pairing: remmick x mortal lover!fem reader
summary: A handmade harvest knot, an old courtship custom, and one invitation too many turn a summer festival with Remmick into a promise you never meant to make.
wc: 6.4k
a/n: and here it is, the final fic in my mini event!! it’s technically 1 a.m in mountain time, but it just hit midnight on the west coast so i’m counting it🤪i also recently learned that lúnasa is a traditional gaelic harvest festival held on august 1st, which made remmick the obvious choice for a sweet courtship custom turned ritualistic monsterfucking, corrupted consent, and forced immortality. happy 36th birthday to jack, and thank you for giving us a vampire this pretty. not beta read.
warnings: dead dove: do not eat, dubcon, corrupted consent, consensual sex under false pretenses, coercion and manipulation, betrayal by a trusted partner, forced turning, forced immortality, non-consensual feeding, death and rebirth, loss of autonomy, hive mind/collective assimilation, loss of mental privacy, ritualistic sex, monsterfucking, predator/prey play, fear play, consensual bondage (mild), bloodplay, biting, strength kink, possessive behavior, praise kink, piv, fingering, creampie, unprotected sex
36 CANDLES / MAIN MASTERLIST
Remmick had been alive long enough to watch sacred things become entertainment.
Lúnasa had once meant smoke caught in wool, grain split beneath calloused hands and prayers murmured by people who understood how little stood between a full winter store and starvation. Now it meant food trucks, plastic cups of cider and a laminated sign beside the bonfire reminding guests not to climb the decorative hay bales.
He regarded the sign with open contempt.
“You’re not supposed to climb them,” you said.
“I can read.”
“You’ve been staring at it like you’re planning something.”
Remmick glanced toward the pyramid of straw stacked beyond the ropes, then back at you. Firelight warmed one side of his face, turning the blue of his eyes almost silver while the other remained shadowed beneath tousled dark hair. He’d ignored every suggestion that he dress less conspicuously, arriving in a light blue button-down shirt with the collar loosened, black trousers and suspenders, his thin gold chain catching whenever he moved. Among the festival’s linen dresses, knitted shawls and carefully distressed boots, he almost blended in.
Almost.
Then someone passed too close and instinctively veered away, unsettled by something they couldn’t name.
“I’m considering whether the organisers understand the difference between a harvest celebration and a petting zoo,” he said.
“You’ve complained about the music, the cider and the historical demonstration.”
“The man with the scythe nearly removed his own foot.”
“It would’ve made the demonstration memorable.”
Remmick’s mouth curved. “There’s my sweet girl.”
You rolled your eyes, but the smile escaped anyway.
The festival sprawled across the grounds of a converted estate, all strings of amber bulbs, market stalls and bonfires glowing against the darkening fields. Somewhere beyond the vendors, fiddles and drums battled with a speaker playing modern folk music. Smoke drifted through the August air, carrying roasted apples, trampled grass and the metallic promise of rain.
Remmick had been amused when you first suggested coming. By sunset, amusement had given way to something quieter. He watched dancers circle the fire with a stillness that didn’t suit him, one thumb rubbing slowly over the ring on his smallest finger. Every so often, his mouth moved around the shape of a lyric nobody else seemed to know. The modern arrangement bore only the faintest resemblance to what he remembered, but the bones remained buried beneath it.
You slipped your hand into his, and his fingers closed immediately, cool and strong.
“You miss it,” you said.
“Which part?”
“The old way.”
Remmick looked across the field. “People always imagine the past as simpler because they didn’t have to survive it.”
“That wasn’t an answer.”
“No.” His thumb moved across your knuckles. “It wasn’t.”
You knew better than to push when his voice took on that distant quality. Remmick told stories readily when they served him, but the ones that mattered usually had to be coaxed from between long silences. Thirteen centuries had left him with an endless supply of anecdotes and remarkably little willingness to discuss what any of them had cost.
The dancers broke apart before joining hands again in a wider circle. Remmick followed the change with unsettling precision, his attention shifting toward every step before it occurred.
“You know this one,” you said.
“I knew something that wore the same bones.”
“Did you dance it?”
“Once or twice.”
The modest answer made you laugh. Remmick could turn his own execution into an amusing story told over drinks, but mention dancing and suddenly he discovered restraint.
“With who?”
His gaze remained on the fire. “People whose names aren’t spoken anymore.”
The answer quieted you. For a moment, the electric lights seemed to recede, and you imagined another field beneath the same moon, the soil unpaved and the darkness absolute beyond the reach of torches. Remmick without his gold chain or carefully rolled sleeves. Remmick warm, perhaps, with a pulse beating beneath skin that sunlight hadn’t yet learned to punish.
“Did you love any of them?” you asked.
His eyes shifted to you. “I was young.”
“That must’ve been terrible.”
A low laugh left him. “Cruel woman.”
“You adore me.”
“I do.”
He said it casually, but his fingers tightened around yours.
A woman at the next stall called you over before the silence could deepen. Bundles of dried wheat, rushes and coloured thread covered her table, with samples hanging from the canvas roof in braided circles, crosses and small, intricate knots tied with narrow loops. A handwritten card described them as traditional harvest tokens once exchanged during courtship.
You picked up one of the unfinished knots.
Remmick’s attention shifted.
The woman began explaining how to weave the strands, guiding your fingers through a simple pattern while Remmick stood beside you. He didn’t correct her technique, though you could feel the effort it required. His silence became almost theatrical.
“Don’t,” you warned.
“I’ve said nothing.”
“You’re thinking very loudly.”
“Perhaps I’m admiring your craftsmanship.”
“It looks like a dead spider.”
The woman laughed politely.
Remmick didn’t.
By the time you finished, the knot sat unevenly in your palm, one side tighter than the other and a loose strand poking from the centre. You held it up for inspection.
“Beautiful,” he said.
“You’re a terrible liar.”
“I’ve had considerable practice.”
The vendor offered you a small brass pin, mentioning again that the knots were often given as signs of affection. You turned toward Remmick and positioned it against the strap of his suspenders, just above his heart.
“There,” you said. “Apparently, I’ve proposed.”
He caught your wrist before you could withdraw.
The playful answer you expected never came. His gaze moved from your face to the little knot pinned against his chest, and although the festival continued around you in fragments of noise and flame, Remmick had gone utterly still.
“You know what you’re giving me?” he asked.
“A badly woven piece of straw.”
“That all?”
His thumb rested over your pulse. The woman behind the stall had suddenly found something very important to arrange beneath the table.
You studied Remmick’s face. “A courtship token.”
“And you want me to keep it?”
The question carried more weight than the moment should’ve allowed. You could’ve teased him, but something in his expression stopped you. Beneath the familiar charm sat an older hunger, not the sharp appetite you recognised before feeding, but something patient and ceremonial.
“Yes,” you said. “Keep it.”
His eyes held yours for another long second before he smiled, warm enough to make you question why you’d felt uneasy at all. Remmick lifted your hand and pressed his mouth to your knuckles.
“Gladly.”
The vendor avoided looking at either of you while accepting payment. As you walked away, Remmick glanced back at the tokens hanging beneath the canvas.
“She left out part of the custom,” he said.
“Of course she did.”
“Tradition becomes easier to sell once you remove everything unpleasant.”
“What was the unpleasant part?”
“The giver couldn’t always ask for it back.”
You stopped beside a stall selling honey cakes. “That sounds less like courtship and more like theft.”
“Courtship has always had an alarming amount in common with conquest.”
“And here I thought romance was dead.”
“It frequently is.”
He leaned close, his breath cooling the shell of your ear.
“Still beautiful, though.”
Before you could ask whether he meant the custom or the dead thing, Remmick straightened and purchased one of the cakes. He broke off a piece and held it to your mouth, watching you take it from his fingers with an intensity that made the perfectly innocent act feel indecent.
“You’re being strange,” you said around the sweetness.
“I’m enjoying my proposal.”
“I didn’t actually propose.”
His gaze lowered to the knot. “Didn’t you?”
You shoved the rest of the cake against his chest, but he caught it before it smeared the striped fabric, laughing as you walked ahead.
He didn’t remove the knot for the rest of the evening. You caught him touching it twice, once while watching the dancers and again when the bonfire collapsed inward with a fountain of sparks. The second time, his fingers lingered over the braided straw as though confirming it remained there.
By then, the cider had softened the edges of the night. You leaned into his side while musicians played beneath the lights, his arm settled around your waist and his mouth occasionally brushing your temple. Remmick had fed from you before leaving home, just enough to take the strain from his features without leaving you weak, and you could feel the quiet pulse of contentment beneath his skin.
Feeding had rules.
Your relationship with Remmick had several.
He could drink from you when you offered. He could use his strength during sex, provided he never made you feel trapped without warning. He could frighten you when you asked, chase you when you wanted and leave marks anywhere that clothing could hide.
He could not turn you.
That rule had existed from the beginning. Remmick called mortality a prison with unusual conviction for someone who’d spent centuries breaking into other people’s homes, while you called vampirism a collective nightmare dressed up as fellowship. The first time you refused his offer, he laughed and kissed your forehead, treating your answer as something time would correct for him. Months later, you woke from a fever to find him sitting beside your bed with two fingers around your wrist, listening to your weakened pulse with an expression that made you feel as though death had already entered the room. He asked what you expected him to do when your body eventually failed in some ordinary, preventable way.
You told him to grieve.
The water glass shattered in his hand.
Afterward, Remmick cleaned the floor, replaced the glass and promised not to raise the question again unless you did first. He kept that promise, technically, though sometimes you caught his hand spread across your chest while you slept, counting the beats he had no intention of losing.
The festival began thinning near midnight. Families left first, then older couples and tourists who’d underestimated the cold sweeping across the fields. Rain hung in the air without falling, and the remaining crowd gathered closer to the fire, drunk enough that nobody noticed Remmick guiding you away from the lights.
“Where are we going?” you asked.
He nodded toward the darkness beyond the farthest hedgerow. “Walk with me.”
“That sounds ominous.”
“It’s a field, love.”
“You once described a mass grave as an interesting patch of earth.”
“It was historically significant.”
His hand rested at the small of your back as you crossed the damp grass. Music followed in a muffled rhythm, weakening with every step until the night belonged to insects, distant laughter and the soft brush of grain against your legs.
Beyond the hedgerow stood an abandoned farmhouse. Its roof sagged slightly over a dark porch, windows reflecting nothing but the distant glow of the festival. Brambles smothered the stone wall, and a narrow barn leaned beside it as though exhausted by the effort of remaining upright.
You stopped at the broken gate. “You knew this was here.”
“I know many things.”
“You planned this.”
Remmick turned to face you, the harvest knot pale against his suspenders. “You told me you wanted to play.”
A week earlier, half asleep beside him, you’d admitted that you sometimes wondered what it would feel like if he stopped pretending the chase challenged him. Remmick had kissed the gland beneath your jaw and asked how much fear you could bear from someone you trusted.
You hadn’t expected him to remember.
That was stupid. Remmick remembered everything.
“You chose tonight?” you asked.
“You gave me something worth celebrating.”
The farmhouse stood behind him, hollow and waiting. Excitement moved low in your stomach, sharpened by the awareness that Remmick could hear every change in your heartbeat.
“What are the rules?”
His smile widened. “You run. I follow.”
“How much of a head start?”
“Enough to make you hopeful.”
“And when you catch me?”
Remmick stepped closer, his voice lowering. “I remind you what hunts in the dark.”
The red hadn’t entered his eyes yet, but you could already imagine it.
“No turning,” you said.
His expression barely changed. “No turning.”
“Say you understand.”
“I understand.”
The answer came smoothly, but you caught his chin between your fingers and held him there.
“Remmick.”
His eyes softened with practiced patience. “I won’t turn you tonight.”
The addition bothered you. He kissed your palm before you could press him on it.
“Go.”
You remained where you were, and Remmick’s mouth twitched.
“Your time’s already started.”
That sent you running.
The first stretch of field was nearly flat, silvered by moonlight and broken only by waist-high grass. You lifted your skirt and sprinted toward the farmhouse, breath tearing quickly from your lungs while Remmick remained behind.
He didn’t follow at first.
You could feel the distance between you, the unnatural absence of footfalls where there should’ve been pursuit. When you risked a glance over your shoulder, he stood beside the gate with his hands folded behind his back.
Watching.
Then the clouds covered the moon. Darkness swallowed the field for no more than a second, and when the light returned, the gate was empty.
Your pulse kicked.
You changed direction, cutting toward the barn instead of the house. Wet grain caught against your legs, slowing you, and the ground dipped unexpectedly beneath one foot. You stumbled but kept moving, listening for anything beyond your own breath.
Nothing.
That was worse.
“Remmick?”
His laughter came from somewhere to your left. You spun toward it and found only grass bending in the wind.
“You’re supposed to chase me,” you called.
“I am.”
His voice sounded close enough to touch, then impossibly distant on the final word.
You ran harder.
A neglected orchard stretched between the field and the barn, the trees planted in rows that had long since lost their discipline. Branches bowed beneath small apples while fallen fruit softened beneath your shoes. You slipped between the trunks, hoping the deeper shadows might hide you despite knowing Remmick didn’t need light to see.
A twig snapped behind you.
You ducked beneath a branch and turned sharply, but nobody followed. Another sound came from ahead, and Remmick was suddenly leaning against the next tree with his arms folded, the striped shirt bright between strips of shadow.
You stopped so abruptly your shoe crushed an apple beneath its heel.
“You said you’d follow.”
“I did.”
“You’re in front of me.”
“I’m very quick.”
His eyes remained blue, which somehow made his sudden appearance worse. He looked perfectly composed, without even the suggestion of exertion, while your breath came hard enough to hurt.
“You’re meant to give me a chance.”
“I gave you several.”
Remmick pushed away from the trunk.
You fled before he completed the first step.
His laughter followed you through the orchard. Damp leaves brushed your face, branches dragged lightly across your sleeves, and every few seconds you heard him somewhere different: a boot striking earth behind you, his breath beside your ear, the faint hum of the festival melody drifting between the trees. Once, cold fingers grazed the back of your neck before disappearing so quickly you almost convinced yourself it had been rain.
He was letting you run, not because he needed to tire you, but because he enjoyed the moment when your body began understanding what your mind already knew.
There was nowhere he couldn’t reach you.
By the time you reached the barn, your lungs burned. The doors stood partly open, leaving a narrow slice of black between them. You squeezed through and pressed your back against the timber, trying to silence your breathing.
Inside, moonlight leaked through holes in the roof. Old machinery crouched beneath canvas sheets, their shapes too suggestive of waiting bodies, while dried straw covered the floor and released a sweet, dusty smell beneath your shoes.
You listened.
A step sounded outside, followed by another, slow and unhurried. Remmick’s fingers curled around the edge of the door.
You bolted deeper into the barn as he entered, his pale shirt bright in the darkness. His eyes had turned red. His smile exposed a crowded row of short, sharpened fangs, his forked tongue flicking briefly over their points as something subtly inhuman sharpened every angle of his face.
“There you are.”
You darted around a support post.
He let you.
Remmick could’ve crossed the space before you took two steps, but he followed at walking pace, boots grinding straw into the dirt. His restraint felt more predatory than speed. He wanted you conscious of every second he chose not to catch you.
“Still hopeful?” he asked.
“Fuck you.”
“Eventually.”
You reached the rear door and shoved against it.
Locked.
Remmick stopped behind you, not touching yet. Your breath fogged the wood while his presence settled across your back, cold enough to raise gooseflesh despite the warmth beneath your skin.
“Caught,” he murmured.
You turned. The red in his eyes burned brighter at the scent of fear and arousal mingling between you, and his forked tongue flickered briefly across one fang before disappearing, an uncontrolled glimpse of what his careful human shape concealed.
“You cheated.”
“I waited.”
“You knew the door was locked.”
“I’ve been here before.”
Remmick reached for your wrist but paused before making contact. “Still playing?”
The question steadied you.
“Yes.”
His hand closed around you. The world shifted in a blur, your back striking the post without pain because Remmick absorbed the force with one arm while his other hand caught both your wrists above your head. Straw dust trembled through the moonlight as his mouth hovered beside your throat.
“You ran beautifully.”
“You barely chased me.”
“I was savouring it.”
He inhaled along the line of your neck, fangs grazing without breaking skin. A shiver moved through you, and his hold tightened in response.
“Did you know,” he asked, “that knots were sometimes carried until the courtship was answered?”
“I answered.”
“You did.”
His free hand moved to the token pinned over his heart. The little braid looked almost ridiculous against him now, crooked and homemade, but Remmick touched it with reverence.
“You asked me to keep it.”
“I did.”
“And invited me to hunt you.”
“Yes.”
“And when we reach the house?”
You looked past him toward the farmhouse. “You’ll need another invitation.”
Satisfaction flickered across his face. “Exactly.”
He released you, and the sudden freedom was almost disorienting. Remmick opened the barn door and gestured toward the house with courtly politeness, as though he hadn’t just held you helpless against a beam.
“After you.”
The farmhouse smelled of wet stone and old wood. You stepped onto the porch first, Remmick following until the threshold stopped him. He could cross oceans, break bone with one hand and enter another vampire’s thoughts across miles, yet an invisible line held him outside a ruined house whose owner had likely been dead for decades.
He stood beneath the sagging roof, red eyes returned to blue, one hand resting against the doorframe.
“Invite me in.”
The words raised another pulse of unease.
“You brought me here because you can’t enter.”
“I brought you because I wanted to hear you say it.”
Rain finally began, tapping softly against the porch and darkening his shirt at the shoulders. The festival lights glowed faintly beyond the field, too distant now to offer any real connection to the world you’d left.
Remmick extended his hand. “You know what I am.”
“Yes.”
“You know what an invitation means.”
“I know what it lets you do.”
His smile was gentle. “Then there’s no deception between us.”
That wasn’t entirely true, though you couldn’t yet say why. You placed your hand in his.
“Come inside, Remmick.”
The threshold released him. He entered with a small exhale, almost pleasure, and closed the door behind him. The bolt slid into place with a heavy scrape.
Candles waited throughout the front room.
Dozens of them.
Some stood in chipped saucers along the mantel, others clustered on the floor around a narrow table draped in linen. Dried grain hung from the rafters in carefully tied bundles, while braided straw cords lay coiled beside a silver bowl, their patterns far more intricate than the uneven knot pinned to his chest. A ring of grain surrounded the table, and several candles had been placed inside hollowed turnips whose crude faces grimaced from the corners.
You stared at the preparations, then back at him. “You couldn’t have come inside to do all this.”
“I didn’t.” Remmick’s smile barely shifted. “I arranged for a mortal pair of hands to prepare the room.”
“Who?”
“No one you need concern yourself with. The invitation was always meant to come from you.”
A colder understanding settled beneath your ribs. Someone had carried out every instruction, left the farmhouse and denied him entry, preserving this final part of the ritual for you alone.
“This wasn’t spontaneous.”
“No.”
“How long have you been planning it?”
Remmick pulled his wet cuffs from beneath his suspenders and rolled them with deliberate care. “Long enough.”
“You didn’t know I’d give you the knot.”
“I hoped you would.”
“And if I hadn’t?”
“Another night.”
The answer was too calm. You turned toward the locked door, not intending to leave so much as needing to see it. The rain-streaked window returned your own reflection and the candlelit room behind you, but there was no sign of Remmick in the glass.
“What exactly do you think I gave you?”
“A promise.”
“It was a courtship token.”
“Yes.”
“Not ownership.”
“Those distinctions are newer than either of us.”
“I’m considerably newer than both.”
His expression softened, almost indulgent. “You offered me a harvest bond over the heart, asked that I keep it, ran when I pursued you and invited me in.”
“Because we were playing.”
“Play has always been rehearsal for something true.”
The charm hadn’t left his face, but it had become a surface stretched over certainty.
“We agreed no turning,” you said.
“We did.”
“And this doesn’t change that.”
Remmick approached slowly. “You’re frightened.”
“I’m paying attention.”
“Good.”
He lifted one of the braided cords from the table and ran it through his fingers. “Then listen carefully. I won’t do anything here that you haven’t asked me to do before. You wanted the chase, the restraints and the chance to know what it felt like when I stopped pretending to be weaker than I am.”
“That isn’t what I’m asking.”
“No.” His gaze remained on yours. “It isn’t.”
“Tell me this ends when I say it ends.”
The silence lasted one second too long. Beneath the rain, you thought you heard the faintest thread of humming, a melody without any clear direction that seemed to emerge from the walls and Remmick’s closed mouth at once.
He offered you the cord.
“You may leave now.”
His body didn’t block the door, and the bolt was within your reach. He’d given you a genuine opening, or one convincing enough that your body couldn’t identify the difference.
Outside waited the wet field, the distant festival and hundreds of people who would never believe what he was. Inside waited the monster you loved, surrounded by evidence that he’d been preparing this long before you placed straw over his heart. You knew leaving wouldn’t destroy the ritual. He would simply wait until another night, because time had always favoured him.
You should’ve left.
Instead, you took the cord.
Remmick smiled with such quiet satisfaction that regret moved through you immediately. He raised your hand and kissed your fingertips.
“Sweet girl.”
Remmick took the cord from your hand and guided you through the ring of scattered grain toward the narrow table, his touch gentle enough to make the unease beneath your ribs feel unreasonable. Rain had gathered strength since you crossed the porch, drumming against the warped windowpanes and slipping through cracks in the farmhouse roof, while the air grew thick with the smell of old wood, damp grain and burning tallow. The silver bowl still waited on the linen beside a cluster of candles, its polished surface reflecting the flames as he helped you lie back, the rough fabric catching against your bare calves.
Remmick moved through the shadows with the quiet assurance of something that had already decided how the night would end. He lifted the tightly braided cord, uneven beneath his fingers and still smelling faintly of harvest dust, then looked down at you.
“Arms up, a stóirín.”
His voice was soft, almost gentle, the Irish lilt curling around the words like smoke. You obeyed, raising your wrists above your head, and he bound them together with the straw, pulling the knot snug enough to hold without letting the fibres bite too deeply. After checking the give with two fingers between the cord and your skin, he pressed a kiss to the inside of your palm.
“Tell me who you are tonight.”
“I’m yours tonight.”
The words came easily because they contained their own ending. Tonight. Nothing beyond the rain, the candles and the game you’d agreed to play.
Something flickered in his red eyes when you said it, a hunger that had nothing to do with blood. His smile exposed the short, sharpened points of his teeth as his forked tongue briefly swept across his lower lip.
“That’s it,” he murmured. “Say it again.”
“I’m yours tonight.”
He hummed low in his chest, his cold fingers tracing down your arm and leaving gooseflesh in their wake. The gold chain at his open collar caught the candlelight when he leaned over you, drawing your attention to the uneven harvest knot pinned above his heart, still pale and freshly woven from where you’d tied it only hours ago. He treated the crooked little thing like a relic. Like a vow.
“You’ve no idea what that does to me, mo chroí, hearing you say it.” His hand followed the line of your side over the thin white shift before settling across your hip. “But you’ll learn.”
He eased the shift upward in one slow pull, the fabric whispering over your skin as the cold air found the warmth beneath it. A rough sound caught in his throat while his gaze travelled over you with the focus of someone committing each familiar detail to memory again.
“Sweet girl,” he said, his touch turning reverent. “You’ve been so good for me. You deserve a reward.”
His mouth found your throat first, cold lips pressing against the pulse that fluttered there, and you felt the faint scrape of his fangs. Not breaking skin. Just promising. His forked tongue traced the line of your jugular, the split tip flickering against your skin, and you shivered, your hips tilting up without permission. He noticed. Of course he noticed. He always noticed. "Eager, are we?" His hand slid down your belly, fingers dipping between your thighs, and he found you already slick. "Oh, a stóirín. Look at you. Soaked for me."
He didn't rush. He never rushed. His fingers parted you slowly, spreading your wetness, and the sound of it filled the quiet room—slick and obscene. He pressed one finger inside you, just one, and the stretch of it made you gasp. "That's it. Take it. Take me." He worked it deeper, curling against that spot he knew so well, and you felt your thighs begin to tremble. "So tight. You always feel like this for me, don't you?"
"Yes." The word came out breathless, broken. He added a second finger, and you cried out, your bound wrists straining against the straw. He shushed you, soft and soothing, even as he fucked you with his fingers, slow and deliberate. "Shh, shh. I've got you. You're doing so well." His thumb found your clit, pressing in tight circles, and your back arched off the linen. "That's my girl. Let me feel you."
His mouth never left your throat, his fangs grazing your skin as he worked you toward the edge. You could feel the heat building, coiling low in your belly, and you knew he could feel it too—your pulse hammering against his lips, the way your cunt clenched around his fingers. "Please," you gasped, not even sure what you were asking for. "Remmick, please—"
"Please what, mo chroí?" His fingers curled inside you, pressing hard against that spot, and your vision went white at the edges. "Tell me what you need."
"You. I need you. Inside me."
He pulled his fingers out slowly, deliberately, and brought them to his mouth. His forked tongue lapped at them, his red eyes never leaving yours, and the sight of it made your cunt clench around nothing. "Ask me nicely."
"Please." Your voice cracked. "Please, Remmick. I want you inside me. I want to feel you."
He smiled, and it was a predator's smile, all teeth and patience. "There's my good girl."
He unbuckled his pants and slipped his suspenders off his shoulder to let his trousers fall and free his cock, and you'd seen it before, but it still made your breath catch—thick and hard, the head flushed dark, already leaking. He positioned himself between your thighs, the blunt head pressing against your entrance, and he held there. Waiting. "Look at me." You did. His red eyes burned in the candlelight. "I'm yours tonight." He repeated your words back to you, and the weight of them made your skin prickle. "Remember that."
He pushed inside you in one slow, relentless thrust, and you felt every inch of him stretch you open. The sound he made—low and guttural, almost pained—sent a shudder through your whole body. "Fuck," he breathed, the word rough and foreign in his courtly mouth. "You feel like heaven, a stóirín. Like you were made for me."
He fucked you slow at first, deep, grinding against your clit with every thrust, and the pleasure built like a tide. The straw cord bit into your wrists as you tugged against it, not to escape—never to escape—but to anchor yourself. He noticed, and his hand came up to grip your bound wrists, pinning them above your head with an ease that made your stomach flip. He wasn't even trying. He was holding you down with one hand, and you couldn't move an inch. "Feel that?" His voice was low, almost amused. "Feel how easily I could keep you here? How easily I could take whatever I wanted?"
You nodded, breathless, and he rewarded you with a harder thrust, the slap of skin echoing off the damp walls. "That's right. But you don't need to worry about that, do you? You trust me." It wasn't a question. "Say it."
"I trust you."
"Again." He picked up the pace, fucking you harder, the table creaking beneath you.
"I trust you."
His fangs grazed your throat again, and you felt the faint sting—just a scratch, a barely-there break in the skin. He moaned at the taste, his hips stuttering, and his forked tongue lapped at the tiny wound. "So sweet," he murmured against your skin. "I could drink from you forever."
You were close. So close. The pleasure was winding tight, ready to snap, and he knew it. He slowed, just enough to make you whimper, and his hand slid down to where your bodies joined. His thumb found your clit, pressing hard, and he leaned in close, his voice a whisper against your ear. "Come for me, mo chroí. Let me feel you."
You shattered. Your cunt clenched around him, your whole body arching off the table, and he groaned, fucking you through it, chasing his own release. He came with a low, shuddering growl, his hips pressed deep, and you felt him spill inside you, hot and thick. He stayed there for a moment, breathing hard, his forehead pressed to yours, and then he pulled out slowly, the loss making you whimper.
He looked down at you—spent, trembling, the straw cords still loose around your wrists—and something in his expression shifted. Softened. He pressed a kiss to your forehead, then your lips, gentle and reverent.
“You did so well, a stóirín. So good for me.”
His thumb traced the small wound on your throat, and warm dizziness spread through you, your limbs growing heavier beneath his touch.
“Rest now,” he murmured. “I’ve got you.”
Afterward, the candles had burned lower. Rain whispered against the windows while you lay wrapped in linen on the narrow table, wrists still loosely circled by the braided cords. Remmick stood beside you fully dressed again, save for the open collar of his shirt, cleaning blood from his fingers with a cloth.
Your blood.
The room felt distant around the edges. Feeding always left a pleasant heaviness behind, but this was deeper, almost narcotic. Every heartbeat arrived slowly, each one followed by a widening silence. The silver bowl sat beneath the table now, a dark smear marking its rim, though you couldn’t remember him placing it there.
“Too much,” you murmured.
Remmick looked down, his eyes red again.
“No,” he said. “Just enough.”
Fear cleared some of the haze. You tried to sit, but his hand settled against your sternum and returned you gently to the linen.
“What did you do?”
“What you asked.”
“I didn’t ask for this.”
“You asked me to keep what you gave.”
“The knot.”
“The promise.”
Your pulse stumbled beneath his palm.
“Remmick, stop.”
His expression softened with unbearable tenderness. “It’s already done, love.”
Cold spread through you that had nothing to do with his skin. You pulled against the cords, but they tightened at once, straw biting into your wrists as Remmick’s hand moved from your chest to your cheek.
“No turning,” you said, the words coming weakly. “You promised.”
“I promised I wouldn’t turn you tonight.”
“It’s still tonight.”
“Not for much longer.”
Understanding arrived with the faint paling of the window.
Dawn approached behind the storm clouds.
Remmick had measured every word.
“You knew.”
“I knew you were afraid.”
“I said no.”
“You said many things while death still had its hand around your throat.”
His thumb stroked the corner of your mouth. Somewhere beneath his voice, another tone moved, followed by another: a woman humming, a man laughing softly, dozens of breaths layered together until the room seemed full of invisible witnesses.
The hivemind.
You’d felt traces of it while he fed before, distant impressions leaking through his control, but never this close. Foreign memories pressed against the edges of your mind: hands on piano keys, bare feet on red earth, sunlight remembered with aching clarity, Remmick dancing beneath a moon that belonged to another century.
“No,” you whispered.
“We were lonely once too,” the voices said through him.
His mouth moved, but the words belonged to many.
“You told me it would still be me.”
“It will.”
“With all of you inside my head.”
“With all of us beside you.”
You tried to turn away. Remmick caught your face gently between both hands and leaned close, the bloodstained harvest knot still pinned over his heart.
“I have watched every person I loved become dust,” he said, his own voice briefly separate from the others. “I won’t watch it happen again because you mistake an ending for freedom.”
“That was my choice.”
“Mortality makes cowards of us. It teaches you to defend the blade because you were born with it already at your throat.”
The red in his eyes blurred as tears filled yours.
“You’re betraying me.”
Pain flickered across his face, real enough to make everything worse.
“No,” Remmick said. “I’m keeping you.”
His fangs entered your throat before the sun rose.
There was pain, then cold, then the strange sensation of falling inward rather than down. The farmhouse dissolved around you. Your final heartbeat thundered through the collective, heard and felt by every mind attached to his, a private death made communal before it had even finished.
Remmick held you through all of it. He murmured in Irish first, words too old and soft for you to understand, then shifted into promises you did.
No more fear.
No more endings.
No more waking to an empty place beside you.
The hivemind crowded closer as your heartbeat weakened, offering glimpses of fields buried beneath snow, cities rising where forests had once stood and faces loved across generations until their names blurred together. Their welcome pressed against you from every direction, warm and ravenous, trying to persuade you that surrender was the same thing as being held.
The last thing you felt as yourself was his thumb brushing the blood from your cheek.
When you opened your eyes again, dawn pressed silver against the curtained windows. You heard the rain, the mice moving beneath the floorboards, birds sheltering beneath the roof and the weakened pulse of a fox crossing the field outside. Far beyond the hedgerow, workers were dismantling the festival, canvas snapping in the wind while someone complained about the weather.
Beneath all of it came the hivemind: thoughts and songs, memories and appetites, strangers greeting you with a joy so intimate it felt obscene.
Your body no longer breathed.
Remmick sat beside the table, watching. His eyes were blue again, and the harvest knot remained pinned neatly to his suspenders, its uneven strands darkened with your blood.
Rage arrived before hunger.
You lunged at him.
Remmick caught you easily, gathering you against his chest while you clawed at his shirt and screamed every vicious thing you could find. The collective shuddered with your anger. Some recoiled, others welcomed it, and Remmick absorbed every blow without loosening his hold.
“There she is,” he murmured.
“I hate you.”
“I know.”
“You lied to me.”
“I know.”
“I’ll kill you.”
His mouth pressed to your temple. “You may try for as long as you like.”
You went still.
The terrible truth opened inside you: there would be time. Years, centuries, whole civilisations turning to dust while his mind remained woven through yours, impossible to escape without tearing yourself apart with him.
Remmick drew back enough to see your face. His expression held no triumph, only devotion stripped of every human restraint that might’ve made it merciful.
“You asked me to keep it, love.”
His fingers touched the bloodstained knot.
Beyond the curtains, the first light reached the farmhouse walls, trapping you inside with him until nightfall.
pairing: sir jimmy crystal x captive!fem reader
summary: The Jimmies decide Sir Lord Jimmy deserves a birthday present, and the captive they’ve wrapped in ribbon is forced to prove she came willingly before he’ll accept her.
wc: 6.3k
a/n: the second fic in my little jack birthday celebration (it’s still his birthday here) and obviously i had to take the idea of giving sir lord jimmy a present in the most fucked-up direction possible. as always, mind the warnings. happy birthday again to the man who somehow makes purple velour look this good. not beta read. so, any mistakes are between me and old nick.
warnings: dead dove: do not eat, rape/noncon, kidnapping and captivity, cult abuse, ritualized sexual violence, forced verbal consent, coercion, restrained/bound reader, public sexual assault, voyeurism, forced oral (m!receiving), rough oral, deepthroating, gagging, hair pulling, forced piv, unprotected sex, internal ejaculation/creampie, pregnancy risk, forced orgasm, manhandling, possessive behavior, humiliation, knife use, forehead scarification, blood, leash play/neck restraint, bad hygiene and rotting teeth, no aftercare
36 CANDLES / MAIN MASTERLIST
The Jimmies had found a box for you, though it was much too small to hide inside and much too pretty to be mistaken for a coffin.
Once, it had held a washing machine. Jimmima had wrapped the cardboard in faded Christmas paper scavenged from an abandoned shop, overlapping strips covered in silver stars and smiling snowmen until only the bottom remained bare. Jimmy Jones contributed a purple satin ribbon that still carried the stink of damp and moss, while Jimmy Fox perforated one side with the tip of his hunting knife.
They argued over whether the holes spoiled the surprise.
“They’ll stop her from suffocating,” Jimmy Ink reasoned.
“Could always give him something else if she does,” Jimmima replied.
You’d been hiding when the Fingers found you, aware enough to understand that their laughter never meant anything was safe. They’d dragged you from an abandoned service station three weeks earlier, killing the two people travelling with you before deciding your face was too pretty to waste. Since then, you’d slept behind a locked door in what had once been the leisure centre’s changing room, your ankle chained to a rusted bench and your meals delivered according to whichever Jimmy remembered you existed.
Cruelty was entertainment to them, something invented to fill the empty hours between raids and Sir Lord Jimmy’s sermons. Each atrocity earned points according to how loudly he laughed when they described it afterward. Even their kindness carried an edge. Jimmy Ink had smuggled you extra water during your first night, then warned you not to thank her where the others could hear.
Gratitude suggested preference. Preference became weakness, and weakness became entertainment.
Now Ink crouched beside the box, checking the knot around your wrists for the third time. The rope was snug rather than painful, more decorative than practical, because your ankles were tied beneath the pale dress and seven armed disciples waited outside. Beyond the cardboard, trainers squeaked against the tiles, followed by muffled bickering and furniture being dragged into place.
Someone had found a battery-powered keyboard. The same six notes repeated until Jimmy Snake cursed and threatened to break every finger responsible.
“Don’t fight today,” Ink called through the opening. “It’s meant to be special.”
“It is special,” Jimmima answered. “Means the Lord might let us watch.”
Ink’s hands paused at your wrists.
You couldn’t see her face through the narrow gap, only matted synthetic yellow hair and the sleeve of her turquoise tracksuit. “Don’t listen to her.”
The absurdity nearly made you laugh. Everyone listened to Jimmima because refusing made her interested, but everyone listened to Sir Lord Jimmy because there was no longer a self left among them capable of imagining disobedience.
You’d watched him reduce armed survivors to trembling silence with a smile and a nonsensical story about Old Nick whispering inside his skull. You’d seen the Fingers compete for his approval, desperate to prove themselves loyal enough, vicious enough, useful enough to remain attached to the invisible hand holding up his crown. He ruled them with affection distributed as sparingly as clean water, and they thanked him for every drop.
The frightening part was how quickly you’d begun watching for it too.
“You said this was my idea,” you whispered.
Ink glanced toward the sounds outside. “It was.”
“I said he’d been staring at me.”
“You said you wanted him in a better mood.”
“Because he broke Jimmy Fox’s nose when he wasn’t.”
Ink’s mouth pressed into a thin line. “Jimmima thought of the box.”
That explained the ribbon around your throat.
It was loose enough that you could breathe, the bow placed at the front as though you were a parcel waiting to be torn open. Beneath it, they’d dressed you in something soft and pale scavenged from a sealed wardrobe, cleaner than anything you’d worn since being captured. Jimmima had washed your skin herself with cold water, humming while she worked and explaining that Sir Lord Jimmy had refined tastes.
You hadn’t asked how she knew.
“You can tell him you don’t want it,” Ink murmured.
“Would he listen?”
Her silence answered for her.
“And what happens to you if I embarrass him?”
Ink looked down at the ropes.
There was the real choice. You could refuse and discover what Sir Lord Jimmy did when rejected before his congregation, or you could say whatever kept his smile in place and hope submission bought you another morning.
The cardboard shifted as Ink stood. A moment later, the top folded shut and darkness swallowed you, close and stale, carrying the smell of dust, ribbon and your own fear. Hands lifted the box from beneath. Your shoulder struck one side as the Jimmies carried you forward, their movements poorly coordinated because no one trusted anyone else enough to call the pace.
The keyboard stopped.
Silence spread through the building with startling speed.
Then a familiar Scottish voice drifted over the cardboard.
“What’s all this, then?”
Sir Lord Jimmy sounded delighted already.
Jimmima launched into a speech she’d clearly rehearsed, welcoming the favourite son of Old Nick to a celebration honouring the day he’d been placed upon the earth. Jimmy Jones interrupted to point out that nobody knew whether it was actually his birthday. Fox called her a faithless cow, which started another argument until a sharp clap cracked through the room.
“Peeps,” Jimmy said. “You’re spoiling it.”
The box descended onto something hard. Pool tiles, judging by the hollow echo beneath you.
The leisure centre’s main pool had been drained long before the Jimmies claimed it. They used the deep end for initiations, executions and games that moved between the two so casually it was difficult to tell which one had been intended. Sir Lord Jimmy liked to sit above it in the lifeguard’s chair, dressed in purple velour and gold, watching violence unfold below as though the cracked plastic seat were a throne.
A few uneven notes sounded on the keyboard.
The Jimmies began singing.
It was recognisable as “Happy Birthday” only because the melody had survived longer than most of the people who once knew it. Half the Fingers replaced Jimmy’s name with his full title, creating a jumble of syllables that tripped over the music. Jimmima sang louder whenever anyone overtook her, while Jimmy Snake abandoned the tune entirely and shouted praise to Old Nick over the final line.
Jimmy applauded when they finished.
“Fucking knockout. Howzat?”
The Fingers cheered, parroting back, "HOWZAT!"
You heard him descend the metal steps, each footfall ringing through the empty pool as he approached. He took his time, circling the box before tapping the side with his knuckles.
“Cake?”
“No,” Jimmima said.
“Bomb?”
Jimmy Fox laughed too hard. No one joined him.
Sir Lord Jimmy tapped again, closer to your head. “Tellytummy?”
“It’s better than that,” Jimmima promised. “We found you a present.”
“We already had her,” Ink said.
Silence returned.
Even inside the box, you felt the atmosphere change.
“Did we?” Jimmy asked pleasantly.
Ink didn’t answer.
The paper ripped above you. Light flooded through the opening as Jimmy tore back the cardboard flaps and peered inside, his face framed by damaged silver stars. His bleached hair had been combed back from his forehead, although one strand had already fallen loose. Gold chains lay against the zipped collar of his purple tracksuit, one bearing the inverted cross that knocked lightly against the cardboard when he leaned closer.
His gaze travelled over the bow at your throat, the ropes around your wrists and the clean dress selected for his approval.
The amusement in his face sharpened.
“Hello, you.”
“Sir Lord Jimmy.”
“Very nice.” His fingers hooked beneath the ribbon, testing its tension without pulling. “Very fucking festive.”
Behind him, the Fingers shifted eagerly.
Jimmima stepped closer. “Do you like her?”
Jimmy’s attention remained on you. “Ask me after I’ve opened her.”
Laughter burst around the pool.
He held out his hand.
Getting out required accepting it, which was probably the point. You placed your fingers in his, and Jimmy’s smile warmed as though you’d proven something important. He helped you stand, supporting you when the ropes around your ankles made you stumble, then turned you slowly before the others while the satin bow trailed against your chest.
“Look at that,” he said. “My peeps do have initiative.”
Praise transformed them. Shoulders straightened and faces brightened beneath grimy yellow wigs. Even Ink lowered her head, concealing whatever guilt remained behind an expression of dutiful satisfaction.
Jimmy inspected the knot around your wrists. “Who tied this?”
“I did,” Ink admitted.
“Bit gentle.”
“She knows what happens if she runs.”
Jimmy looked at you. “Does she?”
You stared back, conscious of Fox’s blade, Jimmima’s expectant smile and the drained pool rising around you like a tiled grave.
“Yes.”
Jimmy laughed, loud and abrupt enough to make Fox flinch. “Clever little thing.”
He kept hold of your wrists as he paced along the line of his disciples. Their bright tracksuits created crude splashes of colour against the mold-stained tiles, like a children’s television program left playing after the world ended.
“What makes a gift?” Jimmy asked.
No one answered immediately, and his expression cooled.
Jimmy Jones tried first. “Something offered to the Lord.”
“Could be.”
“Something you want,” Fox added.
“Usually helps.”
Jimmima smiled. “Something that belongs to you once it’s given.”
Jimmy pointed at her with obvious approval. “There she is. Our scholar.”
He returned to you, keeping the rope looped around one hand. “But there’s a little problem, isn’t there?”
You said nothing.
“Nobody’s asked whether you’re giving anything.” His head tilted as he studied you. “They’ve wrapped you up, stuck a pretty bow on you and dropped you at my feet. Lovely effort. Ten out of ten for presentation. But Old Nick doesn’t care for stolen tribute.”
You almost believed he was offering you a way out.
That was one of Jimmy’s talents. He could make an unlocked door look real while positioning seven people with knives on the other side. Even now, your ankles remained bound and the rope around your wrists was wound through his fist.
Jimmima’s smile had vanished. Ink watched you with quiet dread. The others waited with the stillness of believers anticipating either a miracle or an execution, both outcomes capable of validating their faith.
Jimmy untied the ribbon at your throat. The satin slid free and pooled in his palm.
“Tell me plain,” he said. “Did you come to me?”
Your gaze dropped to the rope joining you.
His fingers tightened.
“Eyes up.”
You obeyed.
“Did you come to me?” he repeated.
There was only one answer that didn’t end with someone bleeding.
“Yes.”
His smile returned.
“Did you come because they frightened you?”
Jimmima stared at you from behind him.
“No.”
“Because they locked you downstairs?”
“No.”
“Because Jimmy Fox said he’d cut your pretty face if you made trouble?”
Fox looked suddenly nervous.
You swallowed. “No.”
Jimmy’s thumb stroked the ribbon as though rewarding each lie. “Because you’re hungry?”
“No.”
“Because you think I’ll keep the demons from ripping your belly open?”
The infected still shrieked beyond the building after dark. Some nights, the sound travelled through the walls until nobody slept.
“That’s part of it.”
Jimmy’s eyes flashed with amusement. “Honest too. Getting better by the second.”
He wrapped the ribbon once around his fist, adding it to the rope, and drew you closer. It didn’t choke you now, but the gesture reminded you how easily it could have.
“And the other part?”
You’d rehearsed something reverent inside the box, yet the words deserted you beneath the attention of the Fingers. Jimmy waited, the pleasant expression on his face growing thinner with every second.
“Because I wanted you to see me,” you said.
Something changed behind his eyes.
It wasn’t softness. Jimmy had carved that out of himself long ago and replaced it with spectacle, scripture and an audience that never dared look away. What remained was recognition, intense and possessive, the satisfaction of discovering a need he could use.
“Oh, I see you.”
He touched your cheek with the backs of his fingers. The gesture was almost tender, which made the watching cult worse.
“I saw you the first night,” he continued. “All filthy and shaking, trying not to look scared while my Fingers dragged you in. You looked at me like you already knew who mattered.”
You remembered looking at him because he was the only person not carrying his knife openly.
“You’ve been waiting for me to notice properly, haven’t you?”
It wasn’t a question. The rope between you made that clear.
Jimmy’s fingers closed around your jaw. “Say it.”
“Yes, Sir Lord Jimmy.”
“On your knees.”
You lowered yourself onto the cold tiles, awkward with your ankles still tied. The Fingers exhaled together.
Jimmy stood over you in purple velour, gold glinting at his throat, while his disciples formed a bright semicircle behind him. From the floor, the empty pool looked deeper than it had from above. Its walls rose on either side, impossible to climb quickly, and the old waterline stained into the tiles resembled a dark ring left by something drowned there.
Jimmy placed two fingers beneath your chin.
“Who released the demons?”
“Old Nick.”
“And who speaks for him?”
“You do.”
“Who are my Fingers?”
“The faithful.”
His thumb pressed against your lower lip. “And what do the Fingers hold?”
“Your crown.”
The disciples answered with you this time, voices overlapping until the words filled the pool.
Jimmy beamed at them, then returned his attention to you. “Hear that? Family.”
Family had once meant people who protected you without first demanding that you bleed for the privilege. The Jimmies had replaced it with matching names, matching clothes and matching scars cut upside down into their skin.
Jimmima approached carrying a narrow knife and a metal cup.
Jimmy took the blade.
“You aren’t one of us yet,” he said. “Can’t give me a present with one foot still outside the door."
The flat edge touched the center of your forehead, cold enough to make you flinch. He traced the bare skin where the others bore Old Nick’s inverted cross.
Ink turned her face away.
“You want to be attached to the hand?” Jimmy asked.
The blade remained poised against your skin. Your wrists were bound, your ankles tied and every exit from the pool guarded. Still, he waited as though this were a sacred choice freely placed before you.
You hesitated too long.
His smile vanished.
“Maybe she doesn’t,” Fox said.
Jimmy glanced over his shoulder, and Fox recoiled immediately.
“Did I ask you?”
“No, Sir Lord Jimmy.”
“You think she doesn’t understand?”
“No.”
“You think she needs convincing?”
Fox’s face drained of colour. “No.”
Jimmy looked back at you. His smile returned as easily as a light switching on.
“See what you’ve done?” he asked. “Got my Fingers doubting you already.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Not me you’ve embarrassed.”
You looked toward Fox. “I’m sorry.”
Jimmy laughed softly. “There. Manners.”
The knife pressed closer, opening a bright point of pain beneath the serrated teeth.
“You want to be attached to the hand?” he asked again.
“Yes, Sir Lord Jimmy.”
“Good."
The cut came quickly. Pain burned beneath your skin as he drew one short line, then another, blood welling along the inverted mark before a warm bead slipped down the slope of your nose. You held still because every Finger was watching and because Jimmy’s approval had become more necessary than relief.
When he finished, he caught some of the blood in the metal cup, dipped his thumb into it and painted a streak down the centre of your lower lip.
The Jimmies applauded.
Jimmy examined his work, satisfaction settling over his features. “Now that is a gift."
He crouched in front of you, gripping your jaw with a hand that smelled of copper and stale sweat, turning your face toward the watching eyes. His thumb pressed beneath your cheekbone while the other fingers bracketed your chin, forcing your head up despite the ache burning through the fresh mark on your forehead. Around the drained pool, the Fingers leaned closer, their bright tracksuits and synthetic yellow hair crowding the edges of your vision as they waited for their lord to make a spectacle of his newest gift.
“Say it again, love.” Jimmy’s voice carried easily through the hollow leisure centre, playful enough to disguise the threat beneath it. “Tell them why they brought you here.”
Your tongue felt thick in your dry mouth. “To be your gift.”
His smile sharpened, but his grip didn’t loosen. “That’s what they decided. I asked what you decided.”
The Fingers watched in expectant silence. Somewhere behind him, rubber squeaked against the empty tiles as one of them shifted closer, eager for the answer Jimmy had already chosen for you.
“To be accepted by Sir Lord Jimmy,” you managed.
“Better.” His thumb pressed harder into your cheek, tilting your face toward the congregation. “But they can’t hear you at the back.”
His fingers dug in until your lips parted around the pressure.
“I came here to be accepted by Sir Lord Jimmy.”
Approval moved through the pool in murmurs and breathless laughter. Someone repeated the words as though they were part of a prayer, and the others quickly joined in, your frightened declaration passing from mouth to mouth until it no longer sounded like anything you had said.
Jimmy’s smile widened as though he had coaxed the confession from you freely. He stroked his thumb once across your cheek before releasing your jaw, leaving your face turned toward the congregation for another long, humiliating moment.
The Fingers murmured, a low, hungry sound that bounced off the chipped tile walls. The drip from the deep end kept its steady rhythm, like a pulse counting down.
Jimmy grinned, and you saw the rot in his teeth up close, the yellowed gaps, the inflamed tissue of his gums. "Good girl." He leaned in, his breath hot against your ear, and you caught the sour tang of it. "Now we consummate the ceremony."
He stood, and there was a theatrical slowness to the way he hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his track pants, pushing them down to his knees. His cock sprang free, half-hard, pink and veined, and the others shifted closer, a collective intake of breath.
"Suck it," he said, not a request. He fisted a hand in your hair and pulled your face toward him.
Your mouth opened because it must. The taste of him was salt and skin, pre-cum slicking your lips as he pushed past them. He wasn't gentle, thrusting shallow at first, then deeper, his hips finding a rhythm that was clumsy but eager. One hand stayed tangled in your hair, the other gripping the back of your skull, guiding you down until your nose brushed the coarse hair at his base.
"That's it," he groaned, his voice pitching up. "That's it, love."
You gagged, your throat convulsing around him, and he moaned, a broken sound that almost seemed surprised. He pulled out just enough for you to breathe, spit stringing from your lips to his cock, and then he thrust back in, deeper this time, his hips stuttering with inexperience.
His thumb found the ribbon around your throat, tugging at it, and you felt the knot loosen, the silk sliding away. He wrapped the ribbon around his fist, using it as a leash, pulling you harder onto him, and you heard yourself make a sound that was half whimper, half desperate swallow.
"Fuck," he exhaled, and it was almost reverent. "Fuck, that's good."
He pulled out entirely, his cock slick with your spit, and pushed you over onto your side with a hand on your shoulder. The tile scraped your hip, your bound wrists grinding against the concrete as he positioned himself behind you, his hands gripping your thighs, spreading them.
"Been waiting for this," he muttered, and you feel the blunt press of him at your entrance, wet and insistent. "Twenty-eight years since the world ended. Twenty-eight years of nothing. And then you."
He pushed in, and it was a stretch, a burn, your body resisting before it yielded, the slick of your arousal making way. He was inside you, fully, his hips flush against your ass, and he stilles for a moment, breathing hard, his hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise.
"Oh," he said, small and stunned, and then he started to move.
His thrusts were uneven, frantic, learning the rhythm as he went. He fucked you with a desperate enthusiasm, his cock sliding in and out of you with a wet sound that echoed in the empty pool, the Fingers watching in silence, their eyes hungry. He leaned over you, his chest against your back, his mouth finding yours, and you tasted the rot of his teeth, the sour heat of his breath, his tongue pushing into your mouth as he kept driving his hips in an out, in and out.
"Mine," he gasped against your lips. "Mine now."
His hand found the front of you, fingers pressing, searching, and you gasped into his mouth as he found the right spot, rubbing in clumsy circles. He was close, you couls feel it in the way his rhythm broke, the way his breath came in short, sharp pants.
"Come with me," he ordered, his voice cracking. "Come on my cock, love."
And your body obeyed because it must, because his fingers were relentless and his cock was buried deep, and the orgasm ripped through you, your cunt clenching around him. He followed a second later, with a broken moan, his hips slamming into you as he spilled inside, hot and thick, filling you.
He stayed there, breathing hard, his weight pressing you into the tile. When he finally withdrew, his cum leaked from you, a slow, warm trickle down your thigh. He rolled you onto your back, his eyes scanning your face, his thumb tracing the raw cross on your forehead.
"You'll wear that forever," he murmured, and it sounded like a promise and a threat. He stood once again, pulling his track pants up, and the others began to stir, their murmurs rising.
You lied on the cold tile, the ribbon still coiled in his fist, your wrists still bound, the mark on your forehead throbbing with every beat of your heart. Somewhere above, the drip from the deep end keeps counting, and you know this was only the beginning.
Afterward, Jimmy retied the purple ribbon around your throat.
The bow was crooked now, the satin crushed and damp from the fist he’d kept wrapped around it, but he fussed over the loops with surprising concentration, tugging one side and then the other until they sat to his satisfaction. It was an absurdly delicate gesture after everything he’d done, his brow drawn tight as though he were arranging flowers rather than restoring the decoration on a parcel he’d already torn apart.
“There,” he murmured, admiring his work. “Lovely.”
Around you, the Fingers remained in the semicircle where he’d ordered them, too disciplined to move without permission and too exhilarated to hide their staring. Their bright tracksuits crowded the edge of the drained pool, synthetic yellow hair glowing beneath the salvaged fairy lights. Some examined the fresh mark on your forehead with open fascination. Most watched Jimmy, waiting for him to show them whether they ought to laugh, applaud or kneel.
“Up,” he said.
Your legs trembled when you tried to stand. The first attempt barely lifted you from the cold tile before your knees threatened to fold again, earning a few smothered snickers from the congregation. Jimmy silenced them with a glance, then caught you beneath the arm and hauled you upright with none of the care he’d shown the ribbon. The rope remained knotted around your wrists, its coarse fibres biting deeper when he raised your bound hands and presented you to the others.
You no longer resembled the clean parcel they’d prepared. The pale fabric clung where it had become damp, the bow hung unevenly at your throat and grime from the pool floor streaked your skin. Jimmima looked pleased with herself anyway, her smile swelling with the satisfaction of someone whose handiwork had survived its intended destruction.
Jimmy Ink looked ill.
She stood slightly apart from the others, shoulders drawn inward and gaze fixed upon a chipped tile near your feet. Whenever her eyes threatened to rise, they stopped somewhere below your face, as though refusing to look at you properly might absolve her of standing there.
“Peeps,” Jimmy announced, spreading one arm toward you, “our present needs a name.”
Suggestions came immediately, shouted over one another with the unruly enthusiasm of children naming a stray animal. Jimmy Fox offered something crude, apparently grateful to be included again. Jones proposed Jimmy Valentine because of the ribbon, gesturing toward the bow as though the connection required explanation. Snake shouted Jimmy Sacrifice, which earned him a disgusted glance from their Lord.
“Bit obvious,” Jimmy said. “No artistry.”
Snake’s grin vanished.
Jimmy circled you once, considering the matter with exaggerated seriousness. He tapped one finger against his lips, head tilting as he inspected the result of the ceremony from every angle. You forced yourself not to follow him with your eyes. The ribbon shifted whenever he passed behind you, its loose end trailing from his hand and brushing your shoulder, a quiet reminder that he hadn’t truly released it.
“Just Jimmy for tonight,” he decided at last. “We’ll find the rest once she’s earned it.”
The phrase settled heavily in your stomach.
You’d believed the ceremony was the earning. The box, the rehearsed answers, the blade and everything that followed should have purchased whatever thin protection came with being counted among them. Jimmy’s wording made it clear there would always be another threshold, another demonstration demanded before you could feel secure. Even a name could be promised, bestowed and taken away again according to his mood.
That was how he kept the Fingers loyal. Belonging was never granted permanently; it had to be purchased again each morning. Every scrap of approval became precious because he alone decided how long it remained valid, and every humiliation could be recast as another opportunity to prove their devotion.
Jimmy drew his knife once more. The scrape of metal made your muscles lock before you could stop them, but he only crouched and sliced through the rope around your ankles. The loosened coils fell away, leaving angry ridges circling your skin.
He left your wrists tied.
“Can’t have you tripping over yourself,” he said as he returned the knife to its place. “Makes the whole family look amateur.”
Fox laughed too loudly. Nobody joined him.
Jimmy straightened and turned you toward the congregation with a firm hand at your shoulder. “Thank your Fingers.”
You looked at the figures gathered around the drained pool, their tracksuits stained with mud and age, their faces open and expectant beneath synthetic yellow hair. They had carried you between them, debated the arrangement of your limbs and wrapped the box while you listened from inside. Now they waited for gratitude as though kidnapping you had been an act of hospitality.
Jimmima wore the smug expectation of someone waiting to be praised for selecting the perfect present. Jones glanced between you and Jimmy, eager but uncertain. Snake rocked on his heels. Fox had already puffed out his chest in anticipation.
Ink still wouldn’t meet your eyes.
“Thank you.”
The slight tightening at the corner of Jimmy’s mouth told you the answer wasn’t enough.
“Properly.”
Your throat hurt when you swallowed. You forced warmth into your voice, smoothing the words until fear could almost be mistaken for sincerity.
“Thank you for bringing me to Sir Lord Jimmy.”
Approval rippled through the Fingers. Jimmima gave an elaborate bow, one hand sweeping toward the floor, while Fox thumped a fist against his chest, apparently reassured that his earlier mistake had been forgotten. Jones clapped twice before realising no one else had and hastily lowered his hands.
Jimmy lifted your bound wrists and kissed your knuckles with courtly tenderness. He angled the gesture outward so every disciple could witness his acceptance and understand that your gratitude had pleased him.
“Welcome to the family. Howzat?”
The Jimmies repeated it, seven voices briefly becoming one.
The words struck the hollow walls and returned distorted, multiplied by the acoustics until it sounded as though the ruined leisure centre itself had welcomed you. Jimmy smiled at the echo. He seemed to feed upon their devotion more readily than anything scavenged from abandoned towns, standing a little taller whenever their voices aligned with his.
You understood then that the ceremony had never truly been about receiving you. You were a lesson dressed in pale fabric and damp ribbon, proof that anything dragged before him could eventually be taught to call itself willing. The Fingers weren’t merely spectators. They were the intended audience for the transformation, each of them reminded that resistance could be rewritten if Jimmy controlled the story long enough.
“Right,” he announced, loosening his grip on your hands without untying them. “Celebration’s not finished because the present’s been opened. Somebody find us a drink.”
The command shattered their reverent formation. Jones hurried toward the metal stairs while Snake and Fox began arguing over who had hidden the last bottle. Another Finger rushed to rescue the battered keyboard from the poolside, cradling it with greater care than anyone had shown you. Jimmima followed close beside Jimmy, fishing shamelessly for another compliment about the wrapping paper.
“Silver stars were my idea,” she reminded him. “Thought they looked proper royal.”
Jimmy ignored her in favour of winding the purple ribbon around his fist.
The other end remained tied at your throat.
“Come along, then.”
He guided you toward the shallow end, the satin tightening whenever your pace fell behind his. Your legs were still unreliable, each step sending a dull tremor through muscles struggling to hold you upright, but Jimmy never slowed enough to accommodate you. When you stumbled, he gave the ribbon an impatient tug rather than offering his arm.
The discarded box sat beneath the salvaged fairy lights, torn open and listing to one side. Silver stars split where Jimmy’s hands had ripped through the paper, exposing the washing-machine logo beneath. Loose strands of tape hung from the collapsed flaps, catching the coloured bulbs whenever they moved in the draught.
From a distance, it no longer resembled a gift box at all.
It looked like the remains of something that had hatched.
You slowed near it. The impulse was irrational but immediate, your body remembering the cramped shelter before your mind could recall the panic of being sealed inside. The cardboard had pressed against your shoulders and trapped every breath, but there had been a finality to the darkness. Nobody had been looking at you. Jimmy hadn’t yet touched you or decided what your fear meant.
He noticed your hesitation immediately. “Something back there you want?”
For one desperate second, you imagined climbing inside again and folding the cardboard over your head, returning to the last place where Jimmy hadn’t yet seen you. The darkness had been close and airless, but at least it had belonged entirely to you. You could almost feel the walls closing around your knees, hiding your expression and swallowing every word before he could demand it.
The ribbon tightened.
“No, Sir Lord Jimmy.”
“That’s right.”
His satisfaction was quiet but unmistakable. He drew you onward while the Fingers gathered behind him carrying bottles, the keyboard and the remains of whatever food had been saved for the occasion. A dented tin rolled across the tiles before Fox chased it down with a curse. Someone began playing those same six notes again, hesitant at first, then louder when Jimmy failed to object.
This time, nobody threatened to break her fingers.
The procession assembled without being ordered. They fell into place behind their lord, voices rising around half-finished jokes and arguments as though the spectacle in the deep end had already become another piece of the evening’s entertainment. Jimmima launched into a detailed account of how difficult you had been to wrap. Fox interrupted to insist the holes in the box had been his contribution. Jones claimed he had stopped the entire thing collapsing, which prompted Snake to call him a liar.
Their version of the night was taking shape before you had even left the pool.
Soon, you knew, the box would become grander in the telling. The ribbon would have been silk instead of damp satin, the paper finer, your arrival greeted by music rather than quarrelling and six uncertain notes. They would forget the fear in your voice and remember only the answers Jimmy had demanded. Perhaps Jimmima would insist you’d smiled when the cardboard opened. Perhaps Fox would swear you’d thanked him before anyone told you to.
At the metal steps, Jimmy paused and looked back at the congregation. The Fingers quieted in stages, one by one noticing that he expected their attention.
“What do we do with gifts, peeps?”
“Treasure them,” Ink answered quietly.
His voice nearly disappeared beneath the hum of the fairy lights, but Jimmy heard him. For the first time since the ceremony ended, Ink looked directly at you. Something tightened across his face before shame dragged his gaze away again.
“Show them off,” Jimmima said.
Fox grinned. “Don’t let anybody nick ’em.”
“Keep them clean,” Jones offered, earning doubtful looks from the others.
Jimmy’s laughter rang against the empty tiles. “There we are. Learning something, aren’t we?”
His hand settled at the back of your neck, directly above the bow, and he guided you onto the first step. The metal was cold beneath your bare foot. Your balance faltered as you climbed with your wrists still bound, but his grip held you upright, not from kindness but because allowing you to fall would spoil the presentation.
The Jimmies followed in a bright, unruly procession. Their voices crowded the leisure centre, already reshaping what had happened below into a story they would repeat until coercion became devotion and fear became gratitude. By morning, they would remember you thanking them. By the end of the week, they might genuinely believe you had arrived by choice.
At the top of the steps, Jimmy drew you against his side and surveyed the ruin as though it were a palace awaiting its queen. The old reception desk had been turned into a makeshift banquet table, covered with mismatched bottles, scavenged sweets and tins pried open with knives. A plastic birthday banner sagged between two dead vending machines, several letters missing so that the message no longer made sense. Someone had pushed a candle into the centre of a stale sponge cake, though the wick had burned down to a blackened nub long before your arrival.
A plastic crown sat beside the keyboard, its metallic points bent and stained. When Jimmima reached for it, Jimmy slapped her hand away and placed it upon his own head.
“Birthday boy first,” he said.
The Fingers cheered.
He basked in the noise, arms spread and chin raised, while the cheap crown slipped sideways across his hair. Jimmima adjusted it for him, laughing too loudly when he called her useful. Fox began banging the flat of his palm against the reception desk in lieu of a drumbeat, and Snake joined in until the abandoned foyer filled with a clumsy rhythm.
Jimmy pulled you into the centre of them by the ribbon and raised one of the bottles. A little liquid remained at the bottom, cloudy and amber beneath the fluorescent lights. He drank, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, then pressed the rim to your lips.
“To family,” he said.
You drank because the alternative had already been demonstrated below. The alcohol was warm and bitter, carrying the taste of rust from the bottle’s mouth. Jimmy watched your throat move, smiling as though the swallow completed some final private ritual.
“To family,” you repeated.
The Fingers answered in chorus.
Someone shoved the stale cake toward Jimmy. He tore away a piece with his fingers, chewed once and grimaced before dropping the rest back onto the desk. Fox laughed until Jimmy looked at him, then abruptly pretended to cough. Jimmima demanded a song, and the keyboard started again, its thin electronic notes swallowed by the cavernous building.
Jimmy tucked you beneath his arm while the others passed bottles from hand to hand. He kept the ribbon looped around his fist throughout it all, even when he laughed, even when Fox attempted to dance and collided with a stack of plastic chairs. Every movement of your body travelled along the satin to him. Every attempt to create an inch of distance was corrected before it could become visible.
When someone asked whether the new Jimmy would be allowed to sleep near their Lord, he answered without looking at you.
“Course she will. Can’t leave presents lying about, can we?”
The Fingers laughed.
His arm tightened around your shoulders, drawing you nearer until the plastic crown brushed your temple. To anyone watching, the pose might have resembled affection: Jimmy presiding over his birthday feast with his newest disciple held proudly against his side. The ribbon concealed between your bodies told the truth.
You finally understood why Jimmy had made you speak your willingness aloud.
A captive could struggle, escape or be rescued. A captive might still remember that she had belonged somewhere else before the Fingers found her. A captive remained evidence of a crime, a living contradiction to every tender word Jimmy used to describe what he had done.
summary: Cook wasn’t invited, doesn’t know the birthday boy, and has no intention of behaving. Unfortunately, your suppressants are failing, his jealousy is showing, and neither of you is interested in making a sensible decision.
wc: 6.2k
a/n: wanted to do something special for jack’s 36th trip around the sun, so naturally i’m celebrating by writing some of his most beloved characters. bless his parents for creating the perfect man and giving me this much material to work with. happy birthday, jack 🥳not beta read.
warnings: a/b/o, alpha x omega, pre-heat, rough sex, piv, unprotected sex, knotting, breeding kink, accidental pregnancy risk, oral (f!receiving), multiple orgasms, hair pulling, biting and bruising, manhandling, degradation, praise kink, possessive/jealous behavior, scenting, crude sexual language, alcohol use
36 CANDLES / MAIN MASTERLIST
Cook hadn’t been invited to the party, which had never stopped him from becoming the loudest person at one before.
You noticed him twenty minutes after he arrived, although judging by the half-empty bottle swinging from his fist and the crowd already gathered around him in the kitchen, he’d made himself comfortable long before that. He stood beneath a drooping banner that read HAPPY BIRTHDAY!, one corner peeling loose from the wall behind his head, dressed in a black polo stretched across his shoulders and dark trackies that had no business looking as good on him as they did. His hair had grown shaggy, his bangs heavy and uneven across his forehead, his chain flashing every time he threw his head back to laugh, and there was a fresh scrape across one knuckle that no one seemed interested in asking about.
Cook looked older than the last time you’d seen him, but not any wiser.
That would’ve been asking too much.
There was more weight through his shoulders now, a roughness around his mouth that hadn’t been there when you first knew him, but everything else remained maddeningly familiar. He still occupied space as if he’d won it in a fight. Still had that restless, combustible energy beneath his skin, the kind that made every other alpha in the room unconsciously square himself up when Cook walked past.
His scent reached you before he did.
Cigarette smoke, sweat, something warm and sharp beneath the cologne he’d applied too heavily. Alpha. Cook. Familiar enough that your body recognized him before you’d consciously decided how you felt about seeing him again.
The suppressant patch beneath your dress suddenly seemed much too thin.
A blonde omega in a silver top had her hand curled around his forearm.
Cook wasn’t looking at her.
He was looking at you.
He caught you staring from across the kitchen and grinned around the neck of the bottle.
There it was.
That same filthy, triumphant smile that made it seem as though he’d just caught you doing something far more incriminating than looking at him.
“Fuck me,” he announced, loud enough to turn several heads. “Look who’s finally decided to make this party worth coming to.”
The omega beside him followed his stare and dropped her hand. You almost felt sorry for her until she rolled her eyes, muttered something beneath her breath and walked away with enough dignity to make it clear she’d had practice abandoning alphas exactly like him.
“You weren’t invited,” you said when he came close enough to hear you over the music.
“Neither was half this lot.”
“They know the birthday boy.”
Cook glanced around as if only just remembering there was supposed to be one. “Which one’s he?”
You pointed toward the living room, where Liam was wearing a glittery cardboard crown and trying to arrange a group photograph while three people behind him made obscene gestures over his shoulders.
Cook squinted at him.
“Never seen him in my life.”
“I know.”
“Still let me in, though.”
“You probably lied.”
“I’m charming.”
“You probably threatened someone.”
“Also charming.”
“How did you even hear about this?”
Cook lowered the bottle, considering whether the truth would make him sound better or worse. “Saw a bloke carrying eight bags of ice into the house.”
“You followed a stranger carrying ice?”
“Followed the promise of a good time. Very different.”
“That might be the saddest thing you’ve ever said.”
“Not even top ten.”
His gaze moved over you with no attempt at subtlety, lingering where the dress fit closest before dragging back to your face. His nostrils flared almost imperceptibly. You saw the exact moment he caught your scent beneath the chemical flatness of the suppressants.
Cook’s grin changed.
It didn’t disappear, but it grew slower, hungrier.
“Nice dress.”
“You’re looking at my chest.”
“Dress covers your chest, don’t it?”
“Barely, apparently.”
“Yeah.” His eyes dipped again. “Been meaning to thank whoever designed it.”
You put a hand against his shoulder when he leaned in, partly to stop him and partly because touching him still produced the same immediate, unwelcome awareness it always had. He was compact and solid beneath the polo, warm from the crush of bodies and whatever trouble he’d already found before arriving.
Cook lowered his face toward your neck.
“Behave.”
He stopped before touching you, but barely. “What for?”
“Because this isn’t your party.”
“Exactly. No responsibility.”
“You’ve never taken responsibility at your own parties either.”
“That’s different.”
“How?”
“Those were mine. Had to set an example.”
“You set someone’s garden shed on fire.”
“Accident.”
“You poured lighter fluid through the letterbox.”
“Miscommunication.”
“With the shed?”
“With gravity.”
You stared at him.
Cook took a drink, eyes sparkling above the bottle. “Missed these little chats.”
“I didn’t.”
“Did.”
“Didn’t.”
He leaned closer, dropping his voice. “Did.”
The low note in it rolled over your skin. Not a command, not quite, but close enough that your omega instincts stirred beneath the suppressants.
You hated that he noticed.
His gaze sharpened. “Patch giving up on you?”
“It’s fine.”
“Didn’t say it wasn’t.”
“You were thinking it loudly.”
“Can smell you from the kitchen.”
“Then stand farther away.”
“Nah.”
The kitchen lights dimmed with the rest of the house before you could answer. Someone carried the cake through the doorway, thirty cheap candles throwing trembling light across the faces packed into the living room.
Cook glanced over your shoulder. “How old’s Liam?”
“Twenty-seven.”
“Bit tragic, innit?”
“You’re standing in his kitchen drinking his alcohol.”
“Doing him a favor. Makes the place look popular.”
The candles threw gold along the edge of Cook’s face, catching in his blue eyes and softening the scrape across his knuckle. For half a second, with the party singing around him and the light moving over his features, he looked almost sentimental.
Then he stole a cigarette from behind someone’s ear.
Liam finally managed to extinguish the candles to a roar of drunken applause. The lights came back on, music resumed at twice the previous volume, and the crowd surged toward the cake with the sudden aggression of people who’d been drinking on empty stomachs.
Cook reached it first.
Of course he did.
By the time you fought your way into the living room, he’d already stolen a thick corner piece and was eating it with his fingers beside the bookcase. Blue icing covered the pad of his thumb and streaked the side of his index finger. He licked it away slowly while watching you approach.
“Gross.”
“Tastes all right.”
“That wasn’t about the cake.”
“No?” He glanced at the frosting on his fingers, then back to you. “Could’ve fooled me, sweetheart.”
“Don’t call me that.”
“You used to like it.”
“I used to tolerate it.”
“Same thing.”
“It really isn’t.”
Cook took another bite, getting icing on his mouth this time. A bright blue smear clung to the corner of his lower lip, absurd against the rough stubble shadowing his jaw.
You hated how immediately you noticed.
He noticed you noticing.
Cook tilted his head. “Something on my face?”
“You know there is.”
“Get it, then.”
“Use your sleeve.”
“Got a perfectly good tongue available.”
“That’s your solution to most things.”
“Never had complaints.”
“Because you don’t listen when people complain.”
“That’s why I’m so confident.”
You should’ve walked away. Every conversation with Cook eventually became a game he refused to lose, usually because he changed the rules halfway through and acted offended when anyone called him out on it. Instead, you reached up and wiped the icing away with your thumb.
Cook went still beneath your hand for only a second before his lips closed around it. Heat and wet pressure wrapped around your thumb as his tongue dragged across your skin, his stare never leaving yours. It wasn’t subtle, and it wasn’t playful enough to dismiss as a joke. He sucked away the last trace of frosting and released you with a soft, obscene pop, leaving your stomach tight and your scent noticeably sweeter. Cook drew in a slow breath through his nose, looking far too pleased with himself.
“Tastes better off you.”
“You’re such a fucking pig.”
“Yeah, but you missed me.”
“I really didn’t.”
“Liar.”
He stepped closer, forcing you back until your hip bumped the edge of the bookcase. The party moved around you in blurred fragments, bodies dancing in the hall, someone shrieking with laughter in the kitchen, Liam attempting to rescue what remained of his cake from a man using a serving knife like a shovel.
Cook filled the space in front of you, his knee settling between yours as though he’d been standing there all evening.
“You haven’t stopped looking at me since I came in,” he said.
“I was wondering who let the neighborhood disease through the door.”
“Still looking.”
“You’re hard to ignore.”
“That’s better.”
“It wasn’t a compliment.”
“Sounded like one.”
A beta you vaguely recognized from Liam’s work approached with two plastic cups, offering one to you while giving Cook a wary glance. His name might’ve been Ben or Dan, something harmless and forgettable, and he’d spent part of the evening trying to make conversation whenever you crossed paths near the drinks table.
“Got you another,” he said. “You still want to dance?”
Cook’s knee pressed more firmly between yours.
“I was just about to,” you began.
“She’s busy,” Cook said.
The beta looked at him. “Didn’t ask you.”
Cook smiled, but it wasn’t the same grin he’d been giving you. This one contained teeth.
“No, mate. Don’t suppose you did.”
You caught Cook by the front of his polo before he could straighten away from the bookcase. “I’ll find you later,” you told the beta.
He glanced from your fist in Cook’s shirt to Cook’s hand hovering near your hip and appeared to understand more than you’d intended to reveal.
“Yeah. All right.”
Cook watched him retreat through the crowd.
“Ben?” he asked.
“I think so.”
“You don’t even know his name.”
“He’s nice.”
“Serial killer’s probably nice before he gets you in the van.”
“You followed bags of ice into a stranger’s house.”
“Exactly. I know dangerous behavior when I see it.”
“You’re jealous.”
Cook looked genuinely offended. “Of Ben?”
“Or Dan.”
“That’s worse.”
He took the cup from your hand, sniffed it, then drank half of it in one go.
“Cook.”
“Could’ve been drugged.”
“You’re such a gentleman.”
“Protecting you, aren’t I?”
“You just wanted my drink.”
“That too.”
He finished it and tossed the crushed cup toward a wastebasket. It bounced off the wall and landed on the floor.
Cook looked at it. “Nearly.”
His hand settled beside your waist against the shelf, caging you in without quite touching. Cook had always understood the usefulness of almost. The almost-touch, almost-kiss, almost-confession muttered when he’d had enough to drink that he could deny remembering it the next morning.
Tonight, there was something sharper beneath the teasing.
His scent was stronger this close, the alpha note pushing through the smoke and cologne. You could feel your body reacting in small, humiliating increments, skin growing warmer, pulse jumping beneath your jaw.
Cook’s gaze dropped to your throat.
“You here with someone?” he asked.
“No.”
“Good.”
“That wouldn’t be your problem.”
“Would once I made it mine.”
“I’m not yours.”
“Never said you were.”
The answer came easily, but his fingers flexed against the shelf.
“You were thinking it,” you said.
“Thinking loads of things.”
“You usually say all of them.”
“Reckon Liam’d throw us out if I did.”
“You don’t own every room you walk into.”
“Nah.” His gaze dropped to your mouth. “Just know what I want in ’em.”
The music switched to something bass-heavy enough to rattle the glasses in the cabinet. Someone slammed into Cook’s shoulder while stumbling past, spilling beer down the back of his polo. He twisted around with a snarl ready, his scent spiking hot and aggressive, but you caught his chin and turned his face back toward yours before he could start swinging.
“Not tonight.”
Cook stared at you.
The alpha edge remained in his expression, but he let you hold him there.
“You telling me what to do now?”
“I’m stopping you from getting thrown out.”
“Thought you wanted me gone.”
“I don’t want you bleeding on my shoes.”
He smiled slowly. “Knew you cared.”
“I care about the shoes.”
“Can buy you new ones.”
“With what money?”
“Could nick you some.”
“Romantic.”
“I’ve got range.”
His eyes moved over your face, his grin fading into something quieter without becoming any less indecent. Cook’s hand finally touched you, spreading over your hip with the confidence of someone testing whether an old permission still held. His thumb pressed into the fabric and drew you closer until the front of your body met his.
You didn’t move away, which was enough for him to continue but not enough for him to assume. He stopped beside your ear.
“Can I smell you?”
The question was so direct that it caught you off guard.
“You already have.”
“Properly.”
The party moved around you, loud enough that no one would hear the change in your breathing.
You nodded.
“Use your words, omega.”
His tone was filthy, but the waiting beneath it was real.
“Yes.”
Cook’s hand tightened against your hip as he pressed his nose to the gland beneath your ear and inhaled slowly, taking in the scent your failing suppressants could no longer hide. The contact felt far too intimate for a crowded room, his lips warm and just shy of your skin as a rough sound caught low in his throat.
“Fuck.”
“You asked.”
“Didn’t say I was ready.”
“For what?”
“You.”
He dragged his nose once along your neck before pulling back, pupils wider than before.
“You’re close,” he said.
“To what?”
“Heat.”
You glanced toward the room around you. “Keep your voice down.”
“No one’s listening.”
“Every alpha in here will be if you announce it.”
Cook’s gaze flicked over the party. The lightness disappeared from his expression for a moment.
“When’d you change the patch?”
“This afternoon.”
“Shit brand.”
“It’s never failed before.”
“Never been around me before.”
“Your ego’s unbelievable.”
“Your scent says I’m right.”
“My scent doesn’t speak.”
“Bloody screams.”
You should’ve been embarrassed. Instead, the blunt hunger in his face sent another wave of warmth through you.
Cook noticed that too.
“Been thinking about you,” he said.
“That sounds painful.”
“Been fucking inconvenient.”
His breath was hot against your skin. You felt his smile when your fingers tightened in the material at his shoulder.
“How often?” you asked before you could stop yourself.
“All the bloody time.”
There was no hesitation in it, no attempt to make the admission sound prettier than it was. Cook’s honesty had always arrived in the crudest possible packaging, wrapped in profanity and delivered with a grin so no one could tell how much of it mattered.
“Every time I catch an omega wearing something that tight,” he murmured, “I think, nah. Not got your mouth.”
“That’s almost sweet.”
“Wasn’t finished. Not got your tits either.”
“There he is.”
“Thought you’d lost me?”
“Briefly.”
His hand slid around to the small of your back, pressing you firmly against him. Any doubt about what he wanted disappeared with the hard line of his erection against your stomach. Cook didn’t bother pretending not to notice.
“There,” he said. “Now we’re both thinking about it.”
“You’re unbelievable.”
“You say that every time.”
“Because every time I see you, you somehow get worse.”
“And you somehow get fitter. Life’s cruel like that.”
He kissed you before you could answer.
Cook had never kissed like he believed he might be interrupted. He kissed as though interruption was something happening to other people, somewhere far away, while his mouth opened over yours and his hand dragged you against him. He tasted like beer and cheap blue frosting, tongue pushing between your lips with a wet, shameless hunger that drew a startled sound from your throat.
He swallowed it greedily.
Your fingers caught in the short hair at the back of his head, and Cook made a rough noise into your mouth, hips pressing forward once in blunt retaliation. The shelf dug into your spine. The room was too warm and too loud, packed with people who could turn their heads at any moment, but Cook kissed harder when you tried to pull back for air, chasing your mouth until you shoved a palm against his chest.
He gave you an inch.
Your combined scents hung thickly between you now, his growing rougher while yours turned warmer and sweeter beneath the weakening suppressant.
Cook’s nose brushed yours. “Still hate me?”
“Deeply.”
“Good.”
He kissed you again, slower for all of three seconds before impatience won. His fingers slid up your back, bunching the fabric as he held you close, and when you bit his lower lip he laughed against your mouth like you’d given him exactly what he wanted.
Someone near the sofa cheered.
You broke away and saw two strangers watching you with their drinks raised.
Cook looked over his shoulder. “Show’s over.”
“Boo!” one shouted.
“Fuck off,” he replied cheerfully, then turned back to you. “Upstairs?”
“You’re impossible.”
“Not a no.”
“This isn’t your house.”
“Not hearing a no.”
“You don’t know which room is Liam’s.”
“Don’t care.”
“Cook.”
His expression sobered. He kept one hand on your waist but stopped pulling you closer.
“Say no, and I back off. Simple as that.”
The heat in his voice didn’t erase the seriousness beneath it. His alpha scent made your instincts ache, but he waited while you took in the hunger he wasn’t bothering to hide.
“I’m not in heat,” you said.
“Know that.”
“It’s close, but I can still decide what I want.”
Cook’s eyes held yours. “Know that too.”
“You won’t bite my gland.”
His jaw tightened.
“No claiming bites,” you continued. “No knotting unless I ask for it. You don’t get to decide anything because you can smell me.”
“Wouldn’t.”
“You’re Cook.”
“Yeah.” He touched his forehead briefly to yours. “I’m still not that sort of cunt.”
The answer loosened something inside you.
“Upstairs,” you breathed.
His smile came back instantly.
“Knew you’d bought me something.”
“This isn’t for you.”
“Course it is. I’m the birthday boy now.”
“It isn’t your birthday.”
Cook caught your hand and pulled you away from the bookcase. “Don’t ruin this for me.”
He led you through the hall, shoving past guests and opening doors without knocking until someone inside the bathroom screamed at him. Cook slammed it shut again, laughing as he hauled you farther up the stairs.
“Try the doors like a normal person,” you hissed.
“Where’s the fun in that?”
“You’re going to walk in on someone.”
“Give ’em pointers.”
“You’re revolting.”
“And you’re holding my hand.”
You looked down and found he was right: your fingers were threaded through his, his grip tight and warm as he dragged you toward the upper landing, where the music became muffled into a heavy pulse through the floorboards, Cook trying the first door. Locked.
He knocked twice. “Room service.”
“Fuck off,” a woman called from inside.
“See?” Cook said. “Occupied.”
“That isn’t how knocking works.”
“Worked, didn’t it?”
The next door opened onto a child’s bedroom decorated with football posters and glow-in-the-dark stars.
Cook peered inside. “Bit weird.”
“It’s probably Liam’s nephew’s.”
“Yeah. Obviously.”
“You were considering it.”
“Was not.”
“You looked at the bed.”
“Checking for structural integrity.”
“It has dinosaurs on it.”
“Strong animals.”
You dragged him away before he could say anything worse. Cook laughed behind you, then caught your waist and swung you around so quickly your back met the wall beside the final door. His face dipped toward your neck again but stopped short of the gland, respecting the boundary even while his breath heated the sensitive skin around it.
“Getting impatient?” he asked.
“You’re the one trying to fuck me in a child’s bedroom.”
“Didn’t touch you in there.”
“Because I stopped you.”
“Love it when you get bossy.”
His mouth found the safer stretch of skin beneath your jaw. The contact sent a sharp shiver through you, and Cook immediately pressed closer, pleased by the reaction.
“There,” he whispered. “Do that again.”
“Do what?”
“That little fucking shake.”
“I didn’t.”
“Did.”
His teeth grazed your skin, well away from your scent gland, and your fingers tightened around the back of his neck.
Cook grinned against you.
“See?”
“Find a room.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
He tested the final handle, found it unlocked and opened it onto a cramped spare bedroom filled with laundry baskets, cardboard boxes and an ironing board folded against the wall. A narrow bed stood beneath the window, half-covered by coats someone had dumped there at the start of the party.
Cook surveyed it with approval.
“Luxury.”
“You really know how to treat an omega.”
“Got four walls and a lock. What more d’you need?”
“Clean sheets?”
“Fussy.”
“You weren’t planning on using the bed anyway.”
Cook’s eyebrows lifted. “Now who’s filthy?”
The moment the door closed, he backed you against it, the lock clicking beneath his hand. Without the crowd around him and the music loud enough to fill every pause, the voracity in his expression looked almost startlingly naked. His scent thickened in the enclosed room, alpha heat wrapping around the sugary warmth escaping through your failing patch. Cook lifted his hand and traced his knuckles lightly down the side of your neck.
“You sure?” he asked.
The question came without the grin. It was one of the few things he never turned into a joke. You curled your hand around his chain and drew him close enough that your mouths nearly touched.
“Shut up, Cook.”
His smile broke against your lips.
“Best present I’ve had all year.”
His free hand knotted in your hair, yanking your head back against the cracked plywood, and the growl that rumbled out of his chest vibrated straight through your sternum.
"My party favor," he said, low and filthy, lips dragging along your jaw. "All night I been watchin' you and you knew exactly what you were doin'."
Your dress was a rumpled mess around your hips, his polo half-untucked where your fingers had grabbed fistfuls of it, and you bit his lower lip hard enough to taste copper. He groaned—a rough, broken sound—and his hips ground into yours, his hard, aching cock pressing against your thigh through his jeans, searching for relief.
"You gonna be a brat about it?" His thumb brushed over your scent gland, featherlight, and your knees buckled. "Or you gonna let me take what I want?"
Your pre-heat sensitivity was already making everything too much—the scrape of his stubble, the weight of his hand, the way his alpha scent wrapped around you like a wet blanket of smoke and spice. You held his gaze, defiant, and said, "Depends on how good you ask."
Something dark flickered in his eyes. "I don't ask, omega."
He dropped to his knees, and the sound your dress made as he shoved it higher was obscene. His teeth caught the waistband of your underwear, dragging them down your thighs, and the way he looked up at you—all blown pupils, stubbled jaw, and naked want—made your cunt clench around nothing.
"Smell you from across the room," he muttered against your inner thigh, breath hot and damp. "This sweet little cunt, drippin' for me all night. You think anybody else noticed?"
You didn't care who noticed. You cared about the way his tongue dragged through your slick folds like he was starving, the flat of it pressing firm against your clit before he sealed his mouth over you and sucked. Your fingers buried in his dark hair, holding on, and he groaned against you like it was the best thing he'd tasted all night.
"Fuck," you gasped, hips grinding against his face. "That's it—right there—"
He pulled back just enough to growl, "Say please."
"Please," you said, and meant it. "Please, Cook, I need—"
He gave it to you. Two calloused fingers pushed into you, crooked just right, while his mouth worked your clit in tight circles, and your head knocked against the door as you came undone on his hand. He drank every drop of it, fingers working you through it until you were shaking, and then he stood up, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, looking at you like he wanted to devour you whole.
"Get my cock out," he said. "Now."
Your hands were clumsy with want, fumbling with his belt, his button, the zipper—and then he was free, thick and flushed and leaking, and you wrapped your fingers around him with a sound that was almost a whimper. He throbbed against your palm, and the muscles in his jaw wound tight.
"You gonna be good for me?" he asked, voice rough. "Or do I gotta make you?"
"I'm always good," you said, stroking him slow. "You just never know how to ask."
He laughed—a short, surprised sound—and then he had you spun around, palms flat against the door, his cock dragging through your slick folds from behind. The position was filthy, your dress bunched around your waist, his teeth sinking into the curve of your shoulder—not your scent gland, never there—and he pushed in with one brutal, perfect stroke.
"Oh, fuck—" you gasped, walls clenching around him, and he groaned, low and wrecked, forehead dropping to the back of your neck.
"Knew it," he ground out, hips pulling back and driving in again, the wet squelch growing obscene in the spare bedroom the meaner his hips got, his balls slapping against your ass, "knew this tight, greedy little cunt would squeeze me like she don't wanna let go. You gonna cum on my cock now, omega? Gonna soak me, just like you did all over my face like a dirty little bitch?"
You were already close, pre-heat making every nerve sing, and the way he was fucking you—hard and deep and exactly where you needed it—had you gasping on every stroke, had you questioning why you waited so long to fuck him. "Don't—ahhh, don't stop," you begged, all needy and high-pitched,"Please, Cook, don't you dare fucking stop—"
His hand fisted in your hair again, yanking your head back, and he bit down on your shoulder, hard enough to bruise this time. "Say my name when you cum," he growled. "Want everybody downstairs to hear exactly who's makin' you scream bloody murder."
You came with his name on your lips, broken and loud, and then you felt it: the thick swell at the base of his cock, hot and urgent where it pressed against your used folds.
"Shit." He let go of your hair to tilt your jaw back instead and you immediately saw the flicker of something almost vulnerable under the gruff. "I'm close," he said, voice gravelly. "And I'm—swelling."
You felt it again, the way he throbbed against you, thicker than before. Pre-heat made everything sharper, hotter, and your cunt clenched around nothing at the thought of it—of him, knotting, locked inside you.
"Then put it in," you said.
His eyes went wide. "You don't—"
"I want it." You held his gaze, voice steady even as your heart hammered. "I want you to knot me, Cook. I want to feel it."
He stared at you for a long, loaded second, and then something in him broke open. His mouth crushed against yours, rough and desperate, and he was lifting you, turning you around so you faced him.
"You sure?" he growled, forehead against yours. "Once I'm in, I ain't pullin' out."
"I'm sure."
He drove in, and it was different this time—slower, deeper, the stretch of him almost too much. You gasped, nails digging into his shoulders, and he groaned, low and wrecked, sinking in until he was seated to the hilt.
"Fuck," he breathed. "So tight. So fuckin' perfect."
He moved, and every stroke dragged that thick ridge against your walls, building pressure low in your belly until you were arching off the door, begging wordlessly for more. His knot caught on your rim with every thrust, and the sensation was maddening—too much and not enough, stretching you, filling you.
"Gonna cum," he gritted out, hips stuttering. "Gonna knot you, omega, gonna fill you up so full you're pregnant with my spend—"
"Do it," you gasped. "Do it, alpha, I want it, I want you to—"
He drove in one final time, and his knot swelled past your rim, locking you together with a thick, pulsing pop. You came again with a broken cry, walls clenching around him, and he followed with a guttural groan, hot and deep, pumping into you until you felt it dripping out around the seal of his knot.
He collapsed against you, breathing hard, and the weight of him was grounding, perfect. His hand found yours, fingers lacing together against the cheap plywood. Then he laughed—a short, breathless puff of air. "Shit. We forgot a condom."
"I'll get plan b," you said, already thinking ahead. "Tomorrow. It's fine."
He was quiet for a long moment, and then his hand found your jaw, guiding your chin so you had to look at him. "You sure?"
"I'm sure." You held his gaze. "But next time, you're buying the condoms."
His mouth twitched. "Next time?"
You smiled, slow and wicked, and pulled him back down to meet you. "You heard me."
By the time Cook’s knot finally eased enough for you to separate and pull your clothes back into place, someone was hammering against the bedroom door hard enough to shake it in the frame.
“Oi!” Cook shouted, voice wrecked and utterly unapologetic. “Occupied!”
“This is my room!” Liam yelled from the other side.
You buried your face against Cook’s shoulder, laughter catching in your chest while he stared at the door as though Liam had made a deeply unreasonable request.
Cook looked at you, hair disordered and polo collar dragged crooked. His pupils were still wide, his alpha scent heavy with satisfaction, while the sharp edge of your pre-heat had dulled for the moment.
His grin was pure trouble. “Window?”
“We’re on the second floor.”
“Could make it.”
“You first.”
“Thought you liked me.”
“I tolerate you.”
“Same thing.”
His next kiss was slower, still dirty and unmistakably Cook but without the frantic edge from before. His thumb brushed over the unmarked skin beside your scent gland as though checking that he’d kept his word, only for Liam to hit the door again. Cook sighed and began fixing his clothes with absolutely no urgency. “Could stay. See if he gives up.”
“He won’t.”
“Could tell him we’re doing something important.”
“He knows what we’re doing.”
“Then he knows it’s important.”
You checked the suppressant patch beneath your dress and found one corner peeled away, making it useless. Cook watched you remove it.
“Need another?”
“I’ve got some at home.”
“I’ll come with you.”
“You don’t even know where I live now.”
“Never bothered me before.”
You straightened his collar before you could think better of it. Cook watched your hands, quieter now as the noise of the party swelled and receded beyond the locked door.
“You disappearing again?” you asked.
“Dunno.”
It was an honest answer, which made it worse. You started to let go of his shirt, but Cook caught your wrist and rubbed his thumb once over your pulse.
“Could come with you,” he said. “Stay till your heat’s over.”
“You offering to help?”
“Offering to make myself useful.”
“That would be a first.”
“Can be very useful.”
“You’re still not claiming me.”
“Christ, you’ve mentioned it.”
“Because you’re possessive.”
“Only when people touch my things.”
“I’m not your thing.”
Cook’s mouth tipped into a grin. “Not yet.”
You gave him a warning look.
“Joke,” he said. “Mostly.”
Outside, Liam threatened to find a screwdriver.
“Bring us a drink while you’re at it!” Cook called.
“I’m going to kill you!”
“He’s having a lovely birthday.”
You kissed Cook before he could make another joke, brief and soft enough to surprise him. When you pulled away, he looked almost dazed before recovering.
“Do that again.”
“No.”
“Mean.”
“You’ll survive.”
“Keep trying.”
Cook finally opened the lock, stepped into the hallway and clapped Liam warmly on the shoulder. “Brilliant party, mate.”
Liam looked past him at you, his nose wrinkling as the thick mixture of alpha and omega scent escaped from the bedroom. “You absolute fucking bastard.”
“Birthday drink?”
“You drank all my vodka.”
“Then you’ve had enough.”
Liam lunged, and Cook caught your hand, dragging you down the hallway while laughing. Guests turned to watch the commotion, some cheering when he vaulted over the last three steps and nearly took out a table covered in empty bottles.
He recovered without spilling the drink he’d snatched from someone on the way past.
“Still got it,” he announced.
“You nearly broke your neck.”
“Nearly doesn’t count.”
Liam appeared at the top of the stairs. “Give me my crown back!”
Cook touched the glittering cardboard crown he’d apparently stolen somewhere along the way. “Won it fair and square.”
“You stole it!”
“Semantics.”
He pulled you through the kitchen and toward the back door before Liam could reach the bottom of the stairs. The cold night air hit your overheated skin with immediate relief, carrying the smell of damp pavement, cigarettes and fried food from farther along the street.
You stopped at the garden gate. “My coat’s inside.”
Cook looked back at the house, where Liam had just appeared in the kitchen doorway. “Buy you another.”
“With what money?”
“Could nick you one.”
“You already used that line.”
“Still romantic.”
“Cook.”
He sighed with tremendous suffering, removed his polo and handed it to you.
Cook stood in the middle of the garden wearing nothing above the waist but his chain and the glittering cardboard crown, apparently unbothered by the cold or the attention of every smoker nearby.
“That isn’t a coat.”
“Got sleeves.”
“It’s a polo.”
“Put it on.”
“You’ll freeze.”
“Alpha.”
“That doesn’t make you immune to weather.”
“Makes me hard.”
“More like hard-headed.”
“Exactly.”
You gave in and pulled the polo over you when goosebumps broke out across your arms from both the chill and the knowledge he bit your bare shoulder twice, the shirt still warm from his body and saturated with his scent. The alpha smell settled around you immediately, strong enough to mask the sweetness beginning to rise from your skin.
Cook looked you over and gave a low, approving whistle. “Fucking hell.”
“What?”
“My scent all over you.”
“It’s a shirt.”
“Looks better on you.”
Liam shoved through the back door, and Cook grabbed your hand. “Run.”
You made it through the gate just before Liam reached you, Cook laughing so hard he stumbled into the neighboring house’s brick wall. You dragged him onward, both of you half-running down the pavement while Liam shouted threats from behind the fence. By the time you reached the end of the street, you were breathless. Cook leaned against a lamppost, bare chest rising and falling, the cardboard crown still somehow balanced on his head.
“That,” he said, “was a fucking brilliant party.”
“You were there for less than two hours.”
“Quality, not quantity.”
“You stole alcohol, cake and a crown.”
“And an omega.”
“You didn’t steal me.”
“Came away smelling like me, didn’t you?”
You folded your arms, making his polo pull tight across your chest. Cook’s gaze dropped immediately.
“You’re doing that on purpose.”
“I’m standing.”
“Filthily.”
“You really can make anything sound obscene.”
“Gift.”
He pushed away from the lamppost, his expression turning more serious as he caught another change in your scent. “How long till the heat hits properly?”
“Tomorrow, probably.”
“Right.”
“You don’t have to stay.”
“Didn’t ask if I had to.”
Cook threaded his fingers through yours as naturally as if the last several months hadn’t happened. The takeaway at the corner was still open, its fluorescent sign buzzing over the pavement.
“Come home with me,” you said.
His eyebrows rose.
“You need clothes, and I need food, another suppressant and Plan B before I decide whether I want company for the rest of my heat.”
Cook’s grin spread slowly across his face. “Already decided.”
“Keep talking and I’ll leave you outside.”
“Wouldn’t.”
“Try me.”
He pulled open the takeaway door and gestured you through with an exaggerated bow, cardboard crown glittering beneath the fluorescent lights.
“My omega wants chips.”
“I’m not your omega.”
“Not with that attitude.”
“You’re paying.”
Cook searched his pockets and produced a lighter, three loose cigarettes and one crumpled note.
“Got enough for chips.”
“You said you could buy me shoes.”
“Priorities changed.”
“Because you have five pounds?”
“Because you’ve invited me home while smelling like that.”
The bored employee behind the counter looked up. You closed your eyes as Cook grinned and slung an arm around your shoulders, pulling you farther beneath the shelter of his scent.
𝒑𝒓𝒆𝒔𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒈 . . . HONEY BELLE : the sweetest daughter south of memphis, left entirely alone when daddy travels into town. see her welcome a handsome stranger ! see the jealous farmhand discover them ! see precisely how much hospitality one foolish little farmer’s daughter can offer two determined men before the film runs out ! 𝒓𝒖𝒏 𝒕𝒊𝒎𝒆 . . . 4.3k
𝒗𝒊𝒆𝒘𝒆𝒓 𝒅𝒊𝒔𝒄𝒓𝒆𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏 . . . remmick x reader x stack, modern-ish au, human au, very much inspired by the ‘x’ film, threesome, established sexual / professional relationship, amateur porn and sex filming, sex work, exhibitionism, voyeurism, farmer’s daughter / farmhand / cowboy roleplay, manhandling, light restraint, light spanking, dirty talk, praise, degradation, dumbification, bimboification, objectification, scripted slut-shaming, fingering, oral sex (blowjob and cunnilingus), deep-throating, gagging, drooling, face-sitting, messy sex, unproteced p in v and anal sex, double penetration, rough sex, overstimulation, multiple orgasms, crying, creampies, cumplay, cum eating, exaggerated vintage-porn tone.
[ PLAY ]
“This is goin’ in the end scenes,” Remmick announces from behind the camera, his voice carrying through the cramped upstairs bedroom as the lens follows you across the faded floral wallpaper. “Show everybody how serious our little actress takes her craft.”
You turn toward him with one false eyelash already glued into place and the other pinched between your fingers, rolling your eyes dramatically. The yellow sundress they picked for you hangs open at the back, its halter ties dangling against your bare shoulders as you lean closer to the vanity mirror and carefully press the strip of lashes along your lid.
“Keep talkin’, farmer boy,” you murmur, smoothing the lash down with one painted nail. “You’re the one who forgot his line six times last week.”
Remmick lowers the camera enough for you to catch his crooked smile above it. He’s already dressed for the scene, though calling it dressed seems generous when his faded overalls are hanging from his hips without a shirt underneath. A red handkerchief sits loosely around his neck, his boots are dusty from walking around the property earlier, and somebody—Stack—has rubbed a little dirt across his chest to make him look like he has spent the morning pitching hay instead of helping you arrange camera angles.
“That scene required concentration,” he says, adjusting the focus as you reach behind yourself to fasten the sundress. “Hard to remember dialogue when you’ve got your mouth full.”
“You weren’t the one with your mouth full,” you remind him, catching his reflection in the mirror.
“That was the concentration problem.”
Remmick has been unbearable since Stack bought the Super 8 from a man outside Memphis and declared that enough lonely perverts owned projectors for the three of you to build a business around them. Stack handles the advertisements, the mailing list, and the plain brown packaging meant to keep curious postmen from learning what is hidden inside. Remmick develops every reel in a washroom he converted himself, spending long nights hunched beneath red light while the films dry from lines stretched above the basin. You provide the pretty face stamped across the catalogues and the body responsible for nearly every repeat customer they have.
Honey Belle is supposed to be your most ambitious picture yet, complete with costumes, an actual plot, and a title card Stack painted by hand after three beers.
You play the sweet farmer’s daughter left alone after her daddy drives into town. Remmick plays the quiet farmhand who has spent all summer watching you carry baskets across the yard in your little dresses. Stack arrives in a pearl-snap shirt with a story about car trouble, and Honey Belle’s understanding of Southern hospitality becomes increasingly indecent after she invites him inside for lemonade.
By the time Remmick carries the camera downstairs, Stack is waiting beside the front door with his hat tilted low and his shirt unbuttoned just enough to expose the chain resting against his chest. He glances up when you descend the stairs, his gaze sweeping from the ribbons tied into your hair to the way the sundress clings to the soft give of your hips.
“Well, damn,” Stack drawls, reaching beneath the brim of his hat to scratch his temple. “Ain’t you just precious.”
You spread the skirt of your dress and give him a small curtsy, keeping your smile sugary enough to suit Honey Belle even as his eyes settle shamelessly on the tops of your breasts.
The costume department consists entirely of the three of you and a closet full of things purchased from yard sales, though Stack has treated his cowboy role with the seriousness of a Hollywood leading man. He even polished his belt buckle.
Remmick checks the film, points the camera toward the front door, and gives Stack a lazy signal with two fingers. Stack steps outside, waits until you have taken your place in the parlor, then knocks three times against the screen door.
You open it with your hands folded sweetly over your skirt, blinking up at him beneath your heavy lashes as the camera rolls from across the room.
“Afternoon, miss,” Stack says, removing his hat and pressing it over his chest. His other hand hooks through his belt, the pose practiced enough that you know he tried it in the mirror before coming downstairs. “Hate to trouble you, but my car gave out a ways down the road. Reckon I could use your telephone?”
Your character does not have a telephone, though she does have a pitcher of lemonade and very little sense when a handsome stranger smiles at her. You invite him inside, take his hat, and guide him toward the kitchen with your fingers wrapped around his wrist. Remmick follows with the camera, capturing Stack’s eyes drifting toward your ass each time the dress sways above your thighs.
The first part goes nearly according to plan: you pour lemonade, Stack asks whether your father is home, you tell him Daddy has gone into town and will not return until supper, pausing to suck a drop of sugar from your thumb as Stack watches your mouth.
Then you lean across the table to refill his glass and give the camera a perfect view down your dress.
Stack clears his throat before setting his glass aside. “That farmhand of yours always lurk around?” he asks, gesturing toward the window where Remmick’s character is supposedly spying from the yard.
“He’s sweet on me,” you explain, slipping fully into a breathy little voice as you move around the table. “Daddy says Remmick’s got more muscle than brains, but I think he’s awful handsome.”
Remmick makes a quiet, offended noise from behind the camera.
Stack catches your wrist when you pass his chair, drawing you between his spread knees with an ease that makes the lemonade tremble inside the glasses. “Maybe you oughta quit teasin’ that poor boy,” he murmurs, rubbing his thumb across the soft underside of your wrist. “Fellow might get ideas.”
Honey Belle only giggles, resting one hand against his shoulder as his other palm travels beneath your skirt. The flimsy cotton lifts around his forearm, hiding what he is doing from the camera until your knees part and your expression goes pleasantly vacant. His rough fingers find the soaked crotch of your panties, pressing the fabric up between your plump lips so the wet heat coats his skin.
“Mister,” you breathe, gripping his shirt as his fingers slide beneath the white panties chosen specifically because they show up well on film.
Stack angles his body so the camera can catch his hand moving between your thighs, two fingers stroking through the slick gathering there. Your clit is swollen and sensitive under the pads of his fingers, and every slow circle makes your hips twitch. “All this hospitality for a stranger,” he says, tugging you closer until your legs press against the chair. “Your daddy know how friendly you are?”
You shake your head, lips parting when his fingers find your clit.
Remmick circles the table, lowering the camera toward the place where Stack’s wrist disappears beneath your skirt before raising it again to capture your expression. The ribbons make you look especially soft and oblivious, which only becomes more convincing when two rough fingers sink into your cunt, walls soft and greedy as they suck at his knuckles, and the line you were supposed to say dissolves into a breathless little moan.
“Thought you said you were a good girl,” Stack remarks, glancing toward the camera as he curls his fingers inside you. “You’re drippin’ all over my hand.”
Stack works you until the heel of his palm is slick, then removes his fingers and holds them apart for the camera, thin strands of your arousal shining between them.
Remmick keeps the lens trained on his hand before cutting.
When it resumes, you’re bent over the kitchen table with your dress bunched around your waist and your panties hooked around one ankle. Stack stands behind you with his jeans pushed beneath his hips, his shirt hanging open and his cock jutting thickly from the shadow of his belt. The head is already wet by the time he takes himself in hand, rubbing it between your folds until your slick coats the flushed skin.
“Make sure you get how wet she is,” Stack tells Remmick, slipping briefly out of character as he spreads you open with his thumb.
“Oh, I’ve got it,” Remmick answers from near your face, and the low amusement in his voice makes your cunt clench before Stack has even entered you.
He angles the head against your entrance and pushes, letting the swollen ridge stretch you gradually until it slips inside. Your mouth falls open toward the camera as the rest follows, each thick inch forcing your cunt wider until his hips finally settle against the soft curve of your ass.
Stack had joked earlier that a stranger with a broken car ought to fuck like he has somewhere else to be, and he commits to that idea with enough enthusiasm to send the table grinding across the kitchen floor. His belt buckle knocks against the back of your thigh each time his hips meet your ass, the sharp clink joining the filthy sounds spilling from where his cock disappears into you, the dark hair at the root of his cock already shiny.
“Thought farmer’s daughters were supposed to be shy,” he pants, curling one hand around the back of your neck as your cheek presses against the tablecloth. “Look at you, takin’ a stranger’s dick before the lemonade’s even warm.”
You attempt to answer in Honey Belle’s breathless voice, though Stack drives into you harder and turns the words into a moan. Your tits are mashed against the table, the soft flesh spreading under your own weight, nipples dragging against the rough cloth with every thrust.
Remmick zooms in on the wet mess coating Stack’s shaft—cream already frothing white around the thick base—then slowly moves the camera along your body until the lens settles on your dazed expression.
“Tell the folks watchin’ what happened,” Remmick whispers, amusement roughening his accent as Stack holds you still for the shot.
“M-Mister Stack’s car broke down,” you manage, your lashes fluttering as Stack grinds deep and makes your voice climb. “So I’m helpin’ him.”
“Helping me plenty,” Stack groans, resuming his pace as he pulls your hips back against him. “Sweet little thing’s squeezin’ me like she wants me stranded here all summer.”
Remmick sets the camera on the tripod, grabs the prop, and swings the door open on cue. He pauses in the doorway with a feed sack thrown over one shoulder, staring at you folded over the table beneath the stranger who arrived less than half an hour earlier.
You gasp and try to push yourself upright, though Stack’s hand returns to the back of your neck and keeps your cheek planted against the cloth.
“Remmick,” you whine, reaching toward him as if the devoted farmhand might rescue you. “It ain’t what it looks like.”
Remmick drops the sack near the door and crosses the kitchen slowly. “Looks like Daddy left his sweet girl alone,” he says, stopping beside the table as Stack continues fucking you. “And she went spreadin’ her legs for the first stray that wandered onto the property.”
Your eyes widen at the accusation, though the offended little pout you offer him disappears when Stack lands a firm smack against your ass, the sharp crack echoing. Remmick cups your chin, turning your face toward him as the table rocks beneath you.
“I was bein’ hospitable,” you insist, your voice growing softer when Remmick’s thumb presses between your lips. You suck it in without thinking, tasting salt and dirt and the faint metallic tang of the camera gear he’s been handling.
“Course you were, honey,” he murmurs, watching you suck the dirt from the pad of his thumb. “That empty little head couldn’t think of another way to help him.”
Stack laughs behind you, slowing into deep grinds that force his cock against every sensitive place at once. “You gonna stand there sulkin’, farm boy, or help me teach her how to entertain company?”
Remmick glances toward the camera to ensure all three of you remain in frame, then unhooks one strap of his overalls. The other follows, denim falling to his boots before he steps free and moves around the table. You stare at his cock with theatrical amazement, though the expression becomes considerably more genuine when he wraps his hand around himself and taps the flushed head against your lips.
“Been watchin’ you prance around this farm all summer,” Remmick says, smearing precum across your mouth. “Reckon it’s time you did somethin’ useful.”
You open for him obediently, letting his cock slide over your tongue as Stack begins fucking you harder. The thick head pushes past your lips and the salty taste floods your mouth. Remmick keeps one hand beneath your jaw and uses the other to gather your hair, holding it away from your face so the camera catches every inch disappearing between your lips.
Your throat works around him as he feeds himself deeper, the stretch making your eyes water and your cunt clench hard around Stack’s cock. The coarse hair at the base of Remmick’s cock brushes your nose when he bottoms out, and his balls rest warm against your chin.
The rhythm settles quickly, Stack driving you forward onto Remmick before Remmick eases back and gives you enough air to moan. Your lipstick stains the base of his cock, spit gathering beneath your chin as he feeds himself deeper.
When you gag, Stack groans and tightens his hands around your hips, clearly feeling the way your pussy clenches around him. The wet sound of your throat taking Remmick is continuous, mixed with the wet slap of Stack’s hips against your ass.
“There she goes,” Remmick praises, pulling out until only the tip rests against your tongue, a thick strand of spit connects your lip to the head of his cock. “Pretty thing can’t remember her daddy’s rules, but she knows how to take cock.”
You try to protest around him, though Remmick pushes back into your mouth and turns it into a muffled whine. Stack leans over you, his open shirt brushing your back as he whispers against your ear, “Ain’t enough room left in that head for talkin’, sweetheart. We’re fuckin’ every useful thought right out of you.”
The camera catches your eyes rolling upward as Remmick’s cock slides down your throat and Stack pounds into your swollen cunt. Your hands scrabble uselessly across the tablecloth before finding Remmick’s thighs, nails pressing into his skin whenever both men thrust at once.
They keep you there until your mascara begins to run. Stack pulls out before he comes, leaving your cunt stretched and shining as Remmick guides you down onto the kitchen floor. Honey Belle kneels between his boots with her dress gathered at her waist, lips swollen and face streaked, looking considerably less innocent than she did when she answered the door.
Stack stretches out on his back beneath you, sliding between your spread thighs so his face is right under your dripping cunt. He grips the soft backs of your legs and pulls you down onto his mouth, exposing everything to the camera as his tongue drags slowly from your entrance to your clit, collecting the slick he fucked out of you. Remmick groans when you whimper around his cock.
The flat of Stack’s tongue is hot and rough, lapping up every drop before he pushes it inside you, fucking you with it the same way he just fucked you with his cock while your thighs frame his head.
“Got the farmer’s girl leakin’ all over the floor,” Stack mutters against you, pushing two fingers inside as his mouth closes around your clit.
Your hips jerk against his face, though his forearms pin them down as he eats you with no concern for keeping the scene pretty. His tongue presses inside you, his nose grinding against your clit while Remmick continues using your mouth. Spit runs over your lower lip and down his shaft, mingling with the lipstick already smeared across his skin. Your clit is swollen and hypersensitive under the suction of Stack’s mouth, and every time he curls his fingers you feel another rush of wetness spill out of you and onto his chin.
The orgasm catches you hard enough to make the ribbons slip loose from your hair. Your pussy tightens around Stack’s tongue as your thighs tremble on either side of his head, and Remmick pulls out just in time for your cry to reach the microphone. The sound is raw and broken, your cunt pulsing so hard that Stack has to hold you open with both hands to keep licking through it.
Stack holds your hips against his mouth and licks through every helpless pulse, groaning as you soak his chin. Remmick crouches beside you, brushing damp hair from your forehead before guiding your hand to his cock.
“Think Honey Belle learned her lesson?” Stack asks, lifting his head with his mouth shining.
Remmick studies your unfocused eyes and the drool clinging to your chin. “Don’t look like she learned a damn thing.”
Between the two of them, they ease you forward onto your hands and knees on the kitchen floor. Stack slides underneath you on his back, positioning himself between your spread thighs so the head of his cock presses up against your soaked entrance while Remmick settles into a half-crouch behind you, one knee down, the other braced so he can thrust.
It took several attempts during rehearsal to arrange everyone correctly.
Stack had complained about Remmick’s knee digging into his side. Remmick had accused Stack of taking up the entire floor. You had laughed so hard during the first test that neither man stayed hard, and the three of you eventually abandoned the camera to practice properly on the bedroom rug.
Remmick’s thumb presses against the smaller, slick opening above your cunt. The muscle gives gently beneath him, already softened by the careful preparation he insisted upon yesterday and repeated before filming. He had spent both mornings bending you over the edge of the bed, working oil into you with one finger, then two, then three, refusing to hurry even after you began begging him to.
“Farmhand’s been savin’ somethin’ special for you,” Stack says, tapping his cock against your inner thigh as Remmick opens you slowly. His fingers slide in with almost no resistance now, the slick heat of the earlier oil and your own arousal making the tight ring of muscle flutter and accept him easily. “You gonna let him have it?”
You nod, leaning forward to kiss Stack as Remmick adds another finger. “Wanna make him happy.”
“That’s our good girl,” Stack praises, sliding his fingers beneath your chin. “Always so eager, even when she ain’t got the brains to know what she’s askin’ for.”
Remmick removes his fingers and positions himself behind you, his slick cock pressing carefully against your ass, and when he pushes forward the muscle yields for him the way it was trained to, familiar and overwhelming all at once. Stack enters your pussy from below first, letting your wet entrance swallow him until your body remembers his size, and Remmick follows, pushing into the prepared muscle.
The stretch makes your arms buckle.
Stack reaches up and catches you beneath the shoulders before you can collapse, drawing your chest down against his as Remmick pushes deeper. Your mouth falls open against Stack’s neck, your face tightening at the overwhelming pressure of both men filling you until there seems to be no space left between their bodies and yours. The thin wall between them is pressed so tight you can feel them moving against each other inside you.
“Christ above,” Remmick groans, his hands trembling where they grip your waist. “Can feel him through you.”
Stack’s breath leaves him in a strained laugh as he rolls his hips carefully upward. “Knew our girl could take us both.”
They begin slowly, learning the angle even though the three of you already practiced it without costumes or cameras. Stack thrusts up as Remmick presses in, their cocks sliding against each other through the thin wall inside you, keeping you stretched without granting any relief from the fullness. Every movement is a deep, continuous grind that makes your belly feel tight and full, the pressure so intense that your thighs shake and your cunt and ass both flutter helplessly around the thick shafts splitting you open.
Your head drops against Stack’s shoulder, mouth open and wet as the men work you between them.
The camera waits in front of you three, its reel turning steadily as your tits bounce and sway with every hard thrust, the soft flesh jiggling between your bodies.
“Look at the camera, honey,” Remmick urges, one hand sliding around your throat to lift your face. “Show all those perverts what happens when Daddy leaves his dumb girl home alone.”
You attempt to focus on the lens, though Stack drives up into you and your eyes cross instead.
His mouth catches yours before another moan can escape, kissing you messily as Remmick pounds into you from behind. Their pace grows rougher, the careful rhythm giving way to something greedy once your body softens around them. The wet, filthy sound of both cocks working your holes is continuous—slick, rhythmic, the slap of Remmick’s hips against your ass and the soft, wet suction of your cunt and ass taking them both.
When Stack’s thumb finds your clit, you’re crying without noticing.
Remmick wipes the tears from your cheek with two fingers and pushes them between your lips, letting you suck them clean as both men keep fucking you. The pressure on your clit is almost too much on top of the relentless stretch, every circle of his thumb making your walls clamp down harder around both of them.
“Too much?” Stack asks against your mouth.
You shake your head quickly, tightening your arms around his shoulders. “More.”
Remmick’s laugh breaks into a groan as he thrusts deep. “Empty-headed thing still wants more.”
They give it to you until your legs no longer hold you. Stack supports most of your weight from below, keeping your body upright so the camera captures your ruined expression, and Remmick grips your hips from behind with enough force to leave handprints beneath the yellow dress.
Your ass and cunt are both stretched wide and shiny, the lips of your pussy puffy around Stack’s shaft, the tight ring of your asshole gripping the base of Remmick’s cock so hard that the rim follows his cock outward whenever he withdraws before swallowing him again.
Words have become breathless pieces that never assemble properly. Your mouth rests open near Stack’s throat, saliva dampening his skin as both men work you toward another climax.
Your cunt clamps around Stack as your ass tightens around Remmick, drawing broken sounds from them while your body shakes helplessly between their chests.
The climax is deep and continuous, wave after wave of pure pressure that makes your vision white out and your voice crack into something wordless and raw.
Stack comes first, burying himself deep as warmth spills into your cunt. Remmick follows after several rough thrusts, holding you still while his release fills you from behind. The sensation of both men pulsing inside you sends another smaller climax shuddering through your already exhausted body, leaving your head tucked beneath Stack’s chin and your mouth moving around words that never become anything intelligible.
They remain joined long enough for the camera to capture the aftermath.
Remmick withdraws carefully, watching cum begin to slide from your ass before Stack eases out from below. Your holes stay open for a moment, soft and used, the pink insides visible and glossy with their combined release before the muscle slowly begins to close.
You sink onto the floor with your knees spread, dress bunched around your waist and their release dripping together over your swollen cunt and across Stack’s skin.
Stack reaches down and gathers some of the mess onto two fingers, bringing them toward your lips. You accept them with a vacant smile, sucking slowly until his fingers are clean.
Remmick moves behind the camera again, zooming in on your flushed face before following the trail of cum running down your thigh. “Give us one last line, darlin’,” he says, his breathing still uneven as he steadies the lens. “Tell everybody whether you enjoyed showin’ our traveler some Southern hospitality.”
You look directly into the camera, mascara smudged beneath your eyes and one ribbon hanging loose beside your cheek. Stack’s hat sits crooked on your head, placed there sometime after your second orgasm, and the smile spreading across your face is too pleased to belong to any respectable farmer’s daughter.
“His car can break down here anytime.”
Remmick’s laughter shakes the camera so badly that the final few seconds will be nearly unusable, though he insists on keeping them when the film is developed.
HONEY BELLE : FARMER’S DAUGHTER SHOWS A STRANGER SOME SOUTHERN HOSPITALITY !
First printing : sold out in three weeks.
Second printing : ordered before the first month ends.
Stack spends the next several days answering letters from men who want to know whether Honey Belle has any sisters.
Remmick keeps one copy of the final reel hidden in the converted washroom, tucked behind the developing chemicals where Stack will never think to look.
You catch him watching it alone less than a week later.
He doesn’t even pretend he was studying the camera angles.
Description: You’re spider-man’s closest thing to a friend since the world forgot his name. Helping him with gadgets, cleaning his wounds…all without him ever taking the mask off. His true identity has always been a barrier between you two, but what happens when he gets hit with the pollen, and not only him, but the creature lurking inside him fixates on the only person he gets to call home?
Tags/warnings: sex pollen smut, fem!reader, porn with plot, whiny desperate peter >>>, dry humping, piv, riding, oral fem!rec, fingering, dark!peter taking over for a bit, orgasm denial, prone bone, so much yearning, mask stays on…or does it?
Note: You have no idea how giddy it makes me to write him again. He had NO business looking that good in the movie so I had to get this out of my system. Enjoy 🤍
Masterlist
You've seen spiderman hurt many times. When you signed the lease of the first apartment you could afford as a recent graduate, you never thought that would become your new normal.
The first time it happened was completely accidental. He’d arrived at the building in the middle of the night, bruised, bleeding and too disoriented to realize that the window he’d come through was not his.
That night, the noise of a heavy body collapsing onto the floor woke you up. For one terrifying moment, you believed someone had broken into your apartment, only to switch on the lamp and find the city’s superhero groaning and pressing his hands to his side. His suit was torn there, and blood soaked through the ruined fabric onto your rug.
He barely lifted his head when he heard you gasp, the lens of his mask focusing on your figure standing there with wide eyes, wearing only an oversized shirt.
“Wrong window,” he choked, then tried to hold himself up but immediately collapsed again. “Dammit,” he cursed, waiting for you to freak out any second now.
You could have, but instead you rushed to him and knelt beside him.
“Oh my god, are you okay?” Your hands hovered helplessly over his body, trying to see how bad the damage was in the dark. “You need a hospital–”
“No!” He snapped, trying to turn away but failing miserably. “I’ll be fine, I heal quickly.”
“You still need to stop the bleeding,” you countered, folding your knees under your body so you could rest on your calves. “Listen, I can help you. I took some medical courses last year and I have a kit somewhere.”
You looked at him with pleading eyes. He’d saved the city so many times, the fucking world, it was the least you could do to give something back.
He considered his options for a second, and to be honest he didn’t have many. His body was betraying him, and he couldn’t even get up to fix it himself like usual.
The blood loss made him nod, and you wasted no time in getting up and finding said kit. The blood loss also made him drift in and out of consciousness as you tended to the wounds on his ribs as much as you could.
It did not make him less cautious of you though. When you noticed the rip on his mask over a nasty gash on his neck and reached for it, his hand closed around your wrist and even half conscious, his grip was strong.
“Please,” he whispered. Pleaded. “Keep it on.”
The fear in his voice made you promise you would. Even if you couldn’t get to that gash properly. Even when he fell asleep on your floor and didn’t wake up for six whole hours.
The next morning, he opened his eyes and found you sitting on your bed, still staring at him.
His hands patted his chest, and confirmed his arachnid powers had done its job and healed him mostly. But most importantly, his mask was still in place. With no warning from E.V of it being removed. He learned that you’d spent the night making sure he was still breathing without seeing his face.
That had been one year ago.
After thanking you profoundly for helping him, he’d repaired your window, apologized several times, and disappeared into the apartment next door. He then considered moving into another building, but the thought was brushed away very quickly when he remembered the balance in his bank account.
So he acted more careful instead. For a while, he only turned back home when your curtains were already closed, or he only left the apartment when you had already left for your job (because yes, he absolutely researched the hell out of you after that night.)
Then he moved to the attic of the building. Bigger space, no neighbors, no risks. No you. Or at least he thought.
Because some nights…some delirious nights he still found your window a few stories down, and the accidental visits became less accidental. When he was too badly injured to care for himself, he came to you, even after you confessed your degree had nothing to do with medicine.
When he noticed you understood about his equipment malfunctioning, he’d bring it for you to inspect. When he became too reckless with himself you talked his ear off about how being difficult to kill did not make him immortal.
Somewhere along the way, you became spiderman’s friend.
Spiderman was safer. With you, spiderman was the only part of him he could let you see. Because that was the thing, you only knew the masked superhero.
He’d spent so much time blocking away his identity, making peace with the fact that there was no longer anyone in the world who would call him Peter and know exactly who that person was. That name only belonged to the people that once knew him, and no longer existed, so he never gave it to you.
Never showed you more than a sliver of skin when his mask rode up or glimpses of his abdomen when you tended to his wounds. He always kept that barrier and you respected it, even on those nights he was too weak to stop you. Even if sometimes not knowing the color of his eyes kept you up at night.
A promise was a promise.
Maybe that’s why he kept coming. Why he trusted you with a certainty he couldn’t understand. Why he eventually showed you his new living quarters in the attic and let you spend time with him. Why half a year ago, he added another chair next to his desk so you could work together, or help him when he was out patrolling and needed an extra set of eyes.
“I’m officially the girl in the chair, spidey,” you joked that time as you sat next to him, spinning around in your chair.
He’d gone quiet immediately, his body tensing up enough to make you frown, but then managed a small smile and said you were. You pretended you didn’t notice him being too quiet as he worked on his inhibitor after that.
He was wearing a hoodie, sweatpants and the mask. Always the mask that didn’t quite let you see through him. After a moment of quiet, you rolled your chair closer to his and nudged his arm playfully.
“You know I can’t keep calling you spidey forever, right?”
He snapped out of his trance, and the chuckle that came from under the fabric was unmistakable.
“Why not?” He nudged your arm back, but still focused on the device he was hunched over. “I like spidey.”
You put your elbow on the desk, resting your cheek on your hand so you could lean a little closer.
“I like it too, but it feels ridiculous after having my hands all over your body almost every night.”
The moment the words left your lips, you realized how bad that sounded. He straightened up, turning toward you.
“Wow.” Even if you couldn’t see the smile on his face, the lenses of his mask were quite expressive sometimes. He was amused.
“That came out very wrong,” you said immediately, before he bursted into laughter. He had been laughing more since you entered his life. “You know what I meant,” you whined, laughing too with heat flooding your cheeks.
“I think I know,” he chuckled, making you roll your eyes.
“I’m being serious though,” you added, a little more quietly. “You don’t have to say your real name. Just give me something.”
“Mmm…” he acted like has considering it, going back to tinkering with the piece of metal between his fingers, but then his eyes drifted to the flowers he’d bought that morning, and the name came out of his lips before he could think twice about it. “You can call me Maynard.”
“Maynard?” You repeated, suppressing a chuckle. “You don’t sound like a Maynard. That’s like an 80 year old man’s name.”
“That’s all I can give you,” he shrugged playfully.
You had a feeling it went deeper than that, but you’d also learned not to push it with him.
“Alright. Maynard,” you nodded, “but don’t expect me to use that name unless you’re dying. Guess I’ll stick to spidey for now,” you chuckled, going back to your own work as he hummed in agreement.
The conversation ended there. With him trying not to think about your hands all over his body in…different conditions.
Peter didn’t know exactly when his gratitude became longing. He could not identify the moment the friendship, the closeness, or just your smile, shifted into something he craved everyday.
Despite the mask and the fake name, he knew that after years of being no one to everyone, he had become someone to you. And you had become everything to him. Even if it was behind walls he’d built, you were the person who knew him better than anyone alive.
Which is why, the night he lost control of himself after an unknown dust was thrown at him in a fight, he chose not to crash land into your room.
Peter hit the floor of the dark attic with a loud thud, as his senses went overboard. His suit was sticking to his body uncomfortably due to the sweat coating his feverish skin. The fabric was intact, with no visible wounds in his body, just that burning sensation of something running through his veins.
And that dark part of him he’d managed to lock down with the inhibitor, trying to claw its way out.
“What the…what the fuck is going on,” he cursed, clutching his heaving chest as he panted against the worn wood floors. “I can’t–I can’t breathe…”
The computer’s monotone voice broke through the silence.
“You have arrived injured. I’m letting her know–”
“NO!” He cut the AI off, “EV, don’t tell her–”
“Message already sent.”
He glanced up at the digital clock on his desk. 2:18 am.
He groaned, grabbing his head when a wave of migraine hit him. He knew what came after that. The black eyes. The desire to break. To take. But this time something felt different. It was like a pull, looking for something or someone…for…for you?
Oh fuck.
You were going to come in and you were going to see him like this. No, no–
“Spidey?” You asked from behind the door, knocking exactly twice before opening it anyways.
The air changed the exact moment you walked in, and that something inside him shifted too. It became aware that the only thing it craved to survive was in the room now.
He needed to get to you. He needed to pin you down and–
“Don’t!” He managed to scream, holding his hand up weakly when you scrambled toward him.
You stopped right in your tracks, eyes wide and running all over him, searching for torn fabric, blood, or anything that would explain why he looked like every breath was painful.
“What happened?” You frowned, when you couldn’t find any source. “Did you get hurt?”
You instinctively stepped forward, but he waved his hand in front of him again.
“Stop, stop, stop,” he said quickly, “don’t come any closer.”
The harshness in his voice caught you off guard, but what sealed the deal was him dragging himself further away from you. It was barely more than a clumsy, desperate crawl, but he managed to put a decent distance between you before collapsing against the side of his thrifted couch.
He avoided looking at you. The oversized shirt covering your body, the comfy shorts you were probably wearing, the way your hair looked messy from rolling out of bed as soon as you got EV’s warning even if you had work the next morning.
You stayed right where you were, watching him. His suit had always fit him like it was painted on his skin, but every pant made his chest rise and fall beneath the fabric so violently that you wouldn’t be surprised if it ripped at the seams.
This reminded you too much of the changes that happened in him months ago.
It started with a sharpened temper, then the heightened sensitivity to everything, the black covering his eyes, and moments during patrol when his reactions became simply frightening for someone who had as much strength as he did. But you were supposed to have stopped it.
“Is it the inhibitor?” You asked, crossing your arms over your chest, “is it failing?”
“I–I don’t know…I was hit with some dust out there,” he breathed. “I think it’s tampering with it…my head is killing me. Everything is too much.”
You nodded, turning toward the workstation.
“I will check the programming. Just hold on.” Not your best attempt at reassuring him, but he groaned in acknowledgment.
“EV?”
The computer woke when you touched the keyboard, illuminating the dark attic in a wash of blue light.
“Online.”
“Please run a diagnostic on the inhibitor and any possible interference.”
“Beginning diagnostic.”
You waited impatiently for the results, tapping your fingers on the desk while you watched him from the corner of your eye.
Over there, he…he was doing his best trying to breathe.
This obviously wasn't his first time having sensory overload. When the animal tried to take over the human part of him, everything in the city became impossible to escape. Not a single movement, or sound, or simple existence within miles was unnoticed by him.
But this time? The rest of the city had disappeared. There were no sirens in the distance, or voices coming through the walls, or every heartbeat in the building pounding in his head.
There was only you.
Your rapid heartbeat echoing inside him. He felt every tap of your fingers against the wood, every slight catch in your breathing each time he made another involuntary and pathetic sound from his spot on the floor.
Your scent…God, your scent filled the entire apartment.
The scent he found himself coming back to so often that it scared him. He didn’t want the attachment. The possibility of having someone again only to risk losing them again.
That same scent was making every muscle in his body react in a way he didn’t understand. It made him, and the other him, wanna do things to you he had only dreamed of in his wildest fantasies. Things he wasn’t proud of, things he wouldn’t dare to say out loud, even if he looked at you through the lenses of his mask and you couldn’t see the black in his eyes.
He pressed the back of his head against the couch harshly.
This was wrong. So wrong.
His senses were supposed to consume everything when the change came. Instead, they had fixed themselves entirely on you.
He could feel the heat of your body from across the room as though you were still in front of him. Could remember with sickening detail how soft your hands looked when they reached for him. Could almost feel the burn of the touch that had never landed because he stopped you.
What if he’d let you? What if he’d felt the way your hands ran all over his body? What if you’d moved them lower, and lower, as your mouth–
“Diagnostic complete.”
Your heads snapped toward the screen.
“There’s no external damage affecting the integrity of the device. I detected a foreign biotoxin in the bloodstream that may be bypassing the inhibitor, activating the suppressed arachnid hormones.”
“What biotoxin?” You frowned.
“Unknown. No matches found in available databases.”
Great. He thought. He had no time to take a bath with Yelena Belova to find out what the stupid dust was.
Tiny, microscopic potato, she would say.
The screen changed, displaying a model of his nervous system. There were yellow bright lines pulsing quickly, running all the way from the base of his brain down the length of his spine. Something unknown was moving through his blood, altering the part of him he had spent months forcing into submission.
He sucked in a breath as he watched you read the screen. Your eyes were focused, and a bead of sweat made its way down the side of your forehead.
He suddenly felt the need to lick it off.
Wanted to run his tongue from the base of your neck to the back of your ear. Wanted to fist your hair and make your heart beat out of your chest from how good he knew he could make you feel–
“The effects remain within his enhanced tolerance. However, prolonged exposure to certain hormones can cause extreme distress without relief.”
“What hormones?” Your voice, worried and unknowing of his thoughts only made him feel guiltier.
It took him a second to realize what you asked, but EV threw him under the bus before he could say anything.
“There’s a significant rise in reproductive hormones. The unknown toxin is inducing a strong mating response in him.”
Mating response. He stopped breathing.
Your eyes slowly moved from the monitor to him, and he saw the moment your attention dropped lower to the tent of his pants.
That suit concealed nothing on a good day. On one like this? Fuck. Fuck. Fuck–
He shifted almost immediately, but the movement only worsened the pressure, pulling a helpless groan from his throat that made your pulse jump. You looked away at once, turning back to the computer.
“Is there a way we can…umm…stop it?” You asked hesitantly.
“The subject is experiencing severe sexual arousal with a fixation on a nearby individual,” she explained, because fuck him if he wasn’t the unluckiest individual on earth. “Acting upon it can be a positive option to relieve sexual tension.”
He wished the floor would open beneath him, swallow him, and never ever EVER spit him back out again.
Your pulse was absolutely hammering after that. He caught the sudden change in your scent. There was a sharp spark of surprise, nervousness, and something else beneath it that his altered senses fed on immediately.
You kept your eyes fixed on the monitor, although the data had stopped meaning anything the moment you heard fixation on a nearby individual.
“Is that what you really feel?” You asked softly after a moment.
His head fell forward, catching it between his gloved hands. He didn’t know how to answer without making everything worse.
Although, after what EV said, could it really be worse?
“…Yes.” The word came out rougher than he expected. Yet still not enough for what was happening inside him. “It’s like…I can only feel you. All of you.”
Heat rose to your face once again.
“What does that mean?”
Don’t say anything, don’t–
“I can smell you.” Great start, idiot. He cleared his dry throat before continuing. “I can smell your shampoo…the lotion you use…the ink on your hands from your favorite pen.”
He chose not to mention he could also smell the adrenaline on you. The heat gathering slowly beneath your skin.
Your eyes dropped to your hands, and under the dim light of the computer, you caught the ink stains in them from your journaling session before bed.
“I can hear your heartbeat changing every time I speak,” he added. Okay, that one slipped out.
You swallowed. And god, he felt that in his own throat.
The suit was suffocating him at this point. He wanted to rip it off as much as he wanted to rip off the fabric covering the goosebumps on your skin.
“Is it only because I’m nearby?” You asked, gathering the courage to turn your chair to him.
White lenses met you across the room. He dragged in another shaky breath of oxygen made of you as he thought about his next words. He could’ve lied. He should’ve lied. But instead, chemically overwhelmed and stripped of every defense he possessed, he gave you the truth.
“No.”
His voice was firmer this time. No hesitation in it despite the thousand red alarms pounding in his head telling him to shut up.
“It picked you–no, I picked you for a reason,” he added. “And it’s not just me. The other…the other me wants you too.”
His voice went lower on the last part, that told you how much it cost him to admit that.
The silence following his confession was heavy. For a moment he wished he could read your mind. For all he could feel of you, your thoughts were unreachable.
His own mind was a mess. The impulses didn’t feel like thoughts anymore, just his body feeding him instructions.
Get up. Cross the room. Touch her. Breathe her in.
His palms shook with the urge to close around you. His teeth ached with the need to graze your skin. His eyes burned with the desire to see beyond fabric.
Every part of him seemed convinced that the small distance between you was a mistake he needed to correct. That he needed to breathe you in until his lungs burned. Drag his mouth along the inside of your wrist and taste the pulse there.
He hated it.
He hated that something inside him could look at the person he cared for the most and reduce her to an answer for his pain.
“EV, how long is this state going to last?” He asked the computer, followed by a weak cough as he clutched his side.
“Your enhanced physiology is struggling to break down the toxin’s structure. I estimate a time between ten to twelve hours before it’s metabolized. However, neurological collapse is expected before that timeframe.”
“What?” You looked at him. “There’s no way we’re letting that happen. Maybe I can–”
“Don’t even start,” he cut you off, shaking his head profusely.
“So what? I’m supposed to sit here betting on whether your body collapses on hour three or hour six?”
“I’ll just pass out, big deal. I’m not putting you in danger because of this. I can handle it.”
“You’re barely handling it now. There’s no danger in trying–”
“You don’t understand what’s happening inside me right now,” he argued, raising his voice. “This other thing, the one the inhibitor controls it’s…awake. That part of me doesn’t think like I do. It doesn’t care if you're scared, or hurting–”
“You wouldn’t hurt me–”
“You don’t know that!” He snapped, his fist struck the floor next to him, hard enough to make the worn wood crack beneath his knuckles.
The sudden noise made you flinch. He smelled the flash of fear moving through your body for only a second.
One second enough.
“Fuck–that is what I mean,” he cursed, covering his lenses with his hands. “I don’t…I don’t know if I’d be gentle. I can’t risk this, I can't…shit, I can’t risk you.”
The words, said with so much pain, and honesty, seemed to settle somewhere deep in your chest.
“Okay,” you nodded, settling deeper in your chair. “But I’m not leaving you like this. I can’t risk you either.”
He shuddered a painful exhale. His head dropped to the couch again, shutting his eyes in preparation of what the next hours of torture would be.
Except…he didn’t even last ten minutes.
The suit was killing him, so he decided he’d be better without it. He reached desperately behind his back, clumsily undoing the zippers that tied the suit together.
He could feel your wide eyes on him as he tugged the fabric off his shoulders, peeling it off his sweaty arms. He groaned when he lifted his hips and the suit grazed his swollen crotch. In a matter of seconds that felt like eternity he managed to break free from the spandex, and threw it away somewhere in the room. He’d undressed down to his dark boxers, mask still in place, revealing the marble sculpture of his body.
You let out a shaky breath from your spot, eyes raking over a body you’d only seen partially. He was covered in wounds most of the time, but this time, he only had faint bruises from the night before decorating his chiseled abs.
His tight muscles flexed with every rise of his chest, his bulge straining harder the more you devoured him, pressing against his pants, making him curse quietly.
You noticed, and returned your eyes to the screen to track his vitals.
He felt grateful that you’d given him that grace, but just you being in that room made it very hard for him to think of anything other than your existence.
Too hard.
Before he knew his hand drifted down the growing ache in his crotch, trying to feel some relief, but every rub he made over the fabric of his boxers sent a jolt of pain through his body instead of pleasure.
It only made it worse when he realized you were tense at the desk, trying very hard to keep your focus on the screen and not on the whines he was letting out.
“…I’m sorry,” he apologized instantly, breathlessly, moving his hand away. “I didn’t–”
“Don’t apologize,” you shook your head quickly, eyes still on the screen. “You…you can do whatever you need.”
He didn’t say anything, just whined in pain again, so you took it as a chance to say it before you regretted it.
“But my offer still stands, spidey.”
What a polite way of saying ‘I’d let you fuck me into next week so you can control your horny arachnid hormones, spidey.’
Fucking hell.
“I’m okay I just–God I didn’t–I didn’t think it would feel this way…” He laughed humorlessly, staring at the ceiling. “But I–I got this. Yes.”
You kept quiet, hearing him mumble to himself about a hundred times about how he had this.
“I’m okay…I’m good…it’s fine…”
He wasn’t.
“Fuck I don’t…I’m going to die…”
For God’s sake.
“I think I can help.”
By the time he registered the words and looked back at you, you had already moved from your chair and shortened the distance between you, kneeling in front of him.
His senses went from one thousand to one million. He forced his hands behind his back, trying to keep the animal from grabbing you and getting it over with.
“What–what are you doing?” He stammered nervously, the lenses of his mask going wide.
“Maynard,” you said quietly, ignoring the way his body tensed up at that name. “Would it make you feel better if I put my hand here?”
You placed your hand right in the center of his chest, and your cold palm met his overheated skin. He gasped, feeling every individual fingerprint on his skin. He wanted them marked on him. Tattooed.
His back arched from the couch, with a strangled gasp breaking from beneath the mask. The relief hit him all at once, through a simple contact that felt like salvation.
Your hand steadied him for only a glorious second, but now that you had touched him, his body knew precisely what it had been denied.
It wanted more.
His own hand closed around yours so suddenly that you almost pulled back, but he loosened his grip the instant he realized how tightly he was holding you.
“Sorry–”
“Don’t apologize.” You pressed harder.
He was burning.
The heat beneath your palm scared you, but what scared you more was the violent pounding of his heart beating against your hand so so quickly.
“Better?” You asked quietly, trying not to bite your bottom lip at the image of him crumbling under your palm.
“So fucking better,” he said breathlessly, pressing your hand tighter against his chest. “I…dammit–”
“Breathe,” you reminded.
His head fell back against the couch. Chest rising up and down, up and down, up and down.
Just take her, man, she’s right there–
Your free hand accidentally brushed his neck, right where the border of the mask started, snapping him right back. He grabbed your hand, not harshly, but firm enough to make your breath hitch.
“Please.” Was all he said.
Leave it on.
It brought you back to that first night he’d crashed into your life.
“I wasn’t planning on removing it,” you whispered, leaning closer. “You can keep it on. But let me help you…I really want to.”
See? She wants it. She needs it so bad.
He hated that the other guy was right. He knew you meant what you said because he could smell the proof pooling between your thighs.
Fuck it.
In a sudden movement he reached for your waist, dragging you forward so you were straddling his lap. The bulge you landed on made you gasp, hands instinctively grabbing onto his sweaty biceps for balance when he let out a broken groan that vibrated against your core.
His hand cupped your jaw, bringing it closer to his face, and your dilated pupils reflected on the white of his lenses.
“I can feel that you want this,” he mumbled, tilting his head to the side. “Please, say it again…”
You shifted your hips, barely, so minimal yet he felt it travel through his whole body. He hissed, tightening the grip on your jaw.
“I want this,” you repeated firmly, moving your head closer to his ear. “You can take whatever you need…”
You moved your hips again, more deliberate this time, pulling a broken whine from him. The toxin made every contact feel like electricity racing down his spine, straight to the heavy, aching weight of his cock under you.
“Yes…yeah just like that…” he panted. “Just let me…”
His hands landed on your waist, moving you back and forth at a quicker pace over his bulge. You gasped at the friction, fingers digging into his shoulders, while he let out a collection of muffled words you could barely understand.
“...M–more…” he whined, throwing his head back against the couch. “I can’t–I need…”
“What do you need? More what?”
“More contact.”
His hands left your waist to grab the hem of your shirt.
“Can I?” He whispered.
You nodded eagerly, gasping when his hands shifted to the collar of your shirt instead, ripping it off your body with a sharp pull.
“Oh fuck,” he cursed when he realized there was nothing under that shirt, and saw your nipples hardening instantly under the cold air.
He resisted the urge to bite them through the mask.
His hands, however, wasted no time to cup your breasts with a broken whine. His thumbs played with your nipples, tugging at them as hard as he could allow himself to without hurting you.
“Fuck you’re perfect…you’re so perfect…” he whispered, more to himself than you, pulling some soft whimpers out of you when he tugged a little harder. His hands drifted to your lower half, to the hem of the last piece keeping your body from his greedy eyes. “These too,” he said, “please, can I? I want to feel you.”
“Yes,” you nodded, already out of air.
You didn’t even know why you tried to get off his lap to take the shorts off properly, when he just did the same as the shirt: ripped it in half where it rested on your hips, yanked it off from your body and threw the ruined pieces far away.
You weren’t wearing anything underneath.
“I can smell you. God, I can smell you. You’re so–oh God…”
Now he could feel your wetness drenching his boxers, dripping onto the fabric. He could almost taste it in his mouth. He wanted nothing more than to drown in it for hours.
“Can–can I–?”
You didn’t even let him finish, you grabbed his hand and placed it right between your legs.
Water. He found water in the middle of the dessert.
His hand moved carefully through your wet folds once, twice, delighting in your warmth, the way you felt, the way you let out the prettiest sound he had ever heard in his miserable life.
“Fuck…” you cursed softly, moving your hips eagerly when he kept stroking slow. Too slow. “Touch me, please.”
He obliged, fingers finding your clit in movements that had you gripping his shoulders tighter, eyes fluttering shut so beautifully he had to bite his lip to not let out a pathetic sound.
“Been wanting this,” he mumbled. “Longer than today. Longer than tonight.”
His finger slid inside of you, making you moan when he curled it just right.
“There were…there were nights I thought about you riding my hand,” he kept going, voice cracking as he added a second finger, stretching you more. “I’ve wanted you for so long–not just because of this shit in my blood. Because it’s you.”
Every word made you clench around his fingers. Every admission pulled another shaky moan out of your throat. You were a mess already, breathless, hips rolling down to meet the thrust of his fingers.
“Oh my God–don’t stop, please don’t stop–”
“Not stopping, baby.”
He kept working you open, the white lenses of the mask never leaving your face. His free hand slid up your chest, settling between your breasts.
“I’m–I’m close,” you managed. “I’m so close–”
“Come on…you’re perfect. You’re so fucking perfect like this.”
The heel of his palm lifted to press against your clit. You were right there, right on the edge, about to come on his hand and drip down his boxers–
“Please,” he begged, unable to keep it in. “Let me fuck you after this…please. I need to be inside you. I’ve needed it for so long–just let me, after you come, please, please–”
The plea undid you.
You came with a broken cry, stopping your movements as your walls pulsed around him. The sound you made against his shoulder nearly finished him right there.
It took you a second to just breathe again, your chest synching up with his in the search of oxygen. He kept rocking his hand slowly, not just to work you through the aftershocks, but because the friction of your pussy in his hand brought the tiniest relief to him.
You just stayed there as the last soft waves rolled through you.
Once you were able to see clearly again, you let out a breathless chuckle and straightened back up.
He needed you. He needed you so badly you really thought he was going to die if you didn’t help him.
You placed one hand on his chest as the other reached under you, slipping inside the fabric of his boxers without breaking eye contact.
The second your bare fingers brushed him, his hips jerked hard under you.
“You said please,” you whispered breathlessly.
You wrapped your fingers around him and pulled him free.
His cock sprang out, heavy and flushed between your bodies, so thick and hard and painful. The head was red and shiny, with precum dripping down the vein that ran along his length. The tip brushed the skin of your stomach, leaving a warm, wet patch that made the hair on your arms go up. He could smell the small flicker of intimidation sparking inside you, but the want that followed was stronger.
You stroked him a few times, slowly just as he’d touched you at first.
“Oh my God, your hand–your hand–”
Another thick bead of precum welled up and spilled over your fingers. Whether it was the toxin or just his enhanced physiology, he was dripping for you.
Flustered wasn’t enough of a word when you had his leaking cock in your hand.
His hands slid down to your hips, gripping tighter, guiding you up as if he was about to lift you then pulling you back down immediately.
Fuck her. Fuck her right now.
“Please, I need–I need to feel you…” he cried out. “Let me…let me…”
You nodded just as desperately, lifting yourself up as he helped, steadying you with shaking hands until the thick head of his cock nudged against your entrance. You both exhaled hard at the same time when you started to sink down, taking him inch by inch.
He was big. Almost too much. The burn of it made your breath hitch, but the way he cursed under his breath multiple times, completely at your mercy, made you keep going until he was buried balls deep.
You sat there for a moment, breathing heavily, and so full of him.
When the initial sting faded away, you started moving. He let you set the pace as you adjusted, holding back his need of thrusting up. His fingers dug on your skin, not lifting just holding you, but the more that you moved, the more that control started to waver.
He could feel it coming. The change.
You kept moaning, bouncing on top of him, completely unaware of his self restraint crumbling away.
His grip slowly tightened when his eyes began turning completely black under his mask. That careful, pathetic boy who’d been begging disappeared beneath something more…primal.
Fuck. Whatever had been holding him back finally snapped.
The next thing he knew, his hands slid under your thighs with sudden strength. He lifted you up in one motion until only the thick head of him remained inside you, held you there for a second as the last part of him tried to remember how to be gentle–then snapped his hips up hard.
That first thrust pulled a sharp moan out of you, but there was no chance to adjust this time. He set a relentless pace almost immediately, using pure strength to bounce you on his cock while he drove up to meet every drop of your body, buried so deep it stole your breath every time he bottomed out.
“Oh my–May…Maynard–” the name you barely used on him slipped out in the middle of the frenzy, but his hand reached behind your head to pull your hair back slightly as he kept thrusting up.
“Don’t call me that,” he snapped, his voice so different from just minutes earlier. “It’s Peter. Call me Peter when I’m inside you.”
He didn’t even give you time to process, still lifting and dropping you onto his cock at the exact hard rhythm he wanted. The only one that satisfied the need inside of him. Your hands instinctively reached for the edge of the arm of the couch he was leaning against, fingers digging into the worn fabric as he hit that spot inside you over and over again.
“Of fuck…Peter–fuck…yes…”
“That’s better,” he approved. “I was right, you’re so so perfect…taking every inch like you need it as bad as I do…”
A desperate sound slipped out of you at the praise, he could feel your walls clenching tight around him as your body went for that second orgasm, your eyes were fluttering shut, almost there–
“Nuh–uh,” he denied immediately, stopping mid thrust, holding you pressed against him as you gasped, surprised and confused.
“What–what happened? I was about to–”
“I want you to hold it for me. I know you can.”
That twisted part of him enjoyed the slow realization on your face.
Even if you couldn’t see his eyes, you knew the same spiderman he’d been without the inhibitor, was the one with your body at his mercy now.
Good.
He stayed buried to the hilt for a moment, breathing hard behind the mask. When your breathing finally slowed down and accepted that the high never came, he stood up. Still inside you, he walked you to the bed in the corner of the room.
His bed.
He pulled out with a wet sound that made both of you groan, then laid you down roughly near the edge of the mattress. He kneeled down, strong hands hooking behind your knees and dragging your legs over his shoulders, folding you open for him completely.
“Look at the ceiling,” he ordered. “Don’t look at me.”
You obeyed, staring up at the wood beams high above you while he tugged the bottom of the mask just high enough to free his mouth.
Peter leaned down and pressed a few soft kisses to your swollen folds. He wasn’t necessarily eating you out, just giving a few loud smooches that felt good enough to make you grip the sheets.
“M’sorry, you were so perfect there…” he mumbled condescendingly against your most sensitive spots. “But I need you to hold on a little longer. Can you do that for me, sweetheart?”
You nodded, eyes still fixed on the ceiling. Maybe too eager. Maybe too pathetic. Just like he’d been. Had he pumped that toxin into you?
Either way, you didn’t care. You’d be lying if you said you didn’t like this version of him.
He laughed right over your clit when you moaned loudly, after he moved his tongue in a slow, torturous swipe over it.
“Was back there too much?” He cooed. “Maybe I just need to stretch you more...”
Two fingers slid inside you, so easily, but the sudden stretch still dragged a whine out of your throat. He curled them immediately, finding the spot that made your hips jerk.
“Peter…”
“Huh?” He acted coy, pumping his fingers with a rhythm that kept you right on the edge without letting you tip over. He added a third finger, making your back arch from the mattress. “Keep holding it in.”
Every shake of your body fed the stupid toxin inside him. Having you like this…really trying to keep your body from coming apart because he said so.
God. He was never going back.
“You just took my cock. I think you can take three fingers with no problem.”
He kept the same relentless pace, chuckling when your body started twitching again.
“Shhh, you’re perfect, absolutely perfect…”
“Peter…” you called out again, hand dropping the sheet to find his shoulder instead. “I need…need…”
“Need what?”
“Need you inside me…please I won’t–I won’t hold for much longer just–fuck me.”
He stopped altogether, a smirk you couldn’t see stretching the corner of his mouth. He pulled his fingers out with a wet pop, licking them clean before tugging his mask back in place and standing up.
“Yeah?”
Your legs dangled off the edge of the bed for a moment before his hands gripped your hips and turned you over. He moved you higher up the bed, grabbing one of the pillows, and shoving it under your hips, tilting your lower body up for him.
He then climbed onto the bed behind you and knelt between your spread thighs, the mattress dipping under his weight as one hand stroked down the length of your spine.
But something made him stop.
“This fucking mask–” he cursed under his breath. “It’s suffocating me.”
The sweat on his forehead had pooled under the mask, making it so sticky over his eyebrows that it was affecting the lenses he was trying to see you through.
“I need you to be a good girl for me,” he added breathlessly, yet still commanding enough. “Keep your head on the mattress. Ass up. Don’t turn around.”
You nodded. Too eagerly again. Couldn’t care any less again.
He didn’t think twice, just yanked the mask off and tossed it aside. It landed near you, making you bury half your face on the sheets as if staring at the mask alone would be disobeying his commands.
The sound he made when the cool air hit his face was pure relief. He swiped the sweat off with his forearm, finally seeing you clearly. Face down. Eyes squeezed shut. Already clutching the sheets.
“You look so pretty like this,” he mumbled. “All spread out for me…waiting.”
“Peter…” you whined, lifting your ass slightly from the pillow.
“I know, I know. You’re okay.” He couldn’t keep the smirk away when he added, “you said please.”
He reached between you, guiding the thick head of his cock between your thighs until it nudged against your entrance. You were still soft and ready and perfect.
Peter pushed in slowly, letting you feel every inch as he sank deep and deep and deeper.
He braced one hand beside your head and kept the other on your hip, pushing you into the mattress as his thighs hit the back of yours. Slap. Slap. Slap. The position left almost no space between your bodies, with Peter pressing his chest against your back.
“Fuck…you feel so good like this…so pretty taking me.”
He kept going, making the mattress creak and the base of the bed hit the brick wall repeatedly. Your desperate moans ran through his body like electricity, making something inside him crack open again.
What? What is–
The moment his rhythm stuttered, he shook his head, trying to clear it. Beads of sweat flew from his hair to your back.
“God–you…you’re making me–” The roughness of his thrusts slowed down immediately, inhaling a sharp intake of air as he felt the change again. “I can’t, I can’t…”
He lifted his gaze to the window behind the bed and noticed his eyes had turned back to its original color.
“Oh my god,” he gasped, stopping altogether. He straightened up, still kneeling and inside you, but panicking. “I’m…I’m so sorry. I don’t know what happened I–“
“Peter!” You cut him off, pushing yourself back, closer to him, without turning around. “Shut up and fuck me.”
The order left your mouth breathless, pushing back against him even more to make the point clear. His hands twitched when they gripped your hips again.
“Okay, okay…” he panted, groaning when you dropped back on the bed and his cock almost left the warmth of your pussy. “I’m sorry–if I was too rough, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to…”
He picked up the pace again, but the words tumbling out of him now were pure pleading Peter again.
“Don’t turn around–don’t turn around–fuck, fuck…” slap, slap, slap. “You can come now. Please. Please, I want to feel it–you’d come apart so pretty on me, I know you would…pleasepleaseplease–”
His final permission and the desperate way he said it made you crash harder than the first time, crying out into the mattress. The second he felt you coming around him, he knew he couldn’t last much longer either.
“Can I–inside…please, can I??…let me fill you up–”
“Yes–inside, Peter, do it inside me…”
He buried himself to the hilt with a strained groan and finally came. The orgasm tearing out of him was harder and longer than anything he’d ever felt, holding you there, filling you up.
You gasped against the sheets, breathless, as the waves of cum seemed to go on forever, flooding you with warm and thick ropes in every spurt as he emptied himself inside you.
“Thank you…thank you…” His forehead dropped between your shoulder blades, sending broken gasps against your skin as he kept coming. “You are so perfect–fuck…so perfect…thank you…”
The pollen wrung him dry until he could barely breathe, and even then he kept rolling his hips weakly, chasing the last of it while he slowly softened inside you.
When it finally eased, the pain, the need, the hunger…he pulled out slowly with a whine, and half collapsed over you. His arms held most of his weight as he planked above you, but you could feel every ridge of his muscles brushing your sweaty skin.
Peter’s eyes fluttered shut, feeling exhausted and aching in the best way, almost lulled by the sounds of your agitated breaths.
You both felt the warm trail of liquid leaking out between your bodies and neither of you moved or said anything for a while. He could’ve stayed like that forever, really. With your naked body under him, no masks, no barriers, just your swollen pussy leaking out his seed–
“Successful ejaculation brought down the arachnid hormone levels immediately. Inhibitor working within regular parameters now. Congratulations, Peter.”
EV’s monotone voice cut through the silence.
It took two seconds of shock before you both broke into breathless laughter. His teeth grazed your back as your bodies vibrated in sync from the amusement and overall flustering after everything that happened.
“Thank you, EV,” Peter muttered.
“You’re welcome. I gathered data and the released semen volume exceeds standard parameters by two hundred and twenty six percent due to the high hormonal concentration. Hydration, clean up and rest are advised.”
“For fucks sake…” Peter cursed under his breath.
“Oh god…” you mumbled against the sheets.
That was your call back to reality.
Peter felt you move under him, reaching blindly to the side until your hand found the mask. You lifted it over your shoulder, offering it to him without looking.
“I don’t want to,” he said, too quickly, then cleared his throat. “I…I don’t want to put it back on.”
“Then I’ll close my eyes,” you offered instead.
“No–I mean…you don’t have to. I don’t want to wear it around you anymore. Not after…all of this,” he admitted sheepishly.
“But you told me to not turn around,” you reminded him, dropping the mask on the mattress again. “And that was you, not the darker you.”
He chuckled, nodding even if you couldn’t see him yet.
“Yeah, because if I saw your face while I was balls deep inside you I would’ve busted before you came.”
There it was. He said it. No turning back now.
At least it got a chuckle from you too.
“Listen I…I meant everything I said. Everything. The wanting, the nights I thought about you,” he confessed. “I don’t want you to feel like I just used you when…when there was always a reason why I needed you like oxygen tonight.”
Your breath hitched, and his hand found your waist, pulling you closer to him, and when you didn’t push away…he exhaled in relief behind you.
“So maybe…you can turn around now. If–if you want to. Know the real me.”
“I would really like that,” you whispered without hesitation.
You tried lifting yourself up to turn around, but he did most of the job, moving away the pillow he had placed under you and helping you roll onto your back. You closed your eyes, at least until you were facing him completely, and took a deep breath. Holding onto his biceps for moral support, you finally opened them again.
Seeing his face for the first time felt so intimate, even after everything you just did.
There he was. The same guy who just fucked you into next week, looking more shy and boyish than you could’ve ever imagined.
Brown eyes. Dark, curly hair sticking to his forehead. A nervous smile tugging at the corner of his gorgeous mouth.
So young. So earnest. So yours.
Not spidey anymore. Just Peter.
Your Peter.
Thank you so much for reading 🤍 I used to write Peter so much back in the day (shoutout to my starktonyx era) and I’ve missed him dearly.
summary: frank arrives home after a long day of dispensing justice. instead of finding his girlfriend's arms around him, he's met with her indifference as she's busy reading a smutty book.
warnings: +18 explicit smut. unprotected sex. rough sex. brief, very brief, orgasm restraint. p in v. couch sex (yeah). swearing. oral (f receiving). frank is jealous during sex, yes.
content: frank is jealous of a smut book. just smut, okay? lmao.
word count: +5k
a/n: one-shot thanks to this request! i apologize for the delay. <3
clarification: english is not my native language, so i apologize in advance for any mistakes.
Frank had forgotten what silence was supposed to feel like.
For years it had meant the few seconds after pulling a trigger, the ringing left inside his ears after an explosion, the heavy pause between one interrogation and the next while another man decided whether dying was preferable to talking. Silence had never been peaceful. It had always carried the weight of another corpse, another confession, another night that refused to end.
Tonight was no different.
His knuckles ached beneath dried blood that wasn’t his. A shallow cut stretched across his forearm where a knife had managed to find skin before he’d broken the man’s wrist. His back protested beneath the familiar weight of his vest, and every muscle in his body reminded him that he wasn’t thirty anymore.
He barely noticed.
Pain had long ago stopped asking permission before settling into his bones.
The apartment building appeared at the end of the block exactly where it always did, its windows glowing softly against the New York night. Frank climbed the stairs two at a time despite the exhaustion pulling at his legs, already picturing what waited beyond the front door. Maybe you’d be asleep on the couch again, pretending you hadn’t been waiting for him. Maybe you’d have burned dinner because you’d become distracted by whatever book currently occupied your entire personality. Maybe you’d hear his boots outside and throw yourself at him before he even had the chance to complain that you ought to be sleeping.
It happened almost every night.
The first pair of arms around his neck.
The quiet kiss against his jaw.
Your ridiculous habit of greeting him as though he’d returned from work instead of from beating information out of men who deserved far worse.
He never admitted how much he’d grown to expect it.
Maybe because admitting it would mean accepting that somewhere along the way he’d developed routines again. Small ones. Domestic ones. Dangerous ones.
Frank Castle wasn’t supposed to miss being welcomed home.
And yet...
The thought alone was enough to loosen something inside his chest before he’d even unlocked the apartment door.
The lock clicked open with the familiar metallic sound that usually announced your smile long before he heard your footsteps.
Tonight, there was nothing.
Frank stepped inside without bothering to turn on another light. The apartment was already bathed in the warm amber glow of the lamp beside the couch, filling the small living room with the kind of quiet most people would’ve called peaceful. He shut the door behind him with his shoulder, dropped the duffel bag carrying the weight of another night’s worth of violence onto the floor, and stood there for a moment, waiting.
Nothing.
No hurried footsteps crossing the apartment.
No cheerful “Frank?”
No arms wrapping around his neck before he’d even managed to take off his boots.
His brow furrowed almost immediately.
You were there. He could see you from where he stood, curled comfortably into the corner of the couch beneath the blanket you always stole from the bedroom. One leg was tucked beneath you, your nose nearly buried between the pages of an embarrassingly thick smutty romance novel, so completely absorbed that you hadn’t even noticed the front door opening.
For a brief second, Frank wondered whether he’d somehow managed to come home quieter than usual.
Then he noticed the mug of tea resting on the coffee table beside you, still steaming gently.
You were awake.
You simply hadn’t looked at him.
Something unexpectedly sour settled in his stomach.
It was ridiculous.
Completely irrational.
He’d spent the last four hours dragging information out of men whose names wouldn’t survive the week. One had laughed at him until Frank had introduced his face to a concrete floor. Another had cried. A third had begged. By the time he’d gotten what he wanted, his patience had disappeared somewhere between broken furniture and bloodstained walls. His shoulders ached, his ribs complained every time he inhaled too deeply, and dried blood—not his own—had stiffened across the sleeves of his shirt.
All he had wanted during the drive home was you.
Just you.
The thought had carried him through the entire night with embarrassing ease. He’d pictured your sleepy smile, the inevitable little lecture about tracking dirt across the floor, the way you’d wrinkle your nose before pretending the blood didn’t bother you as much as it did. You always kissed him first and scolded him second. It had become a ritual neither of you had ever spoken aloud.
Tonight, that ritual had been interrupted by four hundred pages and what looked like an offensively handsome man on the book’s cover (was it a fairy man?).
Frank stared at it for another second.
“You’re kiddin’ me,” he snorted, as he took off his bulletproof vest and dropped it to the ground without a care.
You hummed absentmindedly, turning another page.
That was it.
A low grunt escaped him before he bent to remove the knife from his belt, setting it beside the duffel with more force than necessary. His boots echoed heavily against the hardwood as he crossed the room, yet even then your attention never left the book.
“Hey.”
You lifted one finger. “One second.”
Frank blinked.
One second?
His jaw shifted.
He had waited outside warehouses in the freezing rain for six hours without moving. He had spent days tracking men across three states. Patience wasn’t foreign to him.
But waiting for a damn smutty novel?
That felt personal.
Frank trudged toward the kitchen, hoping you’d at least say something more, but you remained engrossed in your reading, lost in magical, obscene words. It was insulting that your attention was drawn to some unreal fairy man and not to him, not to your man.
It was absurd. It wasn’t as if Frank was jealous; he was simply annoyed that… you weren’t paying him any attention.
With that thought, Frank quickly washed his hands to remove the blood. One rule Frank Castle had was that he wouldn’t touch you with dirty hands, not with the remnants of the executioner’s justice. He couldn’t defile his sweet girl like that. You didn’t deserve that.
But once his hands were clean? That was another matter.
“Lemme get this straight…” he muttered, stopping beside the couch. “That damn thing’s got more of your attention than I do?”
You smiled to yourself at something you’d just read. “I’ll answer in a minute.”
His eyes narrowed. “Oh, will ya?”
There wasn’t any real anger in his voice, only a rough sarcasm that barely concealed something much softer. If anyone else had heard it, they might’ve mistaken it for annoyance.
You would’ve recognized it immediately.
Frank wanted your attention.
Every last bit of it.
“Hey,” he called you again, trying not to seem interested, but there was still no response from you beyond a giggle, probably due to one of those obscene scenes that you liked so much.
He let out a low grunt and snatched the book from your hands. His dark gaze was fixed on you completely, because everything about Frank now belonged to you, down to the smallest particle of his miserable being, which bore your name. It was pathetic, truly pathetic, that part of him was getting annoyed because his girl couldn’t put down her fairy-tale romance novel for a few seconds, but Frank, in this moment, was beyond all logic. Not after a long day where all he’d wanted was to be in your arms.
“That crap’s really more interestin’ than me, darlin’?” he muttered, looking disdainfully at the book cover for a few seconds and then returning his gaze to you.
Your reaction was instantaneous; you clearly didn’t want to interrupt your reading, the very thing that had kept you awake while you waited for Frank.
“Hey!” you exclaimed, getting up from the couch and letting the blanket fall to the floor. “I was at a really good part of the book!” you said. “Give it back, Frankie,” your tone was the same one you used when you didn’t care about getting into trouble, that same tone that drove Frank crazy in different ways.
Oh, you were really in the mood to annoy him. Not only was your priority a book and not him, but now you were standing up for yourself instead of throwing yourself into his arms.
Frank let out a derisive snort, his nose wrinkling as he caught the faint metallic tang of blood clinging to his jacket. He didn’t care about the plot, the characters, or whatever flowery bullshit was written on those pages. All he cared about was the fact that your attention was somewhere else when he needed it.
“Good part, huh?” he repeated, his voice dropping to a rough, gravelly register.
He approached you with decisive, strong steps. His presence was overwhelming, dominant in the space you shared, but you didn’t move away; instead, you remained planted in your place, letting him press closer, his broad, strong presence crowding your space.
You didn’t hold back or erase that mischievousness so characteristic of yours from your bright eyes; on the contrary, you let Frank present himself to you as the man who filled a room simply by being there, but who was reduced to a disaster because of you.
“Lemme guess. Some pussy-ass poet’s goin’ on ’bout how soft some girl’s lips are... or some poor bastard finally got lucky, huh?” he grunted, staring at you.
He looked at the book again; the cover was a man clearly designed for people whose fantasies lay elsewhere, perhaps for people who didn’t have a man like him to fulfill their desires. He didn’t read the title; he didn’t give a shit about reading now. He simply tossed it onto the coffee table like it was yesterday’s trash. His hands, calloused and rough from years of gripping triggers and breaking bones, slid to your waist, gripping you possessively. He needed to remind you exactly what kind of reality you were dealing with.
“Real shit don’t happen in books, sweetheart,” he muttered against the shell of your ear, his breath hot and smelling faintly of gunpowder and cheap coffee. “You want somethin’ that’ll actually stick with you? Somethin’ that actually fucks with your head?” His grip tightened just enough to be commanding, his dark eyes boring into yours with a raw, hungry intensity that no romance novel could ever replicate. “Look at me.”
Frank was usually the kind of man everyone would think was a beast in bed—and he was—but the truth is, he was generally the kind of man who adored your body, who fucked you with a rhythm that wasn’t lethal in the sense of roughness, but rather in precision. For Frank, exploring your body wasn’t a task, but a reality, as natural as breathing. His calloused hands always roamed your body not with the gentleness of a prince, but with the devotion of a knight errant returning to his lady’s arms.
Frank fucked you like no one ever had, but very rarely had he done it in a way that turned adoration into possession.
And you, at this very moment, wet from a silly smut romance novel, wanted to feel under the power of your beloved Frank. You needed to feel the other side he tried to keep buried most of the time.
You looked at him as he instructed, the blush involuntarily rising up your neck to cover the tips of your ears and decorate your cheeks as your eyes locked onto his intense gaze.
Frank noticed the flush creeping up your neck, staining your cheeks a deep crimson. He wasn’t stupid; he could read your body language better than he could read a target through a scope. That blush wasn’t from offense, it was arousal. The way your pupils dilated, the way your breathing hitched just slightly it told him everything he needed to know. You weren’t reading about some noble knight saving a damsel; you were reading about something filthy. It’s not like he didn’t know it before, but your reaction? Yeah, that confirmed it.
A slow, predatory smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. The cornerstones of his irritation crumbled, replaced by something far more dangerous: genuine interest.
“Fuck,” he rumbled, his voice dropping an octave as he realized what you’d been up to. “So that’s what this is, huh? Reading about some fantasy cock while I’m standin’ right here bleeding from my knuckles. You’re really gonna ignore your man for some made-up asshole?”
He didn’t give you time to deflect or make an excuse. His large hand slid from your waist, moving upward until his palm pressed flat against your sternum, feeling the rapid flutter of your heart beneath the fabric of your clothes. He leaned down until your noses brushed, his stubble scraping lightly against your sensitive skin.
“You want to read about what it feels like to be fucked properly?” he asked, his words dripping with crude provocation. “You want to know what it’s like when someone doesn’t write about it with pretty fucking metaphors, but actually takes what they want?” his free hand tangled in your hair, tilting your head back to expose the column of your throat. “Tell me. Was the book better than what I’m going to do to you tonight? Does that imaginary cock feel better than mine, princess?”
A gasp escaped your lips when he tugged on your hair. It felt good, the way his firm hand held you and reduced you to this, to a moment in which he took complete control of the atmosphere.
But of course, you were you. You were the one who won Frank Castle over; your attitude didn’t just disappear.
“I don’t know,” you murmured, a defiant smile playing on your lips. “I don’t know if you could fuck better than him,” you said, staring intently into his eyes; a gaze locked, without a flicker of blinking.
Frank’s entire demeanor shifted in an instant. The sarcasm died, replaced by something far more primal and volatile. That challenge hung in the air between you like gunpowder before a shot, and Frank Castle never backed down from a challenge. He knew you were playing with fire, poking at the beast just to see if it would bite but he wasn’t about to let you win this round. Not today at least, not when he completely needed your attention.
“You really think some ink on paper’s got a shot against me?” he growled, his voice vibrating with a dangerous edge. His grip on your hair tightened slightly, not enough to hurt, but enough to assert dominance, forcing you to meet his darkened gaze. “You think some made up bastard could make ya scream like you actually mean it? Some made-up son of a bitch who ain’t even real?”
His free hand slid down from your chest, past the curve of your waist, to your crotch. Frank’s calloused, large hand cupped your pussy through your pajama shorts. Firmly, but gently, he squeezed while two of his fingers moved along the covered slit of your intimacy, making sure you felt the length of his fingers caressing that area.
“Yeah... got you all worked up, didn’t it?” he said, with a smile that wasn’t playful, but rather a warning. “Over a damn book, uh? You got turned on reading about a nonexistent cock? Were you plannin’ to plunge your fingers into your pretty pussy while ya waited for me?”
A husky laugh escaped his throat when he saw your blush deepen, and he shook his head, almost as if your dampness were an insult. He didn’t cause it, but an idiot dressed in silk with ears like Legolas’s.
“That book can’t touch ya. It can’t make your thighs shake or make you beg for it like I can. It can’t fill your pussy over and over again, princess, that little bitch can’t even eat your pussy like you deserve,” his lips brushed against yours as he spoke, his words filthy and direct. “I’m gonna make ya forget every word that asshole writer ever wrote. By the time I’m through with ya, you won’t remember a single word that sorry bastard wrote.”
You let out a shaky breath, your fingers curling into the fabric of his black military jacket. “Prove it then, Frank,” you whispered, your voice a challenge wrapped in silk. “Show me I’m wrong.”
Frank didn’t need permission. He growled low in his throat and claimed your mouth in a kiss that tasted like desperation and possession. This wasn’t a gentle exploration; it was a collision. His tongue invaded your mouth with crude urgency, claiming your territory as he backed you up until your thighs hit the edge of the couch.
His saliva mingled with yours, his tongue conquered yours, and your teeth clashed in a dance born of a primal need to remember. To remind you, rather, that you could only get wet thinking about him.
“Jesus... that mouth’s gonna get you in trouble one day,” he muttered against your lips, his hands working feverishly. He yanked your shirt up and over your head in one rough motion, tossing it somewhere into the darkness of the room. His eyes raked over your soft skin, dark with hunger. “...Christ, you’re beautiful.”
He knelt between your legs, his calloused thumbs rubbing circles into your inner thighs, deliberately working your arousal. When his fingers finally found your slick, swollen clit through your panties, you gasped, your back arching off the cushions. “Frank,” you sighed.
Frank didn’t hesitate to carelessly pull your pajama shorts off. He didn’t care where the fabric fell; at that very moment, he could throw all your clothes out the window just to have you naked and presented to him.
“Shh,” he commanded, his voice raw. “Listen to yourself... already losin’ it” He hooked his fingers under the lace, tearing it aside to expose you completely. He leaned down, his stubble grazing your sensitive flesh as he buried his face between your thighs. The contrast of his rough stubble against your soft folds made you cry out, your fingers tangling desperately in his short hair.
Frank drank you in, his tongue working with precise, punishing accuracy, tasting every drop of your arousal. He wanted to hear you unravel, wanted to hear that angelic voice break into something filthy and undone.
Your hips bucked involuntarily against his mouth, your legs shaking as Frank’s tongue swirled around your clit with brutal, focused intensity. He was emphasizing his point, the inherent ideal within him that you belonged to him completely, even in fantasies.
“Oh fuck, Frank yes… just right there,” you cried out, your head tossing back against the couch cushions. Your fingers dug into his shoulders, nails leaving crescent marks through his shirt as you felt yourself teetering on the edge of a cliff.
Frank didn’t stop. He wanted to push you further, to drain every ounce of control you thought you had. He swirled his tongue faster, sucking harder on your swollen clit until you were sobbing his name, your cunt milking his tongue with involuntary spasms.
“Look at you, pretty girl” Frank grunted, momentarily pulling his face away from your crotch and using his free hand to run two thick fingers along your wet slit. “A mess…” he chuckled huskily. “Now tell me somethin’... this all because of me…” he asked, his voice dropping lower, “...or that dumb son of a bitch in your little book?”
Frank’s fingers parted your labia, becoming wet with the essence of your arousal and causing the hairs on your body to stand on end at the mere touch.
“F-Fuck off,” you cursed, letting out a trembling sigh as you were denied the sweet sensation of his tongue as you had done moments before.
“C’mon, sweetheart,” his words were accompanied by a firm slap against your pussy. Not hard, but enough to make a gasp of surprise and pleasure escape your lips. “Don’t go gettin’ shy on me now.” Two of Frank’s fingers wandered along your slit, pressing near your entrance to tempt you with the idea of being filled, at least, by his fingers now. “Tell me... was it me…” he asked, tilting his head ever so slightly, “...or that sorry bastard you’ve been readin’ about all night?”
You swallowed hard, the blush that had spread violently across your face being empirical evidence of the mess you were, all because of his tongue, fingers, and words. Even though you were the type of person who didn’t like to back down, the idea of missing out on your orgasm wasn’t something you wanted to think about.
“It’s for you,” you murmured, exhaling shakily. “Only for you, Frankie.”
You saw him smile briefly before burying his face again at the source of your wetness. You moaned loudly as his large hands gripped your thighs and pressed you against him, as if he wanted to merge with you.
His tongue moved with precision, the same precision of a man of slaughter and punishment, but now focused on making you feel the pleasure only he could give. His fingers were hard, strong, digging into your soft flesh, marking the insignificant area while his lips sucked your clitoris and then his tongue circled that spot. You closed your eyes, allowing yourself to imagine his jaw dripping with your pleasure because, at that moment, you didn’t have the strength to keep your vision focused, and you let the sensation of his tongue traveling from your clitoris to your entrance be enough.
His tongue was heavy, precise, and strong as it first circled your entrance and then fearlessly plunged inside. It was almost embarrassing how you disarmed yourself under this man, under the rhythmic touch of his passion for you.
“C’mon, princess. Gimme the first one,” Frank murmured, collecting your fluids with two fingers and then plunging them into your entrance. He soon began to move it, fingering your pussy as he lowered his mouth again to focus on your clit.
When you finally climaxed, your body convulsing as you screamed into the empty apartment, Frank didn’t pull away. He stayed there, tasting the salt and the sweetness of your release, savoring the way your pussy pulsed against his lips.
“That’s it? That’s all you got?” he growled, pulling back to look at you. His face was flushed, his eyes dark with a hunger that was almost frightening. “That pathetic little story didn’t make ya come like that, did it?”
Before you could even catch your breath, he was stripping off his own clothes with impatient, jerky movements. Precision in escaping the fabric prison didn’t matter now; he just needed to fill you completely. When he freed his cock, it was angry and thick, throbbing with need. You reached for him, your eyes glassy and unfocused with lust.
“Frank... fuck me. I need you,” you whispered breathlessly, but without shame, because there was no such thing in the world that was just you and him.
“Hell yeah, you do,” he said, pushing your hands. Frank grabbed both your thighs, hauling you to the very edge of the cushions so you were spread wide open for him. “Open up for me, baby.” He guided the head of his cock against your dripping entrance, pausing for one agonizing second to watch your expression. “Tell me what ya want, princess. Go on... say it.”
“I want your dick inside me,” you whined, your hips lifting off the couch instinctively. “Show me how wrong I was.”
Frank didn’t make you wait. With a guttural growl that sounded more like a wounded animal than a man, he drove himself home. He buried his thick, throbbing cock deep into your soaking wet pussy in one relentless thrust, bottoming out against your cervix.
You let out a strangled cry that was half sob, half moan, your eyes rolling back as your body stretched to accommodate his sheer size. The sensation was overwhelming the fullness of him filling you completely, stretching your walls until you felt like you might split apart. “Fuck, Frank oh god, you’re so big,” you gasped, fingers clawing at his scarred arms as you tried to anchor yourself against the storm he was bringing.
As you dug your nails into his skin, you felt a trace of his blood, a small cut he’d likely gotten earlier that day, and something twisted in you, rather than feeling worried, you found yourself even more aroused because Frank prioritized fucking you over tending to his wound. Even if it wasn’t a deep cut, he preferred the idea of being inside you to caring for himself.
“Yeah? You like that?” Frank grunted, his voice rough with exertion. He didn’t give you time to answer before he began to move. His rhythm wasn’t tender; it was punishing, each thrust a deliberate strike meant to claim you. He pulled almost all the way out before slamming back in, the wet, slapping sound of your bodies colliding echoing through the quiet apartment. “This better be better than that fuckin’ book.”
He reached up, his large hands cupping one of your breasts. His thumbs raked roughly over your nipples, which were already peaked and sensitive from your arousal. He squeezed it hard, his callouses grinding against the soft flesh as he leaned down to bite at your throat. “Look at you,” he muttered against your skin. “Fucking drippin’ all over me. My fucking mess.”
You were beyond words. Each thrust sent waves of electricity through your nervous system, your pussy clamping around his dick in desperate, involuntary pulses. You felt the raw power in his hips, the way his muscular frame dominated every inch of your space. “Yes... yes, fuck me like that,” you whimpered, your hips rising to meet every punishing stroke. “Harder, Frank. Don’t stop, please don’t stop,” you gasped between breaths that sought the normal rhythm of the air, but you weren’t going to allow it, not when agitation was synonymous with pleasure and union at this moment.
The friction was building toward something catastrophic. Frank could feel it too the way your cunt was milking him, the heat intensifying between you. His own climax was clawing at his throat. He shifted his grip, hooking his arms under your knees to push them higher toward your chest, opening you up even wider so he could fuck you deeper, harder, more viciously.
“Just me. We clear?” he growled between thrusts. You could feel his balls slapping against your ass, the force of his movements making every fiber of your being tremble, from the physical to the emotional.
The friction became unbearable, a white hot lightning storm building between your joined bodies. Your vision was blurring at the edges, the only thing anchoring you to reality being the crushing weight of Frank’s body and the relentless, rhythmic pounding of his cock inside you. Every time he slammed into you, you felt it in your teeth, in your bones, a raw sensation that stripped away everything except pure, unadulterated need.
“Frank, I’m—I’m gonna,” your voice broke into a high pitched keen as your climax began to build like a tidal wave. Your internal muscles began to spasm uncontrollably around him, milking his cock with desperate, rhythmic squeezes that drove Frank to the brink of madness.
You heard him moan your name in a desperate escape of pleasure. “Go on,” Frank growled, his own composure fracturing. His movements became less controlled, more feral. He wasn’t just fucking you anymore; he was trying to claim your soul. “Come for me, baby. Scream my fucking name.”
He accelerated, his hips moving in a blur of motion, each thrust faster and more violent than the last. The wet sounds of your coupling filled the room, the slap of skin on skin, the squelch of your juices being churned by his dick. Your hips bucked wildly as you finally broke, your body stiffening as a powerful orgasm ripped through you. “Frank! Oh fuck, Frank!” you shrieked, your legs locking around his waist as you convulsed around him.
The way your pussy tightened around his cock seemed to mimic a mold tightening around a sword; it was as if you wanted to melt every detail of it inside you, from the tip to every vein that decorated the cock that remained throbbing and restless inside you.
He was surrounded by you, by the fluids of the orgasm that he himself caused and that bore his name, only his.
Seeing you unravel was the final trigger. Frank’s vision went dark, his entire body tensing with primal force. “Fuck!” he roared, his voice raw and guttural as he gave three last, devastatingly deep thrusts. He buried himself to the hilt, his cock throbbing violently as he unloaded. He could feel his cum pumping into you in hot, thick jets, filling you up while his own climax wracked his muscular frame.
For several long seconds, the only sound in the room was your ragged, desperate breathing. Frank collapsed forward, his sweat slicked chest pressing against your heaving breasts, his forehead resting against yours as you both fought to regain your senses. The violence of the act left you both spent, drained, and utterly connected in the aftermath of the storm.
Frank stayed pressed against you for several long seconds, his heart hammering like a trapped bird against his ribs. His cock remained buried inside you, still twitching with the aftershocks of his release, each pulse sending a warm trickle of cum between both of your bodies.
Slowly, Frank shifted his weight, rolling off you just enough so he could prop himself up on his elbows. His hair was disheveled, sweat slicking his forehead, and his eyes, usually so cold and guarded, were still dark with the residual haze of lust. He looked down at you, watching the way your chest rose and fell, seeing the flushed glow of your skin and the way your lips were swollen from his kisses.
A slow, possessive smirk spread across his face. The satisfaction wasn’t just physical; it was a victory.
“So,” he rumbled, his voice gravelly and thick with satisfaction. He reached out, his rough thumb tracing the line of your bottom lip before dragging down to the damp hollow of your throat. “You still thinkin’ ’bout that damn book?”
You could only manage a weak, breathless laugh, your fingers curling into the sheets as you tried to catch your breath. Your body felt heavy, boneless, and completely undone. “I think... I might need a new book so you can show me how good you are,” you managed to whisper, your eyes half lidded.
Frank let out a rough chuckle, leaning down to press a surprisingly tender kiss to your temple before biting lightly at your earlobe. “Yeah? You can throw that shit in the trash,” his hand slid down between you, feeling the slick mess where you two were still joined. “’Cause I’m pretty fuckin’ sure I just proved I’m better than any bastard written on those pages.”
He nipped at your neck again, his tone dropping to that dangerous, possessive growl you loved. “Next time ya want somethin’ that’ll keep ya up at night, sweetheart... just ask me. Ain’t no book gonna beat the real thing.”
notes: i think this is the first time in years i've written anything smutty about frank lmao, i hope it meets the expectations of whoever is reading this ahaha.
Good morning, I’m thinking about how Frank Castle would react when you ragebait him.
Imagine it’s late at night. You’re having one of those playful debates while curled up with each other, your cheek against his chest, his arm wrapped around you, absentmindedly tracing slow circles against your back.
You don’t even remember how it started, that’s how unserious the conversation is. So why is he still talking, proving his point or whatever? Your man is supposed to let you win!
“No, baby. You ain’t listenin. Lemme ask you–”
To Frank’s bewilderment, you hold a hand in front of his face, stopping him from whatever he’s gonna say. Truth be told, you’d already turned your ears off after the tenth “lemme tell you sumthin.”
“Talk to the hand,” you say.
Dumbfounded, Frank stares at your palm for a good five seconds, then tilts his head to catch your eyes. It’s where his gaze always ends up anyway.
His fingers, oh, they’re still running along your back as he wonders where the hell you got the audacity from. He can’t help it. You’re so soft beneath his touch, grounding him even when you’re being the biggest hardhead in the world.
“What’d you say?” he asks.
You stubbornly move your hand to his face again, lips twitching as you fight the smile threatening to break through. He doesn’t need to know you’ve exhausted your points, and there’s no way out but through.
“I said,” your voice goes up a pitch. “Talk to the hand.”
“Wanna try that again, pretty girl?”
“Talk. To. The–”
He cuts you off by grabbing your wrist, and suddenly you’re half-sprawled out on him. You try to wiggle away, but your laughter bubbles out, completely ruining your best effort to commit to the bit. “Frank!”
His lips curve into a small smirk that you absolutely love any other day, but not right now because it’s saying Gotcha.
Then, he presses a kiss to the center of the very palm that’s been shoved in his face, never breaking eye contact. Oh, he’s playing dirty, like eleven-olives-in-a-martini dirty, and the worst part is that it’s working.
You chew the inside of your cheek, heat creeping up your face as you instinctively scoot closer to him. The annoying act is already gone with the wind, along with your reasons and excuses.
Frank turns your hand over and rests it against his chest so you can feel the steady beat of his heart through the cotton. His voice drops into that familiar gravel, coaxing you so sweetly that you almost surrender.
Or so you think, because he opens his mouth again.
“shh. shh baby, you’ll wake dean.” sam chuckled softly against your lips as another helpless whimper left your lips at his deep thrust, hitting that magical spot that made your eyes tear up. you couldn’t help it. dean was sleeping next door, and sam was being so agonizingly slow. you felt so full of him and he could see his faint bulge in your stomach with the moonlight reflecting down on your tummy. his thumb softly rubbed at it as your eyes fluttered.
it was such a sight, you fucked out with the dim light of outside reflecting on your smaller helpless body. you couldn’t breathe like this. couldn’t breathe with the weight of his massive body on top of yours. with his long thickness that made you feel impossibly full as you sucked him in tight. soft little pants left your lips.
“pleasee!” you couldn’t help but cry out, ignoring him.
his brows scrunched up. “hey. hey what did i say? shhhh.” he spoke out, putting a finger to your lips to quiet you, like you were a child getting scolded.
you let out a frustrated sound as he thrusted slow once more.
“you can take it baby, can’t you? if you can’t be good for me slow, then i can’t go fast for you honey can i?”
his voice was deep and low, lips brushing against yours as you weakly whispered, “i’ll be good- ah- sammy please.” you croaked.
“yeah? gonna be good? my good little girl?”
you nodded desperately as he moved, your eyes struggling to stay open as you softly gasped out.
his pace began to slowly quicken and you managed to pant out softly, doing your best to control your volume. dean was probably deep snoring like a pig but the motel’s rooms walls had always been thin.
his long fingers trailed down to your little button, all slippery and ready for him as he chuckled.
“yeahhh. she likes that, doesn’t she? she’s begging to be touched, look at her.”
his fingers slow and careful, like he was inspecting a delicate jewel. he began to softly rub as your head lolled to the side, blissed by the tingly aching pleasure that had you biting down on your lip.
“so pretty.” he cooed, “think you can take a liiittle bit more sweetheart, hm?”
and that’s when you lost all control, because sam suddenly slammed into you, your eyes widening as you squealed out, his hips beginning to snap against yours as he set a ruthless pace.
you had never whined so loud in your life as he pounded against the place that made you see stars in your eyes, half sobbing at the unexpected fast euphoria, your entire body caught off guard by his pace as all you could do was lay limp like a little ragdoll as his dark eyes glared down at you.
“the fuck did i say huh?! fuck, can’t even fucking listen, you’re fuckin useless honey.” he grumbled, suddenly clamping his massive hand over your mouth as it half covered your face. all he could see now were your half lidded eyes that kept fluttering back, wet and shiny from tears and the vibration and sound of your muffled whimpers against his hand.
each fast thrust punctuated with his own breathy grunts and mean words that had you leaking around his cock even more. “you’re a dumb little slut baby, can’t even take my cock right. telling you to shut the fuck up and you’re just crying? huh? what are we gonna do with you sweetheart?”
his hand tightened against your lips as he suddenly grinned.
“go on. tell me.” raising a brow, amused at your helplessness.
all you could do was claw at his biceps, chest heaving up and down in shallow breaths as the heat in your face felt heavier and heavier, dizzy and delicious.
he had hooked your legs up with one arm, up against his shoulders as he fucked you with an intensity that had you ready to pass out. he could see the dumb look in your eyes and it just made him hiss out in pleasure, seeing how powerless you truly were.
“can’t breathe? you sure honey? i’ve choked you before, you’ve taken that like a real slut and been fine. you look like you’re giving up now, silly girl. you can breathe through your nose, you know that?”
your brain dissolved with every word, your cries muffled yet getting progressively louder against his hand.
“you’re made for this baby, made to take my cock like this. be all fuckin’ helpless. all fucking- fuck. looking so fucking pretty taking me.” his voice broke, trailing into a half whimper as the sound of wet skin slapping filled the room. he was getting closer and closer, and he could tell you were too with the way your tears leaked down onto his hands, your back beginning to arch as your vision blurred.
“fuck!” he hissed against your lips.
“yeah- yeah cum for me. cum baby just- fuck- fuckin crybaby. you gonna cum crybaby? yeah? gonna be a good little girl and let go?” his own voice a pitch higher as an unintelligible noise ripped out of you as the sharp band in your stomach snapped, flooding you with a white hot sensation throughout your entire body. you trembled violently as he groaned, feral and hypocritical as he spilled inside you, whimpering desperately. his hand against your lips even tighter, he roughly shoved his hand against your face as the roughness combined with your orgasm made a glimpse of heaven engulf your vision.
you couldn’t see. just feel. lightheaded and euphoric as a rush of cold air hit your face, you gasping out like a man starved for breath. he gently slapped at your face, before stroking your cheek. “thaaaats it. good baby. cmon, breathe stupid. breathe baby.” he whispered against your lips, face contorted with pleasure as he closed his eyes, letting his breath mingle with yours, hot and heavy as you panted into his mouth.
the world seemed to slow down in that moment as you both caught your breaths. you let your eyes close too as his thumb caressed the curve of your cheek.
“pretty baby. you were so good. so so good.” he murmured softly against your lips before lifting you up a little to readjust you as he laid on his side, twisting so so you could snuggle him with his pulsating cock still inside you, heavy and warm. you let out a little moan. you’d be full all night with him.
his thick arms wrapped around your waist, pulling you impossibly closer as he pressed a sweet little kiss to your shoulder, letting you drift away into your own little dream world as your breathing evened out.
Synopsis; Remmick stalks the woman he fell in love with, despite her being married. One night, the vampire returns something precious to her and from then on, she keeps him in her home when her husband is away. Remmick likes when they ‘play house’, hoping that she'll come to love him more than her human husband, who dies from a tragic accident. Little does Remmick know, Ambrosine knows a lot more than she lets on, and has a darkness about her that is hard to resist.
Warnings/ contains: MNDI 18+; Dacryphilia, Mommy kink, Daddy kink, breeding kink, monster fucking, pregnancy risk, p in v, creampie, cum eating, facial/ tit shot, anal play (m receiving) pegging, oral (f and m receiving), deepthroating (f and m receiving ) rimming (m receiving) anal fingering (m receiving) fingering (f receiving) nipple play (f and m receiving) praise, body worship (m and f receiving) dirty talk, squirting, cervix contact, dub con, infidelity (if you squint), riding, doggy style, missionary, mating press, orgasm denial, overstimulation, secondary character death and brief mention of animal death, description of gore, murder, stalking, use of collar, light bondage, inappropriate use of rosary beads, religious themes at the end
Word Count: 12,729
No beta read
Writer's note: I fear I made Remmick a little pathetic and OCC in this but the idea of him being a cry baby loser delights me. Also there is so much exposition before the smut really starts, my apologies!! I might make a prequel to this laying everything out in longer detail with more character dialog.
Credit for dividers; @strangergraphics
“Did you pick out the safe word you wanted to use?”, Ambrosine asked in a soft and low coo, lilac eyes flickering over the vampire's face. He looked excited, albeit a bit nervous, his brow furrowing softly but that smile was still there, despite how his stomach kept fluttering. Remmick nodded in response, clearing his throat to prevent himself choking on the drool that kept pooling in his mouth, finding himself constantly swallowing it so it would not dribble from his lips.
“Y-yes ma'am, I did.”, Remmick finally getting his wits about him to answer, and that made Ambrosine grin in amusement. The sight of her plush lips pulling into that grin caused a blush to softly bloom in his cheeks, earning a soft chuckle from Ambrosine. At the moment, he sat at the edge of her bed wrapped in one of her plush robes while she stood in the open doorway, those pretty blue eyes staring puppy-like at her and his body practically buzzing in anticipation for her to fully enter the room for them to begin.
“And did my sweet baby pick, hm?” She pushed herself from off the door frame and padded barefoot across the cool wooden bedroom floor, her pretty grin growing wider at the sight of his throat tightening while his Adam's apple bobbed quick and shift as the distance between them lessened. He didn't answer her as swiftly as before, if at all, simply staring at her in blushing bewilderment. Cat got his tongue? Oh, how adorable he was. She stood only a few meager inches before him, the young woman now leaning down to meet that wide eyed daze. She reached out to him, a gentle hand clasped his chin while the pad of her thumb rubbed gingerly the prickly stubble. She smelt so good, her perfume an intoxicated blend of fresh cut green of roses, dreamy jasmine and lilac, and honeyed roses. Even her breath, warming his skin as it ghosted along it, smelt of roses and something he couldn't quite place.
“You have to use your words like a good boy, okay?”, she reminded him and to that, Remmick nodded, this time slower. “Okay, let me ask you again; what word did my sweet baby pick?”
“‘P-pansy’ ma'am. I picked ‘pansy’.”, he finally replied, and was met with a satisfied hum, her thumb moving to caress his lower lip as Ambrosine continued to admire his smitten expression.
It was no coincidence he picked that one, after all, those were one of her favorites. And he knew it, Remmick knew just about everything Ambrosine liked or disliked, and never once did he come to her empty handed even from the start, even before they ‘formally’ met. Whatever the gift was, he always left it below her second story window, right by her rose bushes.
Although what exactly it was did vary, always depending on what he could get his hands on at the time, it was usually the same. Haphazardous bouquets of whatever flowers he could nick from other gardens or out in the woods. There were times where Remmick would get lucky and his human victim would have a piece of jewelry or trinket he thought she would like, and would add it with the bouquet. If fruits were in season, he would pick them from nearby trees, but especially plums, which he learned were her favorite.
On some occasions he got that ghost dog of hers a present too, bones he came across knowing her church grim would love. Maybe then he wouldn't bark at him and chase him away as often as he did. But in the vampire's mind, the biggest gesture thus far were the mangled and bloodied remains of the coyote that tried to grab up that dumb fat cat of hers when it somehow got out the first time. Ever since he saw her, he couldn't find it in himself to stay away, couldn't bear the thought of not going another day without seeing her and letting her know how much he truly, truly loved her. More than that husband of hers ever could. After all, the man was seldom home, more often than not leaving her alone in that big, creepy house all by her lonesome.
Well sure, he might have waited to build the courage up to actually talk to her at that point but in the meantime, he got to know her in other ways; stalking the woods that surrounded her home, waiting in the pitch black night while watching her through the windows of that creepy old house of hers. He followed her every movement when she was out and about the city at night when wanted to get away and forget, practically a second shadow to her, her undiscovered companion. And at the times, to Remmick's chagrin, if she was not in town at all, to see her husband, he would spend those nights lounging in her flower garden and looking up at her bedroom window and hoping that her beautiful silhouette would dance across her dark lace curtains again. Alone in the cold and dark, at times when not even the stars were there to keep him company, Remmick wondered if he would ever get the chance. After all, she was so lovely, something out of myth completely forgotten by modern man. But he remembered, if not in fragments, but remember he did. He would love her, cherish her far better than any other man living or dead-or in his case, even undead.
He will give to that cat though, for without its inane nature and pitiful lack of survival skills, he would not have gotten the opportunity to catch the damn thing before got scooped up in the jaws of yet another coyote, he wouldn't have gotten the chance at all to meet her and now the dopey creature was his golden ticket. It was surreal at first, him showing up on her front door, clutching the overfed and dimwitted feline in one arm while in his free hand he held a fistful of wildflowers with dangling roots clumped with soil still attached to them. The seconds felt like long stretched eternity, waiting for the front door to swing open, until it did, the warm glow of the lights he watched from a distance cascaded across his person, and standing in that front doorway was her.
She was even more beautiful up close, breathtaking even in her tears and distress, her moonlight curls tousled while the robe she threw over her person was in the same state of dishevelment. He wouldn't have thought that returning the cat would be enough to have her throw her arms around him, but she did. She held him tightly, sniffling and sobbing her profuse appreciation for returning the runaway house pet. He was surprised, taken aback while she buried her face into the crook of his neck, her sob ridden ‘thank you's muffled by his shirt. From that moment on, he was her hero, and he would be more than happy to let her believe that they met in that instance of happenstance, of him acting in good conscience without anything to gain.
That seemed to have earned her trust in him wholeheartedly, since that moment on, he had a place in her home, and their relationship finally began to blossom as he hoped. He wasn't allowed to come by when her husband was home, obviously, Ambrosine telling the vampire each time that he simply wouldn't understand, and it was in their best interest and Remmick's own safety that this be ‘their little secret’. During the times where Ambrosine's husband was absent, which again was the norm, she would let Remmick sleep in the house's basement during the daylight hours. Its darkness provided a cool haven from the sun's deadly rays and when he couldn't find himself able to sleep, he got to listen to the family's day to day activities, catching himself laughing along with the muffled laughter up the stairs.
Only when nightfall came, Ambrosine would allow him to come upstairs to keep her company. He found it cute how she would insist on him joining her for dinner, going so far as making him a plate of food so she ‘wouldn't be eating all alone.’ Did he eat any of it? No, but he would still pick at it with his fork like he was because liked hearing her talk. It didn't matter if it was simple mundane events of the day, what her kids had been up to, what flowers she planned to plant next in her ever expanding garden, he just liked talking and laughing with her, getting to see her smile and blush at his jokes. He did things he never thought he would too, helping her wash the dishes after they had supper together, tidying up or fixing things, to the best of his ability, that her husband left neglected before leaving. He learned how to fix the children' s toys that they broke as she mended his shirt, time and time again. It got to the point where while he was ‘home’, she let him wear Desmond's clothes, things that she bought him and he did not wear, either not having the chance to or simply not wanting to at all. And he liked the clothes too, it was almost as if they were more for him than the husband, but Ambrosine never said, and he never asked.
On the nights she felt especially lonely, Ambrosine coaxed him into her marital bed so she could lay with him until she fell asleep. He would lay with her well after she had fallen asleep, an arm wrapped around the soft curve of waist, stealing a kiss or two, or three, only when she was deeply cradled in slumber's hold. It almost felt like they were ones married, like he was the husband that he knew she deserved. He deserved to have this man's life, a loving family that he took for granted, a family that Remmick always wanted, deserved. But God denied him of that, and gave it all to an ungrateful and unworthy human, a man would leave this gracious and beautiful woman alone, making her feel unbearable loneliness in a seemingly loveless marriage. It was unforgivable, every bit of it. The only thing that could right every wrong done unto Remmick was if he had it, and if he was her husband, she'd never want for love or affection or care, always laughing and smiling and never would she cry, because he could give that.
The need to sneak around came to a sudden halt when tragically to her, but to Remmick's private elation, Ambrosine's husband Desmond suffered a horrific hunting accident, if one can call it that due to its sickening brutality. She laid against Remmick's chest in now her bed, through her tears telling him that she couldn't understand how it could happen, how Desmond was such a good hunter, how could he let something get the drop on him? A wild animal was the only responsible explanation on what could have mutilated the poor man's body apart, leaving him in such an unrecognizable state. He had to be identified through his dental records, for he didn't even look human, just a pile of mushed and shattered bone poking out of squishy viscera. If it wasn't for what little clothes remained intact, the hunters stumbling across the late Desmond Collins would have dismissed his pitiful remains as just what was left of a deer that a bear could not be bothered to finish. Remmick had soothed her, each time telling her not to obsess over such gruesomeness, that she was only making it worse for herself. Not that he cared about the man, not when that man had time and time again gotten in his way of what the vampire wanted, what he deserved. But Remmick couldn't let her know that, only to be the one thing keeping his Ambrosine grounded as she grieved the tragic loss, her shoulder to cry on.
He expressed his fear that she would succumb to her despair if she were to remain by her lonesome, and asked if their arrangement could be more permanent. Just so she wasn't alone, a man in the home is a good deterrent for anyone or anything unwanted and he could help with the children where he could. She did think it over, mulling it over for a time before later on, she accepted his offer. He would keep his space in the basement during the day, but once the sun set behind the horizon, he would join her in the main house. He didn't lay on the affection thick, but he could tell from what he did give her, she was starving for even a morsel of something kind, something warm. A kind word spoken in a whisper, a gentle but fleeting touch, a loving gaze shared from across the bed as they laid together. More did her exterior shell crack with each day passing, and he with quiet mirth watched her hesitation melt completely away. She would now return it in kind, seeking him out for his attention in hopes to quell her hunger for the love she was denied by her late husband.
All of that waiting, that patient and dutiful waiting led to now, and now Remnick was exactly where he wanted to be. And he couldn't let it be any other way. He just simply couldn't allow her to get away from him now, nor would he. Ambrosine was his, always was, always would be, even if she didn't come to terms with that at the moment. She would learn to love him more than her husband, seeing that they were meant to be forever always, no one else.
“Such a smart boy, using his words. So proud of my baby.” Ambrosine crooned, now shifting her hand to smush his cheeks together to pucker his lips so she could press a chaste kiss against them. Remmick started to chase her lips, a trance of whine sounded from him until he saw Ambrosine shake her head, straightened her posture so now she could look down at him all while her hand still clutched his face, pursing her own lips softly at that pout he was now shooting her way.
“Not yet, baby, not yet. You have to be patient for me, okay? But here, since you have been so good.”, she craned his head upward so now she wouldn't have to lean down further to kiss him again. This time, the kiss was a little longer, a little deeper and even sweeter than before. Another hum vibrated through her slender throat, causing him to hum back in pleasure.
“You smell so good. You cleaned up like I asked?”, she inquired in a low tone, nuzzling her nose against his. She was met with an enthusiastic nod, to which she gave him a kiss on his cheek.
She had led him straight to the shower when they entered Ambrosine's home, telling him he had to wash up, and well before they got ‘to play’. Oh how diligently he scrubbed himself, from head to toe and back up again. His usual bouquet of sweat, musk and old blood was replaced with her floral and powdery soaps and shampoo, his still damp nakedness was concealed -for now- by one of her plush bath robes.
“And you used what I left out?”, she further asked, to which he now flushed deeply. He had, not sure why she'd want him to use an enema but he did as she asked. Flushing himself out like that was almost uncomfortable, but she told him she had a surprise for him and in order for him to get it, it had to be done. A giggle bubbled to the surface, and like always, the young woman hid her smile behind the back of her fingers. Her usual shy gesture, another thing that even now, Remmick found so cute and endearing about her. Meanwhile, Ambrosine could tell by his embarrassment that he did as she asked, as a reward, she gave him another kiss on the lips, this time releasing his face to smooth up the side of his head and run her fingers through his dark hair.
“Good, my good baby. You are my good boy, aren't you sweet Remmick?”, she asked, and he thought that he would choke this time.
“Y-yes, yes ma'am. I-I am your good boy. I wanna keep being your good boy.” His statement was half croaked out, and was met with yet another laugh from her, this time a low and warm chuckle as she planned her next move. Her hand removed itself from his hair and now both of hers worked in tandem to untie the robe's slash, smoothing it off of his body to reveal his naked person. Ambrosine's eyes glimmered at the sight of him, biting her plush lower lip in her smile while admiring him so. He was fairly built, possessing a little bit of muscle tone, minus the softness around his belly which she didn't mind at all. In fact, she found that part of him delicious. Further down her gaze went, seeing between his parted thighs his cock beginning to become hard just from her praise alone, but wasn't even close to being at half mast. Unlike her late Desmond, Remmick was uncircumcised, his coarse hair dark like the rest of his, what little that peppered along his parlor skin anyway.
He favored Desmond in a lot of ways, appearance wise that is. But while the human man had hair of an auburn shade, his eyes more steely grey than blue and the freckles scattered along his face and solid muscular body, Remmick's baby blues and dark shorter hair, lack of facial freckles and muscle did not mean he was any less handsome. Same for his cock, but it was hard to tell how big he would be until he was completely erect.
She couldn't wait till it was fully hard and throbbing, aching and weeping for release just like he will be.
“Ohh, baby, look at you. You look so handsome, don't you?” She smoothed her hands along his bare chest, moving up to his shoulders and traps to rub them gingerly, causing him to sigh and lean his head back. That seemed to get him going more, watching his erection grow harder as her touch traced lower, and lower, until she pulled herself away from him completely and yet another whine came from him. Without thinking, he grabbed her wrist to pull her back to him, but his hand was swiftly swatted away. The sharp slap across the back of his hand cracked loud in the quiet air, and the force caused him to clutch it with a pained whimper. He didn't know she was that strong, a trance of surprise rising in him as well as the burning in his ears.
“When did I say you could touch me, hm? Didn't you agree to behave?” To that he did not answer, only staring back at her with that pitiful stare as before. “Answer me, Remmick. Now.” Her tone was firm but not unkind as she scolded him, hands balled into fists as they rested on the curves of her hips. But that didn’t mean it did make him almost panic, afraid that he wouldn't be able to have her, to have completely ruined his chances by this one stupid and thoughtless action. His expression was fret ridden, blue eyes staring wide in dread.
“You didn't…you didn't ma'am. I'm sorry. Please-I'm sorry-”, his pleads were desperate, croaked and choked with his throat tightening. But just as quick she was to anger, her expression softened back into that tender expression as before in an instant, that rigid posture she held relaxing as she stepped back to him to cradle his face in her hands.
“Ooh baby, shhh” It would seem that those puppy dog eyes have pacified any anger, now cooing at him as he sniffled. “Oh don't cry, I'm sorry I got mean with you. You can't grab me like that, you just startled me.”
“Y-you not mad at me?”, he asked, his voice seeming to quiver like his lower lip did as he spoke. She shook her head, wiping away the tears that threatened to well in those eyes of his.
“No, baby no, I'm not, how could I ever be mad at my baby? But you can't grab me like that, not after you promised me you would be good. Ah ah, shhh I know, it's okay. I know that you can't help yourself, you get so excited where you can't. But, don't worry, that's why I got something to help you mind your manners.” His expression shifted into one of faint confusion, but when she turned away from him this time Remmick did not even think about reaching out to get her. His curiosity peaked when while rummaging through one of her dressers, he could have sworn he heard the bright clinking of something…metal? Straightening his posture to see past her shoulders as it could be, his question was answered just as Ambrosine turned to face him once again and clutching in her hands was her solution to his misbehavior. It was a prong collar, and fastened to it was a chain leash. He gulped at the sight of it, the metallic barbarism of the device. Did she really expect him to wear such a thing?
“A regular collar won't be of any use to you, you're too strong.”, Ambrosine said in an even tone, flipping the chains of the prong collar so that way the points were facing outward. “I had this one specifically made for you.”
“And what's so different ‘bout it, other than how big it is?”
“I had the tips of the prongs made of silver, of course. That way you won't lose control of yourself, and can't transform outside of your current form now. This is for my safety, Remmick, understand? I can't let you get so excited that you hurt me, or turn me.”
B-but I-I wouldn't hurt you-”, he was cut short by a finger pressed against his open mouth, his protest hushed into silence.
“I know you wouldn't dream of intentionally hurting me, baby. But you grabbed me pretty hard just now and you weren't even exerting yourself.”
“But I said I was sorry!-” his voice cracked as it raised, again his brow furrowed but he was soothed into silence once more.
“And I know you, baby. I know how sorry my sweet boy is. But, this is so it won't happen again-yes I know you say it won't but this is just to make it certain, okay? Do you trust me? I promise you'll still enjoy yourself, I'll still make sure my baby boy feels so good. I want to take care of you, but we can't have any accidents, okay? Not when we're supposed to have fun.”
He thought for a moment, wondering if it really was such a good idea to let her put that on him. But those pleading eyes on hers, the way she battered her snowy lashes, it felt hard to do anything but. She did have a point, he didn't want to hurt her, and just because he said he wouldn't, there wasn't a guarantee that he wouldn't lose himself to pleasure and let his baser instincts take control. It would be beyond unfortunate, and he would damn himself if he ever allowed it to happen. So, he wouldn't, nodding to the agreement of letting her put the anti-vampire collar onto him. She squeaked with delight, pulling the links wider so she could easily slip it over his head.
“Okay, on the count of three; one-”, without hesitation, she flipped the collar so the prongs pointed towards Remmick, pulling it closed around his neck and throat before clipping it shut. The burning pain made him bear his teeth, wincing and whimpering while the blessed metal pressed against his tender flesh. She was right now, his fangs did not come, nor did his other vampiric features manifest.
“How do you feel?”, she asked and his face was contorting from the pain. His lip curled from him, fighting the urge to clench his teeth in case he was stronger than it, in case it wasn't enough to stop his fangs from shifting and protruding from his gums. But, as Ambrosine knew, they did not.
“It-it's ain't comfortable-"
“Can you bear it?”, she cut him off, her ashen brows knitted softly as she watched him carefully, waiting to see if it was indeed too much for him.
“I reckon I can, if it'll keep you safe.”, he answered, cool and earnest. She nodded, and while holding the chain leash in her hand, straddled his naked lap and met his lips for a kiss. Despite the unrelenting discomfort, his eyelids fluttered shut as her tongue slipped into his mouth, twirling and tangling his with hers as both moaned into each other's open mouths. He kept his hands firm on the bed's edge, while hers massaged and rubbed his shoulders. She tasted so good, better than he could have dreamed-rose tea and mint, and something else he couldn't place at the moment, a smokey note that had held a tinge of spice to it.He didn't even try to swallow the drool that was now dribbling thick down his chin, caught up in swallowing every moan and sigh of hers. But Ambrosine did, she was finding that the taste was making her body alit, feel her skin grow warmer by the second. She pulled her plush mouth away from his, pulling his head back firmly by the hair to crane his neck back. He winced in pain, feeling the silver press harder into him, until he sighed out just as her tongue licked up the trail of drool from the column of his throat, up the curve of his jaw and his stubbled chin before coming back to make out with him.
“You want to play, baby?”, she asked in a moan, him moaning back in response, gripping the sheets tight to hold himself back.
“What do you want to play?”
“Whatever-whatever you wanna, ma'am.” He had to think for a moment his words, any thought he had was gummed up before it could even manifest to the forefront, his brain sticky and hazy like the humid summer air. Ambrosine kiss swollen lips curled into a smile, tucking her head away to kiss and nip from his lips to his cheek, and finally his ear.
“You want to play ‘Mommy and Daddy’?”
His cock jumped before she could finish the sentence, the denim on her jeans feeling rough against his growing sensitive cock, but stopped himself from grinding into her clothed crotch. The shudder that racked through his spine felt like cold water being poured down his back, the whine sounded loud and edged on pained from him at the thought.
“You like that, hm? I know you would. But Mommy gets to be on top, first, gets to fuck you good before you can play Daddy. Would you like that, baby?”
“Y-yes-Oh God yes-”, his words were cut off by the harsh pull of the chain leash, a cry of hurt mixed in with the breathy gasp that burned his lungs. “Yes, Mommy, please fuck me, oh please please fuck me. I-I've been wantin’ ya for so long, you can do anythin’ you want ta me.”
“Anything, baby? Are you sure? You'll let Mommy fuck you how ever she wants? How ever long she wants?”
He jerked in his head in a profuse nod, another shudder passing through his body when she started to grind on him, the pained whimper still time louder at how the texture of the pants seam felt against him. A tear welled in his lash line, and he whined just as she kissed it away before it threatened to spill over.
“Yes ma'am-yes Mommy, anythin’ you want. I wanna be a good boy for Mommy, please. I'm sorry I was so bad earlier, I wanna be good for you. I promise I will be!”
A throb pulsed through Ambrosine's pussy at the sight of his flushed face, at the tears glossing his eyes and the quivering of his lips. He did beg pretty, and she wanted more. She wanted him to be drooling and sobbing and dumb by the end of it, unable to think about anything but his need for her.
“Shhh, don't cry baby. Mommy will give it to you. I'll make you feel so good, so good for me. Do you want to help Mommy undress so we can play?” The ask was in that soft coo, knowing how well it got his blood hot. Blue eyes looked at her, that wide eyed inquiry on if he was allowed to touch her. She giggled again, nodding at his silent question.
“How can you undress me without touching me? It's okay, Mommy wants you to touch her, but only to undress her and to get your first present.”
First present? Dark brows arched up in surprise, but didn't waste any time to start to lift the long sleeve shirt up from its hem when she raised her arms up. Her milky skin was softer than he imagined, but he was in for another surprise when he caught the navel rings she had. In fact, she had more piercings, and even tattoos. He never knew she had them, never saw her in anything but long sleeves and long pants or skirts any time they were in each other's presence. The surgical steel of her dermals caught the light, glinting like a scalpel's edge as she moved to pull the shirt over her head and completely off her person. He watched in awe at the peeks of muscle tone in her shoulders and arms as she flexed and moved, at how even in the dark orchid and black scaly tendrils of her impressive arm sleeve tattoo he could still see the definition. He didn't seem to notice the thin scar stretched along her ribs, or didn't seem important. She took notice of how he looked at her, mouth opened in admiration. She smiled at him, sweetly, leaning down and tugging the chain again to pull into another kiss.
“You like them, hm? I know, aren't they pretty?”Ambrosine teased, but he seemed sincere.
“You're pretty…”, he murmured against her lips. “The prettiest thing I've ever seen…”
A swell in her chest rose at his words, feeling herself melting at how in love he sounded. He was too sweet for her, even if he was a vampire, even in his great sin, he was so so endearing. Letting the chain slip out of her grasp, for now, she reached a hand behind her to unclasp her lacy black bra so he could slide the straps off the round curve of her shoulders and down her arms while she held the cups flush to her breasts.
“Go ahead, baby, unwrap your present.”
Remmick licked his lips to wet them before swallowing hard, his hands moving to over hers and together, lifting the garment off of her skin to reveal her now bare breasts. He moaned at the sight of them, and again, she giggled. They were pretty, full and perky with rosy nipples, already pebbled from her arousal. The piercings on them were the same as the others on her body, but these caught his eye the most. For a moment he wondered why she would even have them, but that thought disappeared, vanishing like hushed smoke when she gently took his hands and placed them on her welcoming breasts.
“Be careful-ohh-be careful baby, they're a little sore right now. Yeah, that's it, just be sweet.”
She knew from how they felt, how much heavier they were than usual, that she was ovulating. Tomorrow would be the actual day, so tonight she could have her own fun, break him down and leave him especially ravenous for the following evening. The rough pad of his thumbs brushed against her sore nipples, making her sigh. He occasionally squeezed and kneaded her breasts, listening to each noise that passed her pillowy lips, watching her expression as it melted into the beginnings of pleasure.
“Mhm, baby. Taking such good care of them, aren't you? Enjoying your presents? Good, you deserve them for being so good. You can suck on them later, but not right now-no don't pout. Be good and you can have them all you want later. Right now just-ohhh just rub them like that.”
If he kept it up though, she couldn't control herself, and right now she needed to be the one fully handling the reigns. Wrapping her hands around his wrists, she removed his grasp, and although he whined, he did not fight back like before. Good, good so far that inhibition was broken, he would let do whatever now.
“Unbutton Mommy's pants for her so we can get started.”, she said and without wasting time, Remmick did exactly that, down to unfastening her belt before unbuttoning and unzipping her pants. Again, he did not try to pull her back when getting out of his lap, stepping back a couple of paces just to slide her jeans off of her hips, down her legs and stepping out of them just as they pooled around her feet. Another tattoo it would seem, a birch tree with violets at its base on her outer left thigh. Like the arms, her legs were toned, strong even. Picking up her pants, Ambrosine tossed them out of the way towards the hamper along with her bra and shirt from before, but did not take her matching thong panties off.
“You don't get to unwrap this present just yet, baby. Mommy wants to play some more.”
Stepping back to him, she instructed him to lay across the bed, and returned to straddling him as he did so, worshipping his body with kisses and light nips of his skin. Soft murmurs ghosted along his fevered skin, accompanied by his whimpers and whines. She lapped her tongue across his nipple, swirling and sucking on it while he let out a startled moan. She let go of it with a wet ‘pop’, doing the same to the other while now rolling and pinching the now spit glazed nipple between her finger tips. His cock was fully hard, a lot bigger, a lot thicker than she thought it would be. His flushed tip peaked through his foreskin, and she grinned in delight to the first bead of precum pearling at its tip. And now, she would keep on her softly purred praises, enjoying how it made him twitch each time a word was spoken;
‘So handsome, look how handsome you are.’
‘Yeah, that's it. Be louder baby, I want to hear you.’
‘Shh, don't cry, be patient for me, be patient for Mommy.’
‘Good boy, my sweet Remmick is a good boy.’
Kissing a trail down his fleshy belly, quick to press the edge of her sharper teeth into the squishy flesh to hear him yelp and watch his cock jump and bounce as he was jolted from being startled. Oh, it was heavy too, oh she couldn't wait anymore. Pressing a soothing kiss against the love bite, she shifted down to settle herself between his parted knees, reaching back to take the chain leash in her hand.
“You're so big, baby. Ohh, look at how much you're throbbing.”, she blew a quick puff of cold air against his sensitive tip, and he cried out a whine.
“Does it hurt, baby?”
He nodded vehemently, now shaking from the stimulation. It throbbed and ached so much, so much that it did hurt, so much he wanted to cry. His face contorted again as she blew more air on it, raking his hands through his own hair as he fought back to thrust into her parted lips.
“Don't worry, sweet baby. Let me kiss it better.”
Remmick choked out a moan as he watched her press wet kisses along his aching shaft, but couldn't bear to look away as she made her way all the way up to its reddened head. Her gaze locked with his, even as she kissed her way down, her nose tickled by his pubic hair while she licked long, flat tongued laps along the seam of his balls then back up to the tip of his cock. She groaned at the musky taste, savoring it as the precum continued to pearl and ooze from him. A thready moan left shakingly from his throat when he felt her hot tongue slip into his foreskin and swirled around to collect more of his taste.
“N-no, please that hurts-!” He couldn't even finish his sentence before the air was punched out of his lungs, a silent cry causing his mouth to hang open wide. Carefully, she was pushing his foreskin down as far as it'll go, revealing his oh so sensitive and now bare cock. Ambrosine's tongue was like a wet flame, lapping at him unrelentingly, despite his pleas for her to ‘stop, Mommy please, it's too much- I don't wanna-!’ But both know what would take her to stop immediately, the magical word to put it all to a halt. But, he didn't want to use it, knowing that it'll be the end of the night. And she knew it too, pushing him to the brink to see how much he could take. He tried to lay back to brace himself against the velvety bedding of her mattress, but the sudden tug of the chain leash stopped him from doing so.
“Mommy, Mommy please-”, he tried to beg, but nothing else came out when she took his cock into her mouth, wrapping her plush lips around his girth, silencing him all together. The warmth of her throat sent him reeling, and the suction of her mouth as she pulled up made him clench his ass for dear life. Up, then down, then up again. She would stop just to swirl her tongue around his cock's head, moaning as she did so, keeping her eyes locked with him as she continued to deep throat him. Eventually the overstimulation felt so good, he was beginning to lose himself, until finally, she pulled him out of her throat and mouth with a wet and loud ‘pop’. A whiney, shuddered breath passed through Remmick's flared nostrils, the leash given enough slack so he could lay across the bed. The young woman licked her swollen, spit slick lips, pressing a kiss against Remmick's twitching inner thigh as she parted his legs wider-wait wider why?
“You taste so good, baby.”, she purred, smirking against his skin as he only replied with another whine. A quick tug of the chain caused Remmick to cry a little, but nothing could have startled him as much as the sharp smack on the side of his ass.
“Get on your hands and knees for me, baby.”, she told him, and he only shot her a perplexed look. “Don't make me ask again, or you don't get to cum at all. Now.”
Still confused, but not wanting to be left aching, Remmick got into position like she said, even letting her spread his legs wider, lowering his upper half further into the bed so his back arched. She hummed at the sight, and his face burned hotter than he thought it ever could. The sharp edge of Ambrosine’s manicured nails teased along the back of one of Remmick's thighs, pausing for a moment before her hand raised up and delivered an open palmed smack against the fat of his ass cheek. His back arched, about to get up to move away but the way the chain was held taught, it kept him there. The flesh stung, already a hand print beginning to bloom along the tender flesh. Carefully, Ambrosine rubbed the burning ache out of his ass, smiling to herself as he relaxed back against the mattress once more. She stood there for a moment, taking in the sight of him. His balls and hard cock hung heavy between his wide spread legs, surely throbbing for release. But it wouldn't come, not yet.
“What a cute ass you have!”, Ambrosine giggled, kneading each cheek in her hands. And it was, with a good amount of fat to it, round and jiggled with the smack she gave it. Tucking her head down, she gave the seam of his balls and up his taint a nice, long lick, then another, stopping at his pretty hole each time. She wanted him to melt more into the bed, enjoying his moans and sighs until she spread his ass cheeks and finally ran the tip of her tongue at the puckered hole. The muscles in his back tensed, the sensation unusual to him. Remmick never had anyone lick back there, let alone have him bent over with his bare ass spread open in the air. Ambrosine's tongue swirled around the vampire's rosy asshole, keeping him spread when she sat upright to look at it better. Pretty shade, like her favorite roses, and twitching. Collecting spit in her mouth, she let it dribble down and drip down.
“O-oh!”, Remmick moaned out. Ambrosine chuckled, biting the side of his supple ass, just enough to make his cock twitch.
“Has anyone ever been back here before?” A loose, slow shake of the head, big blue eyes looking over his shoulder as he watched her. Something about her grin this time made his stomach twist a little, swearing to himself that he was just seeing things. Surely, her teeth weren't that sharp, were they?
“Oh? I'm surprised. Well, that means Mommy gets to pop her baby's cherry tonight.”, the coo was dripping sweetness, despite how filthy its context was.
His eyes shot wide, but couldn't get away as her strong and unmoving grip of the chain kept him from getting away. She cooed at him again, kissing the still reddened skin of his bubble butt.
“Aww, shh, it's okay baby. Mommy will take care of you, you'll feel so good. That's how Mommy is going to fuck you when she's on top. You'll love it, I promise. Now-”, she paused, spitting again in his hole, grinning as it clenched. “I have to get you ready.”
She craned her head back down, again lapping and swirling, slurping until his hole opened just enough for her to shove her tongue deep. Remmick let out another gasp, trying to take breath deep in his lungs, hands clinging to the bedding while Ambrosine ate his ass. She kept it up for a while, moaning against his ass, swilling and slurping still until eventually, he started grinding back. Oh good, he was enjoying it. The muscle worked hard to wiggle inside him- and her hand raised up again to lay a smack across his ass cheek. Not hard like before, but enough to make him gasp, before he continued to moan.
“Wa-wait don't sto-o-p”, Remmick sobbed when she pulled her tongue out, licking her lips of the drool that drenched her chin.
“Hush, baby, hush. Did that feel good?”
“Uh huh, so good-I was so close…”
She let out a laugh, her head leaning back as it barked out of her. Without warning, she flipped Remmick to where he was laying on his back again, the change of position and the unresolved pleasure making him dizzy. Reaching under the bed, she retrieved a case, its sleek black case glimmering in the low bedroom light. Clicking the latches unlocked as she laid it on the bed within her reach, its contents were revealed to be a set of black silicone anal training toys with an accompanying bottle of lube.
“Move your knees up to your chest, mhm yes that's it keep yourself spread out. I want to watch your face while I play with you some more, get you ready for me.”
The position was again unusual for him, so spread out and wide open. The blush made her pussy clenched again, biting her lip to contain herself. She completely soaked through her underwear by now, the undergarment slick with her arousal. Taking the bottle, she tore off the plastic seal, then pushed the tab on the cap to pop it open. She would have to be generous with the stuff, had to be, didn't want to hurt him. Not like that, anyway. Her index and middle finger were now satisfyingly coated, then again, was not sparing with the lube when squirting it on his ass hole. It was cold, making Remmick shiver.
“Shh, I know. Now, relax, breathe for me. I'll start with just one finger then we can get you to two.”
The tip of her finger pressed gently against Remmick's hole, waiting for him to relax before gingerly slipping inside. He instinctively clenched, the newfound sensation uncomfortable for him. Quick to thinking, Ambrosine took his cock in her free hand, and slowly began to stroke it as she furthered to inch her finger inside him.
“That's it, baby, that's it. Just relax, good, so good for Mommy.”, she crooned. Soon she was able to twirl the digit around, careful as she motioned it up and down. It did feel odd, but also, also surprisingly not bad. His cock twitched in her hand as she kept gently fingering him, still praising and cooing at him. When he was relaxed enough again, she let go of his cock much to his protest before adding more lube and slipping her second finger in. The added girth made him shudder, a low moan rumbling in him when Ambrosine started to stroke his cock again. Mindful scissoring, pumping in and out as she let him get used to it and while she was searching, curling her fingers until-
“OH!”Remmick sobbed, his hips bucking at her fingertips brushing just right. That was the sound she was looking for, her satisfacted smile said it all. . She found his prostate now, his cock jumping in his grasp and his head leaned back in his drawn out moan. She continued to stimulate him, coaxing his moans more and more until they were blubbering sobs. She leaned over to him for a moment, kissing his temple in quick pecks.
“Feels good, baby?”, she asked, now kissing at the tears that were now spilling over, letting the saltiness hit her lips. “I found your special spot, huh?”
“S-so good-Ohh sooo good!” He was now rocking back and forth against her fingers, and she was letting him ride her hand. Soon, she didn't have to move her fingers, and Remmick didn't realize how his hips were moving on their own. “I feel it-oooo-I never felt it like this before, not with just my cock-!”
“Hmm, I know. I told you it would. But-”, she pulled her fingers out just before he could get close again, and his sobs turned desperate. No, no no! He was so close, closer than he was before!
“I was so close!!”, he sniffled. “Please, I've been so good!”
“You'll get to cum, baby, you will. But not like that.” She lightly told him, licking off the lube that coated her fingers but stopped herself just as her tongue touched her skin. “Here, open wide.” She moved her hand from her own lips to Remmick, pressing the slick digits against his still quivering lips. Parting them open, he sniffled and whined as she slid her fingers into his mouth, her groaning at how he swirled his tongue around them before sucking them clean. Tugging at the chain to signal for him to ‘stop’, he did so reluctantly, his mouth opening with thick drool dripping down the corners of his mouth and fat of his lower lip.
“Good boy. Now”, Ambrosine started, her fingertips gliding over the assortment of toys, considering which one to pick. Ah, that one will do. It was slightly thicker than her two fingers, enough for him to get used to the stretch. Like before, she coated the toy generously, the matte black surface more glistening wet and slippery. Instructing to relax again, ‘take a deep breath for me, that's it’ before coating his hole one more time, she slowly began to push the toy inside. He fought to not clench, but the stretch was different, foreign without the warmth of her fingers and cold from the lube. Still, it felt almost good again, catching himself enjoying the feeling of being full like that.
“Good job, baby.”, the sweet purr of praise making him moan, fighting hard to keep his knees still up to his chest, until she told him to relax, but the way she was stroking his shin with the broad side of her thumb soothed him. The toy was now fully hilted inside of him with the flared base flushed against his ass. His erection twitched, ached at the anticipation that she would stroke him like before. As if reading his mind, Ambrosine shook her head and Remmick's brows tensed.
“You don't get to cum like that tonight, and to make sure you don't try and touch yourself without my permission”, she started, flipping him over once again to be bent over on his knees, and grabbed his hands by his wrists so that his arms were secure behind his back. He started to protest, begging that he wouldn't, that he would be good, but his words caught dry in his throat at the stinging pain of another slap to the meat of his ass. She didn't need to tell him to stop, the smack made her point very clean. He sniffled when she rubbed the pain out, his shoulders and arms growing slack, now complying to her plan of restraint. Remmick kept his face buried in the soft, velvet duvet, the burning in his face and ears growing hotter. Being embarrassed like this, punished for not behaving, he didn't think it would be such a turn on for him. He almost liked it more than being praised, being rewarded with her sweet words and sweeter touch. So deep in thought, trying to ignore the how much he was hurting for release, he almost didn't catch the rattling sound of-
Rosary beads? Was she serious? She held them in her hand, an assortment of them fashioned into wrist resistants that she slipped over his hands and with a calculated pull and tug, he was now constrained without the free use of his hands, or even arms. The holy sacraments did burn his flesh much like the silver in the prong collar still fastened around his neck. Was this to further keep him from possibly shifting into his more monstrous form, or just more of a secure way of confining his hands? With her help, and the tug of his leash, the vampire got up from his kneeling position on the bed, but was motioned to sit on his knees on the floor. Oh, oh that's different. Now sitting on his knees, his center of gravity shifted, and he felt the toy deeper in him. He tried rocking a little on his knees, and his cock twitched when the tapered tip brushed against his prostate.
“Feels better like that, huh?”
“U-uh huh…”was all he could manage to mumble, but that was enough to get Ambrosine to smile. She was wearing a leather harness, and attached to it was a dildo fashioned out the same silicone the anal training toys were. Maybe because it wasn't his own, but the size of it was intimidating to him. Keeping her hold on the chain, she pulled it taut, making him shift again to feel that delicious stimulation. Taking a half step closer, Ambrosine now stood over the vampire, his lead in one hand while her other holding the base of the dildo to push its tip against Remmick's lips.
“Kiss it.”, she smiled, watching his expression turn into a mix of shyness and insecurity, but could tell by how his eyes looked up at hers, he was too eager to please her to rebuke the request- rather demand. So, he did, clumsily caressing his lips against the head of the strap on, which earned a rise of pleasure from her.
“Good boy, now open wide, stick your tongue out-mmm that's right, nice and wide.”
She slapped it against his lolled out tongue, hitting the underside of heavy shaft with quick, wet ‘paps’ Each one was accompanied by a coinciding jump of his cock, precum oozing plentiful from it now. Oh, so he liked this? Without asking, she slotted the dildo against his tongue, pushing into his open mouth.
“Come on baby, suck this cock.”, she groaned. A loud moan sounded from his agaped mouth, just before he wrapped his lips around the shaft, enclosing it in his mouth and sucking it. She took her hand off the base, now carding her fingers through his now dry, dark locks of hair. It was sloppy, noisy, and oh so filthy. He even kept eye contact with her while his cheeks hollowed out as it passed up the shaft of the dildo, drool seeping out from the corners of his mouth and falling in thick drops onto his lap.
“Look at you, baby, you're a natural!” Her praise was giggled, and the way he blushed brightly made her laugh even more. Giving a shallow thrust to test the waters, Remmick gagged from the tip going deeper in his mouth, almost to the back of his throat. She shushed him, a gesture too tender for what she was about to do. Wrapping the chain once, then twice around her hand to shorten it, she pulled Remmick closer to her, making him deep throat the silicone cock. The startled gag was muffled but he couldn't get away, her firm hold on the chain kept him there, kept him from pulling away. A burning ache filled his jaw, his eyes watered with tears that clumped in his lashes, but no matter that, or how his stomach clenched with each gag, he let Ambrosine continue to fuck his face.
“Good baby, that's a good boy. Yeah, keep breathing through your nose, nice good breaths. Just let me keep fucking that pretty mouth before I fuck you.”
After a while, unable to stand her own teasing, Ambrosine pulled the strap on out of Remmick's mouth, strains of spit hanging thick off of it. He choked on a cough, which made Ambrosine feel a tinge of worry. Kneeling down on the floor in front of him, Ambrosine encouraged him to take slow, deep breaths, even rubbing the soreness out of his jaw with one hand while rubbing his back with the other. He sniffled and gasped for breath, letting the coolness of her skin soothe his own fevered flesh.
“You okay?”, she asked, tilting his head for him to look at her, lilac eyes brimming with gentle worry. “Did I hurt you?”
“N-no ma'am, you didn't hurt me. I'm okay.”, he replied, his breath finally becoming even.
“Do you want to continue?”
He nodded fervently, but the raise of her ashen brows told him he needed to speak his desire. “I do ma'am, I wanna keep goin’.”
“Do you remember your safe word?”
A nod then again, he spoke;
“It's ‘pansy’. I don't wanna use it yet. You haven't done nothin’ I ain't liked so far.”, he remarked, a little sheepishly despite the still rock hard erection between his legs. “I don't wanna slow down neither, please. Please, I-I wanna keep playin’.”
Ambrosine searched his expression for any hesitation, any doubt, but not a trace could be found in his features. That sultry grin soon came back, much to Remmick's own joy, and she pressed a kiss on his cheek.
“Such a good boy, using your words.”, Ambrosine purred, and that earned a groan from Remmick. “So proud of you for telling Mommy what you want, too.”
Picking the chain back up, she gave it a light tug, motioning him to get back on his feet from the floor to lay himself in the middle of the bed. Knees back against his shoulders, legs held wide, he kept up the position so Ambrosine could remove the toy from inside of him.
“Thereee we go, baby, good job relaxing.”, she said in that encouraging voice, careful when removing it. He did whimper at how empty he felt now, but Ambrosine planned on remedying it soon enough. Placing the toy out of the way, she reached for the bottle of lube, setting it beside her as she settled between Remmick's legs. As if to tease him, she sat on her knees and rested the strap-on on top of his cock, a giddy smile across her pretty face.
“Not much smaller.”, she mused. “Not as thick but I'll get you there eventually.”
But it felt heavy, like it did on his tongue, heated anticipation pooling in his gut and thighs as he stared unbreaking at the sight. She gave a light tap against his shaft, chuckling by how it made him twitch. Finally reaching for the bottle, she drenched the dildo in its slick contents, stroking it just millimeters away from Remmick's own cock, even thrusting a little in her enclosed hand. He'd be lying to himself if he said he didn't like the sight of it, pressing his lips together as he gawked at her.
“Hmm, baby likes to watch, huh? I do too, that's why I'm going to take you like this, just so I watch your handsome face while you take my cock.”
Remmick didn't bother to hold back his moan, brows furrowed from what, impatience was it? Ambrosine coated his rosy hole in much more lube that she had before, keeping the bottle in reach in case they were in need of it. Pressing the blunt head against it, one hand directed the strap on while the other rubbed circled into the soft flesh of his thigh. The stretch was something else, way different from her fingers or the toy from earlier, his teeth bared as he exhaled through his nostrils. Relaxing, he was trying so hard to, but she wasn't forcing herself inside of him, just gently pushing the dildo in.
“Don't hold your breath baby, that's it, you're doing so good.”
“It-ahh-I don't kn-ooow if I like it-”, he said, a mix of concern and confusion. She didn't go all the way in, only half way before moving her hips back out. Slow, shallow thrusts to ensure she wouldn't hurt him, gradually moving deeper into him until, finally, she rested fully hilted inside of him. He swore she was in his guts, like he felt the damn tip in the back of his throat, but maybe he was exaggerating. Ambrosine looked down, seeing the dildo now fully in him, taking a couple of moments to let him adjust to its thickness.
“I'm going to move now, okay?”, she said, more like a fact than a warning. Before he could say wait, or even ‘no’, she started to pull out, the drag on his insides making him dizzy before she moved her hips back to thrust inside of him. It didn't take long for him to start his whimpering again, pressing the side of his head into the pillow.
“M-Momma please…I don't-I can't-”, he blubbering, but she snapped her hips flush against his ass, bottoming out as she finally hit his prostate again. He howled then began to sob, her thrusts firm as she now held his thighs up and wide, keeping him from squirming away. In, then out, then in and out again. Tears were now pouring down his reddened cheeks, lips trembling and shaking with every cry, every time she hit deep in him.
“Momma-Momma you're bein’-you're bein’ mean to meeee!”he wailed, but that seemed to egg her on, thrusting a little harder each time she bottomed out, pushing out a cry every time.
“Shhh, you're okay. You're taking Mommy's cock so good, baby.”
His own cock jumped at the sentence, another wail leaving him as she continued to fuck his ass.
“You like this, huh? Mommy bullying your pretty little hole with her cock. You're all twitchy, baby. Yeah, that's it, you can cry all you want to. You want Mommy to keep fucking you, baby? Come on, cry for me, cry for Mommy. That's it, such a good boy. You're not even letting me go, you keep sucking me in. A good boy with a slutty hole, just wanting me to fuck it, huh?”
She kept inside of him as she moved him into a mating press, him almost screaming at how much deeper she was. She had him pinned now, folded in half as she continued to bottom out with each thrust, practically pulling out almost completely before thrusting back in deep.
“Momma-Momma please, it's too much! Mommy please!”, he said, sniveling. But he knew he liked it, it was too good. Every time she bullied his prostate, he would see stars.
“Do you want me to stop?”, she asked, stopping mid thrust. She shifted him back to laying completely down, bringing to pull out until he whined out frantically.
“Wait, wait no!”
She keened her head to the side, raising a brow at him.
“Oh? Do you want me to keep fucking you then?”, she asked, a tinge of amusement sprinkled in her tone. He nodded as frantically as his whine, but she completely pulled out before crawling on top of him, caging him underneath him as she grabbed his face to make him look her in the eyes, those beautiful lilac eyes.
“Ask me nicely, then I'll fuck you.”, she remarked, watching his expression crumble.
“Please, please please Momma! Please fuck me, please fuck me good! I-I wanna cum, I wanna cum so bad!”
She hummed, feigning a tone that she wasn't convinced. He cried harder, hot tears rolling fat down his face.
“Please-I'm sorry, please Momma! I want your-your cock back in me! I wanna cum on it, please! I'll be good, I'll be so good, pleaaaase!”
She wiped away his tears, letting go of his face to press kisses all over as he shook with sobs.
“There, there baby. It's okay, it's okay. I'll fuck you, sweet boy. Mommy is gonna make her boy feel so good.”
She pressed a kiss into his quivering lips, giving him one last kiss on the cheek before crawling off of him, back between his legs. Lubing up one more time, she eased her way back inside of him, watching the silicone be engulfed by his pretty awaited ass.
“Thaaat's it”, she soothed, fucking him through his tears now. “That's it, such a good boy.”
“Tha-ank you-you-ooohhh”
“Hmm, you love it don't you? Love my cock, baby?”
“U-uh huh, Momma's cock is so-oh, so good. I love it, I love it-ohh-!”
“Gooood boy, taking cock so well. I'll have to get plenty more for you, special ones just for my Remmick. Some with knots, some that can cum in you, yeaaaah. That way you'll know what it feels like for Mommy to breed you, fill you up so much you'll taste it. Would you like that?”
His jaw was slack open at this point, the punishing stimulation of his prostate making it hard to think at all. All he could do was whimper and sob, mixing in with the sounds of wet slapping of skin from every brutal thrust, of his labored, gulping breath and her soft, sweet praises.
“Poor baby, Mommy got you cock dumb, huh? Don't worry, sweet baby. I'll fuck you through it, bully your hole until you cum.”
“I don't-I don't know how to cum like that!”, he blubbered.
“You don't have to, silly. Mommy just has to”
thrust
“keep”
thrust
“fucking you”
THRUST!
The pressure started building deep in his pelvis, feeling it spread through his whole body. He tried to tell her to wait, something about he was about to wet himself, but she shook her head and kept thrusting. Deep it was, so deep, until he felt his body grow taut, his back arching the best it could given his arms being restrained behind it. It was so much, it hit him like a thunder clap, electricity shooting off in every nerve, silent wails shook his body as he finally came. Semen shot out of his tip in violent, quick ropes, coating himself in it, all the way up to his own face.
“Oooh, there it is! You came so much!”, she laughed, rolling her hips now to let him ride out his high. He was shaking, sobbing, covered in own cum. But it was different from any orgasm he ever had.
“Shhh, baby, it's okay.” Ambrosine was slow and gentle pulling out of his, the slick sound of her pulling out making him dizzy. She grabbed one of the wash clothes she had set aside on her nightstand, carefully wiping his face and neck clean, however she licked the drool and what semen did land on his lips, slipping her tongue between his lips to initiate making out. He tasted himself on her tongue, salty and a bit bitter.
“You okay?”, she asked when pulling her lips away, stroking his hair with soft and mindful strokes.
“Y-yeah, yeah.” He said between sniffs, “I thought…thought was gonna piss myself for a minute.” He nervously laughed. Ambrosine laughed, sweet and genuine, pressing a kiss against his chin.
“Feel like going again?”, she asked, battering her snowy lashes at him. Hell, she didn't have to ask twice. His expression said it all.
“Do you want to ride me?”, she smiled, but to that he blushed, searching for the right way to ask.
“If um, could you..take me from behind first?” He was so cute the way he asked, that she couldn't help but pull him in for a hungry kiss, catching him by surprise before he melted in her touch. Pulling away from him, she stood at the edge of the bed, helping him get into position.
Face down, ass up.
“I get to watch your ass now”, she mused, squeezing more lube onto the strap-on then spreading Remmick's hole to generously coat his insides. He shuddered at how cold it felt, but it melted into a drawn out moan when she slid herself back in, her hips flushed against the globes of his ass.
“Fuuuck, that's so good.”, he whined, moaning with his face half way in the bedding. “Oh, you're so deeeeep.”
“Hmm, yeah? Like it? You want it harder?”
“Yes ma'am, I want you to fuck me good and hard-”, he was interrupted by her change of pace, wailing now at how hard she was fucking him, how deep she was reaching every time she bottomed out.
“That's it, that's it baby. Keep crying, I'll fuck you through it.” Ambrosine groaned, looking down to see the black silicone disappear inside him, his hole stretched wide along its shaft. She delivered a sharp slap to his ass, then another, in sync with her thrusts. He was starting to rock back, matching her thrusts each time, drooling thick at how good it felt. He was still sensitive from the first orgasm, but his cock was now fully hard and heavy again between his legs, flinging drops of precum as he was fucked into. She tugged firm on the chain, the silver prongs digging into his skin and making him raise his head up off the bed.
“Greedy hole you have, baby. It keeps sucking me up every time, doesn't seem like it wants to let go. Like Mommy's cock that much, baby?”
“Uh huh, I love it sooo much.”, he whined. “I love cummin’ on it, I love gettin’ fucked by it.”
She hummed at his words, slowing down her thrust to a crawl before pulling out. He looked over his shoulder, disappointed until she pulled him up from his knees.
“Think you can handle a bigger one? Want to try?” Ambrosine asked, caressing the back of fingers down his back. His cock spoke for him though, jumping at the thought of being stretched out and being fucked deep. She kissed the back of his arm before letting him settle on the bed. She removed the dildo fastened to her harness, setting it aside to be climbed then went to retrieve another one. Now this one was bigger, a deep sparkling purple and a bumpy texture on the shaft and deliciously curved. Looking at it made Remmick's eyes water, but his cock and hole twitch. Fastening it to her harness, she got the purple monstrosity properly lubed then laid back on the bed. She didn't even need to tug the chain, or ask him, for he was already climbing on top of the bed and straddling her lap.
“Don't hurt yourself.”, she said lightly, but it would seem Remmick did not have that intention. He cautiously lowered himself, relax when he felt the thick, blunt head, and with a deep breath, slowly oh so slowly, sat himself on the dildo. His face squinted and pinched from the stretch, but his tongue lolled out how full it made him feel, instantly making his brain wooly and his cock jump and throb.
“Ooohhh that good, baby?” She purred, and he nodded back, slow and dumb. He settled his weight on it, his hips bucking like before when he settled on the training toys.
“B-best ohh-best cock, Momma. Momma has the best cock!” He whined, rocking his hips back and forth. She cooed, grinning at him already being so cock dumb.
“Ride it then, baby. Show Mommy how much you love her cock.”
And fuck, he did, he raised up on the bumpy shaft, its texture rubbing his guts so deliciously, it was sinful. He eventually found his rhythm, and Ambrosine enjoyed thoroughly how his cock bobbed with each bounce, how he whined and cried each time he hit his prostate. She'd let him work for this one, let him ride her until he couldn't. Not having the use of his arms still was troublesome but he found that if he just used his thighs to lift himself, he was able to bounce on it with no issue.
He rode her for a while, sometimes rocking his hips back and forth to stimulate his prostate, wanting nothing more than to cum that hard again. But this time, it didn't come that easily to him. She could tell by the way he was crying in frustration that he couldn't get himself to finish, and smoothed her hand over his thigh.
“Shhh, what's wrong, baby? Are you having a hard time?”
He nodded, shaking now, sobbing, aching but anyway to get ‘there’. Realizing he might need the extra help, she shifted herself, then matching his pace, thrusted up and hitting his prostate just right, enough to make his eyes roll back and flutter. She kept it up, quick and firm but not hard, cooing at him for doing such a good job, taking her so well. The hand that stroked his thigh ghosted upwards, and just as she quickened her pace, started giving him a hand job.
“Good baby, good. That's it, let Mommy take care of you. I'll help you get there, that's it.”
By the way his pitch changed in his voice, how it cracked and his words became nonsensical, she knew he was close. She stroked his faster, made her thrusts more pointed to his prostate, taking in how he begged and begged her to let him come.
“O-oh wait, I-”, he couldn't even finish, his mind completely drawing a blank as he came, harder than before, her still grinding up to milk him as hot cum shot all over her this time. It covered her belly, her breasts, and even on her face. Even through his sobs, she kept fucking upwards, driving him down then up then down by his hips, until he was completely wrung out. Coming to a stop, she helped him raise off the strap on, easing him onto the bed beside her. She was starting to clean herself up now, throwing the used rag out the way before tossing close to the clothes hamper. A shower would be needed for both of them, but not right now.
Rolling him to lay on his side, Ambrosine was careful in how she loosened the rosary bead wrist resistants, shushing him softly while tenderly rubbing the soreness out of his reddened and irritated skin. He was able to sit up by himself now, pushing himself off of his side to ease upright just as she took the harness off of her person. She turned to face Remmick, shifting closer to him in the bed so he was in reach. Taking her time, Ambrosine unfastened the prong collar's clip, then widening it to flip the prongs outright to finally slip the collar over and off of his head. The silver like the rosaries, seared pin pointed into his flesh, angry and flaming against his pale skin. She cradled his cheek, and he leaned into her touch, nuzzling his face into her palm.
“You did great.”, she smiled cooly. He snorted a laugh, to which made her laugh in return.
“If you can call what I did ‘great’ then sure.” To that, she shook her head, leaning in to press a kiss into his stubble cheek.
“I liked it a lot, you let me have my fun. Did you have fun?”
“‘Course, sweet pea. Always with you, never without.”
That pulled a smile across her face, admiring him so before tucking do to kiss the curve of his shoulder and moving out of the bed.
“Come on, you have to shower. You're all-”, Ambrosine started, but then stopped when she felt a firm grab on her wrist. She looked back at him, lilac eyes widened at his newly hungry expression. He chuckled lowly at her surprise, not wasting a moment to pull her back towards him and flush in his lap.
“Now hold on, baby girl. Ain't you forgettin’ somethin'?” She watched in a mix of breathless awe and fear at his eyes, how they were now a carmine red, glinting and pupiless, as thick drool dripped down his grin pulled mouth, flashing newly sharpened teeth.
Summary: At a tense Tillman family dinner, you finally kill your old lipliner. Your pervert stepbrother Gator notices immediately and offers you a fancy new one right there at the table. What starts as a “helpful” touch-up quickly turns into something much filthier in the bathroom, his truck, and his bed. Gator’s always been a little too attentive to your mouth…
Word count: 5.8K
Warnings: NSFW, explicit smut, oral sex (m/receiving), unprotected p/v sex, step siblings incest, dubious consent/power imbalance, crude language & dirty talk, slight exhibitionism risk, Gator’s canon typical daddy issues & insecurity mixed with heavy perv behavior, no plot just horny
A/N: going back to my stepbro!gator roots with this one lol. Hope I still got it!
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The fluorescent lights in the Tillman kitchen buzzed like angry hornets overhead, casting a harsh glow over the chipped Formica table and the mismatched plates piled with meatloaf, mashed potatoes, and green beans swimming in canned mushroom soup. It was another one of those mandatory family dinners, Roy Tillman’s way of pretending the household wasn’t a pressure cooker of resentment and old scars. You sat squeezed between the edge of the table and Gator’s broad shoulder, your stepbrother’s knee occasionally brushing yours under the tablecloth like it was an accident. It never was.
You were the outsider who’d somehow become family when your mom married Roy a couple years back. Not blood, thank God, but close enough that Roy treated you like another extension of his empire: quiet, obedient, useful. Gator, though? Gator treated you like something he wanted to poke at until it squirmed.
Dinner had dragged on with Roy droning about some case, his voice all gravel and authority, while Gator slouched in his deputy uniform, vape pen tucked behind his ear like a trophy. He’d been watching you the whole meal, those restless hazel eyes flicking from your face to your hands and back again. You tried to ignore it, focusing on scraping the last bit of color from your lips with the cheap drugstore lipliner you’d been nursing for weeks.
The tube was ancient, the product worn down to a nub. You twisted it up one final time, angling the mirror of your compact under the table so no one would notice, and swiped it across your lower lip with a quick, practiced motion. The color came out patchy, more habit than pigment at this point. You pressed your lips together, blending, then capped it with a soft click that somehow cut through the low hum of conversation.
Gator’s fork paused halfway to his mouth. His lips twitched into that crooked, shit-eating grin he wore like armor. “Well, shit,” he drawled, loud enough for the table to hear but casual enough that Roy just grunted in annoyance. “You finally killed it, huh? That poor little pencil’s been hangin’ on by a thread for months.”
Heat crept up your neck. Everyone glanced over, Roy with his perpetual scowl, your mom offering a polite but tired smile, even the distant cousin who’d shown up uninvited. You shoved the empty tube into your pocket, muttering, “It’s fine. I’ll get a new one tomorrow.”
Gator leaned back in his chair, the wood creaking under his weight. He was built like someone who spent more time lifting weights in the station gym than actually doing paperwork: tall, broad-shouldered, with that messy dark hair he kept pushing back like he was in a damn cologne ad. “Nah, don’t bother with that cheap crap. I got somethin’ better.”
You blinked. “What?”
He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he reached into the pocket of his tactical vest, because of course he wore the damn thing to dinner and pulled out a sleek black tube. It looked expensive, the kind of brand you’d see in those glossy makeup ads with models pouting in infinity pools. Gator twirled it between his fingers like a cigarette, his eyes never leaving your mouth.
“New lipliner,” he said, voice dropping just a notch, that pervert edge slipping in like smoke. “Saw you finishin’ the old one right here in front of God and everybody. Figured you might need a refill. This one’s the good shit—long-wear, won’t smear when you’re… y’know. Eatin’. Or whatever.”
The “whatever” hung there, heavy and suggestive. Your mom cleared her throat, but Roy just chuckled low, like his son’s weird little gifts were normal bonding. Gator’s knee pressed firmer against yours now, deliberate. You could feel the heat through his jeans.
“Thanks,” you said flatly, reaching for it.
He pulled it back just out of reach, grinning wider. “Hold up. Lemme see if it matches first. C’mere.”
Before you could protest, Gator scooted his chair closer, the legs scraping loud against the linoleum. His free hand cupped your chin, fingers rough from years of gripping steering wheels and guns, but surprisingly gentle as he tilted your face toward the light. The table went quiet again. Roy muttered something about “kids these days,” but didn’t stop him. Gator’s thumb brushed just below your lower lip, wiping away a nonexistent smudge.
“Open up a little,” he murmured, voice low enough that only you could hear the pervert lilt in it. His breath smelled like the mint vape he’d been hitting earlier mixed with the faint tang of the beer he’d snuck despite Roy’s rules. “Gotta make sure it don’t look like clown paint on you.”
Your heart hammered. This was classic Gator, pushing boundaries in front of everyone because he knew no one would call him on it. Not really. He was Roy’s boy, the deputy who could flash a badge and make problems disappear. You parted your lips slightly, more out of shock than obedience, and he uncapped the liner with his teeth, the plastic clicking softly.
He leaned in closer than necessary, his face inches from yours. Those eyes, dark and hungry locked on your mouth like it was the only thing in the room. The tip of the pencil touched your cupid’s bow first, cool and waxy, gliding with a precision that surprised you. Gator’s hand was steady, but his breathing wasn’t. You could see the way his throat bobbed when he swallowed, the faint flush creeping under his stubble.
“Stay still, sweetheart,” he whispered, the word dripping with that fake-sweet tone he used when he wanted something. “Wouldn’t want to mess it up. Though… bet it’d look pretty smeared anyway.”
Your stomach twisted, half embarrassment, half something warmer and more dangerous. The rest of the family was pretending to eat, forks clinking awkwardly, but you felt their eyes. Gator didn’t care. He traced the liner along your upper lip with agonizing slowness, then the lower, his thumb still anchoring your chin. When he finished, he didn’t pull away immediately. Instead, he rubbed his thumb across your bottom lip, “blending” it, pressing just hard enough to feel the give of soft skin.
“Perfect,” he said, voice husky. “Matches your pretty little mouth just right. Bet it tastes good too.”
“Gator,” your mom started, half-scolding, but Roy waved her off with a grunt.
“Boy’s just bein’ helpful. Ain’t that right, son?”
Gator finally leaned back, but not before his fingers lingered a second too long, brushing your jaw. He capped the liner and tossed it into your lap under the table, where it landed warm from his pocket. “Keep it. I got more where that came from. Figured you’d run out eventually, the way you’re always playin’ with your lips at the table.”
You clutched the tube, cheeks burning. Dinner resumed in strained silence, but Gator’s gaze stayed glued to you. Every time you licked your lips, testing the new color, the smooth glide, he smirked like he’d won some private game.
Later, after the plates were cleared and Roy had retreated to his study with a cigar, you escaped to the upstairs bathroom to wash up. The house was old, creaky, full of shadows and the faint smell of gun oil and leather. You stared at your reflection: the lipliner looked expensive on you, a deep berry shade that made your mouth look fuller, poutier. It suited you too well.
The door clicked open without a knock. Gator slipped in, locking it behind him with a soft snick. He filled the small space immediately, tall frame, broad chest in that tight black tee under the unbuttoned deputy shirt, jeans slung low on his hips.
“Couldn’t wait to see how it looked up close,” he said, leaning against the sink beside you. His voice had dropped the dinner-table casualness; now it was all raw, needy edge. “Fuck, it does look good. Real good.”
You tried to step back, but the wall was right there. “Gator, what the hell? Dinner was bad enough.”
He chuckled, low and rough, crowding you without quite touching. “Aw, c’mon. You know I was just lookin’ out for my little stepsis. That old liner was pathetic. This one…” His eyes dipped to your mouth again, dark and heavy-lidded. “This one won’t budge even if you’re on your knees suckin’ cock or somethin’.”
The words hit like a slap, crude and deliberate. Heat pooled low in your belly despite yourself. Gator had always been like this: pervy comments wrapped in “brotherly” concern, lingering stares when you changed clothes, “accidental” brushes in the hallway. He was insecure as hell underneath the swagger, desperate for any scrap of attention that wasn’t Roy’s disappointed glare. And right now, that desperation was aimed square at you.
“Shut up,” you hissed, but your voice lacked bite.
He grinned, stepping closer until his boots bracketed yours. One hand came up to trace the liner on your lip with his thumb again, pressing in until your mouth parted. “Make me. Or better yet… lemme see if it smears.”
Before you could protest, Gator dipped his head and kissed you, hard, hungry, nothing like a stepbrother should. His mouth was hot, insistent, the faint taste of mint and meatloaf mixing with the waxy berry of the liner. He groaned into it, one hand sliding to the back of your neck to hold you in place while the other gripped your hip, fingers digging in possessively.
You gasped, and he took the opening, tongue sliding in to taste you properly. The kiss turned filthy fast, wet, open-mouthed, his teeth nipping at your lower lip like he’d been thinking about it all through dinner. When he pulled back, the liner was slightly smudged at the edges, but mostly intact.
“See?” he panted, forehead against yours. “Told you it’s good shit. Stays put even when I’m fuckin’ your mouth with my tongue.”
“Gator…” Your hands were on his chest, not pushing him away as much as you should’ve.
He smirked, that crooked charm cracking open to show the pervert underneath. “What? You gonna tell Dad I’m bein’ inappropriate with his new daughter? Go ahead. He’ll probably just tell me to ‘handle it like a man.’” His hand slid lower, cupping your ass through your jeans and squeezing. “Or maybe you like it. Bet you do. Always catchin’ you starin’ when I’m out in the yard liftin’ or comin’ back from a shift all sweaty.”
You swallowed, the new liner making your lips feel slick and sensitive. “You’re such an asshole.”
“Yeah, but I’m your asshole stepbrother.” He kissed you again, slower this time, grinding his hips forward so you could feel the growing hardness in his jeans pressing against your thigh. “Been watchin’ that mouth all night. The way you licked the fork, finished that liner like it was nothin’. Got me thinkin’ about other things you could finish with those pretty lips.”
His free hand wandered up under your shirt, calloused palm skimming your stomach, thumb brushing the underside of your bra. Gator wasn’t smooth, he was eager, a little clumsy in his desperation, like he needed this validation more than air. Roy never gave him enough, so he took it wherever he could. Right now, that was you.
“Gator, someone could hear,” you whispered, even as your body arched into his touch.
He laughed softly against your neck, nipping the skin there. “Let ’em. Whole damn family knows I’m a fuck-up anyway. Might as well be a pervert too.” His fingers found the button of your jeans, popping it open with practiced ease. “C’mon, sweetheart. Lemme show you what else this liner can handle. On your knees for me? Just for a minute. I’ll be quick.”
The bathroom felt too small, too hot. You should’ve shoved him out, told him no, reminded him of the thousand reasons this was messed up. But Gator’s eyes were wide and hungry, that insecure boy peeking through the cocky deputy mask. He wanted you to want him. Needed it.
You sank down slowly, the tile cold through your knees. Gator’s breath hitched, hands fumbling with his belt like he couldn’t believe his luck. “Fuck yeah. Good girl. Knew you’d look perfect down there.”
He freed himself, thick and already leaking, and guided your head forward with a gentleness that contrasted the filth coming out of his mouth. “Open up. Let me see that new color wrapped around me. Bet it’ll look even better smeared all over my cock.”
You took him in, the taste of salt and skin mixing with the berry wax. Gator groaned loud enough that you worried about the walls, his hips jerking shallowly as he tried not to thrust too hard. “Shit… just like that. Your mouth’s so fuckin’ warm. Been jerkin’ off thinkin’ about this for weeks. Ever since I saw you puttin’ on lip gloss in the hallway mirror, all innocent-like.”
He talked the whole time. Pervy ramblings mixed with praise, his hand gentle in your hair even as his words turned nasty. “Swirl your tongue—yeah, fuck. You’re a natural. My perfect little stepsis slut. Roy’d kill me if he knew, but goddamn, it’s worth it.”
The liner held surprisingly well at first, but as he got closer, it started to smudge at the corners of your mouth, glossy and messy. Gator’s eyes were glued to it, pupils blown wide. “Look at that… perfect. Just how I imagined.”
He came with a choked groan, hips stuttering, spilling hot across your tongue and a little on your lips. You pulled back, breathing hard, the berry color now artfully wrecked: smeared at the edges, mixed with spit and him.
Gator hauled you up immediately, kissing you messy and grateful, tasting himself on you without a care. “Fuck, you’re amazin’. Knew that liner was a good pick.” His hand slipped back into your open jeans, fingers finding you wet and sliding through slick heat. “Now it’s your turn. Gotta return the favor, right? Can’t have my girl unsatisfied.”
You didn’t correct the “my girl.” Not yet.
He fingered you right there against the sink, two thick digits curling just right while his thumb rubbed your clit in messy circles. His mouth stayed on yours, or on your neck, whispering more filth: how pretty you looked with his cum on your lips, how he’d buy you a whole set of makeup just to ruin it all over again, how no one else got to see you like this.
You came hard, biting his shoulder to muffle the sound, body shaking against his solid frame. Gator held you through it, murmuring soft praises now that the edge was off. “That’s it, baby. So good for me. My secret little thing.”
After, he helped clean you up with a warm washcloth, surprisingly tender. The liner was a lost cause, smeared beyond repair but he just grinned and pulled out another tube from his pocket, same brand.
“See? Told you I got more. Keep this one in your room. I’ll check on it tomorrow night. Make sure you’re usin’ it right.”
You rolled your eyes, but took it. “You’re such a pervert, Gator.”
He winked, adjusting his uniform like nothing happened. “Only for you, stepsis. Only for you.”
As he slipped out the door, checking the hallway first, you stared at your reflection again. Lips still tingling, new liner clutched in your hand like a dirty secret. Downstairs, Roy’s voice boomed something about patrol schedules. The house felt heavier now, charged with whatever this was becoming.
Gator wasn’t done. You knew that much. He’d find excuses, another “gift” at breakfast, a late-night knock on your door after Roy passed out from whiskey, more pervy comments disguised as brotherly advice. And part of you, the part that craved the attention in this cold, fucked-up house just as badly as he did, was already wondering what color he’d pick next.
The days blurred after that. Gator made it his mission to “help” with your makeup routine. Mornings, he’d corner you in the kitchen while your mom was out and Roy was at the station, pressing you against the counter to “test” the new liner by kissing it off. Afternoons, when he came home from a shift, he’d drag you into his truck in the driveway, tinted windows hiding the way he’d pull you into his lap and grind against you until you were both breathless, his hands under your shirt, mouth on your neck leaving marks he’d cover with more “helpful” suggestions.
One night, after a particularly tense dinner where Roy had chewed Gator out for botching a simple traffic stop, Gator showed up in your room at 2 a.m., eyes wild and needy. “Dad’s asleep. C’mere. Need you.”
He was gentler that night, the insecurity raw after Roy’s words. Instead of the usual rush, he laid you out on your bed and took his time kissing down your body, murmuring how soft you were, how no one else made him feel like this. When he finally pushed inside you, slow and deep.
“Fuck, you feel so good,” he groaned, hips rolling steady. “Tight little pussy clenchin’ around me like you were made for this. My stepsis… shit, we’re so fucked up, but I don’t care. You’re mine.”
You came together, his hand over your mouth to keep quiet, bodies slick and tangled in the dark. Afterward, he didn’t leave right away. He stayed curled around you, tracing patterns on your skin with those rough fingers, the empty lipliner tube from dinner sitting on your nightstand like a trophy.
“You know I ain’t good at this shit,” he admitted quietly, the tough-guy mask slipping. “Roy says I’m a disappointment every damn day. But with you… feels like I’m doin’ somethin’ right.”
It was messed up. Deeply, undeniably. Step-siblings in a house ruled by a corrupt sheriff who’d probably lose his mind if he found out. But in the quiet moments, Gator wasn’t just the pervert deputy with the ego and the daddy issues. He was the guy who noticed when your old makeup ran out, who bought something nice because he paid attention. Who craved touch and validation so badly he’d risk everything for it.
And you? You kept using the liners. Kept letting him “test” them. Kept falling a little deeper into whatever this toxic, heated thing was.
Weeks turned into a secret routine. Gator would text you from the station crude photos of new makeup hauls he’d “confiscated” (stolen from some evidence locker, probably), followed by promises of what he’d do when he got home. At family barbecues, he’d sit beside you, hand on your thigh under the table, whispering how he couldn’t wait to smear that pretty color all over his dick again.
One evening, Roy was out of town for some law enforcement conference, leaving the house empty except for the two of you and your mom, who’d gone to bed early with a migraine. Gator wasted no time.
He found you in the living room, flipping through channels, and hauled you upstairs to his room without a word. It was messier than yours. Posters of bands he barely listened to, empty vape cartridges, his deputy gear slung over a chair. He pushed you onto the bed, crawling over you with that predatory grin.
“Been thinkin’ about this all day,” he said, stripping off his shirt to reveal the lean muscle underneath. “You in that little sundress at dinner, lips all shiny with my gift. Drove me fuckin’ crazy.”
He didn’t bother with slow this time. Clothes came off in a frenzy, your dress hiked up, panties shoved aside, his jeans barely pushed down his thighs. He thrust into you hard, the bed creaking under you both, his mouth latching onto yours in a bruising kiss that destroyed the fresh layer of lipliner you’d put on just to tease him.
“Gator—ah—slow down,” you gasped, but your legs wrapped around his waist anyway.
“Can’t,” he panted, hips snapping relentlessly. “Too good. Too fuckin’ tight. Gonna fill you up, make you walk around tomorrow with me still leakin’ out. Bet you’d like that, huh? My dirty little secret.”
His hand found your throat, not squeezing, just holding, thumb pressing over the pulse point as he fucked you deeper. The pervert in him loved the control, the risk. But underneath, there was that desperate edge: the way he buried his face in your neck afterward, whispering “Don’t leave me, okay? Everyone else does.”
You held him close, fingers in his hair, the smeared berry color staining his lips now too. “I’m not going anywhere.”
It wasn’t love. Not the clean kind, anyway. It was need and rebellion and the twisted comfort of two broken people finding solace in the one place they shouldn’t. Gator kept buying more lipliners: different shades, different brands, leach one an excuse to watch your mouth, to ruin it, to claim it as his.
And every time, at dinner or in the truck or in the dead of night, he’d lean in with that crooked smile and say, “Open up, sweetheart. Let’s see how this one holds up.”
The Tillman house kept its secrets, just like it always had. But yours and Gator’s? They were written in smudged berry and desperate moans, in the quiet aftershocks where a pervert stepbrother became something dangerously close to yours.
simon's team finds out that he has a missus and she's heavily pregnant.
simon had never taken you to fancy galas before, and this time, he said he'd introduce you to his team, hence why you were so nervous.
he walked through the doors like he owned the place, a firm hand pressed on the small of your back.
everyone expected him to show up alone, like he always did, but tonight, he had a companion. behind him, clutching the fabric of his dark silky suit, was you. you were dressed in a flowing floral dress that hugged your body perfectly.
your cheeks were flushed, not used to all the attention on you, and you kept your eyes fixed on the floor, hiding behind his massive frame. you felt overwhelmed, completely out of place.
and then their focus shifted to your growing belly. you could hear the whispers and their gasps.
your bump was unmistakably showing. simon had helped you pick up that dress, let them see how beautiful you look, knocked up with my child. he had said, before leaving the house.
simon's hand rested possessively on your lower back, while his other hand was protectively splayed across your stomach.
lieutenant riley has a missus? and she's pregnant? was all you could hear.
gaz, who was exchanging words with a recruit, nearly choked on his champagne. soap dropped his glass. price just stared, his cigar forgotten in his hand, his eyes wide.
simon leaned down, pressing his lips to your ear, his voice so low that only you could hear. "you're doing well, love." he murmured, and there was a dark satisfaction in his tone.
simon's intention was clear. he'd brought you here deliberately, knowing exactly what the reaction would be. he wanted everyone to know who you belonged to.
it was a silent warning. let them talk. let them stare. at the end of the night, he would be the one listening to your sweet moans.
Summary: Frank Castle loves you. Plain and simple.
Pairing: Frank Castle x Reader
Warnings: Language. Smut (riding, pronebone. The good stuff). Smoking Weed. Fluff?
A/N: Me writing soft Frank? Wild. This is a part of a loosely connected compilation of one-shots with the same reader from Big Brat Energy and Up Your Sleeve. No need to read other installments. It's nonlinear.
Frank never thought he’d feel this again.
The very notion got shoveled under years ago. Packed down with dirt and left to rot with the rest of him that belonged to a world of before. It can’t happen, therefore it shouldn’t. Simple math. Even simpler to live and survive by.
Emotions don’t stay six feet under just because Frank thinks he can scare 'em away.
They claw, they sneak, they grow roots.
It starts innocently. Don’t it always?
Starts with him knowing your coffee order.
Not because he’s a romantic or some soft-bellied asshole with a notes app full of your favorite things. Frank learns it because he’s bad at apologies. Always has been. So when he’s fucked up royally, when he’s said some hurtful shit that’s sharp enough to fold your mouth shut…
He gets you the overpriced swanky iced whatever from the coffee shop with exposed brick.
The one with seven different kinds of milk, but none of them are actually milk. The one ran by freaks with tri-colored hair and bad attitudes that make him uncomfortable.
He does it anyway. For you.
When he hands it over, you stare at the cup, then him.
“Is this agave or vanilla?”
He sounds like he’s swallowing glass when he says. “Agave.”
“Macadamia nut mil-”
“Yes.”
You smile and accept the drink.
Then you let him eat you out on your dining room table. Because he may not always have the right words, but can do wonders with his mouth on you.
The coffee gets knocked over in the process. Pale brown liquid spreads under your mail, your keys you spent time curating, an old bill you still need to pay. Frank even cleans it up afterwards with his shirt open and mouth still wet from you. Doesn’t want your table getting sticky.
That should scare him. And it does.
But not enough.
Because it grows like weeds in an unkempt yard. Before he knows it, he’s tangled in the thick of it and not fighting hard enough to get loose.
Hazy morning light pushes through your barred kitchen windows. The black bars are crusted in a heavy layer of rust, heavy orange-brown scales clinging to the metal like barnacles to the keel of a ship. Despite all that, light still gets through. Past the bars, the rust, the dirty glass, and filters into your small kitchen.
He notices it against his will. How the light finds you.
Sitting at a table in shorts and a worn down shirt, you’re hunched over. Green construction paper and oil pastels are scattered around you. You’re practicing the art lesson you’ll teach your elementary kids later that week.
Flowers, you tell him. Texture. Shapes. Color. Something simple enough for eight-year-olds to understand, but interesting enough where they won’t shove the pastels up their noses by minute eleven.
“You think they’ll get bored?”
Frank sits across from you with an open book in his hands. He’s not reading a damn word.
“They’re eight,” he says. “They get bored of anything that’s not on a phone.”
You throw a pastel at him. He catches it because why wouldn’t he. Rolls it back to you.
You teach kids around the same age as Frank Jr. Back when he painted a Marine on the wall to protect the family. The thought ricochets off Frank, the words on his book becoming a blur.
He wonders what his son would have been like now? If he’d still be artistic or would he have outgrown drawing marines. If the world would’ve taught him the world needed different kinds of protection.
He wonders what his son was like back then, too. Which is an even worse thought. Touring made Frank come back to his family in vignettes. One minute Frank Jr can’t read. Next time Frank sees him, the kid's got a trophy for winning the spelling bee.
A whole life of stories, lost between visits, and Frank only got scraps.
“I can’t wait to see what Susie does with this,” you say. “Girl’s got a real point of view.”
You tell him about your students like you don’t know what you’re giving him.
The troublemakers. The teacher’s pets. How a kid tried to coerce another student to snort glitter in exchange for their chocolate milk at lunch. The girl who cries because she thinks mistakes mean she’s bad. A kid named Derek who has become a monster once he learned how to draw dicks.
Frank asks questions sometimes. Not many, but enough.
You don’t know how much it helps him to hear about them. How he can close his eyes and maybe imagine a world where his boy got to be eight. Nine. Ten. Where the worst thing in the world to happen to a kid was before lunchtime. Glitter extortion and glue-sticks.
In a world where Frank mostly sees burnt sand and blown open bodies, you give him temporary sanity.
So he sits in your kitchen, The Razor’s Edge open in his hands, and he listens to you talk about flowers.
And the weeds grow more. Wilder. Ensnare him.
His fate is sealed when you visit him in the hospital.
He’s ugly there. All black and blue and weak, hooked up to machines that keep tabs on him like his body isn’t as strong as he thought. He hates the beeping. And the stupid damn gown. Hates the nurse who brings him applesauce like he’s a fucking geriatric.
He’s a grown man. Not something you’re supposed to see this way.
It’s all over your face when you step into the room. Fear. Big and worried and trying so damn hard to be strong it could make him sick. He sees it. Sees the guilt waiting to be spoonfed to him. If you cry, he’ll swallow that too. Will have to live with the physical proof that he made himself matter to someone again.
He ain’t worth the tears.
“You finish it?” you ask, voice shaky but fighting. Trying to be strong. That's his girl. “Job's done?”
He can't even look at you when he nods.
“Yeah.”
You exhale. Then nod like it’s answered some internal question of yours.
“Cool,” you whisper. “Because you look like they rocked your shit sideways.”
He immediately regrets his laugh. His internal organs aren’t interested in your jokes.
You stay every day he's holed in there. Call out sick just to keep him company. Sit in that awful chair with a spare hospital blanket. Eat his applesauce. You both watch the Price is Right at noon like two idiots with nothing better to do.
One of the days, when he thinks you’re asleep, he watches you in that chair. Neck bent to hell, mitch-matched socks on display, one hand tucked under your cheek. Still with him.
Fuck. It does something to him he doesn’t have the name for.
One day, Curtis comes by.
Frank sees the surprise pass over your face when Curtis introduces himself. He gives you a firm handshake, kind eyes, and a smile.
You glance at Frank, asking for permission without saying it. Frank nods. You give a smile back.
“I'm going to grab something from the vending machine,” you say, already finding the exit. “Nice meeting you.”
“Likewise,” Curtis says.
Not a second after you’re gone, Curtis’ smile grows twenty times bigger.
Frank groans. “Don’t.”
Too late.
“Someone special?”
“Mind your business.”
Curtis sits in the visitor chair with every intention to pry. “I’ll take that as a yes.”
Frank shifts against the pillows, irritated to death by the wires taped to his chest. He hates the warmth crawling up his neck.
“Yeah.”
“Good, man.” Curtis softens. “Good. I'm glad to see it. You uh, you deserve something nice.”
He really doesn't know what to say. Never really does. What should he say? Curtis is one of the few people left who knew him before. Knew Maria. Knew the kids. Knew the kinda man Frank used to be before grief gutted him.
Everyone’s told him the same thing. To move on. Like grief is a train you can hop off at any exit. Like it’s not quicksand and the more you move, the deeper you’re in.
Why has it taken Frank so long to think it’s possible?
“She's all of the above,” Frank says finally. “Fucking scares me.”
Curtis laughs under his breath. “It should.”
Frank gives him a look.
“What? It should.” Curtis leans back. “Don't screw it up.”
By the time he gets out of the hospital, he’s choked on the smell of the weeds growing. Sweet and cloying. Goddamn liar, they weren’t weeds at all, but a garden. Same kinda flowers you were planning art lessons over. He’s tangled in them none the less.
“You're so good to me,” he mumbles one night.
He's sure you can't hear him.
You’re not paying attention to his dark little confessions. Not with your thighs locked around his waist, and your hands on his chest, riding him like you’ve decided the pace. The start, the finish, it all belongs to you.
Frank lets you have it. Happily.
Whatever you want. Whenever you want. However you want.
“I’m all yours,” he says.
That, you hear. Makes your hips falter. The pace breaks just a little. Frank reaches up to trace the pad of his thumb along the pillow of your bottom lip. You open your mouth to take his finger in. Warm. Wet. Fuck. You’re going to ride him into delirium.”
“Make me scream, Frank,” you whine, voice breaking at the edges. Your thighs flex with every slippery roll of your hips. “I need it.”
“Okay,” he says.
Too fast. Too honest. Too submissive.
“Okay.”
The mattress cries when he flips you over. You're moving instinctively, going to curve into a
proper arch, but that's not what Frank wants tonight. He pushes you flat, body riding the waves of the bed from the force of it. It ain’t enough to hurt, but it makes you gasp.
He shifts your leg higher. As high as you can give it. He gets to take in a pretty view of you. Just for him.You don't shrivel beneath his hard stare. Don't shy away from the seconds that pass as he drinks it in. You let him look.
“You want that?” he asks, on his knees, he teases you. Gets the tip of his dick wet in you and he slides up and down. “Y'wanna scream for me?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Uh-huh,” he breathes back, mocking and soft.
Then he presses inside you slowly. Disappearing little by little. Gasp after gasp.
You're choking for his name when he bottoms out. It pulls long from your throat, a moan stretched to its limits all helpless and thin while he lets you tremble around every inch of him. His hand digs into your lower back, you’re already trying to take more, to go back to commandeering the pace, but it ain’t yours to drive anymore.
.
“I hear ya, I hear ya,” he coos, leaning over you.
He smothers himself against you. His chest covers your back and the weight grounds you there.
That’s what undoes you. The heat of him, him taking over your space. Proof that he’s here and solid and breathing and not going anywhere.
Frank starts moving. Nice and nasty. Deep enough to take your wits and senses. Slow enough to make you feel every thrust. Real and rough enough that the bed complains beneath you.
“Were you scared?” he grunts, kissing your shoulder. He wraps you up in his wide arms, props your head up as he asks his questions. Lips placed right against your ear.
All you know is pleasure. Down to your toes. Behind your eyelids. Coming in hot. “Wh-what?”
“At the hospital.” His breathing turns ragged and labored, but his stamina doesn’t break. Frank may fall apart emotionally, but can keep a rhythm like he’s got something to prove. “You worry about me?”
“That’s not fair.”
“No,” he says, thrusting harder. “It ain’t.”
You try to turn your face away, but he keeps you in place. Wrapped in his arms, his lips right at your ear.
“Give me an answer.”
You don’t know whether to love him or hate him for asking right now.
There’s no room to lie when he’s fucking you this dumb. Can’t put on a brave face now. No place for the fear to hide when he’s made your whole body a confession.
“Yes,” you cry. Loud. Exactly how he wants you. “Fuck, Frank, yes.”
There we go. The thing you held in. An ugly little terror that maybe he’d leave and you’d be left with nothing but a version of him you almost got to keep. That kinda fear has to go somewhere, Frank pops the cork.
“I ain't leaving you,” he says, and the words come out rough. Bitten between thrusts. “I’m right here.”
You give a satisfied noise. Light and feather soft against all that force. He knows you're not about to give full sentences and he doesn't need you to. The message is received.
Manicured nails dig at your burnt sienna colored sheets. He shouldn't know that's even a fucking color, but he does. You told him once, offhand, folding laundry and telling him the difference between cool and warm tones. It mattered in your world so now it matters in his,
That’s how deep you are in him. Engraved in him. Woven into the fibers of his DNA like you found a way in through the scar tissue.
“Y'about to come?” he asks, pressing particularly deep enough to make you flutter around him. He knows the answer. Still needs your voice to announce it. “Lemme hear you say it.”
You do. Writhing and wrangling it from your lips. Messy and desperate.
Nothing sounds better.
“That's right,” he grunts, “Attagirl. There you go. Let it out.”
You need to be loud.
Obscene.
To eradicate what's all the way down inside you. To let the fear burn off your tongue. Give it somewhere else to live that’s not the hollows of your chest. Frank can shoulder it.
For the both of you, he’ll shoulder it.
His hand tightens around your neck, keeps you in place and so close you feel claimed. His praises tear out of him raw and dark. Good girl. That’s it. I got you. Ain’t going nowhere.
He comes with his face buried into your shoulder, a sound dragged out of him. Surrender prettied up as a string of curses.
Afterwards, he smokes up with you.
That might be the most intimate part of it.
This is a first.
The two of you are tangled in sex-damp sheets. A window is cracked and the city noise drags itself inside. You’re surprised when Frank offers to join in your post-sex ritual.
Even more surprised when he offers to roll.
“You're it for me,” he says as he crushes a pretty purple indica between his fingers.
You're particular about your spliffs. About the pack. The twist. Not wasting anything because a motherfucker wanted to be cute about loose paper. But you don't make any fuss. You're stoked to smoke with him.
“The ending, the beginning, all the shit in between.”
You want to blame the sex haze. You know better than to let your insecurities eat at you
like that.
The hammer of this feeling has been cracking your stone for a while. You just didn't think either of you had the guts to say it out loud.
There was a time where he told you it was you and him but that meant sex to you. Something frivolous. Something temporary with a clear exit. A door you could walk out of.
This ain’t that anymore.
“Yeah?” you ask.
You sure about that?
He rolls the raw papers, twists the ends, and hands you the joint along with you neon pink lighter.
“Yeah,” he says.
Very sure.
You light up, rolling the tip so the burn evens out. First hit is smooth. Ridiculously smooth.
Like a Ferrari hitting 110 on an open road with no end in sight. Good pull. Not rolled too tightly, but not loose where you're wasting more than smoking.
Exhaling a thick cloud, you pass him his marvelous creation.
“That's fucking legit right there.”
Frank takes a drag like he's never missed a beat. Your smile must be so obnoxious right now.
“Wasted my high school years on grass. Poor -”
“Did you just call it grass?” you screech. “Hilarious. I'm fucking Willie Nelson.”
He takes takes the insult in stride, “This shit sent me straight to the military.”
Your turn to smoke. “How so?”
“Colleges won't accept a bumfuck stoner with no GPA to speak of. Marines will.” he says, leaning back against the headboard. “That's who they want. Directionless. Gives someone purpose. Belonging.”
“Is this the shit you want to talk about while high?” you ask. “Don’t ‘noid out on me and have a panic attack. Dank nowadays is stronger than the reggie of your time.”
Frank laughs. It’s genuine. Beautiful. Transforms his whole face for a second and you just want to keep it there.
“Ask me something then.” he says.
God, now you're on the spot. You pass him the joint.
“Ok...Cupcakes or muffins?”
“Come on. Muffins.”
“Yuck!”
“Why would you ask me that shit if you were gonna judge my answer?”
“I dunno! I thought maybe you'd answer cupcake like every sane person on the planet. Then we could talk about preferences. Red Velvet – is it just a chocolate cake with dye in it? Something normal, but you had to go ahead and make things weird.”
“Muffins ain’t weird.”
“What, you like bran?”
“Blueberry!” he says, offended. “Don't bullshit me. A blueberry muffin is in front of you right now, you're sayin’ no? Fuck outta here.”
You think it over.
Frank can see the whites of your eyes turning a reddish tint.
“I’d fuck a blueberry muffin up.”
He squints, not sure whether to hand you back the shared joint. “You high right now?”
“I'm flying through Andromeda on my unicorn named Peridot,” you say, “when you offered to smoke with me I pulled out the intergalactic shit. Matt Damon didn't grow potatoes on Mars. That's just stupid. He grew this.”
Frank looks down at the joint. Then to you.
His body is buzzing too, snuggly-soft and heavy lidded in a way he’d deny under oath. He takes another drag anyway. “Whatever you say.”
You hop out of bed, grabbing your sweats and dragging them on without bothering with underwear.
“Let’s go.”
Frank doesn’t think twice. Whatever adventure you're up for at one in the morning, he kind of wants to be a part of.
Where we goin?”
Turning in the door way, your smile is too bright for the hour. “There's gotta be someplace open where I can get a blueberry muffin.”
Frank stares at you for half a second.
Then he reaches for his jeans.
Because this is what love is now, apparently.
Hospital chairs. Burnt sienna sheets. Neon pink lighters. Applesauce. Flowers. Your ridiculous coffee order. One a.m. muffin runs.
it’s the way he grips your hips, fingers digging into the skin as his giant frame surrounds you, chest leaning toward your back.
“you being quiet now?” he grunts, one hand lacing itself in your hair, a makeshift ponytail to pull your head back - to make you listen. “what happened to all that attitude? huh?” he asks, the sharp feeling on your scalp making you impossibly wetter than he already had you.
“f-frankie, please.” you beg, thighs quaking as he pushes your head into the sheets beneath you - cock stretching you out, the burning surrounding your walls. after all this time, he’s still too big.
his thrusts become more forceful, the push of his hips evoking sounds you’ve never heard from yourself before - moans, screams - as the feeling of him leaning over you makes you feel small.
“begging now? is that what you’re doing? nah babygirl, none o’that.” he spits out, teeth clenching at the feeling of you constricting his cock, nudged so deep he can feel the outline of him when his huge fingers run over your stomach. “got your big ol’frankie behind you, after all that attitude, and now you’re beggin?”
the feeling between your legs, deep within you, burns - and the words you were about to say leave your lips. your clit twitches, begging for his calloused hands to touch you.
his frame leans over fully, his weight folded on top of you - crushing you, almost - and all you can do is scream at the feeling of him bullying his cock ever deeper into you, and his hand finally slips under your bodies and onto the little nub that’s been begging for him for so long.
“like it when i fuck you like this?,” he growls in your ear, rubbing harsh, fast circles, “like it when i make you cum all over me?”
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