criesindarkwave - Tumblr blog

criesindarkwave · 5 days ago

Note

Pretty pleeasssee do virgin female reader having her first time with Remmick 🙏

AHEM! So. I know y’all liked how I wrote Remmick last time and I wanna say THANK YOU!! But this one is a bit softer him? He still banters and everything but I think he’s a shit ton nicer LMAOO he’s for sure not cursing anyone here. Maybe ooc him butttt idk I don’t really think so, I think this is just less scary him. ALSO SLIGHTLY PROOFREAD!!

Warnins: smut. That’s basically it with just a tiny bit of plot but HARDLY. He sniffs readers' panties and keeps them. MUNCHING. He whines and begsssss. Uhhh.. she jerks him off. Softer sex, nothing fucking crazy this time around. Cursing/swearing not actual curses like last time. Idk what else.. mentions of smacking all over the body. He smacks her tits and thighs mostly NOT HARD OR ANYTHING TERRIBLE just like in general. Marking.. no mention of what it looks like necessarily cause marking can look different on every skin tone, so it’s just hinted towards it. That should be all!’

It’s half past midnight when you open the door. Robe tightly pulled across your body, hand tighter around the door knob.

You’d been rudely awoken by some loud knocking at your door, flinching so violently you practically shook the whole bed.

The loud raps.. not even. Pounds. It damn near made you consider if the police were at your door.

It was brutal. Your whole day was brutal, with loud customers and a rush that lasted five hours. Working in the restaurant wasn’t for the weak. That was for fucking sure. You were spent. Done for the night. wanted to be dead to the world, curled up nice and tight in your sheets.

Apparently not, since God had to come around and force you to deal with some more bullshit.

And now.. the beating of a lifetime was gonna happen to the white man that stood before you.

“Remmick-“

“Baby-“

“I don’t have time for this tonight-“

“I know baby.. but shit— I haven’t seen you for a few nights now.”

You raise a brow at him, “Right. And that gives you the right to come round’ and bang on shit like you own the place?”

He shakes his head, “no.. no but.. I really did miss you and- look.. just lemme on in. Please.”

You stare at him. Face unimpressed, annoyance bubbling under your skin. You’re pissed, of course. He ripped you out of your slumber and is now attempting to rip you out of your home.. well, trying to get inside but still. Same intentions.

Doesn’t help either that he looks good tonight, with his hair messy, beard more grown in and the collar of his shirt unbuttoned showing off that golden chain you often imagine hanging over your face while he— he’s a sight. A sight you want to pounce on.. but your fucking tired. And you already know that his presence equals persistence.

He’s been at this for about two whole months. Begging, pleading to be let inside. That he’ll be nice and slow, that he won’t hurt you. Been outside complimenting you, lusting after you and has even dropped to his knees several times just to get his point across.

It’s a little more tame now compared to when he first came to realize exactly why you wouldn’t allow him in, despite the slick he could smell pooling between your thighs. Fucking huffed and puffed like a dog in heat, whined like a dying animal. Practically collapsed on the fucking floor.

“Yer a fuckin virgin?” He muttered, face a bit shocked. You nodded, “problem with that?”

“Jesus fuckin Christ.. no. No. Never. Just—“ he sighed, loud. Shook his head and cleared his throat, “don’t know why you kept that in for so long.”

“Never asked.”

His brows shoot up, “I had to fuckin ask?”

Yours furrow, confused, “course’. Why the fuck would I tell you otherwise?” And that causes him to stutter, mouth opening and closing, a thousand emotions running across his face before he settles on looking mildly surprised, “Well.. figured I should somewhat know that, right sugar? Pretty fuckin important now, is it?”

Important. Right. With how he reacted, jerked his head back in shock and then moved himself so god damn close to the door, the barrier of the threshold had to physically ward him off by lightly burning him.. you should’ve kept it to yourself a little longer. For simple amusement.

You shrug, “sure.. don’t change much about your problem here, though. Still can’t come in.”

“Shit— well, that’s just fucked now. You can’t mess with a man’s emotions like that!” He argues, porch creaking as he steps away from the door, “It ain’t kind.”

“Kind? I’m being kind to myself. I mean-“ you give a soft chuckle, sniffling, “I can hardly fit in my own fingers.. let alone yours-“ you gesture a hand towards him. He still has blood dried underneath the fingernails, the curve of his wrist having a smudge of mud on it, and his hands rough with the years. Really.. aside from just wanting to fuck with him, you truly believe they would be a rough stretch.

He shakes his head, scratching at his cheek as he looks down, face tight and lips pulled into a thin line.

“It would be a stretch and I just can’t do that tonight.” You give a small frown, though he knows fully well it’s mocked.

He places a hand against his face, sliding across his mouth as he looks up. Pained. Like he’s silently asking God why he must suffer.

“I.. feel that being mauled by a bear is easier than this. This is just—“ he throws up his hands, smacking them back down against his sides.

“The God’s sent you to fuckin punish me that’s what this is.”

What a Greek tragedy. you’re certain that even now, he still believes this is his punishment for all his wrong doing.

Really.. He needs you.

Needs you like the blood that he craves, like the flesh he rips between his teeth. The need for community, for friendship and love.. it doesn’t shine a single fucking light to need that boils deep in his bones. That primal instinct to claim.

He thinks he’s actually losing it. Going insane, goes too far to claim all his brain power and energy, his blood, is drained right to his dick. Making him act up more than usual.

He’s going crazy.

All because he believes he’s the one who deserves to take your virginity.

That he needs to or he’ll die, that your rejection will burn him just as badly as the sun. He’s dramatic. Too dramatic, for his own good. Sometimes you wonder if he has a part time job at a theatre or something given how well he acts, how much he emphasizes each emotion.

Like now.

You blink, “no.”

He hangs his head, a loud sigh leaving him. You don’t close the door knowing he won’t leave.. he never does. Doesn’t know how to, and you would know given how often you close the door on him. He just bangs the door harder. Gets louder.

You give a long exhale, tired. Of him and of the day.

“What.. you're sad you can’t come on in and get this pussy?” you ask, lazily. Calm and neutral, as if you're speaking of the cloud and trees.

He nods but keeps his head low, still hanging down, “fuck else would I be sad for.”

“I’ll let you eventually.. just, not now. I’m tired.”

Remmick gives a breathy laugh, tongue running along his teeth, not sharp. Not yet. Still in his human form, with uneven teeth and a wicked smile. He clicks his tongue, “always fuckin tired-“

You shrug, “well I worked a long fuckin shift, you would know what that’s like if you were employed.”

He lifts his head, hands stuck on his hips as his face scrunches into something unpleased. Annoyed, just as much as you are.

“Don’t.. just— Jesus, just a taste. Nothing more.”

Another long exhale, but this one drags on into a groan, “it’s always something with you. Seriously. Can’t stick your tongue into my cooch, so now you have to harass me every night?” your lip curls, shaking your head as you rest your hip against the door.

“I ain’t harassing you-“ you interrupt, “yes you are,” but he ignores it, “I’m just trying to show you how determined I am. I know I can treat you right.. I know it. Can do more than any other mutherfuckn’ random out here can. Baby..”

He takes a step forward, hands moving to the frame, holding himself up just past the threshold that won’t let him linger close. Can’t, not without you giving the right to do so.

“.. when I say I’ll have you shaking.. begging me on back, humpin me silly till’ you can’t no more.. I mean that. not just outta my own ego, it ain’t about just that. But because you deserve a little lovin.”

He shrugs, “I want to be the one to give you that lovin.”

You take it in. Silently. Slowly. Let the words mingle through your brain, sink into your flesh and coat the back of your teeth. You can’t distinguish whether the rumbling feeling in your chest, that tight pull and yank is your nerves or butterflies. They feel so similar, it’s really hard to make of what you should feel.

Not what he wants you to feel. But he stands there all the same, not in the sense of being none the wiser to your own predicament, he knows what he’s doing. Knows how steadily he’s been pulling back the curtain. Whisking away that fear you hold in your chest, that anxiety.

The heaviness sex brings.. where you can speak big but do little. He knows it. Knows that when you speak nasty, with such vulgarity, teasing him— none of it was true. Not really. Surely you wanted it but.. doing it? Shit.

In all that silence and time, eventually you speak, but it’s not exactly what he suspected would come out your mouth.

“You’ll let me ride..” you trail off, eyeing him up and down.

He nods. You narrow your gaze, “and hold my hand?”

He nods again, “fuckin course. Can’t just let you on Willy nilly. Already too eager for yer’ own good.”

“Can’t blame me,” you mutter. He grins, “no one is blaming you,” he raises a hand, “no judgment from me. Yer’ good.”

He watches your lip twitch, pulling down slightly before you look away. Caught in your thoughts, he isn’t even sure if you really are hearing him.

You won’t buckle, not easily. But he teases anyway, grin sharp but eyes soft, “nervous? Don’t gotta’ be.”

Your eyes shoot towards his, brows furrowing, “no. Just thinkin is all. Can’t do that now?”

He just holds up his hands, mock surrender. As if to say, ‘no problem with me’.

You shift in place, socked feet cold despite how warm the rest of you is. The floor doesn’t give much answers, stays quiet despite your piercing gaze. It’s not going to give any advice, can’t, but you partially wish that something would help you deal with this.

To say whether you should push or grab. And Remmick ain’t gonna give an unbiased answer.

Quiet floor, hungry man creature.

There’s no winning.

“You’ll go slow?”

You don’t need to look at him to know that wolf smile of his is on full display, “real slow. Think I’m fuckin dead.”

“You are.” Don’t need to look either to know he shrugs, “Further proves my point.”

You won’t admit it. But how you look up, dead set on him, eyes narrowed and almost looking mean.

He thinks you're going to shoo him away.

Instead, you give a low hum, then a sharp inhale before saying, “Don’t fuck this up.”

He answers quick, “I won’t.”

Your brows go up, “I mean it.”

He matches you, face stern and honest. Open.

“Me too.”

—

His hands are just as rough as you thought they would be. Dried, cracked on the fingertips, feel and sounds like fucking sand paper when he glides it across your skin.

He needs lotion, you make note of telling him that later.

But you moan all the same when he runs his fingers across your clothed pussy. Even shudder a bit. It’s odd.. really. You’ve touched yourself before, that isn’t foreign but from someone else? Your nerves are on fire despite how cold he is, how his warmth is no match for yours. He’s almost freezing, but that only adds to it. Adds to how you shudder each time he smooths a hand over your stomach, fingertips dipping across the curve of your pelvis.

It’s slow. Soft even. It almost feels like he’s trying to memorize this, you. Mapping you out, running his hand in every crevice and curve, watches your face with his ears perked, tries to catch each of your emotions. Studying you.

It should be sweet, should comfort. But instead it makes you nervous, intentionally looking away so you can somewhat ease the anxiety rolling off you.

Unfortunately for you, Remmick isn’t too fond of that. Your attempts to hide while he’s trying so desperately to understand you. He doesn’t say anything, but rather places a hand on your cheek.

Makes you look at him. Stare at him.

“Gonna taste you, okay?”

You give a shaky breath, but nod.

The bed creaks under the weight shift, his breath warm and kisses wet as he makes his way down. You expect him to procrastinate some more, to run his flesh over your own just to feel you, feel the weight of this moment. You expect him to map the expansion of your thighs, soft skin that has yet to feel the roughness of another’s hand, has yet to be marked or awarded with hickies.

Instead, as he moves down, both his hands work to reveal you. One lifts your nightgown, robe long removed since he was allowed in, and yanks it over your stomach. His other starts urging your panties down, yanking them though he fails to actually get them past your hips.

Upon them being stuck, it momentarily stalls him. He gives a confused look, glancing down to check why you won’t let them off, hips down against the bed as you make no attempt at helping him.

His mouth opens slowly, the words willing themselves on his tongue as he goes to ask you to lift your hips. Help him out a little. But they’re never spoken, dead and buried as you hand grabs at his bicep, squeezing twice to get his attention.

“What?” His brows furrow, eyes flickering between your own. You don’t answer him, just grab at his sweaty button up, slowly pull him towards you.

He follows your hands, the pull of his shirt as you guide him away from between your legs and towards your stomach. Force his head down, bowed, curled over you. It takes him a second to understand what the hell you're asking for, but he eventually falls in rhythm. Start kissing against your stomach, light nips and the occasional lick over the small bruises he leaves behind.

You give a small sigh, but it’s not out of content. Not yet at least. With each kiss, he tries to go back down, but you don’t let him. Force him to stay with a firm hand on his head, which coaxes a few muttered groans and grumbles against you. Small annoyed, “Jesus just-“ before you plant him back up, followed by, “I’m trynna taste you-“

He doesn’t get to complain long, though, because you force his attention up. Force him to kiss just above your lower stomach and to above your belly button. Then, when he kisses a bit further up, you pull the fabric of your nightgown up with him. He notices, obviously, and gives a small chuckle against you.

Gives a few quick kisses against you before muttering, “coulda just told me what you wanted.”

You give a small hum, shifting your hips a bit closer to his, “where’s the use in that? Wanted you to figure it out yourself.”

Remmick nods at that, lifting himself from you so he rests on his knees and gives him room to see you sprawled out underneath him, legs open as you try to subtly get closer.

The small whoosh of the fabric as he yanks it up over your breasts, revealing them to him and the night, sending a chill through you. Goosebumps rise across your flesh, breath shaky and the tips of your fingers tingle with how much your nerves take over.

He notices all that. Doesn’t deter him one bit as he goes back down, where he mutters against your chest, “Figured it out,” and sucks your nipple into his mouth.

It’s an odd sensation, to have something so wet and warm wrapped around you— sucking you at that. Sure, your fingers worked wonders. A form of foreplay that first started as mere curiosity, something stemmed from you hearing a friend talking about it.. how her man tended to suck at her tits before plowing her home.

“It emphasizes it.. ya know?” You had no clue.. but upon your own discovery later that night, it became part of your routine.

But this? Now you feel like kissing her and thanking her before kissing her again.

He tugs lightly, licks and pulls but never yanks, never scrapes his teeth. There’s a small voice in you that notes how easily he could bite you now, how willing you are to give him the opportunity to do so. But he doesn’t take it.

Don’t need to, not now. Just loves, like he said. Neither breasts are unnoticed, untouched. Both given equal attention as grabs at one tit while he’s busy sucking on the other, maneuvers between the two.

You aren’t even aware of your hips rocking, how you knock against his pelvis, soft rolling. Not aware until he removes his hand from where it was lightly squeezing against your breast to rest against your hip.

Not moving, or adjusting, just there.

You give a soft whimper after a particularly rougher suck, one that you’re certain will mark. That you’ll feel later, breasts sore and achy from the attention he brings.

He plants a kiss against it, gives a final lick to the space between your breasts before stopping all together.

He smirks at the whine that leaves you, “eager, huh?”

You don’t respond, don’t need to when he answers for you, “yeah.. yeah. It’s okay, ere’ to make it all better, that’s my job.”

Upon the last bit of his sentence you give him a funny look, “your job?”

He cocks his head, “yeah. Called ere’ for a reason.. say I ain’t employed but pleasurin you is a full time act.”

He doesn’t let you think too hard about it, meant to be a joke though it holds no humor— he partially means it.

Plants a few lazy kisses onto your lips, cheeks and chin before making his way to mutter into your ear, “Gonna taste ya now. Stop stallin,” and nips it before hauling himself back down.

Hauling isn’t really the correct term. Not with how quickly he moves, one would think you threw garlic water at him. You gasp as he's already tugging at your panties, putting a hand under your lower back to get you to gear your hips up.

You expect him to discard the flimsy fabric, off somewhere into the room or onto the bed. Forgotten. No.

That’s too normal for him.

Remmick stuffs his face with them, takes a deep sniff, one you can see with how sharp his inhale is and how his chest expands before dropping into a long exhale.

He doesn’t even move it from his face as he mutters,“Oh baby… They make candy after you.” It’s muffled behind your panties, not that he cares.

Not that you care much either, face slightly pulled into disgust but really the slick between your thighs worsens. You can feel a second heartbeat already, pounding louder than the one in your chest.

“You’re nasty.” You groan, hunger hidden behind disgust. He only smirks, removing it from his face before stuffing it into his pocket, for safekeeping.

You don’t expect to see those ever again.

That thought is long forgotten when he shoves both of your legs over his shoulder, feet hanging in the air as he props himself onto his stomach.

Groans low, deep rumble that you feel through your own skin, “Fuckin starvin..”

The first lick feels weird. Wet. Sticky. Flesh against flesh, texture so foreign it feels uncomfortable. Too much and too little at once, makes your toes curl but not in pleasure.

Not yet.

You’re shaking without realizing it. Nerves shot. It’s almost like your antsy, or cold, but he feels your legs keep twitching, unable to be still. You wiggle your toes, or keep fidgeting with the fabric of your bedsheets. He ignores it, at first, chooses to give another long lick.

But no sound. Not even a gasp. He feels you shake your foot then, a soft rhythm of tapping, wiggling you a bit. Like you're bored.

He looks up, sees you looking at the ceiling.

You hear the smack before you feel it, a small ‘wack’ that immediately makes you flinch, the skin of your thigh warm to the touch, blazed. You immediately look down, “The fuck is you doing?!”

You're met with his frown, features tugged down into a displeased look, “You ain’t focusing.”

You scoff, throwing up a hand, “I am focused!”

“Yer’ fuckin fidgeting.. acting like I’m some fuckin pussy doctor and not yer lover.”

You give a small ‘psh’, which Remmick doesn’t take too fondly too but before he can sass you on it, you cut him off, “I don’t know how to react! Don’t feel much either, just you..” you gesture down to where you're open for him. Wet and inviting, yet both of you ignore it, “.. screwing around.”

“You ain’t given me a chance to do much yet, hardly even got into a rhythm. Hell.. I ain’t even stick in my tongue yet.”

You blink at him, slow, “you did. I felt it.”

He cocks his head back, “not fully. Just— look at me. Okay? Focus.”

It's only when you nod that he drops his head back down, eyes remaining on you to ensure you actually stick to your word.

You keep your gaze down on him, watch as his eyes drop from your own back down to your flesh, which he gazes upon with hunger, eyes half lidded and mouth drooling. This time, instead of just feeling it, you watch him stick out his tongue and run in between your folds.

It feels weird, wet again. Not extremely gratifying but you wait silently, continue watching. He gives a few other kitten licks, swirling his tongue around, purposely avoiding your clit.. not that you are any wiser to what he’s doing.

Eventually, he does get into a rhythm, one that slowly starts to spark some pleasure.. just not enough. The hair on his beard is prickly, scratches against your flesh in a way you’re certain will give you some type of rug burn.

It ain’t a whole lot. Really.. you're starting to think nothing is gonna come of this. That he’s just poking around down there and hopefully will give up soon.

You’re not really fond of it.

Not until he wraps his lips around your clit and sucks. Hard.

Your hips jolt, a sharp ‘hm’ leaving you. He gives another light smack to your thigh, playful, and continues sucking on the bundle of nerves. Swishes around between his lips, licks and lightly tugs— not enough to hurt but enough to make you yelp, hand gripping at the bedsheets. He flicks his tongue back and forth slowly, swirls it around again before collecting enough spit in his mouth to dribble it over your pussy.

You don’t find yourself to be the most vocal, despite living alone. Just heavy breathing and the occasional gasp, not that you cared about the amount of noise you made— but here? Now? He’s got you practically singing to the fucking choir, loud moans followed by gasps that he happily soaks in, basically jumping for joy as he continues his attack on you.

Remmick releases your clit from his warm mouth, tongue slathering down to lick at your entrance, skirting around the hole. He decides he needs more room, so brings two fingers up, spreading you further apart for his eyes to bask on before he shoves his tongue deep inside you. That pulls a loud moan from you.. and then a few more when he starts to fuck his tongue into you. Shoves it in deep and flicks his tongue up, as if he’s looking for something.

He doesn’t think he’ll reach far, but the taste of you— sweet, tangy. Coats his tongue and swirls its way down to his teeth. Leaves traces of your own essence across his taste buds. He doesn’t really care how far he reaches.

He’s a messy eater. Saliva drips down from his mouth, down your cunt and down your ass. He keeps spitting and swishing saliva around, coating both you and him in saliva, soaked in it. There’s so much, it only intensifies the sounds more— the slick of you as he runs his tongue up and down, mixing cum and spit together.

Your close to cumming, can feel that sharp pull. Usually it comes slow, a small linger of something bittersweet lying on your tongue, your fingers fast and hips jerky. With Remmick, however, it’s different. Instead of slow it comes in fast, and more violent. Tangles your guts together and brings a low hum between your legs, forces you to grip his hair and grab at his shoulder, nails indenting the skin that lies beneath his clothes.

He gives a low hum of approval, even goes as far to shuffle you closer with one hand, the other occupied with rubbing your clit.

“Please-“ you softly moan, voice soft and damn near broken. Remmick doesn’t say anything in return, but he hears you loud and clear.

Given an inch and he takes a whole mile— he decides to further the pleasure and stuffs a finger inside you, a noticeably tight fit.

Only then he pulls away, “you weren’t joking— shit.. I can hardly fit one in.”

Your eyes widened at that, panicked. He looks up, upon being met with your silence, only to see you stare back at him scared.

“Just gotta stretch it out, it’ll be fine.” He waves it off, finger still resting inside.

You narrow your gaze, “stretch it?”

He nods, “yeah, s’ normal. Relax.” And then he pulls it out just to place it right back in, a slow pace that begins to build. That shuts you up, but it doesn’t necessarily keep you any less panicked.

Despite your panic, he continues licking at you, other hand slowly trailing over your stomach and up to your breasts that are no longer exposed, the nightgown back over your stomach.

He slips his hand under it, grabbing at your chest. You give a soft whimper, your hand placed over his on top of the fabric, making him give a firm squeeze to your boob.

“Taste so fuckin good-“ he mutters, his breath warm against you. With the grip on his hair you force him closer to you, rocking your hips slightly to urge him on.

You can feel your orgasm bubbling over, gripping its way through your cooze and up your legs, over to your chest where it pounds like a drum. Your back arches more, hips pressing against him as you practically hump his face. Your moans are more whiny, more pitched. You’re close, and he knows it. Can tell how much you're dripping down his hand, not even two fingers in. But he tries.. works you through accepting another, which funnily enough glides right in.

He gives a surprised hum, “look at that, already a pro.” He looks up at you, a small smile in place.

however, you're too caught up in the bliss of it. Head rolled back, mouth dropped open chanting silent prayers— neither for God or any higher being, but for Remmick. His name comes out in soft whispers and whines, calls of the devil. So sweet.. so nice it makes him fuck his fingers into you faster.

You think you might sob, and can feel yourself close to it. That tightness of your throat, the wobble of your lip. But you hold it back, don’t really want to feed into his ego. You refuse to be completely ruined from his fingers alone.

But the way your orgasm comes crashing over, body shaking, hips jerky and uncoordinated. He doesn’t need you to cry to know he’s achieved exactly what he’s came to do.. and he hasn’t even fucked you yet.

He takes his fingers out, replacing it with his mouth and tongue. Takes all you can give with a loud groan and a very light slap to the underside of your tit. He lets you ride it out, sucks on your clit until you start patting him on the head urging him to stop, that it’s too much.

He comes up, beard wet and hair messy, gripped and pulled making the ends stand every which way. Pulls his hands away from you completely, both resting on the bed as he crawls his way back up to you. He uses the back of his hand to wipe some of your cum off his face, but the tangy smell still sticks against his facial hair.

Comes in real close when he goes in to kiss you, “Taste real fuckin good, stay down there for hours.”

And he ain’t lying, cause you taste yourself then. Sweet with a slight bitter undertone, not too much just there. Mixed with his own saliva.

Lingering on him, part of you feels achieved that when he leaves after tonight, he’ll still taste you on his tongue. Still smell like you on his beard.

“I want it,” you mutter against his lips, “want you.”

“Yeah?”

You nod, “mhm. Please.”

He’s already stripping down his suspenders, taking off the buttons of his shirt at lightning speed, hardly taking a second to even relax. Doesn’t need to be told twice what to do, no with you begging like that. Hell, he doesn’t even leave the bed until his pants and shoes become a problem, forcing him onto the floor.

He strips down all the way to just his boxers, clothes thrown off to the side in random parts of the room, and eventual tripping hazards. You don’t even get time to strip your own nightgown off before he’s doing it for you, practically ripping it off of you before throwing it aside.

He whistles low upon seeing your naked frame, shakes his head slowly, “look at you. Girls would kill em selves just to have half of what you got.”

Your cheeks warm, a smile so sweet and shy it forces a smile of his own.

“Gonna just devour you. Show my love in ways no one else can. Mine from now on.” And how he says it.. cooed and promised, like worship. A prayer.

Sacred.

He grips your hips, forcing you onto the edge of the bed and your legs open, where he gives himself room to stand between.

His hand reaches for one of your own, which you happily give him, and let him guide it towards his lips. He gives a soft peck to your flesh, eyes stuck on your own as he does so. But he doesn’t let it go, instead rubbing the prickly hair of his beard against the back of your hand, as if he’s trying to get you to pet him.

“Scratchy.” You mutter, which pulls a soft snort from him.

“Tends to be..” he smooths a hand across the inside of your thigh, “didn’t rub too much here?”

You shake your head and he accepts it with a soft ‘kay’ before planting another kiss on your hand before he trails it down. Down across his chest, his stomach and right over to the extremely prominent bulge.

“See that? That’s what you be doing to me.. all those nights, all that beggin? That’s what you did.”

He plants your hand firm against him, makes you really feel him. The ache of him, how tight the fabric is against him. You take a shaky breath.

“Why don’t you go ahead, pull it out.” He cocks his head down towards your hand, gives a small nod when you peer up at him unsure.

“Go head’,” he nods again.

With a shaky hand you pull down his boxers, his cock immediately springing out. And it’s..

“That’s bigger than two fuckin fingers, Remmick.”

He looks down, “Well.. it ain’t supposed to be that small-“

“That’s a good seven inches. I ain't fitting that.” Actually, it looks slightly bigger.

It’s thick, and long. Bright pink tip that you know for certain aches, leaking small rolls of pearl white precum and some prominent veins that you’re certain you will feel. It’s gotta be four (of your fingers) thick.

“Don’t let it imitate you. You’ll take it fine, here,” he smacks it against your open palm, “feel it. Get familiar, introduce yerself.”

He wraps your hand around his dick, looks down and drops his head a bit low just to spit directly where your hand connects to him.

“Jerk me off a bit,” he instructs. You look back down, unsure of how to go about it but you smack his hand away when he tries to help. He places both hands up in surrender before they go back to your hips.

Both of your heads are dropped down, basking in the sight of your hand slowly stroking him, the mushroom head disappears and reappears between your spit slick palm.

Remmick continues watching, soft groans and the occasional whimper leaving him with each stroke, feet shifting against the floor as he moves closer.

“Shit..” he breathes out, mouth hanging open as you give a tiny squeeze, “do that again.”

You give another soft squeeze, coupled with a flick of your wrist down, and that pulls a low moan out of him. Your eyes shoot up to take in his expression, the way his face contorts to one of pleasure, how he softly bites his bottom lip showing off his fangs.

Now you get why he stares at you so often. You think this is what he feels, this curiosity and need to see more. Know more. With each moan coaxed out of him, you jot it down.. do whatever it was that made him sound so pretty the first time again a few more times until his hips are rolling against you, uneven jerks into your palm. He says your name so softly, so nice. It sounds so pleasant coming from him.. like your name was crafted by your mother merely for this moment, only for him to utter. Her way of granting you the experience of being wanted and kept simply from the soft call of your name from the tongue of a supposed devil.

You think you want him as your own too.

“You’re really somethin.. ya know that?” You whisper, cutting through the quiet groans and moans.

He doesn’t say anything. Just looks up into your gaze and sees it. The way you mean it, the way your eyes flicker between his red ones, checking to see if he heard. If he knows.

You speak up again, still whispered, as if you spoke any louder it would ruin the intimacy of the moment.

“Thank you for doing this to me. Being soft.”

That’s all it really takes for him to pull himself out of your palm and tap against your entrance. Neither of you look down to what he’s doing, eyes focused on each other, afraid to break your gaze for different reasons— that if you do, everything will fall apart.

He thinks you might leave. You think he might become mean.

Before he enters, your hand shoots out towards him, to the one resting against your hip still, “hold my hand.”

You don’t need to tell him twice.

He grips your hand hard, holding it tight when he first pushes the tip in. You give a small gasp, brows furrowing tight, confused. Unsure of what to make of the sensation. Nothing yet.

He waits a moment before further pushing in, stopping when you place a hand on his chest, “wait- just.. wait..”

You take a deep breath, needing a minute. It’s uncomfortable, and honestly hurts like a bitch. Even with you wet, you can still feel the stretch of him, the way he forces you apart on his dick. It pinches, and you silently curse your sisters for downplaying how rough it is at first.

He tilts his head, “you alright?”

You give a small nod, rushed. Giving a long exhale, “yeah just.. yeah. Go on.”

He continues all the way to the midway point before deciding himself that it’s good enough. Any more and it’ll be excessive, for now.

“Here. I’ll go slow. Tell me when yer ready.”

It’s silent for a bit, just the soft shaky inhales and exhales of your breathing, coupled by his own steady ones. He doesn’t groan, it’s much softer than that, but he does make small noises here and there. Waits for you to adjust despite the fact he wants to ram it fully in, has to cockwarm himself for a good minute and that doesn’t help much.

He practically whimpers when you finally nod, pulling out so the tip is only inside before sliding back in half way. Still, the discomfort is there, still feels like a lot to take in. You give more pained groans than anything, mixed with his own shallow breathing, but you wave him off every time he looks towards you. Silently asks you with furrowed brows if you want him to stop, but you push through it. shake your head no.

It’s until his pace grows more steady, a little faster that you feel that brush off pleasure, a small gasp leaving you. He doesn’t slow, but he raises his brows, asking again.

You shake your head, “faster,” and he does just that.

He drops your hand to wrap your legs around his hips, keeps you prompted up as his thrusts grow more frantic. That bitter tinge of stinging has finally left, overcome by the overwhelming pleasure of being filled again and again, each ridge of him slipping it perfectly.

He takes note of how he doesn’t even need to stop at the midway point anymore, feels how your walls flutter and clench around him, sucking him in further. He complies, bottoming out.

With doing so, a moan leaves you, hand again smacking at his to grab yours. Your fingers interlock, held tightly together as your body moves in time with his thrusts. The bed creaks and groans, the headboard moving against the wall giving a steady beat.

“Fucking hell.. knew this would be good, knew you would be good.” He moans out, “fit perfectly in this pussy..Like it knows me already.” He smacks your thigh again with his free hand, gives a lazy smile.

“Uh.. well given how-“ your cut off by a moan, head thrown back as you close your eyes as a means to concentrate, “- much I imagined this, yeah, probably does know you.”

That catches him off guard, momentarily falters his thrusts into slowing down, but after you give a sharp whine while gasping “don’t stop!” he gets right back to it. Goes harder, puts a leg up until the bed, hitting so deep it makes you claw at his chest.

“You imagined this?”

You don’t seem to register his words, nor the fact that he’s speaking to you, so he has to squeeze your hand a few times to get your attention.

“Hm?”

“You imagined this?” He doesn’t sound stunned, not really. Just curious, the shock washed away.

You give a lazy nod, “uh huh.. you not the- fuck- not the only one waitin-“ you moan again, jerking your hips up to meet his own.

Remmick doubles down, placing a hand against where he bulges in your stomach. A long string of curses leave you, nails digging into the skin of his hand and clawing down his chest.

The headboard is no longer quietly running its rhythm, instead banging against the wall so roughly you're certain it’ll leave indents on the wood. Not that you care when you can feel Remmick’s dick seven inches deep, hitting spots so sensitive it makes you see stars. The sound of skin slapping and moans followed by male groans is loud, takes up the whole room. Echoes across the half of your small home. You pray no one is takin a walk at night.

You keep staring at him, occasionally having to look away given how good it feels, your toes curled tight and back arching.. but the sight of him is heavenly. It helps that he’s very expressive, his face pulled into a pained look, brows furrowed and fangs fully out, biting so hard into his bottom lip traces of blood can be found in the indents. Coupled with his whole body shuddering, and his hair a complete mess. Just makes you more needy.

The chain dangles above you just how you imagined it would, the light reflecting on it, a beacon. You watch is swing back and forth, hypnotized by at.

At some point, when you roll your hips just right, and clench down hard enough his eyes roll back. You don’t really think he’s all there anymore, that if you were to ask what state you were in he would say some fucking random one. Hell.. you ask what his name is and he wouldn’t know it.

His eyes are glazed over, incoherent mumbles leaving him.. and drool. So much of it. It hangs off his chin and slowly drips down to your chest, breasts now wet from the over extensive amount of saliva coming from him.

Not that you're any better. You’re on cloud nine, head back against the bed, occasionally jerking your hips into his but really you don’t do anything. Just lay there and take it, eyes glazed over just like his and mouth unable to close given how many moans are ripped out your throat.

The slick between your legs is wet, leaving a wet spot on the bed that you will need to clean later. It also coats his cock, leaves a white ring of shared cum on the base that catches the light of the oil lamp.

He says it before you get to, “m’ gonna’ cum.. h-holy fuck I’m gonna-“ he shudders again. Like he’s cold.

You nod, “me too.. just..”

You trail off, unable to think for yourself let alone the both of you.

He looks down to where you two meet, moans when he sees how easily he’s slipping in. How well he fits.

“Want me to cum in or out?”

You don’t answer, head rolled back. He nods, “I’ll cum in.”

And he does. His whole body shakes, having to hang his head down as his hips jerk, the grip on your hand tightening so hard it hurts. Makes you wince, but he doesn’t notice. He has to let go of your hip and grip the bed sheets, gripping them just as violently.

You don’t get to watch him slip over the edge long because his own release triggers your, forces your mouth wide into a silent moan. Your thighs shake, and your unoccupied hand moves to his back where you grip his flesh hard, drawing blood. You feel like the gates of heaven have opened and graced you with the sight of life. Of air, of love.

Pleasure so intense you feel yourself give off a wrecked sob, something that rips through your throat and out into the room. You keep repeating Remmick’s name, unable to think of anything else or anyone else. No one else is there to thank. So you thank him as well.

Grab him by the jaw and force him to kiss you, whispering thank you’s against him, all of which he swallows down.

Neither of you say anything, too caught up in the moment. You stop kissing his lips and kiss everywhere else on his face; his cheeks, chin, nose, forehead. Anywhere.

And he lets you. Lets you softly coax him back down, to this moment. To you.

Lets you softly caress him and hold his hand, like it’s his first time too. Mind as well be, given how long it’s been since he’s had this. This intimacy.

This weird love neither of you can quite name, but lingers. Lingers like sweat, sex and hormones. Doesn’t suffocate but coddles you both, forces you two to take deep inhales of each other.

To run your fingers over flesh, dead and alive, and just lay with it.

Sink it in, and don’t spit it out. Like you did. Like he did.

You ain’t leavin, and he ain’t getting mean any time soon.

So, he stays the rest of the night.

#I NEED IT

491 notes · View notes

criesindarkwave · 8 days ago

Note

jupiterpiss my beloved, lemme see the toxic ex remmick post🙏🏻🙏🏻

It’s long.

Warnings: Briefly proof read. Sorry if there are any mistakes. This took a shit ton while and it’s long as hell too. Gore.. GOREEEE PEOPLE. Animals are harmed, some graphic detail of mutations and death. Blood mentioned, spit play. Lots of spit.. he licks you. All over. Reader tries to be cool and insult him but it literally fails. Also cause she’s partially lying. FEM READER. Pussy smacking.. yeah u read that right. Remmick threatens to kill children and members of readers family. He’s really mean here. Mention of curses! P in v. Porn WITH plot. Yeah. Uhhh I think that’s it. Can’t remember where.. but reader is kinda acknowledged to be poc? I think? Somewhere I wrote that but I can’t remember.. so if it’s not there, then just ignore this tag.

It’s the beginning of July when he comes back. When the heat is slowly climbing, held at a pleasant warmth in the beginnings of summer. Not too harsh but not too chill, just enough to sleep with the sheets on.

Although your bed remains cold, has yet to be comforted by the warmth of your skin, yet to cushion itself around your weight.

Instead, the rocking chair on your porch holds your frame. Coddles you, as your it’s child. Protected away in its wood bindings, softly rocking you back and forth.

Between your point and middle finger rests a cigarette, the smoke of it blowing lightly in the soft breeze, swirling around before disappearing into the dark, or lingering around the porch light you got on. Something to keep you awake, comforted. Just as the chair.

You’ve been doing this for a while now, sitting outside, smoking. It was a horrible habit, something picked up just a few months ago. Not too long after you met the man you keep waiting on.

It was actually due to him you even started, that you actually liked the taste of the cigarette, the breeze and roll of the smoke curling in your lungs before blowing it out. It got rid of the shake in your hands, the anxious tap of your foot. Eased you.

It also worked as a distraction, a tactic used to lie to yourself. That yes, you’re only out here for a smoke, only out here to whind down for the night. That you’re not waiting for him, not waiting to see if he’ll show. With his crooked teeth and cocky attitude that seems to fail.

The chair groans, creaks loud as you get out of it, as if it’s calling out to you, mourning the loss of you. The wood of the porch cries just as loudly, louder than it usually does. As if it’s calling for something, crying out the tears and calls you can’t bring yourself to do.

You’re halfway through the door when you feel it. That quiet. The pull of something old, a thread connecting you to the dead, yanked tightly around his finger as if he’s your puppeteer. It’s maybe why you pause, stay.

Then, turn, slowly, as if you could feel it. Feel him.

In the far distance are two little orbs, bright red. Too tall to be a mammal but too short to be an owl in a tree. You stay still, will yourself to not blink. That if you do, he’ll show up. Be a shit ton closer.. and then you’ll have to deal with him.

His hunger. Love. Whatever else that lingers in his bones.

A minute passes, and due to basic human instinct you blink. Once, twice. Each time he gets closer until he lingers just off the porch, by about an inch.

Only then he speaks, when he’s under the shadow of the porch light, gives a small, “Hey baby.”

You stare in disbelief. Perplexed. As if his existence is something other worldly.. which it could be. As if him coming back never occurred to you. It did, several times, but each time he entered differently.

Louder. Meaner maybe. Maybe he would come crying, or hell, even with some new broad. Maybe even a whole ‘pack’ he went out to create. Something.

Not this. Him, casual, as if he didn’t disappear for three weeks. All happy smiles and a lustful gaze.

He doesn’t take the silence very well, can’t, deciding to fill it with random conversation, “was hard to find ya’, at first. Thought you would be back with em’ family of yours. But this is nice-“ he points a finger at your house, towards the door that remains halfway open with your body halfway in, facing him.

“Liked to see my girl independent. Always knew you worked hard. Hell, Went outta yer way to get us a house.. now we really can get crackin on the whole family thing, huh?”

“Where the fuck were you.”

His smile immediately drops, and he flinches at your words. Liked you smacked him.

“Well.. now that ain’t no way to greet a lover-“

You cut him off, not in the mood for his banter, “Where the fuck were you, Remmick?”

“Baby.. I was out. Getting food.”

You tilt your head at him, but it’s less of a naive curiosity, more of a way to show your anger. The offence of his actions.

“For almost a fuckin month?”

It sounds like he winces, you can’t be too sure, but with how his shoulders tense, and the way he trips over his words says enough.

“I-wh- lo-look. Look. I was out.. gettin’ food. And I heard the most.. baby.. when I say this voice was god damn beautiful.. I mean-“ he gives a light scoff.

Your eyes squint, and he straightens, “you should’ve heard it. You would understand. It was like the voice of.. of the angels. And I could see em’”

Your jaw clenches, tight, the muscles tense, “see who.”

“Ancestors. The dead.. the- the buried. And the alive. The future. Everything. His voice-“

“His?”

“Sammy,” he quickly clarifies, like a name covers any confusion, “His voice broke the tether. Broke that bound.”

He shakes his head, slow. As if reminiscing on the memory, the life brought on by ‘Sammy’s’ voice. He gives a low hum.

“I couldn’t let that go.”

Dread. Yucky, gross dread washed over you. You hate how this story is going, don’t like how he’s still shaking his head, eyes no longer on you but lost on something else.

Lost on the memory.

He looks like he’s mourning.. and you feel like vomiting.

“Remmick.”

He gives a small hum, eyes still stuck in the corner of the door frame.

“What did you do?” You whisper.

He doesn’t wait long to answer, “tried to get him. Couldn’t. Damn near killed everyone just to do it, though.”

The bluntness of his words, of what he did doesn’t seem to surprise you. He’s always been like that, always been forward with his intentions and words.

Doesn’t mean it didn’t crack something in you. Something deep, a dam waiting to break free.

“He’s a preacher boy. Spoke of God. Sounded like him too when he sang. Should’ve heard him in that Juke joint-“

Your heart plummets.

Falls. Hits the fucking ground and splatters everywhere. It takes everything in you not to make it noticed, not at first.

You heard about that, the whole joint that went missing, only left the Klan and one body to show for in the morning.

Guns were splayed out on the floors, a car on fire was found not to far, and the bodies. Several of em’, all belonging to the Klan. Their wives said otherwise, said there was no such thing, how could there be. Said that it was the one body that didn’t belong to them that did this. Killed their husbands unmercifully.

No one in the community believed it. White folks did, but no one else.

Among the chaos of the scene lied a man with a name no one spoke of, was afraid to. Smoke. Whispered among people, out from a mouth and into an ear cupped behind a hand. Just mentioning him got people in trouble.

But even then.. no one knew what happened to everyone else.

Children left to be orphans and spouses left widowed. The rumours pinned it on smoke, said he took everyone in there too. Some said the Klan did all that. Others said something of a mob.

But the blood. The blood. It was slathered all over, coated the fucking walls from top to bottom. There were trails of hands, feet, looked like someone painted with it. And the boy. The boy. Now you remember. He was said to have claw marks on him, clothes soaked in blood and hand shaky around a guitar. A broken one, not even something full. Hardly spoke, too shaken and scared to even mutter a full sentence.

Left soon after. Didn’t stick around long to see what would be made of the situation.

Your mother hummed low when she told you, said, “The devil is near. Always is.”

You prayed it just wasn’t him. That someone else among the dead did that.

Well ain’t that a fuckin joke.

Your voice comes out croaky, broken. Something that rips out your throat and into his hands.

It sounds like grief, “You did that.”

He snaps out of his daze then. Looks at you, really looks. Takes in the horror on your face, the way you no longer are half way out but now fully in, hand on the door ready to shut it.

Shut him out. He fumbles, brows furrowed together and mouth frowning, “Baby… honey listen-“

“No. No.” You shake your head, “No. I shouldn’t have done that.”

He takes a step up the porch, cautious. Slow, as if approaching a wild animal, “whatcha talkin bout?”

“I shouldn’t have let you in. Around.”

Another step, his hand slowly moves up, trying to reach out, “Baby.”

“I danced too close. Forgotten myself.”

His voice goes low. Muttered, desperate to comfort but no life.. no humanity to do so, “We all do that from time to time. All that matters is movin on.. being together. That.. that was-“

“My ma was right.”

Remmick pauses. You give a deep exhale, “I let the devil in.”

“I- no,” he cocks his head, face disapproving, “I ain’t no devil. Just a man. Your man. Your love.”

He places a hand on his chest, rubs just over the space of his once beating heart. It looks like he’s trying to will it awake, kick it back into working again with the way he lightly taps his chest.

It doesn’t matter much , dead or alive. You decide that then.

Decide that your naivety couldn’t excuse this, been letting this run on to long. Thought you could fix the situation, live with the fact that he forges on the blood of the unsuspecting. Live with the fact that he’s more monster than human now.

If he ever was human. You decide then that you must rid the sickness living near.

“I don’t want this anymore.”

Everything halts. The breeze no longer blows, the crickets quiet. Even the light of the porch flickers.

“What.”

“You ain’t invited in. Nor will you ever be.. I don’t want you coming around anymore.”

“I- are-“

You watch him flinch, eye twitching and mouth opening and closing. You think you broke him.

Eventually, he finds the words, though their shaky while they come out, “I know this is.. this is scary but it wasn’t anything in anger or hatred. I ain’t like that.”

“You teared into him. Ripped his fuckin face.. killed his fuckin friends. You drained the life outta’ there.”

He doesn’t seem to enjoy that imagery, almost looks disgusted by it. Even then, he pleads his case.

“I just wanted them to be family. To be saved. They deserved a life of creation, of unity. This is a world of hate and I was Savin them from it.”

“By killin em.” You correct.

He sneers, “savin. Savin em. I killed their body but not their spirit, not their soul. They got to be one with each other a shit ton longer than what life was givin em.”

Bullshit.

“Well ain’t that a lie. I don’t see em here now. Hell even then.. they can’t do shit now. Not what we can. Can’t be around their own folks anymore.. can’t even see a fuckin sunset, Remmick!”

He doesn’t wince, doesn’t flinch. He stays still, completely still. His face is stern, all humor and concern dropped, washed away with something else you can’t quite point out.

But his eyes flicker again. Red. That says enough.

“All you do is take. That’s the only thing you’ll ever do.” You sniffle, fingers going to wrap around the handle of the door again, “Don’t come round’ anymore. Or I swear, I’ll make you regret it.”

And you slam it shut.

—

It first started with the crops.

Everyone noticed then. They hardly grew, hardly soaked up the sun. The dirt, it was bared of nutrients, sucked clean. As if it was rotten, dying from the inside out.

Only the lucky few, which you could hardly call them lucky, had their crops only last a week before they wilted. At first, they thought it was an infection of some kind. Perhaps the soil carried something, or a crop gone bad.. infected everything else. Some said it was animal, others said bugs. The ones that borrow deep in the mud, rip the crops to shreds from down below.

There was really no clear sign of what it was. What caused this rot. Fingers were pointed, of course. Land owners, workers, black or white. Everyone targeted each other, blamed each other for the diseases that spread across their land. Blamed the soil, the clouds, the weather. Every single speckle in the sky.

There was no clear indication of what was wrong. You didn’t know. Couldn’t.

Not when there were spoken pasts of dying crops, of dying lands. People perishing under famines and rot. Depressing.. but not supernatural. Some of the townsfolk spoke of how this was meant to happen, how it was something that was destined. No land remained untouched by sin, not forever, it just so happened to be their time. The crops would fail, it was natural.

But there was something tight in your throat. Something that tugged deep in your stomach, pulled at your spine. You didn’t want to say what it was. No quite. Not if you were uncertain.

The crops remained dead for the rest of the season, but it slowly became the least of your problems. It remained a lingering warning, a sign. Something whispered in the wind but not quite heard, just a ring that faintly echoed in your ears.

There was other means of resources still left over, the life stalk, the water. Such and such. Most families had goats, cows, horses. Still well. Still alive.

Your father, despite his own concerns, tended to brush off old wise tales. Was never one for folklore, nor gossip, “We still got ‘em’ cows.. ain’t gonna die anytime soon. Just outta’ wheat is all.. we’ll go on.”

It wasn’t long before he ate up his words, because soon after the cows began to rot too. Their wombs at least. Your family only had one, but some folks had two. Or three. It was expected that they would give birth during the summer, and a new herd could be formed, an extension of some sort that the town could benefit from.

But.. they just kept coming out wrong. Not deformed.. couldn’t even call it that. They just..

Some came out with no limbs, some no mouth, others had far too many torsos. Or even in the worse cases some came out hollow, no guts, no organs. Nothing. Just a dead heart.

It was midway through summer, the July heat choking you, the sun blazing down at all hours of the day, not one point had it been cold. The cow began its birth at noon, and by two p.m everyone in the family had gathered around the half baked carcass of a supposed cow.

It didn’t have a back end, didn’t have a head. Only two legs, and a torso. Not even.

And the fear. The horror, the pure fucking terror on your family’s face marked a change.

This wasn’t an infection. It was hatred.

Only then you knew it was Remmick.

But whether you came to that realization now or not, if ever, Remmick really didn’t give a damn. Nor did he stop. But it became less broad, his attacks. His infection. It slowly started to affect less of the townsfolk and just your family. Just you.

The cow was murdered a week later. sucked completely dry. The goat, the only one you had, was pissing blood a day later. Small red dots among its pee, shaking as if it was scared shitless. It didn’t take long for it to also be drained of its life soon after.

Your mother called you over to the house, along with your other siblings who no longer resided there, sat you all down.

Her face was scrunched tight, as if she had tasted something sour, foul. Something wrong. Your father simply stood behind her, jaw set tight, hand steady on her shoulder as she sat in front of him. Comfort, or support. Perhaps both.

“Which one of y’all been dancin’ with the devil, hm?”

You all stayed silent. Your eye twitched, and as she could feel the twitch herself, as if her skin was yours and yours hers, one, she snapped her eyes towards you. The floor creaked under your uneven shuffle, weighing from one foot to another.

“Hm? What have I told y’all? Since birth? Don’t.” She shook her head, “don’t give into pleasures you don’t understand. Don’t give the devil an inch, he will take a mile. Don’t!-“ she slammed her hand down onto the table. Everyone flinched, aside from your father, “Give into the devil! What have I said!”

The room was silent. Tense. No one moved, it felt as if no one was breathing. Her anger consumed the room, sucked the life out of it.

“Look at what you have done. Look! You think he’ll leave now? He’s marked us! Marked! I won’t ask who.. I won’t need to. You’ve damned us.. and that’s-“ she cuts off, giving a low hum, shaking her head.

“That’s enough.”

She stared at you, silent. You think she knows, with how harsh her glare is. And maybe she does, maybe she always had an inkling that you were the one to do this, that you always were going to be the one to do this. Like it’s written in your blood, birthed from the ground of hatred and sorrow, dancing with the devil as if he’s family.

And he was. At one point— not even.

He is. He wears the brand of your mark, made of your comfort and soft words. Love. Felt the warmth of your body, both clothed and naked, been whispered the gentle promises of something more. Something kind, something that digs deep in his chest and forces that dead heart of his to beat.

The promise that he can always come back. That this is home. He’s home.

It’s why he stands outside your home now, in the darkness, eyes red and smirk loose. He waits outside, knows it’s only you that resides in your home, all the way out here in the wilderness and dirt.

His smile only widens when you crack open the door, pissed off. But if he focuses hard enough, sniffs the air a bit harder, deeper, he can smell the traces of your fear. That prickle of sweat nipping at your neck, the shiver you hide by partially hiding your frame behind the door.

“Hey darlin’, long time no see.”

You immediately sneer at him, “what the fuck is wrong with you?”

He puts up his hands, “watcha mean? I just came on down to visit.. ain’t do nun yet-“

“Fuck off with that. I ain’t a god damn fool, Remmick.”

He watches as you scoff, stares as you look away, off into the night. He stays silent.

“You’re killing the land. My land, my home.”

You don’t look at him, not yet. There’s not much to see in the dark, hardly any shapes or structures to really gawk at. But the shadows of the night seem more comforting than his harsh gaze, the one that digs and pulls back all your flesh. Bares your heart for him, to him.

You feel your eyes grow wet, but are quick to blink away any tears. There was no use in crying in front of him.

“You’re fuckin’ terrorizing everything, everyone. You—“ you shake your head, looking down at the wood, rotting as well. You hardly noticed, just days ago it was fine, strong, but it seems with his presence it festers with sickness. Wilts. Just like the crops.

It’s a horrid sight, makes your gut twist. It’s not even graphic, not like the cow or the crops or any of that. But it twists inside you, forces you to look up at him, “spreadin’ your fuckin’ disease… why-“

He cuts you off, “you know why.”

That shut you up. You have half the mind, the instinct, to look away. But you don’t, or rather can’t, because every time you do there’s something else dying.

And.. he’s right.

You do know. Jesus Christ of fucking course you do. But it feels yucky to say out loud, to say you are the reasoning this is happening. You did this.

Just as your ma said, you brought the devil in.. and got pissed he decided to stay.

He allows the silence to linger for a few more moments, watches you shift uncomfortably under the weight of your own sorrows. It’s only when a frown starts to take place on your lips that his voice tugs you back out of your spiralling thoughts, “I ain’t doing this for fun. This ain’t no afternoon past time— curses like these take will power, I’ll tell ya that.”

Then there’s silence, deafening silence, again. Not even the wind breezes by. The wood, creaky and groaned loud before, remains still. Remmick stares, and you stare right back.

A silent challenge of some sort. You two do that often, stare. See who blinks first in the quiet, who cracks first. It usually happens during arguments, but it occurred once during a love confession.

When you were far too stubborn to give in, and he was far too open to let you shut him out.

“You don’t get to do that.”

He tilts his head, “do what?”

“Blame me. Blame me for your own fucked up thing. That ain’t my fault-“

“But it is. Sorta. I mean.. shit, baby, I did all this—“ he moves then, just sways, back and forth, puts his arms out. As if showing off his work, the dead rotten land that lies before you and him.

“For you. All this. Just to show how much you hurt me.” He stopped swaying, opting to put both his hands against his chest, just over his heart, the one that remains silent.

The sneer is gone, filled with disgust now. Anger. Something boiling low in your stomach and clawing its way up your spine, into your throat. It feels like his claws, funnily enough, as if he’s working through you. And maybe he is.

“But I can change that. I can forgive the hurt. I will change that… if you just, lemme on in.” He nods his head towards the door, eyes briefly looking into the space inside your home, the space that was his.

“We can talk it out,” his eyes flicker back to you, the light on your porch reflecting off of them like a cat’s, “unless you gotta’ another means to figuring things out. You know I don’t complain.”

“Jesus Christ-“

“He ain’t around.. but you’ll be sure asking for him once I’m in there-“

“Are you fuckin-“

“We can get to fuckin.”

You snap, “Remmick!”

He doesn’t shut up, doesn’t really know how to, but he gets in close, places a hand on the doorframe, looks up real slow and says, “I miss you. I want you back.. and I want you to want me back. I know you do.”

You shift an inch away from the door frame, “You really think I’m just gonna’ move past this?”

He gives a small hum, like he’s in thought. That hardly lasts long before he tilts his head again, small frown in place before shrugging, “I’m Savin’ you, darlin, savin’ yer’ land. I would sure hope so.. if it all truly means somethin to you, then ya’.”

You blink at him, once, twice, in disbelief. He makes it out as if he’s the saviour in this situation, as if he’s the knight in armour.. not the beast that’s brought the terror upon everyone. Upon you. You would smack him if it didn’t bring the possibility of being bitten.

He doesn’t let you comment, again, deciding to guide the conversation, “Honey.. I want you to understand somethin’. I wasn’t kiddin’ when I said I would linger, that I would fight for you. I’m killin your crops, the cows, goats… you think I’ll stop?”

He slowly shakes his head, giving a small tsk as if he’s scolding a child. Scolding you for not realizing his presence will remain, a ghost among the living.

“No baby. This remains.. unless you lemme on in there. Lemme apologize, nice and soft. Slow. Just how I make love to ya’.”

It’s then that you snort, a noise that makes him flinch. His brows furrow, yours narrow, “you ain’t nice when you make love. Hell, you don’t even know how to be slow.”

His teeth shine in the light, bright and but not sharp, not yet at least. But his mouth opens as if he’s going to say something, something you hardly can care for, cutting him off before he can even begin.

“You ain’t nice then, you ain’t nice now. And honestly… this is hardly love.”

That seems to brush him the wrong way.

His eyes narrow, offended, as if you made fun of his mother and told him to blow off his father. Which to Remmick.. it basically translated to the same thing.

Fuck off and die.

“The fuck you mean this ain’t love, woman? If there’s one fuckin thing about this situation.. is that it is. Hard, cold love. The fuck is wrong with you.”

You sneer again, “you’re killin everything I love, asshole-“

“Oh for fucks sakes.. and exactly why do you think I did that? You hurt me, broke all the fuckin’ promises you said you’ll keep.. and I dealt with that. Dealt with it fine, but to excuse me of not loving you? That’s fuckin evil.”

You stare at him in confusion, perplexed by his contradictions, “clearly you’re not dealing with it well.. don’t need to fuckin’ guess that, I could just walk outside and see all the dead shit you caused.”

He nods, again, slow. Though it seems like a lightbulb went off. A small click.

He backs away from the door only by an inch, puts a hand on his hip, “well then.. come on out. Show me exactly how I’m not dealing well.” He frames it as if he actually wants you to show him, shakes his head low and all, as if he really doesn’t have a clue.

Stupid motherfucker.

“Remmick.”

He perks up, “Hm? Yeah, baby?”

“Get the fuck off my porch.”

You go to slam the door.

He immediately yelps, “I’ll kill em.”

You catch the door before it fully shuts, rip it back open to reveal him with a stern face. Jaw set, eyes narrowed.

He repeats himself, “I’ll kill em. The life stock. All of em. Rip them to fuckin’ shreds, force y’all to scatter for food.”

He watches you take in his face, his features, his eyes. Watches you search for any evidence of him lying.

Your shoulders drop when you can’t find it.

“You’re gonna starve us. That it?”

“Not starve.. I know y’all got other means of food.. just in town though… far, far off into town.” He shoots a thumb behind his back, pointing in the direction of said town. Your gaze doesn’t wander away.

You consider him, for a moment. Stay silent as you look over him. The way he seems proud of himself, of his threats. The way he seems this is love.

Your voice cracks as you whisper, “Why can’t you just go.”

You don’t repeat yourself when he gives a small hm, just stand there and stare. Eyes glossy, small divet between your brows where they furrow.

“That’ll mean leavin’ you. Can’t do that now, right? Sides’… you miss me.”

Your response comes out quick, too quick. Practiced. “No.”

He immediately smiles, “yeah… yeah you do. Don’t lie.”

You hate how easy he can see through each answer, but even now, with him so close and so all knowing, you respond quick again.

Never could learn your lesson. “I’m not.”

“Baby.. honey, this is cute an’ all but it’s dumb how yer’ tryin so hard. Come on.. I mean what is this really?” He gets off the door frame again, hands back on his hips, “I’m gonna’ come in eventually.. don’t matter how. Whether that now or fifty years from ere’, I’m coming in. Just make this easy.”

Your tongue darts out to wet your lips, the same tongue his eyes catch on, a low groan leaving him.

You ignore it.

“Fuck you. I don’t what delusion your livin in.. but it ain’t sure gonna’ happen. So how bout you.. Eat shit and die, Remmick. Keep fuckin round and I’ll get the Choctaw a little note on where your resting.”

It’s a low , low blow. Hell.. not only is it childish but just straight wrong. You have no clue where he lives, if he even has a home to begin with. He could very well be homeless. Must be given all the time he has to curse crops and cast spells on people.

That and he’s dead.

Still.

“Well baby, that just mean.”

He gives a faux pout. You think of shooting him then, there. Right in the forehead. Too bad you don’t got your gun on you.

“Yeah? Well, you’re being fuckin cruel. Now do me a favour, and fuck off.”

He hardly gets a word in before you shut the door.

—

Maybe slamming the door on an ancient vampire’s face wasn’t the best. Maybe you should’ve reconsidered exactly what that would entail for him to do. What anger he would have left over.

It’s that very night that he kills all the life stalk. Doesn’t even suck them dry, just completely rips them apart. Eats them. Tears them from the outside in.

It’s your neighbour that breaks the news, sees you early in the morning, passing by their home. It’s the blood that’s slathered over their clothes, their face scrunched and their eyes wet with tears. It’s only then when you stop and ask what happened.

They only shake their head, eyes low, before muttering, “the devil got to em’. Killed ‘em’ all.”

You stay for an hour or two, helping clean all the blood. Helping put the bodies away. You have to, can’t go about your day without doing it. Without feeling that festering guilt run deep in your bones. Eventually you become drenched in it, there’s so much dunked into the floor, dragged across the walls. It looks like he hardly even sucked the blood. Looked like hardly even fed off them.. just killed them cause he knew it would hurt the townsfolk. Would hurt you, and your family.

You plan to take a bath, the sweat and blood starting to irritate your skin, make it all itchy. You keep scratching all over, scaratchinb at your neck as you prepare some water to bathe in.

You’re hardly paying attention to it, gaze away from the water that pours out. Don’t look when you pour it into the tub, not until you dip your hand in, and bring it back out to see red.

Blood red.

Your throat catches on a gasp, coming out a small whimper as you slowly rub off the blood onto your clothes. Short gasps come out with it, panicked. Loud. Each one more shallow than the other, faster and faster in tune with your heartbeat that seems to spike in its rhythm.

The entire tub is coated in what looks to be blood, thick blood. As if someone just slit their throat and decided to die there. It smells foul, like rot itself. Like death.

You go to the kitchen, partially jogging. You think you’re going to vomit but you swallow it back, but only a gallon of saliva takes over your mouth that’s thick and stringy that you force yourself to also swallow.

The faucet comes to life when you flick it on. but instead of pouring out water, it chokes out chunks of blood. Thicker than the one in tub. You shut it off immediately.

You’re not exactly sure how long you’ve stood there, by the kitchen, hands gripped tight in fists as they rest against the wood of your table. Not sure how long you’ve been combating an anxiety attack, or how long you’ve been sniffling back mucus after hanging your head down for so long.

You do know that your legs are achy, spine screaming in discomfort after being arched for so long, hating how you don’t stand to your full height. Your body keeps swaying slightly, as if trying to cue you to sit down but you don’t listen. Ignore it. Ignore the blood that still coats your sink, and tub. Dont pay attention to the way the blood slowly dries and then chips off your nails.

You’re not sure how long you’ve stood there until you hear a knock. Two slow reps, as if someone is calling out to you, calling for you, and less about the door. Less about signalling their arrival, because they already know you’re aware of their presence. Aware of the shiver that you also ignored, the shiver that shook your bones and forced its way into your lungs.

Upon opening the door, you’re immediately graced with the sight of a smiling white man.

Your white man.

His smile widens as he takes in the state of you. Bloody, sweaty and tired. There’s blood coated all over the front of your clothes, which he can assume is also on the back as well, and from your feet to just below your nose is blood. Slathered and sprayed all over, coated everywhere because you couldn’t stop wiping your face, willing the tears away.

“Awh baby, look at that. Look at you,” his gaze slowly trails from your feet to your face, slow. Taking in the sight like he’s drinking water.

“Figured you saw the little gift I left behind, huh?”

He smiles, big. Cocky. Happy with himself, with the sight of how ruined and bloody and gross you look. You feel your anger sink its claws back in, take hold of you.

“This is how you plan to get me back? Huh? Fuckin killin everything, becoming an obsessive, fuckin weirdo? That’s what you're doing to get my attention, that’s the plan to get back home! The fuck is the matter with you!”

He stands there, not stunned. No. But amused. Just slightly, hidden behind the glare he givens, deep within his flesh.

It’s troubling, makes your nervous, makes you shout out, “Just leave me the fuck alone, Remmick!”

It’s quiet. Too quiet. He watches you with keen eyes, mouth slightly agape. Like you just told him some of the most perplexing information known to man. At some point you think you’ve actually stunted him, forced him to rethink the situation. Then after a bit it becomes annoying, at one point you think he’ll just stand there saying and doing nothing. Like a god damn statue.

But then he gives a slow blink, one, two and then three of them. He nods his head, slowly. As if taking it in, understanding it.

Agreeing.

“Yeah… yeah okay.”

You move back a bit, confused, eye him suspiciously, “okay?”

He nods again, “yeah okay. I’ll leave you be.. actually-“ he places a finger onto his lips, traces of a smirk lingering of his lips, “I think everyone will.. yer’ family.. they still be livin down in that one house you invited me into, right?”

The smirk slowly grows on his face, no longer hidden, doesn’t need to hide it when you slowly pick up what exactly he’s putting down. The cogs quick to fill in the gap.

Motherfucke-

“You wouldn’t fuckin dare.”

He snorts, “oh I would. You know I would.. hell, yer daddy, he still got that shake in his hands? Yer ma still got the bad ear? Ya know..” he sucks his teeth, “I wonder how long it’ll take for them to recognize the sounds of their little ones cries,” he cocks his head at you then, “think yer daddy will fight me off in time?”

You damn near almost fly out of the fuckin house, almost grab at him, but it’s when your arm is almost fully out, body half way through the opening that you pause.

No. Rip yourself back into place, force yourself to remain inside.

Because just out of the corner of your eye, ever so faintly you could’ve missed it without the light on, you see the way his claws on one hand are fully out. Glint under the light. long and sharp, looks like small hooks on his fingers. He gives a small surprised laugh.

“Oh.. well, almost got cha’ there, sugar. Yer’ fuckin quick, I’ll give ya that.”

Your eyes flicker from his hand to his face, then back to his hand that slowly retracts his claws back in. You shiver.

“Stay the fuck away from my family.”

He licks his lips, as if the mere mention of your family was intriguing to his hunger, “mm.. I’ll stay away.. if you get yer’ fine ass self outta’ that house.”

A small ‘eugh’ leaves you, lip curling up as you shake your head, “that ain’t fuckin happening.”

He rolls his eyes upon your response, hands back on his hips, fidgeting with the clasps of his belt, “well then.. better start makin calls to that family of yers, say some last I love you’s before they leave.”

Annoying. That what this was becoming. Him and his threats. And you couldn’t even slam the door shut because you were certain he would kill em. It was just— it was annoying. And fucking terrifying. And he won’t leave.. and, and, and—

“God.. you fuckin messy piece of shit, son of a b-“

He perks up, like a dog, even takes a step closer to the entrance again, “messy?”

That catches him off guard, as if the rest of the sentence made sense until then, “I ain’t messy. This..” he points out his pointer finger, shaking it around, signaling to your house, you, the situation.

“This ain’t messy. But it can be.. just you wait. You really want shit to get messy.. oh baby.. it’ll get fuckin worse if you want it.”

“If I want? If I?” You point to yourself, brows raised, “I. Like this is fuckin up to me-“

“Yes!” He shouts. Temper rising. You flinch. He doesn’t care, keeps going, “yes of fucking course it’s up to you! All of this is! Jesus Christ— you’re gettin on my fucking nerves. I’m threatin your fuckin family! I’ve already taken your land, and the fucking cows and whatever else you fuckin have and still! Still! You can’t fuckin see how this is up to you! Still!”

His hands no longer rest on his hips, instead out on either side of him, up in the air, as if proclaiming this not to you but to the sky above. But God knows who he’s speaking to, knows in the way he only has looked at you this entire interaction, blue eyes washed away with red, staring. Always staring. This time they hold more anger than anything.. and something else. Something that makes your stomach turn.

Longing.

Still, even with that there, tugging at him, his anger lashes out.

“Really, I’m startin to think you don’t care bout’ yer family, not enough to save em’, let alone yourself.”

It’s not necessarily cruel, really he’s just saying parts of the truth. His own form of the truth. You have no doubt in your mind he truly believes that, despite his own manipulative nature, and the lengths he goes to basically bully you, you truly believe he thinks that.

And that almost hurts more.

You shove that feeling down, “Remmick.. be honest. Completely honest.. did you really think this was gonna’ last?” You tilt your head at him, set your lips into a straight line.

You’re closer now, hand back onto the door, just close enough to see all the freckles painted across his skin, but far enough to not let him in. He blinks, goes to say something, but hardly begins before your stringing along your sentence.

“Hm? Think this was gonna work out? That we were gonna’ be happy and completely fine, never to face the consequences of this unnatural connection?”

He buts in then, “Oh hey now hol’ on— this ain’t unnatural-“

You put up your pointer finger, nowhere near close to his face but close enough to cut him off, “it is. You know it. The fucking earth knows it.. I mean.. Even if I take you back. Even if. What then? Hm? I’ll grow old and die.. we can never be out together. Hell, can never grow together, never have a family! Never do shit! How long did you think that was gonna last?”

“We would figure it out. Always do— just cause it ain’t natural, hell a shit ton of stuff ain’t natural if you think about it. Cars? Ain’t natural. Fuckin—“ he points to the porch oil lamp, “ain’t natural. Those clothes ain’t natural, but you’re sayin just cause we are fuckin and loving, the earth and god above is gonna rain terror on us?” He squints his eyes in confusion, turning his body slightly as he looks you up and down, as if the idea itself was offensive. But you know he’s mocking you.

That demanor quickly drops when you quickly nod your head, “yes. It’s exactly that.”

His lip twitches, small sneer before his face scrunches together into something hurt. A piercing pain he can’t quite get rid of, not as long as you bend away from him.

“Well ain’t that something.” He trails off, looking towards the corner of the door frame again, lost in thought. You watch the way his eyes flicker, watch him flicker through his own brain, pin down something else to say. Something else to threat.

He comes up short. But he talks anyway, “well.. I ain’t leavin. Not tonight. And I’ll wait till that sun comes up.. and even then, shit, who knows, I’ll bury myself under your fuckin house and come back,” his eyes slowly trail back over to you, “or I can kill yer kin. All of em. Hell.. might just do fuckin both, night’s still young. And you ain’t going anywhere.”

He shrugs, as if this was a normal conversation about what time he’s planning to go to the store or some shit. You don’t know, but there’s no empathy. None you can find.

He tilts his head down, forces himself into your view as you look down, away from him, and that just won’t do.

“In or out.”

Your chest heaves, rising and falling. Fast. Heart pounding. Hard, so fucking hard against your chest you think you may black out. But you can’t, can’t when you're staring at him, can’t when you watch the way his expression falls into something horrible. A teasing smile, a playful wink as you glare at him.

He asks again, “in or out.”

“Shut up.” You whisper, foot tapping against the floor as you think. That pulls his attention down, a small snort leaving him as he watches the soft rhythmic tapping of your foot.

“Tic- tic-“

“Just shut the fu-“ the words down on your tongue, trailing off into the wind, in one ear and out the other as he mimics the same tapping, but with his hands on the wood of the doorframe he now leans against. Both hands against the frame, body just inches away from the threshold.

He sings it this time, an off key tone, “I-nnnn or ou-“

He doesn’t finish.

“In.”

His eyes flicker up, surprised. Like he actually wasn’t expecting you to say it. That shock doesn’t last long though, lips pulling away to reveal a strong set of teeth, a row of sharp jaggered edges that will cut deep. Have cut deep.

“Right on.”

—

He isn’t nice. Not at all.

He practically hauls you up, slams himself into you before he’s grabbing you up into his arms, slamming the door shut with his heel.

You feel yourself slam into your wall, a small squeak hardly leaving your lips before he’s shoving his tongue into your mouth. He groans like an animal caught in heat, his hands trailing over you so quick, so rough it forces the fabric of your night wear to tear in some places. The small rip of fabric against nails heard, but ignored by the both of you.

He doesn’t stick against your lips long, only there to taste the saliva that pools in your mouth and the blood that sticks against your teeth. He practically whimpers upon tasting the metallic twinge caught between your gums, nudges his nose against your cheek as he breaks the kiss.

“I could eat you alive.” It’s not a threat. It’s a promise. One he whispers against your cheek before he’s shoving his face into your neck.

You expect a bite then, the tear of sharp teeth and the gurgle of blood.. but you don’t get that. Not yet. Instead, he flicks his tongue out to lick the blood that’s there, going from just under your jaw to your collarbone. He practically makes out with your skin, traces his tongue over the soft flesh before nipping at it, then back to licking.

It’s only when you give a small whine he focuses back to your mouth, not kissing, but breathes against you. Takes in your air, just to breathe it back to you.

Then, “you still got those panties I like?”

You nod.

“Wearin em?”

You nod again. The sound that comes out of him sounds painful, like it gutted and clawed its way out, straight agony. One would think an animal just got shot, but really it’s just him. He places you back down onto the floor, but keeps you pinned to the wall with his own body, knees cracking as he slumps down onto the wood.

He’s breathing heavy, chest rising and falling so rapidly you think he’s about to collapse— despite the fact he practically already did. But just between your thighs. He doesn’t fall again, far too busy ripping the fabric of your nightgown, despite the fact it flowed off you, it seemed to be too much in the way for him to keep intact. Not that it wasn’t ripped already.

After some shuffling, and tearing, he makes it to his sanctuary.. one of the many reasons why he harassed you to begin with. There, your beyond soaked panties, practically see through if you place a light to them. He slumps again, this time against your thighs, resting his head as he gives a painful groan.

You glance down, confused by exactly what he’s whining about, only to see him whispering random words against your skin.

It’s only until you hear the small call of your name from his lips that you realize he’s begging. No.. praying. No.. you’re really not sure. Your name is jumbled with a bunch of ‘pleases’ and words you can’t quite understand.

Foreign. Not for him…but for you. A silent promise, maybe.

Nonetheless, you grow antsy, annoyed. He’s come all this way.. to beg, he could’ve done that outside.

“Remmick-“ he nods, “what are you doing?”

He looks up then, eyes heavy and mouth in a gentle frown, “appreciating you.”

You can only nod, slowly, more or less still confused. Perhaps not only by him.. but this whole ordeal. By this rapid change from point A to point fucking D. Still.. his whining didn't help much.

His gaze goes back down, to between your legs, a look of awe on his face. He doesn’t wait for you to continue, doesn’t care to, not when he’s trailing his fingers over your flesh and taking down the last fabric separating you from him.

He moans again.

The light catches just right on your flesh, coats it in a soft hue, and reflects the slick just right. Back into his sight, back into his hunger. He hardly waits before he’s darting his tongue out, and gives a light lick over your slick. A small one, hesitant almost. Oddly enough, as if he couldn’t bare taking this one thing, despite how far he’s come to get it.

But it’s with this small lick, one that doesn’t even arise a gasp from you, just a small tilt of the head as you continue to look down at him, that gets him going. Makes him groan, deep and low in his chest.

He tears the rest of your undergarment off, tattered and tossed to the side despite his own claim of it being his favourite.

He doesn’t allow you time to react before he’s muttering a small, “come ere’,” and grabs at you, coaxing you down onto the floor with him, prompted against the wall. Once your ass meets the floorboards, he doesn’t waste any time in grabbing hold of both your legs and putting them over his shoulders, hardly paying any mind to the act. Like second nature. Like a habit.

And given how often he does it, you think it’s come to be truly a mindless act. Almost as mindless as the gasp that leaves you when he spits on your pussy, hand giving a light smack to the outside of your thigh in response.

“Fuckin missed you.. look at ya’, basically cryin for me. She treating you right?” He nods towards you, but his gaze is stuck on your pussy.

Your brows furrow, “are you-“

He shushes you, giving a small shake of the head, “quiet, I’m talkin to someone real special.”

You give a shallow breath, and despite your confusion, you keep quiet. Even keep your breathing quiet, as if you’ll actually hear your autonomy speak back to him.. but he nods along as if it does. Traces his gaze over the expanse of your inner thighs and between them, even gives a small hm.

“Didn’t think so.. been neglectin you..” he shuffles closer, laying on his stomach now, rests his face close enough that you can feel his breath against your clit. “Don’t worry tho.. I’m ere’ now, be all better, promise,” and with that he dives in.

Licks from your opening to your clit, setting a steady pace. Down, up, circle, down, up, circle—

Its until he’s to the m that you realize he’s spelling out his name, tracing it along with your clit before gradually licking down to your entrance, where he begins the next m.

One of your hand’s hold tight in his hair, grip so fucking tense it makes you half worried that you might be tearing out his hair. Your other hand rests on the floor, clenching and unclenching. Scraping against the wood, you’re certain if you go hard enough your fingernails will start to break, or the wood will.

You feel one of his hands slip down off your thigh, sneaking it beside his mouth. He spread you open to him, the air cool against your entrance, clit twitching as he lightly coos.

“Fuckin.. shit-“ he goes back down, and you practically yelp when you feel his tongue enter you. You clench down on the muscle, hips knocking against him, pushing yourself closer to his mouth. The heat of it, the rhythm of ‘in and out and in’ a similar pattern to earlier, though he doesn’t trace his name. Just fucks you with his mouth, slowly. Moans along with you, almost like he can feel your pleasure, his own hips knocking against the floor desperate for friction. Anything.

He eats you like a man starved, like the entrance of your pussy is an open wound he’s teared into your flesh, feasting upon you like it’s his last meal.

And you let him. Have to, each time you push, to give yourself room, to let yourself a moment of breath, he doesn’t budge. Hardly moves, only groans, slightly distracted before continuing.

You whine out his name, pushing at his shoulders again, telling him to calm down. To relax.

Instead, to spite you, he shakes his head side to side, quick. It’s.. nasty. Gross. You don’t even say anything, can’t even insult him for the action, just watch slightly disgusted and quiet. But he doesn’t allow you enough time to react to the fact he basically just motorboated you, distracts you by doubling down. He shoves more of his weight onto you, forcing you off the wall and onto the ground, where he presses you uncomfortably close. A mating press of some sort.

One that makes you breath funny and his tongue sink deeper into your gummy walls that clench around the pink muscle. He ain’t slow, just like you said. He flicks his tongue fast, over your clit before prodding into your hole before going back up. Like he can’t decide what to do, and it fucking pains you. Pulls out whiny moans, eyes barely able to focus on him given how often they roll back.

He eventually pulls away, a pause to his torture. To his worship. It doesn’t last long, that small pocket of relief from overstimulation, not long before he spits another wet glob of saliva onto your folds. Although, He doesn’t rub it in like he usually would, no, he gives a harsh smack. Right against your clit.

And just as he hoped, you yelp. Loud. Flinch harder against the contact, hips jerkin up that are forced back down.

“Calm down,” he scolds, tsking.

He gives another harsh smack, tsking again when you flinch. Makes it out to be a you issue for reacting rather than him smacking your pussy like nothing.

“Flinchin like I’m gonna hurt ya..” he shakes his head, eyes downcasted, gaze stuck on the way your pussy clenched around nothing.

“You’re smacking me.. I’m gonna flinch-“ his eyes flick up, brows twitching into a furrow before he’s landing another smack against you. Hard.

You yelp again.

“Don’t be rude,” he keeps his hand over you, doesn’t move it until you break the stare he holds, tilting your head away. Only then he starts to gently rub, his hand working in a circle right over your bundle of nerves. He gets off his stomach and onto his knees, just hovering over you, hand soaked in your wetness as he works you over.

slowly, the pace in which his hand works builds, his eyes keen on the way you twitch and flinch under him, the way your thighs try to close but given he’s in the way, it’s useless. Watches as you clench around nothing, wetness practically seeping out of you, onto the floor. He watches, and waits. For that build, that fall. The climb before the climax, the way you gently jerk your hips against him, head thrown back and away from his gaze, bottom lip pulled tight between your teeth.

He waits for it. The eventual beg, the one he keeps his ears open for. That soft whisper you do, a gentle sigh that rolls off your tongue.

He waits.

You eventually break, unaware of his little game, “please.”

He doesn’t slow, not at first, just watches as you try to mouth out your words again, desperate, “please.”

“Hm? What was that, darlin?” He tilts his head. You whine again.

“Please..please—“

He buts in, “please.. what? Can’t read yer mind”

“Let me cum.. please.”

There’s a devastating long pause, where he just continues. Doesn’t acknowledge you, doesn’t give an hm or snarky remarks. You know better, he’s got good ears despite how fucking old he is, so you know he very well heard you.. he’s just being a dick. A dick you would want to bounce on, but he ain’t letting you yet.

You ask again, real sweet this time, pet name and all, “Baby.. please, please let me cum.”

He ignores you.

Instead, when you're just on the cusp, legs twitching and mouth open, moans pitchy and loud while you strain yourself to hold off your orgasm, he pulls away.

And that damn near breaks you, “fuck! Please.. please don’t- why- don’t-“ you got to reach for his hand, a big fucking no no, but you’re desperate. Desperate to get his hand back on you, desperate for him to fuck you.

He smacks it away, “don’t,” but that doesn’t stir him away, doesn’t even warrant any proper punishment he would usually do. The ones where he doesn’t fuck you on dick at all for the night, just snacks your ass and forces you to count each one before finger fucking you.

Really.. he’s desperate too. Has been for several nights now. His hand is tired of taking care of him, and his dick aches to be inside. He moves off you, hands gripping at your thighs as he does so, forcing you closer to him as he drags you across the floor by an inch or two.

Your hands work on pulling down the suspenders that are clung tight to him, hardly getting them down in time before his hands are working on getting his zipper down.

It’s not long before he’s prodding at you, just gracing your entrance, so close that if you rock your hips against him once, the tip will slip in.

But his hands have a death grip on you, keeping you in place and stuck under him. Doesn’t want you moving before he does, can’t allow you when he’s slightly hungry for something else that coats you.

The blood. Still clinging onto you, no longer wet by dry, flaking off onto the floor in places, still slathered across you face and down the rest of you. It’s only slightly wet against your chest, where he licked earlier.

You think he’s going in for a kiss with the way he slowly bring himself forward, eyes hungry and irises red. He might bite, actually, once you consider how hard he’s breathing.

But no. He doesn’t do either. His tongue is wet and rough against you as he licks across your face. From your cheek to your nose, over the bridge of your nose and over to the other cheek.

You push at his chest, “Jesus— Remmick!”

He doesn’t budge, licking at your ear, “just wanna’ taste, that’s all.”

Your face scrunches in disgust as drool drips off his chin onto your cheek, and when he shuffles a bit, going to lick your other ear, more drool drips onto your mouth.

It’s not that you have swapped spit, you have several times, but it’s the fact he won’t stop licking you like a damn dog. Nipping at your ears, gripping at your jaw as he licks at your cheek, licks the tip of your nose all the way to the top just below your forehead. You’re coated in his saliva. In him. And he’s not even inside yet.

You try to push him again, “You’re drowning me-“

He gives a small groan, nothing more. Doesn’t care if you sputter or happily moan, doesn’t matter when he’s cleaning up his mess. His baby needs to be clean, deserves to be.

But as you wiggle and try to get him to stop, his free hand snakes down to between the both of you, grabbing at his dick and giving a shallow thrust into his hand, tapping just against your folds. You whimper, try to look down but the hand on your jaw stops you.

Only then he pulls away, just to look at you. Take you in. Take in the way your cheeks are red and wet, the way his saliva is slowly drying on you and your lips are slightly bruised from him nipping at them.

Takes in the soft look of your features, of your eyes, nose that’s also wet. Licked clean now. Takes that all in as he slaps his dick against the top of your pussy.

Knocking. “Can I come in?”

Grins when you give a small snort, “Yeah.”

Both of you gasp upon him entering. He doesn’t push in all in one swoop, no. He savours it, always has, always will. This is the only time he goes slow, when your walls are clenched tight around him, and his dick weeps pre cum into your gummy walls.

He likes to drag it out, go inch by inch. First the tip, then he waits for you to grow impatient before he goes another inch. He waits until you open your mouth to say something, when you're about to tell him off. Then, he pushes in again. He finds it entertaining, the way the words die on your tongue and you give a devastating sigh, brows furrowed as your mouth drops open. He loves that. Shutting you up with just his length alone.

Makes him feel special. Knows only he can do that.

“That good?” He whispers, breathing on your lips. You nod, “yuh huh.”

He smacks your thigh, “bet it fuckin is.”

Again, he pushes in, another inch, but he doesn’t keep it there. He drags it back out , all the way until the tip hardly remains inside you, and he plans to just slip in half way.

But it’s when you give a small whimper, and your hand moves to his neck, where you lightly squeeze, he throws that plan out the window. He slams all the way in, and you practically scream.

Groans right with you and holds your hips right against him, dick fully in and kept there. You arch your back, head knocked back as you rise against the floor, hand slipping off his neck. He catches your hand, right as it slips down his chest and places his hand on top. Pats it twice.

He grinds against you, knocking the tip against that spongy bit inside you, making your legs lock around his hips. The floorboards creak under both of your weight, louder and louder as his pace grows. It’s clumsy, at first, neither of you able to stop jumping and grinding against each other. Each time you knock against him, he drags out, and each time he slams in, you push out.

It’s frustrating. Not in sync, at all. Makes him mutter out a string of curses, his grip tightening on your hips but neither of you have the strength to stop, can’t stop. you have to force yourself to meet his hips in time, force yourself into a steady rhythm with him. It’s only when you have a steady pace that he grows more desperate, hands clawing at you, dragging up and down over your nightwear, ripping small tears into it.

He becomes more encouraging as well, praises flowing out, “Yeah.. yeah there ya go, fuck— so fuckin wet, ya hear that,” he shuts up, lets you hear the squlench of your pussy and the soft smacking of his skin against yours. You whine, “Jesus.. yeah- yeah, don’t stop.”

“Oh I ain’t. Never gonna’, never leaving either, ain’t gonna let you kick me out,” he gives a small nod, “gonna have to fuckin rip me out ere’, move- fuck- move.. real far to.. to get away from me.” His speech slurs towards the end, dragged out and messy.

Just as before, he drags your thighs up further, goes as far to slide his arms under the curve of your leg and prompts your ass off the floor. He leans up, resting on his knees and pushes down into you. The new angle makes him go deeper, if that was even possible. Makes him touch an area that you are certain no one else could ever touch, your toes curling and pussy fluttering around him.

You don’t even realize you're drooling until you feel him lean over and lick it up, mixing it with his own before swallowing it down.

“Fuckin love the way you taste,” he mutters, voice raspy and low, “fuckin love you.”

There’s a pull in your stomach, not something made of dread, but something sweeter. Burns deep in your flesh, small butterflies flapping around as your nerves flare, nervous despite the fact he is quite literally inside you.

He slowly drops you back down, one arm slipping out from under your leg and hand trailing up to your throat, where he lightly moves your head to the side, baring your throat to him.

His nose nudges against your pulse point. He takes a deep whiff, his lungs fully expanding, taking you all in. He lets out a shuddered breath, “say it back.”

You stay quiet, far too gone to know what the hell he’s talking about. He gives your cheek a light smack, “say it back.”

“Mmm.. shit- say what?”

“That you love me.”

He gives a hard thrust then, hits just fucking right. Tip ramming against your g spot, fucking you dumb and quiet, your body hardly having the strength to even give out a moan. But he doesn’t care, nips hard at you when you don’t say anything.

You manage to croak out, “I love you.”

Then, pressure. Hot, white pressure searing against your neck. Teeth prick at you, and it feels like pure agony. Rips you away from the pleasure of his dick ramming into you and shoves you head first into pain. It doesn’t even amplify the pleasure, doesn’t do shit.

You scream, but it’s gurgled by blood, neck pumping it out in spurts that coat his awaiting mouth.

He doesn’t comfort you through it, not at first. Not yet. He just sucks it down, swallows it in large gulps, the sound so loud and prominent it brings tears to your eyes.

It’s only when you mutter his name, croaked and raspy that he starts to lightly brush his thumb back and forth against your cheek, hand placed just under your jaw.

He drinks it down like it’s his last meal. Drinks it with the same desperation he fucks you in.

With a mouth full of blood, pooling over his lips, dripping down his neck and onto the floor, “yer good, I’m here. Yer safe.”

Ain’t that fucking ironic.

“Rem-“ he shushes you.

“It’s all good.. just let it happen, let it wash over you.”

He’s no longer thrusting into you, just keeps himself deep inside. Still. Not completely, he twitches, but doesn’t move either. Gave up on trying to distract you.

“Yer good.. we’ll be good. Together, one. That’s exciting, huh?”

He smiles, big. Genuinely happy. You don’t have any energy to shake your head. He goes back down to drink more, “this is exciting. Now we’ll never be apart.”

He drinks from you happily, and it’s the sound of ripped flesh and blood seeping out that you die to.

At least he has you forever.

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