multifandom-26 - Tumblr blog

multifandom-26 · 1 month ago

Text

SAY IT

remmick x fem!reader

Summary: On your way home from Bible study you run into two boys looking for trouble. Thankfully, Remmick's there to help you out. But he wants some... compensation, for his help.

wc: 4.1k

smut warning: dom!remmick x fem!reader. second-person pov, fingering, manipulation, blood, biting, violence, death, oral (fem receiving), mentions of religion, mild harassment, idk i think thats it

a/n: before watching sinners i hadn't written anything in MONTHS, and remmick was so incredible fine he cured me of writers block, because after the movie i went home and started writing this. this is also my first time posting on tumbler so, hiii (ignore how the tense doesn't stay consistent, i hate writing in 2nd person pov)

─── ⋆⋅ ♰ ⋅⋆ ───

The sun was swiftly sinking beneath the horizon, casting long shadows across the landscape. Its vibrant hues of orange and pink painted the sky, gradually deepening into richer tones as the evening approached. The light dimmed as shades of deep blue and indigo crept across the horizon, enveloping the landscape in a cloak of darkness.

You were heading home from Bible study, which ended much later than you had anticipated. The air was thick with the oppressive summer humidity, one of those evenings where the heat lingered even after the sun had set. As you distanced yourself from the busy part of town, the streetlights became sparser, and the shadows deepened. You hastened your pace, your heels tapping against the rough pavement, eager to reach home.

It was almost kind of peaceful. The nighttime chatter from the town gradually faded into soft murmurs, creating an almost soothing atmosphere. Until, of course, a couple of idiots had to ruin your night.

Two figures stepped out from a dark alley up ahead — and you barely had time to react before they were already blocking your path, grinning like they owned the damn street.

“All by yourself, baby cakes? Ain’t that dress a lil’ short for that?” One of them whistled, licking his teeth all nasty.

You took a step back, holding your Bible tightly against your chest as if it were a shield. “I-I don’t want any trouble,” you stammered.

“Naw, of course you do,” the other sneered, taking a step closer to you. “You over here dressed like trouble.”

Your eyes flickered anxiously as the two boys edged nearer, their strides slow yet certain, their intent unmistakable. You took a step back, and another, feeling the space around you shrink, the world closing in as they advanced without a word. They spread apart slightly, moving to encircle you like wolves to prey.

God, help me.

A voice sliced through the tension like a blade through fog. “There a problem here?”

It came from behind you, sharp and unexpected, shocking the air with its presence and freezing the moment like a flash of lightning. The two boys stopped, surprise flickering across their faces as they cut their eyes in the direction of the sound. You turned, eyes meeting a man standing a few feet behind you.

His hands, nonchalantly tucked into the deep pockets of his trousers, accentuated an air of indifference perfectly matched by his carelessly practical attire. The rumpled shirt, slightly untucked, and the well-worn shoes suggested a disregard for convention. He didn’t seem like he belonged, not in the slightest.

There was something about him, an intangible aura, that sent a shiver of unease through the air. It was as if he carried an invisible weight that pressed heavily on those around him, making them shift uncomfortably without knowing precisely why.

“Who the hell are you?” One of the boys called out, his voice a wavering mixture of uncertainty and defiance. The other shifted awkwardly, unsure of how to size up the strange figure before them, and more unsure of what reaction to expect.

“Why don’t you answer my question first?”

You glanced between your harassers, the adrenaline that had spiked through your veins at the sight of those two creeps faded, replaced by a different sort of tension. Your throat went dry. You wanted to say something, to stop this and just finish your journey home, but you just couldn’t.

When you locked eyes with the unfamiliar man, your stomach twisted in knots. There was something about him—someone familiar but unplaceable—that set off your instincts, urging you to flee.

One of the creeps let out a laugh, a high-pitched, mean-spirited cackle, his mocking grin wide with menace and delight. It was like you were long forgotten, their attention now elsewhere. They crowded around the man, jostling shoulders and nudging elbows, and one of them spat the words like a challenge: “Little white boy thinks he’s got spunk!”

The man’s eyes shifted from the boys to you, slow and deliberate, like a predator sizing up its prey. “Now, now. I just wanted to make sure this young lady was alright,” he said, his eyes glinting with a steely resolve that cut through the tension like a knife.

The boys didn’t quit though, repeating their threats like taunts, brutal little chants in the fading light. They surrounded him, shirts loose, untucked, grins mean and prowling the way packs do.

The strange man didn’t seem to be intimidated; In fact, he looked past the boys, giving you an almost…sympathetic look. “You might want to close your eyes, darlin’.”

In a flash, he lunged at the nearest boy, a blur of movement disrupting the circle. The act was savage and swift, his teeth sinking into his soft neck with a feral intensity. There was a stunned silence, a moment where the world seemed to hold its breath, and then a scream. The boy screamed, high-pitched and frantic, red blooming on his white collar, voice shredding the dusk as he stumbled back.

Blood, hot and streaked, spilled down the boy’s chest as the man held him tight, his face smeared. Frozen by the violence seared through the darkening street, the other boys’ eyes went wide, his shouts dying in his throat.

The grip seemed relentless, inhumanly strong, the boy’s knees buckling, and then, with a quick flick of his arm, the man sent him crashing to the pavement. The boy writhed, clutching at his neck with a gurgling sob, while the other could only stare in mute horror. It was as if the man enjoyed their terror, a gleam in his eye as he turned his ferocious gaze on him, daring him to fight or flee, hungry for his next move.

The second boy stood frozen, his face a mask of horror as he watched his friend collapse to the ground. For a heartbeat, he seemed paralyzed, caught between flight and fight, his body trembling with indecision. Then, with a strangled cry that was half rage and half terror, he fumbled at his waistband and pulled out a small pocket knife, the blade catching the dim light as it snapped open.

"You—you fuckin’ psycho!" he screamed, his voice cracking with fear. He lunged forward with the knife held out, a clumsy, desperate attack born of panic rather than skill.

The strange man sidestepped the thrust with almost lazy grace, a small smile playing at his bloodstained lips. In one fluid motion, he grabbed the boy's wrist and twisted. The crack of bone was audible even over the boy's shriek of pain, the knife clattering uselessly to the pavement.

"Bad choice," the man whispered, his voice almost gentle as he pulled the struggling boy closer, like a lover drawing in for an embrace. "Should've run when you had the chance."

The boy's struggles grew frantic, his feet scrabbling against the ground as he tried to wrench himself free. Tears streamed down his face, mixing with the sweat of exertion and fear. "Please," he sobbed, all bravado gone, "please don't—"

His plea was cut short as the man's teeth found his throat.

You couldn't move. Couldn't breathe. Your lungs seized as if gripped by an invisible hand, the Bible slipping from your fingers and hitting the pavement with a dull thud that seemed impossibly distant. The world narrowed to pinpricks of horrific detail: the blood spray painting the concrete, the wet, tearing sounds as flesh gave way, the gurgling screams that didn't sound human anymore.

Your knees buckled. A wave of nausea crashed through you, bitter bile rising in your throat as you pressed your hand against your mouth. The taste of your dinner threatened to return as your stomach convulsed. The edges of your vision darkened, tiny black spots dancing like static.

"Oh, God," you whispered, the words barely audible even to yourself. Your body trembled violently, uncontrollably, like you were standing in Arctic winds rather than the summer night's heat. The scene before you refused to make sense—it couldn't be real, couldn't be happening. People didn't do this. People couldn't do this.

But he wasn't people, was he?

You stumbled backward, one foot catching on the other, nearly sending you sprawling. The movement seemed to happen in slow motion, disconnected from your will. Your chest heaved with shallow, rapid breaths that didn't seem to deliver any oxygen to your brain. The metallic smell of blood hung thick in the air, coating your tongue, inescapable.

Somewhere in the fog of your shock, a primal instinct screamed at you to run, but your limbs felt leaden, unresponsive, as if the horror had severed the connection between your mind and body.

The second boy's body crumpled to the ground with a sickening finality, joining his friend in a spreading pool of crimson. The stranger straightened, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, leaving a dark smear across his pale skin. His eyes found yours, and the world seemed to contract to just the two of you standing in the night.

"Yer still here," he remarked, sounding almost surprised. His voice was different now—smoother, more controlled, the earlier tension gone from it. Blood dripped from his chin onto his shirt, blooming like dark flowers against the fabric. His eyes held an unnatural red gleam in the dim light.

Your legs finally remembered how to work. You stumbled backward, nearly tripping over your own feet, your breath coming in ragged gasps. The Bible lay forgotten on the ground between you and the carnage. "Demon," you whispered, the word tasting like ash in your mouth

He laughed, the sound startlingly normal, almost pleasant. “You go on home now.”

You remained frozen, disbelieving of your apparent reprieve.

"Go," he repeated, more firmly this time. "’Fore I change my mind."

Your legs moved of their own accord, carrying you past him in a wide arc. You couldn't help but look at the bodies as you passed, their forms already seeming less human somehow, more like discarded dolls than the threatening figures they'd been minutes ago. You ran, your footsteps echoing in the empty street, not daring to look back again. The night air burned in your lungs, and tears streamed down your face, but you didn't dare look back.

You just kept running.

─── ⋆⋅ ♰ ⋅⋆ ───

You couldn't sleep that night.

Every time you closed your eyes, you saw it all again—the blood, the strength, the way his teeth tore into flesh like it was nothing. Sleep was impossible. You sat on the edge of your bed, trembling hands clutching a mug of tea that had long gone cold, staring at nothing.

The day after felt like hell on earth. The morning light was harsh and unyielding, striking too brightly through the windowpane, but you made no move to get up to close the curtain.

You were too tired, too... worn out. Your legs felt like jelly and your eyes were swollen from crying, and there was a pain in your chest, an ache so deep you could have been bleeding, if only it meant relief.

But you were just numb.

You didn't even go down for breakfast. Just layed in bed. You laid there until the insistent throb of hunger became too much to bear. Only then did you involuntarily get yourself out of bed, muscles aching.

As you made your way to the kitchen, the aroma of breakfast lingered in the air, and your eyes landed on the remnants of the morning meal scattered across the table.

"Thought you'd never come down," Mom remarked, her voice carrying a hint of amusement as she looked over her shoulder from her spot at the sink, hands submerged in soapy water.

"Guess I was pretty tired," you replied, a yawn stretching your lips as you slumped into a chair, reaching for a piece of cold sausage. The temperature was irrelevant; it was the savory flavor of the meat that captivated your senses, grounding you in the moment.

"Where's your Bible?" Mom's voice cut through your thoughts like a knife, her eyebrow arched in that familiar, questioning manner. Her hand poised on her hip, she awaited your explanation with a knowing look.

Your chewing halted, heart sinking as last night's events replayed vividly in your mind. You opened your mouth to respond, but words seemed to falter and die before they could form.

Mom clicked her tongue disapprovingly, disappearing into the living room, only to return moments later. She placed your Bible on the table with a gentle thud, the sound echoing in your ears as your heart plummeted further, eyes reluctantly meeting hers.

"W-where'd you find this?" you stammered, voice barely above a whisper.

"Found it on the front porch. You must've dropped it on your way in last night," she replied, her tone a blend of concern and reprimand.

You swallowed hard, the events of last night swirling like a storm in your mind. You hadn't dropped it on the porch; you had left it behind, abandoning it on the ground as you ran, thoughts in chaos. "I guess... I must've," you stammered, forcing the guilty lie out.

"Mmhm. You best be more careful next time. You know this Bible was a gift from the Pastor," she reminded gently, yet firmly, turning back to the sink, the sound of running water a soft backdrop to the tension in the room.

You acknowledged your mother's words with a quiet hum and a nod. Your eyes settled on the Bible lying on the table, and you reached out for it with hesitation.

As your fingers traced over the embossed letters, your mind wandered back to the previous night. The vivid nightmares nearly made you recoil. You closed your eyes tightly, giving your head a slight shake to dispel the dark thoughts.

—————————————————

The day rolled on, hours slipping by in a confused haze. Tasks that needed doing bled into others, all mundane, all repetitively the same. Towels to fold, clutter to corral—each chore like the next, stretching out endlessly. Words were exchanged, hollow, drifting and weightless in the air.

The day felt longer than it had any right to be, its passage still haunting, leaving only a weary fog. A great heaviness set in, like a weight on the eyelids, as evening wore on.

While everyone else slept, you're wide awake. Sitting on your bed's edge, you face the window. The pale, blue moonlight casts its glow on you as you sit there, gazing out at the front yard.

You're unable to tear your eyes away, as if something or someone might be out there. You rise from the bed, cautiously approaching the window. With a finger, you unlock the latch and lift the window, which opens with a slight creak.

Leaning on the windowsill, you peer outside, eyes fixed intently for any sign of movement. But nothing unusual occurs; only the breeze and the rustling trees accompany your breathing.

This is pointless.

You pull away from the window frame and turn to head back to bed, but a snapping branch halts you. Slowly, you turn back, step toward the window, and shut it with frustration.

Resting your head against the cool glass, you close your eyes, feeling its chill against your skin.

After a moment, you reopen your eyes and gaze into the yard once more.

Tiny pinpoints of light flicker among the trees, and you squint, searching the darkness. Still cloaked in the forest's shadows, the two points of light draw nearer, stopping just a few feet from your window. You blink, and the lights blink back.

Your heart hammers against your ribs as those twin points of light remain fixed on your window. They're eyes—you know they're eyes—glowing with an unnatural red luminescence that no human could possess.

Slowly, a figure detaches itself from the darkness. He steps forward, moonlight gradually revealing him inch by inch: first the outline of broad shoulders, then the familiar rumpled shirt, now stained dark with what you know is blood. His face comes into view last, pale and beautiful in its terrible way, those glowing eyes fixed unblinkingly on yours.

It's him. The man from the street. The monster who tore out those boys' throats with inhuman strength and savage teeth.

He stands perfectly still at the edge of your yard, hands in his pockets just as they had been before, casual as if he were merely a neighbor stopping by. But there's nothing casual about the intensity of his gaze, the way it pins you in place even through the glass and distance between you.

A small, knowing smile curves his lips, and he raises one hand in a gesture that might almost be friendly—a little wave, as if acknowledging an old acquaintance. The simple humanity of the gesture makes it all the more chilling.

You want to scream, to call for help, to wake the household—but your voice is trapped in your throat. Besides, what would you say? Who would believe you? And what if your cries only invited him in?

He takes a single step forward, then another, moving with deliberate slowness toward your window. Each footfall is silent on the grass, predatory grace in every movement. The distance between you shrinks with each passing second.

He doesn't stop until he's merely inches from your window, eyes boring into yours. Your breath hitches, and you try to step back, but you can't. It's like you're frozen.

His breath fogs the glass between you, a reminder of the thin barrier separating you from whatever he is. He raises one pale finger and traces a pattern on the window, the squeak of skin against glass making your skin crawl.

"Y'know," he says, voice muffled but still audible through the glass, "there are rules to these things."

You remain frozen, unable to speak, but he continues as if you'd asked a question.

"I cain't come in uninvited." His eyes—those terrible, beautiful eyes—crinkle slightly at the corners, almost amused. "Old magic. Very inconvenient."

He leans closer, his forehead nearly touching the glass. "But you could invite me in. Just a few 'lil words. 'Come in.' That's all it'd take."

Your throat constricts with fear, but you manage to shake your head slightly.

He sighs, a surprisingly human sound. "I saved you. Those boys—" he makes a dismissive gesture with his hand, "—they had very specific plans fer you. Nasty ones." His voice drops lower, more intimate. "I could've let 'em. Would've been much easier fer me."

The memory of those boys blocking your path flashes in your mind, their leering faces, their threatening postures. You shudder.

"See? Y'know I'm right." His finger traces another pattern on the glass, almost hypnotic. "Just a little invitation. A thank you for my... intervention. That's only polite, ain't it?"

Something in his tone shifts, grows harder. "Or I could wait. I'm a very patient man, sugar. I could visit every night, watchin' you. Waitin' for that moment when you step outside alone after dark, or when you get home late from bible study." His smile widens, revealing teeth that are too sharp, too white. "Wouldn't it be better to just... get it over with? On yer terms?"

You feel a strange pull, a desire to reach for the latch, to open the window wider and speak those fatal words. Your hand even twitches at your side, as if it might move of its own accord.

"Just say it," he whispers, eyes boring into yours. "Invite me in."

Your fingers tremble against your thigh, caught in a war between reaching for the window latch and clenching into a fist. Something shameful and electric pulses through you—a feeling you don't want to name.

There's terror, yes—raw and primal—but beneath it lies something more disturbing. A fascination. A pull. Your eyes can't help but trace the sharp angles of his face, the fullness of his lips now clean of blood, the way his shirt clings to the contours of his body.

"This ain't right," you whispered, more to yourself than to him.

His smile deepens, knowing. "Few worthwhile things are."

Heat rushes to your cheeks, and you hate yourself for it. How could your body betray you like this? How could you feel anything but revulsion for the creature who tore out human throats before your eyes? The memory of violence should repulse you, drive you away—instead, it mingles with his current gentleness in a cocktail of confusion that makes your head swim.

You close your eyes, trying to block him out, but that only intensifies your awareness of him—his scent somehow reaching you through the glass, something ancient and dangerous. When you open your eyes again, he's watching you with a patience that spans centuries.

"Yer afraid," he says softly. "But not only afraid."

Your cheeks burn hotter. He sees through you so easily, this predator at your window. The worst part is the thrill that runs through you at being so thoroughly seen.

"I don't want this," you say, voice barely audible.

"Ohhh sure you do, darlin." His head tilts slightly, curious. "Your heart says otherwise. I can hear it—racing not just with fear, but with somethin' else."

You press your hand against your chest, as if you could quiet the betraying organ. "You're a monster."

"Yes," he agrees simply. "And yet, here you are. Still lookin'. Still listenin'."

He's right, and you hate that he's right. You should be running, screaming, praying—anything but this strange, suspended moment where you can't tear yourself away from his gaze. "You know I can't..."

He takes a deep breath, clicking his tongue in thought. "Yer really gonna make me beg for it, huh?" He said, his voice dropping to a conspiring whisper. "I can make you feel so good, lampkin. You just gots to let me in."

"I won't."

"You will."

Your hand trembles as it hovers near the window latch. One simple motion, one whispered invitation, and he would be inside. The thought sends shivers of fear and anticipation down your spine.

"What would happen?" you ask, your voice barely audible. "If I let you in..."

His eyes gleam in the darkness. "Aw, don't be coy, now." He continued, his voice low, "Aincha tired? Of playin' the good girl?"

"I ain't playin."

"Then let me inside."

Your jaw clenched, and you pressed your lips together, like if you opened them, you wouldn't know what would come out. But, God, you wanted to. You wanted to just say that one word to let him in and receive all the pleasure and indulgence he was promising. But your silence hung loud. You were afraid.

And you could tell he knew it too.

His hands tightened perilously around the frame of the window, a cage of fingers desperate to pull you in while keeping him locked out. The tendons in his wrists flexed like claws. His breath caught, a raw rasp in the air. When he spoke, his voice was shredded with wanting: "Open this window. And. Let. Me. In."

His words dissolved the fragile armor you had tried to build against him, slipping silently into your gut like a seduction turned weapon. It was over; you knew it then. A warning shrieked from the rational recesses of your mind—run, hide. Yet something deeper, something primal and inexplicable, whispers that perhaps death isn't the worst fate imaginable.

You shuddered beneath the weight of your own surrender, and a tiny gasp escaped your lips. "Come in," you finally caved, voice barely even audible. With a trembling hand, you reached for the latch and started to open the window for him.

He climbed through the window almost as soon as you opened it, his movements quick and jerky. One moment he was outside, the next he stood before you, close enough that you could feel the unnatural coolness radiating from his skin.

His eyes never left yours, that unblinking gaze holding you captive. The red glow had dimmed somewhat, but still flickered in their depths. His lips curled into a satisfied smile, revealing just the barest hint of those terrible teeth.

"There now," he murmured, his voice somehow more intimate, more dangerous in the confined space of your bedroom. "Was that so hard?"

The air between you seemed to crackle with electricity as he took a single step closer. You instinctively backed away, your calves hitting the edge of your bed, but there was nowhere left to retreat. He raised his hand slowly, deliberately, giving you every chance to flinch away—but you remained frozen, caught between terror and that inexplicable, shameful fascination.

His fingertips brushed your cheek with unexpected gentleness, cool against your feverish skin. The contact was feather-light, almost reverent, yet it sent a jolt through your entire body as if you'd been struck by lightning. Your breath caught in your throat, and your eyes fluttered closed for just a moment, your body betraying you once again.

"So warm," he murmured, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw. "I'd almost forgot what it feels like."

His touch traveled downward, fingers trailing along the column of your throat where your pulse hammered wildly against your skin. He paused there, feeling the rhythm of your fear and anticipation beneath his fingertips, a small smile playing at his lips.

Then his mouth was on yours, crushing, demanding. His body crowded yours, a solid wall of desperate need, pinning you against the momentum. Tongues tangled, a frantic, messy collision – less kiss, more claiming. He tasted your surprise, the faint saltiness, a familiar sweetness underneath. He pushed harder, fueled by years of starvation, a blind drive to consume. The world tilted. Balance lost. You went down in a tangle of limbs, hitting the floor with a muffled thud.

SMUT WARNING!!

He landed mostly on top, the impact insignificant. Air sawed in and out of his lungs. Below him, you. Your eyes wide, lips swollen, glistening with saliva – his saliva. The sight sent a jolt straight to his groin, his trousers suddenly, painfully tight. A trace of drool beaded at the corner of his mouth, dripping down his chin.

You gazed up at him, eyes shimmering with pent-up desire, chest heaving with each rapid, anticipation-filled breath. "You're droolin'," you ogled.

He smiled.

"It ain't my fault you taste so good." He crawled over your body and caged it under his with his pelvis slotted between your thighs, "I want you to beg for it. Beg for me." Between layers of your nightshirt and his trousers, his cock ground into your mound while his clawed hand slid along the warm skin of your thigh. Your nightshirt rode up, until he reached your hip where the fabric of it bunched, its soft flesh dimpling in his bruising grasp.

"Say it," He crooned into your neck, breathing in your scent, his red eyes dilating beneath eyelids that fluttered closed. "Say, 'Remmick, please give me what I need.'"

Remmick. That was his name?

You let out a whimper, quickly biting down hard on your lower lip in a desperate attempt to muffle the wanton sound. "P-please... Remmick," You begged, staring up at him with pleading eyes.

A sinister laugh rumbled through Remmick, the sound dark and gravelly as it shook against your chest. "Atta-girl," he growled, nipping sharply at your earlobe. His hand, clutching your hip, slipped between your thighs, where he discovered you were bare under your nightshirt, and he hummed delightfully. He dropped his forehead against your shoulder as a groan rumbled deep in his chest when he found you wet and swollen, teeth grazing the skin on your collarbone.

The tip of Remmicks nose skated along your sweat-slick neck until his lips found your ear and brushed against the shell of it as he spoke. "Yer soaked." He whispered, fingers finding your clit and circling it with torturing slowness, rolling the slick bud beneath the pad of his fingers.

You gasped, back instinctively arching on the floor as you craved more of that sweet friction. "S-stop teasin' me," you whined

"Why? Did you need somethin'?" He taunts. You want to snap at him to go faster, but getting irritated would only delay it more. "Use yer words, sugar." He sank his middle and ring fingers inside you, grinning devilishly against your neck, before delivering a sharp bite.

You let out a strangled moan, turning your head to the side to try to escape Remmick's' sharp teeth and scorching breath. "What do you need?" He asked, words muffled as they sawed between his teeth and your flesh. He curled his fingers into the bundle of nerves at the front of your walls. "Say it."

You clenched your thighs together, trying to trap his invading fingers, but the slick heat of you only allowed them to sink deeper. "I need you," you writhed, unable to keep still.

Remmick's fingers never ceased their brutal pumping, plunging in and out of your soaked, clutching heat. As he worked he watched you struggle, your nails digging into the wood floors. For a few minutes there's nothing but the obscene sound of your arousal, mingling with the creaking of the wood floors and your increasingly ragged breaths.

Your spine twisted into knots at the bottom of your back, hips bucking to meet the angle of fingers. The muscles in your stomach clenched, and your head lolled back, eyes closed, unshameful moans of pleasure quietly resonating through the room. Just when you felt the consistent building of your orgasm about to release, insides twitching around his fingers, he withdrew them, lifting his head up just enough to meet your gaze.

Looking up at him in confusion, your eyes followed his fingers as he brought them to his mouth, sucking them clean with a predatory hum. He removed them with a wet pop, grinning wildly as he saw your lips part in protest.

"What? You want'a taste?" He teased, saliva-soaked fingers glinting in the dark light. He brought his hand close to your mouth, stopping when the pads of his fingers grazed over your lips. "Open wide."

The tips of his fingers pushed past your lips, and your mouth parted farther, making space for his digits to wedge further inside. He leaned in lips brushing against your temple and he buried his nose in your hair and breathed. He groaned, fingers pushing deeper into your mouth. You choked quietly, but that didn't stop him. He watched as you struggled to take his fingers, your lips around him.

His cock throbbed at seeing you like this. Quivering and needy. It was almost enough to make him come right then and there.

Remmick slowly pulled his fingers out of your mouth, smearing the spit across your lips.

He captured your chin in his hand, forcing you to meet his smoldering red eyes as he loomed over you. His own gaze was dark with lust and a twisted sort of affection, his pupils blown wide and dilating as he looked at you, drinking in every expression and breath.

HIs other hand slid up from your hip, claws raking lightly over the soft skin of your belly before cupping the swell of your breast. He could feel your heart pounding beneath his palm, could feel the way your nipple pebbled against the thin fabric of her nightshirt. He tweaked the sensitive nub between his fingers, rolling and pinching it until you gasped, back arching off the floor.

"It feels good, don't it?" He murmured, his breath hot against your neck. His lips found yours, claiming your mouth in a demanding kiss. His tongue pushed past your teeth, invading, conquering, laying waste to any resistance you might have left.

He could feel you melting, could feel the fight draining out of you as he touched you, kissed you, filled you.

He broke the kiss, leaving you gasping and panting beneath him. "Now," he said softly, almost gently. "I'm gon make you feel real good."

He positions his arms on either side of you, and lowers his mouth onto your neck. The sudden feeling of his lips made you whimper, and he chased after the sound, trailing down your throat towards your chest... down your stomach... down your thighs.

As he pulled closer to your heat, you couldn't help but squirm under him. He gripped your thighs and lifted them off the floor, getting on his knees and lowering his head between your thighs. He slowly made his way upwards, breath hot against your skin.

When he reached your core, there was a pause before he pressed his mouth against you. You let out a pathetic moan as his tongue licked a warm, wet strip to the center of your cunt. Your head lolled back as the feeling of him lapping at you was so overwhelming you didn't know what to do.

He drags his tongue up your clit, wrapping his lips around the bud and sucking. Hard. You practically scream out in pleasure before slapping a hand to your mouth, remembering where you were.

You feel him grin into your pussy as he sucks harder and you twitch. Your hand flies into his hair, gripping the strands and pushing his head deeper as you chase your climax. He doesn't seem to mind it though.

"I'm gonna - fuck," you said, breathless as you feel your orgasm building inside you. You clench your thighs around his help, but his grip on your hips tightens, spreading them apart again.

"Remmick - wait," you said, but he doesn't stop. He wanted you to come undone in his mouth.

He watched you hungrily, eyes on your throat as your head fell back, restless whimpers falling from your lips. He delivered one finally suck, the pressure driving you over the edge. You let out a ragged cry, legs closing around his head. Your hips shoot upwards, grinding into him as you ride out your orgasm.

You lay, worn out, chest heaving. You stared at the ceiling, eyes heavy, hands falling to your sides. Remmick stayed between your thighs, dragging his tongue around your skin to clean you up. "You alright?"

You let out a drowsy hum in response, eyes following him as he climbed on top of you. You watched as he smiled down at you, lips brushing against your temple tenderly. He kneeled back, observing you lying there. Without warning, he lifted you up.

You murmured in protest, but he hushed you softly, "Shhh, stay quiet." He carried you to your bed and placed you gently on the mattress. You watched him through half-lidded eyes, feeling unexpectedly calm given the... circumstances.

"I've gotta' leave now," he said softly, brushing your hair away from your face.

"And why is that?"

"'Cause I just have to." You let out a small huff, but he merely laughed quietly. "Best you sleep now." He stood up straight, taking a step backwards towards the open window. "But, I'll be back soon enough."

A shiver coursed through your body, not of fear, but of anticipation. It was as if the very air around you had changed—charged with a new energy. The weight of fear had lifted, replaced by a sense of exhilaration and readiness that warmed your core. Something had shifted within you, and you realized you were no longer afraid of him. Not even in the slightest.

2K notes · View notes

multifandom-26 · 1 year ago

Text

I love this ✨💗

Don't Gloat

(From the "Shut Up" kiss starter prompts, found here)

CW: Richie being Richie, swearing, mild violence (a misunderstanding), smut (PiV, protected). 18+ only.

Word Count: 7289

AN: Requested by an anonymous person, place, or thing!

AN2: Drabble? I don't know her, apparently.

Your first real fight is over chicken.

You squabble, pretty much from day one. Carmy hires you to help in the kitchen, and Richie immediately takes an intense dislike to you. Adding you upsets the delicate ecosystem of The Beef. You are unnecessary. Richie makes it known on your first day.

“Don’t get comfortable,” he warns an hour into service. “Cousin doesn’t run things.”

“Seems like he does,” you shoot back.

“I’m the manager here.”

Here is where the dislike really starts. Richie is rude and sarcastic, but you’re a chameleon. You can shift and change your demeanor to match what someone is giving you, so when Richie is rude and sarcastic to you, you respond in kind.

You call him “Mister Manager” in a tone dripping with sarcasm, and by the end of that first shift, Richie completely hates you.

The feeling is mutual by the end of your second shift.

At first, you just squabble. You trade barbs and insults. When Richie throws a temper tantrum over Carmy’s organization of the spices, you pout and turn to Ibra and posit that Richie is grumpy because he needs a juice box and a nap. Which makes Ibra cock his head at you. He speaks English impeccably, but sometimes he misses the finer nuances of language like sarcasm.

“I do not think we have juice boxes here,” Ibra says, and Tina swats him as she walks past.

“She’s being sarcastic, you old bitch,” she tells him.

The allusion to Richie being a toddler isn’t far off. He acts childish all the time. He flings cookware around when he’s having a tantrum. He swears, he throws out middle fingers like an angry pre-teen.

He hides your expensive Henckles knives. He turns the heat up or down when your back is turned. Once, he parks you in behind The Beef, and when you go to leave, he’s nowhere to be found—you end up doing a thirty-six point turn, a fraction at a time, before you can properly pull out and drive away.

But your first real fight is over chicken.

The meat delivery is wrong one day. You’re short on beef, but there’s five whole chickens, and Carmy throws up his hands and tells you to come up with something.

So you do.

You roast them low and slow so they stay tender, and you’re putting the finishing touches on the sauce—an adobo-based barbeque that’s the perfect blend of tangy and smoky—when Richie strolls in. He’s in his stupid leather jacket and ridiculous blue track pants, and he announces himself with his usual grinning, “what’s up, you fucking lizards?”

Sweeps and Manny call out their hellos, but Richie ignores them. He’s already super-focused on you…and the sauce you’re stirring over a low heat.

“What the fuck is that?” he asks. He stands too close to you, dips his head close to the pot, and takes a loud sniff of it. Then rears back with a grimace, like you’re simmering a pot of shit and not a finely balanced sauce for your roasting chickens.

“It’s barbeque sauce. For the chicken.”

“What fucking chicken?”

“Meat delivery was fucked up,” Carmy calls across the kitchen.

Richie scoffs and turns to Carmy, and he gestures at you and your sauce. “No offence, Cousin, but the place is called ‘The Beef.’”

“No offence, Cousin, but fuck off,” Carmy replies.

“Heaven forbid we try something new,” you add. You snap the heat off and settle a lid over the pot to allow the flavors time to mellow together. Once the chicken is done, you’ll shred it and mix it in. You have a red cabbage slaw planned for it, and thin slices of sharp cheddar to round it out. You turn towards the refrigerator, but Richie blocks your path.

“Nothing Italian about whatever the fuck that is.” He glares down at you; he’s half a head taller than you, but he has a way of puffing out his chest like a bantam rooster spoiling for a fight.

Maybe other people are cowed by his posturing, but you’re unimpressed and not scared at all.

“It’s about as Italian as ‘Jerimovich.’”

His chest puffs out more, and he takes a half step closer to you. This close, you can smell the cigarette smoke that clings to him, the old man cologne he splashes on with a heavy hand, the subtler scent of laundry detergent.

“People come here every day and get the same thing,” he says. “Same order every fuckin’ day. No one is gonna order whatever fancy Noma bullshit you’re trying to pull out of your ass.”

You take a half step up to him and puff out your chest, and it makes Richie falter for a moment. He leans back, just a fraction, but you note the movement and smirk up at him. You reach out and poke him in the sternum with a forefinger, driving home each point.

“One, this isn’t Noma bullshit. It’s literally slow-roasted chicken. Two, it’s a pretty simple sauce. Maybe it seems fancy to you because it’s more challenging to your palate than chicken nuggets. Three, some customers might appreciate a change in their usual lunch order. Not everyone is so resistant to change, Cousin.”

Your use of the familiar nickname makes his nostrils flare and his eyes widen in anger. “I’m not your fucking Cousin.”

“Sure you are, Cousin.”

“Stop it.”

“I’ll save you a sandwich, Cousin.” The thought occurs to you that you’re being childish now, that Richie has brought out some immature part of you, and you think it’s kinda fun, being a juvenile brat at work and leaning into the fight.

“Fucking stop it.”

“Stop what, Cousin?”

He turns away from you so quick, it makes you blink in surprise. “Fucking bitch,” he mutters to himself, but he’s striding across the kitchen towards the office, and he’s calling for Carmy, so you follow at his heels and call for Carmy too.

“Yo, Cousin, can you fucking fire her already? Jesus fucking Christ, I—” he starts, but you cut him off, mimic his growling voice and Chicago accent.

“Yo, Carmy, when are we gonna fire Richie already? I mean, the place is changing—”

It makes Richie go fully nuclear. The mention of change makes him apoplectic. He turns and crowds you against the door jamb, and he gets right in your face: so close that you can see his eyes aren’t completely blue—they are flecked with grey, like bits of mica in pavement. You’re startled for a moment, surprised to find that his eyes are beautiful, but you obviously don’t say anything because he’s snarling in your face.

“Fuck you!” he spits out, and he points a finger inches from your face. “Fuck you! Nothin’ is changin’ here! Nothin’ needs to change!”

And then he gives you his patented Richie double-chin flick, and he mutters some Italian insult you don’t know, and he’s marching through the kitchen to leave.

Not before he sweeps your mise en place off the counter, sending thin-sliced cabbage and vinegar flying.

Carmy stares at you with a look that is purely beleaguered. He sighs, he scrubs his face with his hands, and he runs them through his hair before he sighs again.

“Whatever you and Richie have going on? Squash that shit, Chef.”

You nod, embarrassed at rising—or sinking—to Richie’s childishness. “Yes, Chef,” you reply.

-----

“Squashing it” mostly means that you and Richie only fight when Carmy isn’t within earshot.

Your fighting still entails getting in each other’s faces. It still means you insult each other, albeit more quietly. You hiss insults at him, he grumbles them back. You part when Carmy shows up, and you each stew in your separate corners and wait for the next round.

You start to suss out where the limits are. You insult him as a father one single time, and the flash of hurt on his face makes you hold up your hands in a truce and apologize.

He insults you once as a woman with daddy issues, and the words hit you like a punch to the gut. You did grow up without a father—he died when you were six, and your only memories of him are full of pain from the stomach cancer that slowly killed him. But you must show the hurt on your face too because Richie takes a step backwards away from you, stammers out an apology too.

All told, once you know each other’s hard limits, you actually fight pretty nicely, and if anyone notices it, no one says anything.

-----

Sunday nights are a good time to come in to The Beef and set yourself up for the week. You work it out with Carmy because it gives him a break and gives you a few more hours. You enjoy the time there with the restaurant being closed—you blast your music, you sing along at the top of your lungs as you rotate stock, make detailed shopping lists for Carmy, and make sure everything is clean.

If one thing infuriates you, it’s the way certain national media outlets focus on Chicago as a cesspool of violence. But it is a large city, and violence does happen, so when you’re in the basement of The Beef and hear the beep of the alarm system as it is deactivated, you immediately feel ice cold all over. The alarm system, Ibra told you once, is easily overcome, and The Beef has been robbed before.

You glance around and see that you’re trapped, unless you want to rush up the steps (not advisable) or shimmy out a tiny window at street level (also not advisable). There’s nothing in the way of weapons in the basement either, so you arm yourself with a half-burnt cookie sheet and tremble as you listen to the heavy tread above you.

Maybe they’ll just trash the place and leave. There’s nothing worth stealing, unless they want to wheel out the massive, ancient Hobart. Maybe they’ll get into Marcus’s stash of good vanilla. Maybe they’ll—

Maybe they’ll make their way to the top of the stairs. Maybe they’ll pause there and start walking down to where you wait. You try not to breathe too loud, but your heart is hammering in your chest, your pulse is in your ears, and you’re flooded with adrenaline as the shoes of your would-be assailant come into view.

You don’t hear Richie’s voice when he calls out your name. You’re too panicked. You don’t hear him, and you don’t even register him when he rounds the corner—he’s in his usual track pants and leather jacket—because you’re fully in fight-or-flight mode…and independent of your will, your body chooses fight.

“Fuck you!” you scream, and you swing the cookie sheet directly at his head with all the force you can muster. Your assailant stumbles backwards with a cry of pain, and you drop the pan and try to scramble past him, but you trip over his foot in your panic and fall hard, cracking your shinbone against the lowest step.

If you ever idly wondered how you’d react in a real life-or-death scenario, here is your answer: you scream and scream, and you clutch one hand to your throbbing shin but flail your other hand at the person reaching for you, and it’s not until you smell him—the familiar cigarette/old man cologne smell—that your panic ebbs a little.

And then you see those blue eyes flecked with grey, and even if Richie is your enemy at work, he’s never really been an enemy in the true sense of the word. The relief that you aren’t about to be raped or murdered floods you so suddenly that you burst into tears.

And then you hug him, your arms so tight around his middle that he breathes out a sharp oof, but then he wraps one arm around your trembling form while the other clutches his bleeding nose in an attempt to staunch the blood.

“What the fuck’s wrong with you?” he asks. His voice is thick and nasally, but there’s a hint of amusement to it.

“Thought you were an intruder.” You release him from your hold, and you will yourself to stop shaking.

“Carmy.” He shakes his head. “Guess Food and Wine’s Best New Asshole didn’t tell you I was coming by.”

“He did not.”

Richie reaches into his pocket and pulls out a wrinkled napkin. He presses it to his nose and winces, and your panic is replaced by shame. You’ll never live this down, you realize. Richie is going to tell everyone first thing tomorrow, and he’ll add his usual Richie flourishes to make your screams more shrill, your flailing more erratic in the retelling.

His nose stops bleeding, and he checks it tentatively. He prods at the swollen skin, red that is going to bruise by morning. He fixes you with a curious look.

“You hit harder than I would have thought.”

“I play softball.”

“Where?”

“Lincoln Park. At the North Avenue fields.”

He huffs at that. Clears his throat. “Yeah, my daughter has t-ball there.”

Your panic is gone now, and you feel more like yourself. Your leg throbs at where you banged it, and it will be bruised by morning like Richie’s face. You limp over to the big table and gather up your coat and purse.

“Don’t do that,” you tell Richie.

“Do what?”

“Don’t…whatever. Talk to me nice. Tell me about your daughter. Don’t do that.”

He snorts and says, “why the fuck not?”

“Because we’re not friends, and you scared the shit out of me, and now I’m all keyed up and just want to get home instead of having an impromptu bonding session with the one guy at The Beef who truly, honesty hates me.”

“Alright, fine. You’re a fucking head-case to freak out the way you did, and I think you broke my fucking nose. Better?”

It startles a laugh out of you, and your laughter makes Richie grin. It’s shy, and he ducks his head, but you catch it all the same.

He clears his throat again, then asks if you drove there. You tell him no—you had a premium parking spot on your street, so you took the L. He nods at that, and he seems to be thinking through something, so you pull on your coat and sling your bag over your shoulder and wait for him to say something.

“Let me drive you home, at least, “he finally offers. “You’re all sorts of fucked up.”

“I’m fine.”

“The hell you are. Someone looks at you wrong on the train, gonna catch an assault charge.”

“You’d love to see me in prison,” you reply. “Out of your way. No one left to defiantly make a delicious chicken sandwich special and destroy the system here.”

“Asshole.” He shakes his head, then gestures for you to take the stairs ahead of him. “I’m driving you home. Let’s go.”

You can’t admit that a ride sounds fantastic. You do feel keyed up, anxious and twitchy, and even if it’s Richie, you’re grateful for the offer.

Even so, as you limp upstairs, the pain in your leg makes it easier to admit to him. You turn as he resets the alarm, and you thank him, softly.

“Yeah, fine. Whatever.” He points at his car, then grumbles, “c’mon already.”

-----

Somehow, it becomes a thing.

Sunday evenings become yours and Richie’s thing. The work should go twice as fast, but Richie doesn’t work so much as… not work. He leans in the doorway of the walk-in as you take inventory, he perches on the counter as you make giardiniera for the next day. He sits in the office as you write out the order list for Carmy, and he gripes about how long you’re taking, how he has better things to do.

If that were true, why does he spend every Sunday with you? You doubt Food and Wine’s Best New Asshole told him to, yet he shows up every week and complains the entire time. He complains the entire drive to your place, and when you thank him for the ride, he either flips you off or makes a jacking-off motion with his hand before he peels away from your curb.

“You almost done?” he asks now. “Got shit to do.”

“You don’t have shit to do.” You check the takings from last week, do a quick calculation in the margin of the print-out. “If you did, you wouldn’t be here.”

“Someone’s gotta keep an eye on you.”

“Why, you afraid I might introduce a dish that isn’t entirely Italian-American approved?”

He grumbles, “nothin’ needs to change. Menu’s fine the way it is.”

“You really don’t have to stay, Richie. I can handle myself.”

“Bullshit you can.” He leans forward, taps the side of his nose. “You handle yourself so well, you dislocated my fucking nose.”

“And it gave your face some character,” you retort.

“What’s wrong with my face?”

You glance at him, roll your eyes. “Aside from the fact it’s always in my face, glaring or stirring up shit? Nothing.”

He leans back in his chair again and sighs. “I don’t stir up shit.”

“You do.”

“Don’t.”

“Yes, you do.”

“No, I fucking don’t.”

“You talk way too much, Richard.”

“Don’t call me fucking Richard. You sound like my asshole mother-in-law.” He pauses, then amends it to, “my former asshole mother-in-law.”

A long beat of silence passes. You calculate the meat order, the vegetables, the shelf stable stuff. You balance out the order against where there’s already overdue bills—Carmy is juggling the vendors as best he can, and you try to give him relief where you can—

“Done yet?”

“Nope.” You cross out the one line for the produce vendor, split it between two vendors. “What are you in such a hurry for?”

“Told you. I got stuff to do.”

You glance over at him. He does seem more keyed up. His leg bounces up and down, and he wrings his hands in his lap.

“What sort of stuff?” you ask.

He mumbles his answer, and you miss it at first. When you arch an eyebrow at him, he repeats it. An embarrassed, “got a date.”

You pause in your writing and turn to face him. Fak told you once about Richie’s imploded marriage, and he had heavily implied that Richie was still pining for his ex-wife. “A date?”

He shrugs. “Kind of a date.”

“What’s kind of a date?”

Another shrug, and he fixes his gaze to the dirty tile floor. “We went out last week, and we talked about grabbing a drink tonight. I was gonna text her after I drop you off.”

“Sounds like a regular date to me.”

He lifts his hands in a gesture of helplessness, then lets them fall again. “I dunno. Wasn’t really feeling it, you know?”

You turn completely to face him, your list forgotten. “Then why agree to a second date?”

Another shrug, a sheepish lift and fall of his shoulders. The two of you are toeing the line of near-friendship, your usual squabbling turning into an honest-to-god friendly chat, but maybe Richie doesn’t have any confidants in his life, because he sighs, then mutters about how she seemed cold, how she wasn’t charmed by his Bill Murray voicemail greeting story, but how he thought he should try anyway—

“Richie, I’m not your gal pal in a rom-com, but if you aren’t feeling it, don’t do it. Jesus, that’s just common sense.”

He fixes you with a glare. “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize you were a goddamned relationship expert.”

“It’s common sense.”

“When was the last time you went on a date?”

You bristle at the question. Your love life is about as dead as The Beef’s commercial credit, but Richie doesn’t need to know that. But you hesitate long enough that he can guess, and he laughs at you, and you bristle more.

“I knew it!” He points at you, and you swat at his hand until he lowers it. “You give off this whole ‘hasn’t been laid in a long time’ vibe.”

You turn away from him and bend your head back to your ordering list. “Shut up,” you mumble.

“All those prissy little dishes you add to the menu. You’re all wound up. It makes sense.”

“My culinary excellence has nothing to do with my love life or lack thereof.” You hope your tone is even and nonchalant, but you fear it comes out as defensive. Which it must, because Richie holds up his hands again.

“No judgement. It’s tough out there. I get it.”

You groan and turn away from him, twisting yourself to get his smirking face out of your peripheral. “You should leave. Go get ready for your kind-of date.”

“Nah.”

“Seriously, you can go.”

“Nah.” You hear his deep breath, then a beat later, he continues.

“If you ever want to blow off some steam, we could…” He trails off, but his intent is clear, and you feel a prickly heat break out across your skin.

“…shut up, Richie.”

You turn a little and he reappears in your peripherals. He presses his hands together in a prayer position, then presses his fingertips near his mouth in an expression of thoughtfulness.

“Shut up, Richie isn’t no, Richie.”

“It’s most certainly no, Richie.”

“Look at me.”

“I gotta finish this list and send it to Carmy—”

“Look at me, sweetheart.”

You can’t. You stare at your handwriting—the 50 pounds of cake flour Marcus needs—and you feel yourself heating up at the sudden image of you and Richie—no, you shove the mental image away, shake your head to clear it, and the man notices all of it.

“Why can’t you look at me?” he asks, and his voice is soft, low. A graveled rumble, roughened by the cigarettes he chain-smokes when he’s not inside, and you don’t know if it really has been that long, but it’s a step-progression of reactions in your body. The prickle of heat along your skin, the way your skin feels too tight. The way your mouth feels too dry all of a sudden.

The strong, traitorous pulse of desire between your legs. Fuck.

“Wouldn’t have to mean anything,” he continues with that low voice. “No one would have to know.”

“Shut up, Richie.”

“Still not hearing a no, sweetheart.”

You breathe in deeply through your nose, then turn to face him squarely. You look him right in his eyes—those bright blue eyes, flecked with grey, beautiful—and say, “No, Richie.”

He stares back at you, and a smile slowly unfurls across his face. A real smile, not his usual shit-eating grin or smarmy smirk. A real smile that, paired with his gorgeous eyes, makes his face transform into something beautiful. It’s like he’s lifted his mask for a moment and is showing you who he really is.

“You’re tempted.” He sounds in awe of the revelation, and he leans back against the wall. “Holy shit, you’re really tempted by it.”

“No, I’m—”

“Bullshit,” he cuts you off. “You are.” His smile stays fixed on his face, and he shakes his head. “Holy shit, sweetheart.”

You grumble out the weakest rebuttal, but he only laughs and shakes his head again, and the last half hour is passed in uncomfortable silence: you as you email the shopping list to Carmy with hands you will into steadiness, and Richie as he grins at you and chuckles to himself.

Of course he drives you home, just as he always does.

And of course he parks his car and comes up to your apartment when you invite him up, which is a first.

*****

A therapist would have a lifetime of secure business if Richie ever decided to pursue therapy for himself. Not that he would—feelings are bullshit, and life is tough all over—but if he did…there’d be a lot of deep shit to mine.

At the core of him, Richie is desperately insecure. He had a dicey childhood, and he glommed on the Berzatto family to make up for his own family’s shortcomings. He had Tiff, for a glorious while, then lost her. He has his daughter, but only part-time. He lost Mikey, the nearest thing to a brother, and now he’s slowly losing The Beef as it becomes something more than a sandwich shop.

No wonder he feels lost all the time. No wonder he lashes out and hurts those closest to him.

No wonder he’s been riding your ass for months, trying to get you to quit even as his initial dislike has mellowed out to acceptance and then to…something else he won’t name.

He can’t lie to himself: that night in the basement shifted things. Maybe you concussed him along with the dislocated nose. Maybe he has slight brain damage. He can’t account for it any other way, how seeing you so terrified caused a sea-change in him. How feeling your arms around him, clinging to him and trembling so hard, softened him towards you.

He won’t name it. He won’t even think it. The most he’ll admit is, “maybe I don’t completely hate her.”

Which somehow turns into this moment. The two of you awkwardly standing in your entryway, unsure if the other is bluffing, unsure if the other is serious. There’s too much bad blood in your shared past, and you each are expecting the other to say “sike!,” to turn it into a humiliating story to share in the morning with the crew.

You’re both wrong.

“So, uh, nice place.” He looks around your apartment and rubs the back of his neck. “You got a lot of books.”

“I like to read.”

“Yeah. Nice.” He takes a few steps deeper into your place, and he studies the titles on the nearest bookshelf. “Stephen King. Clive Barker. You like the spooky shit, huh?”

“Nothing as scary as being ambushed in the basement at night by you.”

He snorts, shakes his head. As he’s softened towards you, your teasing has gotten gentler too. You’ve always rose to meet his energy, and now that he’s not actively despising you (he won’t name it, he will not), you aren’t actively despising him.

“Nothing as scary as seeing a giant fucking sheet pan flying at your face—”

You cut him off. “Okay, Richie. Enough.”

“I’m just saying—”

“Enough words. More action.” You face him and lift your eyebrows challengingly. “Unless this was all a ruse.”

He shakes his head.

“Unless this is just a prank to embarrass me later.”

He shakes his head again, and he flexes his hands along his sides. He’s itching to reach out and touch you—he remembers the feel of you in his arms, the way you tucked so perfectly against him when you were scared. You had been relieved to see it had been him; you had felt safe enough to reach for him, and he’s been chasing that high ever since. A therapist would make short work of this moment, but Richie wants to feel important to you again. He wants to feel like you need him to protect you, to shelter you. He wants to feel like a man, needed, necessary—

You’re talking but he doesn’t register the words. Instead, he reaches for you, pulls you to him, and when you look up at him in surprise, he dips his head and kisses you.

It’s brutal at first. He’s out of practice. He’s certainly never kissed someone like you—someone so infuriatingly challenging—and he mashes his lips too hard against yours, can feel your wince as you struggle to kiss him back. So he breaks the kiss and tries again, much more carefully, and it’s so much better: the softness of your lips, the quiet moan you give as you kiss him back.

Maybe you need it bad, but he needs it just as bad, and when he considers why he does, he pushes the thought away completely. Because if he thinks on it too much in this moment, if he thinks on how good it feels, the way you tug at his clothes—eager but shy, your hands steady but your eyes unable to meet his—he’d have to face an uncomfortable truth.

Still, he needs to see you. Needs to look you in the eye. He grasps your chin and tilts your face until you’re looking at him.

“You okay with this?” He says it softly. He says it as kindly as he can.

“Yeah.” You nod, then add, “no one needs to know, right?”

“Right.”

“No one needs to know.”

“Exactly.”

You offer him a smile, and it’s genuine. It’s not your normal smart-ass smirk, the way one corner of your mouth lifts higher than the other. It’s a real smile, and he has to push that uncomfortable truth away again because if you’re cute when you smirk, you’re beautiful when you smile, and Richie can’t dwell on the fact.

“C’mon then, Richard. Bedroom’s this way.”

“Asshole,” he huffs out, but you push his jacket off of his shoulders and let it fall to the ground, and you tug him down your hallway.

You alternate and he lets you strip him and yourself—a piece of his clothing, a piece of yours. You leave a trail so that you’re both nearly naked once you’re in the bedroom. He stands in front of you, his boxers tented, and he takes in the sight of you. In standard, everyday lingerie—dark grey bra and panties—but the everyday shit makes his mouth run dry. Elaborate lingerie is not really his thing, but seeing a woman in her everyday shit, the comfortable cotton shit…that feels more special, somehow. Like you woke up that morning and put on the functional stuff, but now here you are, nearly naked for him.

You always rise to meet his energy. He’s openly ogling you now, and you gaze back at him, openly staring back. He has a moment of doubt—maybe he should lift more, cut back on beers after work—but your eyes are blown dark with desire, and it makes his cock twitch to see it.

You seem to want him as much as he wants you.

“C’mere, you fucking pain in the ass,” he growls, and you roll your eyes but bridge the distance between you. You press the length of your near-naked body against his, and the sudden touch makes him bite back a groan. He puts his hands on your waist, and you lay your palms against his chest, and you kiss again.

The kiss grows and grows. He bullies his way into your mouth, sweeps his tongue and licks against your mouth, and you answer in kind. You kiss him back, and your hands stroke his chest, his shoulders, his arms. One snakes lower and grasps him through his boxers, and he swears against your lips at the feel of your palm stoking him.

He pushes you backwards towards the bed. He pushes you until you hit the bed, and then he pushes you down, but you reach out and grasp him golden chain and tug him down to join you.

You always rise to meet him. He takes charge and slots himself between your legs, but you move eagerly. When he lowers himself onto you, still partially dressed, you lift yourself up and press against him. Your clothed breasts against his chest, and he dips his head and tugs the cups of your bra down until you’re exposed to him. He lowers his head and kisses you, works his mouth against you. He sucks a mark on each curve of your breast, right where your bra will cover. He wants you to see them and think of him, a pair of mementos to this moment.

“Fuck, Richie.” You breathe it out, and your hand cups the back of his head. You hold him against you, and he’s too happy to stay here for a while: sucking against your nipples, biting lightly until you squirm. Laving your tender buds with the flat of his tongue, pinching and tugging until you shove him away with a groan.

“Too much,” you whine, but you tangle in his chain again and tug his mouth to yours. He kisses you, relishes how flushed your skin feels under his lips as he kisses his way across your face, down your neck, across your bare shoulders. He pauses long enough to undo your bra in earnest, tosses it aside. Then he kisses his way down your chest again, traces his tongue further down to your soft belly until his chin is perched right on the waistband of your panties.

“Can I?” he asks. He traces a finger under the lace edging, and he watches your face. You gaze back at him, your eyes still dark and pupils blown. Your lips are swollen, and your chest rises and falls with how hard you’re breathing.

You nod. “You can take them off.”

“Is that it? Nothing else?”

You laugh, breathless. “Some other time. Really want you to fuck me instead.”

Some other time. The thought makes Richie’s dick twitch at the idea of doing this another time.

You feel him twitch against you. You laugh again to feel it, and you lift a leg to hook it clumsily along the waistband of his boxers. You try to push them down, and then you’re chanting “come on, come on, come on” as he scrambles to shuck off the rest of his clothing, scrambles to hook his fingers under your panties as he draws them down your legs.

“Condoms in the bedside stand,” you tell him, and he opens the drawer, snags one. He notes the bright pink vibrator there but doesn’t remark on it. He’ll tuck the image away and revisit it days later in the shower: a rich bit of fantasy where he pictures you masturbating to the thought of him.

He tears the foil with his teeth, and he watches you as he rolls the condom on himself. You’re absolutely fucking gorgeous, better than he ever imagined, and a galling little voice in the back of his head asks, “so you’ve been imagining her, huh, asshole?”

He ignores the voice and what it might say next. He stands over you and asks instead, “how do you want me, sweetheart?”

Another smile. A genuine one. “However you want it.”

“Anal, then.”

It startles a laugh out of you, and Richie thinks he might love that—the way he surprises you into laughing. You prop yourself up on your elbows and look at him. You kick out a bare foot and press your toes low against his belly, centimeters away from touching the tip of his cock where it stands at attention.

“Not that,” you chide. “That requires prep.”

“Not a no, sweetheart.”

“It’s a no for this moment.”

“Hmm. Interesting.” He grips your ankle and circles it with his hand, and he bends your leg. Pushes it away from him, pushes it closer to you, and it reveals your gorgeous pussy to him: the neat-trimmed curls, the slick arousal, the swollen bud of your clit.

“Jesus Christ, sweetheart,” he groans to see you. “Gotta tell me how you want me, and fucking quick.”

“Missionary works for me,” you reply. “Old reliable.”

So he climbs onto you. He kneels between your legs, then pushes them apart obscenely wide. You stay propped up on your elbows, watching him, but when he settles between your thighs, you fall back against your pillow.

“Good?” he asks.

“You haven’t done much,” you point out.

“Smart-ass.” He reaches down and grasps his cock at the base, and he drags the tip of himself through your folds. He coats himself in your arousal, feels the heat of your pussy even through the latex, then notches himself at your entrance. He looks down and pushes just the tip in, and the sight of it—barely inside you, the promise of burying himself inside you—makes his vision go fuzzy around the edges.

“Richie.” You reach up with one hand to cup his face, and you peer up into his eyes. “Fuck me, please.”

Your other hand finds the small of his back. You can’t quite reach his ass, so you lay your palm against the small of his back and urge him forward, and he pushes into you. He goes slow but steady, and he hears your small gasp as your tight cunt makes room for him. He feels the stretch of it, the smooth muscles twitching at him, and he studies your face for any pain but finds none.

“Pussy’s gripping at me,” he grits out once he’s seated in you. “Guess you needed it bad after all.”

“Don’t gloat.” You bear down on him, squeeze him like a fist, and it makes him choke out a curse. “You needed it bad too, I think.”

“Not complaining here, sweetheart.”

You take his chain in your hand and tug him down to you again. You kiss him, then mumble against his mouth, “so fuck me then, Richard. Move.”

He does as you ask. You’re a pain in the ass, and you’re a representative of all the change occurring in his life without his permission, but he wants to make it good for you. He remembers the way you clung to him that night in the basement, and he wants to capture that feeling again…even as he shoves the memory aside and begins to fuck you in earnest.

He doesn’t thrust in and out so much as up and down; he learned this move a long time ago and knows it feels better for his partner. His thrusts hit every part—each reseating brushes the tip of him against the end of you, and it makes you whine each time. The slide in and out, at this angle, draws along the firm bud of your clit. And each time he pushes himself home, the base of him grinds along your clit too, and it makes him feel like a million bucks when you gasp out his name, warn him that you’re close—

“Fuck, fuck. God, Richie, I’m c-close. Don’t stop, don’t stop, don’t—"

And then it tears out of you: the hard snap of your hips as you lift them to meet his most punishing thrust, the way you tremble under him, your legs shaking, your eyes rolled back in your head. The way your cunt grips him, ripples against him until it feels like he’s being pulled into your body, and the thought takes hold of him. He wants to crawl inside you, wants to fill you with himself, wants to merge with you, and the thoughts are so rapid-fire he feels insane for a moment before he settles.

You open your eyes and blink up at him, surprised. “Holy shit.”

“Told you.”

“Don’t gloat.” You lift your head and kiss the side of his neck, and he adjusts himself and keeps fucking you.

He’s hit his rhythm now; he deals you hard thrusts and you take them. You beg for more. His arms burn as he arches over you. His calves burn as he drives his cock into you, and sweat beads along his hairline. He’s covered in a sheen of it, but he doesn’t stop. He fucks you hard, and his gold necklace swings in time to his thrusts. It hits you in your face until you hook it with a finger and put the fucking thing in your mouth, and he doesn’t know why it's so hot—maybe it makes him think of your mouth on parts of him instead of just his necklace.

He makes you come a second time, and it breaks around you again, leaves you trembling and incoherent, but after you recover, you push him over. It’s easy for you to do—he’s winded as fuck from all his smoking—and Richie finds himself underneath you as you ride him.

He’s happy for the break, but he’s happy to see this side of you. Any shyness from earlier is long gone. You sit astride him and bounce on his cock, and it makes your tits bounce too, and he can look down at where he disappears into your tight, wet pussy.

He’s not going to last much longer, and he tells you so.

“S’fine,” you pant out. “Want you to come too, Richie.”

Then you reach down and take his hands in yours, you place his hands on your tits, and he sort of loves how you take charge at the end. You push your chest into his hands and ride him, and once he’s touching you there—pinching at your nipples until you arch your back—you reach down and touch yourself. He watches, transfixed, as you rub a tight circle against your clit, and he can feel you getting close now. Two orgasms down, he can feel the warning signs.

“Try to come with me,” you order him. “Want to feel it.”

He’s close. He’s been close for a while, has been forestalling his own pleasure by listing out White Sox statistics in his head. But now he wants to come with you as you’ve asked (he wants to do everything for you, anything you ask, he wants all of it, and he struggles to push the thoughts away this time). He breathes in time with your riding, and he feels his balls tighten as his orgasm approaches.

“I’m close,” he warns. “Fuck, sweetheart, are you close?”

“Y-y-yes.” You close your eyes and drop your head, focusing on whatever you’re feeling.

“Gonna come with me?”

“Mmm-hmm.” You take a sharp breath, then moan as you come a third time, and if he doesn’t quite come with you at exactly the same time, it’s close enough: the way your pussy grasps at him, draws him in deeper is enough to push him over the edge, and he shifts his hands to your waist. He pulls you down onto him and stills, feels the pulse of his orgasm as he spills in the condom.

It takes him a long while to recover. He feels weightless. Boneless. He feels like he’s melting into the covers of your bed. Like he could sleep for a hundred years. Like he could give up cigarettes and Xanax if he could just stay here and fuck you whenever his anxiety or insomnia are too much….

You dismount on shaky legs, and you disappear. When you return, you’re in an oversized t-shirt that skims the top of your thighs, and you hand him a warm washcloth.

“You can take your time,” you tell him. “No rush.”

Richie reaches down and pulls the condom off. He ties it off and looks around until he sees a waste bin. He tosses it, then flops back down on your bed.

“Just need a minute,” he says, but his voice is already thick with sleep, and he doesn’t remember anything else until morning when he wakes up to the smell of strong coffee and sizzling bacon.

He doesn’t remember you standing over him, bemused as you watch him snore. He doesn’t remember you lying down beside him, covering both of you with a blanket.

And he certainly doesn’t remember reaching for you in his sleep. He doesn’t remember how you wrap your arms around him, just like that night in the basement of The Beef, and how he sighs at the feeling of you tucked against him again.

1K notes · View notes