b3rryb3t

[b3rryb3t]

Can we maybe get some new smut for mark sloan

Too Sweet(Mark Sloan)

Paring: Mark Sloan x Wife!Reader

Summary: Mark and y/n could careless about any hospital functions and they happen to have other things on their minds.

Warnings: SMUT, quickie, unprotected sex, teasing, dirty talk, mark trying to hide a hard on, lipstick stains, slight fingering, pantie rading, slight public sex, getting bent over a desk. Mark and y/n not giving a fuck about what they say to each other, slight mention of creepy business guys. Mark Sloan just being Mark Sloan, not edited, horrible ending.

MasterList ML2

“Do we have half to go?” y/n called out to Mark as he stood in front of her full length mirror, fixing his tie. She was in the bathroom that was connected to their bedroom, the bathroom mirror was right next to the door, giving her a view of Mark moving about their room. She was kinda dragging ass, not really feeling like getting out tonight after a long work week. Mark got her butt moving, saying they could just go and make fun of all the rich, old perverts.

“Afraid so, gorgeous. Derek would have our heads if both department heads didn't show up to his precious meeting.” Mark called back.

She stood In front of the mirror, her dress was still hanging up on the bathroom door leaving just her lace bra and pantie set to hug her curves while she put her makeup on. The hospital they worked at had this meeting/banquet thing tonight Derek was hosting and they were both expected to come since she was head of the Peds department and Mark was head of plastics

Mark stopped messing with his tie for a second and looked over, eyes gliding over her curves and the lacey undergarments she was wearing as his gaze drank her in. He walked over and leaned up against the doorframe, admiring the view as he looked at her. He couldn't help but feel a slight throb of desire run through him as his eyes raked over her form. He cleared his throat trying to keep the desire from his expression.

“It seems so pointless” y/n said, then started applying her red lipstick.

“It definitely is, but you know how Derek is” He pushed off the doorframe and stepped up behind her, sliding his body up close to hers with a smirk as his hands settled on her hips and pulled her back against him. He could feel the heat rising between them as he pressed his body up against her curves.

He couldn't stop looking at her, how her body moved as she applied the makeup, the way the black and red lace hugged her curves. He knew they were gonna be late if he didn't stop staring. “And you definitely like the attention” y/n mumbled, concentrating as she put on her mascara.

Mark chuckled and pressed a kiss behind her ear, his lips skimming along the side of her neck. His hand slipped from her hips, fingers trailing along her exposed skin as they continued to move lower down her body. He knew he shouldn't be doing this now, but he just couldn't help it. The way she was moving right now, her body pressed up against him, it was too much for him to resist. He took a deep breath and tried to compose himself. “Maybe we can sneak out early”

“Hmm. Well, you do owe me lots of sex for making me go to this damn thing”

“That I do” Mark smirked, nipping at the soft skin of her neck gently with his teeth. He moved his hands back up, cupping her breasts and giving them a slight squeeze as his lips continued to trail down her neck. her breath hitched, she could feel him growing harder against her ass. She felt her skin heat up and she fought the urge not to jump his bones right then and there. He could feel her body responding to his, the desire starting to take over his thoughts. He couldn't resist her, not when she was this close to him and looking like that.

Y/n turned around, leaning against the bathroom counter. She dragged her fingers up his chest, feeling his muscular frame underneath his dress clothes. “You know, I think I need some,” she grabbed his tie, pulling her closer and bent her knee up, pressing her inner thigh against his side. “motivation to go to this damn thing”

Mark's eyes flashed with desire as he looked down at her, his hands moving to grip her thigh as she pulled him closer. He captured her mouth in a hungry kiss, his tongue pushing past her lips as he pressed himself against her. “Fuck, y/n. We have to go”

“Quickie before we leave, Dr. Sloan?” she asked, trying to sound innocent.

Mark groaned, his resolve weakening as Shelby's playful request sent a jolt straight to his groin. “Dammit, you're killing me, woman” Despite his words, his hands slid under her ass, lifting her easily onto the bathroom counter as she pulled him between her thighs by his tie.

Mark leaned in, capturing her lips in a searing kiss. He squeezed her ass, pulling away as she reached between them and yanked his belt open. “Quick and dirty, then we leave. Got it?”

“Yep” she said, her breathing rushed as she pushed his pants and boxers down enough to free his hardened cock. She wrapped her other leg around his hips as Mark practically ripped his suit jacket off his shoulders and threw it on the bathroom floor.

Mark growled possessively as he pulled her underwear off, stuffing the lace in his pocket. He speared into her thighs and entered with one thrust, making her gasp. She was already so wet his entry was smooth and easy. “Fuck!” He started moving, his hips slapping against hers with each thrust, his fingers digging possessively into her hips.

“Mark!” Y/n moaned, fisting his hair as he buried his face into her breasts, his facial hair scraping against her smooth skin.

“Come on, baby” He growled, nipping at her breasts softly. He knew this wasn't going to last long, not when she was making those noises and pulling his hair like that. He could feel her heels digging into his back as she pulled him closer. He picked up his pace, the bathroom filling with their loud, dirty sounds and the scent of sex.

she felt the familiar pressure build up in her lower abdomen. Her breath hitched and she fisted his white dress shirt in her fists, her toes curling behind him. “Fuck, Mark I'm gonna cum” her breath hitched.

“Fuck yes, cum for me Baby” Mark groaned against her breasts, sucking a nipple into his mouth as he thrust even harder, feeling her tighten around him. He slid one hand between them, finding her clit and rubbing firmly, pushing her over the edge.

Y/n finally reached the edge, letting all her nerves tightened as her vision became stary and almost nonexistent, her legs tightened around his hips and her nails bit into his biceps, a groan caught in Mark's throat as he watched her eyes roll back for the immense pleasure while her head fell forward against his shoulder. She wasn't used to getting things done this fast, let alone finishing so soon. Her orgasm washed over her, loud moans and profanities coming out from her mouth.

Mark groaned her name, his arms wrapping around her possessively as he held her against the counter, his hips jerking erratically as he found his own release inside her. He stayed like that for a moment, catching his breath, his face buried in her neck “Damn”

“Oh shit” she said breathlessly, carding her fingers through his messy hair.

Mark chuckled softly against her neck, his hands slowly sliding down to grip her thighs as he pulled out of her gently. He looked down at the mess between her legs and the state of his pants, shaking his head with a smirk. “God, we have to clean up and go, we're going to be late”

Y/n sighed. “fuck, I know”

Mark turned around and grabbed a towel off the rack, pressing it between her legs gently before wiping his own hips and throwing it in the hamper. He helped her off the counter and pulled up his pants, fixing his belt before running a hand through his messy hair.

“There's lipstick on your jaw too” she said, grabbing her dress and tugging it up her body.

Mark turned to the mirror, wiping at the lipstick smudge on his jaw with a smirk. He adjusted his tie and straightened his suit jacket, trying to look somewhat presentable. “I think we broke a record, that's the quickest we've ever done it”

“Well, I guess you're doing something right,” she said, smoothing her dress down then turned her back to him, her dress wide open. “zip me up, please”

Mark's eyes darkened as he stepped closer, his fingers brushing against her bare back as he slowly zipped up her dress. He leaned down and pressed a quick kiss to her shoulder before stepping back. “There you go, all presentable again” He adjusted his cufflinks with a smirk.

“Yeah, but I'm gonna have to fix my makeup in the car” She said as she looked in the mirror, fixing her hair. She couldn't get her curls to calm back down, so she just quickly put her hair up nicely in a claw clip as Mark watched her in the mirror. He liked her like this - makeup smudged, hair slightly messy, dress back in place. He couldn't tell that she'd just been thoroughly fucked on the bathroom counter. He adjusted his watch and smirked.

Time was ticking so y/n quickly rushed to their bedroom and put her converse, as she laced them up she looked around. “And where are my panties?”

Grinning mischievously, he casually reaches into his pocket and pulls out a lacy piece of fabric. “what? These? You won't need them if I'm just gonna take them off again in a couple of hours,” He winks, then stuffs them back into his jacket pocket and slung his suit jacket over his shoulder. “Now come on, beauty queen. Hospital is a waitin’”

Y/n rolled her eyes at her husband as she grabbed her makeup bag and followed him out to the car. “you realized I'm in a dress, I need underwear” Everything was covered and the dress was extra long on her because she was short but that wasn't the point.

He ignores her protest, opening the passenger door for her with a smirk. “Too bad,” He teases, sliding into the driver's seat. “You look fine without them, trust me” He backs out of the driveway, adjusting his mirrors.

“Mhm” she rolled her eyes as she pulled down the passenger visor and used the mirror on it to start fixing her makeup.

He watches her try to fix her smoky eye from the corner of his eye. He knew that dress was doing crazy things to her curves - it was tight around her breasts and flowy everywhere else. He adjusted his pants slightly and smirked as she applied a new layer of red lipstick.

“Red lipstick on you should be illegal” He murmurs his hand moves to her thigh, giving it a possessive squeeze as he kept his other hand on the wheel.

“You really shouldn't be touching me there right now” she mumbled, putting on her mascara.

He chuckles, his hand lingering on her thigh for a moment longer before moving back to the wheel. “Can't help it. You look too damn good” He glances at her, his eyes darkening with desire as he watches her from the corner of his eye.

Y/n rolled her eyes as Mark's dropped to her legs. The dress was long but it rode up slightly when she sat, showing off a bit of thigh. He swallowed hard and adjusted his pants again. He was getting hard again - this woman was unhinged. He smirked slightly.

“Eyes on the road, buster” Y/n said, quickly brushing on some blush on her cheeks then quickly packed everything up in her makeup bag then tossed it in the back seat.

“Yes ma'am,” He mocks with a smirk, keeping his eyes on the road. He stole a glance at her though - legs crossed, hair up in that sexy as hell clip, makeup fixed. He realized something, “You know what?”

“Hm?”

“You're really fucking pretty,” He said it so nonchalantly, like it was just another comment. He turned the car into the hospital parking lot and found a spot. “I'm a lucky guy”

“Damn right you are” She smirked. Mark was usually the cocky one, the one to tease, but every once in a while she'd get a jab in too.

Mark laughed, turning off the engine. He got out of the car and walked over to her side, opening the door for her. He offered his hand to help her out, his eyes roaming over her body appreciatively. “Come on, princess. Let's go be social and shit”

Y/n groaned dramatically, rolling her eyes as she got out of the car then smoothed out her dress. Mark chuckles, his hand on the small of her back as he guided her into the hospital. He nodded and smiled at the familiar faces, his other hand resting on her hip possessively. He was showing off - showing the whole hospital that he had the prettiest wife and the best life.

“God, this sucks”

Mark leaned down and his lips brushed against her ear, whispering as his front pressed against her back. “You know what else sucks?” His hand gives her hip a gentle squeeze “I'm still fucking hard”

“Don't you dare start pitching a tent”

He let out a soft, husky laugh. “Baby, with you in that fucking dress? I'm basically walking around with a constant boner,” He whispered low enough that only she could hear, his fingers tracing small circles on her hip. “And that fucking lipstick”

“Behave yourself” y/n whispered back, looking over her shoulder at him as he pressed himself against her, hiding the growing problems in his pants.

Mark nuzzles the crook of her neck, hiding his face. He was getting harder- she always did this to him. He growled softly, his hands dropping to grip her hips possessively. He was sure no one could tell he was semi-hard right now. “okay, we shouldn't have done that fucking quickie”

“Frustrated, honey?” she teased him.

“You're fucking telling me,” He muttered darkly, his fingers squeezing her hips. “We should've just stayed home and fucked all night instead of coming to this stupid party” He rested his forehead against her shoulder, letting out a soft, annoyed grunt.

Y/n rolled her eyes, holding back the 'I was right' hassle. She was thankful they were in the back, away from other hospital board members that were invited. “You need to pull yourself together” she whispered to him, not admitting she was just as frustrated as he was.

He took a deep, shuddering breath, trying to get his body to calm down. He looked around, making sure no one was paying attention to them. He was acting like a teenager with a constant boner. “Fine, fine” He muttered, adjusting himself discreetly.

Y/n gave him a few seconds to fix himself while she stayed standing in front of him with her back facing him. “Are you good?”

He let out a soft sigh of relief when his pants felt a bit more comfortable. He wrapped his arms around her waist, pressing a gentle kiss to her shoulder. “Yeah, I'm good” He murmured, resting his chin on her shoulder.

“Good, cause we need to go mingle”

He sighs dramatically, straightening up and adjusting his pants discreetly. He takes her hand in his, intertwining their fingers as he leads her towards the group of doctors and nurses gathered around the buffet table. “Alright, alright. Let's go schmooze with these losers.”

Mark leans in to whisper as they approach the group, “Remember, smile and nod. That's all you need to do. I'll handle the rest of the bullshit” He teased her, getting her back for what she was doing to him. He flashed a charming smile at the doctors who were already starting to notice them.

“Wow, now you make me sound like a trophy wife” she joked. They both knew she wasn't, but Mark also knew she didn't like crowds despite being a doctor.

He chuckles, pulling her a bit closer to his side. He knew she hated crowds and socializing, but he also knew she was a great doctor and deserved the recognition. He leaned down to whisper in her ear again. “You're no trophy, you're a fucking queen”

“Damn right”

Mark was about ready to convince y/n to go somewhere private, preferably her office. Unfortunately Derek waved them over, he was with one of the board members from Seattle press. “this is Mark Sloan, head of plastics and Y/n Sloan, head of Peds” Derek said as Mark shook the man's hand, trying to keep his cool.

“Yes, I read your guys' article about your Treacher Collins case. Very impressive” the man said, his eyes lingering on y/n a bit too long. Y/n forced a smile, being polite as possible.

Mark's jaw clenched slightly as he noticed the man's gaze lingering on y/n. He wrapped an arm around her waist possessively, his hand splaying across her hip. “Thank you, we're quite proud of it” He replied curtly, his tone a bit colder than necessary.

Eventually Derek and the man walked away, Y/n rolled her eyes. Mark watched, his arm still around Y/n's waist. He turned to her, his voice low and irritated. “Can you believe that guy? Staring at you like that?” He rolled his eyes dramatically, his jealousy barely contained. “Asshole”

“What? Jealous?” she smirked.

Mark scoffed, his face turning slightly red. He pulled her closer, his face inches from hers. “Of course I'm fucking jealous. You're my wife, and he was staring at you like you were a piece of meat” He growled softly, his hands gripping her hips tightly.

Y/n bit her lip, suppressing a giggle. “You're sexy when you're jealous” she teased, grabbing the lapels of his suit jacket, pulling him closer.

Mark's heart rate picked up at her teasing, his hands squeezing her hips possessively. “Fuck, stop saying shit like that,” He muttered darkly, his face buried in her neck. He took a deep breath, trying to calm himself down. “We need to go to your office”

Y/n quickly nodded and Mark looked around quickly, making sure no one was paying attention to them. He took her hand and led her towards the elevator, his grip firm. Once the elevator doors closed, he had her pressed against the wall, his mouth crashing against hers.

Y/n gasped against his lips as her back hit the elevator wall, the cold metal nipped at the exposed skin on her back. She carded her fingers through his hair. She hadn't realized how fired up she still was from the quickie. She grabbed his belt, pulling him closer to her by it as she tilted her head to the side to deepen the kiss, her red lipstick smudging.

Mark growled low in his throat, his hands gripping one of her thighs and hiked it against his hip. He ground himself against her core, his mouth messy and aggressive. “Jesus christ” He muttered against her lips.

she moaned desperately against his lips as her dress rode up her thigh, cashing goosebumps to cover her skin. Then his hand trailed down between her legs. Mark's fingers slipped under her dress, she was still bare from early. He groaned when he was immediately met with how wet she already was, or still was. His fingers slipped against her folds, teasing her gently before sliding it inside. “Fucking hell, Baby” he murmured against her lips, his voice thick with desire.

Y/n gasped, gripping his biceps. She hadn't realized how desperate she really was till now, she was too busy teasing him. “M-mark, not here” She whispered against his ear, smudging his jaw with what was left of her lipstick.

Mark's breath hitched at her whisper, his fingers curling inside her. He knew they were in a public place, but the thought of taking her right there in the elevator was incredibly tempting. He pulled his fingers out slowly, making Y/n gasp again before he brought them to his mouth and sucked them clean. He pressed his hips against hers, letting her feel just how hard he was for her. The elevator dinged, signaling they were on the Peds floor where y/n's office was.

The elevator doors opened and Mark grabbed y/n’s hand, leading her out of the elevator and down the hall to her office. He quickly pulled her inside, slamming the door shut behind them. “Lock it”

She quickly locked it then grabbed the front of his belt, pulling him against her. He let out a low growl, his hands immediately going to her hips. “Jesus, Y/n” he muttered, his mouth crashing down on hers in a hungry kiss. His hands moved to her ass, lifting her slightly so she could feel his hardness against her core.

Y/n gasped, instinctively wrapping her legs around his waist, Mark let out a low groan, the feeling of her bare pussy against his cloth covered dick almost too much to handle. He broke the kiss, burying his face in her neck as he started to walk towards her desk. “Fuck, you're so wet”

“Mark,” she panted “Fuck me”

He growled possessively, sitting her down on the desk. He unbuckled his belt quickly, pushing his pants and boxers down just enough to free himself. He spread her legs wider, teasing her buy rubbing his tip up and down her soaked slit, “you want me to Fuck you?” His voice hoarse.

“Y-yes” she whimpered desperately, gripping his dress shirt in her fists. She lifted her hips off her desk slightly, trying to grind against him. She needed friction so bad, but he pulled away. “Dammit, Mark”

“Not so fast, princess,” he teased, enjoying her desperation too much. He continued to tease her with just the tip, running it against her clit but never fully pushing in. “You've been teasing me all fucking day”

“that was justifiable” y/n groaned.

“Mhmm,” He murmured, snapping his hips slightly, making her moan. He slowly moved away from her entrance. He knew she was desperate, her body was covered in goosebumps and she was making small needy noises.

“P-please”

He smirked against her neck, his hands squeezing her thighs possessively. “Please what, Baby?” He asked, his voice low and mocking. He grabbed her hips and bent her over her desk suddenly, making her gasp. “You want me to fuck you on your desk?”

“Y-yes!”

Without another word, he finally slammed into her, making her cry out loudly. He started to pound into her relentlessly, the sound of skin slapping against skin filled the room along with their moans and cries. “Fuck, you're so tight,” He groaned, his fingers digging into her hips.

“Look at you taking my cock so perfectly, baby” he groaned, speeding up his pace. The sound of her office supplies rattling with each thrust was incredibly sexy. He leaned over her back, one hand trailing up to grab her hair.

“Mark!” She gasped desperately, gripping the sides of her desk for Leverage. She rutted her hips back, pressing her ass against him.

He loved the way she was trying to pull him deeper, his long length hitting all the right spots inside her. He wrapped her hair around his fist, gently tugging her head back so he could nuzzle his face against her neck. “You like this baby?”

“Fuck, yes!” she cried out, reaching behind her to grab his hips.

“That's it, take my cock like a good girl,” he growled, his hips slapping against her ass. He let go of her hair, his hand moving to her shoulder to hold her in place as he pounded into her harder. “You feel so fucking good, Y/n”

She moaned louder. “Oh, fuck. right there” she said breathlessly.

Mark groaned, feeling her tighten around him. “Right there, baby?” he asked, hitting that spot over and over again. He could feel his orgasm building, but he wanted to make sure she came first. He reached around with one hand and found her clit, rubbing it in slow circles.

Mark growled, continuing his relentless thrusts while focusing pressure on her clit. The office supplies were now fully scattered across her desk, the sound of them clattering mixed with their heavy breathing and moans. “H-harder” y/n gasped.

He growled, his hips moving like a machine as he pounded into her harder, his fingers pressing against her clit harder. “Baby, come on my dick,” he growled, his own release barreling down on him. “I can't hold back much longer”

“Oh fuck, I'm cumming!” she gasped as she finally reached the edge. Her body tensed from the immense pleasure as her forehead pressed against the desk. Her orgasm hit her like a train, loud moans and pants coming out from her mouth.

Mark couldn't hold back as he felt her tight pussy clamp around his cock, her orgasm triggering his own. He slammed into her one last time with a loud groan, burying himself deep as rope after rope of cum shot inside her. His grip on her hips tightened, fingertips digging into her soft flesh.

“S-shit”

Breathing heavily, he continued to throb inside her, slowly pulling out carefully. “Fuck Y/n, that was-” he trailed off, grabbing some tissues from her desk to clean up. His hands slightly shaky from the intense orgasm. He pulled up his pants but left the belt undone. She grabbed his face in her hands, crashing her lips against his.

“That was perfect” She said softly, catching her breath.

“Damn right,” Mark could see the desperation and satisfaction in her eyes, a mix that made his cock twitch despite having just come. He pulled away slightly, resting his forehead against hers. He chuckled softly, his thumbs brushing over her cheeks. “God, you're going to be the death of me” he murmured before stealing another quick kiss. He gently pulled away, straightening up his clothes as he glanced around the messy office.

“yeah, I'll deal with it Monday” y/n Sighed.

“mhm” Mark kissed the side of her forehead. “we're getting you home, I'm far from finished with you”

[b3rryb3t]

♡ when pope gets embarrassed because he’s hard..

warnings: fluff, illusions to pope and reader never having sex before, making out, heavy petting, praise, dry humping

no matter how many times you and pope found yourselves making out in his bedroom, it didn’t stop you two from becoming flustered when things got a little too heated than what you were normally used to. with both of your hands roaming each other’s bodies, and your hips instinctively moving against his own, it was only a matter of time before pope was going to be physically affected by your ministrations. “oh— shit..” pope hissed, abruptly pulling away from your lips. you ignored the sinking feeling in your chest when you saw that he couldn’t meet your eyes, his gaze fixed on the space he just put between you two.

“did i do something wrong?” you bit your lip nervously when he looked up at you with confliction written all over his face. “no! no, it’s not you,” he motioned towards his lap where a tent had grew in his shorts, “i’m sorry, i think i just get really into it and then this happens and i’m really sorry because i don’t want you to feel like you have to do something with me—” you cut off pope’s rambling with a kiss, a groan rumbling from his chest as you wrapped your arms around his neck. he was so cute and mindful and so so so sweet, it only turned you on even more.

“i know we’re saving our first time for when your parents go out of town for their anniversary.. but maybe i can relieve you a different way?” pope watched as you seated yourself on top of his erection, the only thing separating you two being the thin layers of your clothing. “shit,” he breathed out, resting his hands in the curves of your hips, “are you sure? you really don’t have to— ah, fuck!” you moaned when you moved over his length, both of you clinging onto each other as his clothed cock rubbed against your clit. “you feel so good, pope..” the man in front of you was trying his best to lock in and not blow his load prematurely, his bottom lip pulled tightly between his teeth as you rocked yourself on his lap.

your moans and your praises were going to be stuck in pope’s head forever now, your pretty sounds replaying in his mind over and over again until it’s the only thing he could think about. he sat back against the wall, holding your hands in his as your tits bounced underneath your top. “hey.. baby?” pope groaned, his grip on your skin tightening. “y-yeah?” you shuddered, a shiver running down your back as you two became more frantic. “i don’t think i’m gonna last long—” he winced, pulling you against his bare chest. you whimpered, the sound of his matress squeaking making your cheeks heat.

“me either!” you whispered, digging your nails into his flesh. crying out into your palm, you felt your high wash over you as your hips stuttered, your thighs shaking with pure unadulterated pleasure. “oh, god! i’m cumming pope!” your boyfriend clamped a hand over your mouth, his forehead resting against your own as he came in his boxers, his chest rising and falling as he locked his jaw shut to keep himself from letting out any noises his parents might hear. you held onto him as tightly as you could, your eyes welling up with tears at the overwhelming feeling you felt deep in your core.

eventually, your movements came to a slow stop and you two were left softly panting in the darkness of his room. collapsing in his arms, you pressed a kiss to his lips before looking down at the wet patch that now adorned the crotch of his shorts. “i’m sorry baby.. i think i made a mess..” you pouted, attempting to ‘clean’ the spot with your hand. pope doubled over, shaking his head at the contact. “it’s okay, it’s okay—” he reassured you, his cock still aching despite making a mess in his underwears himself. you let him embrace you, both of you basking in your post-orgasm bliss before you’d have to sneak out of his room.

“i wish you weren’t grounded..” you whispered, “at least then we’d still be able to hang out until your parents leave for the mainland.” pope couldn’t wait for the moment you two would be all by yourselves in an empty house, all of your sexual tension rising to the surface and dwindling down to that very moment he could take you the way both of you have been fantasizing about for months now. “don’t worry, ‘good things come to those who wait’.” you couldn’t help but laugh softly at his words. “what book did you get that quote from?”

[b3rryb3t]

Me when everyone in the juke joint says I can’t go ride the 4 leaf clover outside🙄

[b3rryb3t]

so... i just finished netflix’s limited series godless (2017), and i won’t lie—i started it for jack o’connell, but by the first episode, i was utterly captive to a plot that’s (in my personal taste) ABSOLUTELY FASCINATING. it’s got all the classic western tropes: revenge, violence, middle-of-nowhere towns, endless dust, and grimy people. but it also grapples with deeper themes—the search for identity in a worn-out world, female independence (both sexual and bureaucratic), racial tensions, and how toxic masculinity warps even the closest bonds. take roy goode (jack o’connell) and his adoptive father, frank griffin (jeff daniels): their fractured relationship is the story’s beginning and end. and WHAT AN ENDING (!!!).

that said, the series has its flaws. some characters feel underexplored—like the sapphic tension between the sheriff’s sister, merritt, and the local schoolteacher, tess—sacrificed for lingering shots of roy goode riding across the plains. the narrative also sidelines its female characters’ agency at times to focus on frank’s obsessive pursuit of roy. but the payoff? a django unchained (2012)-style finale where the women unite, unleashing their collective fury. beautiful.

then there’s roy himself—a man shrouded in "bad-hearted outlaw" legends, yet painfully inexperienced with life beyond violence. his years under frank’s tutelage left him calloused, but when he starts reading and writing, you see the dawning realization: a world exists beyond the barrel of a gun. his character arc is exquisitely crafted, and o’connell’s performance? FLAWLESS. from the classic gunslinger swagger to the subtlest glances—PERFECTION.

HIGHLY RECOMMEND THIS SHOW!!!

now, about roy goode himself:

HOT.

DREAMY.

FLAWLESS.

PRINCELY!!! KSKSKSKSKSKS

i spent the entire series kicking my feet and swooning whenever he appeared—that accent, that demeanor, OH MY GODKSKSKS and BONUS: for us fanfic writers on duty, not only is he prime fic material, but that open-ended finale is basically a GOLDMINE OF POSSIBILITIES. so consider this your sign—i’m already sprinting to write something for the king. he deserves it!!!

SERIOUSLY look at that face!!!

[b3rryb3t]

Temptation

(Hiii oml I realized the font I used didn't register on the web! I'm sorry for all web readers! If you have any good font pls rec)

Plot: you're husband hates you, and has not touched you in years! But remmick reminds you of the touch of a man.

Establish some what of a relationship, married reader, remmick x black married reader, smut, dumbification, porn with plot, kinda dominate submissive roles, spousal abuse, breaking and entering of sorts(welcome mat), cheating, oral(f! receiving, remmick playing with your mind a bit. Squirting, breeding if you squint.

You were a clean woman, a home maker too. Your house looked gorgeous, your garden, the aesthetic, your porch. You had the cutest house in the delta. From your opinion nice houses started from the outside, so you invested into a beautiful welcome mat. Annie, your friend said you can let in haints and vampires with it. You never really believed her, until now.

It felt like a man was in your house every single night when your husband was gone, he would loom over you, as you dreamt, you could've sworn he was giving you dreams of him. Because, why else you were think of a white man making love to you. This was one of the nights when the dreams got intense, you were met with the same man in your bed, licking your cunt and making you go feral. He had lustful eyes, a sweaty head, and a gorgeous physique. He sounded foreign, but from here. It was so strange.

You woke up in a sweat and your panties soaked, shit. You thought as you went to the kitchen to quench your thirst, you sat outside a bit and fiddled with your lips a bit, this was so strange. Not until sudden did you feel this presence, you prayed and prayed for it to go away, but nothing.

You sigh, and go back inside and walk to your bedroom just to be met with the same man from your dreams, you felt so alarmed. How'd he get in? You were at the front door the whole time. You rubbed your eyes like a cartoon character hoping he'd disappear, he just smirked instead.

"You dreamin' of me, girl." He smirked with a bit of a playful undertone to it. "Well, I'm flattered, truly ma'am, but don't you got a man on your arm. Now, I ain't think it's right for a married women to have such dirty dreams of another man..." He spoke in the same accent as he inched closer and grabbed your wrist, you whimper in some kind of fear but that just seemed to turn him on. "You Klan, sir?" You spoke up, you sounded a bit respectful and civilized but terrified, his eyebrows furrowed and he mortified by the pure idea. "Ma'am?" He asked dumbfounded you would even think that, a bit offended too as his eyes widened.

"Then why you up in my house, touching on a married women like me! My husband's gonna shoot you dead on this porch if you don't leave, immediately!" You spoke as you gained control over the situation, and pushed him away. "You mean the cheating one who beats on you?" He whispered, looking into your eyes, something about them just wasn't right. He didn't look alive. You felt hot with anger. "Don't you accuse my husband of that horrible stuff! He is a good man!" You yell, you said the last part almost like you were trying to convince yourself "He is a good man".

"Now, I'm sorry, angel. How bout I beg you for forgiveness right here on this floor,hm. As long as you show me what that voice sounds like when it's beggin' back?" He spoke in a low deep tone, he smirked as he saw your reaction to his words. "Yeah don't that sound good, it's a shame that man don't touch such a pretty little angel like you, hm? I'll fuck you real nice n sweet, darlin'." He muttered as he set you down on the mattress. He slowly kissed your neck, he inhaled the perfume on it, and practically moaned.

He kissed down, his hands slowly slipping under your floral nightgown, he gripped your perky boobs and played with them, he let out a sound of satisfaction when he felt how soft they were. He slowly peeled your nightgown off and kissed down your body, slowly and gentle just the way you liked it. You moaned, as your hands slipped down him as he kept getting lower. You could tell he was trying to keep it together as he reach your pussy. He let out a moan the second he peeled off your cotton panties.

"Fuck can't believe she's already this wet for me, hm?" He groaned as he kissed and licked it, teasing you a bit. He knew you wanted him to just starting eating it. "Mm, this is the sweetest pussy I've ever tasted" he groaned, going insane he was holding back as well. You looked down at him with pleading eyes and that was the straw that broke the camels back, he immediately started to eat you out. You moaned. "Gah!" you moaned as he kept going, he was so much better than you husband ever was, even when you two still had sex he would be like a blind man still not knowing where your clit was. However, this man had experience, he knew your body better than your husband of years. You moaned "Fuck!" your chest was moving up and down frantically, and you were basically about to rip the hair out of his head. This was an awesome way to end the five years of involuntary celibacy.

You groaned as you squirmed and tried to move away from him. He was strong so he kept you there and lapped you up like a dog who hadn't had water since 1910. You went cross eyed and fell back down as he stuck his tongue so far up, farther than your husband could ever yearn to reach. You felt blood rush to your head and your realase coming way faster than expected. You shook as he kept going and then it felt like a dam break as you squirted all over his face. He lapped it up and smirked as he flipped you over. You whine as he smacks your ass in a way to tell you to put it up, you mindlessly obey him.

"You know I never realize we never exchanged names, I'm remmick. You are?" You didn't even answer just had half lidded eyes, he chuckled and took off his belt and you felt his dick fall on your ass, he spat on his hand and lubed it up as you where whimpering and clenching over nothing. This fuckass white man really fucked you stupid. He sunk into you and you immediately moaned, you gripped hard onto the sheets as he fucked you hard.

"Damn this pussy's tight" he grunted as he thrusted into you. You whined, as he sunk your screaming self into a pillow. "Sh..sh..You don't want anyone to know how much of a fucking slut you are when your husband isn't here." He whispered as he kept thrusting, you whined loudly in the pillow and nodded. Ironically Remmick was way louder than you, he kept whimpering and you just know he woke up 5 houses. You started to loose around him as your body got used to the feeling of him being inside, in order to tighten you back up he threatened you a bit.

"Bet your husband would loveee to walk in and see his pretty pure wife fucking a cock other than his huh? In fact why don't I stay until he comes home so I can greet him, hm?" He grunted, as you tightened around him.

"That's it, girl..." He moaned as you tightened while he fucked your overstimulated cunt. He felt his balls tighten as he felt realase coming. He went faster as you screamed for him to not come inside, and tried to push him away. He chuckled not caring as he came inside you and he watched as your eyes fluttered as you got filled up and you sunk back down.

"Relax, I'm shootin' blanks." He said as he pulled out of you. Even though it wouldn't be too bad if he fucked his babies into you....

OKAY I JUST MADE MY FIRST FIC AYEEEEE AND TYSM FOR ALL THE LOVE IM GETTING ON MY HCS LIKE WHAT??? MY PHONES BUZZING EVER TWO SECONDS LIKE IM TIKTOK FAMOUS IN A MOVIE LMAO ANYWAYS YALL BETTER EAT THIS UP BYEEEEEEE

[b3rryb3t]

Butchered Tongue | Remmick

Remmick x f!reader

(Although, reader is mentioned as having an Irish father, so this does lean towards being an OC.)

Summary: Lost and alone in Mississippi, you go to a bar and sing a song of Irish rebellion. Something follows you home.

Notes: Angst, sexual tension, Remmick being alluringly dangerous, manipulation, heavily features discussion of colonialism and the British Empire.

This story is based upon and inspired by the song ‘Butchered Tongue’ by Hozier, as well as his earlier ‘Foreigner’s God’. I wanted to explore Remmick’s backstory and the pain and history of English colonial rule in Ireland. I have done my best to research, but I am English (I can only apologise) so if you spot a mistake I’ve made in terms of the history please let me know!

WC: 4.4k

I was not going to write for Remmick, but then I read the phenomenal work of @ay0nha and @spikedfearn and was so inspired, so go and read their far superior stories! Here's my attempt.

America will be cruel to you.

That was what you had been told before boarding the ship bound for the New World, dragged, kicking and screaming, by your parents. 

You had sneered at those who had warned you with those words. A place was not cruel, only people.

London, your home, held no malice within it; it did not consume with a slavering maw. Yes, the Thames was filled with blood and filth, polluted with the sorrows of the doomed and drowned, but the current had no say over what it carried. It was burdened by the evil acts of men.

That was why your mother and father had wanted to leave: other people. Not because of the earth beneath your feet or the smog-thick air.

That was why you had not listened to the warnings. You would not be wary of America, only the people that you found within it.

New World. That was another lie. 

An ancient tree found in the middle of the forest was not new because you had not seen it before. Its roots that were embedded deep within the earth, had likely felt you coming. You were small and insignificant in its shadow. It should be revered. Respected. 

But men would see something beautiful and take an axe to it, burn it for warmth and then turn their noses up at the piles of ash left behind. Then they would demand someone else clean it up.

America was not new and it had not been ‘discovered.’ It had been invaded. Stolen.

That was why, when you had found yourself settled in Clarksdale, Mississippi, you had set about asking its true name; the name it had always been known as to its native people.

But no one could or would tell you. No one cared, or thought to care. 

A year after you arrived, your mother was taken by sickness, a consuming kind of ailment that left her with barely the skin in her bones by the end.

Then, your father went. Everyone else said that was from the drink, but you knew it was a broken heart: your mother was gone and he was homesick, not for London, but his true home, the place of his birth. He had died yearning for and dreaming of a free Ireland.

It was only when both of them were long-since buried and you were utterly alone, that you finally learnt the origins of the name of the county, Coahoma.

It was derived from the Choctaw word, ‘Co-i-humma’ which meant red panther. According to the old man who had told you, the upper Delta was ‘infested’ with them.

You hated the word infested when he used it, mostly because you had heard it said with the same derision by people speaking of the Choctaw. As with the panthers, it was their home. You couldn’t infest what belonged to you. 

You hadn’t wanted to come to America, but how could you leave? And where would you go? Like you father, London had been where you had lived, but it had never felt like home.

But Ireland…you felt you had no claim or connection without your father. You were half English, but that could not be heard in your accent; a reminder of tyranny. You would likely not be welcome. 

Nowhere was safe, so you simply stayed put. You stayed trapped in Mississippi. 

Your antipathy for your existence was what drove you to the local bar most nights and if you could, you would get up and sing, or recite a poem.

Irish lyrics that told of the joys and despairs of the Irish people and yet all of the words were English. 

Irish Gaelic had been cut from your ancestors mouths, which had left your father mute when it came to what should have been his native tongue. And you were too.

Most of the time, your peformances were met with bemusement. Occasionally the locals would cheer or clap, but it never felt right. They didn’t understand; it only ever felt like they were humouring you. 

It was why you had stormed out of the bar at closing time in a foul mood.

With the low-light of evening ceding its rights on the landscape, the warm hues vanished from the street as you walked down it. Nothing gold-edged anymore, just shadow-bound. 

Also bound to you was a stumbling lecher, who seemed to feel that your reluctant conversation with him in the bar had been an invitation to walk you home. 

Benny dragged his feet, kicking up dust that clung to your moisture-slick skin. The sun had departed,but its heat remained and that felt like a dirty-trick to you. 

You had never adjusted to the climate and whenever you were in the grip of the sweltering heat, it left you feeling as though you were teetering on the brink of madness.

But something in the air that night had sympathy for you and it thrummed with its own insanity.

Your skin prickled when Benny drew up to your side and your fingers twitched, aching to lash out and slash at his skin.

‘Come on, baby.’ he drawled, hot, disgusting breath on the side of your face as he leaned in. ‘You sang so pretty, but giving me a smile would make you beautiful.’

You kept your eyes forward, grimacing at the stench of him. He had been festering in the back corner of the bar when you arrived, so God only knew how long he’d been there. All day, probably. He was hot and foetid, like something left to ferment.

You had almost reached your home, so you wanted to shake him off. You couldn't be sure that he wouldn’t force his way inside once you unlocked the door.

‘I have a way you can make me smile.’ You said, your voice sickly sweet. 

‘Tell me. Anythin’ for you honey.’ 

It was a struggle not to gag as Benny flung his arm around your shoulder, fingers digging in like you were a peach he was prodding to feel its ripeness.

When you turned your head to glare at him, his nose almost brushed yours. You smirked nastily.  ‘I will grin from ear to ear if you stop following me home like a stray dog.’ 

His smug expression disappeared from his face with a violence, almost as if you had reached out and torn it right off. It gave you a sadistic rush of satisfaction, heart beating a little quicker beneath your flushed skin.

Before he could open his mouth again, you shrugged off Benny's hold and kept walking, picking up your pace.

You had just reached the wooden steps of your front porch when you heard footsteps scrambling to close the distance. You underestimated how fast he could move in his intoxicated state and didn’t turn around before Benny’s hand clamped down on the nape of your neck, fingers twisting into your hair. 

‘Now why did you have to go and be so nasty?’ He hissed in your ear, ‘you should be grateful for the attention. Everyone else thinks you're strange. Lonely little girl with her strange songs, parents dead and rotting–’

Benny broke off into a cry when you lifted your elbow up with violent force and slammed it into his stomach. You were released from his hold as he stumbled back, doubled over and gasping. He looked up at your with the promise of retribution in his watering eyes. 

‘You whore-’ 

What happened next unfolded too quickly for your eyes to keep up with. One moment Benny was spitting venom at you, prepared to strike, and the next he was down in the dirt.

There was a man who had appeared like an apparition, pale and lined in spectral moonlight, the edges of him silver and shining. He had his boot pressed against Benny’s neck, who was on his back and scratching madly at his attacker's leg.  

‘That is no way to treat a lady.’ The man glowered down at Benny and pressed his boot down even harder. A strangled gurgle came from his captive’s throat. ‘You should apologise.’ 

You watched with an unmitigated, dangerous thrill when the man's boot lifted off Benny’s neck and he sputtered out a barely coherent apology. 

The man who had appeared from nowhere turned to you with a charming grin and a feral glint in his eyes.

‘Miss, did you find that apology sincere? Because in my humble opinion it was severely lackin’.’

On the ground, Benny had raised himself onto his hands and knees, his panicked breaths no doubt had him inhaling yet more dust and dirt. His face was as red as a tomato and seemingly fit to burst like one under the strain. 

But some malicious instinct that was foreign to you rose up and took hold of your tongue. 

‘No.’ With a smile growing on your face your eyes moved back to the mystery man who was considering you with searing intensity. ‘I don’t think it was good enough.’ 

The words had barely left your mouth before the man grabbed Benny by the scruff of the neck and hauled him to his feet, the tips of his boots dragging in the dirt. He held him up before you like a scolded puppy. 

‘Apologise.’ The man shook his prey in his grip and if you weren’t so perversely entranced by the display, you would have questioned the inhuman strength he seemed to possess. 

‘I’m sorry!’ Benny shouted, fear flashing in the whites of his eyes, ‘I’m really sorry! I-I was rude and crass-’

‘And you shouldn’t have laid your filthy fuckin hands on her.’ The man snarled. ‘Go on now, repeat it.’

‘I-I shouldn’t have laid my filthy f-fuckin hands on you!’ Benny was so distressed, he sounded as though he was being choked. A dark patch spread on the crotch of his pants, liquid running down his legs. 

‘Really? You're gonna piss yourself now?!’ The man exclaimed derisively. He wasted no more time and tossed Benny away, throwing him as though he weighed no more than a pebble. 

You laughed in crazed disbelief, both at the ease the man had thrown Benny and how he then scrambled away, whimpering and mewling. 

Your gaze moved over to the man and found him glaring at the fleeing drunk. His lip was curled, his teeth far too pointed to be natu–

‘I’m terribly sorry, I’m afraid I may have gotten a little carried away,’ the man said, sounding far from apologetic as he met your eye. 

You had been in the middle of a thought, but his attention had dispelled it. 

He was so very handsome, with unruly brown hair that fell just above his eyes which in the darkness seemed to be blue shot through with green, or perhaps the other way around. It was the colour of the roiling ocean. He wore a striped shirt with the top buttons undone, revealing a smooth expanse of chest. Suspenders held up his pants and rested on his broad shoulders. 

When he stepped closer to you, he moved with such intention that it was as though he’d long-since charted a course to you. His closing of the distance felt inevitable.

It was the very reason you felt so instantaneously drawn to him that you knew to be wary. When you retreated a step, your heels hitting the edge of your porch, he smiled knowingly and held up his hands. 

‘Ma’am, I know my behaviour may suggest otherwise, but I promise you that I come in peace.’ 

‘Where did you come from?” You asked, narrowing your eyes at him. 

You and Benny had been walking the street alone and it was quiet enough that you should have heard any approaching footsteps, especially at the speed at which this man had appeared.

‘If you speak of my physical body, then I came from right here. But if you speak in terms of belongin’ to a place…well, that has a long, painful answer that not even this dark night can outlast.’

Your brow furrowed at the strange winding nature of his words. ‘Were you following us?’

The man hummed impishly. ‘I was followin’ you.’

Your heart faltered in your chest and struggled to regain its rhythm. You knew then that you had not escaped an attack, not really, because this man, whoever he was, was the true assault. An assault on your senses and upon your will.

‘Why?’ You asked tersely, grateful your anxiety could not be heard in your voice.

The man placed a hand on his heart, signalling his supposed sincerity. ‘I just could not bear letting you go without telling you how beautiful I found your singing.’

Caution was supplanted by hostile suspicion as the hairs on the back of your neck stood on end.

‘You weren’t in the bar.’  You said.

It was a small, packed place and you knew you would have remembered seeing a man like him.

‘My name is Remmick.’ 

While his smooth, sultry voice worked to lull you into submission, you would not let him get away with refusing to answer you. 

‘You weren’t in the bar.’ You repeated sternly.

Remmick tilted his head tauntingly. His smile grew. ‘Well, maybe I dreamt of you then and that’s where I heard it.’ He stepped closer, so close the two of you were almost toe-to-toe. ‘Maybe I’m still dreamin’. Yeah, that's the only way to explain it.’

‘Explain what?’ 

He leant down, eyes set upon yours. There was a flash of something, a firefly against the darkness of his irises, a red glow. So very red. But then you blinked and it was gone. 

‘Well, why was an English lass reciting ‘The Wind that Shakes the Barley’?’

Those words snared you, wire tightening around your throat. His voice had changed, no longer a Southern drawl, but an Irish lilt. And his tone had become abrasive, harsh enough to draw blood. There was anger in his eyes.

But, defiance bloomed within you, fed on soil rich with the anger of the last few years of your life. Rebellion unfurled. 

‘Why is an Irish boy pretending to be southern?’ You countered heatedly.

His lips pulled back in a sneer, revealing sharp, slightly crooked teeth. ‘Boy, is it? Oh, no darlin’, I’m no boy. I was born beneath an Irish sun that still shone on land that your people hadn’t yet stolen.’ 

‘Those are the words of a madman.’ You answered, breathing growing ragged at his proximity.

The Empire had first invaded Ireland hundreds and hundreds of years ago.

‘Oh, yes, mad is what I am. Mad with grief.’ You gasped when his hand shot out and grabbed your chin. He moved in closer, lips brushing your cheek until he pressed them to the shell of your ear. ‘And what is a lunatic to do, when he hears a song of Irish rebellion fall from English lips? Full, pretty lips, aye, but English all the same? All your lot know how to do is steal, isn’t that right?’

‘I didn’t steal it,’ you say, finding strength in indignation, ‘my father taught me the poem. He said I should know it, seeing as I was descended from the fighters.’ 

Your ancestors fought and died in the Rebellion in County Wexford in seventeen ninety-eight, when Irish rebels revolted against oppressive British rule. They were violently struck down, countless ending up in mass graves, barley oats in their pockets that then grew up out of the earth. The poem, named after the rebellion, was written sixty-three years later by the poet Robert Dwyer Joyce. 

The poem was one of the first things you remember your father teaching you. He had been born in Ballymurn, not far from Wexford. Hundreds of years had passed and his family hadn’t moved far from the sight of that rebellion.

Remmick's grip tightened for a second, nails digging in as a warning, but then he let go. He pulled back just enough to peer down at you, the sweat-slick front of your dress brushing his shirt.

‘Oh, an Irish girl?’ He taunted. He was evidently still riled, but there was a sort of excitement shimmering in his eyes. ‘An Irish girl with an English accent, singing of rebellion in a bar in Mississippi.’

You narrowed your eyes at the challenge in his voice. He didn’t believe you. Or at least, he didn’t want to. 

‘Afraid to get your hopes up?’ You goaded.

‘What exactly would I be hoping for?’ 

You smile teasingly. ‘A mad Irish boy, who claims to be hundreds of years old, approaches me with anger when truly he is just sad. Sad and alone. You are seeking something, aren’t you? Some piece of home?’ 

He chuckled, but it was brittle. When he reached out his other hand and took your flushed cheeks into his hold, thumbs brushing the line of your jaw, you found yourself not trying to flee, but fighting the instinct to lean in. 

‘Is that what you are to be, love?’ He whispered. ‘Are you to be my piece of home?’

‘You miss it,’ you said, voice hoarse with pain that was not yours, but what you felt from him. 

His eyes ran over the curves of your face, mapping them as if he’d find a glimpse of Ireland there.  

‘I miss it,��� he affirmed darkly, fingers pressing in, ‘but what I miss I can never return to. I miss living without a foreigner’s God in my mind, without my tongue mutilated to speak the language of the invader. Both mind and body torn apart. I am eternally bloody and bleeding.’

When his voice cracked, you found yourself reaching up, your hands curling around his wrists, not to pull him off you but to keep him there.

Unbidden, the poem poured out of you as it had in the bar, only this time it was without music and your only audience member was him: 

‘I sat within a valley green, 

I sat there with my true love,

My sad heart strove the two between,

The old love and the new love, -

The old for her, the new that made

Me think of Ireland dearly, –’

You were cut off when Remmick swayed forward, almost as if in a trance. He bent down and dipped his head low, his hot breath fanning against your neck. When your recitation stopped, he let out a disgruntled huff, almost animalistic. When his next words came you felt the shape of them on your neck where he pressed his lips.

‘Don’t stop.’ He murmured, teeth scraping your flesh.

You swallowed down your trepidation and kept speaking. As you did, his lips stayed pressed on your neck as if he was using them to feel your pulse:

‘While soft the wind blew down the glade

And shook the golden barely

‘Twas hard the woeful words to frame

To break the ties that bound us

‘Twas harder still to bear the shame

Of foreign chains around us

And so i said “The mountain glen

I’ll seek next morning early

And join the brave United Men!” -’

When you stopped, he planted a proper kiss on your neck. Then his tongue met your flesh and he dragged it up teasingly, gathering drops of sweat until he reached that tender spot just below your ear. It was tantalising in its promise, but already a mere promise was not enough.

As if he tasted your impatience on your flesh, Remmick chuckled, the noise vibrating right down into the core of you.

‘Eager little thing.’ He whispered into you ear, nipping at the lobe. 

Growing burdened by the heat rising in you, you moved your hands to mirror his on your face and cupped his cheeks. You repaid him in kind by digging your fingers into his skin. That seemed to please him no end and he groaned wantonly, pulling you so closer to him. 

‘Remmick,’ you began, ignoring your better sense that was screaming at you to shut your mouth, ‘do you want to come i-’

Before you could finish your request, he pressed a finger to your lips and shushed you, gently, but urgently.

There was unbridled desire in Remmick's eyes, you could practically feel him shake with it. And yet, his expression pinched as he fought against himself.

‘No- no darlin’ you don’t want to do that yet.’ He spoke the last word as if it was a prophecy: you would let him in, but he did not want it to be now. 

‘Why don’t I, Remmick?’ 

You knew why.

Even after only a few minutes spent in his company, you knew there were ample reasons for you to be much more afraid of him than you had been of Benny, and yet you wanted his reasoning. Remmick intrigued you when instinct said you should be horrified.

Remmick pressed a lingering kiss to the corner of your mouth and pulled away, but only by a hair's-breadth, to answer you.

‘Because when you invite me in, you will do so knowing all the ways you will be consumed. I will have you in your bed, I will know every inch of your flesh, but when we are truly joined, I will know all you feel and see all that you have seen.’

It shouldn’t have made sense and yet the words brought you clarity. Perhaps not clarity of his meaning, but of yourself. You knew, in that moment, that you would end up letting him subsume you.

Remmick was shattered, but you would let him embed the broken pieces of himself within you if it meant you were no longer alone. You would bleed to escape the despair of solitude.

‘Why wait?’ You asked, grabbing his shirt and twisting the fabric so hard that another of his buttons came undone. ‘Tell me the truth of it now and you will have me now.’

Remmick took your mouth in a bruising kiss and it was soon followed by a sharp pain when he bit down, hard, on your bottom lip. You barely tasted the metallic of your blood before his tongue came and gathered it up, licking you clean. He groaned into your mouth as his hands landed on your hips, coasting down to squeeze your backside.

‘You still don’t understand, do you?' He said, 'My lust isn’t for your body alone. Once I have fucked you, I will not slip out into the night. I will live in the darkness of you and you in mine.’ 

‘You sound like a madman. Again.’ 

‘I told you already, I am mad.’ 

Then, with jarring speed, Remmick pulled away and shoved you back. It sent you sprawling painfully onto the steps of your porch. Spine hitting hard-edged wood.

Equally disorientated and outraged, you looked up at him, prepared to hurl more than a few nasty words, but they all died in your throat. 

Remmick's eyes were alight with red, the burning end of a cigarette in the dark. His teeth had changed too, as sharp as dagger. And then there were his hands…instead of nails he had claws.

‘This is what becomes of a boy from Ireland when his soul gets trapped, darlin’, he said darkly, ‘My soul is shaped by the hand of oppressor’s and I cannot be rid of it, even in death. I will never go home and I can never be home, not even in my own mind. I was drawn to your sweet song, the poetry of pain and resistance. Now, you must decide if you want to resist the pain of me.’

‘Would it change anything? If I chose to resist now?’

‘No. But it will be oh so delicious to watch you try. Do that for me, won’t you? It’ll make it so much sweeter when you finally give in.’

‘What are you?’

‘I am exactly what you said. I’m lonely.’ He began to step backward and his eyes did not leave yours. ‘Lock your doors, sweet girl, there’s all sorts of evil that might try to get in. And unlike me, it won’t ask nicely.’

As he was absorbed into the shadows and became one with the darkness, his voice remained reciting another part of ‘The Wind that Shakes the Barley’:

‘While soft winds shook the barley,

While sad I kissed away her tears, 

My fond arms ‘round her flinging, 

The foeman’s shot burst on our ears,

From out the wildwood ringing, –

A bullet pierced my true loves side,

In life’s young spring so early,

And on my breast in blood she died

While soft winds shook the barley!’

You did not sleep that night. Not true sleep, anyway. Remmick stalked your dreams, remaining in shadow even in your subconscious mind.

You awoke aching. You ached with the desire for him to return. You ached with pain, the same sort of pain when your bones grew as a child: uncomfortable, inevitable and signalling a great change to come. 

You did not trust Remmick and knew to fear what he was. Maybe you even resented him. Yet you did want him to return to you.

Maybe you would welcome him in, or maybe you would leave him scratching at the door. 

You had a bone-deep knowledge that he would seduce you eventually, but even the illusion of that choice made you feel more alive than you had been in years.

You didn't know it yet, but the man who brought death had reminded you that your heart still beat. He would also be the one to stop it. 

But when? 

And what would come after life?

Thank you for reading! Comments are so very welcome, author's thrive on feedback!

Part II - Fall On Me Like Night

AN (14th May) - The support for Butchered Tongue has been amazing, but after seeing and taking in a lot of the discourse around Remmick x reader fics, I know I’ve contributed to the centralisation of a white character in a film about black culture and history. Also, I made the reader Irish, which not only makes it more of an x OC fic, but can also alienate readers of colour. I chose to engage with this media without true consideration for the black characters, creators and viewers. This was never my intention, but that doesn’t make up for the fact I did not properly consider it. I’m proud of this as a piece of writing, but I won’t be writing more, or any other Remmick’s fics. This is not me saying it’s wrong to write, read or engage with Remmick fics and I’m beyond grateful with support any of my writing gets, but if I don’t listen, and try and be better, then I’m part of the problem.

[b3rryb3t]

Wondering if you write for Chris Hartley? If so maybe readers first time sleeping with him?maybe bsf!Chris? He’s inexperienced but enthusiastic 🤩 (he’s a dork)

Love your writing!!

𝐀𝐂𝐇𝐈𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐌𝐄𝐍𝐓 𝐔𝐍𝐋𝐎𝐂𝐊𝐄𝐃 𝜗𝜚. ݁₊

SUMMARY - when you and chris agree to just get it out of the way, you figure it’ll be a simple, no-strings-attached solution to your shared problem. but as the night unfolds, what begins as an awkward arrangement quickly turns into something far more intimate than either of you anticipated. it’s messy, it’s sweet, and it’s certainly more than just a one-time thing.

PAIRING/SETTING - virgin fem!reader x virgin bsf!chris hartley. no prank au. no use of y/n. 

WARNINGS - graphic sexual material, strong language, & tons of second-hand embarrassment inducing dialogue (stay strong soldiers).

W/C - 2,340

A/N - oh absolutely i will. i can't be normal about anything, so i turned this request into a fully fleshed out oneshot. whoops. anyhoo, thank you so much for the support love! hope this is to your liking ♥︎ (p.s. be on the lookout for another chris fic realll soon ;))

you and chris have been nearly inseparable for as long as you can remember. he’s your default ride home, your emergency contact, your plus-one to every awkward family function. no one ever questioned it—you and chris just were, since 2009. 

now it’s the summer before college, and everything feels a little like the end of something.

tonight is like a hundred others you’ve spent together: hunkered down in your bedroom, window cracked open to let the warm air in, the hum of cicadas swirling with the sweet sounds of impending victory as you weasel your way into first place. 

“how the hell are you beating me?!”

“you always pick toad,” you mutter, tongue caught between your teeth as you narrowly avoid a shell.

“and you always cheat,” he fires back, eyes locked onto the screen. 

you snicker, tossing a handful of popcorn at him. he gasps like you’ve mortally wounded him, which, given his usual dramatics, isn’t far off. 

chris finally throws his controller down with a groan, flopping back against the pillows behind him. 

“fucking stick drift,” he seethes.

you can’t help but giggle under your breath as you walk over to the console—clicking it off just as the menu begins to loop. 

you ease your way back into bed, shooting an unconvinced look his way as you prop yourself up on your elbows. “you’ve been using that bullshit excuse for a year now. i’m just better than you. accept it, hartley.” 

he scoffs at your assertion. “you’re lucky i’m too emotionally fragile to storm out right now.” 

there’s a lull—just for a second. outside, the soft rustle of palm leaves stirs in the breeze, and inside, the glow of your bedside lamp casts everything in gold. 

chris shifts beside you, a thoughtful expression now drawn on his face. you settle down next to him, resting your head against his shoulder. for a moment, neither of you speak, lost in the quiet comfort of each other's presence. 

he eventually breaks the silence. “you ever think about how weird it’s gonna be?” he asks, uncertainty threading through his tongue. “y’know, leaving home and all?” 

“constantly,” you admit, staring blankly at the ceiling. “it’s…scary. letting go of the familiar. of this.”

he pauses for a moment, the weight of your words hanging between you.

“and you know what’s even worse?”

“hm?” you glance over, curiosity piqued.

“i’m still a virgin.” 

a breathy laugh escapes you.

“well that makes two of us.”

“seriously?”

“mmhm.”

your hands meet midair in a lazy smack of solidarity. 

“maybe we should just get it over with.” chris blurts, eyes going wide the second the words leave his mouth. 

you gasp, clutching your pearls at his salacious suggestion. “christopher hartley, are you seriously trying to get into my pants right now?” 

his cheeks glow pink with embarrassment, forcing his head into his hands. “shit. i didn’t–i wasn’t—not like that. well, yes like that, but not in a pervy way,” he stammers, words tumbling out in a panic as he groans into his palms. “fuck–j-just forget i said anything.” 

you struggle to bite back a smile, “chris.”

he doesn’t hear you, too far gone in his shame spiral. “...way to sound like a total freaking douche, dude.” 

you reach out, gently placing a hand on his, prying it away from his face. “chris.” 

that shuts him up realll quick. 

“wh-huh?”

“i was totally fucking with you,” you tease, lightly nudging his shoulder. “relax.”

he blinks, still stunned. 

“it’s okay,” you reassure him,“really.” 

he exhales sharply, shaking his head. “no, it was a stupid idea.” 

“not necessarily,” you counter, tone even. “just…unexpected.” 

a hush falls over the room, heavy but not entirely unpleasant.  

“and i’d be lying if i said i hadn’t thought about it before.” 

his eyes snap to yours, dazed and confused. 

“joke’s over now,” he jests, carefully reading your expression. 

you roll your eyes, playfully punching him in the shoulder. “i’m serious!”

his eyebrows lift as he rubs out the sore spot, “are you sure? because my ideas have a poor track record.”

“i trust you chris. more than anyone.”

he swallows thickly, giving you a tight nod as the gravity of your words settles in his chest. 

“cool,” he manages to choke out. “cool-cool-cool-cool, no doubt, no doubt.” 

“god, you are such a dweeb.” 

without a second thought, you’re climbing into his lap–straddling his hips as you lean forward to plant a kiss on his chapped lips. his breath catches, hands hovering at your waist like he’s afraid to touch you wrong. “this okay?” you whisper against his pulse. “fuck, uh–yeah. yeah! totally.” he sputters, at a complete loss for words. 

cute.

you’re on him again, mouths crashing together in a greedy, uncoordinated mess. you knock teeth a few times as his hands fumble for somewhere to rest–it’s not perfect, but it’s real. 

“you’re allowed to touch me, y’know.” you whisper against his mouth, a coy smile playing at your lips as your nose nuzzles against his. 

chris huffs out a shaky laugh, one hand finally settling at the small of your back, the other tentatively curling around your thigh. “i just–don’t wanna mess this up.” 

you trail your fingers up the back of his neck, combing gently through his hair–soft and a tad bit damp with sweat. “we’re figuring this out together, m’kay?” 

“uh huh,” he exhales, giving you a sweet little nod that sends a searing ache to your center. 

his lips move hungrily against yours, tilting your head back as he deepens the kiss–entangling his tongue with yours. your fingers twist into his hair, tugging just enough to draw a needy, guttural sound from his throat. he starts to lose himself in it–hands gradually growing bolder as he sneaks beneath the hem of your shirt, fingers ghosting along your bare skin. he hesitates only a moment, his thumbs tracing circles against your ribs before locking eyes with yours. 

“can i?” 

you nod eagerly, raising your arms to help him pull your shirt over your head. it momentarily snags at your elbow, drawing a burst of shared laughter as the fabric resists, then gives, slipping free and landing in a careless heap behind you. 

clothes fall away slowly after that–kisses stolen between layers, giggles muffled into each other’s skin, and hands always searching, learning, yearning. your hands splay over the warm planes of his chest, thumbs brushing over the faint scatter of freckles across his collarbones. you’re left only in your underwear, perched in his lap, where his sweats still cling low to his hips. 

“so…” his eyes rake over your body as his hands drift along the curves of your waist. he reaches up to cup your tits, giving them a careful squeeze as he brushes a thumb over your nipple. “so pretty.”

a soft mewl slips past your lips, your back arching instinctively into his touch as heat blooms just beneath your skin.  

“chris–i want you–need you–touch me, please.” you’re begging for something, anything to relieve the tension coiling from within.  

“o-okay, yeah–god, anything for you. anything.” 

he moves quickly, effortlessly flipping you onto your back. 

you’ll have to let him manhandle you more often. 

a hand dips into your underwear, guided by your own until his fingers find you just right. you let out a broken gasp as he circles your clit, experimenting with pressure and rhythm.

“like this?” he looks to you through his lashes–an angel settled between your thighs.  

“mhm–fuck–just like that,” you pant, hips canting up into his touch. 

he continues to work you open–testing the waters as he slowly sinks a finger inside your soaked cunt, followed by another. he moves carefully, feeling his way, but it doesn’t take long for his rhythm to grow more assured. each curl of his knuckles leaves you breathless, arching up into him as he finger-fucks you stupid.

chris has grown painfully hard now, rutting weakly against the mattress in a pathetic attempt to satisfy his search for friction. he’s far too captivated watching you come undone around his fingers to stop now. but you catch the movement and reach for his wrist, pulling his hand from you. 

panic flickers in his eyes. “wh-did i do something? do you wanna stop?” 

poor, sweet boy. 

you shake your head, smiling softly, your thumb brushing over the back of his hand to settle his nerves.“mm-mm,” you murmur, your voice like velvet. “doing so good–want you inside me.”

his brain all but short-circuits. and for a second, you could’ve sworn he forgot how to breathe–until he begins to palm himself through his fabric constraints. 

“jesus christ, somebody pinch me.” 

you lean over, rummaging through your nightstand as your breath hitches with anticipation.“i swear i have one in hereee–aha!” you hold up a small foil packet triumphantly, internally thanking emily for the bawdy birthday gift. 

chris begins to peel off his sweatpants and boxers, fumbling slightly in his rush. he almost stumbles, a sock still clinging to one foot, but recovers with a sheepish laugh. you don’t mind the awkwardness, in fact, you find his enthusiasm oddly arousing. 

you toss your panties aside, drinking in the sight before you—broad shoulders, thick, veined arms bathed in the soft amber glow of your room. you’re practically drooling. 

he tears the wrapper open with trembling fingers, rolling the condom on as you stare in awe. he lines himself up with your entrance, the head of his cock brushing against you, teasing. you whimper at the contact–a proud expression falling over his face as he lets out a low chuckle. 

you’re a pathetic, weepy mess all because of him.

“i-i’ll try to go slow.” he says, a slight quiver in his voice, as though he’ll have to physically restrain himself. “just tell me to stop if it’s too much, ‘kay? don’t wanna hurt my pretty girl.”

he begins to push in, slow and cautious. you inhale sharply as your body stretches to accommodate him–the fullness making your head spin. 

“shit–‘m sorry.” he groans, unable to keep still. his dick shamelessly twitches inside of you as bottoms out, overwhelmed by the sensation of your walls constricting around him. “just feels s’good.”

he takes a pause–stroking your cheek gently, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear, peppering kisses along your jaw and throat. you moan softly, melting under the tenderness of it all.

“y-you can move.” 

he obeys, slowly rolling his hips into you. the first few thrusts uneven and unsure, as though he's giving you the space to lead, to show him what you need. he’s studying you, memorizing every little sound you make, every shift in your expression. 

what a nerd. 

his pace grows steadier, deepening in time with your sighs as he slips a hand between your legs to toy with your clit.  

you dig your fingers into the flesh of his biceps, trying to ground yourself, to keep from completely unraveling as you bite down on your bottom lip. the pleasure is dizzying—thick and consuming—but you’re still trying to keep quiet, to hold yourself together. but chris–god, chris is loud. 

not just the occasional grunt or groan. no, he talks. a lot. rambling between each thrust, with breathless praise and desperate need, filling the space between your bodies with a kind of reverent worship that leaves you trembling.

“fuck–‘m so lucky,” he babbles, head dropping to your shoulder. “gonna make you mine–pussy s’all mine.”

your restraint crumbles, every broken sound tumbling out of you as his name spills from your lips in breathy, desperate bursts. the world narrows to the feeling of him inside you, a delicious pull that makes your body betray you, leaving you no room to pretend you're not entirely his.

then—he angles his hips just right, finding that sweet spot that scatters stars across your vision.

“right there chris–ah-fuck–just like that,” you cry out, clawing at his shoulders, dragging red crescents into his skin. he doesn’t flinch–looking down at you, pupils blown wide with lust. 

“y-yeah? shit–keep saying my name, please.” he pleads, voice cracking with desperation, his hips never slowing, each thrust matching the frantic need in his words.

he look so beautiful above you–his face flushed a deep red, skin glistening with sweat, glasses askew and hopelessly fogged over. his mouth hangs open, chest heaving, eyes screwed shut in concentration. the sight of him—so undone, so lost in the moment—it’s too much. 

“mmph~’m coming-” you chant his name like a prayer as your climax rips through you. you continue pulsing around his length, pulling him deeper, urging him to follow as you coat him with cum. 

he falters for a split-second before finding a relentless rhythm, wild with the need to chase his own release. you wrap around him like you were made for it—tight, warm, overwhelming—and chris swears, in that breathless, reeling moment, that if this is how he goes, buried inside you, he’d die the happiest man alive.

“ohh f-fuck,” he whines, hips stuttering as he fills the condom. 

your bodies remain tangled, breath mingling in the stillness as the last tremors of pleasure fade into the quiet. chris rests his forehead against yours, your chests rising and falling in sync, grounding you both in the moment. 

he slips out of bed, disappearing for a moment, returning with a damp washcloth. “just–hold still,” he murmurs, cheeks tinged a rosy pink as he kneels between your legs and gently wipes you clean. you squirm a little, hands flying to your face as a wave of shyness settles over you in the aftermath. he chuckles under his breath, pressing a kiss to the inside of your knee. 

you lie shoulder to shoulder, a thin sheet draped over the both of you, your fingers idly tracing the shape of his hand. 

“complicated things didn’t we?” he says with a nervous laugh, turning his head to look at you.

“maybe a little,” you giggle.

“worth it?”

“absolutely.”

 he exhales, relief softening his features, and intertwines his hand with yours—because for all the uncertainty ahead, this feels right.

© 2025 xoxocher | don’t copy, repost, or translate my work

taglist: @bongwaterbunny

[b3rryb3t]

Thoughts on Sinners (2025):

I would like to thank god and Wunmi Mosaku's titties

Me when I saw Bo Chow:

This is probably Ryan Coogler's horniest film to date, and I love that

Holy shit, the sound mixing 🙌🏻

After hating on the White Americans, the French and the Spaniards in the Black Panther films, Ryan Coogler really turned to the Irish and said, "don't worry, I didn't forget about yall too!!"

3 words - Choctaw. Vampire. Hunters. Ryan Coogler, I demand a prequel

No but the Choctaw Vampire Hunters were hilarious. They can't be bothered to put in the labour to help the kkk couple. They really went, "you invited it, you deal with it. Godspeed." And peaced the fuck out ✌🏻 good for them

And the scene of the kkk couple inviting the Remmick the Irish vampire into their home while holding guns to the Choctaw pple even tho the Choctaw pple were trying to warn them? Perfect symbolism for how White pple would rather shoot themselves in the foot than listen to people of colour

Jayme Lawson's married ass getting her pussy eaten out by the male ingenue character, I support women's rights and women's wrongs 🫡

Me when the White music kinda slapped:

When Cornbread started going on about love and unity when he returned from peeing in the trees, I nearly yelled, "oh my god he's in the sunken place!!"

When the Irish vampire started river dancing during a tense moment:

The contrast between Sammie's music bringing pple/spirits of different times and cultures together while Remmick's is front and center in his ghoulish dance scene

Also the vampires only singing Remmick's songs but not songs from their respective communities even tho he preached about love and unity. Remmick speaking Cantonese only to threaten the Chinese shop owner.

The vampire hivemind being a metaphor for how White supremacy erases the uniqueness of different cultures to create the singular culture of whiteness

Remmick the victim of forced anglicisation of Ireland, Remmick the settler on Indigenous American land, Remmick who violently attempts to exploit a Black man's music to hear his (white) Irish kin again. Ryan Coogler, your mind

Sammie's music 🫱🏻‍🫲🏼 Annie's hoodoo religion being a bridge to the ancestors and the homeland. But while Sammie's music invites danger becos it can be exploited, Annie's spiritual beliefs helps them in contrast to how hoodoo has been demonised and dismissed

When the credits started rolling:

[b3rryb3t]

me waiting on yall to make these sinner fics 😭🧍🏾‍♀️

[b3rryb3t]

Mercy Made Flesh

one-shot

Remmick x fem!reader

summary: In the heat-choked hush of the Mississippi Delta, you answer a knock you swore would never come. Remmick—unaging, unholy, unforgettable—returns to collect what was promised. What follows is not romance, but ritual. A slow, sensual surrender to a hunger older than the Trinity itself.

wc: 13.1k

a/n: Listen. I didn’t mean to simp for Vampire Jack O’Connell—but here we are. I make no apologies for letting Remmick bite first and ask questions never. Thank you to my bestie Nat (@kayharrisons) for beta reading and hyping me up, without her this fic wouldn't exist, everyone say thank you Nat!

warnings: vampirism, southern gothic erotica, blood drinking as intimacy, canon-typical violence, explicit sexual content, oral sex (f!receiving), first time, bloodplay, biting, marking, monsterfucking (soft edition), religious imagery, devotion as obsession, gothic horror vibes, worship kink, consent affirmed, begging, dirty talk, gentle ruin, haunting eroticism, power imbalance, slow seduction, soul-binding, immortal x mortal, he wants to keep her forever, she lets him, fem!reader, second person pov, 1930s mississippi delta, house that breathes, you will be fed upon emotionally & literally

tags: @xhoneymoonx134

likes, comments, and reblogs appreciated! please enjoy

Mississippi Delta, 1938

The heat hadn’t broken in days.

Not even after sunset, when the sky turned the color of old bruises and the crickets started singing like they were being paid to. It was the kind of heat that soaked into the floorboards, that crept beneath your thin cotton slip and clung to your back like sweat-slicked hands. The air was syrupy, heavy with magnolia and something murkier—soil, maybe. River water. Something that made you itch beneath your skin.

Your cottage sat just outside the edge of town, past the schoolhouse where you spent your days sorting through ledgers and lesson plans that no one but you ever really seemed to care about. It was modest—two rooms and a porch, set back behind a crumbling white-picket fence and swallowed by trees that whispered in the dark. A little sanctuary tucked into the Delta, surrounded by cornfields, creeks, and ghosts.

The kind of place a person could disappear if they wanted to. The kind of place someone could find you…if they were patient enough.

You stood in front of the sink, rinsing out a chipped enamel cup, your hands moving automatically. The oil lamp on the kitchen table flickered with each breath of wind slipping through the cracks in the warped window frame. A cicada screamed in the distance, then another, and then the whole world was humming in chorus.

And beneath it—beneath the cicadas, and the wind, and the nightbirds—you felt something shift.

A quiet. Too quiet.

You turned your head. Listened harder.

Nothing.

Not even the frogs.

Your hand paused in the dishwater. Fingers trembling just a little. It wasn’t like you to be spooked by the dark. You’d grown up in it. Learned to make friends with shadows. Learned not to flinch when things moved just out of sight.

But this?

This was different.

It was as if the night was holding its breath.

And then—

Knock. Knock. Knock.

Not loud. Not frantic. But final.

Your body went stiff. The cup slipped beneath the water and bumped the side of the basin with a hollow clink.

No one ever came this far out after sundown. No one but—

You shook your head, almost hard enough to rattle something loose.

No.

He was gone. That part of your life was buried.

You made sure of it.

Still, your bare feet moved toward the door like they weren’t yours. Soft against the creaky wood. Slow. You reached for the small revolver you kept in the drawer beside the door frame, thumbed the hammer back.

Your hand rested on the knob.

Another knock. This time, softer.

Almost...polite.

The porch light had been dead for weeks, so you couldn’t see who was waiting on the other side. But the air—something in the air—told you.

It was him.

You didn’t answer. Not right away.

You stood there with your palm flat against the rough wood, your forehead nearly touching it too—eyes shut, breath shallow. The air on the other side didn’t stir like it should’ve. No footfalls creaking the porch. No shuffle of boots on sun-bleached planks. Just stillness. Waiting.

And underneath your ribs, something began to ache. Something you hadn’t let yourself feel in years.

You didn’t know his name, not back then. You only knew his eyes—gold in the shadows. Red when caught in the light. Like a firelight in the dark. Like a blood red moon through stained-glass windows.

And his voice. Low. Dragging vowels like syrup. A Southern accent that didn’t come from any map you’d ever seen—older than towns, older than state lines. A voice that had told you, seven years ago, with impossible calm:

"You’ll know when it’s time."

You knew. Your hands trembled against your sides. But you didn’t back away. Some part of you knew how useless running would be.

The knob beneath your hand felt cold. Too cold for Mississippi in August.

You turned it.

The door opened slow, hinges whining like they were trying to warn you. You stepped back instinctively—just one step—and then he was there.

Remmick.

Still tall, still lean in that devastating way—like his body was carved from something hard and mean, but shaped to tempt. He wore a crisp white shirt rolled to the elbows, suspenders hanging loose from his hips, and trousers that looked far too clean for a man who walked through the dirt. His hair was messy in that intentional way, brown and swept back like he’d been running hands through it all night. Stubble lined his sharp jaw, catching the lamplight just so.

But it was his face that rooted you to the floor. That hollowed out your breath.

Still young. Still wrong.

Not a wrinkle, not a scar. Not a mark of time. He hadn’t aged a day.

And his eyes—oh, God, his eyes.

They caught the lamp behind you and lit up red, bright and glinting, like the embers of a dying fire. Not human. Not even pretending.

"Hello, dove."

His voice curled into your bones like cigarette smoke. You didn’t answer. You couldn’t.

You hated how your body reacted.

Hated that you could still feel it—like something old and molten stirring between your thighs, a flicker of the same heat you’d felt that night in the alley, back when you were too desperate to care what kind of creature answered your prayer.

He looked you over once. Not with hunger. With certainty. Like he already knew how this would end. Like he already owned you.

"You remember, don’t you?" he asked.

"I came to collect."

And your voice—when it finally came—was little more than a whisper.

"You can’t be real."

That smile. That slight twitch at the corner of his mouth. Wolfish. Slow.

"You promised."

You wanted to shut the door. Slam it. Deadbolt it. But your hand didn’t move.

Remmick didn’t step forward, not yet. He stood just outside the threshold, framed by night and cypress trees and the distant flicker of heat lightning beyond the fields. The air around him pulsed with something old—older than the land, older than you, older than anything you could name.

He tilted his head the way animals do, watching you, letting the silence thicken like molasses between you.

"Still living out here all on your own," he murmured, gaze drifting over your shoulders, into the small, tidy kitchen behind you. "Hung your laundry on the line this morning. Blue dress, lace hem. Favorite one, ain’t it?"

Your stomach clenched. That dress hadn’t seen a neighbor’s eye all week.

"You've been watching me," you said, your voice low, unsure if it was accusation or realization.

"I’ve been waiting," he said. "Not the same thing."

You swallowed hard. Your breath caught in your throat like a thorn. The wind shifted, and you caught the faintest trace of something—dried tobacco, smoke, rain-soaked dirt, and beneath it, the iron-sweet tinge of blood.

Not fresh. Not violent. Just…present. Like it lived in him.

"I paid my debt," you whispered.

"No, you survived it," he said, stepping up onto the first board of the porch. The wood didn’t creak beneath his weight. "And that’s only half the bargain."

He still hadn’t crossed the threshold.

The stories came back to you, the ones whispered by old women with trembling hands and ash crosses pressed to their doorways—vampires couldn’t enter unless invited. But you hadn’t invited him, not this time.

"You don’t have permission," you said.

He smiled, eyes flashing red again.

"You gave it, seven years ago."

Your breath hitched.

"I was a girl," you said.

"You were desperate," he corrected. "And honest. Desperation makes people honest in ways they can’t be twice. You knew what you were offering me, even if you didn’t understand it. Your promise had teeth."

The wind pushed against your back, as if urging you forward.

Remmick stepped closer, just enough for the shadows to kiss the line of his throat, the hollow of his collarbone. His voice dropped, intimate now—dragging across your skin like a fingertip behind the ear.

"You asked for a miracle. I gave it to you. And now I’m here for what’s mine."

Your heart thudded violently in your chest.

"I didn’t think you’d come."

"That’s the thing about monsters, dove." He leaned down, lips almost grazing the curve of your jaw. "We always do."

And then—

He stepped back.

The wind stopped.

The night fell quiet again, like the world had paused just to watch what you’d do next.

"I’ll wait out here till you’re ready," he said, turning toward the swing on your porch and settling into it like he had all the time in the world. "But don’t make me knock twice. Wouldn’t be polite."

The swing groaned beneath him as it rocked gently, back and forth.

You stood there frozen in the doorway, one bare foot still inside the house, the other brushing the edge of the porch.

You’d made a promise.

And he was here to keep it.

The door stayed open. Just enough for the night to reach inside.

You didn’t move.

Your body stood still but your mind wandered—back to that night in the alley, to the smell of blood and piss and riverwater, your knees soaked in your brother’s lifeblood as you screamed for help that never came. Except it did. It came in the shape of a man who didn’t breathe, didn’t blink, didn’t make promises the way mortals did.

It came in the shape of him.

You thought time would wash it away. That the years would smooth the edges of his voice in your memory, dull the sharpness of his presence. But now, with him just outside your door, it all returned like a fever dream—hot, all-consuming, too real to outrun.

You turned away from the threshold, slowly, carefully, as if the floor might cave in under you. Your hands trembled as you reached for the oil lamp on the table, adjusting the flame lower until it flickered like a dying heartbeat.

The silence behind you dragged, deep and waiting. He didn’t speak again. Didn’t call for you.

He didn’t have to.

You moved through the house in slow circles. Touching things. Straightening them. Folding a dishcloth. Setting a book back on the shelf, even though you’d already read it twice. You tried to pretend you weren’t thinking about the man on your porch. But the heat of him pressed against the back of your mind like a hand.

You could feel him out there. Not just physically—but in you, somehow. Like the air had shifted around his shape, and the longer he lingered, the more your body remembered what it had felt like to stand in front of something not quite human and still want.

You passed the mirror in the hallway and paused.

Your reflection looked undone. Not in the way your hair had fallen from its pin, or the flush across your cheeks, but deeper—like something inside you had been cracked open. You touched your own throat, right where you imagined his mouth might go.

No bite.

Not yet.

But you swore you could feel phantom teeth.

You went back to the door, holding your breath, and looked at him through the screen.

He hadn’t moved. He sat on the swing, one leg stretched out, the other bent lazily beneath him, arms slung across the backrest like he’d always belonged there. A cigarette burned between two fingers, the tip flaring orange as he dragged from it. The scent of it hit you—rich, earthy, and somehow foreign, like something imported from a place no longer on the map.

He didn’t look at you right away.

Then, slowly, he did.

Red eyes caught yours.

He smiled, small and slow, like he was reading a page of you he’d already memorized.

"Thought you’d shut the door by now," he said.

"I should have," you answered.

"But you didn’t."

His voice curled into the quiet.

You stepped out onto the porch, barefoot, the boards warm beneath your soles. He didn’t move to greet you. He didn’t rise. He just watched you walk toward him like he’d been watching in dreams you never remembered having.

The swing groaned as you sat down beside him, a careful space between you.

His shoulder brushed yours.

You stared straight ahead, out into the night. A mist was beginning to rise off the distant fields. The moon hung low and orange like a wound in the sky.

Somewhere in the bayou, a whippoorwill called, long and mournful.

"How long have you been watching me?" you asked.

"Since before you knew to look."

"Why now?"

He turned toward you. His voice was velvet-wrapped iron.

"Because now…you’re ripe for the pickin’.”

You didn’t remember falling asleep.

One moment you were on the porch beside him, listening to the slow groan of the swing and the way the crickets held their breath when he exhaled, the next you were waking in your bed, the sheets tangled around your legs like they were trying to hold you down.

The house was too quiet.

No birdsong. No creak of the windmill out back. No rustle of the sycamores that scraped against your bedroom window on stormy nights.

Just stillness.

And scent.

It clung to the cotton of your nightdress. Tobacco smoke, sweat, rain. Him.

You sat up slowly, pressing your hand to your chest. Your heart thudded like it was trying to remember who it belonged to. The lamp beside your bed had burned down to a stub. A trickle of wax curled like a vein down the side of the glass.

Your mouth tasted like smoke and guilt. Your thighs ached in that low, humming way—though you couldn’t say why. Nothing had happened. Not really.

But something had changed.

You felt it under your skin, in the place where blood meets breath.

The floor was cool under your feet as you moved. You didn’t dress. Just pulled a robe over your slip and stepped into the hallway. The house felt heavier than usual, thick with the ghost of his presence. Every corner held a whisper. Every shadow a shape.

You opened the front door.

The porch was empty.

The swing still rocked gently, as if someone had only just stood up from it.

A folded piece of paper lay on the top step, weighted down by a smooth river stone.

You picked it up with trembling hands.

Come.

That was all it said. One word. But it rang through your bones like gospel. Like a vow.

You looked out across the field. A narrow dirt road stretched beyond the tree line, overgrown but clear. You’d never dared follow it. That road didn’t belong to you.

It belonged to him.

And now…so did you.

You didn’t bring anything with you.

Not a suitcase. Not a shawl. Not a Bible tucked under your arm for comfort.

Just yourself.

And the road.

The hem of your slip was already damp by the time you reached the edge of the field. Dew clung to your ankles like cold fingers, and the earth was soft beneath your feet—fresh from last night’s storm, the kind that never really breaks the heat, only deepens it. The moon had gone down, but the sky was beginning to bruise with that blue-black ink that comes before sunrise. Everything smelled like wet grass, magnolia, and the faint rot of old wood.

The path curved, narrowing as it passed through trees that leaned in too close. Their branches kissed above you like they were whispering secrets into each other’s leaves. Spanish moss hung like veils from the oaks, dripping silver in the fading dark. It made the world feel smaller. Quieter. As if you were walking into something sacred—or something doomed.

A crow cawed once in the distance. Sharp. Hollow. You didn’t flinch.

There was no sound of wheels. No car waiting. Just the road and the fog and the promise you'd made.

And then you saw it.

The house.

Tucked deep in the grove, half-swallowed by vines and time, it rose like a memory from the earth. A decaying plantation, left to rot in the wet belly of the Delta. Its bones were still beautiful—white columns streaked with black mildew, a grand porch that sagged like a mouth missing teeth, shuttered windows with iron latches rusted shut. Ivy grew up the sides like it was trying to strangle the place. Or maybe protect it.

You stood there at the edge of the clearing, breath caught in your throat.

He’d brought you here.

Or maybe he’d always been here. Waiting. Dreaming of the moment you’d return to him without even knowing it.

A shape moved behind one of the upstairs curtains. Quick. Barely there.

You didn’t run.

Your bare foot found the first step.

It groaned like it recognized you.

The door was already open.

Not wide—just enough for you to know it had been waiting.

And you stepped inside.

The air inside was colder.

Not the kind of cold that came from breeze or shade—but from stillness, from the absence of sun and time. A hush so thick it felt like you were walking underwater. Like the house had held its breath for decades and only now began to exhale.

Dust spiraled in the faint light seeping through fractured windows, casting soft halos through the dark. The wooden floor beneath your feet was warped and groaning, but clean. Not in any natural sense—there was no broom that had touched these boards. No polish or soap.

But it had been kept.

The air didn’t smell like rot or mildew. It smelled like cedar. Like old leather. And deeper beneath that, like him.

He hadn’t lit any lamps.

Just the fireplace, burning low, glowing embers pulsing orange-red at the back of a cavernous hearth. The flame danced shadows across the faded wallpaper, peeling in long strips like dead skin. A high-backed chair faced the fire, velvet blackened from age, its silhouette looming like something alive.

You swallowed, lips dry, and stepped further in.

Your voice didn’t carry. It didn’t even try.

Remmick was nowhere in sight.

But he was here.

You could feel him in the walls, in the way the house seemed to lean closer with every step you took.

You passed through the parlor, past a dusty grand piano with one ivory key cracked down the middle. Past oil portraits too old to make out, their eyes blurred with time. Past a single vase of dried wildflowers, colorless now, but carefully arranged.

You paused in the doorway to the drawing room, your hand resting lightly on the frame.

A whisper of air moved behind you.

Then—

A hand.

Not grabbing. Not harsh. Just the light press of fingers against the small of your back, palm flat and warm through the thin cotton of your slip.

You froze.

He was behind you.

So close you could feel his breath at your neck. Not warm, not cold—just present. Like wind through a crack in the door. Like the memory of a touch before it lands.

His voice was low, close to your ear.

"You came."

You didn’t answer.

"You always would have."

You wanted to say no. Wanted to deny it. But you stood there trembling under his hand, your heartbeat so loud you were sure he could hear it.

Maybe that was why he smiled.

He stepped around you slowly, letting his fingers graze the side of your waist as he moved. His eyes glinted red in the firelight, catching on you like a flame drawn to dry kindling.

He looked at you like he was already undressing you.

Not your clothes—your will.

And it was already unraveling.

You’d suspected he wasn’t born of this soil.

Not just because of the way he moved—like he didn’t quite belong to gravity—but because of the way he spoke. Like time hadn’t worn the edges off his words the way it had with everyone else. His voice curled around vowels like smoke curling through keyholes. Rich and low, but laced with something older. Something foreign. Something that made the hair at the nape of your neck rise when he spoke too softly, too close.

He didn’t speak like a man from the Delta.

He spoke like something older than it.

Older than the country. Maybe older than God.

Remmick stopped in front of you, lit only by firelight.

His eyes had dulled from red to something deeper—like old garnet held to a candle. His shirt was open at the collar now, suspenders hanging slack, the buttons on his sleeves rolled to his elbows. His forearms were dusted with faint scars that looked like they had stories. His skin was pale in the glow, but not lifeless. He looked like marble warmed by touch.

He studied you for a long time.

You weren’t sure if it was your face he was reading, or something beneath it. Something you couldn’t hide.

"You look just like your mother," he said finally.

Your breath caught.

"You knew her?"

A soft smirk curled at the corner of his mouth.

"I’ve known a lot of people, dove. I just never forget the ones with your blood."

You didn’t ask what he meant. Not yet.

There was something heavy in his tone—something laced with memory that stretched back far further than it should. You had guessed, years ago, in the sleepless weeks after that alleyway miracle, that he was not new to this world. That his youth was a trick of the skin. A lie worn like a mask.

You’d read every folklore book you could get your hands on. Every whisper of vampire lore scratched into the margins of ledgers, stuffed between church hymnals, scribbled on the backs of newspapers.

Some said they aged. Slowly. Elegantly.

Others said they didn’t age at all. That they existed outside time. Beyond it.

You didn’t know how old Remmick was.

But something in your bones told you the truth.

Five hundred. Six hundred, maybe more.

A man who remembered empires. A man who had watched cities rise and burn. Who had danced in plague-slick ballrooms and kissed queens before they were beheaded. A man who had lived so long that names no longer mattered. Only debts. And blood.

And you’d given him both.

He stepped closer now, slow and deliberate.

"Yer heart’s gallopin’ like it thinks I’m here to take it."

You flinched. Not because he was wrong. But because he was right.

"You said you didn’t want my blood," you whispered.

"I don’t." He tilted his head. "Not yet."

"Then what do you want?"

His smile didn’t reach his eyes.

"You."

He said it like it was a simple thing. Like the rain wanting the river. Like the grave wanting the body.

You swallowed hard.

"Why me?"

His gaze dragged down your frame, unhurried, like a man admiring a painting he’d stolen once and hidden from the world.

"Because you belong to me. You gave yourself freely. No bargain’s ever tasted so sweet."

Your throat tightened.

"I didn’t know what I was agreeing to."

"You did," he said, softly now, stepping close enough that his chest nearly brushed yours. "You knew. Your soul knew. Even if your head didn’t catch up."

You opened your mouth to protest, to say something, anything that would push back this slow suffocation of certainty—

But his hand came up to your jaw. Fingers feather-light. Not forcing. Just holding. Just there.

"And you’ve been thinkin’ about me ever since," he said.

Not a question. A statement.

You didn’t answer.

He leaned in, his breath ghosting over your cheek, his voice a rasp against your ear.

"You dream of me, don’t you?"

Your hands trembled at your sides.

"I don’t—"

"You wake wet. Ache in your belly. You don’t know why. But I do."

You let your eyes fall shut, shame burning behind them like fire.

"Fuckin’ knew it," he murmured, almost reverent. "You smell like want, dove. You always have.”

His hand didn’t move. It just stayed there at your jaw, thumb ghosting slow along the hollow beneath your cheekbone. A touch so gentle it made your knees ache. Because it wasn’t the roughness that undid you—it was the restraint.

He could’ve taken.

He didn’t.

Not yet.

His gaze held yours, slow and unblinking, red still smoldering in the center of his irises like the dying core of a flame that refused to go out.

"Say it," he murmured.

Your lips parted, but nothing came.

"I can smell it," he said, voice low, rich as molasses. "Your shame. Your want. You’ve been livin’ like a nun with a beast inside her, and no one knows but me."

You hated how your breath stuttered. Hated more that your thighs pressed together when he said it.

"Why do you talk like that," you whispered, barely able to get the words out, "like you already know what I’m feeling?"

His fingers slid down, grazing the side of your neck, stopping just before the pulse thudding there.

"Because I do."

"That’s not fair."

He smiled, slow and crooked, nothing kind in it.

"No, dove. It ain’t."

You hated him.

You hated how beautiful he was in this light, sleeves rolled, veins prominent in his arms, shirt hanging open just enough to show the faint line of a scar that trailed beneath his collarbone. A body shaped by time, not by vanity. Not perfect. Just true. Like someone carved him for a purpose and let the flaws stay because they made him real.

He looked like sin and the sermon that came after.

Remmick moved closer. You didn’t retreat.

His hand flattened over your sternum now, right above your heartbeat, the warmth of him pressing through the cotton of your slip like it meant to seep in. He leaned down, mouth near yours, not kissing, just breathing.

"You gave yourself to me once," he said. "I’m only here to collect the rest."

"You saved my brother."

"I saved you. You just didn’t know it yet."

A shiver rippled down your spine.

His hand moved lower, skimming the curve of your ribs, hovering just at the soft flare of your waist. You could feel the heat rolling off him like smoke from a coalbed. His body didn’t radiate warmth the way a man’s should—but something older. Wilder. Like the earth’s own breath in summer. Like the hush of a storm right before it split the sky.

"And if I tell you no?" you asked, barely more than a breath.

His eyes flicked to yours, unreadable.

"I’ll wait."

You weren’t expecting that.

He smiled again, this time softer, almost cruel in its patience.

"I’ve waited centuries for sweeter things than you. But that don’t mean I won’t keep my hands on you ‘til you change your mind."

"You think I will?"

"You already have."

Your chest rose sharply, breath stung with heat.

"You think this is love?"

He laughed, low and dangerous, the sound curling around your ribs.

"No," he said. "This is hunger. Love comes later."

Then his mouth brushed your jaw—not a kiss, just the graze of lips against skin—and every nerve in your body arched to meet it.

Your knees buckled, barely.

He caught your waist in one hand, steadying you with maddening ease.

"I’m gonna ruin you," he whispered against your throat, his nose dragging lightly along your skin. "But I’ll be so gentle the first time you’ll beg me to do it again."

And God help you—

You wanted him to.

The house didn’t sleep.

Not the way houses were meant to.

It breathed.

The walls exhaled heat and memory, the floors creaked even when no one stepped, and somewhere in the rafters above your room, something paced slowly back and forth, back and forth, like a beast too restless to settle. The kind of place built with its own pulse.

You’d spent the rest of the night—if you could call it that—in a room that wasn’t yours, wearing nothing but a cotton shift and your silence. You hadn’t asked for anything. He hadn’t offered.

The room was spare but not cruel. A basin with a water pitcher. A four-poster bed draped in a netting veil to keep out the bugs—or the ghosts. The mattress was soft. The sheets smelled faintly of cedar, firewood, and something else you didn’t recognize.

Him.

You didn’t undress. You lay on top of the blanket, fingers threaded together over your belly, the thrum of your heartbeat like a second mouth behind your ribs.

Your door had no lock. Just a handle that squeaked if turned. And you hated how many times your eyes flicked toward it. Waiting. Wanting.

But he never came.

And somehow, that was worse.

Morning broke soft and gray through the slatted shutters. The sun didn’t quite reach the corners of the room, and the light that filtered in was the color of dust and river fog.

When you finally stepped out barefoot into the hall, the house was already awake.

There was a scent in the air—coffee. Burned sugar. The faintest curl of cinnamon. Something sizzling in a skillet somewhere.

You followed it.

The kitchen was enormous, all brick hearth and cast iron and a long scarred table in the center with mismatched chairs pushed in unevenly. A window hung open, letting in a breath of swamp air that rustled the lace curtain and kissed your ankles.

Remmick stood at the stove with his back to you, sleeves still rolled to the elbow, suspenders crossed low over his back. His shirt was half-unbuttoned and clung to his sides with the cling of heat and skin. He moved like he didn’t hear you enter.

You knew he had.

He reached for the pan with a towel over his palm and flipped something in the cast iron with a deft flick of the wrist.

"Hope you like sweet," he said, voice thick with morning. "Ain’t got much else."

You didn’t speak. Just stood there in the doorway like a ghost he’d conjured and forgotten about.

He turned.

God help you.

Even like this, barefoot, collar open, hair mussed from sleep or maybe just time—he looked unreal. Like a sin someone had tried to scrub out of scripture but couldn’t quite forget.

"Sleep alright?" he asked.

You gave a small nod.

He looked at you a moment longer. Then—

"Sit down, dove."

You moved toward the table.

His voice followed you, lazy but pointed.

"That’s the wrong chair."

You paused.

He nodded to one at the head of the table—old, high-backed, carved with curling vines and symbols you didn’t recognize.

"That one’s yours now."

You hesitated, then lowered yourself into it slowly. The wood groaned under your weight. The air in the kitchen felt thicker now, tighter.

He brought the plate to you himself.

Two slices of skillet cornbread, golden and glistening with syrup. A few wild strawberries sliced and sugared. A smear of butter melting slow at the center like a pulse.

He set the plate in front of you with a quiet care that felt almost obscene.

"You ain’t gotta eat," he said, leaning against the table beside your chair. "But I like watchin’ you do it."

You picked up the fork.

His eyes stayed on your mouth.

The cornbread was still warm.

Steam curled from it like breath from parted lips. The syrup pooled thick at the edges, dripping off the edge of your fork in slow, amber ribbons. It stuck to your fingers when you touched it. Sweet. Sticky. Sensual.

You brought the first bite to your mouth, slow.

Remmick didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. His eyes tracked the motion like a starving man watching someone else’s feast.

The bite landed soft on your tongue—golden crisp on the outside, warm and tender in the middle, butter melting into every pore. It was perfect. Unreasonably so. And somehow you hated that even more. Because nothing about this should’ve tasted good. Not with him watching you like that. Not with your body still humming from the memory of his voice against your skin.

But you swallowed.

And he smiled.

"Good girl," he murmured.

You froze. The fork paused just above the plate.

"You don’t get to say things like that," you whispered.

"Why not?"

Your fingers tightened around the handle.

"Because it sounds like you earned it."

He chuckled, low and easy. A slow roll of thunder in his chest.

"Think I did. Think I earned every fuckin’ word after draggin’ you out that night and lettin’ you walk away without layin’ a hand on you."

You looked up sharply, heat crawling up your neck.

"You shouldn’t have touched me."

"I didn’t," he said. "But I wanted to. Still do."

Your breath caught.

His knuckles brushed the edge of your plate, slow, casual, like he had all the time in the world to make you squirm.

"And I know you want me to," he added, voice low enough that it coiled under your ribs and settled somewhere molten in your belly.

You pushed the plate away.

He didn’t flinch. Just reached forward and dragged it back in front of you like you hadn’t moved it at all.

"You eat," he said, gentler now. "You need it. House takes more from you than it gives."

You glanced around the kitchen, suddenly uneasy.

"You talk about it like it’s alive."

He gave a slow nod.

"It is. In a way."

"How?"

He looked down at your plate, then back at you.

"You’ll see."

You pushed another bite past your lips, slower this time, aware of the weight of his gaze with every chew, every swallow. You didn’t know why you obeyed. Maybe it was easier than defying him. Maybe it was because some part of you wanted him to keep watching.

When the plate was clean, he reached out and caught your wrist before you could stand.

Not hard. Not even firm. Just…inevitable.

"You full?" he asked, his voice all smoke and sin.

You nodded.

His eyes darkened.

"Then I’ll have my taste next."

Your breath lodged sharp in your throat.

He said it like it meant nothing. Like asking for your pulse was no more intimate than asking for your hand. But there was a glint in his eye—red barely flickering now, but still there—and it told you everything.

He was done pretending.

You didn’t move. Not right away.

His fingers were still wrapped around your wrist, light but unyielding, the pad of his thumb grazing the fragile skin where your pulse drummed loud and frantic. Like it wanted to leap out of your veins and spill into his mouth.

You swallowed hard.

"You said you didn’t want blood."

"I don’t."

"Then what do you want?"

"You."

You watched him now, trying to make sense of what you wanted.

And what terrified you was this—

You didn’t want to run.

You wanted to know how it would feel.

To give something he couldn’t take without permission.

To see if your body could handle the worship of a mouth like his.

Remmick’s other hand came up slow, brushing hair from your cheek, his knuckles rough and reverent.

"You said I smelled like want," you whispered.

"You do."

"What do you smell like?"

He leaned in, mouth near your throat again, his nose dragging along your skin, slow, as if he were drawing in the scent of your soul.

"Rot. Hunger. Regret," he said. "Old things that don’t die right."

You shivered.

"And still I want you," you breathed.

He pulled back just enough to look you in the eyes.

"That’s the worst part, ain’t it?"

You didn’t answer.

Because he was right.

His hand slid down to your elbow, then lower, tracing the curve of your waist through the thin fabric. His touch was warm now, or maybe your body had just given up trying to tell the difference between threat and thrill.

He guided you up from the chair.

Didn’t yank. Didn’t drag.

Just stood and took your hand like a dance was beginning.

"Come with me," he said.

"Where?"

"Somewhere I can kneel."

Your heart stuttered.

He led you through the house, down the long hallway past doorways that watched like eyes. The floor groaned underfoot, the air thickening around your shoulders as he brought you deeper into the home’s belly. You passed portraits whose paint had faded to shadows, velvet drapes drawn tight, mirrors that refused to hold your reflection quite right.

The door at the end of the hall was already open.

Inside, the room was dark.

Just one candle lit, flickering low in a glass jar, its light catching the edges of something silver beside the bed. An old bowl. A cloth. A pair of gloves, yellowed from time.

A ritual.

Not violent.

Intimate.

Remmick turned toward you, his face bare in the soft light. He looked younger. More human. And somehow more dangerous for it.

"Sit," he said.

You sat.

He knelt.

And then his hands found your knees.

His hands rested on your knees like they belonged there. Not demanding. Not prying. Just there. Anchored. Reverent.

The candlelight licked up his jaw, catching in the hollows of his cheeks, the deep shadow beneath his throat. He didn’t look like a man. He looked like a story told by firelight—half-worshipped, half-feared. A sinner in the shape of a saint. Or maybe the other way around.

His thumbs made a slow pass over the inside of your thighs, just above the knee. Barely pressure. Barely touch. The kind of contact that made your breath feel too loud in your chest.

"Yer too quiet," he murmured.

"I don’t know what to say," you whispered back.

His gaze lifted, locking with yours, and in that moment the whole room seemed to still.

"Ya ain’t gotta say a damn thing," he said. "You just need to stay right there and let me show ya what I mean when I say I don’t want yer blood."

Your lips parted, but no sound came.

He leaned in, slow as honey in the heat, until his mouth hovered just above your knee. Then lower. His breath ghosted over your skin, warm and maddening.

You didn’t realize you were holding your breath until he pressed a single kiss just above the bone.

Your lungs stuttered.

His lips trailed higher.

Another kiss.

Then another.

Each one higher than the last, until your legs opened on instinct, until you felt the hem of your slip being eased upward by hands that moved with worshipful patience. Like he wasn’t just undressing you—he was peeling back a veil. Unwrapping something sacred.

"You ever had someone kneel for ya?" he asked, voice rough now. Thicker.

You shook your head.

He smiled like he already knew the answer.

"Good. Let me be the first."

He kissed the inside of your thigh like it meant something. Like you meant something. Like your skin wasn’t just skin, but a prayer he intended to answer with his mouth.

The air was too hot. Your thoughts slid loose from the edges of your mind. All you could do was breathe and feel.

He looked up at you once more, red eyes burning low, and said—

"You gave yerself to me. Let me taste what I already own."

And then he bowed his head, mouth meeting the softest part of you, and the rest of the world disappeared.

His mouth touched you like he’d been dreaming of it for years. Like he’d earned it.

No rush. No hunger. Just that first velvet press of his lips against the tender center of you, reverent and slow, like a kiss to a wound or a confession. He moaned, low and guttural, into your skin—and the sound of it vibrated up through your spine.

He parted you with his thumbs, just enough to taste you deeper. His tongue slipped between folds already slick and aching, and he groaned again, this time with something like gratitude.

"Sweet as I fuckin’ knew you’d be," he rasped, voice hot against your core.

Your hands gripped the edge of the chair. Wood bit into your palms. Your head tipped back, eyes fluttering shut as your thighs trembled around his shoulders.

He didn’t stop.

He licked you with patience, with purpose, like he was reading scripture written between your legs—each flick of his tongue slow and deliberate, every pass perfectly placed, building pressure inside you with maddening precision.

And all the while, he watched you.

When your head dropped forward, you found him staring up at you. Red eyes glowing low, heavy-lidded, mouth glistening, jaw tense with restraint. He looked ruined by the taste of you.

"Look at me," he said. "Wanna see you fall apart on my tongue."

Your breath hitched, hips rocking forward on instinct, chasing his mouth. He growled low and deep in his chest, gripping your thighs tighter.

"That’s it, dove," he murmured. "Don’t run from it. Give it to me."

He flattened his tongue and dragged it slow, then circled the swollen peak of your clit with the tip, teasing you to the edge and pulling back just before it broke.

You whined. Desperate.

He smirked against your cunt.

"You want it?" he asked, voice thick. "Say it."

Your lips barely formed the word—"Please."

He hummed in approval.

Then he devoured you.

No more teasing. No more pacing. Just his mouth fully locked on you, tongue relentless now, lips sealing around your clit while two fingers slid into you with that obscene, perfect pressure that made your body jolt.

You cried out, gasping, your thighs tightening around his head as the world tipped sideways.

"That’s it," he groaned, curling his fingers just right. "Cum f’r me, girl. Let me taste what’s mine."

And when it hit—

It hit like a fever. Like lightning. Like your soul cracked in half and bled straight into his mouth.

You broke with a cry, hips bucking, your fingers tangled in his hair as wave after wave crashed through you.

He didn’t stop. Not until your thighs twitched and your breath came in ragged little sobs, not until your body went limp in his hands.

Then, finally—finally—he pulled back.

His lips were wet. His eyes were feral. And he looked at you like a man who’d just fed.

"You’re fuckin’ divine," he whispered. "And I ain’t even started ruinin’ you yet."

The room pulsed with quiet. The candle flickered low, flame swaying as if it too had held its breath through your unraveling.

Your body felt boneless. Glazed in sweat. Your pulse echoed everywhere—in your wrists, your throat, between your legs where he’d buried his mouth like a man sent to worship. You weren’t sure how long it had been since you’d spoken. Since you’d breathed without shaking.

Remmick still knelt.

His hands were on your thighs, thumbs drawing idle circles into your skin like he couldn’t bear to stop touching you. His head was bowed slightly, but his eyes were on you—watchful, reverent, hungry in a way that had nothing to do with the softness between your legs and everything to do with something older. Something darker.

He looked drunk on you.

You opened your mouth to speak, but your voice caught on the edge of a sigh.

He beat you to it.

"Reckon you know what’s comin’ next," he murmured.

You didn’t answer.

He rose from his knees in one slow, unhurried motion. There was a heaviness to him now, a tension rolling just beneath his skin, like a dam about to split. He reached up with one hand and wiped the corner of his mouth with the back of it—then licked the taste from his thumb like it was honey off the comb.

You watched, breath held tight in your chest.

He stepped closer. You stayed seated, knees still parted, your slip pushed up indecently high, but you didn’t fix it. Didn’t move at all. The heat between your legs hadn’t faded. If anything, it curled deeper now, thicker, laced with something close to fear but not quite.

He stopped in front of you.

Tilted his head slightly.

"How’s yer heart?"

You blinked.

"It’s…fast," you whispered.

He smiled slow. Not mocking. Not soft either.

"Good. I want it fast."

Your throat tightened.

"Why?"

He leaned in, hands bracing on either side of your chair, body boxing you in without touching.

"‘Cause I want yer blood screamin’ for me when I take it."

Your breath caught somewhere between your ribs.

He didn’t touch you yet—didn’t need to. The weight of his body, caging you in without a single finger laid, made your skin flush from your chest to your knees. Every inch of you throbbed with awareness. Of him. Of your own pulse. Of the air cooling the places he’d worshiped with his mouth not moments before.

You swallowed.

"You said you’d wait," you whispered.

He nodded once, slowly, his eyes never leaving yours.

"I did. And I have. But yer body’s already beggin’ for me. Ain’t it?"

You hated that he was right. That he could feel it somehow. Not just see the tremble in your thighs or the way your lips parted when he leaned closer—but that he could feel it in the air, like scent, like vibration.

You lifted your chin, barely.

"I’m not scared."

He chuckled low, and it rumbled through your bones.

"Good. But I don’t need ya scared, dove. I need ya open."

He raised one hand then, slow as scripture, and brushed his knuckles along the column of your throat. Just a whisper of contact, a ghost’s touch. Your head tilted for him without thinking, baring your neck.

"Right here," he murmured. "Right where it beats loudest. That’s where I wanna taste ya."

You shivered.

He bent down, mouth near your pulse. His breath was warm, slow, drawn in like he was savoring you already.

"I ain’t gonna hurt ya," he said. "Not unless you want it."

Your fingers twisted in your lap.

"Will it—" you started, but the question got tangled.

He smiled against your skin.

"Will it feel good?"

You said nothing.

"You already know."

You did.

Because everything with him did. Every word. Every look. Every touch. It wasn’t right. It wasn’t holy. But it was real. It lived under your skin like rot and root and ruin.

You nodded once.

"Then take it."

Remmick stilled.

And then his lips pressed to your throat. Not with hunger. With reverence. Like a blessing.

"That’s my girl," he breathed.

And then he bit.

It wasn’t pain.

It was pressure, first.

A deep, aching pull that bloomed just beneath the skin, right where his mouth latched onto you. His lips sealed tight around your throat, and then—sharpness. Two points sinking in like teeth through silk. Like sin through flesh.

You gasped.

Not from fear. Not even from the sting. But from the rush.

Heat burst behind your eyes, white and sudden and dizzying. Your hands flew to his shoulders, clinging, grounding, anchoring you to something real while your mind drifted into something else—something otherworldly.

The pull came next.

A steady rhythm, slow and patient, like he was sipping you instead of drinking. Like he had all the time in the world. You could feel it, the way your blood left you in waves, not violent, not greedy—just…intimate. Like giving. Like surrender.

He groaned low against your neck, the sound vibrating through your bones.

"Fuck, you taste like sunlight," he rasped against your skin, voice thick with hunger and awe. "Like everythin’ warm I thought I’d forgotten."

Your head tipped further, offering him more.

You didn’t know when your legs opened wider, or when your hips rocked forward just to feel more of him. But his body shifted instinctively, meeting yours with a growl, his hand gripping your thigh now, possessive and unrelenting.

Your pulse faltered. Not from weakness, but from pleasure. From the unbearable knowing that he was inside you now, in the most ancient way. That your body had opened to him, and your blood had welcomed him.

Your moan was breathless.

"Remmick—"

He shushed you, mouth never leaving your throat.

"Don’t speak, dove. Just feel."

And you did.

You felt every lick. Every pull. Every sacred claim. You felt his tongue soothe where his fangs pierced, his hand slide higher along your thigh, his knee pushing between your legs until your breath stuttered out of you in something like a sob.

It was too much. It was not enough.

And when he finally pulled back, slow and reluctant, your blood on his lips like a mark, like a vow, he stared at you like you were holy.

Like he hadn’t fed on you.

Like he’d prayed.

The room was quiet, but your body wasn’t.

You felt every beat of your heart echo in the hollow where his mouth had been. A slow, reverent throb that pulsed through your neck, your chest, your thighs. It was like something had been lit beneath your skin, and now it smoldered there—glowing, aching, changed.

Remmick’s breath was uneven. His lips were stained red, parted just slightly, his jaw slack with something like awe. The burn of your blood still shimmered in his eyes, brighter now. Alive.

He looked undone.

And yet his hands were steady as he reached up, cupped your jaw in both palms, and tilted your face toward him. His thumb swept across your cheekbone like you might vanish if he didn’t touch you just right.

"You alright?" he asked, voice quieter now, roughened at the edges like a match just struck.

You nodded, though your limbs still trembled.

"I feel…" you swallowed, the word too small for what bloomed in your chest, "…warm."

He laughed, soft and almost bitter, and leaned his forehead against yours.

"You should. You’re inside me now. Every drop of you."

The words rooted somewhere deep. You didn’t flinch. Didn’t pull away. You could still feel the heat of his mouth, the bite, the pleasure that followed. It wasn’t just lust. It wasn’t just surrender. It was something older. Something binding.

"Does it hurt?" you asked, your fingers brushing the side of his neck, the line of his collarbone slick with sweat.

He looked at you like you’d asked the wrong question.

"Hurt?" he echoed. "Dove, it’s ecstasy."

You stared at him.

"You mean for you?"

He shook his head once.

"For us."

Then he pulled back just enough to look at you—really look. His gaze swept your features like he was committing them to memory. As if this moment, this very breath, was something sacred. His fingers moved to your throat again, this time to the place just above the bite, and he pressed lightly.

"You’ll bruise here," he said. "Won’t fade for a while."

"Will it heal?"

"Eventually."

"Do you want it to?"

His mouth curved, slow and wicked.

"No," he said. "I want the world to see what’s mine."

And before you could reply—before the heat in your belly could cool or your mind could gather itself—he kissed you.

Not soft.

Not careful.

His mouth claimed you like he’d already been inside you a thousand times and wanted to do it a thousand more. He kissed you like a man starving. Like a creature who’d gone too long without flesh, and now that he had it, he wasn’t letting go.

You tasted your own blood on his tongue.

And it tasted like forever.

The house knew.

It breathed deeper now. Its wood swelled, its walls sighed, its floorboards creaked in time with your heartbeat—as though it had taken you in too, accepted your offering, and now it wanted to keep you just like he did. Not as a guest. Not as a lover.

As a belonging.

Remmick hadn’t let you go.

Not when the kiss ended. Not when your blood slowed in his mouth. Not when your knees gave and your body folded forward into him. His arms had caught you like he knew the shape of your collapse. Like he’d been waiting for it. Like he’d never let you fall anywhere but into him.

He carried you now, one arm beneath your legs, the other braced around your back, his chest solid against yours.

"Don’t reckon you’re walkin’ after all that," he muttered, gaze fixed ahead, voice gone syrup-slow and thick with something possessive.

You didn’t argue. You couldn’t.

Your head rested against the place where his heart should’ve beat. But it was quiet there. Not lifeless—just other.

He carried you past rooms you hadn’t seen. A library, long abandoned, lined with crooked books and a grandfather clock that had no hands. A parlor soaked in velvet and silence. A door nailed shut from the outside, something heavy breathing behind it.

You didn’t ask.

He didn’t explain.

The room he took you to was nothing like the others.

It wasn’t grand.

It was personal.

The windows here were narrow and high, soft light slanting through the dusty glass in thin gold ribbons. The bed was simple but large, the sheets dark, the frame iron-wrought and worn smooth by time. A single cross hung above the headboard—but it had been turned upside down.

He set you down like you were breakable. Sat you on the edge of the bed, knelt once more to remove the slip still clinging to your body, inch by inch, as if undressing you were a sacrament.

"Y’ever wonder why I picked you?" he asked, voice low as the hush between thunderclaps.

Your breath stilled.

"I thought it was the blood."

He shook his head, his hands pausing at your hips.

"Nah, dove. Blood’s blood. Yours sings, sure. But it ain’t why I chose."

He looked up then, red eyes gleaming in the half-light.

"You remind me of the last thing I ever loved before I died."

The words landed like a stone in still water.

They rippled outward. Slow. Wide. Deep.

You stared at him, breath shallow, your skin bare under his hands, your throat still warm from where he’d fed. The room held its silence like breath behind gritted teeth. Outside, somewhere beyond the high windows, something moved through the trees—branches bending, wind pushing low and humid across the land—but in here, it was only the two of you.

Only his voice.

Only your blood between his teeth.

"What…what was she like?" you asked.

His thumbs drew circles at your hips, but his eyes drifted, not unfocused—just distant. Remembering.

"She had a mouth like yours. Sharp. Didn’t know when to shut it. Always speakin’ when she should’ve stayed quiet." A smile ghosted across his lips. "God, I loved that. I loved that she ain’t feared me even when she should’ve."

He exhaled through his nose, slow.

"But she didn’t get to finish bein’ mine."

Your brows pulled.

"What happened to her?"

He looked back at you then, and the heat in his gaze returned—not hunger, not even desire, but something deeper. Possessive. Terrifying in its tenderness.

"They tore her from me. Burned her in a chapel. Said she was a witch on account’a what I’d given her."

Your heart dropped into your stomach.

"Remmick—"

"She didn’t scream," he said, voice rough. "Didn’t cry. Just looked at me like she knew I’d find her again. And I have."

You froze.

His hands slid higher, up your ribs, his palms reverent.

"I don’t believe in fate. Not really. But you—" he leaned in, lips brushing your jaw, voice low like a spell, "you make me wanna believe in things I ain’t allowed to have."

You whispered against the curl of his mouth.

"And what do you think I am?"

He kissed the hinge of your jaw.

"My penance," he said. "And my reward."

You shivered.

"You said you saved me."

He nodded.

"I did."

"Why?"

He pulled back just enough to meet your eyes, and his voice dropped to a near whisper.

"‘Cause I ain’t lettin’ another thing I love burn."

You didn’t realize you were crying until he touched your face.

Not with hunger, not with heat, but with the kind of softness that had no business living in a man like him. His thumb caught a tear on your cheek like he’d been waiting for it, like it meant something sacred.

"You ain’t her," he murmured. "But you feel like the same song in a different key."

His voice cracked a little at the edges, not enough to ruin the shape of it, just enough to prove that something in him still bled.

You reached up, fingers trembling, and cupped the side of his neck. The skin there was warmer now. Still inhuman, still not quite alive, but it held your heat like it didn’t want to give it back. You felt the ridges of old scars beneath your palm. The echo of stories not told.

"I don’t know what I’m becoming," you said.

He leaned into your hand, eyes half-lidded.

"You’re becomin’ mine."

Then he kissed you again—not like before. Not full of fire. But slow, like he had all the time in the world to learn the shape of your mouth. His lips moved over yours with a kind of tenderness that made your bones ache. A kind of reverence that said this is where I end and begin again.

When he pulled back, your breath followed him.

The room shifted.

You felt it. Like the house had exhaled too.

"Lie down," he said, voice softer than it had ever been. "Let me hold what I almost lost."

You obeyed.

You lay back against the sheets that smelled like him, like dust and dark and something unnameable. The iron bed creaked softly beneath you, and the candlelight trembled with the movement. He undressed with quiet purpose, shirt sliding from his shoulders, buttons undone by slow fingers, trousers falling away to bare the sharp planes of his body.

And when he climbed over you, it wasn’t to take.

It was to be taken.

Remmick hovered above you, breath warm at your lips, hands braced on either side of your head. He looked down at you like he was staring through time. Like you were something he'd pulled from the fire and decided to keep even if it burned him too.

You’re mine, he whispered, but didn’t say it aloud.

He didn’t have to.

His body said it.

His mouth said it.

And when he finally eased inside you, slow and steady, filling you inch by trembling inch—your soul said it too.

His body hovered just above yours, every inch of him trembling with a control you didn’t quite understand—until you looked into his eyes.

That red glow was dimmer now. No less powerful, but softened by something raw. Something reverent.

Not hunger.

Not lust.

Not even possession.

Devotion.

The kind that didn’t speak. The kind that buried itself in the bones and never left.

His hand slid down the side of your face, tracing the curve of your cheek, then the line of your jaw, calloused fingers lingering in the hollow of your throat where your heartbeat thudded wild and uneven.

"Still fast," he murmured, half to himself.

"You’re heavy," you whispered, not in protest, but in awe. Every breath you took was filled with him.

He smirked, the corner of his mouth twitching in that crooked, wicked way of his.

"Ain’t even layin’ on you yet."

You didn’t laugh. Couldn’t. Your body was stretched too tight, strung out with anticipation and need. Every inch of you burned.

He leaned down then, not to kiss you, but to breathe you in. His nose skimmed your cheek, the edge of your ear, the curve of your throat already marked by his bite. His hands traced your ribs, the sides of your waist, slow and steady, like he was trying to learn you by touch alone.

"You’re shakin'," he whispered, voice low, thick with something close to worship.

"So are you."

A pause.

Then softer—truthfully,

"Yeah."

He kissed the inside of your wrist, then the space between your breasts, then lower still—his lips reverent as they moved over your belly, your hipbone, the softest parts of you.

"You ever had someone take their time with you?" he asked, mouth against your skin.

You didn’t speak.

"Didn’t think so," he muttered. "Shame."

His hand slid between your thighs, spreading you again—not rushed, not greedy, just gentle. Like he knew he’d already had the taste of you and now he wanted the feel.

"Tell me if it’s too much," he said.

"It already is."

He looked up at you then, his face half-shadowed, half-lit, and something flickered in his eyes.

"Good."

His cock brushed against your entrance, hot and heavy, and you nearly arched off the bed at the first contact. Not even inside. Just there. Teasing. Pressed to the slick mess he'd made of you earlier with his mouth.

He groaned deep.

"Fuck, you feel like sin."

You reached for him, pulled him down by the back of his neck until your mouths were inches apart.

"Then sin with me."

He didn’t hesitate.

He began to press in—slow. Devastatingly slow. The head of his cock stretching you open with a care that felt like madness. His hands gripped your hips as if holding himself back took more strength than killing ever had.

He moved in inch by inch, his breath hitched, jaw tight, sweat beginning to bead at his temple.

"Shit—ya takin’ me so good, dove. Just like that."

You moaned. Your fingers dug into his back. You were full of him and not even halfway there.

"Remmick—"

"I gotcha," he whispered. "Ain’t gonna let you break."

But he was already breaking you. Gently. Thoroughly. Beautifully.

He filled you like he’d been made for the task.

No sharp thrusts. No hurried rhythm. Just the unbearable slowness of it. The stretch. The burn. The drag of his cock as he sank deeper, deeper, deeper into you until there was nothing left untouched. Until your body stopped bracing and started opening.

You clung to him—hands fisted in the fabric of his shirt that still clung to his back, damp with sweat. He hadn’t even undressed all the way. There was something obscene about it, something holy, too—the way he kept his shirt on like this wasn’t about bareness, it was about belonging.

"That’s it," he rasped against your throat. "There she is."

Your moan was caught between breath and prayer.

He buried himself to the hilt.

And still—he didn’t move.

His hips pressed flush to yours, his breath shaky against your skin as he held himself there, nestled so deep inside you it felt like you’d never known emptiness before now. Like everything that came before this moment had just been the ache of waiting to be filled.

"You feel that?" he whispered, voice thick, almost reverent. "Where I am inside ya?"

You nodded. Couldn’t find your voice.

His lips brushed the shell of your ear.

"Ain’t no leavin’ now. I’ll always be in ya. Even when I ain’t."

You whimpered.

Not from pain. From how true it felt.

He moved then—barely. Just a slow roll of his hips, a gentle retreat and return. It was enough to make your breath hitch, your body arch, your legs wrap tighter around him without thinking.

"That’s right, dove. Let me in. Let me have it."

You didn’t even know what it was anymore.

Your body?

Your blood?

Your soul?

You’d already given them all.

And still, he took more.

But not cruelly.

Like a man kissing the mouth of a well after years of thirst. Like a thief who knew how to make you feel grateful for the stealing.

He found a rhythm that made the air vanish from your lungs.

Slow. Deep. Measured. His hips grinding just right, dragging his cock against every place inside you that had never known such touch. Every stroke sang with heat. Every breath he took turned your name into something more than a sound.

"Fuck, I could stay in you forever," he groaned. "Like this. Warm. Tight. Mine."

You dug your nails into his shoulders, legs trembling.

"Please," you whispered, though you didn’t know what you were asking for.

He did.

"Beg me," he said, dragging his mouth down your neck, over the bite he’d left. "Beg me to make you come with my cock in you."

"Remmick—"

"Say it."

You were already gone. Already shaking. Already his.

"Make me come," you breathed. "Please—God, please—"

His smile was sinful.

And then he fucked you.

His rhythm shifted—no longer slow, no longer sacred.

It was worship in the way fire worships a forest. The kind that devours. The kind that remakes.

Remmick braced a hand behind your thigh, hitching your leg higher as he thrust harder, deeper, dragging guttural sounds from his chest that you felt before you heard. The bed groaned beneath you, iron frame clanging soft against the wall in time with his hips. But it was your body that made the noise that filled the room—the gasps, the breaking sighs, the high whimper of his name torn raw from your throat.

He kissed your jaw, your collarbone, your shoulder, not like he was trying to be sweet but like he needed to taste every inch he claimed.

"You feel me in your belly yet?" he growled, words hot against your skin.

You nodded frantically, tears pricking the corners of your eyes from the sheer force of sensation.

"Say it," he panted, each thrust brutal and beautiful.

"Yes—yes, I feel you, Remmick, I—"

"You gonna come f’r me like a good girl?"

"Yes."

"Say my fuckin’ name when you do."

His hand slid between your bodies, finding your clit like he’d owned it in another life, and the moment his fingers circled that aching bundle of nerves, your vision went white.

Your body seized around him.

The sound you made was raw, wrecked, something no one but him should ever hear.

He kept fucking you through it, hissing curses through his teeth, chasing his own high with the rhythm of a man who’d waited centuries for the perfect fit.

And then he broke.

With your name groaned low and reverent in your ear, he came deep inside you, hips stuttering, breath ragged, body shuddering with the force of it. You felt every throb of his cock inside you, every spill of heat, every ounce of him taking root.

For a long, suspended moment, he didn’t move.

Only the sound of your breaths tangled together.

Your sweat mixing.

Your bodies still joined.

"That’s it," he whispered hoarsely, pressing his forehead to yours. "That’s how I know you’re mine."

The house exhaled around you.

The candle sputtered in its jar, flame dancing low and crooked, like even it had been made breathless by what it had witnessed. Somewhere in the walls, the wood groaned—settling. Sighing. Accepting.

You didn’t move. Couldn’t.

Your body was a temple razed and rebuilt in a single night, still pulsing with the memory of his mouth, his weight, the stretch of him inside you like a secret only your bones would remember. Every nerve hummed low and soft beneath your skin, like your blood hadn’t figured out how to move without his rhythm guiding it.

Remmick stayed inside you.

His body was heavy atop yours, but not crushing. His head tucked into the curve of your neck, the same place he’d bitten, the same place he’d worshipped like it held some holy truth. His breath came slow and ragged, the rise and fall of his chest matching yours as if your lungs had struck the same pace without meaning to.

"Don’t move yet," he muttered, voice wrecked and hoarse. "Wanna stay here just a minute longer."

You let your hand drift through his hair, damp with sweat, curls sticking to his forehead. You carded through them lazily, mind blank, heart full.

He pressed a kiss to your throat. Then another, just above your collarbone.

"You still with me?" he asked, quieter now.

You nodded.

"Good," he murmured. "Didn’t mean to fuck the soul outta ya. Just…couldn’t help it."

You let out the softest laugh, and he smiled into your skin.

His hand slid down your side, tracing the curve of your waist, your hip, the spot where your thigh met his. His fingers moved slowly, not with lust, but with a kind of quiet awe.

"Y’know what you feel like?" he whispered.

"What?"

"Home."

The word struck something inside you. Something tender. Something deep.

He lifted his head then, just enough to look down at you. His eyes had faded from red to something darker, something richer—garnet in low light. The kind of color only seen in blood and wine and promises too old to be remembered by name.

"You still think this is just hunger?" he asked.

You blinked at him, dazed.

"It was never just hunger," he said. "Not with you."

The silence between you was warm now.

Not empty. Not tense. Just quiet, the kind that comes after thunder, when the storm’s rolled through and the trees are still deciding whether to stand or kneel.

You felt it in your limbs—heavy, humming, holy. The afterglow of something you didn’t have language for.

Remmick hadn’t moved far.

He still blanketed your body like a second skin, one arm braced beneath your shoulders, the other tracing idle shapes across your hip as if he were still mapping the terrain of you. His cock, softening but still nestled inside, pulsed faintly with the last of what he’d given you.

And he had given you something. Not just release. Not just blood. Something older. Something that whispered now in the place between your ribs.

You turned your head to look at him.

His gaze was already on you.

"What happens now?" you asked, barely above a whisper.

He didn’t answer right away.

Instead, he ran the back of his fingers along your cheekbone, down the side of your neck, pausing over the place where his mark had already begun to bruise.

"You askin’ what happens tonight," he murmured, "or what happens after?"

You blinked slowly. "Both."

He let out a breath through his nose, the sound tired but not cold.

"Tonight, I’ll hold you. Long as you’ll let me. Won’t leave this bed unless you beg me to. Might even make ya cry again, if you keep lookin’ at me like that."

You flushed, and he smiled.

"As for after…"

He looked past you then, toward the ceiling, like the truth was written in the beams.

"Ain’t never planned that far. Not with anyone. Just fed. Fucked. Moved on."

"But not with me."

His eyes snapped back to yours. Serious now.

"No, dove. Not with you."

You swallowed the knot rising in your throat.

"Why?"

His jaw flexed, tongue darting briefly across his lower lip before he answered.

"‘Cause I been alone too long. Lived too long. Thought I was too far gone to want anythin’ that didn’t bleed beneath me."

He leaned closer, forehead resting against yours, his next words no louder than a ghost’s sigh.

"But you—you made me want somethin’ tender. Somethin’ breakable."

"That doesn’t make sense."

"Don’t gotta. Nothin’ about you ever has. And yet here you are."

You let your eyes drift shut, just for a moment, and whispered into the stillness between your mouths.

"So I stay?"

He didn’t hesitate.

"You stay."

The candle had burned low.

Its glow flickered long shadows across the walls—your bodies painted in gold and blood-tinged bronze, limbs tangled in sheets that still clung with sweat and want. The house had quieted again, the way an animal settles when it knows its master is content. Outside, the wind threaded through the trees in soft moans, like the Delta herself was eavesdropping.

Neither of you spoke for a while. You didn’t need to.

Your fingers traced lazy patterns across Remmick’s chest—over his scars, the slope of muscle, the faint rise and fall beneath your palm. You still half-expected no heartbeat, but it was there, slow and stubborn, like he’d stolen it back just for you.

He watched you. One arm draped across your waist, his thumb stroking your bare back like you might fade if he stopped.

"You still ain’t askin’ the question you really wanna ask," he said, voice rough from silence and sleep.

You paused.

"What question is that?"

He tipped his head toward you, resting his chin on his knuckles.

"You wanna know if I turned you."

Your heart gave a traitorous flutter.

"And did you?"

He shook his head.

"Nah. Not yet."

"Why not?"

His fingers stilled. Then resumed.

"’Cause you ain’t asked me to."

You looked up at him sharply.

"Would you?"

A long beat passed. Then he nodded once.

"If it was you askin’. If it was real."

Your breath caught.

"And if I don’t?"

His gaze didn’t waver.

"Then I’ll stay with you. ‘Til you’re old. ‘Til your hands shake and your bones ache and your eyes stop lookin’ at me like I’m the only thing that ever made you feel alive."

Your throat tightened.

"That sounds awful."

He smiled, slow and aching.

"It sounds human."

You looked at him for a long time. At the man who had killed, who had bled you, who had tasted every part of you—body and soul—and still asked nothing unless you gave it.

"Would it hurt?"

His hand slid up, fingers curling beneath your jaw, tilting your face to his.

"It’d hurt," he said. "But not more than bein’ without you would."

The quiet stretched long and low.

His words hung in the space between your mouths like smoke—something sweet and terrible, something tasted before it was fully breathed in.

Your chest rose and fell against his slowly, and for a long time, you said nothing. You just listened. To the house settling around you. To the wind curling past the windows. To the steady thrum of blood still echoing faintly in your ears.

And beneath it all—

You heard memory.

It came soft at first. A shape, not a sound. The slick thud of your knees hitting the alley pavement. The scream you didn’t recognize as your own. Your brother’s blood, warm and fast, pumping between your fingers like water from a broken pipe. His mouth slack. His eyes wide.

You remembered screaming to the sky. Not to God.

Just up.

Because you knew He’d stopped listening.

And then—

He came.

Out of nothing. Out of dark.

You remembered the slow scrape of his boots on the gravel. The silhouette of him under the weak yellow glow of a flickering streetlamp. You remembered the quiet way he spoke.

"You want him to live?"

You didn’t answer with words. You just nodded, crying so hard you couldn’t breathe. And he’d knelt—right there in the blood—and laid his hand flat against your brother’s chest.

You never saw what he did. Only saw your brother’s eyes flutter. Only heard his breath return, sudden and wet.

And then he looked at you.

Not your brother.

Remmick.

He looked at you like he’d already taken something.

And he had.

Now, years later, lying in the hush of his house, your body still joined to his, you could still feel that moment thrumming beneath your skin. The moment when everything shifted. When your life became borrowed.

You looked up at him now, breathing steady, lips parted like a prayer just barely forming.

"I’ve already given you everything."

He shook his head.

"Not this."

He pressed two fingers to your chest, right over your heart.

"This is still yours."

"And you want it?"

He didn’t smile. Didn’t look away.

"I want it to keep beatin’. Forever. With mine."

You stared at him.

You thought about that alley. About your brother’s eyes opening again.

About how no one else came.

And you made your choice.

"Then take it."

Remmick stilled.

"Don’t say it unless you mean it, dove."

"I do."

His voice was barely more than a breath.

"You sure?"

You reached up, touched his face, fingers tracing the sharp line of his jaw.

"I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life."

His eyes shimmered—deep red now, alive with something wild and tender.

"Then I’ll make you eternal," he whispered. "And I’ll never let the world take you from me."

He didn’t rush.

Not now. Not with this.

Remmick looked at you like you were something rare—something holy—like he couldn’t believe you’d said it, even as your voice still echoed between the walls.

Then he moved.

Not with hunger. Not with heat.

With purpose.

He sat up, kneeling beside you on the bed, and pulled the sheet slowly down your body. His eyes drank you in again, but this time there was no heat in them. Just reverence. As if you were the altar, and he the sinner who’d finally been granted absolution.

"You sure you want this?" he asked one last time, voice soft, like the hush of water in a cathedral.

You nodded, throat tight.

"I want forever."

His jaw clenched. A tremble passed through him like he’d heard those words in another life and lost them before they were ever his.

He leaned down.

His hand cupped the back of your head, the other settled flat on your chest, palm over your heart.

"Close your eyes, dove."

You did.

And then—

You felt him.

His breath. His lips. The soft, cool press of his mouth against your neck. But he didn’t bite.

Not yet.

He kissed the mark he’d already left. Then higher. Then lower. Slow. Measured. Your body melted beneath him, your hands curling into the sheets.

And then—

A whisper against your skin.

"I’ll be gentle. But you’ll remember this forever."

And he sank his fangs in.

It wasn’t like the first time.

It wasn’t lust.

It wasn’t climax.

It was rebirth.

Pain bloomed sharp and bright—but only for a heartbeat. Then the warmth flooded in. Then the cold. Then the ache. Your pulse stuttered once, then surged. It was like drowning and being pulled to the surface at once. Like everything you’d ever been burned away and something older moved in to take its place.

He held you as it happened.

Cradled you like something delicate.

His mouth sealed over the wound, drinking slow, but not to feed. To anchor you. To tether you to him.

You felt yourself go limp. The world turned strange. Light and dark bled into each other. Your breath faded. Your heartbeat fluttered like wings against glass.

And then—

It stopped.

Silence.

Stillness.

And in the space where your heart had once beat…

You heard his.

Then—

Your eyes opened.

The world looked different.

Sharper.

Brighter.

Every shadow deeper. Every color richer. The candlelight burned gold-red and alive. The scent of the night air was so thick it choked you—smoke, soil, blood, him.

Remmick hovered above you, lips stained crimson, breathing hard like he’d just returned from war.

And when he looked at you—

You saw yourself reflected in his eyes.

He smiled.

"Welcome home, darlin’."

[b3rryb3t]

the real party (josh washington & chris hartley)

wc: 1.2k

cw: all porn no plot, f!reader, cucking, threesome, slight praise & degradation

part two of this, for the three ppl who requested it <3 ily!

"the hell you mean, meet us in here? who are you..." chris walks in on you moaning into josh's mouth, swirling his tongue with yours while grinding down on his cock. the two of you barely move apart when hearing the door open. "oh jesus christ dude, josh-" chris groans, as he turns back around to exit.

reluctantly pulling away from you, with a spit trail connecting you two, josh begins to explain. "heeey... no no, chris, c'mon". josh grabs chris' arm, turning him back around to face you two. "i know you wanna fuck her," he whispers.

chris turns bright red at his accusation, trying to look away from you two- because josh's dick is still inside of you. "what are you talking about!? are you sure you're not drunk?"

"bro, i've seen how you eyefuck my girlfriend from across the room-"

"i do NOT eyefuck her-" chris raises his voice- cutting josh off- now glaring at him confidently.

"yes you do! but its okay, now cmon, let's make my sweetheart happy, alright? isn't this what you want, babe?" josh brings you back into the conversation (like they weren't just debating if chris should fuck you), and you nod shyly. "see, chris? take care of her."

"you seem to be doing a great job already." chris still has a blush across his face.

"but i want both of you," the words fall out of your mouth and hit the guys' ears like a honeyed syrup.

"and how are we to say no to such a sweet slut like you?" josh looks back at you, holding your face in his hands while slightly glancing at chris. josh's condescending words mixed with his sweet tone makes you clench around him. "fuck, chris, you have to-"

"okay."

"yeah? okay?" josh pulls out- with a disappointed whimper from you- and you look down to see his red tip. you can tell he's restraining himself, just for your pleasure. a beat passes, chris walking up to you. "well, what are you waiting for?"

"fuck, i can't believe i'm doing this," chris mumbles under his breath. he rests near your hips, and you wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him closer towards you. you smile.

"hi, chris. don't be scared."

he sighs a breath of relief. "hi, baby."

josh smiles at his petname for you. "are you gonna fuck or just talk to each other?"he laughs, sticking his dick back into his boxers as he gets a front row view of you and chris.

"shut up! i can't just... fuck your girlfriend out of nowhere!" chris barks back, still worried.

"then kiss her for christ's sake, chris. that's okay, right babe?"

"uh huh. i want you to kiss me." you look into his eyes, pulling him forward. chris closes the gap between you two. he kisses softer than josh- different. you can tell he's nervous, so you deepen the kiss and your hands travel around his body.

he moves into your touch, groaning into your lips. his hands find their place on your hips, slowly moving to your wet pussy. fingers gliding over your cunt, he begins playing with your clit- making you break the kiss and throw your head back in a whimper.

josh smiles, coming over to the two of you. he brings his fingers on-top of chris', leading him. "she likes it like this," applying more pressure and moving faster. chris looks at him and continues, observing your reactions. every quiver of your lips and bitten back moan makes him alter his fingers to make you feel even more pleasure from his skillful fingers that josh are leading.

"finger her- she loves it, dont'cha babe? gotta get you ready for chris' dick, right?" you nod, biting your lip. he slips his fingers into your needy hole, slowly fingering you to see what you like the best. you whimper at the stretch, even though you had josh fucking you mere minutes ago.

"does that.. feel good?" he questions you, but josh is quick to cut him off once again with showing chris how well he knows your body. josh plunges his fingers inside of you, guiding chris'. your hips instinctively jerk up, letting out a moan at the feeling of both chris and josh's fingers inside of you- filling you up.

"jesus, you're tight. you feel that chris?"

"yes i feel it josh, you're embarrassing me-"

"and you're fucking my girlfriend. let me guide you." he smirks at chris, josh' seductive voice getting to the both of you. josh guides chris' fingers to pump in and out of you, curling his fingers just right- but two sets of them.

"holy shit," moans spilling from your lips as they play with you like a toy. chris puts his thumb on your clit, circling gently as he fingers you.

"finally taking initiative, huh?" josh giggles.

"shut up," chris groans, his free hand digging into your hips. "you're so pretty, baby."

"he's right, babe. you like having two guys fingers inside of you at once?"

you whimper at his words, but blush at chris'. "y-yes, josh, feels so good, i'm gonna-"

"she's gonna cum, chris. go deeper." chris listens to josh, rolling his eyes as he's still commanding him around. but he has to listen- it's practically a blessing josh is letting you touch him. all he can do is switch his vision from the beautiful faces you're making right now and his fingers (+ josh's) sloshing in and out of your pretty little cunt. it's a scene to die for.

"oh, chris! chris!" you moan against his fingers going deeper than before, hitting that sweet spot that makes you squirm. he's playing with your insides like they're putty, taking full control as josh sits in the passenger seat at this point. josh can't handle what he's seeing, chris deliberately fingering you while your head rolls back in pleasure on the completely fogged up mirror.

"look at me, baby, look at me when you cum." chris tells you, his hand gripping your hips moving to grab your chin to look at him. he admires your every facial feature- your soft lips, your parted eyebrows, the sweat dripping down your forehead- everything. you can barely form a sentence and instead moan out a broken whimper of chris' name as you cum, burying your head in his shoulder and gripping onto his shoulders. josh watches you two in awe, his cock throbbing at the sight of chris pleasuring you. he can feel chris' fingers, and you clenching around him.

"fuck, that's so hot," josh pants out, slipping his fingers out of you, and forcing chris to too. he's unable to take his eyes off of you. this might be the best idea he's had yet. "she's taken quite a liking to you, hmmm?" he whispers in chris' ear.

"don't fucking say it like that!" he yells at him, and you smile- going back against the mirror once again.

"you have to fuck her next, dude. i might die if i don't see your dick inside of her."

"mhmm..." you slur out, hands moving to chris' buckle.

"woah, woah-" you all get cut off and freeze when you hear a slamming knock at the door.

"you guys fucking in there or something?? get out! i need to piss!" mike yells, somehow not hearing your moans from earlier.

maybe the real party will have to wait til later.

[b3rryb3t]

How they react when you wear a sundress ~

Rami characters edition ✨️

AN ~ Since it's getting hot out and the sun is finally wanting to shine, I wrote these short stories on how different Rami characters would react to the reader in a sundress and no panties cuz I'm down bad

TW ~ My stories are mature, so there will be suggestive language and depending on the character spicy scenes. Never mind, they all have spicy endings lmaooo

~~~~~~

Ahkmenrah ~

The sun is high, waves rolling, and your skin is still warm from a morning swim.

You pick that sundress. The soft, flowy one. The one that hugs your hips and flutters just right when the breeze hits.

No bra. No panties.

Just skin, sunlight, and sinful thoughts.

You find Ahkmenrah lounging by the pool, book in hand, shirt unbuttoned, golden skin glistening.

“Hey,” you say, real casual.

He looks up.

And then he sees.

The sway of your hips. The dip of your neckline. The way the light shines through the fabric.

His eyes narrow. His book closes slowly.

You tilt your head. “Something wrong, Pharaoh?”

He stands. He walks over. Doesn’t speak just circles you once. Observing.

Then leans down, voice husky:

“You wear nothing beneath this dress.”

You gasp, tiny, innocent. “How would you know?”

He smirks. “Because if you did… I wouldn’t be able to see through it"

You’re frozen.

He brushes a hand along your lower back, teasing the hem. His breath is hot against your ear.

“Is this how queens walk among mortals? Or is this meant for me alone?”

The wind lifts the fabric ever so slightly.

His hand grips your hip.

And then he steps back.

“I suggest,” he says, voice tight, “you go back to our room. Now.”

You blink. “Why?”

He leans in, eyes burning. “Because if I take you here… the ocean won’t be the only thing flooding this island.”

You run.

He follows.

And that sundress?

Tossed across the floor within seconds.

The aftermath ~

When it’s over, your body is trembling, every inch of you sore but satisfied in a way you never expected. Ahkmenrah’s body lies over yours, still breathing heavy, his chest rising and falling as he gathers his strength again.

You feel like you've been claimed, both physically and emotionally, by the Pharaoh himself.

And just when you think it’s safe to breathe…

He smiles, a devilish grin on his lips. “Rest well, my queen. You have earned this.”

But you know this is far from over.

His kiss is still imprinted on your lips, his touch still fresh on your skin. And now, every time you look at him, you know what he’s capable of.

You shiver, and he notices. “I think you may be addicted to me now.”

You smirk back, curling up against his chest.

“We’ll see about that, Ahkmenrah.”

Elliot Alderson ~

It’s a hot, sticky summer day in the city. You’re meeting Elliot for something simple, coffee, maybe a walk, nothing big.

You show up in that sundress.

Soft pastel, barely-there straps, falling perfectly over your curves…

…and underneath?

Absolutely nothing.

You catch him outside the café. He’s in his usual hoodie, jeans, head down and already anxious just existing.

Then he looks up.

And you see it happen.

System error.

His eyes widen, jaw tenses, lips part like he’s about to say something but—

Nothing comes out.

You walk over, all innocent. “Hey, you good?”

He blinks. Slowly.

“Y-Yeah. Just… you look—”

He stops himself. Swallows hard. Fidgets with his sleeve.

“Warm day, right?” you tease, swaying a little closer.

His eyes drop.

To your thighs.

The way your dress moves with each step.

The distinct lack of… lines.

Silent panic.

He clears his throat, looking away instantly.

“I, um… I wasn’t expecting—It’s just—”

“You okay, Elliot?” you lean in, whispering near his ear, “You’re glitching.”

His breath hitches.

“I’m not glitching,” he lies, very obviously glitching.

You smile, brushing his hand.

You both go inside and he sits on the inside of the booth

“Want me to sit across from you, or…” you lower your voice, “…next to you?”

He doesn’t answer. Just stares at you with a mix of panic, arousal, and pure emotional combustion.

So you sit next to him anyway. Cross your legs slowly.

He flinches.

You lean in. “I didn’t wear anything underneath.”

He.exe crashes.

He’s dead silent.

Then, after a beat:

“…Why would you tell me that?”

You grin. “Thought you’d like the visual.”

His voice drops, shaky and low.

“I do. Way too much.”

You see his hands curl into fists in his lap. He can’t even look at you.

But under the table?

You feel his leg twitch closer.

You reach for his hand. He lets you take it. His palm is sweaty. His grip? Desperate.

He looks at you finally, pupils blown, breath ragged.

He stands up abruptly, causing your heart to skip. “I’ll be right back,” he murmurs, voice a little lower than usual, before he walks towards the bathroom door.

You’re frozen. There’s an energy crackling in the air. You wait a beat, unsure whether you should follow. But the pull is too strong.

You get up, quietly following him toward the restroom, and the door swings open with a soft click.

Inside, the small, dimly lit bathroom is a world away from the café's bustling noise. It’s quiet too quiet, and the heavy silence between you both feels more charged than anything you've ever experienced.

You lock the door behind you, and Elliot doesn’t waste a second. He grabs your wrist, pulling you toward him until your chest is pressed against his.

You can hear his breath, shallow, like he’s barely holding it together. His hands slide to your waist, his fingers grazing your skin, sending shivers down your spine.

“Elliot…” you whisper, your heart racing.

“I just… I need you. Now.” he murmurs

You barely process the words before his lips crash into yours, hot and desperate. It’s nothing like the casual kisses you’ve had before this is raw, urgent, as if you’re both trying to consume each other in the smallest space possible.

You gasp when his tongue slides against yours, his hands moving to tangle in your hair, pulling you closer. He presses you against the cold, tiled wall, the heat of his body contrasting with the chill of the bathroom around you.

You can’t help but give in, your hands exploring him in return, feeling the intensity building between you both. His lips leave yours, trailing kisses down your neck, his breath warm against your skin.

His hands grip your hips tighter, and he lifts you slightly, pressing you harder against the wall. The way his body feels against yours makes everything else disappear the world outside, the constant noise. It’s just the two of you caught in a moment of reckless abandon.

Your breath quickens as he continues to kiss you, every movement of his lips on yours pushing you further into a state of need. His hand slides down to your thigh, pulling your leg up around his waist, his touch searing through the fabric of your dress

You feel the unmistakable tension in the air, the hunger building, but it’s different with Elliot. He’s so controlled, so careful, yet so lost in this moment with you. There’s an edge to it, a danger of getting caught that only adds to the thrill.

Josh Washington ~

You're at the lodge again, but it's summer this time. No snow. Just heat, games, and a group reunion that somehow landed you and Josh alone for the afternoon.

You come downstairs wearing it.

A thin, pastel sundress. Lacy, flirty, soft as a whisper.

No bra.

No panties.

Josh is in the kitchen, humming something dumb, probably about cereal. His back’s to you.

“Hey Josh?”

He turns.

Silence.

His brain does a hard reboot.

He blinks. Once. Twice.

Then?

“Oh… fuck me.”

You smirk. “Something wrong?”

“Uh—yeah. No. Nothing. You just—uh—” he gestures vaguely at you, “—look like the entire concept of temptation.”

You twirl a little. “It’s warm out.”

He nods slowly, eyes absolutely stuck on you.

He’s trying to be respectful. Really.

But then the sundress sways when you step closer, and he sees just enough to realize…

“Oh my god. You’re not wearing anything under that, are you?”

You tilt your head, fake innocent. “Wanna check?”

He stares at you like you’ve just pulled the pin on a grenade and handed it to him with a kiss.

“Okay,” he says, hands on his hips, pacing like he’s negotiating with God, “first of all, rude. Second of all, I’ve been trying to be good—trying really hard—but you are out here acting like the world is your runway and I’m your personal simp—”

“You are.”

He freezes.

Then groans. Loudly. “This is so unfair.”

You walk past him, very slowly, brushing your hand along his chest. “C’mon. You gonna let me win this easy?”

He grabs your wrist. Gentle, but firm.

Eyes dark.

Voice low.

“Bedroom. Now. Before I lose the tiny shred of self-control I have left.”

You barely make it up the stairs.

He’s kissing your neck, his hands sliding under the dress, lifting it inch by inch.

“You really wore this for me, didn’t you?”

You nod, breathless.

“Yeah? You like teasing me? You like being bad?”

His voice is a growl now.

“You’re not walking right tomorrow. Just so you know.”

Finn ~ NFS

It’s late afternoon and you pull up to the garage where Finn’s been working all day music bumping, tools clinking, and that boy’s hoodie tied around his waist like he’s in a thirst trap ad for motor oil.

You walk in.

The air smells like grease and gasoline, but you? You’re a breath of dangerous air.

You’re in a tiny sundress. Bare shoulders. Loose skirt. Skin glowing in the sunset.

And nothing underneath.

“Hey, grease monkey,” you call.

Finn turns from under the hood of his car, wiping his hands on a rag. He looks at you.

Then looks again.

Paused. Entire game lagged.

“…Ohhh no. Nope. What’re you tryna pull, baby?”

You blink. “What?”

He walks over slow, checking you out head to toe.

“That dress. That smile. That walk—nah, that’s an ambush.”

You twirl. “It’s hot today.”

“Not as hot as you are, damn,” he mutters, biting his lip.

He grabs his water bottle and chugs it like his life depends on it.

You hop up to sit on the hood of one of the cars, swinging your legs.

The dress rides up.

Finn freezes.

“…You’re not wearing panties, are you?”

You give a coy shrug. “Maybe not.”

He runs a hand down his face, pacing.

“You know I’ve got work to do, yeah? You know I’m tryin’ to be good today?”

“You could be bad,” you offer sweetly.

He’s by you in seconds, standing between your legs.

“Say that again.”

You lean in, tugging his shirt. “Be bad for me.”

His hands slide up your thighs, pushing the dress higher.

The aftermath ~

You end up half-undressed, moaning his name in the backseat of some unfinished car, sundress bunched at your waist, his hands on your hips like he’s never letting go.

Later, he tugs you into his lap and whispers, “You’re not allowed in that dress near any of my friends. Ever. S’only for me.”

And he means it.

[b3rryb3t]

i feel like josh would talk a big game when it comes to sex and stuff being all like "yeaaahh i kiss so many girls blahblahblah" but when it comes down to it he is scared of intimacy!!!!

like i LOVE rough josh but that man is he would definitely be "softer" in bed, kissing all over your skin, taking it at your pace and probably scared to go "hard" on you for a LONG time just making sure you feel pleased.

ALSOO LOVE YOUR WRITING!!

just. yes. YES. enjoy bbg

i am so sorry for like not posting as much as i should but now this shits ON!!!

════ ⋆★⋆ ════

⋆ ˚°༄ ɴᴏᴡ ᴘʟᴀʏɪɴɢ ...  ╰┈➤ 𝚑𝚒𝚐𝚑 𝚑𝚘𝚙𝚎𝚜 ࣪✮⋆˙

♫ ᴘʟᴀʏɪɴɢ: better in the dark by tv girl & jordana (2:36)

✰ word count:

When you first met Josh, you noticed how overly confident and friendly he was, not afraid or shying away from any questions or prying questions even being apart of a famous family.

You knew a lot of his friends for years, but didn't actually have a chance to meet the infamous Josh Washington that they talked so highly about, being confident, funny and caring when he needs to be. The Josh Washington that has been in many relationships and has a way larger sex life than anyone you've ever known.

You were silent for majority of the night at the party, only knowing Sam, Ashley, Chris and Mike mainly - everyone else being foreign ground you already know that you need to tread on.

Nursing an unknown drink in his hand, Josh came and sat next to you. You didnt actually realise at first, more focused on the party and the people that surrounded you. That's when he cleared his throat, "You look a little lost." "I'm not lost." "Then what are you, sweetheart?" "Not your sweetheart." That made him chuckle, his eyes finally catching yours. You thought that he was just some dickhead flirting with you but then you realised.

"You're Josh." "And you're stubborn." "Funny." "I hear that quite alot.." He'd pause, taking a sip of his drink. "So what's got you sat here all alone?" "Don't really know anyone here that well." "Well, if it's that boring-- feel free to get to know me." His suggestive tone was not left unnoticed by you.

"I'm not having sex with you." "That's not what I meant." "Mhm." "I'm serious.. I've just heard a lot about you from Sam, Chris and shit--" "You're not doing really well as a first impression." He'd click his tongue, a smile gracing his face as he looked down to the floor. "They said you'd be stubborn." "And they said you'd be overly confident and be convinced everyone wants to sleep with you." You'd cross your arms, tilting your head at him. "Ouch." He'd place a hand to his heart in mock injury, "I'm hurt, sweetheart."

"I'm sure that one woman not wanting to sleep with you will wound you." You went to stand up, he'd grab your wrist. "Sam is going to kill me if you end up hating me." "That's not my problem." He'd stand up, "Can I walk with you atleast?.." You stared into his eyes, he's hot; you'd give him that, you let out a breath. "Okay fine."

As you two walked around the house, eventually resorting to the backyard of the party house - sitting down on the porch stairs, red solo cups filled, the conversation moved to more intimate questions and answers.

"They all told me you're like some sex god." You said, twirling around the cup in your hand - watching the liquid move inside. "I've had my fair share of woman, but that's going a bit too far." "Is it?.. you've got quite a reputation." "I've got a reputation?" He'd sit up a bit at that, his boots clicking against the wooden steps - you had his attention now. "I'm not boosting your ego more." You'd chuckle a bit, taking a sip of your drink.

"This entire conversation seems to be about me, sweetheart. What about you?" "What about me?" "Are you some offspring of Aphrodite or what?" You'd click your tongue, mulling it over in your mind before shaking your head. "No, no--" "Oh come on, that's not fair. I told you my stories." "Only one way to find out." The liquor loosened your lips, you then realised what you said - you didnt even have to look at him to hear the smirk in his voice. "Oh really?" "I didn't mean it like that." "What did you mean it like then, sweetheart?"

You set down your drink, tilting your body towards his - realising your close proximity to eachother. He was staring at you with a shit-eating grin, his tongue coming to wet his lips.

"Fuck it."

You then grabbed onto his jacket, pulling him into a kiss that was all teeth and tongue. He easily reciprocated, a hand snaking around your waist - pulling you to his chest.

He'd pull back, "Now I've got high hopes, sweetheart."

He'd watch as you stood up, your hand intertwining with his as you pulled him to his feet - pulling him back into the crowded house. As you travelled through bodies, his hands snaked around your waist - moving closer to you to hear you better. He'd kiss a line from your neck to your shoulder, his voice a murmur in your ear. "Where are we going, baby?" "A free room." You said simply - walking up the stairs, him following you like a lost puppy.

You eventually found a free bedroom, as you looked around Josh's arms wrapped around your waist, pulling you down to the bed. His lips returned to yours, a hand moving through the strands of your hair - his lips moving to your neck.

It was strangely sensual for a party hookup, but you didnt complain. Your hands moved to his belt, moving to push it off. "Sweetheart-- take things slow." "I didn't bring you here to go slow." He'd place his hands atop of yours, "I'm serious." You saw the flicker of uncertainty in his eyes, you tilted your head - a smirk forming on your face, you didn't want to shame him but you found it funny. "You haven't fucked as much as you said you have." "That's not--" "Hey, you can keep that facade outside of the bedroom. I dont give a fuck." "Promise you won't tell anyone.." "Your secret is safe with me, Washington."

That's how you found your face in the pillows, on your stomach - Josh slowly and softly fucking you from behind, his hands on your hips as he kissed at your neck and back muttering soft praises.

"So good--" "God.. you're amazing." "So pretty."

A strong arm gripping onto your waist as he pulled you onto your back, his cock still very much nestled deep inside of you. "Wanna see your pretty face." You didn't expect him to be needy during sex, but you were into it. He'd place a hand under your chin to maintain eyecontact with him as he continued to fuck his hips into yours in a soft rhythm.

"You can go harder you know--" Even with your permission, his hips only increased in its speed and harshness a little bit. He felt you tighten around him, a groan extracted from him as he moved his face into the crook of your neck, placing soft kisses there. A hand snaked down between your bodies, as he played with your puffy neglected clit which made you hyper aware about how sensitive it was.

"Fuck-- next time, please let me eat you out, god.." He'd mutter into your neck, almost indiscernible - but it made you clench around him. His pace on your clit increased as his hips snapped into yours faster and deeper, making you cum around his cock - the wet, loud sounds from your arousal made your head drop back into the pillows as he fucked you through it.

His hips started to stutter, as a whine left him - the sound covered up by your neck as he pulled out of your soft heat. Your hand wrapping around his cock and pumping it softly, your thumb swirling the tip collecting the pre-cum there, feeling his hips fuck into your hand as his cum spurted onto your stomach.

As you both came down from your respective highs, the two of you just sat there for a moment - enjoying the presence of eachother. "Not really the sex god you say you are, Washington." "Shut the fuck up."

[b3rryb3t]

Hey I fucking love this app I just need to finish all my assignments before I geek back out, can’t wait to get back to it ❤️

[b3rryb3t]

── .✦ Best friends

Pairing: Josh Washington x fem!reader

Colour chart: Reader ✿ & Josh ✮

Cw: Nsfw, dirty talk, 18+, vaginal penetration, rough sex, vaginal fingering, teasing.

This weekend, you decided to stay at your best friend Josh’s house since his parents had gone on a business trip and wouldn’t be back until Monday. You had both planned a fun weekend filled with movie marathons, board games, video games, and much more.

When you arrived at his house, he greeted you with a friendly hug and invited you inside. Despite having been best friends for so many years, it was impossible for you to memorize the entire mansion—it was huge.

“Welcome to my humble home, though at this point, it feels more like yours than mine. You practically live here,” Josh said with a mischievous smile as he placed a hand on your back and guided you to the living room.

As soon as you walked in, you noticed something new, two white motion controllers and Just Dance on the tv screen. When you turned to look at him, he was already watching you with a playful, excited smile, stepping closer.

“What’s this? Are we dancing tonight?” you asked with a grin, grabbing a controller and scanning through the hundreds of songs in the game. You let out a soft laugh before looking back at Josh, who was watching you, biting his lower lip with a noticeable smirk.

“Mhm, I wanted to try something new. I even set up lights and speakers for the occasion. Wait,” he said as he used his phone to dim the lights, changing them to a darker tone with warm colors, creating a more intimate atmosphere. Meanwhile, he connected the speakers to the tv.

Your eyes wandered to his plaid shirt, noticing how the sleeves were rolled up—fuck. His veiny hands made you swallow hard. Then your gaze trailed to his fingers, and before you knew it, inappropriate thoughts invaded your mind. You cursed yourself internally. You were just best friends. But damn, that shirt clinging to his toned body was making it hard to focus.

“Shall we start? Or are you afraid I’ll beat you, huh?” Josh teased in a playful whisper from behind you, his hand brushing against your waist before moving to stand in front of you.

“You? Beat me? You must be out of your mind. I’m going to destroy you,” you shot back with a smirk, raising an eyebrow as you handed him his controller. When your fingers brushed, a shiver ran down your spine.

You both chose a couples’ dance, not too intimate, but still quite sensual.

At first, it was innocent, holding hands, stepping closer. But as the music progressed, the routine became more heated. One particular move had you pressing your back against Josh, hips swaying in sync. You got too close, and as your bodies rubbed together, his hands instinctively slid down your waist.

A low growl rumbled in his chest, his grip tightening. You quickly pulled away, pretending to stay focused on the dance, but that part of the choreography came back. This time, Josh took the lead.

He stepped closer, hands gripping your hips without hesitation. His body pressed against yours, and you felt it—him. Hard. His breath fanned against your neck as he rocked his hips forward, letting out another low growl while squeezing your waist.

You gasped, a soft, involuntary moan escaping your lips as you moved against him. The game, the music, the dance, it all faded into the background. The only thing that existed was the heat between you.

“My god… You love teasing me, don’t you?” Josh muttered against your skin. His voice was thick with hunger. “It turns you on, feeling my cock like this. Am I wrong?”

His lips ghosted over your neck, leaving a damp trail. One of his hands slid under the hem of your shirt, fingers brushing against your bare skin. You could feel him throbbing against you through his jeans.

Then, he moved one hand up, fingers grazing your breast over your bra, while his mouth latched onto your neck—sucking, biting, marking you as his. His other hand slipped past the waistband of your jeans, fingers pressing against your soaked panties.

“Fuck, babe… I didn’t know you were this wet,” he groaned. His fingers pushed your underwear aside, teasing your entrance before plunging one inside, rough and sudden. You moaned, your body jerking in response.

“I’ve been wanting this for so fucking long,” he admitted in a husky whisper, his lips brushing your ear. “Fuck, I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve stroked myself, wishing it was your mouth instead.”

He added another finger, thrusting deep while his thumb found your clit, rubbing it in slow, torturous circles. Your moans grew louder, your body arching into his touch.

“You moan this much just for my fingers? Huh?” he taunted, his voice laced with dominance. “You’re a desperate little slut for my cock, aren’t you? Say it.”

He bit down on your neck, leaving a dark bruise in his wake. Without giving you time to respond, he suddenly withdrew his fingers, licking them clean before spinning you around.

In one swift motion, he grabbed your thighs, lifting you against the nearest wall. His hips pinned you in place as he ground against you, the friction making both of you groan. His mouth found yours—hot, demanding, his tongue sliding in without asking. He bit your lower lip, then trailed his kisses down to your collarbone.

“How do you want me to fuck you?” he murmured against your skin. “Right here against this wall? Or on all fours while I spank that pretty ass in the bedroom?”

“Ah… Josh… Whatever you want… Just fuck me now. Please,” you whimpered, your voice dripping with need.

A wicked smirk curled on his lips. Beads of sweat formed on his forehead as he took in the sight of you, your flushed skin, your lips swollen from his kisses, the marks he’d left on your neck and chest. He looked at you like you were his prize, his possession.

Without another word, he unbuttoned his jeans, pushing them down along with his boxers. His cock sprang free—thick, hard, pre-cum glistening at the tip.

He wasted no time. He yanked your jeans and underwear down, his fingers teasing your entrance before aligning himself against you.

“Beg for it,” he ordered, his voice deep and commanding. He stopped touching you altogether, leaving you desperate.

“Josh… please,” you whimpered, looking up at him with wide, pleading eyes. “I need your cock inside me. Fuck me. Fill me up with your thick, hot cum. Ruin me.”

That was all he needed to hear. He growled before slamming into you in one deep thrust, burying himself to the hilt. You cried out, nails digging into his shoulders as he set a relentless pace.

The room filled with the sound of skin slapping, moans, and heavy breathing.

“Fuck—so tight, so wet,” he groaned, gripping your hips and driving into you harder.

Pleasure coiled in your stomach, the sensation building rapidly. You clawed at his back, gasping as the tension became unbearable.

“Josh… I’m close—I can’t hold on,” you moaned.

“Cum for me,” he rasped, his thrusts growing erratic. “Come on, love. Coat my cock in your cum.”

The moment he said it, you shattered. A loud, helpless moan tore from your throat as pleasure consumed you.

Josh wasn’t far behind. His grip on you tightened, his thrusts turning rougher. “Fuck, I’m gonna fill you up,” he groaned, slamming into you one last time before spilling inside you. Just like he promised, his cum seeped out, dripping down your thighs.

Panting, he rested his forehead against yours, pressing soft kisses to your lips. “That was the best fucking thing in my life,” he whispered.

Then, his lips curled into a smirk.

“But we’re not done yet,” he muttered, guiding you to the couch and pressing his growing erection against you once more.

“Now, I’m going to ruin that pretty little ass.” He spanked you, hard. And you arched against him, ready for more.

[b3rryb3t]

Roommate!Josh walks in on you riding a dildo while wearing his hoodie and sniffing it

"Oh my-"

"....oh.... u-uhh..."

"Nono, why'd you stop you were clearly in the middle of something, don't mind me."

"I-i didn't- im sor-"

"Keep going, im asking you to continue"

"You're not.. weirded out?"

"Weirded out about my hot roommate riding a dildo, which- is definitely smaller than myself- and huffing my hoodie? you think i'd want to stop that?"

"...smaller?"

And the whole time Josh is slooowly sauntering over to you, hands in pockets... until he reaches you and stares down at you.

"Smaller. You wanna try the real thing out? and smell the real thing?"

"...yeah.. yes- please-"

TWEAKS OUT AND IMPLODES.

[b3rryb3t]

*cough cough* chris hartley.. *COUGH. COUGH. *