you've whittled down a spot in the middle of the busy bar where the music is dimmed, the energy is more of a steady thrum than the overall chaos around you. As you slide your drink over one space and sit beside him, you enter a bubble that encircles the two of you, alone.

This close, you see the veins on his hands, each freckle on his cheek. He is objectively beautiful, too pretty for you to look at for too long without blushing. He fishes a deck of cards out of the inside of his leather jacket, and glances at you from beneath unfairly long lashes. "You'll have to forgive me if this sucks. I'm nervous."

"Oh, don't tell me that," you mutter, then take a little sip of your drink. The alcohol wips all the moisture from your mouth. "I expect you to wow me."

"All right. No pressure there." With a little smile, he fans the cards out at you. "Pick a card, any card. Don't let me see. Here—" He claps his free hand over his eyes, then peeks between his fingers at you. "I'm not looking, I promise."

You choose from the center and tilt it towards you, careful not to catch it in the mirror behind the bar. Eight of Hearts.

"Okay, now shove it back in there."

You finally let a little giggle slip. It's absurd, like something a boy would do to impress you in high school, but it's… charming. He's charming you. Which is unexpected, at least, but never unwelcome.

He does a little flourish with the cards, impressively shuffling them in an arc, and flips over the top card of the deck before pronouncing confidently, "Is this your card?"

It is, in fact, the King of Spades. "Not a chance."

"Really? Shit." Looking confused, he pats at his breast pockets, his back pockets. "This usually works. Y'know what, check— check your back pocket?"

You nearly roll your eyes. You've been watching his hands since you sat down, and he knows it. He saw how fixated you are on them, so there's no real way he could have put anything in your pocket—

Except, there is. You pull a playing card from your left pocket, completely shocked. "How…?" It's the Eight of Hearts, but this time, there's something written on it. A phone number.

"Is that your card?"

You've actually been stunned into silence. You look at it for a long time, then at his hands, then at his pretty face, smirking coyly at you.

"Well, I guess it must be," you say, looking at him coquettishly over the top of your glass. "And what name do I write under this number?"

"Jack," he says with a grin. "Jack Wilder."

You know his name, but you can't quite put your finger on where you've heard it, yet. It's like a foggy memory, buried deep down beneath years upon years of media consumption and names of people met in passing.

"Well, Jack Wilder," you repeat, putting extra emphasis on his name. You tuck the card into your back pocket slowly, keeping your eyes trained on him. "I'll forgive you for obviously touching my ass during that trick, as long as you let me buy you another drink."

He blinks at you. "Is that meant to be some kind of punishment?"

"It depends on what you ask for."

At that, he finally laughs. He throws his head back in a sweet way, like he can't laugh without putting his whole body into it. It almost makes you feel smug as you take another sip of your drink.

After signaling for another drink, Jack turns to you. "So, what about you? Do you know any magic?" He draws out the word 'magic' like it's a joke.

You think for a moment. "The only thing I can really do is read tarot. Poorly."

"What? That's actually crazy."

"I know, it's weird, isn't it?"

"No, I mean it's crazy because I have a tarot deck. Right now." Jack reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out another card deck, slightly bigger, and sets it on the bar in front of you. The High Priestess stares up at you from the top of the deck.

"How many card decks do you happen to have in there?" You ask with mild amusement.

"About three at any given time." He shrugs when you shoot him an incredulous look. "It's good to be prepared."

You narrow your eyes at him. "You're not some kind of card sharp, are you?"

Jack cracks a wide grin. "Why, would you hate me if I was?"

"No, I'd just be working that much harder to figure you out."

Jack presses his lips together like he's secretly pleased that you're so fascinated with him, and taps the card deck on the counter. "You could always predict my future, right?"

You snort. "Right." In spite of yourself, you pick up the deck and shuffle it with a lot less flourish than he did. "You know how to read these, I take it?"

"Not really, I just like the artwork. The deck gives me something to do with my hands." There it is, the small clue-in to his demeanor. He has to be moving, stillness doesn't suit him. When he sits still, there's a slight tremor that remains in his hands or in his leg, like he's constantly on high alert. You make a note of it as you shuffle the cards, and then set the deck on the counter, face-down.

"Knock on it three times." You watch as Jack does as he's told, his fist tapping lightly on the cards and looking almost comical in their gentility. You flip over the first card. Death, on his pale horse, stands over a battlefield. You blow out a puff of air. "Well, shit. You're dead."

Jack laughs again. "An excellent observation. You're good."

"Thank you, thank you." With a smirk, you turn over the next card. The Eight of Swords reversed. "Aha. You were holding yourself back, but you finally found your freedom from something, and now you're heading down a new path. Does that sound right?"

He rests his chin in his palm, looking vaguely impressed. "You can do magic."

You try hard not to preen in front of him. "Yeah? That's good to hear."

"So, pray-tell, where is this new path taking me?" He continues looking at you, chin in his hand, like he can see into your mind. You feel like every thought you have is laid out in front of him. You wonder if he can read your entire soul on your face.

You flip over the third card and set it down in front of him. The Lovers.

"I don't suppose you need me to interpret that for you," you say, meeting his eye again, your insinuation hanging in the air between you.

His gaze travels down to your lips just once, and lingers there for a long moment. You don't know it yet— and how could you? It's supposed to be a secret, he is supposed to be a secret— but you terrify him. You noticed him when he had just been trying to get away from reality for a little while, trying to forget that he's on the run, that he has to pretend to be someone he's not. He isn't supposed to be telling people his real name. He isn't supposed to be picking people up in bars and doing stupid card tricks to impress them.

You baffle him. You don't even know how right you are about him, so right that you could probably guess who he is without him telling you, given time. And, unfortunately, Jack has always been drawn to things that could easily destroy him.

Held aloft on that suspension, you don't object when he asks to close the tab.

"Bullshit."

"I swear to god! You can even google it, I won't be mad."

Your combined laughter bounces down the hallway past hotel rooms, televisions echoing beyond closed doors. Your arm slung around Jack's shoulders, he bears your weight with one arm while he carries your discarded heels with the other. When you complained about your feet hurting, he had offered to carry you from the taxi up to your room, but you declined. Even so, you appreciate the gallantry.

"That Jack Wilder— The Four Horsemen Jack Wilder— he died. I remember hearing about it." And you remember now, that's where you'd heard the name. It had been all over the news. Even if you weren't keeping up with Las Vegas magic acts, everyone has at least heard about the magicians-turned-thieves. You couldn't get away from hearing about them if you tried.

"You really don't know how easy it is to fake your own death. Here," Jack chuckles, using his free hand to dig out his wallet. "There, under the top one. My I.D."

You snatch it from him, walking blindly as he advances with you down the hall. You find several I.D.'s, each with a different name, each older than the last— but the oldest, with an address in Brooklyn, bears the name Jack Wilder.

"Cute picture." You grunt and hand the wallet back to him. Not to be duped so easily, you pull out your phone to do a quick Google search on the Horsemen. An image search or two confirms that Jack, your Jack (or so you desperately want him to be), is the Jack Wilder. The same stupidly pretty smile. The same mischeivous eyes. The same arch to his brow.

You spin around, squinting at him, flashing your phone in his face. He looks somewhat bemused, like he was fully expecting it. "Okay. So, you're back from the dead. Any explanations, or will I stay in the dark?"

"Ah… I stole a cadaver and made it have a car accident. It's not that interesting." Jack waves it off, as if it's the most normal thing in the world. "Now I'm just staying under the radar, I suppose. Only thing you can do. 'Lotta people want me, few can have me. You know how it is."

"Merritt McKinney, J. Daniel Atlas…" you read as you meander through the Wikipedia article on the Four Horsemen. "Hey, what does the J. stand for, anyways?"

"Jerk-off." He says it way too quickly for it to not be personal.

You cackle, probably a lot louder than you intended to. You lean back against the wall beside your hotel room door. "So you're telling me that you're this… this ex-David Copperfield fugitive from justice?"

"Hey, I'm not entirely out of commission yet," he insists, holding up his hands, your sparkling heels dangling from the fingers of one. "But yeah, I've been ordering pizza under the name 'Kevin' for about a year now."

"And why didn't you tell me your name is 'Kevin'?" You quirk an eyebrow at him. "Seems like if you're in hiding, it would be safer to keep up the charade."

"Maybe," Jack hums, sounding like he doesn't quite agree. "But, I'm not in the business of lying to girls I want to take home, so."

You let out a little puff of air, unsure of whether to laugh or melt before him. You aren't used to men being so candid with you. "And what if I slammed the door in your face?"

"Well, that would be pretty hard," he tells you, looking upwards like he's really mulling it over. "Considering I have your room key."

"What— hey." You feel at the inside pocket of your jacket, finding no room key-card anywhere. When you look back up at him, he has it extended between his two fingers, and swipes it through the card reader on the door. The lock beeps, and the door swings open to reveal the dimly lit room within. "Unbelievable. When did you do that?"

"In the cab."

In the cab. In the cab, when you were so busy trying not to attack his face or otherwise mount him that you were completely distracted. It must have happened sometime when you crawled into the backseat, and his hands guided you in like the gentleman he'd been, up until this point. The ghost of his touch remained on your waist, but you hadn't felt him stealing anything from your pockets.

You realize then, with only a base amount of embarrassment, that you're biting your lip just thinking about his hands on you. It takes all your strength not to pull him in and kiss him immediately, although you doubt he would object if you did.

"So," you say, leaning against the open door frame, your breathing strained from trying not to let it get too erratic. God, he's gorgeous. And it pisses you off that it effects you so deeply, but you can't help how badly you want him. You've been aching for him all evening, fantasizing about him, trying not to squirm too much at the bar or in the taxi. It's getting to be too much for you, the heat between your legs a constant, demanding presence. "You got any other tricks up your sleeve?"

"One or two."

"Will you show me?"

His grin could light up a stadium. "Sure, I can."

Down the hall somewhere, a door opens. Jack turns his head to look in the direction of the sound, and in that moment you snatch him by the collar of his grey t-shirt and yank him full-force into your hotel room. He bashes into you, tripping over the door jamb, and you kick the door shut before you both slam up against the wall.

"Whoa— easy," he chuckles, his nose bumped against yours. "I promise I'll come willingly."

"I'm counting on it."

With that you finally kiss him, tugging his lower lip between your teeth, and you hear the dull thunk of your shoes being dropped on the carpet. Everything about him surrounds you; the spice of his cologne, the warmth of his body, the taste of the alcohol he drank. His hands slide around your waist to pull you close, and this time you feel it when he slips your room key into your back pocket, tucked right against the card with his number on it— although you figure you only felt it because he let you. His hands on either side of your face, fingers in your hair, he backs you into the corner like it's the only thing he's been wanting to do since he saw you.

"You're so fucking hot," Jack breathes into your mouth, his thumb tracing along your jawline. His fingers could burn a line along your skin, like you might just wake up in the morning to find scorch marks where he touched you.

His kiss is frenzied, almost rushed and desperate— when you break away, gasping for air, a string of saliva connects you by the lower lip. His face is covered in your lipstick, your dark red painting a chelsea smile around his mouth.

"You have something…" You swipe your finger along the trail of lipstick, but he just grins and backs away. You don't know how you look, but you swipe your hand across your mouth for good measure.

"Is it my color?" He doesn't look too worried about the state of his appearance. He frames his face with his hands, posing at you with a sardonic smile. "Does it go with my outfit?"

"Yeah, you look real sexy," you snicker, pulling him back towards you by his jacket lapel. You watch his pupils dilate, his smile faltering for just a moment while you bring your thumbs up and wipe the makeup from his face. "You're lucky I didn't just fuck you in that disgusting bar bathroom."

"Thank god for that." His voice has gone a little bit rough, his easy-going veneer slipping as you trace your fingernail along his cheekbone. "Now I can take my time."

"Touch me," you order, leaving no room for argument.

You expect him to go directly for your waist or your chest, to weasel his hands under your shirt, to remove your bra with some kind of abracadabra, or whatever the hell he does. But, he hadn't been joking about taking his time, and you take a trembling breath when he cradles your jaw in his hand, turning your head like you're something precious, and kisses the spot just below your ear. Your eyes fall shut, and you swear that you really are melting, like he is somehow able to dismantle you with a single brush of his lips.

And then you realize that your earring is missing.

"Jack." You don't even turn your head to look at him. You would be annoyed if it wasn't a little bit hilarious.

"Sorry. Bad habit." His words come out muffled as he pulls your earring from between his lips and drops it into your outstretched palm, looking like he's been caught with his hand in the cookie jar. It glints in the light for a moment before you chuck it aside, hearing it plink somewhere on the dresser.

The placing of your hand on his belt grabs his attention. You tug him close, his hips nearly pressed up to yours, your back against the wall. In the stilted air between your faces, you hiss, "Behave."

Jack's eyelids flutter, his gaze raking over your face once, twice. "I'll try my best."

But he won't. You know that he won't, and you hate that you want him even more for it.

Jack drags his hand down, down, down, running along the curve of your breast, the dip of your waist. He traces the seam of your jeans, startling you with his boldness. You give him a tight gasp and arch against his touch, almost embarrassed with how readily you react to him. His two fingers press against your cunt through the fabric, and you moan as you part your legs for him.

"There we go," Jack whispers to you, his voice light as a feather. When you blink your eyes open, you find him searching your face, his eyebrows slanting upward. "Is this where you want me?"

His fingers split into a V, tracing slowly around the seam, bracketing the outline of your cunt. He drags upwards, avoiding all the places you want him most, and then slides down again, pressing harder. Your mouth hangs open, and you stop breathing, stop thinking, stop doing anything of substance.

"Answer me, sweetheart." His whispered inquiry passes through your foggy mind, but it's the pause of his touch that finally snaps you into a response.

"Yes— Jack, please." You're torn between wanting the upper hand and wanting to give it over to him, but from the way he has you mindless with one touch, you're not sure you ever had the upper hand to begin with.

He pops the button on your jeans without further comment, and there's a touch of his lips against your jaw, a hint of a breath on your neck, and then he dips his hand beneath your waistband. You're throbbing, aching for him and frozen under the weight of his gaze. Then the rough, calloused pads of his fingers dip into your wetness, and you both gasp at the same time.

"You can't have gotten this turned on by my dorky card tricks," Jack murmurs, his fingers tracing a delicate path through the soaking heat of your pussy. Without him even urging you, you widen your legs and push your hips against his touch.

"It's just— I— I like— fuck." You can't think straight, not when he's touching you like that. His fingers swirl around your clit with a precision that's completely debilitating, and he watches you with his eyes just inches from your face.

"'You like' what?"

Your cunt throbs at the rasp of his voice, the slow strokes of his fingers, but you can't look away from him. Not even for a second. "Your hands. I like— like your ha—"

His two fingers drive into you to the knuckle, and you cut yourself off on a whine. Jack flexes his hand, nearly pulling you away from the wall with the force of it, and your nails rake down the back of his leather jacket with a noisy ripping sound.

It's good. It's really, really good, and the sounds coming from you are obscene, the air around you already thick with tension and sweat. His eyes are focused in on you, but they're so blown out that they've gone nearly black. You bite back a moan and lurch against him, trying to meet the slow thrusts of his fingers with your hips and only meeting resistance.

"My hands," he repeats, and his voice is disarming, almost lulling. Jack tilts his head and hums low in his throat, moving so that you keep your eyes on his. You practically wither under his stare. "That's it. My hands on you, inside you. Do you think I could go deeper? Would you like that, too? Feel me, deeper."

You hear a snap somewhere in your periphery, a soft ticking in the background of your thoughts. Like the ticking of a clock, this gentle snap—snap—snap— and you realize that he's whispering to you, but it's so soft you're barely catching the words. He does drive his fingers deeper, curling them in a way that has you keening, held captive in his stare. You still hear that snapping, echoing through your head like a gentle refrain.

"What— What are you doing to me?" Beneath the tremble in your voice is a note of suspicion. You feel like you're falling into him, the space between you is electric, everything else is intangible.

"Do you know what the fun thing about hypnotism is?" Jack asks, his voice quiet, just above a whisper, now. Everything within you draws up tight at the sound of it, coiling up like a cobra ready to strike. His fingers move at a steady pace, keeping you rocking against him. The pleasure ebbs and flows like the swing of a pendulum. "I can make you cum with the snap of my fingers."

It's entirely unpredictable. He has you frozen in place, unable to really move or think, except to dig your nails into his leather jacket and accept that Jack is not like any other guy you'd ever picked up at a bar. Your voice comes out strained when you say, "That's not behaving."

"No," he agrees. "But you don't really want me to behave, do you? You want me to show you my tricks. This is number one." Jack crowds close and spread your legs wider to accomodate, until the only thing holding you up is his body. You have no choice but to let go, and trust that he won't let you fall.

"Shit— Jack." You wilt against him. Hands scrambling for something to hold onto, you find nothing but his hair, his shoulder, the wall behind you. You moan pathetically loud— so loud you're sure it can be heard on the other side of the door, but you don't really care. You don't have it in you to care about anything anymore.

You cant your hips toward him, your toes just barely skimming the carpet, but he keeps the pace slow, deliberate. He swirls his fingers around your clit, sending warmth dancing in spirals along your nerves. Your breath comes out in uneven pants, and your fingers tug on his hair just enough to make him purr, the sound absolutely lighting you up from the inside.

"Ready?" Jack whispers, and you nod without even really thinking about it. Ready for what, you're not sure, but you know you're ready for whatever he wants to give you.

He raises his hand in the air, just beside your head, and he snaps his fingers.

And you shatter.

Your cunt clenches down around the stretch of his fingers, and you yank on his collar, trying so hard and still failing to stay quiet. It pulses through you in quick succession, the tension that's been buidling in you all night finally let loose with his one command.

You've never fucking cum on command before.

Jack's hand slows to a stop, and then he withdraws while keeping himself between you and gravity. His hand lingers just at your waistband while you catch your breath, panting up at the ceiling.

"What the fuck," you wheeze in the comedown, your body still twitching against him. "You— did you really just— just hypnotize me?"

"I did." He sounds just as shocked as you are. His voice is still soft, but that cadence of wanting to lull you is gone. "Although, you're pretty agreeable when I have my hand down your pants."

Covered in sweat from head to toe, you have to shed your jacket just to take back a bit of normalcy. You huff a laugh, then level your gaze at him again. "I guess most people are?"

"I, uh— I wouldn't know. That's a relatively new trick for me." Jack gives a small exhale of disbelief, still completely taken aback. He's flushed up to his ears, his chest heaving almost as much as yours. "Was it… was that too much?"

You shake your head. It was, in fact, so unbelievably hot that you're having trouble even forming the words to express it. You grab his hand, still lingering down by your waist, and bring it to your lips. Jack follows your movements with his eyes, those eyes, his fingertips flexing slightly in your hold. You can't help yourself. You part your lips and take his fingers into your mouth, swirling your tongue around the two that had just been deep in your pussy.

"Jesus." He has the decency to look surprised— he wasn't expecting you to do that. It's almost endearing after all this; after you eyeing them all night in the bar, after him making you cum on them, making you admit your fixation. Maybe he thought you were exaggerating when you told him that you like his hands, but you were serious. You're so serious that you could spend hours just tracing his fingers with your tongue. Doesn't matter if you can taste yourself on them or not.

"Do you think you could do that to me in public?" You ask once you pull his fingers, glistening with your spit, from your mouth. You bat your lashes at him, but you feel like your blood is boiling beneath your skin. "Could you snap your fingers and make me cum in a room full of people without them even knowing?"

Jack's eyebrows shoot up. "Would you want me to?"

"Mmm." You're nodding, moving your hands up his chest and beneath his leather jacket. You meet tension when you cup his shoulders beneath the leather, and he finally shrugs the jacket off so that it lands with your discarded one on the ground. "I'd let you do anything you want to me, Jack."

His eyes dart sideways toward the bed a second before he snatches you around the waist. Jack guides you like he's dancing, his feet staggered with yours. Your shirt is forfeit— it lands somewhere across the room, and later you'll find it hanging off of the floor lamp in the corner. Rough hands meet your bare skin, flesh on flesh, nearly burning in the relief it brings you.

He kisses you and it's all teeth, visceral need punching a hole through the thin veil of restraint he'd been operating behind. The easy pace that he'd set, the quip about taking his time, has gone out the window. It's replaced with desperation and blind desire, the limits of what his patience can handle exceeded. He undoes your bra clasp with a single pinch, yanks at your jeans with a demanding huff. Your knees hit the edge of the bed and you plop down, landing on your elbows.

"God— control yourself." Your teasing falls on deaf ears; Jack is much too preoccupied with getting you out of your jeans, and your heart nearly stalls at the sight of him before you, his hands so sure as they tug your jeans down your legs, a low hum issuing from his throat as he presses a kiss to the curve of your stomach.

"Nope. Not happening, not right now." His palm smooths up your bare calf as though he's trying to map out every part of you he can get his hands on and dedicate it to memory. Jack turns his head and presses one kiss there at the plushest part of your thigh, his dark eyes watching you for your reaction. When you don't pull away or object, he parts his lips and nips at the same place he just kissed.

You sigh and run your fingers through his hair just before you snag the collar of his shirt and pull. Thankfully, he finally gets the memo and pulls it off, tossing it the way of your own shirt. His wavy hair sticks up at odd angles now, his cheeks rosy, eyes wide. He looks so sweet like this, biting his bottom lip, his gaze flicking almost nervously over your face.

But then he raises his hand and snaps his fingers.

"Fuck—ing—?!" No, not sweet. Evil. He's evil. And you're cumming again, completely untouched. All your floor muscles clamp down at the sound of his fingers snapping, and you're thrown into an orgasm. Losing your balance, falling back against the mattress while your cunt spasms, legs spread for his view. You try to close them, but he plants his hands firmly on your thighs, shoving them apart before you can manage.

"You're so gorgeous when you cum for me."

He sounds so cheeky, and you have a mind to smack him. You cover your face, shaking and groaning as the aftershocks continue to pulse through you. How the fuck did he manage it? It's not like before when he had his fingers in your pussy, you were perfectly still, just waiting for him to do something—

"Yeah, I could definitely do that to you in public," he concludes, and you hear his belt clink as he undoes it.

"You little fucker," you gasp, pulling your hands away from your face. There's no real malice in it, you're still breathless while he sheds the rest of his clothes. "You think you can— you can just wave a magic wand and make me cum like that?"

Jack snickers at you. "I thought you said I could do whatever I wanted…?"

His hips are between your legs, and for a split second, you consider letting him continue. You wouldn't mind being fucked into the mattress. But something about his voice, how cute he is even when he's being a snarky little shit, fills you with fire.

You throw your legs around his waist and tip him sideways. Jack makes a startled noise that bubbles up from the pit of his stomach, and he bounces onto the mattress beside you. It's a clumsy mess of tangled arms and legs for a moment before you throw yourself over his hips and sit on his lap, hovering above him on the bed.

"I take it back. You're getting too big for your britches."

Jack doesn't say anything, just blinks up at you and suppresses a smirk while he sucks on his teeth. You can feel his cock beneath you, resting heavy against his stomach. It's big, and so impressively hard that you're amazed he's held off as long as he has. Now, the urgency to take your clothes off makes sense.

"Don't look at me like that."

"What? I'm just looking at you—" Jack shakes his head just a little bit, but he cracks a smile that turns into a laugh. He can't help it.

"Shut—" you slap your hand over his pretty mouth, making him snort, "—up." You drop your hips, and he gasps against your fingers when you grind your cunt against his cock. "It's my turn now, and I'm oh-for-two. I don't like that score."

Jack sucks in a breath through his teeth, his hips jumping at your slow glide against him. It's so wet, made worse from all his teasing, and probably so hot that it burns. He groans, grabbing at your hips with a white-knuckled grip. "Not fair. It's easier for you—"

"Right. Because forced orgasms are sooo fair." You hum low, almost allowing yourself to get lost in the feeling of your clit dragging over the ridges of his cock. You bite your lip, dipping low to press a kiss to his temple and whisper in his ear, "No more shortcuts. We're gonna do this the hard way now."

"You think hypnotism isn't hard?" His voice is so strained. Jack lifts his hand, his chest heaving while he tangles his fingers just in the ends of your hair, twisting it around them in small curls. He rocks his hips against you. "Took me a fffffucking— a year to learn that—"

"Only a year?" Your teeth graze the shell of his ear and he shudders, making a sound that should be absolutely criminal with how sexy it is. "Now you can make me cum whenever you feel like it, but I have to work for it. So fucking. Take. What I give you."

You sit up, raking your fingernails down his chest as you go. Your eyes flick down to watch red trails bloom where they'd been, goosebumps raising on his tan skin. Jack has such a nice body, covered in a thin sheen of sweat, his muscles hard and strong. You tremble on top of him, starry-eyed and nearly taken apart by the little bit of friction between you. You're soaking him, slipping along his length and so close to cumming just from rubbing yourself on his cock.

"Fuck—" Jack takes you by the hips as you lift yourself and ease him inside of you. Then, it's all you can do not to cry out towards the ceiling.

And he's up, holding you in a full-bodied embrace, his arms wrapped fully around you, his hands in your hair and on your waist. He's so deep, and his shifting around keeps sending him deeper, like he's trying to carve out a place for himself inside of you. He hisses in your ear and then… presses a kiss to your shoulder. Gentle.

You gasp once, arching into him when he rocks you a bit in his arms, sending shockwaves shooting up your spine. "You're such a goddamn gentleman."

Jack chuckles, and turns his head so that he can speak directly into your ear. "Well, do you want me to behave or not?"

The tone of his voice practically tears you in half. He's being so fucking condescending. It shouldn't turn you on the way it does, but your pussy clamps down around him and your body tenses in his arms, your eyes glued to the ceiling, your breath catching in your throat.

"Not. Got it." And then he sinks his teeth into your shoulder, where he just kissed you.

It takes you by surprise and you cry out, rolling your hips into his in earnest. There will be an imprint of his teeth on your shoulder— something to remind you for days about this, and about him. The thought consumes you, makes you needy, desperate to leave a mark on him that can compare.

Your nails claw down his back— his beautiful, gorgeous back that you can feel flex beneath your touch, now covered in the same welts you'd raised on his chest. But deeper. Harder. Something that he'll be feeling for days, whenever he takes off his shirt, whenever he lifts his arm.

Jack groans like you've punched him, holding you tight to him as though he's afraid you'll disappear. "You have no idea what you're doing to me," he mumbles, just loud enough for the words to rumble across your skin and make you shiver.

Your muscles draw up tight, your thighs locking up with the strength of it. You jolt against him. "Oh my god, Jack—"

"Are you gonna cum again?" He sounds so fucking pleased with himself. "Already?"

"No… no."

"Isn't that oh-for-three?"

"Jack, shut—" A loud moan breaks from your throat, and you snatch at his hair. You're going to cum. Shit, you didn't want to, not before he does, but it seems you can't stop the effect that he has on you.

"Noisy," Jack murmurs, and ruts his hips up into yours just to hear you do it again. "Gonna let all the neighbors know you're cumming for me?"

"They already do," you grit out. You squeeze your eyes shut while your cunt tightens down, and Jack moans into your ear. "They can fucking hear. I don't care."

"You just really—" Jack chokes on a laugh, breathless as you ride him harder, "—really want people to know I'm fucking you, huh? I can make it quicker—"

He raises his hand from your waist, but you catch it before he can snap his fingers in your ear again. You rear back and smack his hand down onto your collarbone, his thumb pressed into the dip just beside where he'd sunk his teeth in.

Oh. He looks completely fucked out. Glassy-eyed, mouth slightly open with each breath he takes. Your eyebrows tilt up slightly just at the sight, and that was the worst thing you could have done if you didn't want to cum too quickly.

Your intake of breath sounds like a sob. "You're so p-pretty—"

He gasps your name, and it's so quiet that you could have missed it if you weren't watching him, staring at his lips with every intent on kissing him. You yank him toward you with both hands, cradling him like he's the most perfect thing in the world, and you plant one on him. His hand tightens just slightly, where it rests against your throat, and you can't fucking believe it.

You cum. Just like that, with his hand on your neck, holding you in place. You moan into his lips, arch against him, and grind down like you can somehow get him deeper while your cunt spasms around his cock.

It's not fair. He can't just— he can't just make you do that by simply existing, by just looking and talking the way he does, it's not fucking fair—

"Oh, fuck." Jack tenses and rocks his hips up into you, his brows pinched together and his eyes tightly shut. He moans so beautifully, his breath sweet in your mouth, and he cums, rutting up into you as hard as he can. Your limbs feel fluid, completely spent, but he holds you to him like he can't get enough.

He doesn't let go, at first. He stays with his hand on your throat and his arm tight around your waist, crushing you against his chest while he gasps for air. His nose pressed into the crook of your neck, just where his bite mark is starting to smart. Your legs feel like jelly, but you can at least lift your hand, dig your fingers into his hair.

Peaceful. It's peaceful, is what it is. It's soft. You wouldn't have expected Jack to be the perfect balance of hard and soft, to change whichever way he fits. He's a surprise from all angles.

Finally, you collapse with him onto the bed, a jumble of boneless limbs pulled down into a sleepy stillness. Except he's not still, not entirely. In the periphery of your awareness, you feel him tracing his fingertips along your spine. He outlines little shapes across your feverish skin, listening to your breathing slow.

"You're not—" Jack begins after a moment, then pauses, and starts again. "You won't be here tomorrow."

He sounds vaguely sad about it, like he'd been hoping you'd stick around for a little while.

"No. Headed to Los Angeles tomorrow afternoon. This was just a stop-over." You sigh and curl into him, a little too exhausted by everything to even consider how you hadn't mentioned anything about it to him. You figure he just put two and two together, considering you're in a hotel room and not an apartment.

"Hm. Better get some sleep, then."

You're all too willing to take his suggestion. Just before you drift off, you feel his fingers tangle in your hair, just at the nape of your neck, twisting around and around in tight circles. Never still. Always moving.

You aren't surprised to wake up without Jack in your bed. You're only minorly disappointed, since you stupidly wished that he'd be there to say goodbye with another couple rounds. But it makes sense that he would be the type to leave without saying goodbye.

Figures. You always fall for the emotionally unavailable ones.

You are surprised, however, to be turned away by airport security while trying to get into the gate at JFK. When the TSA agent asks to see your I.D., you grab for your wallet. You don't find it in your jacket pocket, where you were sure you left it last night.

But you do find, in its place, a single playing card with a phone number on it.

"Mother fucker." In spite of your rage, while you pull out your phone to dial the number so you can get your fucking wallet back— because you fucking know he did this just to keep you in New York, just to see you again, the little shit— you can't help but smile at the words scrawled beneath it.

Jack Wilder. Here's trick number two.

[bxxibluee]

⋆ 𝑷𝒓𝒐𝒗𝒆

🍓combo ⋆˚ remmick x reader

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎toppings ⋆˚࿔ sprinkles .ᐟ m&m's

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ remmick m.list !

Nutritional label : determination is key Calories : 685 notice .ᐟ anybody ordered a blowjob ? Content Warning : 18+ mdni, blowjob, slight soft!Remmick, fingering, gagging, cum eating, praise kink

Your were legs crossed, in the air, mouth wrapped around his cock. His fingers were in your cunt, moving, fingering you with so much strength that you kept lifting your hips off the bed to match it. 

Your lips were too busy working over him. spit dribbling down his lap, your hand wrapped around the base— fingers barely touching. 

He keeps telling you that you don’t have to take him fully, don’t have to force him down your throat— but you ignore him. Opting to prove that you can.

You just didn’t think it would be this hard.

You press down, throat working— a burn at the back of your throat but you didn’t care. Another harsh suck makes Remmick’s hips roll, his fingers curling inside of your cunt. 

“B-Baby— slow down.” He moaned, using his free hand to pull your hair back, making sure nothing gets in it. An impression of a gentleman if he wasn’t already making you choke. 

“D-Doing so good.” He praised, moaning softly,  watching as you tried to take him again. 

He inserts a third finger into your greedy pussy as a reward. Your hips grinding down onto his fingers with a desperate moan. A particular harsh suck makes his hips jolt, another one elicits the same reaction. 

You’ve done that every time he's hit that spot deep in your pussy, curling his fingers— a quick reaction that you didn’t realize you were doing…until now. 

You don’t have to voice it, he knows you notice when you suck him in again— same harsh tug that makes him whimper out loud. 

You pull off with a wet pop,  tongue quick to slip out and lick up the mess you made around him. Streaks of white dripping down like melted ice cream— cool and sweet on your tongue. 

He was flushed, red, tip swollen— ready to blow any minute now. 

He just needed a little more motivation. 

You dipped your head down once more, taking him in—  pushing down until the tip of his cock hit the back of your throat and you gagged. 

Tears slipped from your eyes, hips rutting down onto his fingers with renewed want— your moans vibrating against his skin. 

He didn’t want to come in your mouth, keep your pretty throat from being ruined (even if it already was) but your need to push him over the edge was too much. 

His hands tighten at the back of your head, his chest heaving. It was so hard to keep his hips down, impossible to control the urge but fuck, you were working him so well he couldn’t stop it. 

“W-Wait—baby— h-hold on— ” he gasped, trying to pull you off by the back of your head but it was too late. 

You held yourself there. Forcing your throat to stay wrapped around him— drowning yourself in him. 

The  loud sounds of your throat working around him send him over the edge. Your stomach lurched— pussy throbbing around his thick fingers, trying to pull him in deeper. . 

The  clench of your throat working, trying to pry him out pulls another burn. makes his body shake, hips finally rolling to get some form of relief. 

He comes like that, the taste of him drenching  your mouth— voice high and pitchy like a tea kettle going off. White coats your throat, sweet and salty— the perfect flavor of release. 

You finally pull back when his cock no longer throbs, milking him for all his worth. A wet smile spreads across your face— eyes glossy with tears. 

“Did I— do good?” You asked. throat sore, raspy— the need for praise jumping in your chest. 

“Y-Yeah.” He smiled. voice soft and warm— petting your head like a proud owner. 

“Ready for your turn?” He questioned, slipping another finger into your cunt. 

Four in total, you just had to have more. 

“Y-Yes, please.” You arched your back, lifting your hips up to put your knees on the bed. 

His fingers curled once more, pumping into your pussy with rapid speed. The perfect rhythm that’ll make you cream on him within a minute. 

“Good girl.”

© ⋆⁺₊❅. 𝒃𝒙𝒙𝒊𝒃𝒍𝒖𝒆𝒆 | don’t copy, repost, or translate ! ⋆.˚

[calicocoffeecafe]

Colin Gray Headcanons

Colin Gray x Reader (NSFW)

Some personal headcanons/drabbles about Colin Gray as your boyfriend (SFW + NSFW)

Colin is a man of many flavors, I feel. He's extremely versatile when it comes to giving you affection in all of its forms. His biggest thing is with his art. Colin spends hours sketching you with various reference pictures and just from the top of his head. Not to mention the poetry this man churns out. It's practically every day he has a new work for you to read. Some of it is a lot more sweet and romantic, but he gets depraved when the mood strikes him. Lucky for you, that's often.

When it's just you two alone, he's an absolute cuddlebug. From the minute you're with him to the minute you leave, he has his arms around you, his fingers interlaced with yours, his head on your shoulder, really any form of contact he can work in. However, when around others, he definitely gets a bit more shy and might tone down the affection just for the sake of decency. He's beyond proud of your relationship and would blab about you for hours to anyone willing to listen, but he likes to keep certain things just as a treat for you and him, not others.

On that note, he doesn't shut up about you when you come up in conversation. His friends in the poetry club have heard lecture after lecture about how smart and funny you are, how beautiful you are without trying, how lucky he considers himself, and so on and so forth. To some, it's obnoxious, but to the rest, it's charming.

He's a total sweetheart at his core. Your smile is like a drug for him. Seeing the way your lips curl and your eyes scrunch up makes him feel lighter than air. He blushes so easily when it comes to you. A kiss on the cheek? Bright pink. Giggled at one of his dumb jokes? Full-on fuchsia. Grazed a finger against his arm? Hard. He's so fucking hard. Like immediately.

It makes him light-headed.

You consume his thoughts almost all hours of the day. Some would argue that he thinks about you too much, but his response to that is “Have you met her?” Because he's convinced everyone else thinks as highly of you as he does once they know you.

The guy thinks you hung the moon.

The way you smell drives him crazy. That perfume you always have on, even if it was a five-dollar purchase that you got on a random Tuesday, that scent was sweet, addictive nectar to Colin. When you two cuddle, his face is buried in your neck just huffing away like he needs that aroma instead of oxygen. Anytime he catches a whiff, his brain turns to mush. Especially when you two are making out, and you're straddling his lap as he kisses down your chest. That smell makes him so horny that he sees spots. He breathes it in while fingering you until you can't speak, words replaced with gasps and whines.

Colin lives to please in any way he can. Little favors for you at a moment's notice, driving you around as his passenger princess of darkness (a pet name he once threw out as a joke but it stuck), and 100% making you cum so hard your head spins. Whether it's using his skillful hands to coax your orgasm out of you, or eating your pussy like it's his last meal, Colin is never afraid to put your needs before his. Except when you insist.

How could he say no to you when you ask so nicely?

When he fucks you, it always starts off delicate, slow, savoring the feeling of you enveloping his throbbing cock in your warm, wet insides. However, sooner or later he loses any semblance of control and always ends up fucking you like an animal. Pushing your head into the pillows as he beats his dick into you from behind, gripping your hips so hard they bruise as you ride him, biting your neck while plowing you missionary. It's all thrilling for him. Especially the biting part. He fucking loves leaving teeth marks on your skin, even more when they surround a proud hickey.

Colin considers leaving hickies on you to be just another form of art that he can use to show you how much he loves you, and he'll use an entire afternoon just adding more and more to your body, reveling in the mewls and coos that float out of you, your body writhing under his ministrations.

Although he'd never admit it, he loves it when you tear up just a little because of how good he's making you feel. Are the bites too much? Maybe. Eyes well up while sucking him? For sure. The overstimulation of him continuing to lick at your clit after making you cum? His personal favorite. When your hands grip his hair in balled fists as he relentlessly carries on his onslaught on your quivering pussy, pushing your button past its limit, Colin can't bring himself to stop until his appetite is sated.

The good thing was that he perfectly balanced his physical doings with the sweetest, most adoring whispering of encouragement and praise whilst unraveling you. Pumping in and out of you like a machine, he purrs about how incredible you feel, how you're taking him so well, how beautiful you are when you're like this. He may not be the hardest dom in the world, but when he does take control, he's a gentle and passionate lover.

When you take the reins, however, it's a whole different story. Colin loves letting you have your way with him, shutting his brain off as you order him around, treating him like your little plaything. Being an anxious person, Colin craves opportunities to not think, and you're generous enough to provide plenty. One thing you do that he can't get enough of is when you stuff your panties into his mouth while you ride him. Cuff his wrists to the bed frame, too, and he'll be in heaven. He really likes being restrained in those scenarios. Loves relinquishing all the power to you. He trusts you with all of his heart, never fearing a thing you do while he's exposed like that.

Colin certainly has a thing for pain. Slap him. Bite him. Scratch your nails down his chest so you leave behind red marks. Choke him against the wall while you stroke his cock. He's an absolute whore for that sort of thing.

Funny how it's always the sweethearts that double as mega freaks.

On your period? Colin is a munch. He fears no blood, not from you, at least. But he also takes great care to ensure you're comfortable, well-fed, well-hydrated, and well-snuggled during those more hellish weeks of the year. He rubs your back and massages your shoulders as you both binge your latest tv-obsessions, the heating pad purring away at your stomach. He makes you herbal tea that makes your cramps less awful.

The man was raised to dote, and dote he does.

You are the center of his world, the reason he gets up in the morning, and the love of his life. Even if you both haven't even graduated yet. Hours were spent working out how to go about seeing each other when you go off to your respective colleges, pursuing different things and having different goals, but still wanting to be a part of each other's lives.

To sum up, you are Colin's everything, and he would shake the rain out of the clouds if it meant getting to spend a cozy day in with you. If you were the moon, he'd never seek the stars. “Wrapped around your finger” is too light of a term, he worships the ground you walk on.

~ ° +. ⛤ .+ ° ~

[vel-vet61]

another round ! explicit 18+, smoking, squirting, raw, messy & wet, dirty talk, overworking remmick’s dick

“d’you just fuckin’ squirt on me, slut?”

you can only mewl while your hole clenches in weak periodic beats around remmick’s dick. wincing when he yanks his wet meat out and slaps your puffed up pussy with it, laughing maniacally while your hole squeezes more helpless juices out in his absence. trying to clench a hold onto something.

“dirty little slut leakin’ a damn puddle all over us. who woulda thought this pussy does more when she’s fucked and filled right.”

“r-rem—remmick please, keep giving it to me, need you to keep me full—“

“greedy hole still wants it even after slobberin’ all over me twice already. christ. alright, you want it so bad, imma make you work for it,” he teases, rutting the lips of your rim with his pudgy tip before sitting back, patting his thighs in an invitation. the wet spot you left is still squished and stained on the sheets beneath. his red glowing eyes dilate just feeling the warmth you squirted, smelling the insatiable want all over you. he knew your time of the month was coming from how fast and willing you’ve bent over for him tonight. sticking your ass out and spreading. definitely ovulating. he knows it’s gonna take a couple more rounds than normal to fill your weeping little hole.

“here. get in this lap, ride all the dick you need, cowgirl.”

and so you did, boy you fucking did. locking him up so he stays put beneath your thighs, scrambling to take his dick and point it back home. remmick is more than impressed with your stamina. keeps his eyes trained on your shiny, fucked out hole while you rut and slip and slide against him before hurrying to sit down and claim him all the way in. he winces when he feels your possessive muscles clench, cute happy bounces while you sigh with relief while his cock fulfills all your horny wishes.

remmick groans a low, animalistic ooohhh before swiftly picking up his pack of smokes just to the left of the bed on your nightstand, lazily sticking it in his lips. he can’t even light it immediately from the gushing sensation of your pussy taking him, growling on him, rubbing all your spots with him like he’s the best toy you’ve ever had. once he’s sure he won’t bust prematurely for you, he moans more with the cigarette still tucked in the corner of his lips, and finds the strength to nab the lighter and light the tip, blowing out a relieving puff of smoke while his other hand dances across your lower back, occasionally raising his hips up to surprise you with going even deeper.

remmick blows another cloud of smoke out, hardly keeping up with your bounces while catching his breath. the cigarette just added another hazy buzz, his dirty grin practically stitched to his cheeks while he zoned in on your meek little hole, noisily creaming around him.

“yeah, yeah I know that’s s’right, keep hoppin’. hop on that dick. go on, squirt on me again, wanna watch it happen this time,” he huffs. hissing while your pussy clenches down some more, rounding your hips around and finding more breathtaking angles that have you both howling.

“I’ll cum for you, I’ll make another mess just for you, just for you baby—god, can’t help it when this dick’s so good,” you whine, feeling his length accidentally slip out in the middle of a good thrust. his cock automatically slaps up onto his stomach, riddled in your juices. you whip your head back and stare down, trying to get a grasp on him again without even an ounce of patience left in your body.

“shhh, shhh hunny I got it, I gotcha. I’m puttin’ ‘em back in now, don’t stress that little pussy out. it’s comin’, comin’ right back in. thereee we go. feel that?”

his cigarette is stuck back between his lips while he holds one of your hips, gliding his tip right back in your needy, sopping hole. the sigh of relief you felt turns into another loud moan, sinking all the way back down on him and getting your rhythm back on like nothing in the world could ever interrupt you again.

“that’s it little bunny, little bunny needs her dick, hmm?”

“mmmhmmm.”

“oh I know that’s right, look at her, look at her go.”

he marvels at your speed winding up, watching you sink back down and pump back up, filling yourself over and over again with his cock balls deep, little splashes coating his thighs and your inner lips during the ride.

he blows more smoke out, so distracted he almost forgets it’s still lit. “so proud of you angel, little pussy’s gotten so good. you gonna gimme what I want? you gonna squirt a pretty little flood? c’mon, c’mon you can do it. you got it baby, fuck, fuck, keep bouncin’ little vamp, I’m gonna fuckin’ nut—“

“nut inside me, cum in my pussy, cum in my pussy, my pussy needs it—need my fuel, I’m gonna cum with you baby, your cock makes me feel so good,” you howl, clenching hard enough to trap him inside before you feel that all too familiar tense grip of both his palms right on your hips, squeezing like you’ll float away if he lets go. he grinds his teeth with a raspy, throaty moan, cigarette barely staying lit while he humps upwards to fully nest himself in.

“mmmm feel this baby, feel it shootin’ inside you, keep fuckin’ yourself on it hunny, yeah.”

remmick takes one last long hit of his smoke, blowing it out in a hurry while he pumps his hips up one last time. his balls felt blue, tightening up before the tingling feeling in his belly overpowers him. he makes a strangled noise that sounds like he got punched in the gut, first squeezing his eyes shut when the first spurt leaves him, scorching hot cum now unstoppably flooding your pussy, your womb. remmick forces his eyes to stay back open, watching with eagle eyed intensity while your pussy keeps hopping up and down on him, his cream oh so subtly making thick milky drips down, adding to more to this fucking mess. he hums so long while you pump him through it, tightening and whimpering while your own orgasm whips you out of it, leaving a hot, sticky wet mess behind and a shy little spurt of more cum right onto him.

“yeahhhh, knew that cunny had it in her. squirtin’ on this dick good. that’s it, that’s fucking it!—mmm slow that pussy down a sec, slow down,” he gasps, feeling the highest extreme of intensity, sensitivity, while his balls helplessly shrivel up again to let out another weak, sorry ass stroke of cum. beads of white sticking to your labia, a disgusting mess that he already wants to stuff his face in.

“darlin’, oh—mmmm you gave it to me good, got me so good this time. cain’t fuckin’ handle that pussy’s greed,” he gasps, halting your hips with desperation so his only his tip stays stuck in. his dick is three shades redder than he’s ever seen, wiped out from all the rounds your pussy took him on.

“alright, alright. tell you what. we clean up, I finish my damn smoke, then I’ll give this dick to ya nice and good again, sound good baby? sound fair?”

your mouth has stayed open, stuck in an o-shape while you finally allow him out. sticking your hips up to let his tip leave you, feeling a striking emptiness when his cock left your body. trying not to pout on him, knowing you’ve put him through enough rounds that most people wouldn’t get all month, you lazily agree with a smile, a little pinch of your lip, biting down while wiggling yourself back a little to give him a good show of what he’s done to you.

a stringy, thick glob slowly but surely dribbles down, landing right back down on the base of his dick. remmick’s blood boils just looking at it, reaching up to smack your cheek and spread a lip open just to watch even more fall out.

“five fucking minutes,” he grumbles, taking two deep drags of his smoke again, already feeling the heartbeat in his dick start accelerating up again. “gimme five minutes, then I’m all yours again, baby. I’ll fill that pussy up with s’more nut, all the nut you need,” he promises. snakes just a middle finger over your bulging, ruined clit, swirling a little circle there to soothe you.

“getchu plenty of dick, got plenty to fill my cute ass slut. here, sit down. grind it down on me, just rub. yeah, like that, just like that. good girl. get it hard again, we’ll pick right up where we left off. fuckin’ cleanin’ you up later. mmmmhm.”

-

yeah yummy

[vel-vet61]

Headcanons on Remmick being fixated on Reader's noises during sex? Like the sound of her voice and her... body parts 💀💀

remmick feels blessed to have the hearing he has. this supernatural ability to hear the intimate noises you don’t know you make. blood thumping through your veins, indistinguishable sounds of your muscles tightening, and that distinctive heartbeat when it goes straight to your pussy when you’re all hot and turned on for him

he’s always been such a brat about it. knows it, can hear it when you’re grinding your teeth and flexing an arm around his shoulder to maintain some semblance of control to keep a quiet volume. too self conscious to let your natural reactions get so audible, so verbal. when he sees it he gently (but still with a knowing force of authority) smacks your jaw and grabs hold of it, thumb pressing on your chin while he’s baring his sharp canines demanding that you let go of the burden you carry of trying to be so goddamn silent when all’s he wants is the music of your body flowing through his ears

louder. louder. you ain’t hiding shit from me. I ain’t allowing it. I fuckin’ want you to get louder for me, hunny, now’s not the time to play shy

the intimidating display seems to snap you out of it, immediately letting go and releasing of all the tightness in your jaw to do as you’re told, mewling for him, moaning the most exquisite gibberish while his cock continually drives in and out of you with slick precision

he closes his eyes and keeps an ear up to listen, to concentrate on the beat of every wet squelch between your legs when he enters and exits. pistols his hips fast when he wants to hear the unmistakable sound of your juices starting to gather, starting to permeate. slows himself down when the time is right, when he hears how you’re wet enough to gush down his thighs and he wants to really tease the both of you and fucking enjoy it

the sinful wet beats of suction between both your bodies has his eyes rolling back every time. he struggles not to cum from hearing the sound of your whiny little awh’s and mmmfuck’s that were dreamier than any fucking orgasm he’s ever going to have in his infinite lifetime

pussy sounds so pretty when she’s bein’ fucked, don’t she? you hear that? hear that gushin’ in my lap? that’s from us, baby. that’s from you. wanna fuckin’ hear this pussy getting wet all night long

you latch your legs together behind his lap, trapping him in and letting out more delicious sounds in his ear at his request, letting every noise loose without a filter to pass through, eagerly fucking yourself back to exaggerate the mess, making more slutty wet sounds to get him off

yeah, yeah I know you hear it too. listen to that. listen to the mess we made. fuck.

anyways remmick wants your body and your throat screaming he always wants a louder fuck

[nastyzombii]

remmick being completely perplexed how reader isn’t scared of him. he does everything in his power to show you that he is, in fact, a monster.

at first, he looks normal, hiding behind his human features. only choosing to reveal his eyes and a few fangs.

“you scared now?”

“no.”

then, his nails protrude into small, yet sharp claws and his mouth grows full of fangs.

“how ‘bout now??”

“nope.”

finally, he really reveals himself. jaw completely split open. a maw absolutely festering with sharp, jagged fangs. drool dripping endlessly from his shredded skin. fingers elongated into twisted, gnarled claws. no nails, just skin-engrossed claws longer than your head. skin pale, almost leathery in a way. brow protruding into a furrowed confusion. voice distorted, layered in a way that sounds completely demonic.

“now??”

“not at all.”

“HOW? how ain’t you scared?!?!” he snarls, snatching your head between his hands, staring you in the face. his eyes are wild and distressed, completely bewildered by your lack of fear. “you’re supposed to be terrified, runnin’ away screamin’ as i chase after ya! kickin’ and fightin’ and beggin’ for your life when i grab ya like this! you fuckin’ crazy or somethin’???”

you don’t answer him, not right away. you just stare into his eyes. there’s some fear within you, why wouldn’t there be? but not enough to make you run or cry or scream. no. you might be crazy, but the way he looks right now is unlike anything you’ve ever seen before. the danger is alluring. intoxicating. you’d even go as far to call it erotic.

“if you think i’m crazy for not being afraid, you don’t want to know what i’m really feeling right now,” you smirk, biting at your lip. your hands travel up towards his. the cold, rough touch of his skin makes you wince ever so slightly, but it doesn’t deter you from holding his hands in yours.

he doesn’t say anything. he just stares at you. gaping maw hinged open, in shock. you look at him with a warmth he hasn’t felt in years, especially not when he looks like that.

“may i kiss you?” you ask, no fear. no hesitation. just a feeling of desire boiling in your core. his eyes widen. you can feel his dull pulse thrum in the palm of his hand.

“yeah, you’re crazy alright,” he chuckles, manic eyes flashing erratically. their red glare simmering into yours. “just don’t be mad if i bite you.”

[flixpii]

UMMMMMMMMGMGMGNGNGNFNGNFNFH. um... if youre still taking requests,,,,,,, can i please ask for subby remmi with reader who isnt even a vampire (yet) but loves and needs to bite him all over,,, i need to chomp on his neck and inner thighs and tits and hip bones so bad its driving me insane he makes me so feral im so sorry please thank you god thank you

fem!reader x remmick

word count : 1.9k

a/n : keeping y'all fed while i finish up this damn wip … i hope y’all enjoy 😋

warnings (mdni !! 18+) : unprotected sex (p in v), dom!reader, sub!pathetic!remmick, bloodplay, biting/marking kink, begging, pronebone, possessive behaviour

he’s already breathless beneath you.

shirt halfway off, pants undone and tugged down just enough for you to climb over him, and his hands—lord, his hands can’t figure out where to stay. they twitch along your thighs, your waist, then fist into the sheets, like maybe if he doesn’t touch you too much he won’t come undone so fast. like he’s trying to pace himself.

but you’re not letting him.

his chest heaves when you lean down again, mouth latching just beneath his collarbone, and you bite. not hard enough to bleed, not yet—but hard enough to make him gasp. hard enough to hear the wet smack when your mouth pulls back. there’s already a small ring of red teeth marks blooming on his skin. another one to match the others you’ve left all over him.

“god,” he rasps, eyes shut, lips parted. “you—jesus, you don’t stop.”

“no,” you whisper against his skin. “don’t want to.”

he groans, deep and shivery. like it hurts to want this much.

you press your weight into his lap, and he arches into it. his cock’s already leaking, twitching against the inside of your thigh, and he makes the softest sound when you slide your hand down to stroke it once—just once—before leaving him hanging.

you kiss the spot between his ribs next, then the space over his heart, then lower. his hips shift when you drag your tongue down the soft curve of his stomach, your nails raking slow behind it. you don’t bite there. you’re saving it. savoring him. watching how he grips the sheets tighter, how his throat bobs when he swallows.

“please,” he murmurs, voice so strained it nearly cracks.

you don’t answer. not out loud.

your mouth finds the jut of his hip bone, sharp and pale in the moonlight. you lick, then sink your teeth into it. this time harder. this time to taste.

he jerks, a stuttering breath tearing out of him. his hands fly to your hair, not to stop you—never to stop you—but to ground himself, to hold on.

you moan against his skin when the faintest taste of copper hits your tongue. his blood is hot, sweet, tinged with something that makes your belly twist in hunger. he shivers under you, a low whine slipping from his throat.

“you—fuck, you weren’t supposed to—” he chokes on it when you bite again, higher, into the tender skin just inside his thigh.

he spreads his legs for you.

just like that.

not a word, not a protest. just his thighs opening wider, offering more of himself. trembling beneath your mouth.

“remmick,” you say, voice thick. “you don’t even know what you’re doing to me.”

his eyes flutter open, hazy and wet. “then show me.”

you sink your teeth into his throat.

not deep. not dangerous. but enough to make him cry out, raw and broken, like he’s coming apart with every bite you take. he thrusts up into the air, into nothing, and you know he’s close. he’s dripping now, cock flushed and hard and untouched, and you haven’t even fucked him yet.

you lick the blood from his neck slow.

“i'm not like you,” you murmur, “but i swear to god, i’ll ruin you anyway.”

he nods, helpless. desperate.

“please,” he whispers. “please do.”

his cock twitches against his stomach, flushed dark and aching, but your mouth is still on his neck. his blood is still warm on your tongue. and he’s still squirming under you, trying to be good, trying so hard to take it—all of it—just because it’s you.

he whimpers when your lips drag lower, over the spot you already bit, and you press there again with your tongue, slow and wet. it makes his hips jerk. makes his fingers curl against the sheets like he’s drowning in the feeling of it.

“shh,” you whisper, mouth still against his skin. “you can take it. know you can.”

he nods so fast it’s pathetic.

your teeth graze the underside of his jaw, and he gasps—high and breathless—when you nip just enough to sting.

“you’re dripping,” you murmur, voice low, thick with heat. “and i haven’t even touched you properly yet.”

“i—I know,” he chokes out, eyes clenched tight. “i c-can’t help it—”

you cut him off with another bite, just below the hollow of his throat. not deep enough to bleed this time. just enough to leave a bruise that’ll stay for a few hours.

you kiss it after. soft, slow. and then harder, sucking until he moans through clenched teeth.

“mine,” you say against his chest. “you get that?”

he nods. again and again, like he’ll say yes as many times as it takes for you to believe it.

your hand rests low on his belly, feeling the tremble in him. your mouth moves to his nipple next, and the sound he makes when you bite there—sharp and sweet and so fucking fragile—goes straight to your core.

he bucks up. but you pin him with your weight.

“don’t you dare come,” you whisper, licking over the abused skin. “not yet. not ‘til i say.”

“fuck,” he groans, voice fraying at the edges. “don’t—don’t stop biting. please.”

you smile. wicked. satisfied.

“wasn’t planning to.”

you work your way down again, tongue dragging over his stomach, your nails leaving little red trails behind them. his hips twitch under you, but he doesn’t dare touch you. doesn’t dare move, not unless you tell him to.

you kiss the dip of his hip again, then bite. this time hard. and when you pull back, a thin line of blood wells up, catching the light.

you don’t waste it.

you lick it clean—slow—and he sobs.

“god, you’re gonna kill me,” he says, voice cracked and shaky.

“nah,” you murmur, licking your lips. “just gonna make you beg.”

you slip between his legs again and press your mouth to the inside of his thigh. your tongue laves over the skin, warm and trembling, and then your teeth sink in—deep enough to bleed.

he cries out, raw and almost broken.

his hands clutch at the sheets again, trying to ground himself as you suck the blood from that tender place, tongue pressing into the bite as he twitches and gasps beneath you.

he smells like iron and sweat and desperation.

“you taste good,” you whisper.

he doesn’t answer.

he can’t.

he’s too far gone.

too ruined from just your mouth.

you don’t let up.

your mouth trails higher again, back to the bruises you’ve already made on his ribs, over the bite on his throat, over his chest. you kiss each one like you’re claiming him—marking what’s already yours.

his skin is flushed and trembling, salted with sweat, and still he takes it. every bite. every scrape of your teeth. every press of your tongue. he lets you devour him, gasping and twitching like it’s the only way he knows how to pray.

your hand rests over his heart, feeling it race beneath your palm, and you press him down into the mattress when his hips buck again.

“stay still,” you murmur, nipping the edge of his jaw. “you know better.”

“i—i’m trying,” he gasps, voice unraveling. “please—please, i can’t—”

you sink your teeth into the side of his neck. not deep, but sharp. possessive. and he shouts.

he breaks.

“fuck—please,” he pants. “let me—let me fuck you, please, i’ll do anything, i’ll be good—”

you pull back, lips and chin slick with his blood. you straddle his hips, but you don’t move. you let him feel the weight of you. the ache of being denied.

he whines, hips twitching beneath you, his cock brushing your thigh.

“you want it that bad?” you whisper, dragging your fingers down his chest, circling a bite mark near his heart.

he nods frantically. “yes. yes, i need it. please, i’ll beg—i am begging, please just let me—god, let me inside—”

you tilt your head. smile just a little. your nails scrape gently over his stomach.

“say it right.”

he looks up at you, wide-eyed and desperate, face flushed like he’s burning alive.

“please let me fuck you,” he says, breath hitching. “please let me fill you up, i—i need to feel you, i’ll be good, i swear, i’ll take whatever you give me—just—please.”

you press your mouth to the center of his chest and bite again. deep.

his cry is hoarse this time, cracked open at the edges. his back arches under you, and his hands fly to your thighs, gripping like he might float away if he doesn’t anchor himself to your body.

you moan against his skin as you drink from the bite, tongue tracing the slow spill of blood until the taste coats your mouth. and when you pull back, your voice is rough.

“then beg with your body.”

and then he moves.

not rough, but quick—like he’s about to snap if he doesn’t get inside you now.

his hands grab at your hips, flipping you over onto your belly, pinning you there with a low, breathless groan. you gasp at the sudden shift, cheek pressed to the mattress, still dizzy from biting him, from tasting him.

“don’t move,” he pants, voice tight. “need—need you like this. can i—?”

“do it,” you rasp. “now.”

you feel him behind you, feel the way he grabs your hips and pulls them up just enough to angle you right. his cock nudges between your legs, dragging through the wet heat of you—and then he sinks in all at once, like he can’t stand waiting another second.

you cry out into the sheets. so full. so fast.

his body presses over yours, chest slick against your back, blood smearing between your skin and his. he doesn’t thrust yet. just stays buried deep, trembling, moaning low into your neck like it’s killing him to feel this much.

“been thinking about this—every night,” he breathes, teeth brushing the shell of your ear. “dreamt of you—biting me—ruining me.”

you clench around him and he shudders, hips twitching.

“then move,” you whisper. “fuck me like you mean it.”

and he does.

his thrusts start slow, deep, dragging out every inch. then they get sharper, hungrier—his hands fisting in the sheets on either side of your head. you feel the weight of him on your back, his mouth moving from your shoulder to your spine, kissing every place he didn’t bite, every place he wants to.

“so fuckin’ good,” he groans. “so warm. so wet—jesus, i’m not gonna last.”

your fingers twist in the sheets as he drives into you harder, and you cry out again, mouth open against the cotton, letting him fuck you into the mattress.

“bite me again,” he begs, hips snapping faster. “please, just once more—anywhere, i don’t care, just—please—”

you twist your head just enough to bare your shoulder, and he lowers his mouth like he might take it himself—but you beat him to it.

you turn your head and sink your teeth into his forearm as it braces above you.

he cries out—half pleasure, half pain—and spills inside you with a choked moan, still thrusting like he’s trying to bury himself so deep you’ll never forget what he feels like.

and when he finally stills, trembling, gasping over you, you lick the blood from your lips and whisper,

“mine.”

tags : @pathetic-remmick @avidreader73 @jimmys-tiara @kentblvd

[scannainscanrula]

rockstar!remmick feuding with the media's favorite popstar, you

i said i would start posting blurbs so here we are... and i just learned how to code gradient text ooh aah

You watch the TV in the hotel room, fuming. 

“Let’s talk about your little feud,” the interviewer starts.

“Oh, my lover’s quarrel?” Remmick jokes, his accent dancing over his words.

The audience laughs and the host gives him a polite chuckle. 

They say your name, and a superimposed image of your most recent album cover appears on the lower third of the screen. Remmick wolf-whistles, sunglasses over his eyes.

“She’s a good-looking girl,” the host says.

“And thank God she is, cause that music? Phew.”

You hear mostly men laughing in the audience, and you crush the sheet music in your hand.

“You really think that?”

“C’mon, you think people bought that album cause they just love her songs? It’s cause’a how tight that shirt is.”

“You think all of her success comes from her looks?”

“Maybe we should turn it off,” your publicist Marcia starts.

“Turn it up.”

Marcia turns up the volume.

“That’s a bit harsh, isn’t it? She’s very successful.”

“Harsh? She’s the one who was calling my music-”

The audio cuts out and you hear the audience in shock. You know what you said. One month ago, while very drunk at an afterparty, his music had started playing. When you heard his newest song– a dirty industrial rock song that has been climbing up the charts from whatever filthy studio he recorded it in. It’s a song about group sex that Marcia deemed “disgusting”. You had rolled your eyes and slurred out–

“Ugh, why is the DJ playing such shitty music?” 

Unfortunately, someone overheard that, and it got quickly relayed to him.

He said some things about you most magazines were afraid to publish, but in an issue of some sleazy rock magazine they printed exactly what he said word for word.

WHEN ASKED ABOUT THE POPSTAR’S OPINION ON HIS MUSIC

          “I DON’T REALLY GIVE A F**K ABOUT IT. I THINK THAT POOR GIRL JUST NEEDS TO GET LAID. I BET HER RECORD LABEL PUT A CHASTITY BELT ON HER WHEN SHE SIGNED HER CONTRACT. BUT YOU’RE VERY CUTE, SWEETHEART, LET ME KNOW IF YOU NEED MY SERVICES.”

“You know you can’t say that on TV,” the host jokes lightly.

“Grow up,” he sneers to the audience. “I didn’t even know she could say that word, I think her record label keeps a pretty tight leash.”

He looks at the camera, tugging down his sunglasses to show those stupid red contacts he’s always wearing.

“You started it, sweetheart.”

You sneak a cigarette outside the studio, on the hidden back fire escape where nobody can see you. 

“No fuckin’ way,” a voice speaks from below you. 

You quickly put out your cigarette look down. Your eyes narrow instantly.

It’s Remmick. In a ripped up shirt, a cigarette between his lips, and his sunglasses on. 

“What are you doing here?” you snarl at him.

“Whoa, relax, sweetheart. I’m recordin’ here.”

“What? No, I’m recording here.”

“I’m sure it’s a different studio, baby-”

“Don’t call me baby, scumbag.”

“Aw, are we doin’ petnames now?”

"Y'know, I was sort of hoping you'd be nicer than everybody says you are," you tell him, rolling your eyes. "But you're just a jerk."

He takes one step forward and blows a ring of smoke upward.

“Y’know… one more step and I can see up your skirt, doll” he teases, smirking at you.

You gasp and step away from him. He snickers, smoke puffing from his nostrils. You grab your purse and open the window to climb back in.

“Wait, what studio are you in?” he shouts to you.

“The one with the big security guard!” you bark back.

He doesn’t know that back in your hotel room, you’re staring at the Playgirl issue he did three months ago. Someone had sent it to you as fanmail with the note-

          HAVE A WANK AND CHILL OUT BITCH

And a hand-drawn heart. You sneakily snatched it from the pile. Now you’re contemplating opening it. You flip it open carelessly, hiding behind your hands and peeking from behind your fingers. Remmick lounges back on a plush velvet futon, shirtless. You didn’t know he had such a big cross tattooed on him. A woman’s hand with red ruby nails pulls down his pants.

Your hands fall away slowly. He’s gorgeous. It’s a good size and a nice girth, and the trail of hair that leads down his tummy before joining the groomed patch of hair by his shaft has you salivating. And he’s hard. Flushed pink and veiny. 

You think about him looking up your skirt. He’d see a wet spot right now, soaking through the cotton. He’d probably call you something disgusting because you wear pink panties.

You want it, though. You want him to call you names and touch you all over with his big hands. You think about the tight recording booths at the studio and imagine being stuck in there with him, pressed against the soundproof wall and taking two of those fingers inside of you. The way he called you baby and doll.

You don’t even realise you’ve drawn blood on your lip until you taste copper and cover your mouth. You have to close the magazine, flipping it to the back cover, a cigarette ad, and turning your body to scream into a pillow.

Why did you do that? You know you’ll be mortified when you see him tomorrow at the studio.

You call your stylist and twirl the phone cord in your fingers until he picks up.

“Hi, love.”

“Hi, I want to make a really bad decision and Marcia is going to hate us both for it.”

“You know I love pissing off Marcia.”

“Can you get me a Remmick t-shirt?”

“What? That rocker weirdo who’s been slandering you in the news?”

“I wanna wear it to the studio tomorrow.”

[amberkendslacy]

[giddy-goblin]

[r3mmick-deactivated20250716]

[hatethysinner]

Hey hey i plowed through all of your Remmick fics today and 😛😛😛 tewww good. May a request a smut/fluff(or both I aint complaining) of a stupid little pathetic Remmick and reader who has to clean him up after feeding one night? please and thankss

ʜᴏᴜɴᴅ ᴅᴏɢ

ᴡᴄ: 4.08k

ᴀ/ɴ: the floor is where remmick belongs. thank you lyn for giving me an excuse to continue to feed my unhinged pet!remmick kick bc that one fanart + the whimpering audio... i've been SO HORNY FOR THIS MAN!!!! and to think i originally wasn't into the idea at all???? who even am i anymore? this is just a small taste of the depravity you'll be getting in the pearl fic btw

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: 18+ MDNI (!!!!!!), the filthiest smut i've ever written, no plot all porn, feral!remmick, pathetic!remmick, pet!remmick, sub!remmick, dom!reader, actually unhinged!reader, matching each other's freak, graphic violence, murder, arousal from murder, dacryphilia, begging, masturbation, cunnilingus, face sitting, orgasm denial, p in v, ride em cowgirl, unprotected sex, praise/degradation kink, very light sadism/masochism, drool, spit kink, blood, bloodplay, monsterfucking, squirting contest lets see who can squirt the farthest, miscellaneous horniness, excessive use of pet names, excessive use of good boy but i'm kind of obsessed with it

It was past midnight when you heard him scratching at the door.

Soft at first—light little scrapes of claws against wood. Then heavier. More urgent. A faint thud, as though something heavy dropped against the porch boards, followed by a low, warbling growl that didn’t sound human at all.

You set down your embroidery and tilted your head, straining to listen through the walls of the old wooden house. Outside, the swamp hummed and hissed with frogs and night insects, the thick, humid heat pressing against the windows like breath.

Then came another sound. A long, slow dragging noise. Something being pulled over the porch planks, heavy and wet.

Your pulse quickened, not with fear—but with a heat that curled low in your belly.

Because you knew exactly who was on the other side of that door.

And exactly what he’d brought home this time.

When you opened it, the smell hit you first—coppery and rich, warm and wet as a fresh kill. It poured into the hallway, mingling with the tang of swamp water and sweat.

And there he was.

Remmick.

Hunched low on the porch, shirt ripped half-open, suspenders hanging loose off his shoulders, chest heaving like he’d run ten miles through the grass fields. His hair hung damp and wild over his forehead, streaked with darker patches where blood had soaked in. His lips were peeled back in a grin too wide for a man, fangs gleaming slick and red.

And clamped between those fangs—like a hound with a prize rabbit—was a man’s wrist, limp and pale, trailing a body behind it like a ragdoll.

Remmick gave the limb a hard tug, dragging the corpse another foot closer to the door, leaving a thick, glistening smear of blood across the porch boards. His eyes glittered an inhuman red as he gazed up at you, panting softly through his nose, chest rising and falling.

“Darlin’,” he crooned, voice rough and muffled around the corpse’s arm, “lookit what I brung ya.”

He let go of the man’s wrist, letting the body drop with a thud that rattled the boards.

A ripple of pleasure rolled through you at the sight.

Because God, he was beautiful like this.

Splattered with blood, hair stuck to his temples, eyes blown wide and starving. A monster. Your monster.

And you knew, without him saying a word, that he’d done it for you.

Not because you’d asked. But because some part of him—deep and primal—needed you to see what he could do. Needed your approval.

Blood dripped from his chin as he crawled forward on hands and knees, leaving dark streaks across the porch. He moved like an animal, shoulders bunched, hips swaying, his breath hitching in little, excited gasps.

“Y’said… y’said I been good lately,” he panted, eyes flicking hungrily over your face, down your neck, then back up. “Thought… maybe… ya’d like a present.”

He was trembling. Not from fear—but from the strain of holding himself back. His fingers dug into the porch boards, claws half-extended, as though every muscle in him wanted to leap at you.

You felt your lips curl into a slow smile.

“Well,” you said, stepping closer so your slippers brushed the blood soaking the threshold. “Ain’t you a good boy.”

He whimpered—a soft, pleading sound that no human should’ve been able to make.

A thick line of drool, tinged pink with blood, dripped from his lower lip to the porch. He licked it up messily, eyes fluttering closed, hips giving a tiny, unconscious roll as he rutted the air like a dog scenting a bitch in heat.

“Wanted… wanted t’ show you…” he gasped. “How good I can hunt. How… how strong I am for ya.”

Your gaze drifted to the corpse sprawled behind him. The man’s throat was torn out, ribs crushed inward like a paper bag. There was so much blood it had soaked through Remmick’s trousers, splattering his pale skin, matting the hair along his forearms.

And he was hard.

Even crouched low like that, you could see the thick bulge straining against his fly, a dark wet spot spreading where precum leaked through the fabric.

He crawled closer until he could press his bloody cheek against your thigh, smearing crimson over your nightgown. He nuzzled there, breathing you in, voice breaking as he whispered,

“D-did I do good, darlin’? Y’ain’t mad, are ya? Didn’t mean t’ mess up the porch… just… couldn’t wait no more. Had t’ bring ya somethin’…”

You carded your fingers through his blood-clotted hair, feeling the sharp little tremors rolling through his body.

Because the truth was—nothing made Remmick come apart faster than making you proud. Than serving you.

And as you glanced down at the ruin he’d dragged home, then back to his trembling, eager eyes—you felt more heat pool low and heavy between your thighs.

Because Lord help you… you’d have to clean him up.

And you were going to love every second of it.

“Bring it inside,” you said, voice calm and cool, though your pulse thundered behind your ribs.

Remmick blinked up at you, pupils huge and glassy, like he was half-drunk on blood and your praise. “Y… y’want me to…?”

“Now, Remmick.”

A shiver rippled through his body. “Yes, ma’am.”

He turned and seized the corpse by the ankle, hauling it over the threshold without a second’s hesitation. Blood smeared in long, glistening streaks across the floorboards, pooling thickly under the man’s slack jaw as Remmick dragged him further into the house and dropped him unceremoniously near the hearth.

You trailed behind him, lips pursed as you surveyed the crimson trails soaking into the grain of the wood, spotting where droplets had already flung across the walls, the furniture—even your favorite rug.

“Remmick.”

He froze mid-crawl, fingers splayed on the floor, shoulders bunching like you’d struck him. “Ma’am…?”

“Look at this mess,” You swept a hand toward the blood-slick path he’d left in his wake. “My house looks like a hog slaughterhouse. Again.”

His ears seemed to pin back like a dog’s, his voice breaking. “I… I’m sorry, darlin’—I ain’t mean t’—”

You stepped closer, tilting his chin up with your fingers. “You know what happens when you make a mess, don’t you?”

A trembling breath escaped his parted lips. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Good.”

And you walked away from him, your hips swaying as you moved to the armchair nearest the hearth. You sat down with deliberate grace, crossing your legs slowly, the hem of your nightgown rising just enough to show a glisten of skin.

“Strip.”

He obeyed instantly, peeling away his shredded shirt and shoving down his trousers, leaving him naked, streaked with blood, his cock flushed an angry red and leaking a glossy trail down his thigh.

You let your eyes rake over him, tongue pressing to the back of your teeth. “Now stand there. And don’t touch yourself.”

His voice was hoarse. “Please… please, darlin’, I’m—”

“Shut up.”

He whimpered.

Then you spread your legs. Slowly. Luxuriously. Letting the nightgown fall open over your thighs as your fingers dipped between them, parting yourself to show him how wet you already were.

Remmick’s head jerked back like he’d been punched, a choked sob escaping him as he took in the glisten of slick on your folds.

“See this?” you murmured, dragging two fingers through the wetness, swirling them over your clit until your hips gave a faint little jerk. “This is what a good boy might get. But you ain’t been good, have you, Remmick?”

“N-no, ma’am,” he gasped, voice quivering as his hands curled into claws at his sides. “I’ll—I’ll clean it, I swear, I’ll clean everythin’, please just lemme—”

But you ignored him, leaning back against the chair as you circled your clit harder, letting out a soft, breathy moan.

“God, m’so wet. All from you, Remmick. You look so fuckin’ filthy right now…”

He was shaking, drool starting to slide from the corner of his lips, dripping down his chin as he stared, unblinking, between your thighs.

“Ma’am… please…”

“No.”

You moved your other hand down, spreading your folds wider as you slipped two fingers inside yourself, your mouth dropping open on a ragged moan.

“Ohhh, fuck… feels so good…” you panted, pumping your fingers slowly as you made sure to put on a show, letting your moans grow louder, wetter, obscene. “Wish you could feel how tight I am right now… how hot…”

Remmick let out a choked, keening wail, his cock jerking violently as more precum spattered the floor. He tried to reach for himself—and immediately snatched his hands back when you glared.

“Don’t you dare.”

“Please—please, I’m beggin’ you—I c-can’t—” His voice cracked, trembling as more spit leaked past his parted lips. “Lemme taste it, please, I’ll be so good, I’ll—”

You ignored his sobbing pleas, fucking yourself faster, letting your breath hitch and your thighs tremble as your orgasm crept closer.

“Oh, fuck… m’gonna come, Remmick… oh God…”

He let out a sobbing moan that sounded painful, his hips jerking like he was trying to fuck air. Drool dripped in fat strings onto his chest, streaking the dried blood still caked there.

“Please, darlin’, please—”

Your back arched off the chair as you came, your moans echoing through the blood-soaked parlor. You rocked your hips against your own hand, dragging out every pulse of pleasure until your vision swam.

When you finally came down, you pulled your soaked fingers from between your legs, your chest heaving as you stared him down.

Remmick was panting like he’d run five miles, eyes wide and starving, his entire body trembling.

“C’mere.”

He scurried forward on hands and knees, settling anxiously between your spread legs.

You held out your wet fingers. “Clean.”

He threw himself forward, latching onto your hand like a starving beast, tongue dragging over every knuckle, every crevice, sucking your slick off your skin with wet, greedy slurps.

“Good boy,” you murmured.

He moaned around your fingers, hips giving another helpless jerk, precum dribbling steadily from the flushed head of his cock.

When you finally pulled your hand away, you cupped his chin, tilting his face up.

“Keep your mouth open.”

He obeyed instantly, lips falling open, drool pooling as he stared up at you, wide-eyed and desperate.

You leaned forward and spat into his mouth.

A thick rope of saliva fell across his tongue, glistening with your taste.

He swallowed it without a second’s hesitation, a low, guttural moan vibrating in his chest.

“Good boy,” you purred. “Now lie down.”

An aching, panicked sound tore from his throat as he scrambled to the ground, eyes wide and focused on you, chest shuddering with every ragged breath. His arms were pinned tight to his sides as if he didn’t dare move without your command.

You straddled him slowly, letting the blood on your inner thighs smear across his ribs as you settled your weight over his hips. His eyes followed every inch of you, pupils blown black, jaw slack.

You dragged your nails lightly down his chest, just enough to leave faint red lines. “All this mess you made tonight… and for what?”

He tried to answer, but you slapped your hand over his mouth, leaning down until your lips brushed his ear.

“For this. For me to sit on your fuckin’ face. S’that all you’re good for, Remmick? Lappin’ up my cunt?”

A muffled, shattered whimper vibrated against your palm.

You lifted yourself, knees sliding further up his torso, your wet heat hovering just inches from his face. He tilted his head back, panting open-mouthed, eyes wild and pleading.

“C’mon, baby,” you murmured, grinding your hips forward just enough that a string of slick dripped onto his chin. “Make me come again. Only thing you ever do right.”

He lunged.

There was no hesitation, no delicacy—he surged up into you, mouth wide, tongue driving between your folds like he was trying to crawl inside you.

“Fuck—”

Your head snapped back as he buried his face against your cunt, tongue plunging deep, then dragging up hard and flat with obscene, wet sounds.

He was ravenous.

Slurping, sucking, growling low in his chest, nose mashed against you as he inhaled sharp, desperate breaths like he couldn’t get enough of your scent.

“Jesus fuck,” you snarled, clutching fistfuls of his hair as you ground down. “That what you wanted? Get blood all over my floor so you could eat my pussy like a fuckin’ animal?”

He moaned wildly in answer, tongue twisting deep inside you, then flicking out to lash your clit so fast and hard your thighs started to tremble.

“Goddamn, Remmick—shit—”

You rocked your hips forward, forcing more of your weight down onto his mouth. He whimpered but didn’t pull back, letting you smother him, his eyes fluttering half-shut as he focused on licking you raw.

Every breath he tried to take came out as a choked little gasp against your slit, his chest bucking as he struggled to keep up with your grinding hips.

“Fuckin’ filthy monster,” you snarled, tilting your hips so his tongue hit deeper. “This what you were made for? Lickin’ up my mess like some rabid mutt?”

A muffled yes vibrated against you as he tried to answer without pulling his tongue away. His hands twitched at his sides, fingers curling like claws, but he didn’t dare touch you or himself.

“Say it,” you ordered, grinding harder. “Say what you’re good for.”

He ripped his mouth away just long enough to sob, “F… fuckin’ made t’ eat your pussy, ma’am… th-that’s all I’m good for—”

“Damn right,” you spat, slamming yourself back down onto his mouth.

He yelped but instantly resumed his assault, tongue thrusting into you in desperate, messy plunges, slipping up to flick and circle your clit until sparks exploded behind your eyes.

Your thighs began to quake as your orgasm crept up fast and brutal, the heat inside you coiling tighter and tighter with each frantic suck.

Remmick was moaning loudly now, sloppy noises echoing off the blood-splattered walls, as if he was getting off on how you shook and sobbed above him.

“Fuck—fuck—gonna—oh God—”

You didn’t even finish the sentence.

Your second climax slammed into you like a freight train, your vision whiting out as your hips bucked uncontrollably. A gush of come spilled out of you, splattering his cheeks, his chin, soaking his hair and streaking down his throat.

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t pull away.

He drank it.

Tongue darting to catch every drop, mouth sealed around you as he sucked hard enough to make you scream.

Your body convulsed on top of him, muscles locking as you let out a raw, broken wail. Slick kept pouring out of you, soaking him until his whole face glistened, until the taste of you and the scent of blood mingled into one thick, intoxicating perfume.

When the worst of it passed, you sagged forward, chest heaving as you fought to catch your breath.

Remmick was still licking gentle little stripes up your slit, tongue trembling, eyes half-lidded with adoration and feverish lust.

“Good fuckin’ boy,” you finally rasped, reaching down to slap his soaked cheek lightly. “Now clean up your mess, and do it right.”

He whined, tongue flicking out faster with something desperate to prove.

But suddenly, you lifted yourself up off his face.

Remmick let out a pitiful little wail, his head snapping upward, eyes wide and wet. His hands jerked against the floor as he tried to grab you, fingers clawing at the air, but your knees were still planted firm on his biceps, keeping him pinned and helpless.

“N-no—no, please—don’t go,” he sobbed, “please, darlin’, I—I wasn’t done, lemme finish—”

You cupped his flushed, slick-covered cheek, your thumb brushing lightly over the edge of one crimson-stained fang.

“Patience, Remmick,” you cooed, voice dripping sweet venom. “Now carry me to the sofa.”

He blinked at you, breath shuddering, then nodded so fast his hair flew around his face. “Y-yes, ma’am—”

He clambered upright, still trembling, chest heaving as he bent to slip an arm under your knees and another around your shoulders. Even soaked in blood and trembling like a leaf, he lifted you with ease, holding you cradled tight to his chest.

He stumbled a little, feet sliding on the blood-slick floorboards, but he managed to carry you across the room, eyes flicking to yours every few steps as though terrified you might vanish if he blinked.

When he reached the sofa, he eased you down, setting you delicately on the cushions like something fragile and precious. He hovered there above you, hair wild, blood streaking his chest, cock bobbing angrily between you both.

You didn’t give him a chance to speak.

Instead, you grabbed his shoulders, pushed him back into the sofa, and swung a leg over his thighs, straddling him.

Remmick gasped, head falling back, throat exposed and shining with blood and sweat. His hips bucked upward instinctively, trying to slot himself into your heat, but you lifted yourself just out of reach, hovering your soaked folds an inch above his flushed, leaking tip.

A low, desperate whimper crawled out of his throat.

“Darlin’, please—”

“Uh-uh,” you chided, pressing a palm to his chest to hold him still. “Tell me how bad you want it.”

His eyes snapped open, wild and hungry. His fingers clawed helplessly at the cushions beside his hips as he tried to thrust upward again, only for you to push him firmly back down.

“C’mon, Remmick,” you purred, leaning in closer, your lips brushing his ear. “Tell me how much you need my pussy.”

He broke.

“I—I need it, I need it so fuckin’ bad—God, darlin’, I’m hurtin’ for it, please—please, let me feel you, I’ll do anythin’—I’ll clean the whole house, I’ll sleep on the floor, wear that collar, let ya leash me up and drag me wherever y’want—“

Your grin curled wicked as you teased your wet slit against his throbbing tip, coating him in your slick without letting him push inside.

He choked on a sob, his hips trembling, cock twitching violently as more precum spilled out to mix with your juices.

“Say it,” you whispered. “Say exactly what you want.”

“I—I wanna be inside ya—wanna feel ya squeezin’ me—wanna come in ya, fill ya up so good y’don’t ever wanna leave me—please, baby, please, I’m beggin’—”

Halfway through the last plea, you slammed your hips down in one vicious drop.

Remmick screamed.

A ragged, animalistic sound tore from his chest as your walls clenched around him, swallowing every inch of his thick length in one slick, blazing-hot plunge. His eyes flew wide, rolling back almost immediately, fangs snapping down as he clutched at the back of the sofa like he was trying to hold on for dear life.

“SHIT—oh fuck—darlin’, I—I can’t—oh God—”

But you didn’t let up.

You set a ruthless pace, bouncing hard on his lap, hips smacking down with sharp, wet slaps that echoed off the walls. Slick spilled down your thighs in messy rivulets, drenching his lap as you fucked yourself on him, grinding deep enough with each thrust that your clit scraped the base of his cock.

He was gone.

Sobbing, eyes streaming tears, chest heaving as he babbled a flood of words that barely made sense:

“So fuckin’ tight—oh God, y’so warm—feels so good—can’t breathe, darlin’, y’gonna break me—fuck—fuck—thank ya—”

You licked a long, slow stripe up his cheek, catching the salty tang of his tears mixed with the faint iron of blood still streaking his face.

“Mmm,” you purred, breathless as you slammed down even harder. “You taste divine, sugar.”

And then you crushed your mouth to his, devouring him in a bruising kiss, moaning into his mouth as the tang of blood and your own slick flooded your senses, your tongue stroking over his fangs as you swallowed every broken whimper he offered up like worship.

You felt it—felt the way his whole body was trembling, the wild, frantic pulse of his cock deep inside you, the way his hips gave these tiny, desperate jerks that spoke of a man right on the edge of breaking.

You pulled back just enough to snarl against his lips.

“Don’t you fuckin’ dare come without me.”

Remmick let out a shattered sob, forehead pressed to yours, eyes glassy and wild. “Y-yes, ma’am—yes, I—I won’t—”

“Say it.”

“I-I don’t deserve t’come without ya,” he gasped, voice rising to a shrill, breathless cry as your walls clenched tight around him again. “Don’t deserve it—wanna come with you, wanna feel you take it—please—please—”

You rocked your hips down harder to make a point.

“You wait for me,” you hissed, slamming your hips down with punishing force.

“Y-yes—fuck—yes ma’am—” His voice cracked, high and wrecked, tears streaming down his cheeks as he panted open-mouthed, spit glistening on his lips. “I’m—I’m holdin’ it, I swear—I swear—”

You could feel the coil winding tighter and tighter in your belly, heat flooding your veins, sparks dancing behind your eyes as you ground yourself down harder, chasing that final, devastating release.

“Remmick—” you gasped, fingers sliding down to clutch at his wrists where his claws twitched and curled uselessly in the air beside you. “Help me. Push me down—hard.”

He obeyed instantly, claws biting lightly into your hips as he slammed you down onto him with all the strength in his wrecked body.

Your world exploded into white.

You let out a strangled, guttural moan as your orgasm crashed through you, your vision whiting out as your walls seized around him, milking him in greedy, convulsive ripples.

And Remmick howled.

His hips snapped upward one last time, driving himself so deep inside you that the blunt head of his cock kissed your cervix, and then you felt it—thick, hot spurts flooding your cunt, pulsing into your deepest depths as he came with a sobbing wail.

“Fuck—fuck—oh God— m’comin’—darlin’, I’m comin’—”

Your name tore from his throat as he kept rutting into you in tiny, frantic thrusts, shoving his release as far into you as your body would take it. His eyes rolled back, fangs bared, drool spilling over his lips as his claws gripped you hard enough to bruise.

And through every wave of bliss, every aftershock that left you shaking and gasping, you felt him pouring into you, thick warmth seeping past your already stretched entrance, spilling over his thighs and yours.

He collapsed against the sofa, still pulsing inside you, chest heaving as he sobbed your name over and over, his voice wrecked and trembling.

“Fuck—fuck—God, thank ya—”

Smack.

Your palm landed lightly against his cheek, not hard enough to sting, but enough to snap his glazed eyes open, confusion swimming in the crimson depths.

“Remmick.” Your voice was soft, sing-song. “Who said you were done?”

He blinked rapidly, lips parting as he tried to gather his breath. “I—I didn’t mean—I’m sorry, ma’am—I’m sorry—”

You cocked an eyebrow, tilting your head. “Mmm. You better be.”

Without another word, still trembling and leaking inside you, Remmick slipped his arms under your back and thighs, lifting you effortlessly off his lap. Your slick spilled warm down his shaft and onto the sofa cushions as he rose, your bodies still pressed close, your breath brushing his neck.

He staggered slightly, knees buckling as aftershocks rippled through him, but he caught himself, gripping you tighter, holding you like something precious.

You let out a low laugh, locking your arms around his neck, your legs hooking around his waist so he couldn’t put you down even if he tried.

“Where are you takin’ me, baby?” you murmured, lips ghosting over his ear.

He panted, voice ragged. “Bath, ma’am… gonna… gonna get ya clean…”

“Mm. S’what I thought.”

He started toward the bathroom, feet leaving sticky prints of blood and other fluids across the wooden floors as he carried you. His hair hung in damp, tangled strands, sweat and blood drying in rusty streaks over his pale skin.

As he crossed the threshold, you glanced back over your shoulder at the carnage left behind—the smeared crimson trails, the cooling corpse near the hearth, the splatters reaching all the way to the walls.

It should have looked like hell.

But all it made you feel was a bone-deep, feral sort of satisfaction.

You turned back to Remmick, your chest pressing to his as you leaned in to place a soft, gentle kiss against the curve of his cheek, smiling wickedly when he turned to look at you.

“Good boy.”

[hatethysinner]

mgmgmgmdhgdjsdjdvdh begging for remmick taking care of you while youre ovulating n just being so sweet and soft and lovey please god thank you

ʙᴇᴅ ᴄʜᴇᴍ

ᴡᴄ: 6.3k

ᴀ/ɴ: come right on me, I MEAN CAMARADERIE! short n sweet was on repeat as i wrote this, and god damn did i love it. anon you are a genius for requesting this and i'm gonna need more feral asks from you by TOMORROW! i don't do taglists personally, so just follow me if you want to be updated when i post.

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: 18+ MDNI (!!!!!!), filthy disgusting shameless smut, minimal plot all porn, established relationship, very very very exaggerated ovulation but is it really ladies, fingering, cunnilingus, p in v, begging, baby fever, drool, spit kink, pussy drunk, vampirism, biting, blood, inappropiate use of heightened senses, praise kink, breeding kink, scent kink, body worship, hands-free orgasm, dry humping, rutting, belly bulge, cervix fucking, multiple orgasms, cockwarming, sick!reader, needy!reader, freaky!reader, a little bit of dom!reader, sub!remmick, pathetic!remmick, service!top!remmick, a little bit of pet!remmick too, excessive use of pet names, don't read without a rose toy

The fever had started sometime in the late afternoon, slow and creeping, like it was building itself bone-deep before you even noticed it was there. By evening, your skin felt too tight, your legs too weak, every nerve sparking and hot under the thin sheen of your nightgown.

It didn’t help that the gown itself—sheer as could be, clinging in all the wrong places—had been his idea. Or that he’d chosen it with those soft, guilty eyes, promising it would help you cool down.

It didn’t help at all.

You shifted in the bed, trying not to whimper as another wave of heat curled between your thighs, low and molten, like something was blooming there. Something that wouldn’t stop. No matter how you squeezed your legs together or turned your head into the pillow to muffle the sound.

Remmick was moving around the room in that careful, deliberate way of his, like he was trying not to spook you. Like he was afraid if he moved too quickly, you’d break apart entirely.

He set the teacup down on the little table beside you, fingers brushing your wrist as he pulled his hand away. Even that fleeting touch felt like too much. Like it cracked something open in your chest.

“Feelin’ any better, sugar?” His voice was low, uncertain, threaded through with worry.

Another wave of heat rolled through you, leaving you dizzy, breath catching in your throat. And you saw it—just for a second—the way Remmick drew back a fraction, turning his head and covering his mouth and nose with his hand, like he was trying not to breathe you in.

It made your pulse stutter, your thighs squeezing tighter beneath the sheets.

Your throat worked. You tried to answer, but it came out as a shaky sigh. One of your hands drifted down to your belly without you meaning to, resting there, pressing lightly against the dull, constant ache.

He followed the motion, eyes darting to your hand. He swallowed hard, jaw flexing like he was trying to keep himself in check.

“I can—” He stopped, cleared his throat, started again, softer. “I can get ya another blanket. Or—take some off, if y’too warm.”

You shook your head, breathing unsteady. You were already too warm. Every inch of your skin felt flushed, hypersensitive, the thin fabric brushing your nipples like a deliberate tease. You didn’t trust yourself to move too much. Didn’t trust yourself not to reach for him.

Remmick hovered, hands opening and closing at his sides. He’d been pacing between the bed and the doorway for the last hour, fetching little comforts—tea, cool cloths, the stack of pillows he’d so carefully arranged behind your shoulders. All of it done with the tender focus he reserved only for you.

But none of it helped.

Not really.

Because no matter how much tea he coaxed you into sipping, no matter how many times he pressed a damp cloth to your hairline, you were still left with the same low, pulsing need that had your thighs pressing together under the sheets. The same feverish ache that made your thoughts turn vulgar. Shameless.

You tried to look away, but his eyes caught yours—soft, uncertain, searching. You wondered if he could read all of it on your face. If he knew what you were imagining. His mouth between your thighs, his hands on your hips, his voice—that voice—telling you to be good for him, to open up, to let him see.

A little shiver wracked you, and you felt your cheeks go hot.

Remmick made a quiet sound, something between a sigh and a groan, and sat carefully on the edge of the mattress. He reached for your hand—just your hand—and cradled it in his calloused palm, thumb tracing over your knuckles.

“Don’t reckon I’ve ever seen ya like this.” His voice was barely a whisper. “Breaks my heart a little.”

He didn’t sound teasing. He sounded afraid. Like he wasn’t sure if this was something he was allowed to touch. Like he was worried he’d ruin you if he tried.

You swallowed again, mouth too dry to answer. Your gaze dropped to his throat, where you could see the way he swallowed, too, the muscle jumping as he tried—and failed—to stay composed.

“Just…tell me what y’need,” he murmured, a little hoarse. “I’ll do it, sweetheart. Anything ya ask.”

You knew he meant it. Knew he’d give you everything if you so much as whispered the word. But the thought of saying it out loud—admitting how badly you needed him—made your breath catch, made your body throb with another hot, rolling wave of want that made you clench around nothing.

Your eyes fluttered closed.

You thought you felt him lean closer, the mattress dipping under his weight, his breath stirring the wisps of hair at your temple.

But you didn’t open your eyes.

Because if you did—if you saw how he was looking at you—you knew you’d beg.

And you weren’t sure you’d ever stop.

Except you felt it—his hand easing onto your thigh. Not rough, not possessive, just the weight of his palm resting there, fingers spread, like he was testing the waters of his own resolve.

Your eyes flew open.

And your inhibitions shattered like glass.

Because the second you saw his face—those soft blue eyes gone dark and stormy, lips parted, fangs just barely peeking through—you let out a sound that was almost a sob and lunged for him.

Your mouth crashed against his, no patience, no hesitation. Your tongue swept past his lips before he could even gasp, tasting him, drinking him down, your fingers clutching at his shirt like you’d drown without something to hold.

You scrambled into his lap, knees pressing to either side of his hips, sheer nightgown falling open around you as you twisted your hands into his hair and kissed him deeper, wetter, like you couldn’t get close enough.

He let out a strangled noise, arms coming up automatically to steady you, fingers flexing against your ribs. For a second, he kissed you back just as fiercely—tongue tangling with yours, teeth grazing your lower lip, a shiver rolling through his whole body that you felt through your thighs.

But only for a second.

Because then he pulled back with a sharp breath, eyes squeezed shut, trembling like he was holding himself together by a thread.

“Darlin’, wait—”

You were already shaking your head, tears springing to your eyes as the ache inside you clawed deeper, harder, until it felt like it might swallow you alive.

“Remmick,” you gasped, voice splintering around his name. “Please. Please, I need—”

He held your face between his palms, thumbs brushing under your eyes as though trying to wipe away tears that hadn’t even fallen yet. His voice was so soft, so wrecked.

“I—sugar, listen to me. I’ll get ya anythin’ else. More tea. Somethin’ cold. A bath. Somethin’ to take the edge off—”

“No.” You shook your head harder, hips grinding down against his lap despite yourself. “No, no, Remmick, I don’t want tea, I don’t want a bath—I want you. I need you.”

His fingers twitched where they framed your face. His eyes darted everywhere—your lips, your heaving chest, the thin stretch of silk over your thighs—and then he squeezed them shut like he couldn’t bear to look.

“I don’t wanna take advantage of ya,” he murmured, voice rough. “You ain’t thinkin’ straight, sweetheart. I know y’ain’t.”

But you pressed closer, nose brushing his, your breath quick and shaky. “Then make me think straight.”

A tremor rolled through his arms.

“Darlin’…” His voice broke, low and desperate. “I c-can smell how wet ya are. Jesus, it’s makin’ me—”

“Then feel me,” you whispered. “Taste me. Fuck me. Remmick, please—I can’t—”

A sob hitched in your chest. The heat between your legs felt molten, throbbing like it was tied to your heartbeat, slick gathering so fast you swore you could feel it sliding down your thighs.

He opened his eyes at the sound of your sob. And the look in them gutted you—like he was seeing his whole world crumbling and still couldn’t make himself look away.

“You can be gentle,” you said quickly, crowding closer until your foreheads touched. “You’re always so gentle. Just—please, Remmick, I need you.”

He looked like he might argue one more time. But then you tipped your face closer, brushing your mouth over his and whispering, “Please. I’ll be good. I’ll be so good for you.”

And that—God, that—was what did it.

You felt the way his hands fisted in the thin fabric at your waist. The way his breath stuttered out in a groan.

And then he was moving, gathering you up like you weighed nothing, gently shifting you back onto the bed until your spine pressed into the pile of pillows he’d so carefully arranged earlier.

You gasped as the cool sheets hit the backs of your thighs, and the nightgown fell open wider, baring the flush of your skin, your nipples tight and dark through the gauzy fabric.

Remmick settled between your knees, eyes flicking hungrily over your body as he propped himself up on one elbow. He brushed your hair back from your damp forehead with trembling fingers.

“Tell me if it’s too much,” he said, voice low and ragged. “Promise me, darlin’. You’ll tell me.”

“Promise,” you whispered, already trembling.

He swallowed. And then his hand slid lower, fingers trailing feather-light down your ribs, over your belly, until he reached the soft heat between your thighs.

The second he touched you, you whimpered—a sound so raw and needy it made his fangs flash in the low lamplight.

“Oh, …” he breathed. “Look how wet ya are.”

You squirmed, thighs falling further apart, hips canting upward into his palm.

Slowly—so slowly you wanted to scream—he pushed two fingers inside.

You cried out, head falling back against the pillows as your walls clenched around him, sucking him in like you’d been starving for it. A sharp, trembling exhale left him, his eyes fluttering half-shut as he watched his fingers disappear into you, slick already coating his hand to the wrist.

“Shit…” he whispered, voice shaking. “I—I don’t… darlin’, ya feel…”

His breath hitched, and he had to shut his eyes for a moment, like he couldn’t even bear to look at you without falling apart.

“Are ya—are ya okay?” he stammered, brow furrowed as he tried to keep his fingers moving, gentle and slow. “Is that… is that too much?”

“Remmick, please…” you gasped, hips rolling as he stroked in and out, torturously slow. “Faster—please—I need—”

But he only shook his head faintly, jaw working as though he was biting back words, or maybe sounds he didn’t want you to hear.

“I… I don’t wanna hurt ya,” he murmured, voice breaking as he tried to swallow down a soft moan. “God, sweetheart, ya… ya squeezin’ me so tight. I… I dunno if…”

He leaned down and pressed a trembling kiss to your jaw, lips lingering there like he couldn’t help himself. When he pulled back, his breath was coming in shaky little bursts, his eyes wide and dazed as he blinked down at where his fingers disappeared into your body.

“Christ,” he whispered, cheeks flushed, a bead of sweat rolling down his temple. “It’s so warm in there…”

A broken noise slipped out of him, half-whimper, half-moan, and he squeezed his eyes shut again, trying to rein himself in.

“Tell me… tell me if y’need me to stop,” he gasped, voice wobbling, his free hand clutching at the bedsheets beside your hip. “Or… or if y’want more. I’ll—I’ll give ya more, darlin’, I promise, just… please… tell me what t’do.”

He sounded like he was about to cry from how overwhelmed he was, shoulders shaking as he forced his fingers to keep thrusting slowly, gently, even while his own hips gave a helpless jerk against the mattress, as if he couldn’t help how your heat pulled at him.

But it wasn’t enough. Not when your whole body felt like it was splitting open with need. Not when the ache was gnawing at your bones, each drag of his fingers too slow, too shallow, nowhere near the frantic, pounding rhythm your body screamed for.

“Remmick—” You choked out his name on a trembling gasp, fingers clawing into the muscles of his shoulders. “Please—please go faster. It… it hurts when you’re so slow—”

His eyes flew open, stricken, lips parting in a wounded little sound. “Hurts—? Oh God, sugar, I didn’t mean—”

“It’s worse when you’re gentle,” you whispered, voice breaking like glass. “I need more. I need it faster. Harder. Please, Remmick—please.”

A tortured whimper slipped out of him, and you could feel his breath coming quicker against your cheek, his chest heaving under your palms.

“I… I dunno if I should—”

“More fingers,” you said, cutting him off, your voice trembling but urgent as your hips rocked up into his hand. “Put more fingers in me. Please, Remmick, I can take it—”

His eyes went impossibly wide, pupils swallowing up the pale blue, and he sputtered, shaking his head. “N-no, darlin’, I—I don’t wanna hurt ya, I can’t—”

But before he could finish, you seized his jaw, pulling him into a kiss so fierce it made his shoulders tense and his whole body jerk.

You kissed him hard, pressing your open mouth over his, swallowing the thick, sweet drool he’d been struggling to keep inside his mouth, drinking him down like you needed it to breathe. A broken moan shuddered out of him as you licked into him, tasting the coppery tang of blood that always lurked under his tongue, making his hips twitch desperately against the mattress.

“Please,” you whispered again, voice shaking as you pressed your forehead to his. “More, Remmick. I need it.”

He was trembling so hard you thought he might collapse, eyes glassy, lips parted and wet as he tried to gather enough air to speak.

“I… oh God…” He squeezed his eyes shut, a tear sliding free despite himself. “I can’t say no t’ya, sweetheart. I c-can’t…”

His hand shifted lower, and you felt the stretch as he eased another finger in, his breath catching on a ragged moan as your heat swallowed him deeper.

You cried out, hips arching off the bed, and his fingers flexed inside you instinctively, like he couldn’t help chasing the squeeze of your walls.

“Oh, fuck… fuck—” he gasped, forehead dropping to your shoulder as he tried to keep moving, his voice dissolving into shuddery little whimpers. “You’re so… ya squeezin’ me so damn tight… can’t… can’t hardly…”

“Faster,” you begged, voice raw, your fingers digging into his hair. “Remmick, please—don’t stop—”

He let out a strangled sob and finally gave in.

He fucked his fingers into you not with roughness, but with a desperate, stumbling urgency, his whole arm trembling as slick poured over his palm, soaking the sheets beneath you.

“Jesus, darlin’… y’feel… y’feel so good,” he babbled, words spilling from him in breathless, high-pitched fragments as he tried to keep up with your rolling hips. “Oh God, oh God, I can’t—I can’t stop—”

Your cries spilled into the room, each thrust dragging across that tender, swollen spot inside you that sent sparks dancing up your spine. You could barely speak, babbling half-formed words as your vision blurred with tears, your thighs shaking violently around his waist.

“Remmick—!”

That was all it took.

A single, broken cry ripped out of him as his hips bucked into the bed, his free hand grabbing onto the sheets so hard the fabric nearly tore. He pressed his forehead hard into your shoulder, shaking all over, as his breath hitched into sobs.

“Oh fuck—I’m—I’m—shit—”

And he came in his pants. Hard. His entire body shuddering with it, a wet heat blooming against his zipper as a sob punched out of his chest, his shoulders curling forward like he was trying to fold himself around you.

He kept moving his fingers inside you even as he was spilling into his clothes, his voice catching on choked grunts, breath warm and fast against your neck.

“God—oh God, yer... yer so good, darlin’—s-so good for me—”

You clenched around him, crying out as your own climax crashed through you like a wave breaking over rocks, your body seizing up tight around his trembling fingers.

He worked you through it, breathless and half-crying himself, pressing frantic, damp kisses to your throat as your walls pulsed and fluttered around him.

Before you could even catch your breath—before you could ask for more—he was already lowering himself between your thighs, licking his lips, eyes blown wide as he inhaled deeply, his voice breaking apart as he murmured, half to himself.

“Need it… need t’taste ya… God, ya smell so fuckin’ good…”

He barely got the words out before his mouth was on you.

He dove in like a starving man, lips wrapping around your soaked, swollen clit as he moaned so loud it vibrated through your entire body. The wet heat of his tongue slithered over you, lapping broad, messy strokes through your folds, and then he was sucking you in tight between his lips like he was trying to drink you down.

Your head slammed back against the pillows, a ragged scream ripping from your throat as your hands flew into his hair, yanking him closer.

“Remmick—oh God— yes—there—right there—”

He whined at the praise, hips jerking into the mattress, his entire body trembling as he shoved his tongue deeper, licking so hard and fast your thighs started shaking around his ears. Slick noises filled the room, obscene and wet, each lap of his tongue punctuated by soft, high moans that shivered out of him like he couldn’t keep quiet to save his life.

And you didn’t want him quiet.

You pulled his face harder against you, rolling your hips up to grind against his mouth, chasing every flick of his tongue, every sloppy, desperate suck.

“More,” you gasped, voice breaking as heat coiled tighter and tighter inside you. “Remmick—more—don’t stop, don’t you fucking stop—”

He let out another whimper, pressing his face in even deeper, tongue plunging into you before circling up to flick rapid, trembling strokes over your clit until your vision blurred. His fangs scraped ever so lightly against the tender skin there, not quite biting, just teasing the edge of pain as pleasure roared through your veins.

And all the while he kept babbling, words slurred and wet against your flesh.

“Fuck… s’fuckin’ perfect… can’t… can’t stop… y’so sweet… taste like heaven…”

Drool poured from the corners of his mouth, mixing with your slick as it spilled over your thighs, soaking the sheets beneath you both until you could feel the heat and wet seeping into the mattress.

Your whole body was trembling, every muscle taut and straining as he sucked and slurped at you, licking you like he’d die if he didn’t taste every last give.

“Remmick—I’m—I’m gonna—”

But he didn’t slow down. If anything, he got wilder, moaning like he was the one about to come as his tongue flicked over your clit in fast, punishing circles.

Your orgasm hit you so hard you thought you might black out, your vision going white as your body convulsed around him. You screamed his name, sobbing through it as your thighs clamped around his head, trying to pull him even closer.

He growled into your cunt, shaking like a leaf as he kept his mouth sealed tight against you, sucking every gush of slick straight into his throat, refusing to let a single drop escape. His arms wrapped around your hips, anchoring you down, forcing you to ride his face through the aftershocks as your entire body spasmed helplessly.

“Fuck—Remmick—oh my God—can’t—can’t—”

But he didn’t even hear you.

He didn’t pull away, didn’t pause, didn’t so much as falter. He just kept lapping at you, like a man possessed. His moans vibrated through your entire body, soft, high-pitched, almost desperate, like he was drowning and your taste was the only thing keeping him alive.

You tried to squirm back, hips stuttering from pure overwhelm, but his arms locked tighter around your thighs, pinning you to the soaked sheets as he pushed his face in closer, nose pressing hard into the swollen, aching bundle of nerves at the top of your slit.

He was starving for you.

Each drag of his tongue sent sharp little bursts of pleasure slicing up your spine, your muscles clenching wildly around nothing as he slurped and sucked and swallowed everything you poured out for him.

“Rem—Remmick—please—too much—”

But he just groaned into your cunt, the sound muffled and wet, and sucked harder, tongue plunging inside you again and again until you were sobbing, your vision swimming with black spots.

You weren’t sure if it was seconds or minutes or lifetimes before you came again, a shattering, brutal wave that wrung a scream from your raw throat, your body clamping around his tongue so hard you felt him mewl deep in his chest.

Still, he didn’t stop.

Your fingers grasped at his hair, clutching so tight you thought you might tear strands free, but he only moaned louder, hips grinding desperately into the mattress as if he was trying to get relief.

And finally—finally—he pulled away, panting so hard his shoulders shook, his face dripping with you, lips swollen and shiny, pupils blown so wide the red had nearly swallowed the blue.

He blinked up at you like he was coming out of a trance, chest heaving, throat working as he tried to swallow back the thick saliva still pooling in his mouth.

“Darlin’—” His voice cracked, high and thin. “Darlin’, please—I need—”

He pushed up onto his knees, slick dripping down his chin onto his shirt, eyes darting frantically between your face and the wet heat still clenching and fluttering below.

“I gotta—I gotta be inside ya,” he choked out, hands gripping your hips like he was afraid you’d vanish. “Please—please, sugar—I’ll make it feel so good, I swear t’God, I’ll take care of ya—”

He bent closer, pressing messy, trembling kisses over your stomach, your ribs, his breath stuttering as he tried to get the words out through shaky sobs of need.

“Y’smell so good… fuck, I can’t—I can’t stand not bein’ in ya—lemme—lemme—”

He pulled back just enough to look at you, voice breaking entirely as he pleaded.

“Lemme fuck ya, darlin’. I wanna feel ya squeezin’ me, wanna fill ya up so deep—make y’feel good, make y’feel so good you’ll forget anythin’ else ever existed.”

Your chest heaved, breath catching on a soft laugh you couldn’t hold back—because God, you’d never seen him like this. So wrecked, so needy, so close to coming undone just from the thought of being inside you.

And you loved it.

You tilted your head, studying the way his eyes shone—wet and raw and hungry—and let your voice drop to a warm, lilting hush.

“Yes.”

He let out a noise—a ragged, half-choked cry that didn’t sound anything like the man who usually spoke with slow, easy drawls. It tore straight from his chest, raw and high, as though the single word had physically cracked him open.

“Yes…?” he echoed, blinking at you, dazed. “Y-ya mean it? Ya… ya want—”

“I want you,” you murmured, fingers sliding up into his hair, nails scraping lightly over his scalp. “Now. Remmick, please.”

He didn’t waste another breath.

In a blur of motion, he yanked at the buttons of his shirt, fumbling so badly with trembling fingers that you nearly laughed again, though the sound stuck somewhere in your chest because of how beautiful he looked like this. His chest heaved as he finally shoved the shirt off his shoulders, baring pale, lean muscle slick with sweat.

Then his belt came undone with a sharp metallic jingle, and he kicked off his now-sticky pants and underwear in one desperate shove, cock slapping up heavy and flushed against his stomach, already leaking strings of wetness that glistened in the lamplight.

But even in his frenzy, he reached for you like you were something precious.

His hands moved to your nightgown, sliding it carefully up and over your head, pressing reverent kisses to your shoulders, your collarbones, the curve of your breasts as he freed each inch of skin. His lips found every sensitive spot he’d memorized, leaving you shivering and gasping as he fawned over you with soft whispers.

“God, darlin’… look at you… s’beautiful… perfect… perfect… made for me…”

His voice shook as he shifted higher to press soft, lingering lips at your neck and jaw.

Then his mouth descended again, finding one nipple and suckling gently, tongue swirling around the pebbled peak until you gasped, your back arching toward him.

“Can’t believe… can’t believe I get to touch you… y’real, right? Mine?”

You were panting by the time he finally pulled back enough to meet your eyes, cheeks flushed, hair tousled, cock twitching where it rested heavy against your thigh.

He swallowed hard, shivering as he lined himself up at your entrance, pressing the leaking head just barely against your slick folds.

Then he forced his eyes up to yours, breath catching as he managed, in a voice barely above a whisper:

“D… d’ya want me t’go slow, darlin’? Or… or fast?”

Your grin was wicked, but your voice stayed soft as silk. “Start slow,” you murmured. “Then fast.”

He blinked.

“Y… y’sure?” he stammered, hips twitching forward half an inch before he forced himself still. “I… I dunno if I can—”

“Be a good boy for me, Remmick.” You dragged your nails down his chest, just lightly enough to make him shiver. “Slow first. Then fast. Can you do that for me?”

His breath hitched so violently you thought he might faint.

“Yes—yes, ma’am—” he gasped, voice breaking into a sob as he pressed forward, sinking into you with agonizing, careful slowness.

He choked on a moan as your heat wrapped around him, eyelids fluttering as he let out one shattered, keening sound.

“Christ— oh—oh God—”

You clenched around him as he bottomed out, just to see the way his mouth fell open, the way a strangled moan clawed up his throat.

“Good boy,” you crooned. “Such a good boy, goin’ slow for me. Feels good, doesn’t it, baby?”

“Uh—uh-huh—” he gasped, voice high and trembling, hips rolling forward in tiny, controlled thrusts that nevertheless made both of you shudder. “S-so good… God, y’feel so good, I can’t—”

He squeezed his eyes shut, hips stuttering.

“Please… please, can I—”

“Faster,” you said, smiling sweet and dark as you dragged your nails lightly over his shoulders. “Now.”

And Remmick broke.

He surged forward with a ragged cry, hips snapping into you as though his body had been waiting for nothing else. Each thrust punched a soft cry from your chest, his moans spilling freely as he babbled half-words, lost entirely in the feel of your walls clutching around him.

And through every thrust, every helpless sob of pleasure, he kept whimpering it over and over.

“Good boy… m’bein’ a good boy… wanna make you feel so good…”

But even as he said it, there was nothing good about the way Remmick fucked you.

He was snarling just above, hips slamming forward so hard the headboard cracked the wall with every thrust, the mattress creaking beneath the wild pace he set the instant you gave him permission. His cock dragged inside you, thick and hot, each stroke punching needy little gasps out of your lungs as your whole body rocked with the force of it.

And he wouldn’t shut up.

“Fuck… oh fuck—y’so tight, … squeezin’ me so good—can’t—fuck, I can’t believe—”

Drool spilled from his open mouth, dripping warm and wet across your collarbone as he shoved his face into the crook of your neck. He was panting like a beast, eyes wild and red, fangs nicking lightly at your skin as he gasped your name over and over.

“Am I—am I doin’ good, sugar?” he cried out, voice rising high as his hips pounded into you faster, relentless and desperate. “Tell me I’m doin’ good—please, I gotta know—”

But you couldn’t speak.

Every time you tried, all that came out was a strangled moan, your nails clawing at his back as your thighs trembled around his waist. You were soaked, juices slicking his cock, pooling under you as he drove into you over and over with a fevered rhythm that made stars burst behind your eyes.

Your head fell back, a broken sob shuddering from your chest.

“Rem… Remmick—”

But that was all you managed before he slammed into you again, bottoming out so deep it stole the breath from your lungs.

“Shit— oh God, sugar, d’ya like that? D’ya like when I’m deep?” His voice was shredded, half-sobbing as he pulled back only to ram into you, sharp and brutal.

He was drooling everywhere now, thick strings of saliva falling onto your chest, slicking your skin as he babbled incoherently into your throat. His tongue darted out to lap at the mess he’d made, smearing it across your skin, leaving your chest shiny and wet as his hips kept driving forward.

He kept trying to slow down—little stuttering attempts to ease his pace—but each time your walls clenched around him, he let out a high, choked sob and lost control all over again.

“Fuck—fuck, I’m sorry—I’m tryin’ t’go slow—I swear I am—y’just feel—fuckin’ perfect—oh God—”

You managed a half-word, some slurred plea, and he groaned so loud it vibrated through your whole body.

“Oh God, ya sound so pretty… c’mon, darlin’, talk t’me… tell me m’good, please, please…”

His cock was driving into you so hard now you thought you might break apart, the obscene slap of skin on skin echoing off the walls as slick gushed out around him, dripping down your thighs onto the sheets.

“Remmick—” you gasped, voice trembling, eyes rolling back as he thrust even deeper. “S-so good—you’re so good—”

He let out a sound that was almost a growl, but cracked high at the end, breaking into something like a whimper as he drew back and slammed forward again.

“F-fuck—fuck—darlin’, look—look at me—”

He caught your jaw in one trembling hand, forcing your eyes down to where his cock disappeared inside you with each savage thrust.

“Look how m’stretchin’ you out… fuck… y’see how deep I’m gettin’…?”

He slammed in hard, and your vision sparked white as you felt the thick crown of him shove right up against your cervix, pressure so intense it made you sob.

“Oh God—”

“Can… can y’feel me there?” he babbled, voice cracking with every syllable as sweat poured down his temples. “Feel me right there, bumpin’ your little womb—fuck, sugar, y’so tight—I can see myself—”

He panted raggedly, eyes rolling as he stared down, watching the bulge his cock made in your belly every time he drove in deep. His fingertips drifted trembling over the swell, pressing lightly so he could feel himself sliding in and out under your skin.

“Holy… shit, darlin’, look… look how y’take me—s-so fuckin’ perfect—m’dick’s all the way in your fuckin’ guts—”

He slammed forward again, eyes wild, and you choked on a sob as the rounded shape in your belly shifted under his palm.

“Fuck—fuck, I wanna—wanna breed you so bad—” His voice rose into a panicked, high-pitched whine. “Darlin’, I can’t—I can’t stop thinkin’ ‘bout it—fillin’ you up, makin’ you so fuckin’ full—gonna put a baby in you, swear t’God—gonna make you mine forever—”

“Remmick—” your voice wavered, another moan catching as he bottomed out again. “Please… keep going… don’t stop—”

He let out a sob, hips bucking so hard the bed rattled. “Y… y’mean it? Y’want me t’fuck a baby in ya, sugar? Oh fuck—fuck, I’d take care of ya—swear I would—”

He was rambling now, words tumbling out in frantic, broken gasps as he hammered into you with quick, shallow thrusts that battered your cunt with each snap of his hips.

“Keep ya safe—keep ya fed—ya’d never have t’lift a finger—just wanna see you round, so round with my kid—so fuckin’ pretty—wanna see y’belly swellin’ up again and again—”

He squeezed his eyes shut, voice breaking into high, helpless cries as he fucked you deeper, the shape of him shifting inside your belly with each ruthless stroke.

“Shit—shit—y’take me so good—fuck, I’ll make ya my wife a thousand times over—make sure nobody ever takes ya away—gonna breed you, darlin’, fuckin’ breed you—”

“Remmick,” you gasped, your hands flying to his cheeks as he pounded into you. “Yes—yes, I want it—want you to fill me up—want your baby, Remmick—”

“Oh God—oh fuck—thank ya, darlin’—thank ya—fuck, I’m—I’m gonna—”

He barely got the words out before his hips slammed forward one last time, burying himself to the hilt as his entire body went rigid above you.

You felt it—a hot, gushing flood as he spilled inside you, cock jerking and pulsing so hard it sent shuddering ripples through your walls. The heat of it bloomed deep in your belly, thick and heavy, and the pressure made you sob out a choked cry as your own orgasm crashed into you like a tidal wave.

“Remmick—!”

But he was gone.

With a strangled groan, he lunged for your throat, fangs glinting in the lamplight, and sank them deep into the soft flesh where your neck met your shoulder.

Pain flashed white-hot for half a second—sharp, searing—but it melted almost instantly into a dizzy, swirling heat that spiraled straight down to your core.

You clenched around him so hard you felt him twitch inside you again, and his growl vibrated against your skin as he drank deep, swallowing mouthful after mouthful of your blood in greedy gulps.

He stayed completely bottomed out the whole time, hips grinding forward in tiny, helpless thrusts as his cock kept spurting warm ropes of come deep inside you, each pulse making your walls flutter and squeeze even tighter around him.

His moans were muffled against your throat, wet and broken, slick noises rising as blood and drool spilled from around his lips, sliding hot down your collarbones.

“Mine… mine… mine—” he babbled, voice muffled around the seal of your skin. “Fuck… fuck, sweetheart, I love ya—love ya so fuckin’ much—oh God, y’so good to me—so good—”

You could feel the drag of his tongue lapping at the wound between swallows, the sucking pull of his mouth matching every ripple of pleasure still tearing through your body.

And still he kept moving inside you, grinding deep, his cock so thick and swollen you could feel it pressing up against you with each tiny push, still leaking warmth into you.

“Was I good?” he whimpered suddenly, pulling his fangs free just long enough to speak, lips slick and red with your blood. His voice cracked, high and terrified: “T-tell me I was good, darlin’… please… did I… did I make y’feel good…?”

Your vision was swimming, but you forced your trembling hands up to cradle his face, dragging him down for a bloody, open-mouthed kiss that tasted like iron and slick and saliva and something else uniquely him.

And Remmick whimpered into your mouth, still moving in tiny, desperate thrusts, his hips pressing close as though he couldn’t bear a single inch of space between you.

He stayed pinned there, trembling, burying his face against your neck as he breathed raggedly, each exhale hot and damp on your skin. His cock pulsed inside you one last time—and then, finally, he went soft, the relentless tension easing from his muscles as his weight slumped heavier onto yours.

“Fuck… fuck, darlin’, m’sorry,” he gasped, pressing frantic kisses along your jaw, your cheeks, your swollen lips. “I got carried away—shouldn't've been so rough—Christ, I couldn’t stop, ya were just—just so fuckin’ sweet—”

He tried to pull out carefully, but the moment he slipped free, a hot gush of his come spilled from you, and you let out a sharp, choked whimper.

“Oh, no—no—I’m sorry, I’m so fuckin’ sorry—” His hands flew to your cheeks, eyes wide and panicked, blood still drying on his lips. “I didn’t mean t’hurt ya—God, I should’ve gone slower—I—I—”

You shushed him with a weak little smile, pressing your fingers to his lips before he could spiral further.

“Remmick,” you croaked, your voice hoarse from screaming his name, “just… go get the bath ready.”

He stared at you as though he couldn’t quite believe you weren’t upset with him.

“Y… y’sure?”

“Bath, Remmick.”

A flush climbed his throat, and he swallowed hard, pressing one last shaky kiss to your temple before scrambling off the bed on unsteady legs.

“Y-yes, ma’am—right away…”

You lay there for a moment, utterly wrecked, the sheets beneath you soaked through with sweat and slick and the lingering spill of his release. The ceiling spun a little as you exhaled, your pulse still thrumming gently in your ears, a tender fluttering between your thighs where he’d been buried so deep you could still feel the ghost of him inside you.

From the bathroom, you could hear water running, the sharp hiss of the faucet and Remmick’s quiet voice as he murmured to himself—probably panicking about water temperature and lavender oil and whether he’d scrubbed the tub well enough.

And for the first time all day, you let your mind drift, feeling the sweat cooling on your skin, your body limp and spent.

A laugh—small, incredulous—bubbled up in your chest, surprising even you.

Because the ache that had driven you half out of your mind, that clawing, endless heat that made you beg for his touch, was gone.

Utterly, blissfully gone.

And you couldn’t help but laugh again as you whispered into the empty room.

“Guess that did the trick.”

[thlaylisden]

Remmick is just a lil emberassed about spilling on his shirt..dont A him...,,, bonus: