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hatethysinner · 15 days ago

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ᴍᴀɴ ᴛᴜʀɴꜱ ᴀɴɪᴍᴀʟ

ʀᴇᴍᴍɪᴄᴋ x ʙʟᴀᴄᴋ!ꜰᴇᴍ!ᴀᴄᴄᴏᴍᴘʟɪᴄᴇ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ: He loved you too much to share. So he took everything else. Your friends, your family, your freedom, all slowly melted away. Now it's just him, the house, and you. And he promises that's all you'll ever need.

ᴡᴄ: 15.2k

ᴀ/ɴ: title taken directly from this incredible song. i loved and hated every second of writing this but i just NEEDED to get it out of my system. while i don't think i particularly delved into anything dd:dne (PLEASE MIND THE WARNINGS AND DNI IF DARK FICS AREN'T YOUR CUP OF TEA <3), i definitely channeled my most unhinged ao3 reads for this. this'll probably be the only time i write a full fic of dark!remmick, but if this really blows up i may actually consider doing more. as always, white girls i promise you can have your fun with this too ❤️. enjoy reading divas! i don't do taglists personally, so just follow me if you want to be updated when i post c:

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: unapologetically dark fic(!!!), exposition dump, obsession, murder, body disposal, vampirism, biting, blood, bloodplay, dark!remmick on steroids, lovebombing, manipulation, isolation, toxic relationship (somewhat established), emotionally/mentally abusive behavior (!!!), threats of violence, codepency, lowkey unreliable narrator, extremely dubious consent (!!!), noncon (!!!), heavily abused power imbalance, dom!remmick, sub!reader, reader is going through it, remmick loves tormenting her, angst, praise kink, light degradation kink, breeding kink, proper use of a gold chain during sex, babytrapping (!!!), p in v, cunnilingus, fingering, overstimulation, dacryphilia, biting, sadism, monsterfucking, religious mentions, loss of virginity, no happy ending, divider usage, written on demon time

You were the kind of girl folks counted on.

Always had been.

Ran your daddy’s general store with a steady hand and a sharp head for numbers. Never late to open, never short on change. You knew what folks needed before they asked. Darning needles, cane syrup, extra tobacco for the older men who swore they were quitting but never really tried. Folks came in more for you than the goods, if they were honest. You smiled easy. Listened well. Learned their names, their kids’ names, and how they liked their goods bagged.

You had a tight circle of friends, girls you’d known since church bonnets and petticoats. Played games on the porch after Sunday school and swapped lipstick behind the store when your daddy wasn’t looking. They called you the smart one. The grounded one. The kind that could hold a whole household together with one hand while balancing the day’s receipts in the other. They said if any of them were gonna marry a good man, it’d be you.

But somehow, that wasn’t the way the road bent.

You were always the one they leaned on. The one who helped fix their hems and cooled their heartbreaks and made sure they got home safe. But when they talked about love, the soft parts, the burning ones, the kind of hunger that made your hands tremble, they never looked at you.

You weren’t the girl men chased after. Just the one who made things easier.

And still, somehow, you were the one he chose.

He came in on a Tuesday.

Dead of night, just before closing. Long shadows bleeding in through the windows, sun already tucked behind the treeline, store mostly empty save for the sound of your broom brushing across the floorboards. You’d flipped the sign but hadn’t locked up yet. Wasn’t late enough to feel nervous.

Not until the bell over the door chimed, and he stepped through.

A white man.

Tall. Pale. Not from around here. And not the type of man who came this far across town, not without a reason. He didn’t belong on your side of the county line. Not unless he was lost. Not unless he meant trouble.

But if he was aware of how out of place he looked, he didn’t show it. He walked in easy. Calm. Hands in his coat pockets and a smile that curved slow and deliberate. He looked right at you, only you, and said,

“Evenin’, miss.”

Polite. Warm. Like this was a place, a side of town, he frequented.

He asked for flour. Then matches. Then something sweet. Said he had a long road ahead of him, but never said where it led. Moved like he had all the time in the world. Studied the shelves like they held more than goods. Like he was trying to learn something about you in the way you stocked your soap and stacked your salt.

His accent was Southern, but different. Smooth, syrupy, with a twist to his vowels, like every word had traveled through someplace older, foreign, before landing in his mouth. He didn’t speak like a man passing through. Spoke like a man digging roots. And when he left, he touched two fingers to the brim of a hat he didn’t wear, like tipping it to you was instinct.

You locked the door behind him. Stood for a moment, broom still in hand, wondering what to make of it.

Then he came back the next night.

And the next.

Always right before closing. Always alone.

He brought little things each time. His name, Remmick, the second time around. An odd name, you thought.

A ribbon he said reminded him of your favorite dress, even though you hadn’t told him which one it was. A book of poems with pages marked and underlined, left at the counter with a quiet “Thought ya might like this one.” A jar of thick, dark honey that looked more like molasses, wrapped in cloth and twine like a gift.

Remmick never lingered too long. Never pushed for more than you were willing to give. Just watched. Listened. Laid compliments at your feet like offerings. Not greasy or crude, but precise. Gentle. Like he meant every word and had studied you long enough to know they’d land.

Said you had a voice that sounded like morning.

Said you were the only person in town worth a real conversation.

Said you smiled like it meant something.

You rolled your eyes. Called him too much.

But you didn’t tell him to stop.

No one had ever looked at you like that before.

Like you were worth slowing down for.

And piece by piece, the walls you’d built without knowing cracked beneath the weight of his gaze.

And slowly, your world started to tilt.

Not all at once.

Just by degrees.

Like a house shifting its weight before the foundation gives.

Your friends never met him. Not once. But they could tell something had changed. The way you smiled at nothing when they were mid-sentence. The way your gaze would drift toward the door, or to the windows, or to some place in your head they couldn’t reach. You weren’t sharing like you used to. Not your stories, not your time.

Still, they were happy for you. At first. Said it must be something special, if you were keeping it close. But even then, there was a pause in their voices when they said it. A little squint in the eyes. A little too much emphasis on the word special.

They’d always said you were the one who’d settle down first. The one with the good head. The one who’d choose someone kind and steady, someone who knew what it meant to take care of a woman like you.

But you never gave them a name.

Never said what he looked like, what he did, where he came from.

And eventually, they stopped asking.

Your parents noticed the shift too.

Your mama stopped by more often. Just to check in, she'd say. But her voice always started a little high-pitched when she'd talk. Like she could see something in you she didn’t have the words for. Your daddy didn’t say much at all, but you could feel his silence stretching between you every time he stopped by the shop and found you humming without noticing, sorting flour bags with a smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes.

You told them everything was fine.

Told yourself the same.

And it was. He said it was.

Remmick always had a way of making the world sound simpler than it was.

He made you feel beautiful. Sharp. Like the only person in the room worth speaking to.

Like his person.

And the things he said. God, the things he said.

Said you had the kind of soul people wrote songs about. That no one else had ever understood you the way he did. That all your life, people had been trying to water you down. Make you smaller, quieter, more convenient.

But he saw you.

And you believed him.

Of course you did.

He didn’t like your friends, though. Said they talked too much. Said they didn’t get you. Said you always came back from seeing them with your shoulders a little tighter, your voice a little more unsure. That they didn’t want you to grow. That they only loved you when you stayed the version of yourself they could manage.

He said it so sweetly, like it hurt him to say it.

Like it was breaking his heart.

And when he asked, gently, softly, with his fingers stroking the inside of your wrist, if you could spend a little less time with them, it didn’t feel like control.

It felt like care.

He missed you, after all.

He needed you.

And you wanted to be needed.

God help you, you did.

So you let them drift.

One by one.

Until their names felt strange on your tongue.

He said your parents were too involved. Too nosy. Said you were grown now. Said their worries weren’t yours to carry. And when you stopped accepting your mama's visits, when you quit your job at your daddy's general store despite the heartbroken look on his face, it didn’t feel like abandonment. Not then.

It felt like love.

Like a cocoon being spun around something precious.

When he asked you to come stay with him, it didn’t feel like a decision.

Just the next step in the story he was writing for you both.

The manor was beautiful. Isolated. A pristine, white-columned thing hidden deep in the Delta, so far from town it didn’t even register on some maps. Every plank of wood polished. Every curtain soft and silent in the breeze. The kind of place where your voice echoed even when you whispered. Where the sky stretched endless above you, dark and wide and brimming with stars you hadn’t seen in years.

He said it would be safer this way. Quieter. Easier to breathe.

You believed him.

You believed everything he said.

And he rewarded that belief.

The room he gave you was sun-soaked and clean, decorated with strange antiques and velvet-upholstered chairs that looked too expensive to sit in but felt right under you. He stocked the closet with dresses in your size before you ever mentioned needing new clothes. Or giving him your measurements. Set your favorite tea on the windowsill beside a stack of your favorite books.

“Just figured ya’d need some comfort, darlin’,” he said, planting featherlight kisses on your hands. “A woman like you deserves softness.”

You told yourself it was kind. Thoughtful.

You didn’t think to ask how he knew what you liked.

Not until later.

By then, it had already begun.

The soft steps outside your door at night.

The feeling of being watched. Not cruelly. Not even threateningly. But deliberately. Like the world outside had narrowed down to two hearts and one house, and all of it was his.

He made sure you loved him. Or at least that you needed him too badly to leave.

And if someone asked you when the line was crossed,

You couldn’t say.

You never even saw it pass beneath your feet.

Until the night he came home with blood on his shirt.

Not a smear. Not a spot.

Soaked.

Dark and wet and clinging, like the cotton had drunk its fill and was still greedy. His cuffs were stiff with it. His collar painted red. There were flecks on his throat, droplets drying like freckles, and his hands dripped steadily onto the hardwood, drawing crimson lines in a path that led straight to you.

He didn’t speak right away.

Just stood there in the doorway of the sitting room, chest rising slow. Watching you.

There was no panic in his eyes. No guilt. Just a feverish gleam, like he’d returned from something holy and wasn’t quite ready to step down from the altar.

You froze where you were. Half-curled on the sofa, book in hand, mouth parting without sound.

He stepped inside and told you the man's name. Simply. As if announcing the weather.

You blinked.

He smiled. Small. Serene.

“Didn’t suffer long.”

You screamed.

Loud. Unfiltered. Scrambled back until your spine hit the armrest, and the book hit the floor with a thud that didn’t register beneath the roar of your pulse.

He didn’t flinch.

Didn’t apologize.

Just watched you with that same slow-burning affection he always wore, like this was something you would come to understand in time. Like it was natural. Expected. A truth you’d learn to live inside.

When your voice cracked from shouting no, when your sobs doubled over into heaves, he knelt.

Right there. Blood and all.

He didn’t bother to wash his hands first. Didn’t even take off his coat. He just knelt at your feet like a knight returning from battle, like something ancient and humbled and sure of its place.

“Don’t cry, sugar,” he hummed, reaching for you.

You pulled back.

Didn’t matter.

He closed the gap gently, slowly, as if calming a startled animal.

“Wasn’t for no reason,” he said, voice low and honey-thick. “Ya believe that, don’t ya?”

You shook your head. Weak.

And still, when his bloodied hand cupped your face, you didn’t pull away fast enough.

“There’s things ya don’t know,” he whispered. “Things I can’t tell ya yet. But ya don’t need to know them to be mine.”

You tried to twist free. Failed. His grip was firm, but not cruel.

He pressed his forehead to yours.

The wet heat of him radiated through your clothes as he leaned in close, shoulders still trembling with leftover adrenaline. You could smell it. Copper and something else. Something rich. Like old rust and soil and bone. Like the breath of something deep in the earth that hadn’t surfaced in a long, long time.

He exhaled slow.

“I ain’t want to scare ya,” he said. “But I had to show ya.”

You didn’t speak.

You couldn’t.

“Because this is me,” he continued. “This is what I am. And if ya love me, if ya mean what y’said, then ya have to see all of me.”

“I never said I loved you,” you almost answered.

But the words didn’t come.

Because his hand moved then.

Not to your neck. Not to hurt.

But to your collar.

He brushed the fabric aside, dragging the edge of his sleeve across your skin.

And the blood marked you.

He wiped it deliberately. Across your jaw. The hollow of your throat. The slope of your collarbone.

You gasped, jerking instinctively, but he only shushed you like he was soothing a frightened child.

“Shh,” he cooed. “Just want ya to wear a little of me. That’s all.”

His voice was trembling now. With restraint. With something else.

“I’m not angry,” he added, and it was true. “I’d never hurt ya. Not ever. You’re the only thing in this world I couldn’t break if I tried.”

And you believed him.

That was the worst part.

He leaned back finally, just enough to look you full in the face.

You were streaked in red.

Your cheeks damp with tears.

And he smiled.

Not wide.

Not cruel.

Just soft.

Like it was all going to be okay.

“Y’don’t have to help,” he said. “Not tonight.”

You didn’t answer.

He rose, slow and deliberate, and walked to the kitchen to wash. You sat frozen. Couldn’t bring yourself to look down at your hands.

When the water ran, you heard him humming again. That same lullaby cadence he always used when he thought you were asleep. And when he called your name, voice gentle, it wasn’t a summons.

It was a question.

And you answered.

You stepped into the kitchen on legs that didn’t feel like yours, and you helped him mop the floor. Scrub the blood from the baseboards. You didn’t ask what he did with the body.

You didn’t want to know.

But you watched the way he scrubbed his nails clean, the way his eyes softened whenever he looked at you.

And you didn’t leave.

Not that night.

Not the next.

Now, months later, the blood doesn’t shock you like it used to. You don’t ask who. You don’t ask why. You just wait by the door with towels and vinegar and steady hands.

You still don’t watch him do it. Never have.

But he always leaves the door cracked open.

Just a little.

Just in case.

The house is quiet now. Filled with the sound of dripping water, your own heartbeat, and the hushed, weary creak of the manor’s bones.

He doesn’t pretend to be human anymore.

Not around you.

He lets the teeth stay long, the nails a little sharper. Lets you see the red light behind his eyes when the moonlight hits right.

And still, he kisses you goodnight.

Brushes your curls back from your face.

Tells you you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to him.

And when he says it, you believe him.

You are the best thing he’s ever had.

And he’s made damn sure you’ll never leave.

You woke to the feeling of being watched.

Not the vague kind. Not a creeping hunch. No. This was the real kind. Deep and certain, rooted in the marrow of your bones like an old warning. It had shape now, weight. You knew it as easily as breath.

And sure enough, when your lashes parted and the room slowly unblurred, there he was.

Remmick stood over you like some towering monument carved out of shadow, tall and still and all but glowing in the thin streak of dawnlight filtering in through the curtain seam. His shirt hung half-open, pale chest streaked faintly with water. He must’ve bathed again before slipping in. His hair, dark and heavy, was still damp at the ends, dripping in slow intervals down the edge of his throat.

His jaw was slightly parted. And at the corner of his mouth, just barely catching the light, sat a thick bead of drool.

Not blood.

Just spit.

But too much of it. An unnatural amount.

Like he’d been watching you sleep for a long, long while and hadn’t once closed his mouth.

Sizing you up.

You didn’t flinch.

Not anymore.

Instead, you shifted slowly beneath the blankets, tucking your arms beneath your cheek. Your voice was low, rough with sleep. “You been there long?”

His eyes lit like someone had sparked a fuse. And then that crooked grin curled across his face, proud and toothy. Too many teeth for such a soft expression.

“Couldn’t help it,” he drawled, voice slow and lazy at the edges. “Ya look so pretty when you sleep.”

You huffed quietly. It wasn’t really a laugh, but it wasn’t a complaint either. You didn’t pull the blankets higher. Didn’t hide. Just turned your face into the pillow to block the light.

Behind you, the mattress dipped under his weight.

He climbed in slow, but sure. As he always did, never asking if you needed the space. You felt the heat of him even before he touched you. Always too cold when he wasn’t holding you, always too much when he was.

One arm slipped under your waist. The other folded over your middle. And then he was there, wrapped around you like a vise, breath ghosting against your neck, chest rising and falling in sync with your own. You could feel the edge of his belt buckle press into your lower back, the weight of his thigh hooked over yours, the solidness of his body where it pressed along every inch of you.

You should’ve felt caged.

Sometimes you did.

But this morning, you just felt still. Heavy. Grounded.

He kissed the back of your shoulder. Once. Then again, slower.

You closed your eyes and listened.

“Made breakfast,” he murmured against your skin. “Berries. Biscuits. Got that jam ya like. And tea. Not the bitter one. The kind with the hibiscus.”

You didn’t answer right away.

Didn’t move either.

Just lay there with the weight of him curled around your body, his words threading through the fog in your mind. Your limbs felt like wet cotton, and your heart… well, it didn’t race anymore when he held you like this. It just kept time. Careful. Steady.

Some mornings were like this.

Gentle. Sweet. The world in perfect balance, even if it was only for a breath.

Others weren’t.

There were days where something in him just… shifted.

No warning. No clear offense. Just a quiet closing of the door between you. A change in the air.

He wouldn’t look at you.

Wouldn’t speak.

You’d move through the house like a ghost in your own skin, tiptoeing around the silence. You'd replay every moment from the days before in your head like a broken record, trying to pinpoint the crack. The wrong word. The wrong breath. You whispered his name sometimes, just to see if he’d flinch.

He never did.

And the longer it lasted, the more desperate you got.

You’d sit at the edge of the bed, fingers clenched in your lap, watching the door anxiously. Or trail behind him through the house, trying to make yourself useful. Fixing his tea, folding the blankets, laying out the towels just the way he liked them. Hoping he’d notice. Hoping it’d be enough.

It never was.

Sometimes you cried.

Most of the time, you did.

Not loud. Just soft and constant, curled into a corner of the couch, the fabric beneath you growing damp from the weight of it all. You didn’t ask him to come back. You just wanted him to see.

And eventually, once the sun had vanished and the stars were out, once you were past the tears and into the shaking, silent part of grief, he would return.

Not from outside.

Just from wherever he’d gone inside himself.

He’d find you there, face raw, eyes swollen, mouth trembling with all the things you couldn’t say.

And he’d kneel.

Press his hands to your knees. Pull your face up to his.

He used to wipe your tears, once. With the pads of his thumbs. Gentle. Sweet.

But not anymore.

Now he licked them.

Dragged his tongue across your cheeks, pleased sounds always escaping his mouth as if he was tasting a delicacy.

“Ain’t mean it,” he’d whisper. “Ain’t mean to go so cold, darlin’.”

You never asked why he did it.

You just nodded.

And let the licks turn into kisses.

You tried not to think too hard on those days.

Because when he was good to you?

He was perfect.

Like now.

You felt his fingers shift under your nightdress, splaying wide over your stomach like he was anchoring himself with the shape of you.

“Ya smell like sunlight,” he whispered, almost in awe. “Like warmth. Like somethin’ I wanna keep forever.”

He didn’t say it to get a rise out of you.

He meant it.

He always meant it.

You could feel the edge of a smile pull at your mouth, but it didn’t quite reach the surface. It never did on mornings like this. You couldn’t tell if it was dread or hope that kept it from blooming fully.

He kissed your hair.

“Ya awake?”

You gave the smallest nod.

He chuckled, breath warm and steady against your ear.

“Come eat, baby. Gotta keep ya strong.”

You nodded again.

And let him pull you out of bed.

Because that’s what you did on good days.

You let yourself be loved.

He led you down to the kitchen like you were the only woman in the world who’d ever deserved to be walked anywhere.

His palm rested against the small of your back, guiding, not pushing, and he moved with slow, deliberate steps like each one was part of some silent ceremony only he knew the meaning of. You didn’t rush. You never did, not with him. It didn’t feel right to.

The kitchen was already warm with sunlight slanting through the curtains, soft and hazy, painting the wooden floorboards gold. The stove clicked gently as the kettle cooled. Something citrusy hung in the air alongside the hibiscus. Orange peel or lemon zest, maybe. It was always hard to tell with him. He had a way of combining scents until they no longer smelled like anything but home.

He pulled your chair out for you.

Waited for you to sit.

Then served your plate himself.

He’d made the biscuits from scratch. Just the way you liked them, topped with honey and butter. A few berries had burst open on the side of the pan, their juices bleeding into the crust like bruises, and he placed those pieces carefully at the edge of your plate, like he knew you’d want them last.

There were eggs, too. Soft-scrambled, barely set. And jam. The good kind, dark and smooth and homemade.

He didn’t eat, of course. He never did.

But he sat across from you, arms folded on the table, chin resting on one hand as he watched.

Not like a man waiting for praise.

Like a man watching a miracle.

You didn’t feel self-conscious anymore. Not the way you used to. Not even when he studied the curve of your fingers or the way your mouth parted slightly with each bite. Not when his eyes lingered on the bridge of your nose, the full shape of your lips, the high frame of your cheekbones. Features that other men overlooked, or worse, tried to make smaller. Not when he traced your every movement like he was trying to memorize it.

Just warm.

Maybe a little shy.

But warm.

“You’re gonna spoil me,” you said after a few moments, tone light and quiet.

His mouth curved. “Good.”

You raised a brow, chewing. “That all you gonna say?”

He leaned forward slightly, elbows on the table. “What else is there? A woman like ya’s worth spoilin’. Worth feedin’. Worth watchin’. I get more outta sittin’ across from ya than most men get in a lifetime.”

Your breath caught.

You didn’t mean for it to. You knew he liked that kind of reaction. Thrived off it. But still, it happened. He had a way of saying things that left you undone. Like he meant them. Like there wasn’t a doubt in his mind that it was true.

You swallowed and looked down at your plate.

Let yourself smile.

Just a little.

That was the danger of mornings like this. The sweetness. The calm.

You’d forget, just for a moment, what he was.

Let your guard slip.

And he’d let you. That was the worst part.

He never forced it.

Never had to.

“I’ll be headin’ out later,” he said, finally breaking the stillness. “Just before sundown.”

You glanced up. “Errands?”

He nodded. “Might be a while.”

You waited, hoping he’d elaborate.

He didn’t.

You didn’t press.

Not because you trusted him, not completely, but because you wanted to. Needed to. Trust was a gift, and he treated it like one. Collected it. Stroked it. Cradled it in his arms like something he’d stolen.

He reached across the table and brushed his knuckles down the side of your face.

You leaned into it.

Didn’t mean to.

But you didn’t pull away either.

He tilted his head. Studied you.

“I’ll bring ya back somethin’ nice,” he said. “New necklace, maybe. Somethin’ that'll bring out that pretty mouth of yours.”

You blinked. “You don’t have to-”

“I want to.” His hand slid down your arm, resting over your wrist. “Ya always act like ya ain’t allowed to be treated soft. But I told ya already, anybody that didn’t see your worth before me was blind.”

You didn’t respond.

You didn’t have to.

He leaned in and kissed your forehead. Soft. Gentle. Reverent.

And for a second, everything felt so normal.

So painfully, heartbreakingly normal.

Like this was just a house.

Like he was just a man.

Like you were just a girl in love, waiting for the evening to fall.

You let yourself stay in the moment a little longer.

Finished your tea in slow sips.

Let him watch you.

And prayed that the quiet wouldn’t turn. That tomorrow wouldn’t shift. That tonight, God willing, tonight would still be kind.

You knew better than to believe in quiet mornings.

Not here. Not with him.

Still, the stillness of the day had tricked you. It had crept in through the floorboards and settled into your chest, soft as fog, convincing you that peace might last. That today would stay gentle. Safe.

He’d been kind all morning. Sweet, even. Kissed your shoulder while you dressed. Detangled your hair with slow, worshipful hands. Called you baby in that voice like melted sugar as he danced with you to a jazz record. It had been so easy to believe in the calm, to believe he meant it.

But peace, in this house, was never given.

Only loaned.

You’d spent the day in the parlor, patching a hem that didn’t really need fixing, listening to the wind scratch against the shutters. He passed through every hour or so, always with something to say.

“Ya look so soft in this light.”

“That color’s real pretty on ya.”

Always with a kiss to your hairline. A graze of his fingers at your elbow. And you let him.

You let him.

Because it was a good day.

Until it wasn’t.

Remmick lit the lamps earlier than usual. Shadows hadn’t even grown long across the floor yet, but he moved like he couldn’t stand the dim. A low, strange hum sat under his breath. His movements were slow but measured, pressing the collar of his shirt, combing his hair with surgical care. He changed into a dark button-up, freshly pressed, the fabric stiff and lined with faint charcoal pinstripes. He didn’t fasten the top button. Let his collarbone show. The buttons themselves were a pale ivory, too round and too polished to be anything but bone.

He didn’t speak while he dressed.

Didn’t look at you, either.

But when he passed you near the kitchen door, he paused. Tilted your chin up. Kissed your forehead like a benediction. His lips were too warm, too careful.

“Be good while I’m gone,” he said.

And that was all.

The door opened hours later, at a time when you had long retired to your bedroom.

Not with a knock. Not with warning.

Just the quiet creak of the front door swinging open.

You didn’t recognize the man who entered. Not at first.

Older. White. Expensive. That was the word that came to mind first. Expensive. The coat, the cane, the posture. He moved like he owned everything he looked at, and when his eyes slid over the staircase where you watched from just out of view, he barely registered you at all.

He smelled of clean money and fragrant cologne. His voice, when he spoke, had a practiced warmth. Used to making deals, used to being obeyed.

Remmick welcomed him like an old friend. No introductions. Just a nod, and a hand at the man’s back as he ushered him toward the parlor, the two of them murmuring low between each other. You didn’t catch what was said. Didn’t want to.

You slowly closed your door.

But that didn’t stop your heart from picking up.

Didn’t stop the feeling crawling into your bones. The kind that knew this was punishment, even if you didn’t know what for.

You hadn’t said anything wrong today. Hadn’t wandered too far. Hadn’t said no.

He’d kissed your forehead. Cooked for you. Danced with you.

So why?

Why this?

You sat on the edge of your bed, hands pressed to your thighs, jaw clenched until it ached. You wanted to pace, but you knew better. He hated when you fidgeted.

Time bled slowly by. A drip of unease with every second.

Then the parlor door clicked shut.

You couldn’t hear much. Just muffled voices beneath the hum of the hallway light. At first, it was civil. Calm. Two men talking. Glasses clinking. Something poured.

You stared out your window.

And then, a sound.

It didn’t come as a cry at first. Just a thump, low and heavy.

Then another.

And then it began in earnest.

The screaming didn’t start with words. It started with breath. Ragged, sharp, begging. Then the voice rose. Screamed so hard it cracked, pleaded, cursed. The sound of it ricocheted through the walls like thunder. One drawn-out, blood-curdled no, followed by a scream that didn’t end, just collapsed.

You covered your ears.

Pressed your palms so tight it made your head ring.

But nothing could drown it out.

Your whole body trembled.

Not from shock.

From knowing this was intentional.

Because he didn’t need for you to hear it.

He wanted you to.

This was never about the man in the parlor. Not really.

It was about you.

What you’d said. Or done. Or failed to do.

You didn’t know what you were being punished for.

But you felt it, in your gut.

Your punishment had a heartbeat, a voice, a body now. And it was breaking somewhere below your feet.

The screaming stopped eventually.

But the silence that followed was worse.

Because silence didn’t end anything in this house.

It only marked the beginning of the next thing.

You waited.

Not just for the screaming to stop. Not just for the silence to settle. But long after.

You waited until the walls stopped humming with sound. Until the floorboards cooled beneath your feet. Until even the wind outside held its breath.

And then,

You heard it.

The soft groan of the parlor door unlatching. A low creak. A shift in weight across the boards.

His footsteps were quiet.

Measured.

Too soft for a man who’d just done what he’d done. Like he was walking through a church. Or a dream.

You didn’t move. Stayed curled in on yourself at the edge of your bed, arms locked around your knees, eyes fixed on the door like it might rattle open any second. It didn’t.

Not yet.

You heard the stairs instead.

One. By one.

Each step slow and steady, deliberate. Like he was giving you time.

Time to compose yourself.

Time to prepare.

Time to realize nothing was going to stop him from reaching you.

The knob turned.

You hadn’t even realized your door was unlocked.

It opened with a click and a hush, and there he was.

Standing in the threshold like a vision from a fever.

Blood soaked the front of his shirt. Thick and wet in some places, half-dried and flaking in others. It clung to his throat, painted his collarbone, pooled beneath his nails. His sleeves were still rolled, but the pale skin of his forearms was nearly lost beneath the spatter. There were streaks along his jaw where he’d tried to wipe his mouth clean. Too late. Too messy. A smear of it curved across his cheekbone like a smile.

And his claws, long, edged, still drawn, glinted in the low light of your bedside lamp.

But what knocked the breath out of your chest was his face.

Calm.

Completely, terrifyingly calm.

His eyes, those strange, shifting, ancient things, shone soft in the dim. Not wild. Not frenzied.

Just… peaceful.

“Darlin’,” he said, soft as a sigh. “Can ya come here?”

His voice sounded like the morning.

Like nothing had happened at all.

You didn’t answer.

But your body moved.

You hated it. How your limbs betrayed you. How your feet swung over the edge of the bed and touched the floor. How you stepped closer to him, one foot, then another, then another, drawn toward him like gravity had chosen sides.

He didn’t move to meet you.

Just waited.

Like he knew you would come.

And when you reached the doorway, when your bare feet kissed the hallway light, that’s when he touched you.

Both hands to your face. Fingers gentle, claws grazing soft against your cheeks.

Blood smeared warm across your skin.

You flinched.

But didn’t pull away.

His thumbs brushed just beneath your eyes. Not to wipe your tears, there weren’t any yet, but to cup the place where they would be. Where he knew they would be.

“Ya did somethin’ wrong,” he whispered. “Ain’t ya?”

That broke you.

“No,” you whispered, voice breaking.

The tears came all at once. Thick. Hot. Your chest heaved and you shook your head, hands flying up to press against his wrists. “No, please- Remmick, please, I didn’t- I can’t-”

“I know,” he said.

But his grip didn’t loosen.

Your knees nearly gave. Your breath hitched.

And he leaned in close, lips almost brushing yours.

“I’m scared,” you sobbed. “Please don’t make me-”

That’s when he said it.

Soft. Sweet.

Final.

“Y’ain’t got a choice.”

The words weren’t cruel.

Weren’t laced with threat.

They sounded like a lullaby.

And then, he kissed you.

Slow. Deep. Full of pride.

The blood on his mouth smeared onto yours, warm and metallic and thick enough to make you shudder. You didn’t kiss him back. Couldn’t. But your lips parted. And that was enough.

He made a sound, something like a purr, and pulled back, smiling like you’d just said I love you.

“There ya go,” he whispered.

Then, lower: “C’mon, now. Just a little bit of help.”

You shook your head, tears streaking your cheeks.

His thumbs smeared them. Not away. Just… further. Down your face. Into your mouth. Into the collar of your nightdress.

“Remmick, please-”

“Ya can,” he said again, voice even gentler this time. “Ya will.”

And when he kissed your forehead, it didn’t feel like comfort.

It felt like surrender.

He led you to the rear hall.

Step by step.

The floorboards creaked beneath your feet, slow and drawn out like they knew what was coming. The air back here always felt colder. Damper, too. Like the walls remembered every secret ever whispered against them.

One clawed hand pressed low to your back. Not shoving. Not dragging. Just guiding. A lover’s touch, if you ignored the sharp curve of his nails and the way they caught on the cotton of your dress.

The other hand gripped something heavy. Bundled tight in a canvas sheet. Edges stiff with dried blood. You didn’t need to ask what it was.

You didn’t want to know how long it had been wrapped like that.

You didn’t want to know anything.

“Take the feet, darlin’,” he said. Soft. Encouraging. “That’s it. There ya go.”

You hesitated.

Stared at the length of fabric that formed the shape of shins, then ankles, then shoes that had once gleamed polished and proud beneath the parlor light.

The man’s feet were cold.

You flinched as your fingers made contact. Felt the stiffness through the layers. The weight of it settled like stone in your stomach.

You choked.

Your knees bent beneath you, buckling under the weight of it, legs shaking, arms burning.

“That’s alright,” Remmick said quickly, already crouched beside you again. “You’re strong. Stronger than ya think.”

He didn’t offer to take it from you.

Didn’t let you drop it either.

Just walked backward, slow and steady, leading you through the back door as the hinges groaned open.

Outside, the air hit sharp.

You breathed it in too fast. Coughed once. The scent of blood clung to your face, your hair, your hands. And beneath it, rot. Curling at the edges of the canvas like the world had already started reclaiming him.

You swallowed hard.

Walked blind behind Remmick.

The trees pressed in around you, branches brittle with late summer’s death. Moonlight pierced the canopy in sharp slivers. The path was narrow. Familiar. You’d taken it before, but never like this.

Never carrying someone.

Remmick hummed as he walked.

Low and tuneless, like it was something he didn’t know he was doing. A sound of habit. Of focus. Of ritual.

You didn’t ask how he knew where to dig.

You didn’t ask how many times he’d done this before.

You just stood there, trembling, as he knelt in the clearing and began to carve the earth apart with his hands.

Not with a shovel.

With his claws.

They split the dirt like butter, curling soil and root alike with mechanical ease. He worked fast. Efficient. With a kind of composure, almost, like he was preparing a bed, not a grave.

You stayed frozen until he glanced up at you, face slick with sweat and moonlight.

“Almost done,” he said. “Just a little more, sugar.”

He stood.

Wiped his brow with the back of one hand, smearing dirt and blood across his temple.

Then he turned to you, lips stretched into a smile.

“C’mon,” he said gently. “Let’s lay him down.”

The canvas landed with a heavy thud.

You flinched again.

He unwrapped the top half. Not all the way. Just enough for the face to show. Slack-jawed, eyes glazed, neck at the wrong angle.

Your stomach turned.

Remmick crouched again, slipped his arms beneath the man’s shoulders.

He looked up at you. Expectant.

“Go on,” he said, nodding toward the legs.

You hesitated.

“Remmick-”

Your breath caught.

“I said, go on.”

So you did.

You took a deep breath, grasped the ankles again, and followed his count.

One, two, three.

You heaved.

He lifted.

And together, you laid him in the earth.

It wasn’t graceful.

It wasn’t clean.

You gagged once and turned away, bile stinging your throat. He didn’t chastise you. Didn’t rush you. Just stood there in the moonlight, waiting, the grave yawning at his feet.

When you finally turned back, your face pale and your hands filthy, he pressed a kiss to your temple.

“Almost done.”

The dirt came next.

Heavy, clumpy, wet.

It stuck to your fingers and your wrists, coated your forearms, gathered beneath your nails like it wanted to crawl inside you.

Remmick packed the final mound himself.

Then stood.

Brushed his hands together with a soft clap.

And turned toward you.

Smiling.

Like you’d just exchanged vows.

Like something had been sealed tonight, sacred and unbreakable.

His eyes shone in the dark, wide and wild and glowing faintly red.

He cupped your face again, blood dried into the creases of his knuckles.

“Ya did good,” he whispered. “So good f’me.”

And you didn’t correct him.

Didn’t move. Couldn't.

He reached into his coat.

The gesture was slow, deliberate. Like everything with him. He could’ve pulled out anything. A blade, a scrap of skin, a love letter scrawled in someone else’s blood, and part of you would’ve just watched, quiet and ready.

But instead, his hand came back gloved in shadow and something glinting beneath a soaked cloth.

He held it out to you. Waiting.

“I brought ya a gift,” he said, voice low and soft, almost shy. Like he was offering you a bouquet.

You didn’t answer.

Just stared.

The fabric, silk, maybe, once cream, was red now. Mottled. It clung wetly to whatever was wrapped inside, dark lines seeping into the seams.

He unwrapped it slowly.

Bit by bit.

Like unveiling something sacred.

A necklace.

Sapphire, deep and cold, surrounded by a constellation of diamonds so small and fine they looked like frozen tears. The pendant caught the moonlight, sparkled like a drop of river water in the sun.

But the chain, thin and gold, was streaked with blood. Still tacky. Still warm.

He held it up between both hands, letting the pendant sway gently between you.

“Belonged to his wife,” he said.

His eyes never left your face.

“Don’t worry. She didn’t put up much of a fight.”

Your breath hitched.

He said it like a kindness.

Like a mercy.

You didn’t ask what he meant. Not exactly. Didn’t ask if that meant she begged. Or wept. Or just stood there, quiet, waiting for her turn.

You didn’t want to know.

You never did.

He stepped closer.

The necklace still dangling in his hand, catching on his fingers. Blood smeared his palm now. Streaked down his wrist. You didn’t move as he reached up, lifted the chain, heavy and wet, and looped it behind your neck.

His fingers were careful.

Precise.

He fastened it with a soft click, the clasp brushing the nape of your neck, cold as a knife.

Then he stepped back. Just a little.

“There,” he whispered, his voice nearly trembling. “Look at ya. My beautiful girl.”

You didn’t look down.

Didn’t touch it.

You felt the weight of it though. The cold metal against your chest. The stick of half-dried blood just beneath your collarbone.

He kissed your cheek next.

Then your jaw.

Then your mouth.

Soft. Tender.

Loving.

Like a reward.

Like a promise.

You didn’t kiss him back.

Didn’t turn your face away, either.

You stood there like a statue. A monument to something twisted and holy. Let him praise you. Let him touch you. Let him cover you in devotion and blood and the sweetness of a love that could burn down a world if it meant keeping you in the ashes.

You weren’t sure what you were anymore.

Not a prisoner.

Not exactly.

Not a partner.

Not fully.

Not a killer.

Not yet.

But his hands, slick and reverent, cradled your face like you were sacred. Like you were his altar. His salvation.

Because you were.

You could see it in his eyes.

He’d ruin himself for you. Had already ruined others. And he’d drown you in that same ruin, over and over again, if it meant keeping you his.

He kissed you once more.

And whispered your name like a hymn.

His girl.

His gift.

His only.

The morning was red.

Not pink. Not gold.

Red.

The kind of light that made the dust in the air look like something alive, like smoke rising off a battlefield no one ever won. It filtered through the bedroom curtains in streaks, bleeding across the wooden floorboards, catching on corners like dried rust.

You stood in front of the mirror with your fingers curled around the edge of the sink, knuckles white, wrists aching from how tightly you gripped. The weight of the necklace still hung heavy on your collarbone. It hadn’t come off. Not when you undressed. Not when you bathed. Not even when you’d scrubbed at it with a rag soaked in rosewater, trying, foolishly, desperately, to pretend that was all it was. A speck. A blemish. A piece of someone else's story, not yours.

But it was yours now.

All of it.

And it wasn’t just blood that had soaked in.

It was his voice, still echoing. The way he whispered encouragements as you dropped that man’s arm into the grave. The way his smile widened when you didn’t run.

The way the man’s eyes stared up from the dirt in your dreams.

You hadn’t slept. Not really. You’d closed your eyes and drifted just long enough for the screaming to follow you in. His scream. Ragged. Human. Then the wet sound of Remmick tearing into him. Again and again and again. It kept looping, each time more vivid than the last.

You looked at your own face now, and all you could see was that man’s.

Mouth open. Arms limp. That flash of horror when he realized he wouldn’t make it out of this house.

Your breath hitched, low in your throat.

Tears stung your eyes.

You blinked them back.

You didn’t hear him come in.

You never did. That was the trouble. He moved through space like something meant to haunt. Silent, smooth, inescapable. The door didn’t creak. The floor didn’t shift.

But you knew.

Your body always knew before your eyes did. The hairs on your arms rose. The air cooled. The stillness deepened into something you could taste.

“Y’ain’t even touched your tea,” he said gently from the doorway, voice all breath and softness. “I kept it warm for ya.”

You didn’t answer right away. Just stared at yourself in the glass, hands trembling against the porcelain. You tried to draw a breath that wouldn’t shake.

Behind you, he stepped closer.

“I’m not mad,” he added. “If that’s what you’re wonderin’. ’Bout last night.”

The words landed like stones on water.

You didn’t respond.

His reflection didn’t show in the mirror.

It never did.

But you didn’t need it to. His voice wrapped around your waist like a second pair of arms, like silk stretched over barbed wire.

“Y’did so good. Did exactly what I needed.” He stepped closer. Slow. Deliberate. “That ain’t small, y’know. What I asked of you. It was big. It meant somethin’.”

You blinked hard, but the tears still clung stubborn at the corners. You clenched the sink edge tighter, like maybe it could tether you. Anchor you. Stop you from suffocating in what you’d done.

“I didn’t want it to mean anything,” you said.

But it cracked when it came out.

Your voice. Your face. Your control.

It cracked all the way down.

You pressed your lips together to keep from making a sound, but your shoulders betrayed you, shuddering once, sharp and tight.

You felt him move in behind you, his presence stretching out like a shadow cast by firelight.

“I know, darlin’,” he comforted. “I know.”

But he didn’t say sorry.

Not once.

And the necklace stayed right where it was. Cool against your skin, glittering like something beautiful, something earned.

Something permanent.

He was behind you now.

You didn’t hear him move. Not a creak of floorboard, not a shift of breath. But suddenly, his arms were around your waist. Strong, steady, certain. Like they’d always been there. Like they belonged there.

You startled, just a little.

But he only pulled you closer, pressing his body to your back with the kind of patience that wasn’t really patience at all. Just control. You could feel the way he held himself, as if something inside him had to be kept still. Contained.

His breath ghosted over your shoulder, cool and damp like a lingering mist. He smelled like clove. And sage. And copper. Always copper.

He rested his chin near your temple, nose nudging lightly into your hair.

“I can take it off,” he offered, voice low and humming. “The necklace. If it’s too much.”

You didn’t answer.

His fingers brushed lightly over the jewels. A whisper of a touch, reverent and slow. He let it linger.

“But I hoped ya’d keep it.”

Your eyes stayed locked on the mirror. On the glinting sapphires. The dried blood now fully gone but not forgotten. You swallowed hard.

“Why?” you asked, barely above a breath.

He leaned in.

Close enough that his lips brushed your neck this time, not your temple. A soft, trailing kiss pressed just beneath your ear. Not hungry. Not rough. But not gentle either.

His voice sank into your skin.

“Because it looks right on ya.”

The words were quiet, but they landed like a hand on your throat.

You didn’t flinch. Not outwardly. Your face stayed calm in the mirror. Your shoulders held.

But inside?

Something gave.

A small, buckling thing. Like a part of you that still wanted to believe you could carry this without changing shape.

He kissed your cheek once, slower now, mouth warm and oddly careful for someone so often careless with your breath.

Then he stepped back.

“I’m headin’ out,” he said, already turning toward the door. “Won’t be long. Won’t go far. Just need to stretch my legs.”

You nodded once.

Didn’t meet his eyes.

You heard his boots on the stairs.

The front door creaked open.

And like always, he left it ajar.

Just enough.

Not enough to invite the wind in. But enough to make a point.

You’re not locked in.

You’re free to go.

But you never did. Not because you couldn’t.

Because he’d folded himself into your bones. Threaded his voice through your thoughts. Left kisses on your pulse like warnings.

Before the door closed behind him, his voice drifted back up the stairs. Just loud enough to reach you.

“I love ya.”

The words sat heavy on the floorboards.

You didn’t say it back.

And you knew he’d remember that.

Would carry it like a splinter under his skin.

Would mention it again someday.

Long after you’d forgotten it.

Long after you’d wished you hadn’t.

You drifted to the garden.

The one Remmick had planted for you, despite his disdain for sunlight. He never called it a gift. Never made a show of it. Just started tending the earth one day, sleeves rolled, mouth quiet, movements deliberate. No shovel. Just his hands. Just his claws, raking slow furrows into the dirt and patting them soft again like he was taking care of something fragile.

You’d watched from the balcony that day, unsure if it was kindness or authority. Maybe both. With him, it was hard to tell where one ended and the other began.

It was overgrown now.

But beautiful. Wild.

The vines curled over the trellis like they were reaching for something they’d never touch. Lavender bloomed in thick patches near the roots. Moonflowers tilted their faces upward, shy but greedy. He must’ve come through while you were sleeping, added new things. Nightshade, maybe, or something less honest. Plants you didn’t recognize, but that hummed with some secret you weren’t sure you wanted to know.

You crouched beside a clump of jasmine. Ran your fingers along a bloom. Soft, white, too perfect for this place. You et your breath shudder out.

This was what he did.

He gave you things. He built them into your days. Little comforts, stitched between the horrors.

And they worked.

He loved you.

In his way.

It was obsessive. Demanding. It carved pieces out of you, asked for silence when you wanted to scream and closeness when you needed distance. But it wrapped around you, too. Warmed your tea. Laid your slippers out. Whispered your name like a prayer in the middle of the night.

And you.

You didn’t know what you felt.

Not entirely.

But it was real.

Not soft. Not easy. But real.

Real enough to stay.

Real enough to clean up bodies.

Real enough to wear the necklace. Still cool against your skin. Still shining in the light.

You traced the petal again. It trembled slightly beneath your fingertip.

You stood there until the sun dipped low again, until the cicadas started to hum and the air went thick with evening. That slow, syrupy hush that pressed against the back of your throat like a warning. The garden dimmed into blue shadows. The wind stopped moving.

You didn’t need to look at the sky to know it was time.

You went inside.

Back through the back door. Back into the red quiet. The warmth that never left the floorboards. The smell of sugar and copper that clung to the curtains like an old friend. The faint creak of the stairwell. The clock ticking too slow, or maybe just loud.

Back into his house.

Your house.

Home.

And there, waiting for you by the parlor door, was a new pair of shoes.

Sapphire blue.

The exact shade of the necklace.

They didn’t look expensive. Not flashy. Just thoughtful. Too thoughtful. A little too perfect. The soles hadn’t touched ground. The leather looked like cream. Soft enough to bend, strong enough to last.

They were still wrapped in tissue paper. Still perfect.

And on top, a note. Folded twice, edges crisp.

For when you feel like walkin’. But only if I’m with you.

You didn’t cry.

Didn’t smile, either.

You just sat down in the chair beside the box, touched the ribbon. It gave under your fingers, like it had been tied gently. Like it had been placed there just moments before.

And maybe it had.

Maybe he was watching.

Maybe he never stopped.

You looked around the room once. Let your eyes pass over the mantle, the mirror, the empty hallway. Then back to the shoes.

Blue as blood in moonlight.

He wanted you to wear them. To remember him every time you moved. To know you weren’t alone.

That you’d never be alone again.

Even if you wanted to be.

You rested your hands in your lap. Smoothed your palms over the hem of your skirt. And waited.

Because you knew he’d come through the door soon.

And you needed to be ready.

Two bodies.

That was all you saw at first.

The front door swung open on its silent hinges, just wide enough to catch the night air and let in the swamp’s low, humming breath. Then, dragged across the threshold like afterthoughts, came two bodies.

Ankles gripped in Remmick’s fists. One man. One woman. Limp. Unceremonious. Their shoes scraped along the steps with dull thuds, their limbs sagging like broken dolls. Their heads knocked once, twice, against the frame as he yanked them forward over the threshold, then across the floor, right over the woven runner you’d cleaned just yesterday.

He didn’t pause to readjust his grip. Didn’t hoist them up by the arms or cradle the neck. Just dragged them straight across the polished pine, the hem of the woman’s dress catching on a nail, the man’s cuff leaving a damp smear along the grain.

You were already sitting when the door opened. Curled at the far end of the parlor sofa, one leg tucked beneath the other, a book open in your lap. You’d read the same page three times now. Or tried to.

The fire had gone soft, more glow than flame, and the air smelled faintly of lemon oil from the furniture polish you’d used that afternoon. The quiet had stretched long enough to feel foreign. The kind of quiet you always thought maybe, just maybe, meant a reprieve.

But it never did.

And deep down, some awful part of you had known.

You knew it when he left without telling you where.

You knew it when the sun dipped low and the shoes sat untouched beside the door.

You knew it when your fingertips hovered over the necklace at your collarbone, blue and cold and impossibly bright against your skin.

The quiet of the day had been too full.

The stillness too practiced.

The gift too kind.

Now, he was back. And he brought proof of it with him.

Remmick looked up as he stepped inside. Not hurried. Not sheepish. Just calm.

Casual.

As if he’d been returning from a stroll through the garden and not some carnage-stained errand that ended in slaughter.

And he smiled.

Sharp. Crooked. Gleaming even beneath the gore.

His shirt, what was left of it, clung to him in soaked folds. Torn across the collar. Split open down the front. Dark with blood and something thicker beneath. His trousers weren’t better, stiff with drying stains, the cuffs tracking flecks of mud across the parlor floor.

But it was his hands, claws, that made your breath catch.

Those clever, expressive things.

They were soaked up to the elbows, glistening red at the knuckles, sticky across the nails, the fingers flexing slightly as if trying to forget what they’d just done.

The blood hit the floor with every step. Slap. Smear. Slap. The sound seemed to echo, loud against the hush of the house.

And around his neck,

The gold chain.

The same one from all those months ago. When he first walked into your life, quiet and strange and smiling with teeth too white and eyes too old. The chain had caught the afternoon light back then. Made you think of warmth. Of wealth. Of good manners and good shoes and someone just passing through.

Now, it caught nothing.

Just blood.

Draped against the hollow of his throat, the metal barely glinted beneath the gore. But you knew it. Recognized it in a way that made your stomach twist. Not with fear.

With memory.

Back then, he’d brought honey. Compliments. Ribbons.

Now he brought bodies.

And not once, not even as he stepped closer, dragging the corpses across your freshly scrubbed floors, did he look ashamed.

He didn’t stop until they were halfway into the parlor, just a few feet from where you sat.

Close enough that the stink caught up to you. Metal and dirt and something that curled the back of your throat.

You stared.

At the man. At the woman. At Remmick.

At the man who said he loved you.

At the one who’d kissed your neck that morning and murmured, Won’t be long.

At the one who’d bought you shoes.

And finally, finally, looked at you proper.

Then, he smiled again.

Like this was nothing.

Like it was love.

“I got greedy,” he said with a smile that pulled too wide. Too sharp. The kind of smile that didn’t look right on a human mouth. “Ain’t proud of it. But-”

He dropped one of the ankles with a wet thud and dragged a blood-soaked hand through his hair, slicking it back from his brow. The strands clung there, heavy and dark with something not yet dry.

“-damn, if it didn’t feel good.”

The book slipped from your lap.

It hit the floor with a soft thud, pages bending inward like they were trying to hide. You didn’t look down.

Couldn’t.

Remmick tilted his head. The firelight caught in the red sheen along his jaw, the crimson glint in his eyes, the blood on his lashes, the teeth brazenly bared behind his smile. His gold chain lay across his collarbone, no longer shining, just soaked.

“Now don’t start with that look,” he said gently. Like you were being difficult. Like this was a misunderstanding. “Ain’t nothin’ different about this than last time. Just… more.”

You opened your mouth.

Closed it again.

Your throat tightened. Heat rushed up from your chest to your face, fast and dizzying.

“I can’t,” you said. Too soft. A ghost of breath.

He blinked.

You swallowed, tried again, louder this time, firmer. Your voice broke on the last word.

“I can’t do this.”

His smile didn’t disappear. It tilted. Softened. Confused. Like he’d misheard you, like you’d offered a strange joke in poor taste.

“Sure ya can,” he said with a little chuckle. “You’ve done it before.”

“No- Remmick, I mean it.”

You stood too fast and stumbled backward, shoulder bumping into the arm of the couch. Your hands shook. Your legs wouldn’t stay steady. Something inside you wanted to bolt.

“I-I thought I could prepare for this. I thought I’d be ready if it happened again. I tried to be ready.” You gasped, the tears rising too quickly now. “But it’s too much. It’s too much, I can’t- I can’t do it again.”

You covered your mouth with both hands as the sob came. Hot and involuntary. It made your knees buckle.

He didn’t say anything.

Just stood there in the parlor’s golden light, two bodies behind him, the blood still dripping from his sleeves. His shirt was open, clinging to him in places and torn in others, revealing streaks of red drying along the lines of his ribs. The bloodied gold chain at his neck looked too bright against it. Almost sickeningly bright. Like something holy lost in rot, just as defiled.

And yet he watched you.

Like you were the only thing that mattered in the room.

Like the rest of the blood didn’t exist.

Like he liked this. Your shaking, your fear. Or maybe it wasn’t that. Maybe it was something worse. Maybe he needed it.

He dropped the second ankle.

The bodies sprawled in opposite directions, lifeless and heavy, arms twisted beneath them. But his gaze didn’t follow them. Never once did he glance away from you.

He started walking.

Slow, deliberate steps. Not rushed. Not angry. As if trying to convince you to not run away. Even though he knew you wouldn’t.

His claws hadn’t retracted yet.

You could see them now. Long and sharp, extending clean past his fingertips like polished blades. Shimmering wet.

You backed away until your spine met the bookshelf, hands splayed behind you against the wood.

“I’m not mad,” he said gently.

God, why was that worse?

“I just thought ya might help.” he went on.

He was close now. Close enough to breathe in. Close enough to taste the iron in the air. His outline looked too tall in the firelight, too narrow at the shoulders, too still.

You turned your face away, but his hand came up, bloodied, clawed, and cupped your cheek with the same reverence you remembered from quieter mornings. His thumb smeared a tear away.

“You’re cryin’,” he murmured, and it almost sounded like it surprised him.

Then, instead of licking it away, he kissed it. Softly. Slowly. Like he knew that was what you needed. As if that made it better.

You sobbed harder.

“Please,” you whispered, barely able to speak past the tightness in your throat. “Please, Remmick. Not this time. I-I can’t.”

He leaned in, brushing his lips against your nape, his breath traveling hot and sticky down your neck.

And then, in the sweetest voice you’d ever heard:

“Sometimes I think about killin’ ya.”

Your whole body went still.

Not in fear.

Not in surprise.

In something worse.

Recognition.

Because you knew. Knew without needing a second breath, that he meant it.

The words didn’t drop like a bomb. They slid in like a knife. Quiet. Precise. Familiar.

He tilted his head, brushing his knuckle down your jaw like he hadn’t just said the most horrifying thing you’d ever heard.

“Every day,” he whispered. “Mornin’ and night. Before ya wake. After ya sleep. When you’re liftin’ the kettle, or brushin’ out your curls, or sayin’ my name like it still means somethin’ soft.”

His eyes were wide now, blue burning red at the center. Hungry. Hollow. A flame with no wick.

His hand drifted down your throat. Light as a feather. He traced the line of your pulse with the back of his knuckle, sighing at the flutter under your skin.

“Don’t mean I want to,” he said. “Not in the way you’re thinkin’. I’d never do it to hurt ya. It ain’t about that.”

You didn’t move. Couldn’t.

He stepped in closer, just close enough that your breath bounced off his shirt. Soaked and stiff with blood, the collar dark and curling at the seams. You could smell it all over him now. On his breath. In his hair. On the chain pressed tight against the hollow of his throat.

“Sometimes,” he started, “I see ya sittin’ there with a book in your hand, brows furrowed, lips pursed, and I think: God, I’d like to still that moment forever. Seal it. Keep it. Bury it right inside me so no one else ever gets to see it.”

His hand dropped lower.

Over your ribs.

The curve of your waist.

“Sometimes,” he went on, his voice still syrup-sweet, “I think about your blood spread out over the floor like a paintin’. The kind of red that don’t fade. The kind that says y’were mine.”

You whimpered.

And it made him shiver.

“But then ya smile at me,” he said. “And I think, no, not yet. Not yet. Let her smile again. Let her ask me what I’m hummin’. Let her scold me for trackin’ dirt into the kitchen. Let her keep bein’ good.”

His hands moved again. Gentle. Worshipful.

He wrapped them around your hips and turned you, slow, pressing you backward until your thighs brushed the edge of the sofa.

Until you could see the bodies again.

Still sprawled on the parlor floor.

Still leaking onto the wood.

Your knees locked.

Remmick lowered you down like you were made of glass. One hand cradling your spine, the other smoothing your skirt beneath you. He sat beside you, far too close. Turned to face you as if there was space to spare.

His claws scraped your knee where the fabric had risen.

“Y’see, darlin’,” he said, cupping your face again, “it ain’t about cruelty. It’s about closeness. I love ya so much I can’t figure out what to do with it. It don’t burn clean. It don’t settle.”

His eyes gleamed.

“I wanna take ya in. Swallow ya whole. Wear your name on the inside of my mouth. I want ya with me, inside me, forever. That’s what this is.”

You were shaking now.

Tears welled, but you couldn’t blink them away. They just sat there, blurring the edges of him. Of the room. Of the lifeless shapes still cooling on the floor.

“Ya think I don’t see it in ya too?” he lied, so confidently that you almost found yourself believing it. “That same want? That same ache? Ya look at me like I’m already inside you.”

You made a choked sound. Couldn’t tell if it was protest or grief.

He kissed the corner of your mouth again.

Then lower.

Your jaw.

Your throat.

His hands roamed with reverence, but they were still stained.

And it was still happening.

“Sometimes,” he breathed, lips brushing the shell of your ear, “I think I’ll wake one mornin’ and do it. Just let it happen. Let my love finish what it started. But I haven’t yet.”

He leaned back just enough to look at you.

His kissed a tear from your cheek.

“I haven’t,” he said again, softly. “Y’should remember that.”

You should’ve screamed.

Run.

Shoved him back.

Instead, you stared at him through tear-glossed lashes. Silent. Spinning. Unmoored.

He leaned in once more. Kissed your cheek like it was something fragile.

“Y’don’t ever have to be afraid of me, sugar. Long as ya stay.”

And for a moment, just a moment, you almost believed him.

Remmick’s lips brushed yours, feather-light at first, a barely-there caress that left you reeling. You could taste the copper tang of blood on his mouth, feel the warmth of it against your skin. Your breath caught as he pulled back slightly, just enough to feel his breath against your face. A soft huff of air, a reassurance.

But then his hand slid up your spine, blood smearing across your dress, and all softness fled.

This time, when his mouth met yours, there was no gentleness. No hesitation. Just hunger, visceral and consuming. He kissed you like he wanted to devour you whole, his lips slanting over yours, his tongue pushing into your mouth and claiming every inch of it as his own.

You whimpered, fingers groping at his shoulders, but whether to push him away or pull him closer, you didn’t know. Your thoughts were muddled, thick with fear and revulsion and a deep, wrenching want you couldn’t name. He tasted like death. Like sin. Like every dark fantasy you’d ever had but never dared speak aloud.

He yanked your head back to bare your throat, kissing down it, hot and open-mouthed, his tongue flicking out to taste the salt of your skin. His other hand, which had been stroking idly up and down your side, slipped under your skirt. You tensed, a protest rising in your throat, but he shushed you before you could voice it.

“Shh, now,” he murmured against your throat, fangs ghosting over your skin. “You’ve been achin’ for this. Starvin’ for it. A man’s hands. A man’s mouth. And ain’t it a mercy it’s mine givin’ it to ya?”

His fingers brushed your inner thigh, dragging through the wetness that had gathered there. You could feel the scrape of his claws, even through the fabric of your panties. A shudder ran through you, and you hated yourself for it. Hated that some twisted part of you wanted this, wanted him, even like this, covered in blood and filth and the evidence of his crimes.

He teased you through the thin fabric, his touch light and maddening. Circling. Flicking. Dipping just inside the edge before pulling away again. You whined, hips bucking of their own accord, desperate for more. More pressure. More friction. More something, anything to ground you in the midst of this debauched nightmare.

“Please,” you gasped, not even sure what you were asking for. For him to stop? For him to keep going? For the world to open up and swallow you whole, so you didn’t have to reckon with this unfamiliar depravity?

He chuckled, dark and indulgent. “Greedy girl,” he chided, his breath hot against your ear. “Don’t worry darlin’. I’ll give ya what y’need.”

He punctuated his words with a hard press of his fingers, rubbing rough circles over the damp fabric. You cried out, back arching, lungs seizing with the intensity of it. It was too much. Not enough. Your thoughts were fragmenting, splintering under the force of your need. You felt like you were drowning in it.

In him.

And still, he whispered filthy things in your ear, coating your skin in his words. Telling you how much he loved you. How much he needed you. How he’d do anything to keep you, even this. Especially this.

Remmick sucked at your throat, slow, deliberate, letting the warmth rise, letting you squirm. Then, without warning, he bit down. Deep. Sharp. A growl rumbled from his chest at the sound you made, part gasp, part sob, and he shivered like it thrilled him. “That’s it,” he breathed, lips glossy with blood and spit. “Sing for me, sweetheart.”

He growled as he left a map of his obsession on your flesh, fingers finally shoving your panties aside to slide through your slick folds.

Inside, something was screaming. Screaming for you to run, to fight, to do anything but this. To not let him take you like this, stained with the blood of innocents, surrounded by the evidence of his madness.

But your body... your body was betraying you. Arching into his touch. Soaking his fingers. Trembling with a heat you’d never known before. A heat that was as twisted and all-consuming as he was.

He pushed his fingers inside you, and you cried out at the stretch, the burn of it. He was big, bigger than you’d ever had, and the scrape of his claws against your inner walls only added to the intensity of it. It hurt, God, it hurt, but with every flex of his fingers, every curl and twist, you were hit with a new pang of euphoria, a pleasure so sharp it was almost painful.

You were so close, teetering on the edge of something huge and shattering, when he suddenly pulled his fingers out, leaving you achingly empty. You whimpered, hips bucking, seeking, but before you could even form a protest, he was pushing your legs apart, baring you completely to his gaze.

And then, without warning, he was on you, his mouth hot and wet and voracious. He ate you out like an animal, fangs still bared, growling into your flesh like he wanted to consume you whole. The sounds he made were obscene, wet and slurping, echoing in the quiet of the room like some kind of debauched symphony.

You thrashed beneath him, fingers tangling in his hair, pulling, pushing, trying to get him closer, get him away, you didn’t even know anymore. The pleasure was cresting higher and higher, coiling tighter and tighter, a spring on the verge of snapping. You felt like you were being flayed alive by it, torn apart piece by piece by piece.

And when you finally broke, it was with a scream that tore from your throat like a wound. You came so hard you saw stars, your vision whiting out, your lungs seizing, your body convulsing. And through it all, he just kept lapping at you, drinking down every drop of your pleasure like it was the finest wine. Like he couldn’t get enough of your taste, your need, your everything.

Your breath came in sharp pants, thoughts equally scattered. Fragmented. Lost in the haze of pleasure and horror that clouded your mind.

And then, with a monumental effort, you pushed him away. Or tried to. Your arms felt weak, your muscles trembling with the backlash of your climax.

He looked up at you, his face soaked with your arousal, a feral smile spreading across his lips. “I’m not done yet, darlin’,” he growled with a low rumble that vibrated through you. He tore at his clothes, ripping the blood-soaked shirt over his head, exposing his crimson-streaked torso. You tried to protest again, but he shushed you with a kiss, a deep, consuming kiss that left you tasting yourself, him, and the metallic tang of blood.

He lined himself up at your entrance, and you could feel the heat of him, the thickness, the promise of what was to come. You tensed, a flutter of panic in your chest. “Remmick, I-” you started, but he cut you off with another kiss, his hips surging forward, impaling you in one swift, brutal stroke.

You cried out, a sound of pain and pleasure mingled together, your nails digging into his back as he filled you completely. He was nothing you could’ve prepared yourself for, stretching you to your limits, the sensation was nearly unbearable. He started to move, his hips rolling in a rhythm that was both primal and precise, each thrust driving him deeper, harder, more relentlessly than the last.

“God, ya feel so good, sugar,” he moaned against your neck with a huff that made you shiver. “So tight. So wet. Y’were made for this. Made for me.”

You could feel the soreness building, the ache of being stretched, of being taken so ruthlessly. Your body was overwhelmed, every nerve ending firing, every sensation heightened to almost unbearable levels. You whimpered, your hips bucking in time with his thrusts, unable to do anything but take what he was giving you.

Remmick’s eyes were wild, his breath coming in ragged gasps as he drove into you. “Look at ya,” he panted, voice so thick with lust you could barely understand him. “So beautiful. So perfect. Ya take my cock like a dream.”

He leaned down, licking the tears that streamed down your face, his tongue hot and wet against your skin as he purred. “Ya taste so sweet when you cry.”

You tried to divert your attention, to escape the intensity of his near-crimson gaze and the raw, animalistic need that burned in his eyes. It was a need that terrified you to your very core. Your eyes darted around the room, seeking anything to anchor yourself to, anything to distract from the overwhelming sensations coursing through your body.

Your gaze landed on the necklace that swayed from his neck. That blood-soaked gold chain that glinted dully in the firelight. That gold chain that followed you from the life you once had to now, wrapped in Remmick’s embrace, his body moving against yours in a rhythm as old as time.

He noticed your distraction, a cruel, knowing smile playing on his lips as he reached up and took the necklace into his mouth. He bit down on the gold, his teeth sinking into the metal with a force that should have bent it, his eyes never leaving yours.

“That’s it, darlin’,” he groaned, the words muffled around the jewelry. “Focus on that. Focus on me. On how good this feels.”

And God help you, he was right. It did feel good. So good it hurt. So good it was almost too much to bear. The pleasure was a sharp, piercing thing, a knife’s edge of ecstasy that left you breathless and dizzy. With each thrust, each roll of his hips, each brutal, delicious stroke, the pressure inside you built, a coiled spring ready to snap, your body teetering on the brink of something monumental.

You could feel the guilt gnawing at you. A dark, insidious thing that clawed at the edges of your mind, trying to break through the haze of pleasure. How could you find enjoyment in this? How could your body respond so eagerly to his touch? To his invasion? You knew the depth of his depravity. The extent of his crimes. You were a willing participant. An accomplice.

You were ashamed of the moans that fell from your lips, ashamed of the way your body moved with his, ashamed of the desperate, keening cries that escaped you as he brought you higher, closer to the edge of oblivion.

Remmick's hips continued to roll in a relentless rhythm, his body glistening with sweat, his breath coming in ragged, desperate gasps. He leaned down, his voice a drunken, fervent whisper against your ear, his words a mix of promise and threat. “M’gonna put a baby in ya, sugar. Gonna fill you up. Watch ya get all fat ’n slow ’n pretty.”

His words sent a shock of panic through you. A cold, paralyzing fear that cut through the haze of pleasure and left you reeling. You tried to push him away, your hands pressing against his chest, your body tensing as you tried to escape the inevitable. “Remmick, no-” you gasped, your voice hoarse, your eyes wide with a mix of terror and pleading. “You can’t-”

But he was relentless, his body pinning you down, his strength overpowering yours in a way that left you feeling helpless. Trapped. He captured your wrists in one hand, holding them above your head as he continued to move inside you, his hips never ceasing their brutal, demanding rhythm. “Shh,” he cooed, his voice a low, soothing purr that contrasted sharply with the wild, untamed look in his eyes. “You’ve been askin' for this. You’ve been beggin' for it. I know you have. And I’m gonna give it to you.”

He leaned down, tongue invading your mouth, exploring, conquering, silencing your protests as he continued to move inside you.

You tried to turn your head, to break the kiss, to gasp for air, but he followed, his lips never leaving yours, his breath mingling with yours, his tongue continuing its relentless exploration. He kissed you deeply, thoroughly, his lips moving against yours with a suffocating desperation, as if he were trying to pour every ounce of his being into you. To consume you wholly.

“Remmick, please-” you managed to gasp as he finally broke the kiss, your chest heaving, your body trembling with a mix of fear, pleasure, and something else, something almost akin to desperation. “I can’t-”

But he only smiled, a slow, knowing smile that sent a shiver down your spine, a mix of anticipation and trepidation. “Ya can, sugar,” he insisted, the lack of choice you had in the matter laced on every word. “And ya will.”

With a final, shuddering thrust, he buried himself deep, his whole body seizing tight as he spilled inside you, breath caught somewhere between a grunt and a gasp. His mouth found your shoulder, and without pause, he bit down. Hard. Fangs sinking deep. The pressure broke through your skin, and the sound that left him was low and guttural. Like it came from the oldest part of him.

The pain hit first. Bright. Hot. A sudden wash of heat that bled through your dress and soaked down your arm. You cried out, not just from the hurt, but from the way it tangled with everything else. Your spine arched, your chest heaving, your head going light from the sheer force of it.

Remmick didn’t stop. Didn’t pull away. His hands gripped tight around your hips, and he moved through the aftershocks like he couldn’t bear to let the moment end. The bite held you still. Anchored. The only sound in the room was the ragged pull of his breathing and the faint sound of blood dripping onto the sofa.

When he finally stilled, he didn’t let go, or pull out.

He licked over the wound slow, careful, as if tasting something rare. As if trying to commit it to memory. A quiet sound rose in his throat, something between a hum and a sigh, and you felt it against your skin.

You were shaking.

Spent.

And he held you like you were something precious, something ruined, something he couldn’t stop himself from needing.

The sheets smelled like lavender. Fresh. Clean. As if nothing had ever happened at all. As if you hadn’t just laid beneath him in the room where the bodies had gone cold, their blood still tacky on the floorboards.

As if he hadn’t taken you with that same blood smeared down his chest, soaked into his sleeves, crusted along his jaw.

As if he hadn’t whispered love into your mouth while fucking you raw against the parlor sofa, his hands pinning yours down, his hips relentless, the broken cries that spilled from your throat sounding too much like pleading and too little like pleasure.

And then, when it was over, when your body was wrecked and shivering, your legs too weak to stand, he’d kissed your forehead like a lullaby, scooped you up in his arms like you weighed nothing at all, and carried you to the bath.

The tub was already full.

Of course it was.

Warm. Steaming. Waiting for you.

You’d wondered, hazily, if he’d drawn it before or after.

He didn’t speak as he undressed you. Just peeled the ruined nightgown from your skin with slow, reverent fingers. His claws retracted now, nails blunted and gentle. No urgency. No demand. Only care.

The water lapped up around your body as he eased you in, one hand holding your back, the other at your hough, lowering you as though you might break apart in his arms.

He didn’t get in with you. Not at first.

Just knelt beside the tub and cupped water over your shoulders, your breasts, your thighs. Ran a cloth down your spine. Washed you in long, slow strokes, like he was trying to scrub the memory of the bodies from your skin before it sank too deep.

But it already had.

Still, you let him work. Let him wash your hair, comb it through with his fingers. Let him tilt your head back and rinse it clean. Let him trace every curve of your body like it was scripture.

He scrubbed the blood from your shoulder with painstaking tenderness, kissing the half-healed wound in between passes, calling you his miracle, his mercy, his girl.

His voice never rose. Not once.

Not even when you flinched from his touch. Not even when you cried.

He kissed your eyes dry.

You thought about the quiet days. The good ones. When he made breakfast in the morning and left hibiscus tea on your nightstand. When he sang while he cooked. When he brushed your hair with such delicacy you almost forgot what his hands were capable of.

And you thought about the other days. The long silences. The backhanded questions. The hollow, hateful stares that brought you to tears.

Your body ached in places you didn’t have names for. Inside and out.

And he was so gentle now.

You wanted to scream.

Instead, you let him rinse the soap from your skin and lift you out of the tub. Let him wrap you in a towel, thick and warm, smelling faintly of clove and firewood.

Let him dry you off. Let him carry you to his bedroom, both of you silent now, except for his breath brushing against your temple.

The mattress dipped under your weight. The pillows caught your head like a secret. The blanket was heavy in the best way, and his arms found you again before you could move away.

Remmick curled around you like a second skin. One arm beneath your waist. One over your belly.

His fingers didn’t move. Just stayed there, still and steady, like they could already feel what had been made between you.

His mouth was at your neck again, breath soft, lips barely brushing.

And still, you didn’t sleep.

You just stared into the dark, remembering the warmth of his voice when he called you good. Remembering the snap of bone. The wet sound of flesh giving way. The feel of his body slamming into yours with no hesitation, no mercy, like love could be beaten into you if he just took enough of you for himself.

He shifted behind you. Pulled you closer.

There was no space left between your bodies.

None between the truth and the lie of it.

And you still didn’t move.

You kept your eyes open. Fixed on the wall.

And thought about everything.

About your daddy’s store. You thought about that first. The sound of the bell over the door, bright and sweet as wind chimes. The gentle sweep of the broom on the front steps every morning. You thought about how the sun used to come in through the big front windows, painting long streaks of gold across the shelves. You used to watch the dust swirl in the light and think it looked like magic.

You thought about the girls you’d grown up with. How you used to sit on porch rails with your legs swinging, eating too much candy and daring each other to run barefoot down the gravel road. You wondered where they were now. If they were married. If they had babies.

If they thought about you.

You wondered if any of them had come by the store. If they’d stood on the same wooden floorboards you once stood on and asked your daddy where you’d gone. If they were told you were gone for good.

Or maybe they didn’t ask at all.

Maybe they figured you’d run off with a man, like so many girls did when the world backed them into a corner and made them choose between being loved or being lonely.

You thought about your mama next.

About how she used to wrap your hair at night, hands gentle but firm, fingers slick with oil. She never let you skip it, not even once. Not even when you pouted and said you weren’t a baby anymore. “Still my baby,” she’d say, tying the scarf with a kiss to your forehead.

You thought about what she’d say now. Whether she’d still hold you close, or just hold your face and try not to cry. You didn’t know if she’d recognize you.

Not like this. Not with him.

Remmick shifted behind you in the bed, stirring as if he could feel your thoughts pulling you too far. He curled tighter. Pulled you in with him. One arm clutched low around your waist, the other curling beneath your ribs. Like he was trying to mold his shape to yours. Like if he could just hold you close enough, you’d stop trying to leave, mind or body.

And maybe he was right.

Maybe he could fold you into him, press you so deep into his chest you’d forget where you ended and he began.

You blinked slow.

Your throat ached.

The room was quiet. The air was warm. The shadows on the walls flickered and stretched like they didn’t know where to settle. The lamp on the dresser hummed soft and low, casting gold against the covers, turning everything honeyed and still.

There was no lock on the door.

No chain at your ankle.

No order in his voice.

But it was a cage all the same.

A soft, warm, gilded cage.

And you had stayed.

Because where else was there to go?

You’d imagined leaving. Dozens of times. Pictured it clear as glass. The road winding long and empty behind you. The night cool on your skin. Your heart in your mouth.

But every time you chased that dream far enough, it ended in the same place.

Here.

With him.

You’d made too many trades along the way. Traded silence for safety. Traded truth for comfort. Traded fear for something that looked too much like love to name it anything else.

And now you had nothing left to bargain with.

You’d redrawn the line a hundred times, and now the chalk had run out.

So you stopped thinking.

Let your muscles go slack.

Let the ache in your chest press itself into the mattress. Let the silk of his voice echo in your head.

You’re safe, darlin’.

My beautiful girl.

I love ya.

And finally, you let yourself go.

1K notes · View notes

hauntedbyjoel · 5 days ago

Text

Show Me How

pairing: joel miller x f!reader warnings: age gap | oral (f & m) | unprotected sex | dirty talk | praise | virginity loss | gentle aftercare | no outbreak word count - 5.7k summary - He’s told himself a hundred times it can’t happen. He’s too old, too close to your family, too careful. But now you’re standing in front of him, asking him for the one thing he swore he wouldn’t give.

︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶

You’d always told yourself it was harmless.

The crush. The looks. The way your stomach flipped when Joel said your name or glanced your way for a little too long. He was older—older in a way that should’ve been enough to stop this before it started. He’d known your family for years. Helped your uncle redo the kitchen. Fixed your car once when it stalled in your mom’s driveway. Brought over soup when you got sick last winter and couldn’t get out of bed.

He was just… around. Always steady. Always quiet. Always Joel.

And somehow, over time, that steadiness started to feel like gravity.

You learned his habits without meaning to—when he left for work, what time he ran errands, how he always wore that same faded Texas Longhorns shirt to mow the lawn on Saturdays. You pretended not to notice the way he looked at you sometimes, like he wasn’t sure if he should be. Like maybe he wanted to look away but didn’t.

You never let yourself believe he could actually want you. Not really.

Which is why showing up at his house tonight felt like something you weren’t supposed to do. Like stepping out of line in a way you couldn’t walk back from.

But you couldn’t stop thinking about it. About him.

About the fact that you were tired of feeling like the only one who hadn’t done anything—hadn’t been touched, kissed right, wanted for more than a second. And more than that, you were tired of not knowing. Of being afraid you’d do it wrong. Say the wrong thing. Be too soft. Too quiet. Not enough.

And if you were going to ask anyone—

It’d be him.

Joel, who never rushed you. Who always noticed. Who fixed things with careful hands and never made you feel small.

That was what brought you to his door.

And the second he opened it—hair damp, eyes tired, wearing sweatpants and a shirt you’d seen a dozen times before—your throat locked.

He blinked at you. Didn’t speak right away. Then: “You okay?”

You nodded, fingers curled in your hoodie sleeves. “Yeah. I was just… out. I didn’t know where else to go.”

Joel studied you for a beat, then stepped aside. “Come in.”

The door shut behind you with a soft click. You stood awkwardly in the entryway, clutching the sleeves of your hoodie like they might anchor you. Joel moved past without a word, walking toward the kitchen.

“Want some tea or somethin’?” he asked, already reaching for the kettle. “Still got the kind you like, I think.”

You nodded, unsure if your voice would even work right now. He filled the kettle. Lit the stove. Moved around the kitchen like this was just another Tuesday night and not the most reckless thing you’d ever done.

The house was warm. Familiar. You’d been here before—birthday barbecues, a couple of holidays, quick visits with your family—but never alone. Never this late. Never when the windows were dark and the only light came from that little flickering candle on the counter.

Joel glanced over his shoulder. “You can sit, y’know.”

You did. Quietly, on the edge of the couch like your body didn’t know where to land. Your heart wouldn’t stop stuttering. You weren’t sure what he saw when he looked at you, but it didn’t feel like much. Not yet.

He brought over a mug. Set it down on the coffee table. Then took the armchair across from you and let out a low sigh.

“So,” he said. “You wanna tell me what’s really goin’ on?”

You looked down at the mug. Steam rising. Hands still tucked in your sleeves. “It’s dumb.”

“Doesn’t sound dumb.”

You let the silence hang for a beat too long. Then: “Can I ask you something?”

Joel nodded. “Course.”

Your heart climbed straight into your throat.

You stared at the mug, every nerve in your body buzzing, fingers twitching. It wasn’t that you didn’t know what to say—it was that once you said it, everything would change.

“I don’t have a lot of experience,” you said finally. Quiet. Careful. “Like… any.”

Joel tilted his head. But didn’t say anything.

“I mean, I’ve kissed people. But I’ve never really…” You swallowed hard. “I just feel behind. Everyone I know has—done things. They know what they like. What to do. And I just… don’t.”

Joel leaned back a little. His jaw worked once. Still quiet.

“I’m not saying this right,” you said quickly. “It’s not that I want to rush or that I feel like I have to, I just—” You looked up, finally, and your stomach flipped. “You’re the only person I trust to… to teach me.”

He stared at you.

Not with shock. Not with judgment. Just stillness. Like he was trying to decide if you meant it—if you even understood what you were asking.

“Sweetheart…” he started, then stopped.

“I’m not trying to make things weird,” you rushed. “And I know it’s selfish. And I’m probably not even your type or whatever, and I’ll never bring it up again if it’s weird, I just—”

Joel didn’t say anything right away.

You could hear the second hand ticking on the clock across the room. The silence felt like pressure on your chest. You weren’t sure what you expected when you showed up here—but it wasn’t this. This long, still moment where he just looked at you like he didn’t know what to do.

When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet. Careful.

“You’re so young.”

It wasn’t harsh. It didn’t sound like judgment. If anything, it sounded like he was trying to talk himself out of something.

You stared down at your lap, throat tightening.

“I know,” you said softly, barely more than a breath. “You don’t have to say it.”

Joel sat up straighter.

“That’s not what I meant,” he said, quickly but still gentle. “I’m not—I didn’t mean it like that.”

You gave a small nod, even though you weren’t really sure what to say. Your fingers curled tighter around the sleeves of your hoodie. Your eyes stayed on the floor.

“I just thought...” Your voice thinned out. You cleared your throat, tried again. “I just thought maybe—never mind.”

Joel’s brow furrowed. “What?”

“I shouldn’t have said anything,” you mumbled. “You’ve always been nice to me and I... I shouldn’t have ruined that.”

His heart dropped. He saw your hands shaking, saw the way you blinked too fast.

Then he saw it—your lashes catching just slightly, that faint shimmer in your eyes before you ducked your head.

You were trying not to cry.

“Hey,” Joel said, gently. “Hey, no—don’t do that.”

You shook your head, swallowing hard. “It’s fine. Really. I don’t want you to feel bad. Or like I’m putting you in a weird spot. I just—”

Your voice cracked. You turned your face away.

And that was it for him.

“Aww, baby,” Joel said softly, barely more than a breath. “Come here.”

You didn’t move at first, but he was already leaning in, hand reaching out slow, warm, careful. His palm cupped the side of your jaw, thumb brushing under your eye like he could erase the tears before they fell.

“You didn’t ruin anything,” he murmured. “You hear me?”

You nodded—barely. Joel��s other hand found yours, steady and sure, lacing his fingers between yours like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“I just didn’t expect it,” he said. “Didn’t let myself think about it. But that doesn’t mean I don’t want you.”

Your breath hitched.

“I’ve wanted you,” he said, voice lower now, rough around the edges. “I just didn’t think I was allowed to.”

You looked up at him, blinking slowly.

Joel’s thumb traced your cheekbone.

“I’d take my time with you,” he said. “Make sure you felt safe. Make sure it felt good. I wouldn’t rush anything.”

You leaned into his hand just slightly—barely—but it was enough.

Joel’s eyes dropped to your lips.

“You still want this?” he asked.

You nodded, soft and breathless.

“Okay,” he whispered. “Okay, sweetheart.”

For a moment, neither of you moved. His thumb still brushed your cheek, your fingers still curled inside his. You were so aware of the space between you—barely anything, and yet everything. You could feel the warmth of his body, the steady rhythm of his breathing. It made you ache.

Joel hesitated.

“You sure you want me to kiss you?”

God, he really was trying. Still giving you an out, even now. Even when your whole body was already leaning in.

You nodded again, just as shy. “Please.”

That was all he needed.

Joel leaned in slowly—like he was afraid to startle you—and tilted his head just enough to brush his lips against yours. It was soft at first, barely a kiss at all, more like a question. When you didn’t pull away—when your breath caught and your hand tightened around his—he kissed you again, deeper this time. Warmer.

His other hand slid to your waist, grounding you.

You shifted closer without thinking, your knees brushing his thigh. Joel made a low sound in his throat, something surprised and almost pained. He pulled you gently, letting you settle in his lap with careful hands, like he didn’t want to scare you.

You felt so small like that. Not in a bad way. Just—held. His arms around you, his mouth on yours, the scratch of his stubble against your skin. Every inch of him was solid and steady.

He kissed you like he had time. Like he didn’t need anything else.

When he finally pulled back, his hand lingered on your cheek.

“You okay?” he murmured.

You nodded, a little dazed. Your lips tingled, your heart pounding. “I—I’ve never kissed anyone like that.”

Joel smiled, soft and a little crooked. “Yeah? You did real good, sweetheart.”

Your cheeks burned, but you smiled too. You felt warm. Safe. Wanted.

And you still wanted more.

Joel kissed you again, deeper this time, like he was trying to show you what he couldn’t say out loud. His hands were warm where they held your waist, steady even though you could feel how tense he was—like he was holding back something big. Something sharp.

“Alright,” he murmured against your mouth. “We’re not gonna rush. Just want you to feel good.”

You nodded, breathless. “Okay.”

He leaned back, just enough to look at you. “Tell me somethin’, sweetheart.”

Your heart skipped. “What?”

His thumb brushed your cheek. “What’ve you done before?”

You blinked, nervous all over again. “Not much. Just… kissing. A little touching.”

“Okay,” he said softly. “That’s good. Just wanna know what you’re comfortable with.”

You bit your lip. “I want this.”

“I know. But I still wanna go slow.” He paused. “Has anyone ever touched you? Down here?”

His hand slid gently along your thigh, stopping just shy of where you were warm and aching.

You shook your head.

Joel’s eyes flicked to yours, his voice low. “And you?”

Your cheeks flushed. You nodded. “Yeah. A few times.”

He smiled—gentle, not mocking. “Good. That’s good, baby.”

He leaned down, pressing a kiss to your neck. “I’m gonna touch you now. Just with my hand. That alright?”

“Yes,” you breathed.

Joel moved with such care—his fingers easing between your thighs, slipping beneath the hem of your shorts. When he found you already soft and wet, he groaned low in his throat.

“Jesus,” he muttered. “You feel that?”

You nodded, shivering.

“This all for me?”

“Yeah,” you whispered.

“Shit,” he exhaled. “You’re soaked.”

His fingers moved slow, parting you gently. You gasped, your hips twitching.

“Too much?” he asked.

“No,” you said, breath catching. “Just… new.”

He kissed the side of your face, murmured, “We’ll take it nice and easy. You tell me how everything feels, alright?”

You nodded.

He stroked you carefully—exploring, learning. Finding the spots that made your breath hitch, your thighs tighten, your lashes flutter. His fingers circled your clit, featherlight at first, and you whimpered.

“There it is,” he said, voice husky. “That feel good?”

You nodded frantically, too overwhelmed to speak.

“You’re bein’ so good for me, baby. You let me take care of you, yeah?”

Your whole body was warm and buzzing, every nerve alive under his touch. When he slid one finger inside, slow and patient, you gasped.

“Okay?” he whispered.

“Yeah,” you said, breathless. “Feels… full.”

He smiled against your cheek. “That’s what it’s s’posed to feel like. Just one for now. Gonna get you used to it.”

He curled it—just a little—and you whimpered again. Joel groaned.

“You don’t even know what you do to me,” he rasped. “Look at you. All pretty and sweet, takin’ my hand like it’s the only thing you ever needed.”

You clenched around him, involuntarily. His eyes darkened.

“Shit. You’re squeezin’ me already.”

You whimpered. “I—I don’t mean to—”

“I know,” he said, kissing you again, slow and deep. “Don’t you dare apologize.”

Joel kissed you through it, his lips warm and slow while his hand moved between your legs—gentle but focused, like he already knew your body better than you did. He didn’t rush. He didn’t push.

He paid attention.

Your hips bucked when his thumb brushed over your clit again, light and teasing. You gasped into his mouth.

“That feel good?” he murmured.

You nodded. “Mhm.”

He pulled back just enough to look at you—his eyes dark, focused. “Yeah? You like when I touch you there?”

Your face went hot, but you nodded again, biting your bottom lip.

He smiled—soft, proud, dangerously patient. “Good girl.”

Then he went back to it. Circling your clit in slow, deliberate strokes while that one finger inside you pressed deeper, exploring every new reaction you gave him. You were trying so hard not to make noise, but your body betrayed you. Your thighs trembled. Your stomach fluttered. Your breath hitched and broke.

Joel noticed everything.

“Y’ever touch yourself like this?” he asked, voice low.

You hesitated. “Not… like this.”

He raised a brow. “Not like what?”

You swallowed. “Not this slow.”

Joel chuckled—quiet and warm against your skin. “That’s ‘cause you’ve never been taught right.”

His words hit low in your belly. You whimpered as he curled his finger again, hitting something deeper this time. Your legs jerked.

“There?” he asked, voice roughening.

You nodded, breath caught. “Y-Yeah—oh—there.”

Joel groaned softly. “Fuck, baby. You’re already close, ain’t you?”

You nodded helplessly.

“Think you can come for me? Just from my fingers?”

You whined. He took it as a yes.

His movements stayed slow, but more rhythmic now—his thumb drawing tight little circles, his finger pumping deeper, coaxing something out of you so carefully, so sweetly. You clutched at his shirt, fingers trembling.

“Joel,” you gasped, barely able to breathe. “I—I think I’m—”

“That’s it,” he said. “Let it happen. Let me feel it.”

And then you broke.

It hit you like a wave—sharp and hot and overwhelming. Your body seized around him, legs clamping tight as the pleasure surged up and through you. You cried out, loud and wrecked, and Joel caught it with his mouth, kissing you hard while his hand worked you through every second of it.

“Goddamn,” he muttered. “You’re so fuckin’ pretty when you come.”

You were shaking when he finally pulled his hand away—slow and careful. He kissed your forehead, your cheek, the corner of your mouth.

“You okay?”

You nodded, dazed, still trembling in his lap. “Mhm. Just… I’ve never felt anything like that.”

Joel smiled. “You’ve got a lot more to feel, sweetheart.”

He kissed you again—longer this time. Slower. But now there was something heavier beneath it, something hungrier.

When he pulled back, his voice was deeper. Rough.

“Can I show you more?”

You looked up at him. Your limbs were still jelly, your heart still racing, but all you could think was yes. You trusted him. Even like this. Maybe especially like this.

You nodded.

“Yeah. Show me.”

Joel smiled when you said it. Not cocky—just warm. Soft around the edges, like the tension in him had finally given way to something sweeter. He tucked your hair behind your ear with a gentle hand, his other still cradling your bare thigh.

“Alright,” he murmured. “Then lie back for me.”

You nodded, breath still shaky. Your skin was buzzing—still oversensitive, still warm, but already aching for more.

You obeyed without a word, heart thudding as your spine met the mattress again. The air felt cooler now against your flushed skin, your body still buzzing from the first time he touched you like that.

Joel moved with you, settling between your legs without urgency. He leaned down and pressed a kiss just above your knee—then another, higher up. It was careful. Unrushed. Like he wanted you to feel every second of it.

“I want you to tell me if anything doesn’t feel good,” he murmured against your skin. “You just say the word, alright?”

You nodded.

“Words, baby.”

“Yes,” you breathed. “I will.”

“Good girl.”

His hands spread your thighs, slow and sure. Not to expose you—at least, not just that. More like reverence. Like unfolding something precious.

And then his mouth was on you.

Not forceful. Not greedy. Just… exploring. His tongue traced slow, soft circles, tasting you like he was learning something new and didn’t want to miss a detail. Every shift in your breath made him hum a little deeper, adjust, draw it out.

“Doing so good,” he murmured, pausing only to kiss the inside of your thigh again. “You let me know if it’s too much.”

It wasn’t.

It was everything.

You tried to be quiet, but your body had other plans.

Joel’s mouth moved with slow, deliberate rhythm—tongue tracing lazy circles that built heat like kindling. He didn’t rush you. Just stayed right there, steady and patient, until your hips started to lift, chasing every pass of his tongue like it might save you.

And he noticed.

“Yeah,” he murmured, voice barely a rumble. “That’s it, sweetheart. Let me have it.”

His hands slid under your thighs, pulling you just a little closer, anchoring you in place like he was afraid you might float off. And maybe you would’ve. Your hands gripped the sheets, searching for something solid as your breathing turned erratic.

“Joel—” you whispered, and it cracked.

He groaned low in his throat—like hearing you say his name like that did something to him.

“Feels good?” he asked, and when you nodded too fast, too desperate, he just hummed against you. “Thought so. You’re so fuckin’ sweet down here.”

The tension coiled again—hotter this time, faster. Your legs started to tremble, and Joel didn’t let up. Just flattened his tongue, applied more pressure, and listened to you fall apart.

“Don’t fight it,” he whispered. “Let it happen.”

You came with a sound that barely made it out—a soft, broken cry, thighs clamping around his head as you shook through it. Joel didn’t stop. Didn’t even think about it. He kept licking you through every wave, gentle and relentless, holding your hips like you might slip away otherwise.

Only when your body finally gave out—hips twitching, breath coming in shallow little gasps—did he pull back. His mouth was shiny, lips wet, beard damp. And his eyes…

Like he’d just seen something holy.

He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, then leaned up slowly, palm cupping your cheek.

“There she is,” he murmured, voice like honey and gravel. “That’s my girl.”

Your lashes fluttered. You felt soft all over, unraveled, held together only by the weight of his gaze.

Joel smiled, just a little.

“You did so good for me, baby. So fuckin’ good.”

He leaned in before you could even catch your breath.

One hand still cradled the back of your head, the other brushing your thigh, grounding you. His mouth met yours in a way that felt earned—soft at first, just lips to lips, letting you settle into it.

You tasted yourself on him immediately.

Warm. Humid. Faintly salty. It made your whole body shiver.

You pulled back, eyes fluttering open like it surprised you. Joel didn’t move far. His forehead rested against yours.

“Sorry,” he said, voice a little rough.

You shook your head. “No. I just… I’ve never…”

His thumb stroked your cheek. “It’s alright.”

You blinked up at him, still a little dazed. “That was… nice.”

Joel huffed a soft laugh, like he wasn’t sure what to do with that word. “Nice?”

You nodded, suddenly shy again. “I liked it.”

His smile turned quieter—almost reverent.

“Good,” he murmured. “That’s all I wanted.”

He kissed you again, deeper this time. Your fingers found the hem of his shirt, pushing it up slowly, and he let you. Let you explore his skin, the soft stretch of his stomach, the trail of hair leading down beneath his jeans.

And still, he didn’t rush.

Just kept kissing you—until your body relaxed fully beneath his, until the last of your nerves melted into heat.

Joel pulled back just enough to look at you, his thumb brushing under your eye.

“You alright?” he asked, quiet.

You nodded. “I want to… I want to do something for you.”

His brow creased, surprised. “You don’t have to.”

“I want to.”

Your voice didn’t shake that time.

Joel hesitated like he was going to argue again, but then his gaze softened, and he gave the smallest nod. He leaned back against the pillows, watching you carefully—curious, cautious, but clearly affected.

You sat up slowly, heart pounding. Reached for his waistband with trembling fingers, giving him one last glance for permission. He lifted his hips, helping you ease his jeans down until he was bare to you.

Joel’s eyes darkened, but his voice stayed low. “You ever seen a man before? Like this?”

You shook your head, heart thudding. “Just… in pictures.”

He chuckled, more breath than sound. “Yeah?”

Your cheeks burned. “Not those kinds of pictures.”

He smiled, slow and fond. “Didn’t say they were.”

You swallowed. Then curled your fingers around him.

God—he was warm. Heavy. Hard already. You inhaled sharply as your hand moved, just a little, feeling the weight of him against your palm.

Joel groaned. Quiet. Barely restrained.

“Jesus, baby…”

You looked up, eyes wide. “Did I do something wrong?”

He shook his head fast, eyes pinched. “No. Fuck, no. Just—been holdin’ back too long.”

You smiled, nervous but proud. Then you started to stroke him—tentative at first, just trying to feel out the rhythm.

Joel let out a soft, broken sound and tipped his head back.

“Just like that,” he muttered. “You’re doin’ so good.”

Your confidence grew with every soft grunt he made. Every time his hips twitched or his hand gripped the edge of the couch harder.

“You wanna try your mouth?” he asked, voice rough with restraint.

You blinked. “I… yeah. But I don’t know what I’m doing.”

Joel’s eyes locked on yours—hungry and warm all at once. He cupped your cheek. “That’s okay, baby. I’ll teach you.”

You shifted down between his legs slowly, your knees pressing into the couch cushions as your hands settled on his thighs. He was already breathing heavier, watching you with those dark, heavy-lidded eyes that made your stomach flip.

“Start with your hand,” Joel murmured, voice low and coaxing. “Get comfortable first.”

You nodded, wrapping your fingers around him again. The weight of it still shocked you. How hard he felt. How hot.

You gave him a slow stroke. Then another.

“That’s it,” he breathed. “Just like that. You’re doin’ perfect.”

The praise made your cheeks burn.

You looked up at him, a little shy. “Tell me what to do.”

Joel groaned. “Jesus, baby.”

His hand moved gently to your hair, not pushing, not guiding—just resting there. Steady.

“Kiss the tip,” he said softly. “Start there.”

You leaned in and pressed a hesitant kiss to the flushed head of his cock. His breath hitched. You did it again, slower, then let your tongue flick out to taste him.

“That’s it,” Joel said. His voice had gone hoarse. “Just your tongue, nice and easy.”

You licked a slow stripe up the underside, watching his stomach tense. He was biting back a sound, jaw locked tight.

“You can put it in your mouth now,” he said, rasping. “Only as much as you want.”

You parted your lips and wrapped them around him—just the tip at first. He exhaled sharply, hips twitching. You stilled, looking up at him in alarm, but Joel shook his head fast.

“Don’t stop,” he said. “You feel so fuckin’ good.”

You sank a little deeper, hollowing your cheeks. He groaned, one hand tightening slightly in your hair, still not pushing.

“Use your hand too, sweetheart,” he said. “You’re so good, baby. So fuckin’ good for me.”

Your hand stroked the base while your mouth worked the rest. You tried to keep a rhythm, breathing through your nose just like he told you.

When he swore under his breath, you felt it in your chest.

“Look at me,” he said.

You did. Eyes wide, lips stretched around him, cheeks flushed.

He groaned—deep and wrecked. “Fuck, that’s it.”

You took him deeper, feeling your throat tighten, your eyes sting. But you didn’t stop. You couldn’t—not with the way he was looking at you.

“You okay?” he managed to ask, even through the haze.

You nodded around him, and he growled.

“Goddamn. You were made for this.”

You pulled off slowly, a little breathless, a string of spit catching between your lips and the tip of his cock. He was flushed, panting, hands clenched into fists beside him.

“Holy fuck,” he said, voice blown out. “You sure you’ve never done that before?”

You laughed quietly. “I told you I’d be a fast learner.”

Joel leaned forward and pulled you into his lap again. His hands were everywhere—your back, your thighs, the side of your neck.

“You still sure about all this?” he whispered.

You nodded. Quiet. A little nervous. But you didn’t look away.

His hand brushed down your thigh, then between your legs—stroking over you slowly, making sure you were ready. “Feels like you are,” he whispered. “But I need you to tell me.”

“I want you to,” you said, barely louder than a breath. “Please.”

He exhaled like that did something to him. Something deep.

“Okay,” he said. “I’m gonna go slow, alright? Real slow. You just hold on to me.”

You nodded again.

Then he lined himself up, hand guiding, the heat of him settling right where you were softest. “You let me know if it’s too much.”

The pressure started before you could prepare for it—warm and wide and stretching you in a way you didn’t expect. You gasped, instinctively grabbing his arm, nails digging in.

Joel stopped instantly. “Too much?”

“I—I don’t know,” you whispered. “It just—hurts a little.”

He leaned down, kissed your forehead, your cheek, your jaw.

“I know, baby,” he murmured. “You’re doing so good.”

His hand found yours, threading your fingers together. Then he kissed you again—slow and deep, distracting, stealing your focus from the tight pull of your body adjusting to him.

Bit by bit, he eased in further, pausing when your breath hitched, pressing kisses to your mouth until the discomfort dulled to something else. Something warmer.

When he was fully inside you, Joel didn’t move. He just held himself there, breathing hard against your skin. “You okay?”

You nodded, stunned by how full you felt. “I think so.”

“God, you’re tight,” he whispered. “So fuckin’ perfect.”

His hand brushed your hair back, and he kissed you again—gentler this time, slower. “Tell me when I can move.”

You blinked up at him, dazed, breathless. “Okay… now.”

Joel started to move, just barely. A gentle pull back, then a slow press in, rocking his hips with an almost reverent kind of care. He didn’t take his eyes off your face—not for a second.

“You’re doin’ so good,” he murmured. “Feelin’ okay?”

You nodded, still a little overwhelmed. The stretch still lingered, but there was something else starting to build beneath it—heat, pressure, something that made your toes curl when he pushed a little deeper.

He felt it.

“Yeah,” he whispered, voice rough with restraint. “There she is.”

He moved again, a little more confident this time, keeping his pace slow and steady. One hand stayed laced with yours. The other braced at your waist, thumb stroking gently over your skin.

Every inch of him felt impossibly warm. Full. You couldn’t believe how close he was—how real it was. And yet he still treated you like you might break.

“You okay?” he asked again, quieter now.

You bit your lip. “It… feels weird. Good. But—intense.”

His eyes darkened a little, smile soft at the corners. “Yeah? Gonna get better, sweetheart. Promise.”

He leaned down, kissed the side of your neck, murmuring something you barely caught—so tight, so sweet, can’t believe I’m inside you. The praise made your cheeks burn, made your hips tilt up without thinking.

He groaned. "Fuck, baby. Careful—you keep doin’ that, I won’t last long."

You looked up at him through half-lidded eyes, heat buzzing through your chest and down your spine.

“I don’t care,” you whispered. “I just want to feel you.”

Something about that must’ve broken the last of his resolve, because Joel kissed you again—messy this time, like he needed to feel your mouth while he kept moving inside you, slow but deep.

You gasped into the kiss when he hit a spot that made your whole body jolt.

“There?” he asked, voice low and strained.

You nodded fast. “Yes—God, Joel—”

“That’s my girl,” he murmured. “Just let go. I’ve got you.”

He kept hitting that spot, rhythm just right, hand tightening around yours like he could feel every wave of heat building inside you. You were shaking, thighs trembling, nails digging into his shoulder—

And then it happened.

You came with a breathless cry, body locking up around him, vision going hazy at the edges. Joel groaned, burying his face in your neck as he lost it too, hips stuttering, voice rough against your skin.

You must’ve dozed off at some point, warm and aching and curled into Joel’s side, barely able to keep your eyes open.

He didn’t fall asleep.

You stirred when you felt his hand brush your thigh—gentle, coaxing. Not trying to start something again. Just checking. Making sure you were okay.

“Hey,” he murmured. “C’mon, let’s get you cleaned up.”

You blinked, disoriented, but nodded. He helped you sit up slowly, one hand steady at your back. You winced just a little, hips sore, thighs still trembling—and he saw it.

“Easy,” he said, voice softer now. “I got you.”

Joel guided you to the bathroom, flipping on the dim light. He grabbed a towel, ran the tap until it was warm, and knelt in front of you like it was the most natural thing in the world. You watched him in the mirror—his face focused, his touch careful as he cleaned you up with slow, steady hands.

“Still okay?” he asked, glancing up at you.

You nodded, a little breathless. “Yeah. Just… sore.”

“That’s normal,” he murmured. “First time’s not easy. But you did real good.”

You looked down, cheeks burning.

He noticed that too. Stood up. Pressed a kiss to your forehead.

When he walked you back to bed, he helped you lie down, then disappeared for a second. You heard the fridge open, the sound of water filling a glass.

Joel came back with a bottle of ibuprofen and handed you the water. “Take a couple. You’ll be stiff in the morning.”

You gave him a sleepy smile. “What, no post-sex pancakes?”

He grinned. “Tomorrow.”

He climbed into bed beside you again, tugged you into his arms like he needed you close to sleep. You let your body settle into his chest, warm and safe and still humming from everything that happened.

His fingers traced your spine, slow and rhythmic.

“Get some rest,” he said. “M’not goin’ anywhere.”

You believed him.

And for once, that was enough.

1K notes · View notes

littlelamy · 3 months ago

Text

title: catching him cheating

warnings: 18+, language, angst, part 1 part 2 part 3 (mon)

your fingers trace the tiny locket sewn into the soft fabric of his ralph lauren sweater, the little heart stitched onto the chest like a secret. you’d spent hours threading it in, thinking of how cute it would be when rafe saw it—how he'd smirk, maybe tease you, then kiss your head murmuring 'i love you' because, despite everything, he was soft for you.

except he wasn’t. not really. because when you push open the door to his house, already grinning, already calling his name, all you hear is the wet slap of skin against skin, a low groan that is unmistakably his.

“fuck—sofia—”

it’s a wrecking ball to the ribs, a sharp inhale that never makes it out. you stand frozen in the doorway, your hand still mid-air from where you'd been about to wave, like an idiot. like the world hadn’t just caved in beneath your feet.

sofia is bent over the couch, hands gripping the leather, her back arching as rafe pounds into her, his fingers digging into her hips so hard they’ll leave bruises. she moans his name, and his head is thrown back, sweat-damp hair sticking to his forehead, lost in the pleasure of it, of her.

then he sees you.

“fuck.” he rips himself away so fast sofia stumbles forward, making a choked noise. but your eyes are on him, the way his pupils blow wide in something that is almost fear but not quite—more like the horror of being caught, of knowing exactly how bad this is but being powerless to rewind time.

“baby—no, no, please, it’s not—”

you don’t hear the excuse because your ears are ringing, heartbeat a war drum against your ribs. the blood drains from your face, leaving only cold, only static, only the unbearable weight of betrayal pressing down on your chest.

sofia scrambles to gather her clothes, half-stammering apologies as if she weren’t just moaning his name, but she isn’t the problem here. he is.

“you don’t get to call me that,” you whisper, voice shaking but sharp enough to cut. you swallow hard, jaw tight. “you don’t get to fucking call me that.”

rafe moves toward you like he actually thinks he can fix this, like he can close the distance and make you forget the image already seared into your mind. “please, you have to let me explain—”

“explain what?” your voice cracks, eyes burning. “that you’re a liar? a fucking cheat?”

“it was a mistake,” he swears, desperation creeping in. “i fucked up. i'm drunk, i—”

“no.” your laugh is humorless, sharp. “you don’t just trip and land inside someone, rafe.”

his face twists, frustration curling at the edges, and suddenly the remorse cracks, something uglier slipping through. like a switch flipping.

“fuck, fine,” he snaps, raking a hand through his hair, voice laced with irritation now. “you wanna be a drama queen about this? go ahead. but don’t act like you’re fucking perfect.”

it’s laughable. disgusting. you shake your head, staring at him like you don’t even know him anymore. maybe you never did.

“you are such a fucking coward,” you murmur, voice quiet but scathing. you take a step back, one foot already out the door. “don’t ever speak to me again.”

and for the first time, he looks scared. really scared. because he knows you mean it.

tags: @rafesbabygirlx @namelesslosers @drewsephrry @maybanksangel @averyoceanblvd @iknowdatsrightbih @rafesheaven @anamiad00msday @ivysprophecy @wearemadeofstardust0 @rafesangelita @rafedaddy01 @bakugouswaif @skywalker0809 @vanessa-rafesgirl @evermorx89 @outerhills @ditzyzombiesblog @slavicangelmuah @alivinggirl @rafesgreasycurtainbangs @lil-sparklqueen @rafessweetgirl

#rafey ᘚ #littlelamyposts༄࿔#dividers from plum98 #cheater!rafeঌ #rafe cameron #rafe obx #rafe imagine #outerbanks rafe #rafe x reader #rafe outer banks #rafe x you #rafe fic #rafe #rafe cameron x reader

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theballadofharkness · 4 months ago

Text

Make me a Mommy

Pairing: Agatha Harkness X fem!reader

Summary: Agatha is horrified and personally victimised when you go off the pill to switch medications and have to forego having sex unprotected… will you both be able to last weeks without it? Or will you decide to take a different course of action?

Word Count: 5.4K

Warnings: explicit smut, g!p Agatha, breeding kink, overstimulation, unprotected sex, MDNI

A/N: so here is my first explicit smut fic… hope it’s okay my loves xo

You step through the door, kicking off your shoes with a sigh before making your way into the living room, where Agatha is curled up on the couch with a book in her lap. The fireplace is crackling softly, casting a warm glow across the room, and for a moment, you just admire her- your wife, your beautiful, gorgeous wife, looking utterly serene as she flips through the pages.

Then you clear your throat. “So… bad news,” you start, dropping your bag onto the armchair.

Agatha hums absently, not looking up. “Mhm?”

“The doctor wants me to switch birth control. Says it’ll fix my headaches,” you say, sitting down beside her. “Which means I have to be off it for a few weeks before starting the new one.”

Agatha freezes.

Her book lowers slowly, like you’ve just told her something catastrophic. Her brows furrow, lips parting slightly as she stares at you, her expression a mix of betrayal and horror.

“Wait,” she says, her voice flat. “So that means… no unprotected sex?”

You nod, biting back a smile at her reaction. “That’s what I just said, babe.”

Agatha closes her book with a thud, tossing it onto the coffee table like it’s personally offended her. “You’re telling me I can’t be inside my wife” she gestures at you, “raw” she gestures again, “for weeks?”

You snort, folding your arms. “That’s generally what ‘off birth control’ means, yes.”

Agatha gapes at you, like you’ve just announced Santa Claus isn’t real and you personally set fire to the North Pole.

“But-” she flounders, her hands moving wildly as if trying to grasp onto logic. “We’ve never not had unprotected sex.”

“We have,” you remind her, amused. “In the beginning. Before I went on the pill.”

“That was forever ago,” she grumbles, flopping back against the couch like the weight of this tragedy is simply too much to bear. “I’m a married woman, for fuck’s sake.”

“Yeah, I know,” you tease, patting her thigh. “I was there for the wedding, remember?”

“This is cruel and unusual punishment,” she mutters, rubbing a hand down her face. Then, narrowing her eyes at you, “Did the doctor say we can’t have sex at all?”

“No, we just have to use protection,” you reply, tilting your head. “Why?”

Agatha grimaces, like the word itself is offensive to her. “Protection?” she echoes, appalled. “You want me to go back to using condoms? Like we’re teenagers sneaking around in the back of a car?”

“Well, yeah, Aggie,” you grin, enjoying this way too much. “Unless you wanna risk getting me pregnant, that’s kinda the only option.”

You had wanted to bring it up. The words sat heavy on your tongue, right there, waiting, ‘Have you ever thought about kids?’ for a while now. But you knew Agatha. You knew the way she guarded herself, the way certain subjects made her retreat behind sharp wit and dry humor. You knew the ghosts that haunted her, the quiet fears she never quite voiced. And this? This was something she might run from.

So you swallowed the words down as you tried to stop yourself from thinking of tiny hands reaching for hers. Laughter ringing through the house. Agatha, rolling her eyes at some ridiculous mess but still cleaning it up. Agatha, braiding soft little curls with the same careful precision she used to weave her spells. Agatha, with a child pressed to her chest, murmuring some ancient lullaby into their hair. A family. Your heart ached with how much you wanted it. One day. Maybe one day.

Agatha groans, dragging a hand through her hair. “Baby, you’re killing me,” she whines, letting her head fall back against the cushions. “No raw, no filling you up? Just some sad, latex-covered half-measure?”

You laugh, leaning over to kiss her cheek. “It’s not that bad,” you tease. “You’ll survive.”

“Debatable,” Agatha grumbles, pulling you into her lap with an exaggerated huff. “Guess I’ll just have to remind you how good I am with my mouth instead.”

You shiver at her tone, but before you can respond, she presses a slow, hot kiss to your throat, her hands already wandering.

You’re standing at the stove, flipping pancakes, when you feel her eyes on you.

“You know,” Agatha sighs dramatically from the kitchen table, “this house just feels so… empty now.”

You glance over your shoulder, eyebrows raised. “Empty?”

She nods solemnly, stirring her coffee like she’s mourning something. “Mhm. It’s like there’s a void. A great, gaping hole in my life.”

You snort, turning back to the stove. “Let me guess- the void is unprotected sex?”

“I’m so glad you understand my pain,” she deadpans. “It’s like you get me.”

You shake your head, amused. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Am I?” she presses, her chair scraping back as she stalks toward you. “Am I really, sweetheart?”

You gasp when she wraps her arms around you from behind, pressing her face into your neck like a suffering widow. “I just love you so much,” she mumbles against your skin. “And now I have to endure this tragic separation between my wife and my-”

“Okay, okay,” you laugh, wiggling in her grip. “You’re being very dramatic, baby.”

She nuzzles closer, squeezing you. “Just let me have this.”

You giggle, flipping the pancake. “My poor, suffering wife.”

“Thank you,” she murmurs, still clinging to you like she’s drawing strength from your presence. “I appreciate your support in this difficult time.”

You’re in the supermarket, picking out some vegetables, when you realize Agatha has gone suspiciously quiet.

Turning your head, you find her a few steps away, staring at a very specific aisle.

The family planning section.

You watch as she glares at the boxes of condoms like they personally offended her, arms crossed, jaw tight.

“Babe,” you call gently.

She sighs heavily, dragging a hand down her face. “I just never thought I’d be back here,” she mutters, sounding exhausted. “It’s like I’ve been… demoted.”

You choke on a laugh. “Demoted?!”

“Yeah,” she gestures vaguely. “I worked so hard to get promoted to no condoms, and now? It’s like I’m back at square one. Like all my effort meant nothing.”

You bite your lip, fighting a grin. “Well, it’s only temporary-”

“Temporary,” she mimics flatly, rolling her eyes. “Easy for you to say, sweetheart. You’re not the one being robbed of life’s greatest joy.”

You snort, grabbing a box off the shelf. “C’mon, let’s just get these and go-”

But before you can blink, she snatches it from your hands and throws it back onto the shelf like it burned her.

“No,” she says firmly. “We’re getting the thinnest ones. I refuse to be a peasant about this.”

You lose it, cackling as she grumbles to herself, flipping through boxes like she’s reading product reviews.

You’re curled up in bed, scrolling on your phone, when you hear the deepest, heaviest sigh known to man.

You glance over.

Agatha is lying on her back, staring at the ceiling like she’s contemplating the meaning of life, her arm draped dramatically over her forehead.

You wait.

Another sigh.

You set your phone down, propping yourself up on your elbow. “You okay over there, babe?”

“No,” she huffs, turning her head to look at you. “I’m suffering.”

“Oh no,” you coo, biting back a grin. “What’s wrong, my love?”

She squints, like you should already know. “I can’t fuck you raw,” she states. “That’s what’s wrong.”

You snort, rolling your eyes. “Baby, it’s not that serious-”

“Not that serious?” she gasps, clutching her chest. “Sweetheart, this is a crisis. We were so happy. We were thriving. And now-” She gestures vaguely at the air. “Now we’re living in hell.”

You burst out laughing, covering your face with your hands. “Oh my god, Agatha-”

“No, really,” she continues, scooting closer, resting her head on your stomach. “I miss my wife. I miss being inside my wife. I miss-”

“Okay,” you gently cover her mouth with your hand. “You’re so down bad.”

She makes an indignant noise against your palm before licking it playfully, making you squeal.

“Just saying,” she mumbles as she nuzzles your skin. “It’s been three days. I might die.”

“You’re not going to die,” you giggle, running your fingers through her hair. “You’ll be fine.”

She huffs dramatically, hugging your waist. “I better get a reward for all this suffering.”

You grin, pressing a kiss to her temple. “We’ll see.”

She groans, rolling onto her back again, dramatically flinging an arm over her face. Yeah. This is going to be a long few weeks.

It starts with a kiss.

Not the usual playful, teasing ones-no, this is desperate. Needy. You’re in bed, in Agatha’s lap, her hands firm on your waist as she devours your mouth like she’s been starving for you. And maybe she has. Because you started this. You’d meant for it to be just some lazy making out, something soft, something sweet. But then she groaned against your lips, fingers digging into your hips, and fuck- you were gone.

“Baby,” she murmurs, voice wrecked, breathing uneven. “You keep squirming like that, and I’m gonna-”

“Do it,” you whisper, rolling your hips against her again. “C’mon, Aggie. Want you.”

She grits her teeth, squeezing her eyes shut like she’s holding herself back. “Sweetheart,” she warns. “We can’t-”

“Fuck it,” you breathe, grabbing her face, kissing her hard. “Fuck it, Agatha. Please.”

She groans, hands trembling as they move under your shirt, pushing the fabric up, feeling you.

“Baby, we have to use protection,” she forces out, like she’s fighting for her life.

You shake your head fiercely, chest heaving. “No. No, I don’t want that. I want you. I want it raw. Please, Agatha, I-”

You’re going to kill her.

Agatha is trying- really trying- to be good, to be patient, to respect the fact that you’re still waiting, that you can’t let her have you the way she needs to just yet. But then you’re in her lap, all soft and warm, all giggles and needy little whimpers, pressing those sweet, sloppy kisses against her neck, shifting in her arms, looking up at her with those big, desperate eyes, and fuck she’s already breaking.

Her whole body jerks at your words, her breath shuddering as she grips your thighs, trying-failing-to stay in control. “You’re playing dangerous games, sweetheart,” she rasps. “You know I want that too-”

“C’mon, Aggie,” you whisper, breathless and sweet, rolling your hips against her, making her groan, making her ache. “Just a little. Just the tip, baby. Please.”

“You’re gonna be the death of me,” she groans, kissing you feverishly, hands everywhere, touching, claiming. “You really want this, sweetheart? You’re sure?”

You whimper, nodding frantically, arching into her touch. “Yes, yes, I- fuck, please, Aggie, I need it, I need you-”

And fuck, she wants to say no.

She wants to be good, to be careful, to be patient-

But then you grind against her, soft and sweet, and fuck, she snaps.

“Shit,” she grits, her hands shaking as she grips your hips, guiding you down, just enough to let you feel her, just enough to feel that tight, wet heat wrapped around the very tip-

And then you whimper.

Then your walls flutter around her.

Then you clench, just a little, just enough to make her see stars-

And it’s over. The last of her self-restraint snaps like a frayed thread.

“Oh, fuck-” she groans, her head falling back against the pillows, her control snapping as she grips your hips, dragging you down onto her cock, filling you up in one deep, desperate stroke.

And shit, you gasp, eyes going wide, fingers gripping at her shoulders. And Agatha just groans, burying her face in your neck, pressing a shaky kiss to your skin, trembling beneath you as she thrusts up. “I’m sorry, baby,” she rasps, voice thick with lust, with hunger, with need. “I can’t-fuck, I can’t stop now.”

Agatha is gone. She’s supposed to be careful. Supposed to be taking her time, waiting until you’re back on the pill. But you’re so warm around her, so tight, so perfect, and fuck, you whimpered when she filled you up, clenching down like you were made for her, and now? Now she can’t stop.

“Fuck,” she groans, her grip tight on your hips as she grinds you down onto her cock, dragging you over her slow and deep, like she’s trying to ruin you, like she needs you to feel every inch of her.

And you’re gasping, nails digging into her shoulders, lips parted, eyes glassy as you whimper, “Aggie-oh, my god-”

And that breaks her.

“Oh, you like that, pretty girl?” she rasps, voice thick, hungry, her teeth grazing your throat as she rocks her hips up, slow and deep, dragging against that sweet little spot inside you, making you whimper, making you shake.

“I-” You can’t even speak, just a broken little gasp, your body trembling as she fucks you, slow and deliberate, like she’s claiming you.

And fuck, she is. She grips your hips, dragging you down onto her cock, her mouth at your ear, her voice wrecked as she murmurs, “Thought you just wanted the tip, sweetheart.”

You writhe in her arms, whimpering as you shake your head, your fingers fisting in her hair. “Didn’t mean to-”

“Yeah?” she hums, her voice a tease, even as her hands are shaking, even as she’s trying so hard to hold herself together. “Didn’t mean to take my whole cock, baby?”

You squirm, burying your face in her shoulder, your whole body trembling against her. But Agatha smirks, her grip tightening, her hips rolling up in one, slow, deep thrust, filling you up so good, so perfect, making you cry out, making you tremble.

And then she grins, pressing a kiss to your temple, whispering, “Guess I’ll just have to keep fucking you until you mean it.”

Your voice is shaky, gasping against her lips as you clutch at her shoulders. “Shit, okay-okay, just-” You squeeze your eyes shut, your breath hitching as she drags you down onto her cock, slow and deep. “Just don’t- don’t cum inside, okay?”

Agatha groans, her fingers digging into your hips as she grits her teeth, her restraint hanging by a thread.“Oh, sweetheart,” she rasps, her head falling back against the pillows, her hands trembling as she holds you there, buried to the hilt.

But you’re squirming, grinding yourself down onto her, chasing that perfect friction, your voice all soft and breathless as you whimper, “It’s fine, it’ll be fine, just- just don’t stop.”

And fuck, she almost loses it. Because you’re so tight, so wet, squeezing down around her cock like you’re made for it, your body shuddering as you bury your face in her neck, whimpering her name, your fingers digging into her arms- and you’re telling her not to stop? Yeah, she wasn’t planning on it. She snaps her hips up, grinding deep, her breath coming out in a harsh groan as she fists a hand in your hair, tilting your face up so she can kiss you, swallowing your broken little moan.

“Yeah?” she grits out, her cock dragging against that sweet spongey spot inside you, making your whole body tremble. “You sure about that, baby?”

And you nod, your breath all hot and desperate against her lips as you gasp, “I-I can’t- Aggie, don’t stop, please-”

She flips you onto your back, pressing you into the mattress as she rolls her hips, deep and slow, her voice a wrecked little murmur against your throat.

“Don’t stop,” she mimics, her grin dangerous as she grinds into you, making you gasp, making you tremble. “Gonna be a good girl for me, then?”

You nod, your whole body shuddering as you cling to her, whispering, “Yes-yes, I promise-”

But Agatha just grins, pressing a kiss to your temple as she whispers, “Good girl. Now let’s see if you mean it.”

Her voice is low, gravelly, the sound sinking straight to your core as she rolls her hips, slow and deep, dragging her cock against that achingly sensitive spot inside you. You’re trembling, your thighs tight around her waist as you whimper, your fingers digging into her back, clinging to her like she’s the only thing keeping you grounded.

“Look at you,” she murmurs, her lips brushing against your temple, her breath hot against your skin. “All fucked out already, baby?”

And shit, you are. Your body is shaking, your head tipping back as you gasp, your hips rocking against hers, chasing more, deeper, anything.

And Agatha just grins, her fingers tight on your hips as she pins you down, holding you still as she drags herself out of you- slow, torturous- until only the tip is left inside. Then, she snaps her hips forward, burying herself to the hilt, her cock grinding against that perfect, little spot inside you. Your back arches, a wrecked little moan breaking from your lips as you cling to her, your breath coming out in ragged gasps.

“Oh, sweetheart,” she grits out, her voice wrecked as she grinds deep, her hands shaking as she grips your thighs, spreading you wider, letting herself sink into you even more. “So fucking perfect for me.”

And you whimper, your head spinning, your body burning hot with want as you nod, breathless and needy, whispering, “Yes-yes, I-I am-”

And Agatha just groans, pressing her forehead against yours as she grinds her hips, slow and deep, drawing out every little whimper, every tremble of your body.

“Don’t stop, Aggie-please.” you whisper, voice all shaky and sweet

And fuck, she wasn’t planning on it. Her pace stutters, her breath coming in ragged, desperate gasps as your body tightens around her, pulling her deeper, tighter, until she can barely hold herself together.

“Fuck-” she grits out, her fingers digging into your thighs as she grinds into you, deep and slow, dragging out every little shudder and whimper that spills from your lips.

You’re right there, your body trembling, your nails scraping down her back as you cling to her, your breath ragged as you gasp, “Aggie-I-oh, fuck- please let me cum- please- ah!”

She groaned at your begging, her restraint barely hanging by a thread. “Since you asked so sweetly, darling,” she murmured, her voice like velvet, before she filled you again with slow, deliberate strokes that left you gasping, toes curling, body melting beneath her.

Agatha let out a low, satisfied hum, leaning down to press a kiss against your parted lips as she stilled, letting you adjust.

“There you go,” she whispered against your mouth, her smirk returning as she rolled her hips just enough to make you moan. “Now- hold it for me.”

“I- I can’t,” you whimpered, nails digging into her shoulders as your body trembled beneath her. The stretch, the fullness of her, the way she was holding you right at the edge without letting you tip over- it was too much, too overwhelming.

Agatha tsked softly, her lips curving into a knowing smirk as she rolled her hips, slow and deep, making you sob at the sensation. “Oh, sweetheart,” she purred, dragging her fingers along your jaw, tilting your chin up so you had no choice but to meet her gaze. “Yes, you can.”

You shook your head, gasping as she ground into you, pressing deeper, teasing that spot inside you that made your whole body shudder. Your thighs clenched around her waist, desperate for more friction, more everything.

“I- please, I can’t hold it,” you moaned, your voice a broken, pleading thing.

Agatha chuckled, dark and full of promise. “Yes, you can,” she murmured, lips brushing against your ear as she slowed her movements just enough to keep you dangling, just enough to keep you teetering on the brink without relief. “And you will.”

You let out a desperate cry, clinging to her as if she were the only thing keeping you tethered to this world.

“Be a good girl for me,” she coaxed, her voice dripping with sin, her hand slipping between your bodies to press slow, torturous circles over your clit. “Hold it.”

Your whole body tensed, fire licking up your spine, the pressure unbearable. Tears pricked your eyes, every muscle straining with the effort of obeying her command.

“That’s it,” Agatha cooed, pressing a slow, lingering kiss to your lips, just as she gave a sharp, deep thrust that made you scream.

“You’re doing so well, darling,” she praised, nipping at your bottom lip as she kept you right there, teetering on the edge of bliss, refusing to let you fall just yet.

You sobbed her name, mind spinning, pleasure building to an unbearable peak.

“Just a little longer,” she purred, her smirk pressing against your skin. “Then I’ll let you come.”

“Please,” you choked out, voice raw and desperate, your fingers clawing at her back, her arms, anything to hold onto. “Agatha- please, please, please-”

She hummed, her lips dragging along your throat, her breath warm and teasing. “Such a needy little thing,” she murmured, rolling her hips in a slow, deliberate grind, pressing deep until you saw stars.

You sobbed out a curse, every nerve in your body screaming for release.

Agatha smirked against your skin. “You’ve been so good for me, darling.” Her voice was honeyed, dark and dripping with approval. “I think you deserve it now.”

Your eyes flew open, barely able to process the words before…

“Come for me, sweet girl.”

The command shattered you.

The second she said it, she drove her hips forward with a slow, deep thrust, her fingers pressing just right against your clit, and you broke.

Your body arches, your head tipping back as a wrecked moan spills from your lips, your whole body shaking beneath her as your orgasm washes over you, hot and overwhelming, pulling her right over the edge with you.

“Shit,” Agatha groans, her hips jerking, her grip tight as she grinds into you, her body tensing as she lets out a deep, desperate moan.

You clenched around her, waves of bliss crashing over you. You pulled her closer to you, pressing your damp skin against her.

“Baby,” she grits out, her hips trembling as she tries to pull back, tries to do the right thing- but you’re clutching at her, your legs tightening around her waist, your body so soft and warm and perfect beneath her.

“Don’t pull out,” you beg, your voice breathless, eyes wide and glassy as you look up at her. “Please, Aggie, make me a mommy.”

Her head drops, a shudder racking through her whole body as a wrecked groan spills from her lips.

“Fuck,” she rasps, her resolve breaking as she grinds into you, so deep and slow, like she’s pressing the idea into you, sealing it into your very bones. “You want that?” she breathes, her hands tight on your hips, holding you in place as her nose brushes yours. “Want me to put a baby in you, sweet girl?”

You whimper, nodding frantically, your fingers tangling in her hair, your lips brushing hers as you whisper, “Please, Aggie, I want it so bad.”

That’s all she needed to hear. Her restraint snaps like a thread pulled too tight. A guttural sound rumbles in her chest as she buries herself in you, grinding deep, pressing her weight down like she could force the very thought of being filled, of being bred, into your mind, your body, your soul.

“Fuck, baby,” she rasps, her breath hot against your cheek. “Gonna fill you up so good, make sure it takes-”

You whimper, your hands gripping at her shoulders, your legs locked around her back. “Yes, yes, please-”

She grits her teeth, her rhythm turning slow, deliberate, dragging each thrust out like she wants you to feel it, to remember it. Her hands splay over your belly, her thumbs stroking over the soft skin like she’s already imagining the way it’ll swell beneath her touch.

“You’ll look so beautiful carrying my baby,” she murmurs, her voice low, reverent. “Gonna be such a good mama, sweetheart.”

Your breath hitches, your eyes going glassy, your body arching into hers. “Aggie-”

“I’ve got you, baby,” she soothes, pressing her forehead to yours, her hips rolling, her cock grinding against that spot that makes you cry out. “Taking me so well, fuck-”

Her movements turn shakier, her breath coming in ragged, uneven gasps. “Shit, I’m gonna-baby, I’m gonna-”

“Do it,” you plead, clutching at her, dragging her down, kissing her with everything you have. “Please, Aggie, give it to me-”

And with a wrecked, desperate moan, she does.

As the last tremors roll through her, Agatha collapses onto you, careful not to let her full weight press you down, but still keeping you beneath her, caging you in. Her breath is hot against your neck, her lips skimming your pulse, and she shudders at the way your walls are still fluttering around her, so tight and warm, like your body still doesn’t want to let her go.

“My perfect girl,” she murmurs, voice hoarse, reverent. Her hands splay over your belly, stroking, like she’s already imagining you full of her, already claiming what she’s just given you. “So good for me, sweetheart. So fucking good.”

You whimper, your body still twitching, hypersensitive and overwhelmed. “Aggie-”

“Shhh, baby,” she soothes, pressing kisses along your jaw, your cheek, your temple. “I’ve got you, I’ve got you, sweetheart.”

She finally, slowly, pulls out, and you whimper again, your body clenching at the loss, feeling empty without her. But before you can protest, her fingers skim down your body, dipping between your legs, gathering the warm, sticky evidence of what she’s just done to you.

“Look at that, baby,” she purrs, her fingers trailing through the mess she’s made of you, playing in it, spreading it. “So full of me.”

Your breath hitches, your hips jerking when she teases at your aching clit, her touch featherlight, just enough to send a shockwave through your already wrecked body. “Aggie!”

She chuckles, low and wicked, watching the way you tremble, the way your body reacts to every tiny movement of her fingers. “Too sensitive, sweetheart? But you love it, don’t you?”

You shake your head, but you’re squealing, gasping, your thighs trying to clamp shut around her wrist- but she’s stronger, and she holds you open, torturing you with slow, lazy strokes.

“One more for me, baby,” she murmurs, her voice like silk, like she’s asking something so simple, so reasonable. “Just one more, sweetheart. I know you can do it.”

“Aggie- I- I c-can’t-” you whimper, your thighs trembling, your body overwhelmed and aching, but she doesn’t stop. If anything, the way you plead only fuels her.

“Oh, but you can, sweetheart,” Agatha purrs, her fingers still teasing, dipping, spreading her claim inside you. “My good girl always gives me what I want.”

Your breath catches, your hands gripping at her, desperate, but she just shushes you, her lips brushing against yours, her body looming over you as she keeps you pinned, her fingers wickedly slow as they play between your shaking thighs.

“So messy, baby,” she murmurs, circling your puffy clit with the evidence of what she’s just done to you. “So perfect for me, letting me fill you up like this.”

You sob, the sensation too much, too intense, but you can’t stop the way your hips twitch, the way your body responds to her.

“That’s it, sweetheart,” Agatha encourages, her voice low, dripping with satisfaction. “You wanna give me one more, don’t you? Wanna show me how much you love being full of me?”

“I-I-” you stammer, but she presses her thumb firmly against your aching clit, and you jerk, your back arching, your mouth falling open in a silent cry.

“There we go,” she coos, her other hand gripping your waist, holding you still as she works you through the aftershocks, her fingers spreading her warm release back inside you as she keeps stroking, keeps teasing, keeps pushing you toward the edge she knows you can’t resist.

“Aggie- I- I’m gonna-”

“That’s my girl,” she groans, her lips brushing your jaw as she feels your body tense, your walls fluttering around her fingers, your whole body shaking as she finally pushes you over again. “Let go for me, baby. Let me feel it.”

And you do. You break, shuddering, whimpering, your body pulsing in her hold as she watches, devours the way you come apart for her, your overstimulated body giving in completely.

“So fucking beautiful,” Agatha whispers, her fingers finally slowing, easing you through it, soothing you as you pant, your body spent and boneless beneath her.

She leans down, kissing your cheek, your forehead, murmuring soft praises against your damp skin as she finally pulls her fingers away.

“You did so well, sweetheart,” she soothes, her hands now gentle, comforting as she gathers you in her arms. “My perfect girl.”

Agatha holds you close, her body still shuddering slightly from the intensity of what just happened, but all her focus is on you now- her precious girl, her perfect love, shaking in her arms.

“You okay, baby?” she murmurs, her lips ghosting over your temple, her hands soothing over your damp skin, grounding you, centering you in the aftermath.

You nod, still breathless, your fingers weakly clinging to her forearm where it’s wrapped around you. “Mhm… just tingly.”

Agatha chuckles softly, kissing the side of your head before reaching for a nearby cloth, gently cleaning you up, her touch delicate, reverent. “Tingly, huh?” she teases, but there’s nothing but adoration in her voice. “I’d say that’s a good sign.”

You hum, letting your body melt against her, your eyes fluttering as she continues to wipe you down, soothing every overstimulated inch of you. The warmth of her body, the tenderness of her touch, it’s all so perfectly Agatha.

Once she’s finished, she pulls you into her embrace again, tugging the covers up over both of you. “C’mere, sweetheart,” she whispers, tucking you against her chest, her fingers tracing lazy circles on your back.

For a while, you just lay there, safe in her arms, the air thick with the lingering scent of sweat and sex and something undeniably intimate.

Then, in a voice so soft it’s barely a whisper, Agatha asks, “Did you mean it?”

You blink, lazily looking up at her. “Mean what?”

She tilts your chin slightly so you’re facing her, her thumb brushing over your lips. “About wanting to have my baby.”

Your cheeks warm, a mixture of shyness and something deeper settling in your chest. “I…” You swallow, nuzzling against her palm. “I did.”

Agatha inhales, her eyes searching yours, something unreadable flickering in their depths. “You really want that, sweetheart?” Her voice is hoarse, almost uncertain, like she can’t quite believe what she’s hearing.

You nod, reaching up to cup her face, smoothing your thumb over her cheek. “I love you, Agatha. I want… everything with you.”

She sucks in a breath, her grip on you tightening like she’s afraid to let you go. “Fuck, baby,” she whispers, her forehead pressing against yours. “You have no idea what that does to me.”

You smile, a little sleepy, a little giddy, so in love with this woman it aches. “I think I do,” you tease, letting your fingers twist into her hair. “You got all shaky and sentimental on me, Aggie.”

She huffs, but there’s no bite to it, only warmth as she pulls you even closer. “Shut up, brat,” she murmurs, but then she’s kissing you, deep and slow, and you know-you know-that she’s thinking the same thing you are.

That this is it.

That you belong to each other.

And that maybe, just maybe, there’s a future waiting for you- a future where you’re hers in every way.

#agatha harkness x fem!reader #agatha harkness x reader #agatha all along #agatha harkness #agatha x reader #kathryn hahn x reader #kathryn hahn #agatha coven of chaos #agatha harkness smut #Agatha Harkness x reader smut #agatha smut

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layaispunk · 12 days ago

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i don’t know if you can write something without smut but i want reader’s parents(or dad idc) organizing this barbecue party in their house and joel trying to hard to play it cool and to stay away from reader who wears skimpy jean shorts and top only to tease him, and they end up sneaking in the kitchen to make out and almost get caught by reader’s dad or smth, you can change it however you see right, i just want to feel a lot tension and risk, thnks<33

you better behave, darling

part two here

pairing: joel miller x female!reader

warnings: sexual tension, mentions of alcohol and cigarettes, age gap unspecified, dilf!joel

masterlist

you didn’t know exactly when your crush on joel miller had gone from “dad’s hot friend” to “i think about you when i’m bored, lonely, or drunk”

maybe it was last winter, when he came over to help your dad fix the leaking pipes and left the garage smelling like his cologne. or maybe it was that time he picked you up from a party because your parents were out of town.

it didn’t matter anymore.

because now it was summer, you just graduated, joel was very much still single, and the tension in your chest every time he was near had officially passed the point of manageable.

it didn’t help that he was practically family. joel had been friends with your parents for over a decade. came to holidays, fixed things when they broke, gave your dad advice about tires and taxes, even helped put up the christmas lights last year. he was dependable, and masculine, and protective, and you …. you had a massive crush on him. and he’d never looked at you like that. which was…. fine. safe. understandable. and completely infuriating.

you were stirring a spoon around in your coffee, half-listening to your parents chat at the table behind you.

“the weather’s holding up,” your dad said between bites of toast. “could be a good weekend for that barbecue.”

your mom nodded. “we haven’t done one in a while. invite the usual crew? tommy, joel…”

at that, your stomach flipped. you didn’t flinch, or turn around, you just kept stirring your coffee a little longer than necessary, like the silence might cool it down faster.

joel.

you hadn’t seen him in a couple weeks — not since he stopped by to drop off a toolbox your dad had left in his truck. he stayed for a beer, made polite conversation, asked how you’d been. you said fine. normal.

you tried not to think about him too much. emphasis on tried.

“i’ll call joel later, tell him to bring that smoked sausage he always does,” your dad said. “man knows his way around a grill.”

you turned your back so they couldn’t see the smile on your face.

ten minutes later, you were upstairs in your room. you shut the bedroom door with your hip and let out a slow breath you didn’t realize you were holding.

you opened your closet and started throwing every single summer dress you owned onto your bed.

you stared at a faded red sundress with thin straps and a hem that rested above your thighs.

maybe you were overthinking it. maybe it was all in your head. joel probably still saw you as just a family friend, someone he watched grow up. there were a thousand reasons not to try anything . the age gap, the connection to your parents, the risk of looking foolish.

but even with all of that, you couldn’t shake the feeling.

it was stupid. delusional, even. but there was something about this summer. post-grad, the loneliness, the ache to feel something different … that made you want to stop tiptoeing around what you wanted.

what was the worst that could happen?

he says no? he laughs it off? you survive. you move on. life keeps going.

but what if he didn’t?

you flopped back on the bed dramatically, letting the red dress fan out beside you. your heart fluttering. you were tired of wondering. of watching him from across the street like he was just some living daydream. you were going to do something about it.

that night, you couldn’t sleep.

you tried, tossing your arm over your eyes, shifting under the thin sheet, but your body was still humming with something you couldn’t quiet understand.

maybe you could watch a rom-com, fall asleep to it. you got out of bed and padded downstairs barefoot, planning to dig through the kitchen for a snack while watching the movie.

halfway down the stairs, you heard it. his voice.

oh god.

you froze on the last step, blinking like you’d imagined it.

“-nah, she’s got good taste, i’ll give her that,” joel was saying, voice smooth and warm from laughter.

you stepped into the living room, eyes flicking toward the kitchen where he stood with your dad, each with a bottle of beer in hand. joel turned when he saw you, his smile lazy, casual.

“evenin’,” he said.

“hey,” you replied, swallowing the sudden flutter in your throat.

“joel brought over that old drill i needed,” your dad said, wiping his hands on a rag. “we got to talkin’, hope we didn’t wake you.”

“no, i was just… getting a snack,” you said, causally.

your dad looked at his watch and sighed. “gotta take a shower before bed. long day tomorrow. mind lettin’ him out when you’re done? make sure the old man makes it to his porch without fallin’ on his ass.”

you snorted. “sure.”

your dad clapped joel on the shoulder and disappeared upstairs.

and just like that, it was just you and joel.

the kitchen felt smaller. he leaned against the counter, nursing the rest of his beer, his eyes meeting yours with a little lift of his chin.

“remind me, when’s your graduation ceremony?” he asked after a beat.

you opened the fridge and pretended to look for something, keeping your voice even. “10th october. why?”

he took another sip before answering. “so i can get sarah to book a flight. she’s been wantin’ an excuse to come home for a bit.”

your head turned slightly, surprise flashing across your face. “that’s sweet.”

he shrugged, eyes warm. “plus i need time to rent a real nice suit. y’know, show up proper. make you proud.”

you turned your head to look at him fully now, your hand still on the fridge door.

“seriously?” you laughed.

he nodded, “wouldn’t miss it.”

your lips twitched into a soft smile. you were really looking at him now, the way the light hit the grays in his hair. at the soft creases around his mouth. at the strong, careful way he watched you.

joel tilted his head, voice quiet. “why’re you lookin’ at me like that?”

you shrugged, mouth twitching. “no reason.” a pause. then, just barely above a whisper: “you smell good.”

something shifted in his face. his fingers tensed slightly around the neck of the bottle.

a beat passed. then he spoke again, casual but with something simmering underneath.

“you still seein’ that brandon boy?”

you blinked. “brandon?” you laughed softly. “god, no. he was… stupid. and immature.”

joel made a small noise of approval, almost a chuckle.

“i prefer older guys anyway,” you added, letting the words linger in the air.

his eyebrows lifted, but he didn’t say anything right away. just met your eyes with something unreadable and intense.

you cleared your throat, breaking the silence before it could swallow you whole. “you coming to the barbecue tomorrow night?”

“yeah, course,” he said slowly, like he’d just pieced something together. “you?”

“mhm.” you nodded. “i’ll just have to look extra pretty, for you, then.”

joel’s brow twitched, and you swore you saw the corner of his mouth lift. “that right?”

you shrugged, playing it cool. “well, if you’re gonna go through all the trouble of renting a suit, i figure i should match the effort.”

“that dress you wore to mrs. adler’s party would probably do it,” he said, voice quiet.

you blinked. “you remember what i wore?”

a blush crept up on his neck. “i mean … i dont know. i guess.”

you smiled, “hm.”

he ran a hand over the back of his neck, “kinda hard to forget. you looked real pretty.”

you grabbed some snacks from the cabinet, trying to fight your grin. “you think you can keep your cool tomorrow?”

joel exhaled through his nose, “you really tryin’ to start somethin’ right now?”

“maybe” you just tilted your head, all innoncent.

joel leaned just a little closer, voice low and thick. “you better behave tomorrow, darlin’.”

the evening heat was relentless, sun hanging low over the backyard, making the sky look pink and orange, shimmering with heat. you could feel it sticking to your skin beneath the thin fabric of your dress. restless, you kept stealing glances toward joel. he was the center of attention as usual, leaning against the grill, a beer in one hand, chatting with his blonde neighbors who definitely knew how to flirt. it was clear why: joel was the hottest guy in austin. no competition.

you twisted the hem of your dress nervously and slipped inside the kitchen, your steps light on the floor. your eyes landed on the bottle of tequila you’d been using to mix drinks for the guests. without thinking, you grabbed it and took a quick, rebellious gulp.

“hey, what the hell are you doing, kiddo?” your dad’s voice cut through the quiet.

caught off guard, you froze, then blurted out, “it’s summer, dad. leave me alone.”

he just shook his head with a smirk, joking about losing a brain cell, and walked away, leaving you to slip back out into the backyard.

as you rounded the corner, you bumped into joel. his beer nearly slipped from his hand, but he caught it without missing a beat.

“hey,” he said, raising an eyebrow as he looked you up and down.

you looked around, making sure nobody could hear you, “you didn’t say a word about the dress, joel. i thought it was for you.”

he chuckled softly, shaking his head. “you’re bein’ stupid. you know your old man would kill me. chop my head off and put it on a plate, probably.”

joel’s eyes softened, and his voice lowered just for you. “you’re real pretty tonight, darlin’, but we can’t.”

you bit your lip, stepping a little closer. “so what if we can’t? makes it more fun.”

he gave you a half-smile, and headed toward the fence, pulling out a cigarette. lighting it, he took a slow drag and exhaled the smoke into the summer air.

you followed him, leaning against the fence beside him. “mind if i have a puff?” you asked casually.

joel didn’t even hesitate, handing you the cigarette with a small grin. after you took a slow drag, you looked down at your dress and then back at him. “hey, can you help me with this?” you said, pointing to the strap sliding off your shoulder.

he glanced at you, smirking. “i know what you’re doing, dirty girl.”

you looked up at him, innocently. “just want you to help me with my dress, joel.” you stepped closer, right in front of him, your breath catching when his hands reached for the straps of your dress. his fingers brushed your shoulders, sending a jolt straight through you.

for a moment, the world shrank down to the two of you. the distant laughter, the grill, the heat of the summer evening, all fading into nothing. you could feel the heat pooling low, your panties already soaked from the tequila and nerves, and the touch of joel’s hands.

he tightened the strap with slow care, his fingers lingering just a second too long. you swallowed hard, the backyard spinning just a little.

then, you did something stupid. you glanced over your shoulder, making sure no one was close enough to see what you were about to do. with a quick, reckless motion, you slid your light pink thongs down your thighs and, without a word, handed them to joel.

his eyes widened just the slightest when he caught the delicate fabric.

you turned on your heel and walked away, heart hammering, cheeks burning.

you didn’t see him again for about an hour. he was avoiding you.

the backyard was buzzing with bodies, laughter, and music. you found yourself stuck in the kitchen, nodding politely while your mom’s friend kelly launched into a drawn-out conversation about your post-grad plans. you tried to focus, offering half-hearted mhms and smiles, but your brain was still caught on what you’d done. the tequila was wearing off just enough for embarrassment to creep in.

god. you’d really handed joel miller your panties like it was nothing. you shifted your weight, pretending to sip your beer, trying to inch toward the doorway when you caught something out of the corner of your eye.

joel. standing by the hallway.

he wasn’t looking at you directly, but his body was turned just enough that you knew he was waiting. his eyes flicked to the bathroom door beside him, then back to you. a silent message.

you didn’t hesitate.

“sorry-beer’s hitting me,” you said quickly to kelly, leaving the beer on the counter and flashing a small apologetic smile as you backed away. “need to pee before i explode.”

she laughed and waved you off.

you slipped down the hall, heart pounding so loud it felt like your whole body moved with each beat. joel stood there, still as anything, but the look in his eyes was different now.

when you reached the door, he grabbed your wrist, pulled you inside the bathroom, and shut the door behind you with a click, and locked it.

you were pressed against the door, chests touching, the very little space between you hot and electric. neither of you moved for a second. just breathing. you could hear the party still humming faintly outside the door, but it felt miles away.

joel leaned in, his mouth close to your ear, voice low and ragged. “you’re outta your goddamn mind.”

you shivered.

“the hell has gotten into you tonight, huh?”

your courage from earlier fizzled out, the reality of it all creeping in now that he was here, so close, and looking at you like that.

“i’m sorry,” you said, breath hitching. “i didn’t mean to pressure you. i just…”

his mouth was on yours before you could finish.

it was rough and desperate, his hand cradling the back of your head as his lips crushed into yours. you gasped, and he took the opportunity to deepen the kiss, tongues sliding, hands wandering. you felt him everywhere. his body, solid and warm, pressing you harder against the door. his grip firm and grounding.

you whimpered against his mouth, fingers tangling in his shirt, pulling him closer like you couldn’t get enough. he tasted like beer and smoke, and it made your knees weak.

joel finally pulled back just enough to breathe, his forehead resting against yours. “jesus,” he muttered. “you don’t know what you’re doin’ to me.” his lips found yours again, hungry and desperate. he kissed you like he needed to memorize the way you tasted.

you moaned into his mouth, your body practically vibrating with need. his hands moved slowly, trailing down your sides, fingers grazing your hips. you could feel the hesitation there, the weight of everything unsaid between you, but it didn’t stop him.

his touch slipped beneath the hem of your dress, calloused palms dragging up the bare skin of your thighs. your breath hitched, and you couldn’t help it, you let out a soft moan.

“joel …”

he groaned low in his throat. “fuck.”

then.. two knocks.

you both froze.

your heart jumped into your throat. joel’s hand clapped gently but firmly over your mouth before you could react. his palm covered half your face—god, his hands were huge.

yep. dad was right. you officially lost a brain cell.

“hey, someone in there?” your dad’s voice rang out from behind the door.

joel’s eyes widened like a deer caught in headlights. he took a deep breath and answered with forced nonchalance.

“yeah, buddy. gimme a second. beer’s hittin’ me hard. think i just lost my goddamn bowels.”

PART 2 !

thankyou for reading ⋆𐙚₊˚⊹

p.s the whole underwear situation was inspired by the fic we all read and love, fourth of july by jrrmint

#joel miller #joel miller smut #joel miller angst #joel miller x reader #pedro pascal #joel miller fanfic #dbf!joel #pedro pascal x reader #joel miller fluff #joel fic #joel fanfic #joel miller tlou #joel tlou #joel x female reader #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller one shot #joel miller x female reader #dads best friend #layaasks

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