oneandonlycringe

[oneandonlycringe]

"Well hey there" 👋

[oneandonlycringe]

Chemicals Hit Like A Drug

dick grayson x fem!reader

aka dick takes matters into his own hands

warnings: smut, almost cheating but not quite

The bar isn’t as busy as you’d expect for a Friday night. There’s by no means any shortage of people, but you were expecting to have to weave in and out of the crowd and spill your drink on at least two people before you made it to your destination.

Rather, when your boyfriend opens the door ahead of you, the level of commotion amongst the regulars isn’t as unbearable as expected. He walks in first, leaving you to hold the door open for yourself. For all his good qualities, chivalry was never one of them.

He makes his way to the bar without any mind for whether or not you’re following, and orders himself one vodka sour. You know he knows your go-to drink, and you wonder if him not ordering it is his way of telling you there will be a separate bill. No, it probably hadn’t even crossed his mind to tell you as much.

You stand shoulder to shoulder at the bar counter as he sips on his drink, scanning around the room.

You clear your throat, “So um, should we split up or stick together?”

He nods blankly, “Yeah, sure.”

His gaze is already caught on a target across the bar, and you know that he neither heard nor cared to hear your words. You similarly don’t have it in you to care that he’s already walking away from you, instead opting to drown your concerns.

With a sigh, you find a seat at the bar and order yourself a drink.

You’re thirty seconds into this and it already doesn’t seem to be worth it. Having a threesome was your bright idea, and yeah, maybe it originated from a place that’s a little self-serving, but you weren’t prepared to have that turned back around on you. Are you just giving him the chance to fuck another girl, no consequences? 

You take a big swig and look down at the remaining contents of the alcohol, swishing the drink around. 

This was really nothing more than a desperate attempt to keep something going but you’re beginning to fear your man isn’t much of a relationship man at all. You don’t have to look across the bar to find where he went, you don’t need to because you already know exactly what he’s doing. And to no one’s surprise, he’s probably doing it without a thought in the world about you.

So now you’re starting to wonder if the whole relationship is worth all the trouble. He’d been charming and funny in the beginning—and he still is—but now you’re seeing all these other parts of him that you weren’t expecting. Maybe calling it quits after such a short time is cruel, but it’s also starting to feel like the only option. 

“You alright?”

A voice breaks you away from your deliberation and has you turning to meet a pleasant surprise.

A man that you couldn’t have dreamed up stands next to you, bourbon in hand, with nothing short of kindness in his eyes.

You stutter, “Oh, I’m—um…yeah. I’m fine.”

He nods, looking around casually.

“You’re not here by yourself, are you?”

“Uh, no. I’m not.” You hear the words as they come out of your mouth and they sound genuinely disappointed.

You can’t be sure exactly how he interprets that but he holds his hand out in front of him.

“I’m Dick,” he tells you.

You take his hand, shaking it, before telling him your own name.

He smiles upon the reveal, holding onto your hand for just a second longer than he needs to.

Truthfully, you never specified whether this threesome was going to involve a girl or a guy, but you’d been hoping that you’ll be able to convince him. That’s why you let yourself entertain a conversation with a very attractive man that you know your boyfriend would be too intimidated by to even consider.

“So who are you here with then?”

You look over your shoulder, quickly finding your boyfriend chatting up a pretty girl in a revealing dress. You point him out just long enough for Dick to see who you mean but not long enough for you to really have to absorb the scene taking place.

Dick peers over your shoulder with a furrowed brow and a frown. “‘S that your friend?” he asks.

“Boyfriend,” you correct with a nod, but your eyes are on the floor.

Dick copies your nod, processing. “You been dating him long?”

You lull your head to the side, looking back up at him. “A little over a month.”

You can see his eyes brighten hearing that.

“Must not be very serious then.”

You work to suppress a smile. “What makes you say that?”

“He left you over here all alone,” he says, looking around. 

Your eyes scan him over quickly, “I’m not alone.”

You glance over at your boyfriend again, and even from where you’re standing, you can tell that he’s not going to get anywhere. His body language is all wrong on multiple levels. “And he’s just…doing something, anyways.”

“Yes he is,” Dick says, following your gaze with a nearly concerned stare. “What…would you call that? What he’s doing.”

“Um…he’s making a friend…”

Dick seems to understand the implication of your words without any help. “Without you?” He looks at you again, smiling knowingly. “Or are you doing the same thing?”

“I…don’t know what I’m doing,” you confess. “I’ve never done this before.”

“I have,” he assures. 

You smile, “I assumed.”

He tilts his head, “Is that an insult or a compliment?”

“Not sure yet.”

He smiles at that, boyish and genuine.

He leans up against the bar, relaxing even more.

“Does he take care of you?” he asks casually.

“Yeah,” you reply, trying to size up where he’s going with this.

The nod of his head mirrors yours. “Yeah? He nice to you?”

“Yeah…”

“Mhm. How’s he nice to you?”

You can feel the blood in your cheeks now. “He kisses me…”

“Yeah? Good. What else?”

Your eyes flicker across his face, trying to will yourself to hold your gaze.

“He fucks me…”

He smiles hearing you murmur the words, “Does he fuck you good?”

You’re not nearly subtle enough, the way your gaze instantly averts and your face gets hot. To make matters worse, he seems to be able to read you like a goddamn book. 

He smiles wider, tilting his head at you. “No? What, not attentive? Bad at head?”

He follows you with a smile as you tilt your head down, trying to avoid eye contact. He lowers his voice, “Not big enough?”

He grants you enough mercy to not have to actually verbalize it, but you get the feeling he knows the answer anyways. All of the above.

He just hums, soaking in your expression. “Was it your idea? To go out and find another guy to bring home?”

You look down at the floor, tongue between your teeth.

“Yeah…You need to get fucked good, don’t you?”

You do. But he has no business being able to tell that about you barely five minutes into this conversation. You take a deep breath, practically steeling yourself for the torture of hearing such blatant, unabashed words.

“You know, I have had threesomes before, and they’re fun but…” He looks at the floor with a soft smile, shaking his head. “Full disclosure, I’m only doing this so I can sleep with you.”

You feel blood rush to your cheeks that makes you automatically look down.

He chases after your gaze, “But you want to know something? I don’t think you want to have a threesome. I think you just need one person to show you a good time.” 

You understand the implication of his words. He’s right, but your morality holds you back from saying so. 

“He’s my boyfriend..”

He nods understandingly, “If you want to do it, I will. But I think I could make you feel even better on my own.”

You look up at him, eyeing his sincerity and measuring the weight of his promise.

“Come on,” he urges gently.

He leans in slightly, causing you to follow suit until you’re nose and nose with each other. Your eyes are practically closed and your inhibition is nearly gone. 

His lips ghost over yours. 

“Break up with him,” he says. “Break up with him so I can take you home.”

”Not exactly an even trade,” you say quietly. 

He tilts his head.

“I’m losing a boyfriend.”

Barely.

“I’ll make it up to you,” he promises.

And that’s more than enough to convince the already convinced.

You pull back from him with a sigh and sit up straight. You plop down from your place on the edge of the barstool, glancing over your shoulder as you turn away. 

“I’ll be right back,” you tell him.

As you approach your boyfriend, the girl he’s with sees you before he does, readjusting her position to let you into the conversation. He, upon seeing you, does no such thing.

Instead, he double takes like he’d forgotten you were even in the bar.

He splutters before introducing you. “...This is my girlfriend…”

This tidbit of information he’d forgotten to mention before you’d come over. You’d guess as much when the girl rolls her eyes and walks away. In return, he looks irked by your intrusion and therefore loss of a goal that he never had any chance of scoring.

You don’t give him the time to ask you what the fuck your problem is before giving him a dry smile. “I think we should break up.”

His face drops suddenly, before altering into something much more akin to anger. 

“Are you fucking serious?”

“Yeah.”

He scowls. “This was your fucking idea. Don’t tell me you’re going and getting all jealous now.”

You nod blankly, not interested in prolonging this. “Okay. Have a good night.”

The last thing you see before turning away is the dumbfounded look on his face. And now that you know you have something better waiting for you, it stings just that much nicer. 

Dick grins at you as you reapproach, clearly having watched that whole thing go down. He follows close with a hand on your backside as a means to help guide you out the door.

He leads you to his car, opening the passenger side door for you—something your ex-boyfriend never bothered doing—and helping you in.

When he’s sitting in the driver’s seat he takes your jaw and pulls you into a kiss. It’s sweet and gentle, but the intensity still has you pulling back and trying to catch your breath.

You catch his endeared smile, before he starts up the car and begins to back out of the parking lot.

You try to calm your body down as you ask, “Are we going to a hotel?”

He shakes his head, “Nah, I live close by.”

He turns to look at you, “Is that alright?”

You don’t need to weigh this out in your head to know the answer. After ten minutes you already trust Dick more than you trusted your ex after six weeks.

“Yeah.”

As promised, the drive back to his apartment doesn’t take long, it only ends up being a couple of blocks away. His right hand stays glued to your thigh throughout the entire drive, squeezing it once before he turns into the parking garage.

Once you’re parked, Dick unbuckles his seatbelt before looking over at you, who hasn’t moved a muscle yet.

He laughs as he takes in your unconfident posture, “Oh baby. It’s alright. Don’t need to be so nervous.”

He pulls you in for one more kiss before getting out of the car. He quickly opens your door for you and helps you out. He holds your hand all the way up to his apartment, stopping every once in a while to kiss you. You can tell he’s being more gentle with you than he maybe usually would, but you’re grateful for it.

As you round the final set of stairs, he nudges you in front of him. “Come ‘ere. It’s just up here.”

He unlocks the door and leads you into a lofty apartment, well-decorated and furnished. Significantly nicer than the studio with a mattress on the floor that your ex called home. You’re not given much time to look around before he’s got you pushed back and pressed against the now closed door.

He takes your face in both hands as he kisses you, getting completely in your space in the most welcome way possible. He leans down over you, pushing you further against the door. The kiss deepens and he slots his thigh in between your legs. He lets you grind a little against him, encouraging you via nips against your lips. But ultimately, he seems to decide that this isn’t enough.

He picks you up by your thighs, never breaking the kiss, and begins walking you towards his bedroom.

He sets you down in the middle of the room, kneeling down as he pulls your panties down. His lips ghost over your thighs in their wake, slipping them down and onto the floor.

You can feel the blood rush to your cheeks as he takes in the sight of your pussy.

“Oh, pretty baby,” he murmurs.

He backs you up to the bed, pulling your dress down as he goes. By the time you get to the bed, you’re completely bare and he’s sitting you on his still-clothed lap.

He spreads your legs over his and gently brushes his fingers across your clit with a feather-light touch.

“Dick,” you whine, not even sure what your goal is. You don’t know if you have it in you to ask him directly for what you want.

“What? You want me to rub your clit for you? Want me to make you come?”

You mewl, ”Please—”

“‘Please’?” He coos. “Of course, pretty girl.”

He reaches down and rubs languid circles against your clit, his touch so light and feathery that it does nothing but leave you wanting more in a way you’re wholly unfamiliar with. 

“You don’t need to beg me,” he continues. “Not tonight anyway.”

He kisses you again with more and more passion as he works your body like he owns it. The way he lets you grind up against his hand and moan into his mouth only encourages you more.

He doesn’t need to keep this up for very long before he has you coming under him, sooner and harder than you ever have before.

And it must show on your face because he tuts as he brushes your hair away from your eyes.

“Aw, honey. Nobody’s been touching you right, have they?”

Your eyes are borderline watering as you shake your head, No.

He lifts you up, off his lap, and sets you back down against the pillows. He pulls his shirt off before tugging his pants down, and repositions himself back over you. He moves down to start kissing at your chest, paying each side some much needed attention before continuing down lower.

He trails his kisses down your stomach and against your inner thighs, just high enough to make you feel a burst of heat every time.

He looks up at you, “Such a pretty girl. Pretty girls should be taken care of.”

Somehow you only just realize where this is going, and you can’t fend off the look of anxiety that flashes across your face.

He clocks your hesitation immediately. 

He frowns, “What’s wrong, beautiful?”

“I—I’ve never had…” you trail off but he understands the sentiment just the same. 

He just tilts his head.

“Really? That’s a shame. We’ll have to fix that, won’t we?”

His sentiment surprises you, but to be completely fair: everything about him has surprised you. This has been a complete 180 from what you’ve been used to, even beyond your most recent ex-boyfriend. You honestly didn’t even know guys like this existed outside of the movies.

Dick kisses your thigh again before looking back up at you, eyes asking for permission.

Not a single thought runs through your head as you nod, only filled with anticipation and lust.

He places a gentle kiss on your clit, before following up with an experimental lick on the same spot. He looks up at you, checking in, and when he’s seemingly satisfied, he goes all in.

He makes out with your pussy like he’s been doing it for years, like he knows your body better than you do. It’s almost embarrassing how fast you fall apart like this, or at least it would be, if you had any energy to spend on thinking. No, right now, all you’re doing is feeling. For once in your life, somebody has been able to do the impossible and get you out of your head.

Your hand instinctually goes to grab at his hair and he fucking moans into your pussy. The surprise of it has you gasping this shocked choke that nearly makes you sit straight up.

You curse, forcing yourself to relax completely against the mattress—a task that is nearly impossible. Still you manage success, if only for the sake of keeping him doing what he’s doing.

He alternates between sucking on your clit and licking you up and down, and the combination has you seeing stars. He continues to lap at you as you’re coming down from your high, keeps going until you’re squirming away from sensitivity.

He relents, kissing his way back up your body and finding your lips again. As you’re making out, he lines himself up at your entrance, taking special care to distract you from the stretch with intentionally placed kisses.

He lets you adjust to the feeling of him being inside of you for a moment, scanning over your face for any signs of pain or discomfort. Finding none, he slowly starts rocking his hips into you. He’s easing you into it, and you’re grateful for it because everything up to this point has been so surreal and intense.

As he starts to move with more intention, you start to realize that you’re in a serious fucking situation. There’s no way in hell you’re going to be able to go back to the way you were living, having experienced getting fucked like you’re about to.

As he really gets going, you find quickly that his strokes are good. He’s fucking you so deep and hitting a spot inside you that you didn’t know existed. You couldn’t help it to moan out when he first hits it, and from that point on he’s a fucking dead eye. He rubs up against your spot after every stroke and doesn’t let up.

“Good girl. Good fucking girl. Taking me so well,” he praises, looking down in between your bodies.

You moan out and one hand grabs at the headboard, the other going for the nape of his neck.

He keeps at this slow and sensual pace, correctly finding it to be exactly what you needed. When you’re in a more coherent state of mind, you’ll have to wonder how he could read you like a goddamn picture book.

“Dick—”you moan, voice nearly breaking.

“No, I know. You need somebody to take care of you good, huh?”

His words in your ear have you squeezing your eyes shut, genuinely whimpering.

He pushes in and out of you over and over again with intensity that rivals any experience ever you’ve had before. Nothing, nothing has gotten you feeling this good before. Not your fingers, not toys, and certainly not your exes. You have half a mind to start wondering if this is your little slice of heaven granted to you by karma. Though no, you don’t think anything amounts to this.

He goes and goes until you’re spasming around him, and even then, he fucks you straight through your orgasm.

“Such a pretty girl,” he tells you as you come, sweeping hair out of your face so he can get an undisturbed view.

He only begins to slow his movements when the shaking in your legs begins to calm and your body relaxes.

He pulls out of you and kisses your shoulder, murmuring a, “Good girl.”

You sit up against your elbows with a furrowed brow, “But you didn’t—“

He huffs out a laugh. “You got somewhere to be? I’m not done with you yet, pretty girl.”

And with that he flips you over onto your stomach and realigns himself with you.

Turns out, asking your boyfriend for a threesome was the best decision of your life.

🫵 if you don’t reblog fics we are not friends you are not cool and you CANNOT come to my sleepover this weekend 🫵

[oneandonlycringe]

thinkin' about Remmick again and the ring on his finger

imagining his wife before, knowing that he can't wear silver so she spends her hard earned money to get him a gold chain

SO I WROTE A LITTLE SCENARIO I GUESS?? I HAVE NEVER WRITTEN AND ACTUALLY SENT SMTH OUT THERE BUT I HAVE NO ONE ELSE TO TALK TO ABOUT THIS MAN SO HERE'S SMTH IG

"Don't peek now, okay?" she says, keeping an eye on him as she shuffles to his back.

Remmick's got a little smirk on his face, listening to her rummaging around behind him and wonders what she's up to now. She finally finds what she's looking for and he hears a clinking noise on top of his head.

"They told me that it's real, so I'm hopin' I didn't get scammed out there," she says, lowering her present and circling it over his neck. It's cool to the touch, and for a moment, they both wait to see if his skin reacts to the metal, but no reaction comes.

She breathes a sigh of relief, securing the clasp behind him and tells him to open his eyes.

Remmick looks at the mirror in front of him, and there he sees the gold chain his woman adorns him with and a proud look on her face.

"Surprise! I was at the market, and I saw someone sayin' they were sellin' gold jewelry, so I thought I'd take a look. " She's rambling to hide her nervousness. She'd actually been meaning to get him the chain for quite some time, but she'd been short on coin till a few days ago to buy it for him. Remmick doesn't say a word, just looking at her from the mirrors view. "You don't like it?" she asks guiltily. Maybe the chain was the wrong choice of jewelry, or maybe he just didn't like jewelry at all. Her mind is scrambling to come up with some reason he might be so quiet until he finally turns around to meet her eyes.

"Darlin' you have no idea what you’ve done ," he says as he slowly grabs her hands and kisses her wrists. "You've chained me to you" he chuckles a little, guiding her hands to his neck, trailing upward to his cheeks. "Marked me as yours and put a leash around my neck." He nuzzles closer to her hands and looks up at her with his eyes gleaming red. "And I've never been happier."

Then he makes her feel how really happy he is that night with his new chain dangling around his neck ehehehe

anyways, yeah. inspiration can come from anywhere ig. especially when you're horny enough 😀😃

ALSO IF ANYONE ELSE WANTS TO ACTUALLY WRITE THIS THAT KNOWS WHAT THEY'RE DOING THAT'D BE GREAT

[oneandonlycringe]

You dream of a man with rough hands.

They move over your skin with the certainty of someone who’s done it a thousand times—someone who’s bled for the right. His palms are wide and calloused, like he’s spent whole lifetimes carving out places for you in the dark. He doesn’t touch you like a stranger. He touches you like a man who built you up, broke you, buried you—and never stopped coming back.

You don't know his name. But in the dream, he says yours like it’s sacred. Like it’s the only thing keeping him tethered to whatever soul he still has left.

He kneels between your legs, jaw tight, eyes darker than sin. His mouth is hot against the inside of your knee—soft, reverent. Your stomach pulls tight, breath catching in your throat.

“Mine,” he whispers into your skin. “Always been. Always will be.”

There’s a scar on his collarbone. Fresh, jagged. You don’t know how you know, but you gave it to him. A mark left in another life. One where you wore knives the way other women wore perfume.

You don’t know this man.

But in the dream, you know how he sounds when he’s falling apart.

He mouths down your thigh, murmuring filth like prayer, eyes half-lidded like this is the end of the world and he’s choosing to spend it between your legs. You should be afraid, you think you were, once—but all you feel now is heat and grief.

His hands tighten on your hips. His tongue moves like he remembers every time you've ever broke, just like this.

“Still taste like sin,” he growls, mouth full of you. “Still so fuckin’ mean.”

You writhe beneath him. You don’t know why you're crying. You don’t know why it hurts.

There’s a weight to it. A mourning. This isn’t the first time. This is never the first time.

“Don’t leave me again,” he says.

And it’s that line—that broken, gutted plea—that shatters the dream.

You wake gasping. Sheets twisted around you like chains. The room is cold but your body is slick with sweat, skin flushed and humming like a fever’s still clinging to you. Your heart hammers in her throat. Thighs aching.

You stare at the ceiling, blank-eyed, trembling. Hands no longer feeling like your own.

You've had dreams before. Vivid ones. Strange ones. But this—this was different. This felt real.

Like a life lost. Like a man you buried.

You don’t know him.

And still, you're sure—he’s looking for you.

a snippet of a fic im working on for remmick, its total au - remmick x reincarnated!reader bcuz i fell in love with the trope. its actually CRIMINAL. im thinking slowburn, angsty, smutty, pathetic remmick. obviously tf. comeing when? who knows omfg. but leave ur thoughts. working on my lion requests for this weekend but i had to share some of this with u guys <33

[oneandonlycringe]

nah bc i cannot get the thought of tasting remmick out of my head <33

his sweat, his drool, his come..

lord have mercy on me i need to taste this man

warnings: oral (m! receiving), sloppy making out, mention of fem! recieving oral on her period, reader is obsessed with remmick’s come, sweat, and drool, licking, overstimulation

minors dni, 18+!!!!

his grip on your hair is tight, using the strands as a reign to push and pull your mouth up and down his cock. the other hand is gripping the armrest of the dinner chair in your house, legs spread apart so you can have access to him. the corner of the room is illuminated by a few candles melting on the windowsill, the flickering lights shining against his face.

“ah, shit, darlin’. you’re so damn good at this. suckin’ on me like that.”

you place your hands on his thighs, fingers pushing into his skin as you grip. his moans are guttural, you can hear the desire laced in each sound. he’s always been more than happy to please you; to have his head between your thighs for hours on end. but tonight you stopped him, saying it’s his turn.

you hummed as you sucked on his length, tongue lightly moving when you got the chance. he tasted divine, like heaven on your tongue. and you wouldn’t let a single bit of him go to waste. the hand gripping your hair let go, he’s now using it to run his fingers through his hair. you go back up his length, removing your mouth and replacing it with your hand. he whines at the feeling, how your mouth wasn’t taking all of him anymore.

you took a hand from his thigh and wrapped it around his length, stroking it up and down as you looked at the man above you. his head is tilted back, eyebrows furrowed, and the back of his hand is placed against his forehead.

“aww, come on, darlin’. don’t tease me like this, i-i need your pretty little mouth back on me.”

he opened his eyes, looking down at you, pleading.

you scooted closer, spreading his legs a little more. you lifted his cock and moved in to take one of his balls into your mouth, sucking as you stroked him. his hips twitched at the feeling, and you could see his leg muscles tighten. giving them a few kisses and then licking up and down the seam, you raised up to put his cock back into your mouth.

he ran his fingers through your hair as you sucked on him, giving it a light tug before taking it up your arm to grab your hand. his hips thrust involuntarily into your mouth, hitting the back of your throat.

“honey, i’m so close. fuck, i’m gonna come darlin,” remmick warned, his voice desperate for the release. you moaned at his words, thinking of how good it’s going to feel for his warm seed to run down your throat, the taste of his release as you continued to suck the life out of him (well, what was left of it).

“it’s all mine, baby. give it to me, let me taste you. wanna swallow it all,” you pulled away from him long enough to tell him, to send him over the edge.

he muttered a quick “goddamnit,” as you put your warm mouth on his length again, humming to send vibrations through him. you got a few more sucks in before you heard his loud moan of release, then felt the feeling of his salty cum filing your throat.

but you didn’t let up, continuing your job as his body shook, the release doing him in.

remmick started to squirm, the chair creaking. his claws shot out of his hand, almost piecing the both of you. overstimulation started to set in, his foot stomped down against the flooring as you kept going. you were to determined to suck him dry, the taste of his come being so insanely addicting.

“darlin’ please i.. i can’t go anymore, please. it’s too much.”

giving in, you hollowed your cheeks around his length one last time, as much as you could, and pulled away. you licked the slit of his cock, gathering just the tiniest bit more of his release.

you kissed up his clothed abdomen before running your hands across his arms as you stood up. staring down at him, a thought popped into your head. you sat on his lap, looking over his spent body. he still hasn’t looked at you.

drool fell from his mouth, running down his throat and chest. his head was still leaned back, eyes staring at the ceiling as he tried to control his heavy breathing. you kissed his exposed chest above the white tank top, savoring the taste of his sweat and vampiric drool. it was intoxicating. so invigorating.

you licked from the collar of the tank top and up his neck, sucking a hickey just below his ear. pulling back, you noticed remmick was still looking up at the ceiling, lost in the bliss from the head you’d given him.

you glanced at the chain sitting around his neck. your eyes flicked up to his face then back down. deciding enough was enough, you took two fingers and wrapped them around the chain, forcing him to look at you.

“are you just gonna ignore me the rest of the night, rem? i still haven’t got my fill of you yet.”

he shook his at you, mouth open as he stared at your face, a small bit of his come pooled at the corner. he brought a hand to your face, running his thumb across your lips to gather his release and push it into your mouth. you moaned around his thumb, sucking on it. his fingers rubbed your cheek lovingly as he watched, mesmerized by how entranced you were by his taste. all of his tastes, for that matter.

“darlin’, i’ll be here all night, you know that. you got the rest of the moonlight to take me for all i can give you.”

you leaned in to kiss him, immediately noting that you’re desperate to get your tongue deep into his mouth. he kissed you back with ferocity, wrapping his arms around your body as you take your hands and place them on his shoulders. the kiss was messy— probably unnecessarily so. but thankfully you didn’t give a fuck.

remmick got to ravish you damn near every night, absorbing every ounce of your slick that he could get his greedy tongue on, so why couldn’t you? there was nothing more he loved than to be trapped between your thighs, drinking your release like his life depended on it. especially the nearly week long treat he got each month, where your sweet blood and divine come mixed together. it drove him insane.

you’re using too much tongue but again, you didn’t give a fuck. saliva dripped down your chin, mixing with his vampiric drool. the squelching sounds made you dizzy with infatuation, only making you kiss him more aggressively. the noises were obscene, yet somehow that fired you up more. you hum into his mouth as his grip tightens around your body. he pulled away, mouth soaked. he knew what you were thinking.

“go on, darlin. i know you just can’t get enough.”

and that’s what you did. you kissed around his face, your tongue sliding out into kitten licks to take in the mess you’d purposefully made. you kissed his jaw, tongue swiping at the dribble of spit hanging on his chin. he laughed, finding your enthusiasm and desperation for every ounce of his flavor to be entertaining.

he could remember a couple weeks prior when he’d come to your home drenched in blood, and the both of you needed each other desperately. you’d moaned at the taste of the blood, a shock to him as humans didn’t tend to enjoy the flavor, hell, none he’d ever met had the stomach for seeing blood let along licking it off of someone.

it all makes sense now. it wasn’t so much the blood as it was him. something about the way his body tasted to you drove you insane, getting you drunk off of it.

he touched your cheek again, swiping the spit off your mouth and putting his still slightly wet thumb back into your mouth, letting you clean up the mess. when you finished, he kissed you, but this time it’s a more loving, sweet kiss. nothing like the others tonight.

“what’s gotten into you, girl? just a couple weeks ago you licked blood off me like a damn vampire, and tonight you’ve licked every ounce of liquid i gave out. you’re a messy woman, you know that?”

you smiled, thinking about just how insane you’d gone tonight. might’ve been overkill, might not have been. remmick shouldn’t look so handsome and taste so goddamn amazing if he didn’t want you doing something about it.

“well, rem, i just cannot help myself. sounds familiar, doesn’t it?,” you laughed, quoting what he’d told you one night when you asked him why he was so obsessed with eating you out.

he smiled at you, kissing your forehead as he breathed out.

“the damn sun’s coming up, darlin’. i hate to leave you like this but i gotta get goin’.”

you pouted, huffing as you crossed your arms across your chest. he tilted his head, raising an eyebrow at you, as if asking “really?”

sighing, you got off his lap and walked to the front door, grabbing his clothing. he hadn’t even made it two steps into the house before the desire overcame the two of you.

“we need to find a way to block it out. i can’t keep missing you all day, rem.”

he stopped buckling his belt, looking up at you. he scanned the room for ideas, then landed on a huge curio cabinet you had.

“well, we could always board up these windows. maybe even more some of these bigger pieces of your furniture ‘round to block ‘em out.”

a smile raised in your face. having remmick in your house at night time wasn’t enough. during the day you yearned for his presence, just him being nearby.

“i like that idea. a lot, actually.”

he walked over to you, noticing how soon that sunrise was coming.

“i really gotta get goin’, sweetheart. but i’ll see you tonight, alright? help ya move some of these around. unless you plan to make me do all the hard work,” he said as he placed his hand on your doorknob, bracing himself as his slid his boots on.

“and miss you working up a sweat? yeah, right,” you laughed, a devious smile flashing to him.

“lord, girl, you’re gonna be the death of me.”

[oneandonlycringe]

18+ only please and thank you

Soap who loves floor time.

Especially after coming home from deployment, he practically lives on the floor. He'll be stretched out on the carpet any odd day, scrolling his phone with his chin propped on a throw pillow.

Or you'll hear a strange, "huff, huff" coming from the living room, only to poke your head in and verify that he's been overtaken by a bout of pushups.

He watches TV from the floor.

Chats with you about everyday stuff from the floor.

Is a giant pain in your ass, trying to snag your ankles, from the floor.

He tries to get you to do stretches with him on the floor. Probably thinks you'll join him, and live forever in floor world if he tricks you there often enough. Give you enough tastes of it, and you'll be craving floor just like him.

Delusional bastard.

Since floor is the key to his heart though, you do oblige, in the ways that mean the most.

You wear something cute. Something extra short, with your moisturized legs on display and your toes stroking casually against the soft carpet of his darling floor.

Stand just like that, within arm's reach of your floor man. Pretend you don't see his pleading eyes, just keep your eyes on the TV and let him decide when he's needy enough for it.

It doesn't take long.

Just a few minutes, and then there's a strong hand clasping around your knee, trying to tug you down to the carpeted depths. You pretend to be surprised by it, because he likes to feel like he's a smooth operator.

"What is it, Johnny?" you ask innocently, plopping your ass down in his territory.

His lips are already on the inside of your ankle, scruff and soft kisses wandering along your sensitive skin. "Your legs are fuckin' nice."

"They are?"

"Mhmm."

His mouth is at your knee already, unable to pace himself when there's floor sex at his fingertips. Lovely floor and wonderful sex and amazing you, happening all at once?

Make that man your bitch, fuck him on the floor.

He has to prove his devotion, though. Take your underwear off for you, make sure you're cozy and comfortable in his floor habitat. You're not a native species like he is, so he gets you a few pillows just in case. Would you like a blanket? Wouldn't want you getting cold on his floor while he tends to you.

You're his guest, when you're on the floor. He gives you the sweetest, most delicate little kisses on your clit, whispers little things at you about how happy he is you're here, how pretty you are, and how much fun you're going to have.

Kisses turn to licks, licks turn to sucks, sucks turn to fingers, and fingers turn to wet. Wetness dripping down his knuckles, your thighs quivering when he won't let up on that spot inside you. His guest, so you get a nice long orgasm in his safe place, with his tongue massaging your clit and his fingers shoved up against that wonderful spot.

Oh, but you're so tired now from cumming, can he take care of the rest?

Of course he can, he's built for floor.

[oneandonlycringe]

𝐝𝐨𝐧'𝐭 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐫𝐲, 𝐛𝐚𝐛𝐲 — 𝐣.𝐚.

summary: also known as the story of how you became jack abbot's sugar baby.

word count: 7.8k

tags: younger reader/sugar baby dynamic, reader is in an unspecified masters program, reader is poor (sorry girl), descriptions of burn wound, jack tends to reader's wound because why wouldn't he!, robby guest appearance, smut (hard and fast and creampie.. sorry), these two are so cute and i love this reader

note: based on this blurb. enjoy! crazy what motivation can do. go listen to don’t worry baby by the beach boys 💛

you should have known you were in trouble when dr. jack abbot of the closest emergency room handed you a full-size tube of the expensive burn gel you needed and said in a firm yet gentle voice: don’t worry about it, kid.

little did he know that you did worry about it, that you worry about everything and then some. like the ridiculous injury that led you here in the first place—ridiculous and embarrassing, a double whammy. you were writing a paper at two in the morning despite the fact that the words on the screen had stopped making sense hours ago, determined to get at least another three pages done before calling it quits. 

what you really needed was a coffee, but instead, stupidly, you settled for making hot chocolate. you thought it would be comforting, like a warm hug, which is probably what you really need and since you live alone, it’s not like you’re going to get that anywhere else. 

so—hot chocolate, with milk rather than water, and mini marshmallows. you make it on the stove because it’s just better that way, and despite how you feel about yourself deserving things, you think you can waste the few extra minutes to make it the right way.

except you probably should have made the cup of coffee. after two am, your brain really, really stops working. your palm ends up against the burner of your stove and you cry out from pain before realizing what you’ve just done. 

“fuck. fuck, fuck, fuck-” you curse, taking your hand to the sink immediately and running it under cold water. it stings and the pain isn’t going away, and then you realize a few other things.

one—that you have nothing besides bandaids and neosporin in this apartment. two—that you have no idea how to take care of a burn. and three—you really, really should have just gone to sleep. 

on the verge of tears that are about to spill over, you keep your hand wrapped against a towel, slip into real shoes, and call an uber to the nearest emergency room. you’d walk but you’re in pajama shorts and a hoodie and it’s three in the morning and you don’t think you can handle anything else going wrong right now.

your paper is abandoned at your desk. the cup of hot chocolate with marshmallows melting in it looks at you almost jeeringly. and you think you’ll never trust your stove again.

you wait for a little bit but luckily, it’s not as packed as you were worried it’d be. you still have to finish that paper when you get back home, and if the sun is up by then there’ll be no sleeping for you. the nurse looks at you kindly when she notices your wet eyes and wobbly chin as you explain you accidentally burnt yourself and you didn’t know what to do.

“hold tight, honey. the doctor will be right in.” you thank her and then curse to yourself—you’re reaching levels of stupidity unknown to man. you hope she’ll tell the doctor it was just a burn and whoever it is will leave it at that. you don’t think you have energy to explain this to anyone and your face burns with embarrassment at the very idea.

then the curtain gets pulled back and he walks in and whatever thought you were thinking flies out the window.

“hi, i’m dr. abbot,” he says, his head tilted down—showing you a mane of messy salt and pepper curls—and looking at the tablet in his hands. he looks up at you to confirm your name and then your birthday, though in all honesty, he could have said something completely wrong and you would have nodded and agreed.

your doctor is handsome. he’s hot. like grey’s anatomy level hot. like, some other medical show that your brain recognizes but can’t currently remember the name of hot. 

“so you burned yourself? can i take a look?” as stupid as it is—you don’t think you’ve ever been stunned into silence by a man before. his words are gentle and sincere and it sounds like he really cares about whatever's wrong with you—so many things you can't begin to name them all right now. fuck, he asked you something. you nod and then he looks up at you again. “i kind of need to hear you say it.”

fuck. me. what the hell kind of doctor says things like that to deliriously delusional women at three in the morning?

“yes. yes, thank you.” you move the towel and lift your palm towards him and he takes a gloved hand to support you. you can feel his fingers against the back of your hand, holding you in place, and normally that contact would be enough to have you reeling into never-never land where all the doctors are hot and single and you’re presenting with a more much cool, mature injury. 

but then you notice his arms, and you have to bite your cheek so hard to not accidentally say anything you will without a doubt regret. hot doctor is jacked, with huge arms and a scrub top that covers most of his biceps. his forearms are thick and veiny and your eyes focus on them for way, way too long. you can make out so many freckles on his skin that it presents like a galaxy. you momentarily forget how badly your hand hurts. he sucks in a breath and looks at you again, making intense eye contact that you can’t bear. you look away immediately.

“ouch. so how’d this happen?” he asks, and you groan before you can stop yourself—of course he’s a good doctor who doesn’t cut corners and has to make sure you’re not suicidal or a masochist or something. “you okay, kid?” 

what the fuck. one man cannot be doing it for you in so many ways—this dr. abbot should have never existed because you don’t know how you’re going to stop thinking about him. when you meet his eyes again and can actually look into them—hazel and very pretty, because of course they are—they’re filled with concern.

you can’t imagine how crazy you must look to him right now. plaid pajamas shorts, a grey hoodie for some sports team you know nothing about, messy hair. you curse yourself for not doing your makeup earlier. 

“yes, i’m sorry. i-i was just hoping you wouldn’t ask.”

“yeah?” he says, with a teasing lilt to his voice. seriously, fuck this guy. “why’s that?”

“i…i was making hot chocolate. y’know, the good kind. stovetop with milk and the tiny-” jack looks at you with a smile, holding back a laugh and you lose your train of thought and trail off. “marshmallows. the tiny ones. and i was half-asleep already working on this paper, so, yeah. that’s, um, the story.” 

jack asks you some other questions quietly—about what you’re in school for and how you like it—probably to distract you while he cleans your wounds. his touch alone is enough of a distraction and the way the muscles in his arms move while he does is enough to make you black out, but you still answer politely and try to not embarrass yourself further. 

when your wound is all wrapped up, you cover your mouth to stifle a yawn and blink tiredly at dr. abbot.

“thank you,” you repeat for what must be the hundredth time—though you are very thankful. different people wearing scrubs interrupted him to ask a question probably three or four times and he never once stepped away from your bedside or left to go help someone else, even though you told him you could wait. 

“you’re very welcome,” he stands up and you get your hand back and it feels much colder without his touch. stupid, you think to yourself, don’t think that! you are stupid! “now, don’t get this wet and change the wrap daily. when you’re changing, if it looks red or swollen or there’s any pus, you come straight back. and you’ll need burn gel. the nurse is going to give you some packets but it’s a bigger wound so you’ll have to buy a bottle at the pharmacy. that sound okay?” 

you want to shake your head and tell him no, it kind of doesn’t. for starters you don’t want to leave his comfortable presence—maybe you’re just really lonely. if you had more money you’d get a cat so you’re not so alone all the time, but it’s one thing to subject yourself to poverty, bringing in a cute little kitten to your life is just stupid. oh god—there you go again. he said something and you can’t even remember what it is. you blink dumbly at dr. abbot. 

right—burn gel. the real answer is no, insanely handsome doctor jack, i unfortunately cannot buy a bottle of burn gel at the moment, not until my next paycheck. but admitting all of that to him right now, after the already humiliating hot chocolate story, seems the emotional equivalent of your own personal 9/11. instead you lie and nod.

“sounds good.”

he smiles at you and you smile back, though you feel incredibly silly.

“don’t try to make hot chocolate half asleep again, kid. just go to bed next time,” jack says and you feel your face flush and burn at his words—you feel like a child getting scolded by dad. “and get some sleep, okay?” 

“yeah. thank you, dr. abbot,” you say quietly. he smiles one last time, closes the curtain and leaves you in there alone again.

and though you thought it very nearly impossible, you do fuck up one more time before leaving pittsburg trauma medical center. you ask the nurse, who brings you two tiny samples of the burn gel, if there’s any way you could have more, explaining in not so many words that you’re a student and hoping that she gets the gist of what you’re trying to say.

“oh. well, let me go ask dr. abbot, and if he says yes, i can-”

“no! no, never mind. this is perfect, i’ll figure it out, um-” you scramble to your feet to get the burn gel packets and your paperwork.

“just one second, okay, i’ll be right back.” the nurse—young and very pretty and probably new, which is why she wants to make sure she’s not making a mistake, rushes out.

and you, not sure if this is exactly against-medical-advice, take your belongings and head outside to go back home.

(the nurse does go to jack—asking if she can give you some more packets of burn gel because you can’t afford it. he agrees immediately, thinking that he would have given you more if you had told him, wondering why you hadn’t. he goes back to your bed to give them to you himself, but you’re not there.)

+

and two days later, staring at your hand post-shower, still needing to write two thousand words before bed, you wonder if it looks a little… red. 

you hadn’t gotten it wet, but you’re using the burn gel sparingly, and maybe because you’re not using enough, it had gotten infected.

fuck. you should have just coughed up the money to pay for the big bottle—you’re so dumb sometimes. you try to justify that it’s not red, it’s just the lighting, but when you take a picture with flash, you don’t think it’s in your head. 

an hour later, it starts to hurt again like the first day. double fuck.

grumbling something about cyclical poverty, you pull on your hoodie over your outfit of the day, which was at least some-what cute. both things thrifted—a denim skirt and a plain pink henley—but it’s cold, so on the jacket goes. it’s a struggle to get it on without hurting your hand but you figure it out. it’s only just hit nine o’clock but it’s dark—so there goes another charge for the uber.

you go inside and go up to the lady with whom you check in, telling her you were here a few days ago for a burn, and that somehow must mean you get priority access, because the nurse—a different one—brings you back right away. 

you wait for someone to tell you dr. abbot’s not here but there’s another just-as-good doctor, preferably one with normal arms and a normal smile that doesn’t make the lines around his eyes crinkle and light up his whole face and doesn’t make you fall headfirst into numerous, unrealistic fantasies, mostly centered around what a hug in those absolutely abnormal arms would feel like and—

you realize you’ve lost the plot as soon as dr. abbot pulls back the curtain.

“oh. i didn’t know if it would be you again.”

“it’s me again.” you must look starstruck, you conclude, with the way he looks at you and smiles and takes a seat on the stool in the room. now you’re the one staring—crow’s feet and all. “so what happened?”

“i was looking at it after my shower and, i-i don’t know, it just looks red. and it started to hurt again and i-i have to write so many papers and i don’t wanna lose my whole hand because i didn’t use enough burn gel-”

“hey,” he says, firmly yet still tinged with gentleness. like someone talking to a skittish animal—which, you think, you pretty much are at this point. the fact that he's the one taming you makes you dizzy. “you’re gonna be fine. you’re here now, so i can take of it.” 

you refuse to let yourself read between the lines—the way he only mentions himself. the way you think he should have said so i can take care of you. 

“o-okay. thank you, dr. abbot.” 

you peel away the shitty, rushed bandage wrap and let him observe your palm closely. he’s so close that you can almost feel the heat radiating from his body. 

after what feels like ages, he tells you it’s not infected. you sigh before you can stop yourself, shoulders sagging in relief. jack looks at you with an expression you don’t recognize—like he’s a little confused and amused at the same time.

“but it’s good that you came in anyways.” you face burns when he pulls out a tube of the burn you were supposed to be using generously from the pocket of his scrubs. 

“oh, um, listen, i can explain-”

“don’t worry about it, kid.” you accept the bottle and stare at him and he does the usual thing—tells you to come in if it gets worse, use the gel and if you need another tube, just come back here and find him, making you flush hard and get teary-eyed when he finally leaves.

maybe it’s just nice to be taken care of, for once. but you shouldn’t get dependent on it. you indulge in the reality until the uber is there to take you home, and then you conclude that you’ll likely never see dr. jack abbot, the kind hearted, good physician who took care of your wound twice now, ever again. 

until you do.

sometimes your work writes itself when you’re in a new environment, and you blame the lack of progress on your boring, tiny apartment. there’s a coffee shop not too far from campus that another girl in your masters program had told you about. good coffee, even better pastries, and there’s always cute guys, she had said with a laugh. 

you had been so focused on figuring out what the cheapest thing to buy was that you forgot the ending half of your friend’s sentence. from the hospital nearby.

there’s always cute guys from the hospital nearby.

you get settled with a small iced coffee and start typing away, working with an intent to make sure this paper gets done because it’s been put off long enough, when the door opens and you almost feel him before you see him.

it’s eight in the morning. why would he even be here? it’s not him—you conclude, staring at the back of a man in a dark blue shirt that fits him a little too snugly and green cargo pants. you don’t see the telltale black stethoscope or an id badge that tells you anything, just the profile of his back and a head of messy, gray curls.

fuck. it's him, isn't it? of course it's him. jack orders and then steps away to wait for it, hot coffee black in the biggest size they have. and when he turns around, he sees you looking at him like a deer in headlights. then you turn your head down immediately, as if you’re trying to hide and make yourself as small as you can.

he chuckles to himself because you’re pretty cute when you do things like that. 

you keep your head down long enough, pretending to be so engrossed in your paper, that you get a little too locked-in, not realizing the footsteps approaching belong to him.

“is this seat empty?” jack asks, and you almost jolt with the realization that he’s so close to you. 

you look up tentatively, bracing yourself for the encounter, reminding yourself not to act a complete fool like you have the last two times. 

“yes. hi, dr. abbot. small world, huh,” you say, though it’s not a question, more of a cruel joke.

“yeah, kid. you still working on that paper?”

“yes. it’s, um, a real beast,” you say, before realizing how dumb you must sound to him. “oh my god, not that, it’s like a real job, or anything, or as hard as yours. it’s just taking a lot longer than usual, and-” “don’t say that. that’s plenty hard. i couldn’t do it, that’s for sure,” he says, in that gentle voice that still sounds like he’s teasing you but you know he’s not because he’s so sincere. your head feels like it's spinning from a single sentence. 

“really?” you ask, feeling like a stupid, scared child all over again.

“yes.”

the validation washes over you and you try to soak in every drop—it’s been a while that someone older than you hasn’t made you feel silly for what you’re pursuing. or rather, for the fact that it is hard sometimes, that it’s not just typing away at a computer all day. the research and the readings and the discussions and everything that you pour into your work, the stuff that no one in your life save for your favorite professors seem to understand.

jack is intoxicating, and you’re beginning to realize how much of a problem that is.

he smiles at you and you smile at him, reaching for your coffee just so you have something else to focus on because his attention is almost blinding, when you stop your hand half-way. it’s empty.

you bring your hand back to your lap awkwardly and look up at him, hoping he didn’t notice. he did.

“so, are you coming straight from the hospital?” you try to pivot the conversation away from yourself because the truth is that you could listen to him talk for hours.

“yeah, i just finished the night shift. and i’ve got a couple days off so i figured i’d get a coffee before tackling my list of things i’ve been putting off.”

“that’s always a smart idea,” you say.

“yeah. you’re doing the same thing, huh?”

“i guess i just needed to get out of the house. and drink something that’s made without bodily harm involved.”

he laughs, so you laugh, and then you stare at his pretty, sparkly eyes and wonder why everything feels so easy around him. the concern that you’re not good enough or not working hard enough melts away and you feel so much lighter. your struggles are forgotten, if just for a moment, and you realize that this, unfortunately, is something very bad. because he’s not going to be around you much longer.

the barista calls out his name and he says he’ll be right back, getting up quickly. you think he would have said that he’ll see you around and in true doctor fashion, remind you to take care of your wound, but he didn’t. 

you conclude that he must be saving it for after his coffee, that he’ll pass by on the way out. you’re a little distracted with your thoughts to notice that he’s gone for a little too long.

he comes back with his coffee—large and in a hot cup, the polar opposite of yours—and a pastry in a bag. 

but then he hands it to you. 

“oh—what?” you ask, confused. 

“it’s for you. you haven’t eaten, right?” “well, no, but i-” he sets the bag down next to your empty coffee cup. “you didn’t have to do that, i, um, i-”

“that’s okay. i was a student once too, y’know.” 

“yeah. wow, um, thank you. that’s so nice of you.” you’re so stunned you can’t even begin to piece together jack’s reaction. it’s a five dollar pastry, and he thinks briefly he’d buy you ten of them if you really wanted, with how grateful you seem. 

“they’re making you another coffee, so pay attention for your name.”

“dr. abbot, i-” your eyes are wide like coins, heart thudding in your chest, confused and dizzy and unable to process how nice this man is.

“it’s nothing, kid. don’t worry about it.” 

you laugh at how crazy this whole things seem to you—or maybe you’re just not very used to nice things.

“you should stop because i’m gonna get used to this,” you say half-joking with a smile and another laugh, taking a bite of the delicious pastry so he’ll be appeased.

“maybe you should.” you blink at him. “i gotta go, kid, but here’s my number.” he takes out a pen from his pocket and scribbles the number on the back of the paper bag the pastry came in. “call me if you need anything, hm? for your hand or anything else."

you stare at him blankly, and he laughs, and heads out with his coffee, turning to look at you one last time when he’s at the door.

the barista calls out your name and there’s a large iced coffee waiting for you on the counter.

yeah, you’re in trouble.

+

you save jack’s contact but you don’t text him, worried that he’ll think you only want to see him for his money or the seemingly endless generosity that’s always pouring from him.

you do need need help—there's a half assembled desk from facebook marketplace that you didn't have the tools to finish yourself, despite how hard you tried. but you can't possibly ask him for help with that—he's a stranger. he's your doctor. so you don't do anything with his number.

it’s just as well because the universe has other plans for you two.

you work a part-time job to pay for your tiny apartment. it’s inconsistent, you get scheduled when they’re really busy, and now that it’s getting warmer out, there's more shifts. 

so saturday morning, bright and early, you get ready, first wrapping your hand as discreetly as you can. it’s doing much better now, half of which you attest to the burn gel and half to jack’s healing powers. then your hair and make-up, and then whatever seems suitable for the hot weather today. 

there’s no uniform, at least, and you decide on a black athletic skirt and a pink shirt with the material that helps you not get too sweaty, even though you’re in the shade of the drink cart for most of your shift. 

it’ll be a full day so you pack lunch and fill up your water bottle before making your way to the golf course. you’re assigned a specific section and you pray to god it’s filled with stupid, rich businessman who tip way too much if you flutter your eyelashes at them.

it’s a little skeevy at times, but money is money, and no one’s ever tried anything more than a failed pick-up line or the more sober friends dragging away the drunk guy who lingers, even though they all wear wedding bands. 

you make the first round, and though it’s early and you’re more of a disarming, clumsy sort of charming, when you smile brightly and say it’s five o’clock somewhere, it’s enough to the men golfing to laugh and buy hard seltzers.

a little bit later, the beers start selling, and by noon, you have to go restock your cart. it’s been a good shift—you think if it keeps up like this, your tips will be enough to put towards rent and if there’s extra, you can go find a dress if you ever work up the nerve to text jack and ask him on a date.

but post lunch, to your surprise, it slows down a little. it’s hot out and you have to admit to yourself you were never going to be brave enough to text jack. at least if your rent gets almost paid, you’ll feel better than you did last night.

you drive around on the cart, stopping in front of a tall man who you think is golfing alone. in your experience, if they’re alone, they’re looking to get drunk.

“hi,” you sing, hoping he’s a good tipper. he looks nice when he smiles at you but you never know. “would you like anything to drink?” 

“two beers, please. thank you, sweetheart.”

the nickname, like always, make you a little flustered. it’s always the older guys who lavish them on you, and when they’re wrinkly and too old it’s not that big of a deal, but when they’re in this one specific age range—your heart churns remembering that jack is probably a part of that group, just like this guy—it’s enough to make you spiral. many things are, you conclude, unsure how you’ve made it this far in life.

“two?” you confirm, since you don’t see anyone else around.

“yes, just waiting on a buddy of mine.” 

“oh, okay. coming right up,” you respond, leaning over to pick up two beers. when you turn back to tell them the price, again, you feel him before you hear it. 

“our livers are gonna be shot, man.” you hear it in the distance. 

“well, after the week i’ve had, i deserve it-” the man next to you shouts out to his friend, who you, unfortunately, recognize. you hear footsteps getting closer and closer.

“yeah, yeah. don’t come calling when you want a piece of my liver. i got it,” jack says, approaching you. you turn around to face him. “oh. hi, kid. talk about a coincidence, huh?” 

you want to say something but you’re not sure how to get it out without stammering. 

jack’s eyes rake over your body—short skirt, tight shirt, cute golf shoes that you had spent way too much money on. you just wanted to play the role and fit in and it had all seemed worth it at the time.

and then he notices how you’re holding onto the beers with both hands, condensation dripping onto your mostly-dry bandage. and he turns into dr. abbot right before your eyes. “hey, hey, let me take those. you’re supposed to be keeping this thing dry,” he says, handing one over to robby. 

“you two know each other?” his friend says, his eyes going from you to jack and back to you.

“yeah. listen, i’ll be right over.” 

“sure,” robby says. “thank you again for the beer,” he tells you and you weakly smile before he walks away.

“i-i did keep it dry. it’s doing better. but i didn’t want to turn down work so-”

“yeah, but, i don’t want you compromising the healing. how long have you been out here? have you been drinking water?”

“yes, i have,” you say earnestly, his concern for you making you light-headed, though you resist the urge to fall directly into his arms, no matter how much it possesses you. 

“as your doctor, i don’t think i can recommend this.”

“i’m sorry,” you say, unsure of what else you can tell him. “you know how it is. gotta pay for coffee somehow, right?”

“you didn’t text me. or call. i was hoping for a call but i figured you’d send a text, but then you didn’t.”

“i’m sorry-” “stop apologizing. i-i’m kidding. you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to. i just meant-” “i wanted to,” you pipe up, interrupting him. “i still want to. i just-i just got nervous, i guess. you’re like a real doctor and i’m, i’m barely a real student.” “why do you do that?” “do what?” “make it seem like it’s lesser. you are a student, you told me all about it. it’s impressive.”

“no it’s not. you don’t have to lie-” “i’m not lying.” 

you pause, processing everything happening in front of you.

“i’m sorry i didn’t text you.”

“that’s okay, kid. i’ll take your word for it this time.” “i didn’t think you’d actually want to see me, i guess.”

“yeah? why’s that?” he gets in a little closer, until he’s in the shade of your cart with you. he stares intensely and you feel yourself getting warm, unable to answer, unable to even remember what he had said. 

“i-i-”

“you, you?” you hear it in the distance—his friend calling out his name. jack takes a step away from you and looks over. “i gotta go. thanks for the beer, kid.” he pushes cash into your hand and you feel like you’ve been shocked with a live wire where your hands touch. “if you don’t text me, i can’t get your number, you know.” 

and then he walks away. and in your hand is a hundred-dollar bill for two beers.

+

it turns out, that texting jack was, indeed, a mistake. you text him a simple sentence—hi, followed with your name so he knows who it is. maybe he has other former patients he’s giving his number out to—you don’t know. (you hope not, as the thought just made you nauseous.)

he calls you a few minutes later and completely unprepared, you have to answer, and talk to him on the phone as you pace around your tiny living room until your downstairs neighbor hits the ceiling with a broom to get you to stop.

jack is a planner, you realize, because after the phone call where he asked about your day and you learned about his, you have a date for friday night. 

against every better instinct, you go buy a new, used dress for the date from your favorite consignment store, using the money from jack’s tip. you get dressed up hours in advance, unable to focus on your work, but rather chewing your cheek and reapplying your lip gloss until it’s time to go downstairs. 

jack meets you outside your apartment, though he tells you he was going to come up. he has flowers for you but you elect to carry them, not sure if you’re prepared for him to see the tiny place you call home.

this has never happened before. your first date with a man, rather than a boy, and he brought you flowers and he’s driving you to the restaurant and he gets out first and tells you to wait and then goes around and opens the door for you.

it’s ridiculous. it’s like a movie.

the first date goes well, you think.

well—it’s the best first date you’ve ever had. jack tells you all about his life but he always stops to ask about yours, though yours isn’t nearly as interesting. instead you preen him on about his time in the service, and he tells you about the prosthetic you saw when he was at the golf course, and why he wanted to become a doctor and how he likes it there now. 

(when you bring that up, he puts his hand over your injured one, still wrapped with a much smaller bandage than before, and asks how your hand is for probably the third time that night, like he has to keep checking to make sure you’re okay. it’s dizzying. everything about him is dizzying.)

he lets you pick dessert and walks you up to your door and kisses you goodnight, and you have to refrain from inviting him inside right then and there.

you stare at the flowers daily—not sure when one date had become two, and then three, and then four.

he brings you a box of chocolates—the good kind—on the second date and you makeout for twenty minutes in his car after. new flowers on the third one, when you end up seeing inside his gorgeous apartment for the first time and also end up on his lap for the better part of an hour.

and then the fourth one, which was supposed to be a late lunch after his shift at the hospital, you very nearly have to cancel. jack is outside your door and you still have a complex about your apartment, but you let him inside while you scramble around.

“woah, woah,” he says, steadying you by your shoulders and turning you towards him. “what’s going on?”

“um, work called and this girl is sick and they want me to come in but i-i have to see the bus times or call an uber and i don’t even know where my golf shoes are and-”

“just tell them no, then sweetheart,” he says, and you blink at him.

“but i should really go. if it’s busy it’s like enough to pay half my rent, and-” jack sighs, moving his hands from your shoulders to your waist.

“i don’t think you should have to worry about things like this.” 

the way he says it, it sounds very final, very firm and absolute.

“i wish it was that easy,” you say, but when you turn to meet jack’s eyes again, he’s already looking at you intensely.

“it is. let me care of it.” 

and it’s jarring. letting him pay for every date—though you paid for the ice cream after date two, something you pride yourself on—is one thing. letting him pay for coffee because he sends you money when you mention you’re going to the coffee shop to work is… something. but letting him pay for your life—your rent and your bills—is something else entirely. it’s dependence, it’s serious, it’s what you’d expect if you were engaged or his sugar baby or something—

“stop overthinking it. you know how much i like you, right?” you nod dumbly. “then let me take care of it. let me take care of you.” 

unfortunately—it’s way, way too easy to give in. you’ve never been the spoiled sort, ever, but with jack, you get to be. you tell work you can’t come in and you don’t feel incredibly guilty about it for the first time. you get to go on your lunch date and then kiss jack goodbye and tell him to have a good day at work, instead. jack sends you a direct deposit for your rent, and you think he’s made a mistake at first—it’s almost double what you need. you call him to tell him about his mistake but he says the same thing he always does.

i know. the extra is for you. don’t worry about it, kid. 

it’s incredible what those five words can do to your body and soul. it gets worse—the next time you see him, when you’re hearing home after a day of classes and he’s heading to the hospital, he takes out a little box and hands it to you, telling you to open it at home. and then he kisses you until your knees are weak and drops you off at your apartment. 

on the elevator, you open it—a pretty necklace with a glittery diamond that probably costs three times your monthly rent. 

you’ve never thought you’d get used to be spoiled like this so quickly—but you do. it’s not like you need so many luxurious things, but the little luxuries add up so quickly to the point where you’re overwhelmed. a new pair of shoes for every day because your old ones were hurting your soles. a large coffee and a pastry when you go to the coffeeshop to work. when your laptop stops working, you don’t freak out and cry like you’re programmed to do, you just tell jack and he helps you pick out a new one a few hours later.

intoxicating is the only word you can use to describe jack abbot and his affect on you.

and after another date—matching earrings for your necklace this time, ones that he helped you put on—you end up in apartment, staring at the bustling city below you from his huge windows. jack comes up behind you, kissing your cheek and then your ear, which makes you laugh, and then your shoulder and your neck, and you melt into his touch. 

you’ve been doing nothing but kissing for the time you’ve known him, and you think you’ve been fed up for long enough. actually, you know you have, but he’s been the one insisting to take it slow, like he doesn’t want to scare you off.

you wrap your arms around him and bring him in for another kiss, though this one feels slightly different. hot and wet and hard, the two of you pushed so tightly against each other that your mouth hurts. you open it further to let him push his tongue inside, and you realize as fun as this is, you need more. you need whatever jack abbot will give you.

his hands—still enough to make you think voltage is buzzing through them because every time he touches you, you feel like you’ve been hit with a live wire—grab your waist and roam up and down your back. you moan into his mouth and jack pulls away briefly, letting you catch your breath.

“please, jack?” you ask, and that’s all he can let you get out, smashing his mouth against yours again. 

you squeal when he picks you up, carrying you to the bedroom and letting you land on his bed with a gentle thud.

“i wanted to stay out there,” you say softly, running your hands over his shirt, exploring his chest. your hands go to the buttons, undoing them even through your hands feel a little shaky. 

“yeah? why’s that?” jack answers in that quiet, rough voice that makes you so wet you can’t think straight. he hovers over you, leaning into press another kiss to your neck that makes you moan. “wanted to give everyone a show, huh?” he presses his lips to yours and you giggle against them.

“s’not my fault you have such big windows.” then, emboldened, you keep going. “maybe i just wanted to show everyone that i can take care of you too.” 

jack pulls away, staring at you with those eyes. those eyes, those eyes. it’s enough to drive you crazy, the way his gaze is so intense. you feel chills run through your whole body despite how hot and flushed you feel. you can’t help it—jack abbot makes you feel every emotion in the book at the same time.

“yeah, kid? you want to take care of me?” you nod, your hand finishing unbuttoning his shirt and helping him take it off. 

“please, jack. i really do.” you let your hand wander to his bulge, palming him while biting your lip at the sheer size you’re feeling. he’s so big it’s going to hurt—though right now you can’t think about anything other than getting him inside your mouth so you can finally begin to take care of him how he’s been taking care of you.

“next time, kid, i promise-”

“ja-ack,” you whine. you think you’ve gotten a little too used to getting exactly what you want from him. it’s his own fault—he shouldn’t have spoiled you so much.

“come on, sweetheart. i thought you’d be good for me, huh?” 

“but i wanted to-” you feel jack’s hands wander up your thighs, searching for the fabric of your panties, but he can’t find it. instead he feels the wetness between your legs, the your juices coating the inside of your thighs. he chokes out a laugh, burying his head into your neck like he can’t believe the sight in front of him.

“you’re not wearing anything underneath this?” he asks, and you shake your head, biting back a smile. “oh, kid. you’re in for it now.”

you squeal again, trying to fight his hard grip but jack keeps you firm in place, his lips crushing down on yours again, his tongue in your mouth. he pulls your dress up until it’s bunched around your thighs, and he’s still in his slacks but you want him inside of you so badly that you don’t think you can wait for the clothes to come off. 

“shh,” jack says against your ear, nipping at it right above your pretty new earrings. “i’ll give you what you want. i just gotta stretch you out first.” 

the words are enough to make your eyes roll all the way back—your head hits the pillow with a thud. jack keeps you distracted with a kiss while your wrap your hands around his neck. his finger get closer and closer to where you want them, and when he slips inside one thick finger, you gasp against his lips.

“yeah?” he teases, “feel good? i know, sweetheart, just take it.”

 the stretch of just one is incredible, but then he adds a second, pushing them in and out with his palm flush against your clit, the pressure building in your stomach already.

it’s a combination of everything, you think. the soft sheets that smell like him, the way you’re both too eager to even take your clothes off. how the jewelry you’re wearing is from him, just because. 

and finally, his weight on top of you, even when you’re begging him to let you take care of him for once, he can’t rest, he can’t stop it, like it’s so engrained in him. like his only mission in life is to take care of you.

jack adds a third finger and you don’t think you’ve ever been so stretched out in your life. panting against him, you lean in for another kiss, sloppy and wet.

you pull back so you can stare at jack’s expression while he fucks his fingers into you harder and faster, so wet that he’s almost slipping out. he’s flushed, pretty silver hair damp against his forehead, and you reach over without thinking to brush some of it away.

“c’mon kid, cum for me. i know you want to. let me take care of you, hm? don’t think, don’t think, just cum-” 

and you do. it’s explosive, though you’ve always thought this sort of orgasm was impossible for you to achieve. you guess nothing’s impossible when jack abbot is the one doing it. you hear him before you fully feel it—fuck, yes, good girl—and your entire body tenses and tightens as that coil low in your belly snaps and washes over you. if you had ever thought his touch was electric, then today it was lightening. he rides you through it, not stopping until you’re practically pushing his hand away, and even then, he only stops to laugh against your sweaty skin. 

like he knew it’d be too much for you. like he’s only just begun breaking you in.

every muscle is aching and sore by the end of it. your body collapses into his mattress and you flutter your eyes shut, still leaning for another kiss, even when your brain is so tired it can’t think straight.

“good job, sweetheart,” he says, and you hum against him. “you think you’re ready for it?” 

when he says it like that, you can’t help but nod. 

jack lines himself up with your leaking cunt, and you can’t imagine what a mess you’ve made on his nice sheets. but when he pushes inside you, your eyes roll back again and you lose all train of thought.

damn him—you can’t even keep a sentence coherent anymore. it’s not fair. 

you feel so full. your toes curl and your muscles scream at you, but with jack’s grip tight on your hips, the fabric of his pants rubbing against you because he had just taken himself out, not taken them off entirely, it’s hard to complain. 

he sets a rhythm that makes you cry out against him, so loud that you’re worried his neighbors will hear. but jack doesn’t seem to care, encouraging you, hitting that spot inside of you that makes you see stars over and over again. 

the sheer size of him is enough to make you cum again, you think, deliriously and delusionally. 

your eyes are shut tight, but when you open them and meet jack’s eyes, you smile at him like you can’t believe this is real. 

“j-jack,” you moan, unsure of your own volume. you hear the bedframe thud against the wall repeatedly, feel jack hold your legs up to get deeper in you, if that’s even possible. he looks down at where you two are connected, like he’s unable to pull his gaze away from there. “jack, it feel s-so good,” you hiccup, wet eyes meeting his. 

“yeah, kid?” he asks, the words coming out in a shuddery breath. “fuck, oh fuck.” hearing him say that makes your toes curl, and when he picks up his pace and starts battering against that one spot in you, your feel it again—the electric current washing over you and running through each nerve, making your limbs into jello and your heart race so fast you think it’ll thud out of your chest.

you dig your nails into jack’s back, leaving little crescent shaped marks in your wake. and when you bring him for another kiss, you whisper it against his lips, watery eyes blinking up at him through wet eyelashes, just because you felt like you had to say it.

“thank you for taking care of me, jack.” you feel it before you hear him—his hips stuttering, streams of hot cum filling you up endlessly until you’ve made a mess all around him. he groans loudly—a noise that you wish you could hear on repeat from how good he sounds, how good you made him feel.

none of this is grounding—it’s so extremely un-grounding that you feel like you’re floating on clouds. 

though you wish he wouldn’t, jack pulls out of you. his sheets must be ruined by now. 

“you okay, sweetheart?” he asks, and you can’t believe this is your life. 

“yes. are you okay?” you ask quietly, throat sore.

“yes,” he says, with a laugh, he helps you pull the skirt of your dress down and curl up next to him. his chest is warm and you think you could fall asleep pressed up against him like this. 

you trace patterns on his forearm where it rests next to you and stare at all the freckles. 

“we should have stayed out there. the sun’s setting soon.”

“yeah?” “yeah. i like your apartment.” you sigh and mew next to him, curling in closer, close to sleep. 

“yeah, kid? how would you feel about moving in?”

♡ thanks for reading!

[oneandonlycringe]

𝐇𝐞𝐥𝐝 𝐁𝐲 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐃𝐞𝐯𝐢𝐥'𝐬 𝐆𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐥𝐞 𝐇𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐬

𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 | Remmick x Fem!Reader

𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 | You had been taught from a young age that your body was a vessel for sin. You pray. You obey. You repent for desires you've never acted on. Until one night, something old and unholy walks out of the swamp. Remmick doesn’t ask for your obedience. He simply asks for you.

𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 | 12,353 (I'm incapable of writing short fics anymore stg)

𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 | Mature Content-Explicit Descriptions Of Sex | Religious trauma, Shame-based upbringing, Mentions of blood, Vampire themes, Slight power imbalance (handled with care), Typical historical sexism, Horror themes, Smut: PIV sex, Loss of virginity, Period sex, Biting/marking, Worship kink, Oral(fem!receiving), Fingering, Begging/dirty talk, Dom/sub themes, Blood kink.

𝐀𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫'𝐬 𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐞 | This is the freakiest shit I've ever written and I love it. I may have gotten a bit carried away, but I was a vampire slut as a teenager so this was like going back to my roots! It might seem a little drawn out, but I promise you it's worth it.

masterlist

“LORD, IF THERE BE ANY WICKED THOUGHT IN ME, CAST IT OUT.”

Knees sunk into warped pine, you knelt before the pulpit. Rigid spine drawn upwards like penance carved into posture. The chapel groaned with age beneath you, floorboards moaning like the ribs of something half-dead. Still, you didn’t move. Not when your knees screamed. Not when sweat slicked down your back. 

Pain, after all, was a righteous offering. 

Beyond clouded glass windows, Mississippi’s summer pressed its damp mouth to the world. Cicadas shrieked into the thick air—bold and blatant. As if even God’s smallest creatures knew no shame. 

But you did. You’d learned it young. 

At thirteen, the blood had come for the first time. Bright and damning, soaking through linen drawers like spilled sin. Your mama had wept into her handkerchief, Bible clenched to her chest.

Your daddy made you sleep in the shed out back that night. 

“You’re unclean now,” Mama had said. Her voice gentle as cattails blowing in the wind, but no less firm. “The devil speaks through blood like that.”

Since then, your body had become something separate from your soul. Something threatening to it. Something to be managed.

And so, you managed it. 

You scrubbed every corner of yourself with lye and scalding water, rubbed lavender oil behind your ears and under your arms to keep the scent of you polite. You covered your chest tight beneath your high-necked dresses and crossed your ankles even in sleep. You swallowed down every tremble, every heat that rose under your skin when you caught sight of a man’s hands. Thick-knuckled and dirty from work, veins like roots. 

When the wicked thoughts came—as they always did, uninvited and slow—you banished them with prayer. Over and over until your throat went hoarse and your vision blurred. 

Lord, make me clean. Lord, make me still. 

You learned to live inside the rhythm of denial. Every dish was washed with precision. Every verse memorized and recited without fault. Every smile measured, every word weighed. Even your silence was studied. Measured like sugar for a pie crust. 

Your daddy called you his “God-fearing girl.”

The town called you sweet. Gentle. A lamb.

But none of them heard the screaming behind your ribs. Still, you stayed soft, obedient. 

You turned your eyes away from boys who looked too long. You flinched when your daddy’s voice turned thundering at the pulpit, screaming about Jezebels and harlots and fire licking at the feet of women who let their hips sway too loose. 

Sometimes you wake in the middle of the night, thighs damp and heart racing, some dream fleeing your memory like smoke. The shame that followed was near biblical. You would kneel in front of your window and pray ‘til sunrise, whisper to the floorboards so Mama and Daddy wouldn’t hear. 

Still, deep in the belly of you, a wanting took root. Not loud, not crude, just hungry. Starved from being ignored so long.

That hunger frightened you more than Hell.

The sun had just begun to sink when you uncurled from the floor, joints stiff, knees aching with the kind of pain that settles deep and stays. Your dress clung damp to your back. The chapel had been empty when you arrived, and now as you left, it remained the same. The air still, dust dancing lazily in halos through fogged glass. 

Stepping outside felt like surfacing from deep water. The humidity met you like breath on your skin. Thick, and warm, and a little too familiar. Your shoes pressed down the dirt path in soft grinds on the pebbles, the hem of your dress sweeping across your ankles. 

Home was only a half mile away. Past a narrow field, and through the grove of pines your daddy always said was cursed. “Too quiet,” he’d muttered once. “Ain’t right when the trees don’t even sing.”

You never asked him what he meant. You were taught not to question the wisdom of men like him. 

The cicadas faded as you reached the edge of the trees. The air shifted, cooler now, like something had drawn the heat out of it. There was no wind. No hooting owls, no coyotes yipping, no chirping of crickets. The absence of all nighttime sounds. 

You paused.  

The setting light had gone strange, pale silver-washed, as though the sun had dipped too fast beneath the horizon. The shadows stretched longer here. Almost deliberate in their reach. 

It was then that you saw him. 

He stood beneath a drooping cypress, half swallowed by the gloaming. At first you thought he might’ve been carved from the tree itself—so still and rooted. But then he moved. Not like just any man, not exactly. Not with effort or weight in his steps. He simply shifted. Like water finding the shape of a new vessel.

Your breath caught in your throat. 

His eyes, too pale to be safe, met yours across the thinning distance. He looked like some creature out of folklore. The kind from tales whispered between women who’d seen too much and men who drank too late. Broad, sharp-jawed, dressed in a white and blue striped button-down with a pair of suspenders hitched over his shoulders. His sleeves were rolled, revealing forearms etched with faint old scars, and the collar of his shirt hung open—loose, like he’d never worn a buttoned thing in his life. 

He had no hat, no weapon, not even a smile. 

You should’ve run, but your feet stayed cemented to the gravel, fists tight in your skirt.

He didn’t speak right away. He just looked at you like he knew the trance you were under. A muscle feathered in his jaw. Not with tension, but curiosity. Amusement, even. And when he did speak, his voice came low and smooth, like creekwater over stone. 

“Didn’t mean to scare you,” he said, mouth curving up in the sort of smirk Mama warned you about. “Didn’t think anyone’d be out here.”

Your lips parted and then sealed shut again. You took a half step back, careful not to trip over the hem of your dress. 

“I didn’t mean to disturb—” you began, but his head tilted just a fraction. 

“You’re the preacher’s girl, right?” he asked, eyes narrowing with delighted focus. 

You nodded, barely. “Yes, sir.”

He huffed a sound that wasn’t quite a laugh. “No need for ‘sir’; I’m not that respectable.”

Silence stretched between you. Even though you’d been raised on the belief that it wasn’t polite for girls to talk too much, you wanted to fill the quiet. Spill your voice into the cracks. Your pulse throbbed in your throat before you rounded up the courage. 

“You shouldn’t be out here this time of night.”

“Neither should you, preacher’s daughter,” he drawled, a flicker of something dark and knowing curling the corner of his lips. “But here we are.”

He didn’t look like anyone from town and certainly didn’t talk like one. None of the townsfolk would’ve spoken to you the way he did. Unguarded and heedless of who you were. No, he wasn’t from around here at all. And yet…nothing about him seemed inherently strange. Just out of place. Like he belonged to a different world that had nudged its shoulder against yours for a moment, just long enough to make the air odd. 

He rocked back on the heels of his feet, like he was settling into the moment, not at all eager to leave it. “Didn’t catch your name.”

Giving out your name to strangers never seemed like a good idea to you. It felt wrong just to hand it out, especially not to spooky men alone in the woods. 

“Don’t think you need it, mister.” Your words are nearly swallowed by the blood rushing in your ears. 

That smirk returned, subtle and crooked and ruinous. “Suit yourself.”

His voice curled around the words like telling you he’d figure out your name anyway. Whether you gave it to him or not. And maybe he would; in a town as small as this, everybody knew everyone. 

He took a step forward. Not as a threat, not even boldly. 

The breath in your chest locked up tight anyway. Your ribs caging something suddenly wild and very much awake. Heat pricked at your cheeks, and shame rose in your belly like smoke curling from a chimney. You didn’t know this man, but the shape of him, the sound of him, felt like something your body recognized before your mind could catch up. 

You were both terrified and enchanted by him. 

“You always walk this way alone?” He asked.

You glanced away from his thralling eyes, throat going bone dry. “Ain’t usually anyone else out here.”

“You’re a peculiar thing,” he chuckled, pointing a wagging finger at you. 

You stiffened. “Why d’you say that?”

He shrugged, hands tucked lazily in his pockets. “I’ve been ‘round town awhile. Seen enough to know who stares down their nose and who just keeps their eyes down.” He fixed you with those keen eyes, turning up his nose almost like he was sniffing. “But you look like you’re tryin’ not to see at all.”

You sucked in a breath. You could feel your heart banging around inside you, like it wanted out.

This was wrong. 

Not just him, but the way the trees leaned in like they were listening, the way your skin felt charged under your dress. You could hear it echoing in your skull, how your name would sound rolling off his tongue if you’d chosen to give it to him. 

You didn’t even realize you’d taken a step back until your heel slid slightly on gravel.  

“I should get goin’,” you said quickly, the words tumbling out like water breaking through a dam.

He didn’t stop you as you danced around him. 

“Sure,” was all he said, amusement bending his voice. “Don’t let the woods eat ya on the way home.”

Your pace started out slow, but you could feel him behind you. Something made you look back. 

He’d moved back to where you first saw him, there under the swaying cypress tree half devoured by dusk and shadow. He stood just as still, only now his head was tilted the slightest bit. Like he was listening to something distant or savoring something close. 

When he caught you glancing at, him he grinned. Wickedly. Like he knew something you didn’t. Like he’d caught a glimpse of the crack in your pious little shell and was toying with the thought of prying it open.

The moonlight caught his eyes, or maybe it wasn’t the light at all. For just a moment, they flashed red. Not bright. Not like fire. But like crimson blood. It was just a glint, sharp as wet teeth in the dark. 

Your breath hitched as you took a step back, your eyes still on him. Then another until your pace quickens into something just shy of a run. 

He watched you leave, that grin widening as you stumbled through the brush, skirts snagging on twigs, heart pounding like a hymn sung too fast. He didn’t chase after you, but he drank in your fear like it was fine whiskey. 

You could almost hear that smile taunting you. Ain’t you lucky I let you go?

YOU DIDN’T WALK HOME NEAR THE GROVE ANYMORE.

You took the long road instead, through rows of dry fields and along the ridge where wild blackberries grew. 

But no matter how hard you tried to avoid it, you still saw him. 

Not fully at first, just a shape in your periphery. Standing motionless at the edge of things. Watching the horizon as though he had all the time in the world to wait for you to come to him.

You never stopped when you saw him; never spoke to him. You kept your eyes forward and your mouth shut. But your palms went damp against the cotton of your skirt, and your heart slammed into your ribs. 

You hadn’t slept that first night. 

You stayed curled under your quilt, ears straining at every creak in the house. You told yourself it was just wind on the windows, just the groan of old nails in old wood. But deep down, you knew better. 

Because the next evening, he was there again—this time down by the riverbed. 

You’d gone to fetch water just as the dark came on, trying to outpace the setting sun, but when you reached the bank, he was already there. Sitting on a fallen log like it was a church pew, skipping stones across the slow-moving current with easy, idle flicks of his wrist. 

He didn’t speak, but he didn’t really need to. 

You could feel his gaze on your back the whole time you filled the pail, like fingers dragging down the slope of your spine without ever touching skin. When you turned around, he was gone. 

You blinked once, twice; nothing but empty woods and water rippling in dusky light. The pail trembled in your hands the whole way home. 

By the third night, you started to wonder if you were going mad. 

You didn’t tell Mama or Daddy. You couldn’t. What would you even say? That some pale-eyed stranger was haunting the dirt roads and riverbeds. Staring like he could see every wicked little thought you’d tried so hard to drown.

No. 

That would only earn you a slap and a verse from Leviticus. 

So you stayed silent, but you didn’t feel safe. 

Especially not the fourth night when you saw him outside your bedroom window. 

It was just past midnight; the house had gone dead quiet hours ago. The air was heavy with heat and thunder-stillness. You’d risen from bed to press your forehead to the glass, the way you always did when your dreams left you flushed and frightened. The nighttime sounds had gone silent again. 

And then he was just there. 

Standing at the tree line just beyond the garden fence. Unmoving and unblinking. Lit only by the moon in the same striped shirt, the same loose collar, his hands in his pockets like this was nothing unusual. Like he belonged right there. 

You didn’t scream or dash away from the window. You just stared because a part of you had been expecting this. Dreading it and needing it in the same capacity.

His head tilted again, same as before. Curious. Amused. That slow, knowing smirk unspooling like thread across his mouth with those razor-sharp teeth as the needle.

 A chill slid down your spine like the slow crawl of a water moccasin, cold and coiling. Your heart jittered wild in your chest, beating like a grasshopper’s wings. Part of you screamed to look away, but some buried piece of you—that part the prayers never reached—couldn’t drag your eyes from him. 

You hoped he wouldn't see the internal tremor of your bones, but you knew he did.

He just watched you, like he was trying to decide whether to devour you or let you rot sweetly on the vine. The air felt thick with something unholy. Then from the darkness, a sound soft and low and syrup-slick. 

A laugh straight from the depths of Hell. 

He moved then, pushed himself from the fence post like it cost him nothing, the slow drag of his boots through the grass loud enough through the closed window. The garden seemed to hush around him; even the insects ceased their chattering. 

The moonlight reached for him as he stepped forward, bent toward him like it knew him. Like it’d been waiting to kiss his skin. 

You’d heard plenty of stories in church warning folks about demons who walked only in the dark and wore man’s skin like a borrowed coat. You’d never put much stock in them. 

But now?

Now he was standing in your garden, eyes burning like embers and teeth too sharp, framed by a mouth that smiled like it knew the taste of brimstone. 

He was beautiful in the way demons often were depicted hunting for mortal souls. Terrible and magnetic and full of ruin. 

And every bit of him seemed to say just one thing.

Come closer, little lamb. The door’s already open.

You didn’t remember unlatching the window. Just that your fingers were already there, trembling against the iron hook.

It groaned softly as it opened, just enough to let the air in. Enough to let him near.

He was closer now, no longer by the fence but halfway through the garden, where your mama’s tomato vines curled up splintering stakes. His boots were sunk into the dew-dark earth, but he moved like something that didn’t need to touch the ground to get where it was going. 

When he made it to the window, you gripped the sill to steady yourself. 

“Why you tormenting yourself like this?” His voice was whisper quiet, but it slithered right under your skin like smoke through a crack in the floorboards. You flinched but couldn’t bring yourself to move away. 

“What d’you mean?” Your voice sounded so small in this moment. 

He stepped closer still, until he was just beneath the window. His hands stayed in his pockets, body loose with an ease you’ve never seen another person possess. But his gaze was the only restless thing about him. It was fixed on you shining bloody, sharp, and starving.

“Lookin’ at me like that,” he murmured. “Pretending I’m the one you’re still scared of.”

Your throat worked around the thickness gathering there. 

“I don’t—I was just—” You broke off. Words slipped through your fingers like running water.

He tilted his head in that slow, animal way. “Oh, darlin’” And then with a quick click of his tongue, he frowned at you, like it saddened him that you couldn’t see the way he did. “You ain’t really afraid of me.”

The thought made your stomach twist. “I am,” you said too fast. 

“No, darlin’. You’re afraid of what you feel when I’m close. That heat in your belly. That little pulse in your throat. You were raised to call that fear.” He leaned forward just a hair, voice going lower. “But it ain’t.”

Your eyes stung as you blinked the emotion away. “You don’t know me.”

“I know enough.” 

He looked at you like something half-ripened and trembling on the vine. A peach not yet plucked, but splitting at the seam just the same. 

You turned your face slightly, ashamed of how badly you wanted to hear what he might say next. The window creaked as you pushed it open a little more. Not to get closer to him, but to let in some more air. That’s what you told yourself.

His eyes followed the movement. “You ever ask yourself why I keep comin’ back here?” He asked. 

You couldn’t find an answer. 

“You think I hang around ‘cause I like the scenery? The garden?” His mouth carved, those fangs of his poking out. “It ain’t the tomatoes bringin’ me, sweetheart.”

You pressed a hand to your chest, as if you could calm the racing in it with sheer will. “What are you?” you whispered. 

He smiled wider but didn’t answer. “Why’d you open the window tonight?” He asked instead. 

That struck something deep in you. A place none of your daddy’s sermons had ever managed to reach. You just stood there, bare feet on old wooden floor, moonlight kissing your cheekbone, your heart loud enough you were sure he could hear it. 

Then, with his eyes fully shining crimson and his voice softer than breath, he spoke with a flicker of something ancient. “Come outside.”

The words hit you low in the belly. And for a split second, you almost did. Almost pulled yourself over the sill without a second thought, like a girl in a folk tale about to be taken by the monsters lurking in the woods. 

But you didn’t. Something made you stay where you were, clinging to the windowsill like it was the edge of the world. Or the edge of your sanity. 

“I can’t,” you whispered. 

He watched you a moment longer, the red glow fading from those unnatural eyes. He nodded just once, like he expected that response from you. His grin lingered as he turned away. 

“That’s alright,” he said. “You will, or either I’ll hang ‘round long enough for you to invite me in.”

He seemed to blink out of existence then. There one minute and gone the next. With his presence no longer holding you in thrall, you stepped back from the window like it had burned you. Heart hammering all the way up your throat as you slammed the window shut. You dropped to your knees without thinking, palms slapping the floorboards, breath coming entirely too fast. 

You prayed, but not out of devotion; out of desperation. 

But no amount of prayer could vanish the image from your mind. 

His face in the moonlight. 

That devilish grin. 

The way his preternatural eyes seemed to strip you bare without even trying.

It was demeaning how intense the thought of him felt, how vivid it was. How warm. He’d crawled under your skin like a fever and made home there. Uninvited and relentless. 

And worse, it was disgusting to want like this. To fantasize in such a way about a man you’d only spoken to twice. One who you knew nothing about. A man who might not be a man at all. 

Because what you’d seen…the flash of red in his eyes, the fang-like teeth, the way the light didn’t touch him, the stillness that came with him that felt wrong in a world always rustling. 

You were certain he wasn't human. 

And still, he’d become the subject of every dark corner of your mind. 

Your nightmares, yes—those came first. Dreams of him dragging you into the woods, tearing into you with those monstrous canines.

But the fantasies came after.

Sinful ones that had your fingers curling in your sheets. Your thighs pressed tightly beneath your nightgown. The shame bloomed fresh each time when you saw the sunrise and realized your soul hadn’t been struck down for the things you let yourself imagine.

You hated it. 

You hated him.

You hated yourself most of all.

And yet, even as your knees ached and your lips whispered psalms too fast to understand, a single, damning truth settled at the base of your spine like a stone.

You weren’t praying for him or even the thoughts to go away. Because in the most blasphemous parts of yourself, you enjoyed this.

The night after he visited the window, you dreamt of him. 

He came not through the door, but through the trees. Born of shadows and honeysuckle, and grinning beneath the weight of the moon. His presence pulled the night close, like even the dark bent towards him in reverence. 

The grove bloomed around you, but it was wrong. Cyprus roots split the ground like vines. The air was thick with humidity and the heavy, heady scent of sweet rot. Moonlight filtered through the branches, pale as spilled milk, and everything was silent, as if the world held its breath. 

You stood barefoot in the middle of it all, nightgown clinging to your thighs, the hem damp. The trees whispered in a language your bones seemed to know. There was no wind. 

Then he appeared—just was, suddenly—behind you. Closer than your shadow. 

One hand came to rest on your hip, the other brushing your hair aside, fingers cold but careful, like he was unwrapping a relic.

“You ain’t a saint. Not a sinner neither.” He breathed, voice like molasses poured slow. “Just a…sweet-blooded thing.”

You couldn’t speak. You wanted to, but no words made it free before they died in your throat. Your body pulsed with some kind of rhythm not taught by sermons, but by earth, bone, and blood. His hands roamed without urgency, touching you like something holy, as he hummed low with his sinner’s breath. 

Your knees gave out when his hands wandered too close to between your legs. He caught you holding your weight up with one arm. He lowered his mouth to your throat, inhaled, and sighed like he’d come home. 

And then—

Then the woods split with light, hot and blinding, and his eyes—pale as salt, rimmed in red like dying coals—met yours for a single, damning moment.

You woke with a sharp gasp violent enough to cut through the air. You shot up in bed, heart galloping and skin clammy. The dream clung to you like moss, heavy and damp. 

You felt it before you even looked. 

The wet heat between your thighs and the ache low in your belly. The blood smeared across the sheets like rust on Sunday white. 

You didn’t scream.

You just wept. 

Curled into yourself on the stained bedding, rocking like you had done as a child during storms, when thunder shook the windowpanes and Mama told you to hush. That the rumbling was just God. 

You buried your face in your hands and whispered like a sinner at the feet of the Lord. 

“I didn’t ask for this.”

But somewhere, somehow, you knew you had.

THE NEXT MORNING BROUGHT YOU NO MERCY. You woke in a fever of shame, the sheets damp and streaked rust-red. 

You’d barely stripped them from the bed and gotten them to the basin when your mama walked in, face already drawn with suspicion. She stopped short when she saw the washboard and the clear water turning pink.

Her mouth flattened. “You ain’t due,” she said simply, but it wasn’t a question. 

You kept your eyes on the suds, hands starting to shake as you scrubbed harder. 

“You been temptin’ something,” she murmured, voice gone cool and critical, like a snake easing through garden grass. “Lord sees everything, and so does a mother.”

You didn’t answer; you didn’t need to. Nothing you said would’ve made a difference. 

By noon your daddy knew. She’d told him in hushed tones over the breakfast table, her words laced with worry and faithful dread, her hands trembling around her coffee mug. 

The blood was a warning, she said. A sign that the devil was whispering, and her daughter was startin’ to listen.

The preacher’s face went hard as wood. There was no screaming, no belt. Just that look, and that was always worse. 

He sent you to the chapel before lunch, said it was time you remembered what it meant to be clean. Pure. God’s own daughter, not some wild thing led by flesh and fever. 

So you knelt all day.

Until your knees throbbed and your spine locked straight, until the air inside the church went stale and sweet from summer heat, and your throat was hoarse from whispered pleas.

You weren’t allowed water or allowed to sit. 

Just kneel, pray, repent. 

By the time evening came, your whole body ached. But the ache inside was louder. A low, relentless pulse that no prayer could silence.

When your daddy finally opened the chapel doors and sent you home, you walked like a ghost through the dusk, eyes empty.

You didn’t try to sleep that night. You knew it would be no use. So, you sat on your bed and waited. Waited because you knew he’d be out there. 

And when the animals fell quiet, when the breeze turned cool and still, and the moonlight poured soft and white through your curtain like cream in a glass, you knew. 

He’d come back. 

He wasn’t at the window, though. He’d gone to the tree.

The old white oak out front, the one your great-granddaddy planted with his own two hands nearly a century ago. Mama always called it the family’s spine. Said its roots ran so deep it could hold back Hell itself. Said it shaded the porch like a preacher’s hand. Protective and watching.

But tonight, it didn’t feel holy. Tonight it felt like it was aiding him, and he was anything but holy. 

You went out the front door before you could change your mind. Quiet as a fallen soul slipping out of confession, you opened it. The screen groaned on its hinges and snapped shut behind you.

The air outside was thick with the scent of honeysuckle and something faintly coppery, like blood in well water.

He leaned lazily against the oak’s trunk like he’d grown from it. Like he owned it. His sleeves were rolled, and his shirt rumpled. Shadows seemed to tuck themselves around his boots like hounds curling at their master’s feet. 

Once again, he let the silence simmer between you for a moment. If he was surprised you came out, he didn’t show it. 

You looked right back at him, jaw locked with some emotion that wasn’t quite courage. 

“I oughta tell you to leave,” you said, voice stifled but firm. 

He didn’t move. “Why don’t you?”

Your fingers knotted in the fabric of your nightdress. “Cause you won’t listen.”

That made him grin. “You’re smarter than you let on, preacher’s daughter.”

The night air wrapped tight around the both of you. The oak branches swayed without wind.

You stepped off the porch, slow like stepping into a grave you’d dug yourself. Dry leaves crunched beneath your feet as you got close enough to see his eyes already glinting that wrong shade. Like moonlight kissing iron.

He didn’t look monstrous tonight. Just wrong, like words spoken in reverse. 

You’d meant to confront him, to tell him to leave you alone. To make him. But now you stood before him, your voice softened like wax near flame. 

“Are you the devil?” It came out thin, breathy.

He let that sit in the air for a moment. A beat, then two. 

Then finally, “Would it matter if I was?” The words slithered straight down your spine.

You stared at him, heart thudding, lips parted, but no response seemed good enough. No verse, no warning, not even a whispered prayer. Because a part of you already knew. 

The devil in the pulpit wore rage and brimstone. 

The devil in the garden wore moonlight and a smile that made your knees weak. 

He pushed off the tree like he was just stretching his back, Like he hadn’t shattered your whole world view with those words.

You stood there like a deer caught by a hunter, bare feet in the loamy dark. The grass kissed your ankles, damp from the dew. The moonlight carved both of you into something unreal. Him all shadow and sharpened grin. You soft and lit from within like a lantern half-extinguished.

“You shouldn’t be here,” you whispered, but it came out too fragile. It didn’t sound like a protest; it sounded like longing dressed up in your Sunday best.

He stepped leisurely but with a certain deliberateness as the night seemed to part for him. “I ain’t the one who came knockin’, lamb,” he murmured. 

“I didn’t knock on nothin’,” you refuted. 

He looked at you through those searing eyes. “You came out the door, though.”

He reached you, then stood right in front of you. Close enough that you could smell the faint hints of aged cedar wood and burnt ashes and the unmistakable stench of blood. One of his hands lifted, slowly, to hover by your cheek. Not touching you yet, like he wanted you to touch him first.

“Tell me no,” he insisted.

Oh God, you should’ve. It was right there on your tongue, but you couldn’t get your voice to work. Not even as you felt a bead of sweat roll down your temple. From the heat, or fear, or something else you didn’t rightly know. 

Instead, you leaned forward like a sinner falling from the clouds of Heaven straight to the pits of Hell. It was just enough to let the tip of your nose brush his. Your breath caught in your throat, and you felt his exhale ghost across your lips like a curse. 

His fingers slid into your hair at the base of your skull and gripped. Not too tightly, but firm enough, as if testing whether or not you’d pull away. 

“Tell me no,” he provoked again, letting the sharp points of his teeth bare beneath a grin. “Go on, fight me.”

You did nothing. You said nothing. 

He chuckled. “Thought so.”

Then, before you could blink, he seized your shoulder with a grip like iron and spun you, swift and brutal as a summer storm. Your back hit his chest with a thud that knocked the breath from you, his body a wall of heat and muscle. 

One arm banded tight around your waist, the other clamped low on your hips, unyielding and possessive. Like he meant to etch his touch into your skin, make sure no part of you ever forgot it. 

You gasped, a soft, startled sound that was half swallowed by the night.

His breath dusted along your cheekbone, slow and scalding, as his hand slid up—up—to your throat. Not squeezing, just resting there. As if to remind you how easily he could. 

He leaned in, lips brushing the shell of your ear. 

“That noise?” he hummed, voice with a growl like thick honey. “Ain’t even half of what I’m gonna have you singin’ for me.”

Then his mouth was on yours.

It was rough, yes, but there was an underlying horrible delight in it. Like he was savoring a ripe apple from the Garden of Eden itself. 

He kissed you like he was committing sacrilege. It wasn’t tender or kind; it was sin made flesh and pressed to your mouth. Heated like he wanted to scorch your skin, ruin your body and soul alike. 

You whimpered into it before you could stop yourself, shame and want bleeding into each other. Becoming something you couldn’t tell apart from the other. His other hand came to rest at your waist, splayed over your hip like it belonged there. Like he’d known the shape of you long before you’d met, long before you were even born.

You were shaking, not from fear, but from the weight of everything you’d been told you must never want. 

He kissed you like he already owned your hunger. And maybe he did. 

Because when his lips left yours and trailed down the edge of your jaw, you tilted your head like you’d done it a hundred times. Like your body recognized him, even if your soul still hadn’t caught up. 

“You feel that?” He whispered against your neck. “That ache in your belly?”

You nodded before you realized you were moving. 

“It ain’t shame, sugar. That’s you wakin’ up.”

His tongue brushed your skin, and you whined, the sound catching on the back of your throat. You should’ve slapped him. Should’ve fled. 

But instead your fingers reached up to curl into his hair. 

You were dizzy. Drunk on the darkness and whatever he was made of. Your thighs pressed together as if they could cage the heat rising between them. As if they could quiet the throb that started the moment he touched you. 

“You know I can smell it, right?” He said, drawing back just enough to look you in the eye. “The blood dripping outta that pretty cunt.” His thumb swiped the corner of your mouth. 

A ragged gasp ripped out of you, loud and trembling, like it’d been wrenched from the bottom of your lungs. Heat flooded your cheeks—hotter than Hellfire, hotter than a July sun. You tried to turn, wide-eyed, unsure if you’d even heard him right. But his hand stayed steady at your throat, a quiet pressure that kept you still. Anchored in place like a lamb frozen before the slaughter. 

Your breath hitched again, this time rougher, rougher than the words he’d just spoken.

No one had ever spoken of your body like that. As if it weren’t sacred in the way of being a temple of God’s creation, but sacred in the way of what being his would feel like. What being hungered for felt like. What being known felt like.

Your whole life had been Bible verses and closed doors and whispered warnings. And now here was this…creature, saying the unsayable, grinning like he’s torn a veil straight off Heaven and made you look at what was behind it.

“You gonna let me taste?” His voice sang into your ear, raspy and filled with near giddy enthusiasm. 

“W-what?” The word barely made it out, brittle and panting, like it didn’t belong to you at all. Your head was spinning, thoughts colliding like thunderclouds. You weren’t sure if you’d imagined what he said, if the world was tilting, or you were simply losing your mind. Everything inside you recoiled and leaned in at the same time, like a moth drawn to flame. 

“Just a little taste. It’ll be good, I promise.”

His words slid across your skin like velvet and barbed wire. You felt them in your chest, in your belly, in the places of your body that remained unexplored. The world has gone too quiet around you. The branches, the air, your own breath. 

You froze in his arms. Not from fear, but from the nearness of the house just behind you, your parents asleep in their bedroom not twenty steps away. From the raw ache between your legs. From the heat twisting inside you and the shame curling around it like ivy. 

You wanted him. 

God help you; you wanted him.

But not here, not in the front yard. Not under your great-granddaddy’s tree. Not with the windows dark and your daddy dreaming just feet from where his hand gripped your waist like he had every right to.

Your hand left his hair to press against his chest. 

“I—” You swallowed hard. “No, I can’t.”

He went still. Real still. If you were a smarter girl, you’d be afraid right now. 

After a beat, he let out a low breath that sounded somewhere between a sigh and a chuckle.

“There she is,” he murmured, voice coaxing instead of mocking. “Little lamb has teeth after all.”

His hand dropped from your throat slowly, the other sliding away from your waist. He didn’t lurch back or scowl. He didn’t curse or shame you; he just let go.

“You ain’t angry?” You whispered.

He tilted his head, grin turning softer than what you’d seen before. “Nah, I’m not angry. ‘Cause you will say yes,” he said certainly. “One night soon.”

“Tomorrow,” you blurted out.

His brow lifted, one corner of his mouth ticking up. “Tomorrow?”he echoed, slow and teasing, like he wanted to roll the word across his tongue again just to savor the taste.

You nodded abashedly. “It’s Sunday. Mama and Daddy’ll be at evening service. I’ll stay home. Say I’m unwell.”

A smile bloomed across his face like the devil hearing a hymn warped just enough to suit him. “Well, now,” he drawled. “Ain’t you full of surprises?”

Your breath came fast, chest rising like the air had finally remembered how to move. 

“You’ll come?” You asked, quieter, like part of you still doubted he was real. That all this was just temptation stitched into a dream.

His eyes roved over you one last time. “You’ll be the one invitin’ me in.”

He took one more step back into the dark, the shadows seeming to reach out to surround him. He gave you a final crooked grin, then, like always, he was just gone.

The air sighed after him. The oak creaked softly, as if exhaling too. 

You stood in place for another moment, your heartbeat ringing like church bells in your ears.

Tomorrow.

 You’d spilled the word without thinking, without planning; now it hung in the shadows. Stitched into the air between the tree and porch. It felt inevitable, though. This moment, you, him. 

You turned toward the house, and the screen door groaned as you pushed it open. The hallway was still, lit only by the faint moonlight seeping through the kitchen lace. Your bare feet whispered across the floorboards, each one squeaking like they wanted to tattle.

When you entered your room, you didn’t go to the window. He wouldn’t be there, but he said he’d come back. And you believed he would. Not like a boy who was hungry and impulsive. But like something old and well practiced in the art of patience. 

As you lay in bed, quilt pulled to your chin, your knees ached from the chapel. But your lips were sore from his mouth. Somewhere beneath your ribs, a hunger had bloomed.

Because the devil in the garden hadn’t asked for your soul. Only your permission. And you’d given it.

MORNING CREPT IN SLOWLY AND SWOLLEN, HEAVY WITH THE SCENT OF RAIN AND YOUR DECISION. The sky outside hung pale and dull, as if the sun had second thoughts about rising. You stirred beneath your quilt, limbs stiff with ache, the ghost of his touch still clinging to your skin.

At the breakfast table, your movements were brittle, precise—a porcelain doll feigning breath. Spoon untouched. Biscuits going cold. You pressed a hand to your forehead, faking the flush of fever, and let your eyes linger unfocused on the woodgrain in the table like scripture too worn to read.

Your mama’s gaze was a blade behind her coffee cup. She eyed the tremble in your fingers, the pallor in your face. “You’re lookin’ a shade unwell,” she said at last, voice wrapped in thin linen concern, suspicion tucked neat beneath.

You didn’t look up. “Didn’t sleep good.”

The words rasped out like smoke from a chimney long gone cold.

You played the part through morning service, like a seasoned actress cast in her shining role. You wore your sickness like silk, light and convincing. Spoke only when spoken to. Let your eyes blur with imagined weariness. Folded your hands as if they weren’t stained with things that meant you’d burn in Hell. Sang the hymns like psalms of penance, though your mouth felt dry as ash.

When your daddy called for the wayward to rise, you stayed seated. When the prayer commenced, you bowed your head and kept your breath shallow. If they’d looked closer, they might’ve seen the lie curling beneath your lashes. 

But they believed you as easy as breathing. 

Easy as sin. 

By the time evening rolled around, you should’ve been in flames for how much you’d lied. But no lightning split the sky. No voice boomed from the heavens. Only the quiet nod of your father, the distracted sigh of your mother as she tied her shawl.

“A girl ain’t any good to the Lord if she’s too weak to stand,” your daddy said.

The words carried like a benediction, final and unquestioned. Your mama’s mouth twitched, tight as a drawstring purse, but she didn’t argue. Only adjusted her shawl and spared you a glance that lingered on your flushed cheeks. 

She left chicken broth simmering on the stove, the pot sweating like a guilty man in a prayer tent. “Don’t let it boil over,” she muttered, already halfway through the door.

You nodded, small and solemn as a lamb offered up on an altar.

The screen door clattered shut behind them, the sound sharp and thin in the warm hush of the house. A moment later, you heard the truck rumble to life, tires groaning down the gravel path like some beast being roused from its slumber. Then thick golden silence. 

The sun spilled sideways across the kitchen floor, the last light of it butter-yellow and dying. Shadows stretched long across the wood, and the house exhaled slow, as if even the walls knew what you were gonna invite in.

You sat at the edge of your bed with your hands folded tight in your lap. The lamplight fluttered beside you, casting the room in warmth and shadow. 

Your knees bounce once, twice, before you caught them with your palms. You swore you could hear the mantel clock ticking from the front room, but it could’ve been your ears ringing too. It grew louder with each passing second, like the calling of vultures as they circled a carcass. 

You shouldn’t have done this.

The thought passes through your mind as quickly as a hare. 

Any good girl would’ve known better. God-Fearing girls kept their windows closed at night and didn’t go out to have conversations with demons. They didn’t ache like this, in their bellies and bones.

Your window was closed, the front door too. He couldn’t come in unless you invited him. 

You could still stop it. You could still crawl into bed, hide beneath the hush of your parents’ God, and pray till your tongue went dry.

But the truth was, you didn’t want to pray no more. Not to a God who never answered you. Not to a god that was full of so much hatred and wrath.

You felt closer to the divine when he touched you. When he acknowledged the ache inside of you and didn’t shame you for it. When he decided your longing was his very own guitar string to pluck, then you ever felt when you cried out to God.

You wanted to know what it was like to be chosen. Not by God, but by the thing that watched you from the darkness like he wanted to devour you. You wanted his wickedness to ravage you. Let it seep into your soul and let you free.

But it still didn’t stop your fingers from shaking. Didn’t stop the thin sweat from blooming at your neck. 

The house had gone still. Too still. The kind of hush that settles on graveyards before storms. The kind you’d grown to recognize the last few nights. You could feel it building in your marrow. The pressure, the waiting. The dread that didn’t feel quite like dread. 

The clicking of the parlor clock bleeds through the walls, every second scraping against your skin like the bite of a distant insect. 

There was a knock.

Your breath caught, snagged in your throat like a fishhook. The room seemed to pulse with the sound. The wallpaper breathing. The floorboards holding their breath.

You rose like something called from a grave, unsure if it was your soul or your sin dragging you forward. Each step toward the door was heavy as a church bell. Your nightgown whispered against the wood floors, and every inch of you felt stretched—thin, lit from within like a lantern at the end of its oil.

You could feel the thrum of him through the wood as you reached the door. 

It looked the same as always—plain pine, white paint flaking at the edges, Mama’s lace curtain tucked in the window. But tonight, it felt like a boundary. A final veil between the life you were born into and the one you’d invited with your own trembling tongue.

You placed your hand on the knob.

“Lord forgive me,” you whispered, but you didn’t mean it. Not really. Because there was no salvation in what you were about to do.

Just surrender. 

The brass was cool under your palm, a mercy against the heat rising from your bones. You knew what stood on the other side. Knew he was waiting. 

You cracked it open slow like. The night spilled in like a secret, soft and damp and full of promise. 

He stood on the porch, the light catching on the edge of his smirk. He didn’t move, didn’t even shift his weight. 

He stood with the patience of something older than the air around you, something well-fed on the rituals of yearning girls and the sweet rot of their defiance.

The threshold hummed between you like a live wire. You could feel it. That old, bone-deep rule, the one no sermon ever spoke of, but every trembling child knew. Evil couldn’t cross unless you let it.

His eyes gleamed beneath the brim of night, catching what little moonlight the porch allowed. There was no white in them, no mercy, just a glint like storm-wet iron and the promise of undoing.

“Well,” he drawled, voice low and velvet-thick, “ain’t this a pretty picture?”

He took a breath, though he probably didn’t need to, and the porch boards beneath him groaned as if straining under the weight of something not entirely flesh. “I can’t come in,” he said, quiet, like the words were meant to be stitched into the air and left hanging there.

“I know,” you answered. All you needed to do was say the words. 

His lips parted, not quite a smile this time, but something softer, something that made your belly twist. “Then say it,” he said. “Say it proper, darlin’.”

A shiver ran up your spine, cold as baptismal water. You stared at him, at the way the shadows clung to his shoulders like a mantle, at the way the porch light dared not kiss his skin. You thought of all the stories your mama told, of blood and beasts and doors left ajar.

But you didn’t believe in fairy tales anymore.

You believed in what was right in front of you. 

So you parted your lips and let the words fall, soft as rain on a coffin lid. “You can come in.”

The moment you said it, the air seemed to shift. Like the house exhaled, or maybe it was you. Something unlatched inside, something old and hungry and no longer chained to the warnings of your father’s God.

He crossed the threshold without a sound. Not a step. Not a breath. He simply was there, inside. Closer than you thought he’d get.

Your lungs seized.

He smelled like blood still. You were beginning to think he always carried the scent with him. He leaned in close enough that your heartbeat stuttered.

“Thank you,” he whispered, voice all honey and hunger.

And then the door clicked shut behind him with the sound of something final. 

He didn’t jump on you right away, just looked around your home with seemingly curious eyes. His gaze moved through the house like a ghost tasting the air. Like he could see the prayers still stitched into the wood grain. Smell the repentance caught between wallpaper seams.

You watched him, chest tight, body wired with something above nervousness. He didn’t say anything else at first, didn’t need to. The hush between you was a thing with weight, heavier still for what was about to be broken.

His gaze found yours again, and in it was that same stillness he wore like a second skin—like he was made of waiting.

“Do you... want anything?” You asked, the words foolish, half-wilted on your tongue.

He stepped closer. Just one pace. But it was enough to draw the warmth from your skin and replace it with something cooler. “I already got what I came for.”

His voice slipped over your ears like dark silk. The space between you seemed to shrink, and you weren’t sure if it was his doing or your own. He raised a hand and touched the edge of your jaw. Just the pad of his thumb tracing the corner of your mouth, where your breath caught and held.

“Told myself I’d wait,” he murmured. “Let you lead.” His eyes dropped to your lips, then returned, gleaming. “But I’m a selfish thing sometimes.”

And before you could reply, before you could decide if you’d stop him, he bent forward and kissed you.

It was softer than you expected. So unlike the first time. There was no fire, no bloodlust. Just the aching press of mouth on mouth, as if he meant to read you by taste. Your hands curled at your sides, then rose of their own accord, fingers brushing the stiff cotton at his chest. His palm came to rest against the curve of your back, anchoring you in the middle of the storm you’d conjured.

You moaned against his lips, a sharp and involuntary sound, and he pulled back just enough to speak into your mouth, voice roughened with want. “Show me.” You didn’t ask what he meant. You already knew.

You stumbled backward down the hall, his mouth never far from yours, hands on your waist like a brand. He followed you with that inhuman stillness, that predator’s grace. Each step was made not of footsteps but of intent.

And when the bedroom door groaned shut behind you—

He turned you with fluid, startling ease, hands firm as iron as he swept you off your feet. You gasped, instinctively clinging to him, arms locking around his shoulders. Your legs, guided more by instinct than thought, wrapped around his waist as though your body already knew what to do. The world tipped, spun, and all you could feel was the press of him, his hands, and the dizzying pull of gravity undone. 

Lowering you down to the linen sheets of your bed, he moved like judgment falling slow from Heaven. His hands hiked the hem of your nightgown up your legs, bunching the fabric like offerings at the feet of an altar. The mattress beneath you was soft, rich with rot and temptation. 

He positioned himself between them, a serpent coiled in the garden, barring any retreat. One hand dropped to the inside of your thigh, fingers trailing higher like a creeping passion vine. You felt yourself relax into the sheets, widening the passage of your legs for him without even meaning to.

He watched you earnestly, like you were the only holy thing he put faith in. His hands reached for the soft cotton of your panties, like he was peeling back a church veil, uncovering something too sacred for daylight. When he pulled the fabric aside and leaned in, he let out a moan like he was breathing in sin straight from the source. 

A sound rumbled from his chest, low and devout. “Oh God almighty,” he near groaned, voice thick with awe and hunger. “Ain’t you a sight, darlin’.”

In a flash, your panties were off, and you were exposed to him, the night air, and God Himself. You knew you should've been embarrassed; the shame should’ve been eating you alive. But even with your bleeding center, raw and red as a dogwood bloom in spring, all you can do is look down at the demon between your legs. 

By the lord, he’s drooling. Thick spit glistening on his chin, dripping slowly like sap from tree bark. His eyes were lit with hunger that bordered on worship.

You’d been taught since the first time you bled that it was a curse. That it made you unclean. A doorway for devils, a mark of Eve’s sin carved fresh each month into your flesh. Mama said that blood like that was how the devil spoke. That it had to be washed out, silenced with scripture, buried beneath cotton drawers and long skirts and locked knees.

But here he was, salivating at the sight alone, eyes blown wide as if your body’s bleeding was the beginning of a gospel only he could read.

That’s why when he said, “You smell so sweet, darlin’. You gonna let me taste you?”

You nodded, “Yes.”

His mouth is on you in an instant. 

You nearly let out a scream, but your continued piousness stitched your lips shut. Your fingers twisted into the blankets instead, clenching around them until your bones hurt. He licks a stripe up your center, pressing harder against the top where something shoots hot white spikes down your spine.

Stars blink in and out of view behind your eyelids like fireflies caught in a mason jar. His mouth moves slowly, like easing into cold creekwater. He leaves little licks on that tender bud of nerves at the apex, drawing sounds from you like spirits from a grave, keening soft in the back of your throat. His mouth feels like the first warm rays of a new summer sun breaking through the clouds as his tongue glides up and then rolls over that button. He presses a sugary sweet kiss to your slit, hands prying open your legs as wide as they’d go. 

Turns out, that sweetness of his was just borrowed time—grace before the ruin.

He growled into you, like something pulled from the floorboards of the church, thick with rot. Then his wickedness grins, all teeth and no mercy. He grips your hips tight, nails sinking into your flesh like marks left by the devil making a covenant. His tongue works you over with near evil intent. He consumes you like it’s the only desire he’s ever had, gulping down every drop of your essence like it’s a sacrament. Like you’re the altar and he’s been starving for centuries. 

Your legs shake in his hold as the moans you’re holding back threaten to spill out, scattering like dandelion seeds caught in the wind. When he moves to suck on that delightful spot, again you can’t help but cry out, “Oh God!”

The snarl that tears from his throat thrums through your core, like a storm shaking the rafters. When you glance down, you’re met with eyes glowing the color of fresh blood spilled on altar steps. Feral and lit with something not of this world. A predator’s gaze.

“No name you should be sayin’ but mine,” he growls, voice rough as bark and twice as deep. “Remmick, sweetheart. That’s all you need.”

“Remmick,” you say breathlessly, testing how his name rolls from your tongue. Like the strike of a match just before it catches fire.

He hums low in his throat. “That’s right, baby,” he said before his face disappeared inside you once again. 

Something warm is coiling in your lower belly, winding you up like a pocket watch about to snap. Each swipe, each roll of his tongue, has that feeling growing tighter and tighter. Your voice pushes past your mouth in quiet cracks. 

It’s so wrong, downright wicked, what he’s doing to you. Wrong that you’re lettin’ him, wrong still that you don’t want to stop. Can’t even bring yourself to think about stopping, not when it feels like this. Like salvation dressed in silken sin. How can something born of such pleasure be damnable?

It surely doesn’t feel like Hell. It feels like Heaven’s front porch, and you’re laid bare beneath a man that knows every secret you swore to bury. If this is damnation, then maybe it’s always been stitched into your skin. Maybe Remmick’s touch ain’t dragging you down… maybe it’s just showing you where you already belong.

That thought should scare you senseless, but you can’t feel anything aside from him drinking from you so deeply, like he’s trying to crawl inside of you.

He speeds up his ministrations, his tongue raking across your core, licking all the way up to that sweet spot. You gasp as a fire begins to accompany the ringing coil in your belly. His mouth is so warm against you, laced with carnal motive. Everything sounds so soaked down where he works: the glide of his tongue, the quell of your blood, and the wetness from your arousal. 

He’s done being slow; he’s done teasing you to death. The unhurried air about him is gone as he devours everything your cunt gives him.

“Damn,” he groans against you, lips moving to kiss the inside of your thigh. “Never tasted anything quite like you.” Then, quicker than you can draw a shaky breath, there was a small sting. A sharp and sudden feeling, like the prickle of a thorn. You felt his fang split the sensitive skin, felt the warmth of your blood bloom from the cut. 

Remmick chuckled low, the sound curling around you like smoke. “My bad,” he drawled, voice thick with mock apology. “Sorry, darlin’.” But the glint in his eyes betrayed him; it hadn’t been an accident, and you both knew it. Before you could answer—not that you had the breath to—he dipped his head again, tongue darting out to lick the trail of blood. 

His eyes flash for a split moment, and a rumble of pure animalistic satisfaction comes from his chest. He redoubles his efforts once his mouth is back on your center. 

You're shaking all over now, barely able to conceal your growing cries. You slap one hand over your mouth, the other going to fist in his hair.

His tongue focuses on that bud, circling over it with obscene faithfulness. Your fingers in his hair pull without meaning to, making him shudder between your legs, moaning into you like he wants you to rip the strands from his scalp. 

Remmick moves his attention lower, to the entrance of your very being. His tongue delves into that passage, thrusting deep enough it had your back arching off the ground. His nose nudges your bundle of nerves in time with the press of his tongue. 

That coil in your lower belly threatens to give. Fireworks burst in your vision as his mouth stays locked in that position. Thrust, nudge, thrust, nudge. Even as your hips begin to rise up to meet him, he holds you still with his arms bolted around your thighs. 

You squeal behind your palm, tears pricking in your eyes as the feeling that’s been building burns through you. Like the holiest Hellfire merged together by your coupling. It races across your every nerve ending, Remmick groaning when he feels you clench around his tongue.

And he doesn’t stop, not when your thighs close around his head. Not when your hand in his hair tries to pull him up. Not when you whimper his name to get his attention. 

He keeps running his tongue over you, cleaning up every drop of blood, and your arousal. When he finally does move away, raising his face to look at you, he’s an absolute mess.

The silence that followed was a different kind of divine. 

The kind never heard in churches, but in the hush of a forest after a storm. Not peaceful, but the aching stillness of something changed. Something that was never coming back. 

You laid curled in the mess of it, linens beneath your back, the ghost of him still between your thighs. Shame and satisfaction bleed together in your bones. 

Your body was still trembling as Remmick leaned back on his heels. His hands smoothed up your thighs, calming the shaking even if he didn’t mean to. His eyes no longer glowed red, but they hadn’t dulled either. They watched you like a man who’d found God in a place no one else thought to look.

“Well now,” he said, voice lowly laced with honey. “Look at you.”

You flushed, turning your face into the crook of your arm, ashamed of the tears still clinging to your lashes and the heat still pooling between your legs even after everything. Your body felt unfamiliar, like you’d been rewritten. 

Remmick chuckled, soft and smug, but not unkind. “Didn’t think you’d come apart like that. Thought I’d have to work harder.”

You shot him a look then. Half glaring and half gawking at him. 

He grinned wider, teeth white but not sharp now. “Ah, don’t give me that face. You should be proud, sugar. That was a kind of worship, what you just gave me.”

He reached for you, slow as syrup spilling from a spoon, hands sliding over your hips. You flinched under his touch from sensitivity, your skin feeling fuzzy with little aftershocks. And your body, the traitorous thing it was, arched into his palms like a flower reaching for sun.

“We ain’t done,” he said, voice curling low in his chest. 

Your breath caught when he dipped to kiss your belly. Once. Then again. Moving higher as he went, his lethal canines scraping along your flesh. 

You glanced down to look at him, gasping when you see what’s now decorating your stomach. Bloody kiss marks are smeared across your skin. His messy face making you stained right along with him. 

Remmick smiled against you, eyes flickering up to meet your stunned expression. “Let me ruin you proper,” he whispered with soiled lips. 

He moaned into you, eyes still locked on yours as he slid a hand between your legs. One of his fingers pressed into that passage, same as his tongue had done moments ago. 

You gasped at the foreign feeling, head pressing back into the pillow.

“Nuh uh,” he scolded. “Look at me, sweetheart.”

You do without hesitation, eyes darting back down as if beguiled. His mouth continued to press kisses to your belly while his finger worked in and out of you. Your breath began to quicken again, sparks of that fire reigniting. He added a second finger, making you whine at the intrusion. But it wasn’t an awful feeling; it was strange but satisfying. 

“Remmick!” You cried out when he curled them upwards, pressing against something that brought tears to your eyes. He kept that movement up once, twice, and three times before you went to close your legs around him. A pathetic few tears spilling over. 

“Oh, darlin’.” He cooed, prying your legs back open. He moved then, body stretched over yours, chest brushing yours with each breath he didn’t need to take, his weight settling on top of you. 

You shivered as you sniffled, caught somewhere between the aftershocks and the ache for more. 

“Shh, sweetheart,” he murmured, brushing his nose against your cheek. “I know what you need. I know how to help.”

One of his hands slid into your hair, fingers gliding through the strands with a sweetness you hadn’t expected. He stroked along your scalp, petting you like something precious. Like you hadn’t just let him defile you beneath your daddy’s roof. Like you weren’t still marked by his mouth and your own undoing.

“You want me to help you?” He asked, a certain amount of smugness dripping into his tone. 

You gave a soft, half-broken nod. 

That was all it took for him to rip your nightgown over your head. You had no time to be concerned for your modesty, because he was already fumbling with his belt, unbuckling and unzipping in a haste that was almost reeling. He tore the suspenders from his shoulders, shoving his trousers down before working on his shirt. Before you could fully prepare yourself, he was back over you. Your naked bodies perfectly aligned with each other. 

“Ain’t no sense in drawin’ it out,” he spoke against your throat, voice thick and taut with something close to hunger. “Cunt’s already beggin’ f’me. 

His hips rocked forward, not yet inside but threatening, the hard press of him sliding along the heat of you. You gasped, legs twitching to close around him, but he growled—low and guttural—grabbing your thighs and spreading them wider, anchoring them with his own. 

“Promise it won’t hurt too bad,” he said, kissing the corner of your mouth, gentler than he had any right to be.

Your fingers clutched at his back, at his arms, nails catching skin, but he didn’t flinch. If anything, it made him press in harder, dragging the thick length of him through your slickness with a hiss through his teeth.

“God,” he muttered, head dropping to your shoulder. “You’re soaked for me. Didn’t think you could get sweeter, but damn.”

Then, with no further warning, he pushed inside.

The air left your lungs in one shattered breath, back arching off the bed as the stretch burned through you. He filled you in one steady thrust, rough but precise, like a man who knew exactly what he was doing and didn’t see the point in waiting.

“Remmick—” you whimpered, voice high and caught between a sob and a moan.

“I know, I know,” he rasped, pressing a kiss to your temple even as he drew back to surge forward again. “It’s hurting so good, ain’t it? But you can take it. You will take it.”

He set a hard rhythm, driving into you in a way that’d leave you sore later on. You swore you could feel his craving wrap around you with each thrust, tight and invisible, choking out everything else. Your hands had started fisted around the sheets, knuckles bone-white, but now they raked up his spine, wanting just to feel him. His muscles jumped beneath your touch, a tension coiled tighter than wire. 

With your hands occupied, your moans and cries were free to float through the air. Remmick’s hold on your hips allowed him to pull you into him. He did so roughly, as if to remind you where he was, what you’d let him do. 

An especially harsh snap of his hips had you sucking in a stuttering breath. It felt like you were being split apart, like a log sliced through with an axe, but it was the most divine thing you’d ever experienced. He made love to you deeply enough that it felt like he was caressing your soul.

Remmick is groaning and panting above you, seemingly losing his own composure right along with you. Cock pressing into you as one hand moves from your hips to between your bodies. His fingers find that bud again, pinching and teasing it until you were crying again. 

“Keep crying, sweetheart,” he moaned into your neck. “Y’tears are just as sweet.”

You shuddered at his words, tears still spilling, core clenching around his length. He grunted at the increased tightness, breathing deeply to steady himself as he drove inside of you with more urgency than before. His tongue darts out to lick up your throat before sucking a mark there. His fangs teasing their sharp edges over the sensitive skin. 

“Remmick, I…” Your damp eyes rolled back as a loud moan interrupted you. The incessant movement of his hips made it hard to form a coherent thought. Along with his fingers swirling your bud with faster and faster motions. Your body quivered as you felt that fire build up once more. 

“You gonna cum again so soon?” He chuckles, basking in the control he’s got over you. 

“Yes, please,” you can’t help but plead. 

His eyes flash that dangerous crimson, fangs bearing as he grins down at you. He picks up his pace, all but battering his cock into you. He still works his digits over your bud, overwhelming you with the onslaught of feelings. 

Your belly coils tighter and tighter like before. That warmth bubbling within you, begging to boil over. When it finally does, it’s the most violent thing you’ve experienced. It burns but in the most euphoric sensations, making you clamp down around him as you nearly scream his name. 

Remmick paws at you, movements faltering just a bit. He moves your legs higher up on his waist, letting himself sink deeper inside of you. Stars blink in and out of your vision; you whimper as you feel him invade every corner of your being.

His moans become more frequent, more loud. His hold on you becomes more bruising with each sharp thrust. Watching him lose even a piece of his control seems to draw out your release. You clench around him again, making an almost pained grunt leave his parted lips. 

“I need—” he mumbles barely audibly before he’s slicing a fang along your neck. That small, recognizable sting blooms across your skin again as he splits it open. Hot blood flows down your throat, but he’s licking it up before covering the cut with his mouth. 

He sucks your blood from the wound, still slamming into your center. It only takes a few more before he freezes, a deep moan reverberating against your skin. Warmth seeps into you as he finishes. 

You both remained still for a moment. The room smelling of sweat and sin, like a baptism gone wrong. Every shuddering breath you took felt like it snagged on something unseen, a seam torn open and left to bleed. 

Your body trembled beneath him, limbs slack, soul aching in the hollows where his name had carved itself. There was a warmth between your legs that wasn’t all yours and a dull sting at your throat that pulsed in time with your heartbeat. His mark. His claim. And you had let him do all that and more. 

Remmick collapsed beside you, not with the grace of shadow, but with the slow, satisfied sprawl of something fed full. One arm draped heavy across your waist, anchoring you in place like he feared you might float away.

Neither of you spoke for some time, only breathed each other in. The tip of his nose brushing against your temple as if he needed to memorize the scent of you post-ruin.

Then his voice came, low, rough-edged, and tender, like gravel soaked in molasses. “You alright, lamb?”

Your throat was too raw for speech, so you just nodded, once or twice, eyes fluttering closed.

He shifted, careful this time, easing the tangled linens higher to shield you. His fingers found your hair again, dragging through it in absent strokes. Not with lust now, but with reverence. Like you were a song he hadn’t heard in a long time.

“You’re shakin’,” he murmured.

“It’s a good shake,” you whispered back.

He grinned as he kissed your shoulder with blood stained lips.

You turned your face into his chest, where his heart didn’t beat but his warmth still lingered. “I don’t know who I am anymore,” you confessed.

He curled around you like the dark curling around a dying candle. “That’s alright,” he assured. “Reckon you never liked who you were before anyhow.”

You couldn’t think about how he was probably right. Couldn’t think about how at some point he’d have to leave. Maybe never come back. You didn’t want to think about going back to normal preacher’s girl life after this. After him. 

Even if it meant your soul was damned, you didn’t care much. You just wanted to be his, not saved, but his.

Outside, the cicadas sang like mourners, but in his arms, you knew salvation. Not the kind Heaven promised, but the kind that came with being held in the devil’s gentle hands.

﹙taglist﹚ @001-side

Listened to Ethel Cain on repeat while I wrote this.

[oneandonlycringe]

Strangers (Remmick x Fem!Reader)

summary: “Dont talk to strangers or you might fall in love.”- Run away from home, you find yourself begging God to send someone who will love you.

warnings: 18+ mdni— !Not Proofread! , like a lot of religious trauma, heavy mentions/talk of death, death, mention of abuse, freaky ahh vampire, smut, sliight dry humping, boob play (?), munch Remmick, drool/saliva , piv sex, raw sex, creampie, blood, biting, blood sucking during sex, desperate and needy bitches, its a bit gorey and dark but nothing too much

word count: 14.5K

a/n: named after and inspired by the Ethel Cain song. I had a vision, blacked out, woke up to find about half of this written, then it took me two weeks to finish the rest 😔 Mostly because this is my first time writing smut! I hope it’s good as I’m still learning and trying to get the hang of it 😅!! This is lowkey also Nosferatu inspired but kinda of not? Idk, I hope you guys enjoy !!!

You don’t know how you found yourself out here. Alone in the dark, skin damp with sweat from the summer's humid and sticky air. Near an old dirt road, littered with flickering lightning bugs and the sounds of crickets singing throughout the tall grass and wheats. It was dead of night, when the only souls awake were creepers and those made of sin lurking within every shadow. The darkness surrounded you, covering you like a thick and heavy blanket under the night sky.

Your chest heaved, lungs burning and heels aching from how long you’ve been running. You could not even recall when you started running, so lost in your grief and guilt. At this point, you felt so far that you didn’t even care where you were going.

Adrenaline rushed through you, fighting and pushing back all the sadness and anger that wanted to burst up and out of your body. Your tears blinded you, eyes cast to the moon. You used her light as a beacon of hope, following and chasing its end for any kind of safety. Maybe it was the hot summer breeze, or simply your body burning from running for so long, but you swore you felt her rays cast a kind of warmth upon your skin.

You stared into the sky, combing through stars and clouds. Searching the high heavens for any kind of answer to where it was you were going. Distracted, dazed, and mind foggy, it all happened so fast. Just a second ago you were upright, head tilted high and unaware of the earth around you. But suddenly, it all came crashing into you at once. As if the world knew you were lost, it placed a rock in your path. You stepped on it without looking, only noticing when a sharp and jagged pain made its way through the sole of your foot. 

It made you fall, sending you flying through the air and landing onto the hard dirt floor. Pebbles and sharp sticks scrapped against the palms of your hands and knees, leaving the ache of parted skin and seeping blood in their path as you caught yourself.

You groaned, cussing out loud at the sudden fall. Your limbs were spread everywhere, cheek and forehead now resting against the ground and having scrapes of their own from the fall. Time had suddenly stopped, the wind no longer brushing your cheeks and the moon nowhere in sight. The realization sent a wave of panic through you. 

Your body begged for rest, but the pounding of your heart and mind yelled at you to keep moving. “I have to keep going,” you mumbled to yourself, quickly curling and lifting your body up until you sat on your knees. “I need to keep going.” The harsh burn of your lungs had finally caught up to you, leaving you dizzy and tired. You tried to collect yourself, to set your mind back into running but all that managed to come from it was the word where. 

Where were you going? 

The thought made everything stop. Your heart slowed its pounding, your breath began to steady, and the faint ache you felt in your heart exploded like a thousand tiny suns inside your chest.

What was your plan? You had run from home. Jumped out the window without a penny or scrap of clothing and didn’t think to look back. You just ran, fighting the feelings and consequences that now caught up to you in the middle of nowhere. Miles from home, you felt all the sadness and frustration you held on a tight leash being to break.

Your mama never understood, your papa didn’t care. No one else in the small town which you came from ever listened to you, they didn’t even want to look at you. So why did you run thinking they would come chasing? You thought they would send out the dogs. Wake every young man and boy to come looking for you when your mama realized you were no longer in bed. But the hours passed and you’ve heard no barks, no shouts of your names and haven’t even seen a single oil lamp since you left home. How foolish you are.

It all came crashing down and out at once. The sadness, the anger, and frustration that had been building up in your chest for years. It wracked into your body all at once, sending you crashing back down into the dirt with heavy sobs and whimpers. You were alone, always had been. But here, in the middle of a wheat field on a hot summer night, it was the first time you truly felt it.

Alone. The word rang like a bell throughout your body, twisting and digging itself deeper into the wound of your heart. A pain that had been there for so long and finally began to fester, infecting the rest of your body until it physically hurt. 

God, you’d been lonely for so long now, haven't you? 

As a girl, you remember praying for a friend. Someone to come and love and treat you like you were wanted. Someone to sweep you off of your feet, who would ride with you into the sunset for a happily ever after. Back then, you had so much faith in God. How delighted you felt to sit upon your bed and stare out into the night sky every single night. To softly clasp your hands together and talk to the Almighty. To whisper about your day and wants, hoping that he would answer, show you that he truly loved and listened to you. The years went by and you never made a friend, no one ever made you feel wanted. You prayed harder, begging to the point of tears for any kind of sign. But it never came. No one ever did. Not even God wanted you.

You haven't prayed in years. The desire to beg and pray to something you could not feel or see went away long ago. And yet, here, under the silver light of the moon, you felt yourself grasping onto any scraps of faith that were left in your body. Your hands began to clench together and your lips began to tremble. You were desperate, searching and clinging onto any kind of comfort the action brought to you.

 To who or what you prayed to– you did not care. As long as someone or something answered. 

“Please,” you whimpered like an injured dog,”Anyone.” 

“Come to me…” You whispered into the darkness, words so faint you could hardly hear them over the sniffles of your nose.

“Come to me,” You began to beg over sobs., whimpering the words over and over again between gasps. “Anyone… just save me. Show me I am loved.” Fat tears fell onto the earth as you bent over to place your head onto the dirt. All that you were is now gone, and all that's left is a scared little girl begging for a friend. 

In your desperation, you hadn’t a clue what you were calling for. Never believed in those dark spirits your mama and aunties warned you to be weary about. You did not know what was in the darkness and unknown. What it was that waited in the shadows. Had you known what would show up you would have never uttered the words. 

Out of all the prayers you ever muttered or begged, why did God choose to answer this one?

Of all the things to bring you, why him? 

☆

Minutes passed and exhaustion began to eat away at you. Sleep gnawed at your eyes and made you yawn, not caring about where you were. You stayed hunched over and on your knees, as still as a rock laying in wait. Tears still fell onto your cheeks, the feeling of hopelessness eating away at you.

You were sure you were going to die, letting your own misery and body eat away at itself until you were nothing but a shell. The only thing you could think of doing was to wallow in your shame and sadness, all you could focus on were the thoughts that ran through your mind. You were so lost within yourself you did not even realize that there was a man now standing next to you.

The sudden sound of the tall grass rustling made you look up, and the sight that you were met with made your blood go cold and had you jumping to collect yourself. 

He was pale, skin sweaty and glowing under the moonlight. His body was strong, compact and lined with soft muscles and broad shoulders. A white and blue striped button up clung to his body, suspenders coming from beneath his trousers and a glimmer of light caught on the necklace wrapped around his neck. His arms and body were bent in a surrendered position, palms away from his sides as if to show you he meant no harm. Your heart pounded from the fright his presence suddenly gave you. 

You hadn’t heard footsteps at all. Even in your state you surely would have heard the loud footsteps of a man his size. You almost blamed it on the loud chattering of crickets and cicadas, but when you listened you found that you heard none. As if the earth went silent, put on pause by the looming presence of the man before you. 

You looked up at him, still on the dirt floor. His face was strong, but with a kind of edged softness that made him seem less threatening. A soft half smile lingered on his lips, parted like he was waiting for you to ask something so he could reply. You didn’t, not yet. Did not know what to say. You were alone with a white man in the middle of a wheat field, in the dead of night– what could you even say?

The moonlight revealed him to you. Every fold and curve of his body, each wrinkle and twitch, you could see it all. All but his eyes. They were shrouded in darkness, a void of light and hidden beneath the shadows of his own face. It all felt wrong, too strange to be normal. 

Sweat dripped from your forehead as chills began to run up your spine. The sadness you were feeling was now long gone, fear creeping in slowly to take its place. You felt your mouth open, lips parting and searching for any words to say, but none came out. All you could muster up was the first thing that came to your mind.

“What’s a man doin’ out here…this late at night?” You managed to stutter out, voice hushed but loud enough for him to hear from the distance between you two. They were not the smartest words to say, but it was all you could manage to spit out . The hairs on your arm stood on their ends as you felt him look you up and down. 

The half smile of his lips formed a sly grin, and the sound of a chuckle escaped him. “It ain’t nun for you to worry ‘bout right now, darlin.” His voice and words were as smooth as honey. Velvet like and with a deep grumble that made you shiver. His words had no malice, in fact he said them as softly as a lover. “Was just walkin’ ‘round when I saw the path in the grass, followed it out here.” He began to step closer, as slow as a wolf stalking its prey. “What’s a sweet girl like you doin’ out here, all alone, at this hour? Hmmn?”

 Concern and kindness dripped in every word he spoke. He slowly bent down towards you, sitting on his haunches a meer foot away. You stared at him, holding in your breath. No man was ever this kind, such a thing didn’t exist. You followed every motion of his body, studying him and trying so hard to peer into his eyes. He was so close now, every dimple of his face and curl of his hair so close, merely a breath away. 

You should be terrified, start screaming and trying to defend yourself. Never talk to someone you don’t know, your mama always said. But he didn’t feel like a stranger, no. Despite the unease you felt being around him, he carried an air of comfort. A type of welcoming softness that made you want to spill all your secrets to him if he said the word. He looked like the type of man you woulda begged your mama to let you marry. He was rugged, hands thick and scarred from whatever labor he did. The sight of him made you shiver, in ways that were both good and bad. God, he was so close. When did he creep closer? 

“C’mon now… tell me what happened to ya, dove.” His hand was brushing your cheek, wiping away a tear that glistened atop your cheek. And that was it, the breaking point. With a single stroke, your fate was sealed the moment he touched you and spoke those words. It all came tumbling out from your lips. Incoherent and almost all mumbled together, the sobs that you had once stopped all came back from his kind words that were more than your poor and fragile heart could handle. 

“Mama and papa, they- they wanted to marry me to that ugly ugly man!” Tears began to blur your vision once more and your dusty bloody hands came to wipe them away. “He’s already had three wives. Beat all of ‘em senseless and left nasty bruises for the world to see after he took ‘em to bed. Then they all died in childbirth, along with the babies who were too big to even come out and take their first breaths… Oh those poor babies, sir.” You hiccuped between every sentence, struggling to catch your breath. 

“I don’t want that.. I couldn’t have that, I-i could never,” You leaned into his presence, “No one ever helped me, they never understood. I did what I had to, I swear.” You looked at him with pleading eyes, begging for any sign of understanding from him. Your cries steadied, the wave of immense guilt washing over you like a tide once you said the words aloud. Like a chain snapping free. You began to mutter something more, but he quickly shushed you.

His hands came up to cup your face, holding you as delicate as a flower. “Shh, It’s alright, it’s alright darlin’. You won’t need to be dealin’ with all ‘at any longer. I’m here, okay?” He holds your cheeks in his hands, face lining up with his. He was so close, you could feel your breaths mingling. His warmth seeped into you, deep into you as you stared into the dark void of his eyes. So dark, they practically absorbed all the light they came into contact with. They were as cold as an unforgiving winter, older and more rotten than everything you’ve ever seen before. 

It should have scared you, made you want to run and hide in the ends of the earth. But it didn’t. 

“I don’t know what to do now, sir.” You whispered, suddenly feeling so shy under his gaze. 

“T’s alright. I’m here, I’m here.” His voice was so low, you could feel the rumble in his chest as he spoke. It sent tingles up your spine and down between your legs. It was like a siren song, pulling you under the tide and sweeping you away. “I’ve come, I’m here. I’m all you need, you’re all I need.” The words come out like a mantra, repeating them over and over like he was trying to convince himself what he said was true.

He leaned in closer, placing his forehead against yours. You sighed and closed your eyes at the gesture, feeling his hands begin to wander down to your neck. Something about his hands so close to you made you want to run, to flee and escape the false sense of security you undoubtedly fell for. But you’d rather any false touch than return to the reality of what faced you outside of this moment. 

“You just needa feel good, sugar. I can make you feel good.” His tone was dripping with seduction now, each word feeling so sensual you weren’t sure if it was real. He shuts his mouth, moving in closer before placing his lips atop your cheeks, giving them soft butterfly kisses. Your eyes shut, lashes fluttering at the sweet sensation. You surrendered yourself to this unknown sweetness, not knowing it would damn you for all eternity. He kisses down your face, towards your neck, hands angling your neck back to expose more of the sensitive flesh. 

You feel his hands wander your body, gripping and searching for more exposed skin. And when he could not find any, his fingers made their way to the buttons on your blouse and began undoing them. His mouth latched onto your neck, leaving soft bites and long kisses along the base as he made his way further down. Your breath hitched at the sensation, a tiny whimper escaping from your throat and your hands came up to grip his shoulders. An attempt to ground yourself to earth, to this moment that felt like heaven hath come at last. 

Your body felt like it was on fire, hotter than any summer sun could make you feel. You were burning from the inside out, whimpering like a dog in heat when his hands exposed your chest to the soft night breeze. Ripping the fabric of your blouse, he squeezed the soft flesh of your bare breast. His calloused hands squeezed hard, fingers pinching at your nipple in such an achingly sweet way all you could do was arch your back. You wanted more, your body practically begged for it. You needed it. 

Your heart was pounding, chest heaving as you tried to catch your breath. He held you like if you were going to disappear in an instant, mouth stuck on you and kissing and licking all the flesh he could find.

You threw your head back, arms going limp as you surrendered yourself to the sweet pleasure he brought you. Flimsy scraps of clothing was all that separated you two from being flesh to flesh. Your soft moans and his groans filled the air, a symphony of damned and doomed souls not caring to hide this open, raw, and filthy desire. 

His mouth went further down, kissing along your collarbones and shoulders. His hand came back to your neck, holding it and craning it so you could still see him from the corners of your eye. His lips part from your skin, eyes looking up to search for yours. Drool dripped from the corners of his mouth, the bewildered and bewitched look in his eyes sent goose pimples rising all over your body. A wolfish grin formed after he took and savored the vision of your surrender. 

“I’ll try not to make it hurt.” He slowly whispered, diving back down to the junction of your shoulder and neck. By the time you realized what he said, it was already too late. A sharp and searing pain struck you, sending your body writhing and thrashing against him. You gasped, his soft grip had turned to iron as he pinned you down. You tried to cry, to scream, to fight and push him off but it was no use. You got yourself into this mess, how were you going to get out?

Stupid, stupid girl! The words your mother and father had screamed to you your whole life came rushing back to you. The little life you had lived flashed before your eyes, memories of being a girl and growing up. Soaking in the summer sun, hot meals on cold winter nights. Was this truly it? You felt the sticky liquid of blood begin to drip down your neck, sharp teeth biting and sinking into you. The man beside you groans into your skin, and you realize that this was it. 

You couldn’t even cry anymore, the exhaustion of your mind and body finally hitting you. This was it. Your sins had caught up to you and this was your punishment. You stopped fighting the moment you realized no one was coming to save you. God hadn’t come. Even at the end of your life, he sent no one to save you. 

Or maybe, he had. Maybe this cruel man sucking on your skin was really the angel of death. The sweet release he brought was your salvation. Lead you in with the feelings you always wanted to feel, the soft touch you always craved. Words were lost to you, but for some odd reason you wanted to thank the man. For ending your life, freeing you from the misery that shackled you onto this earth. But you felt so weak, so tired and just wanted to sleep. So you brought your hand to his cheek, your dirty bloody hand.

You caressed the side of his face, looking down at him as if you understood. He looked up at the sudden touch and met your gaze. And for a second, he stopped. His mouth parted from your skin, and he raised his head to meet yours once more. Shock seemed to choke him, making him forget what it was that he had been doing to gaze into your soul.

The moonlight glimmered and reflected in your eyes, all the sweetness your heart had left pouring out of them. You looked at him as if he had hung the stars, and in the darkness of his heart he felt a kernel of hope ignite. Familiarity, love, and something so old and forgotten that it no longer had a name struck him all at once– you could see the regret in his face. But it was too late. He began to mutter out some words, muddled as his grip fell soft once more and he tried to keep your eyes open. But it was no use. You shut them a few seconds later, succumbing to the darkness and exhaustion of your body, hoping to be far from this world when you opened your eyes.

But when you woke up, you were still here on earth. Still in that wheat field with your face in the ground with bloody hands and knees. It was around midday, when you felt a young man shaking you awake and pouring water down your throat. The summer sun had already burned your skin, making it feel tight and tender from how long you had been laying in it. Your memories flooded

back to you the instant you opened your eyes. You looked around frantically, heart pounding and breathing so heavily that the boy had to help calm you down. He explained how he found you, alone, saw no sign or trace of anyone else being here. You could’ve easily chosen to believe him–fall into a fantasy that the night was nothing but a dream. But the aching bruise and scar of teeth marks across your shoulder and breast made you remember it was real. His face, his hands, the tender kisses he gave you before he almost bled you to death. Even the look he gave you just before you passed out– all real.

You shook in terror, desperately trying to tell the young man your story. Unintelligible mumbles fell from your lips, he simply looked at you with understanding and gentle eyes. “It’s okay, Miss. How ‘bout we get you cleaned up and somewhere safe first?” Was all he said in response, quickly lifting you up and taking you away before you could say another word. 

You may have still been alive, breathing and blinking, but you knew that some part of you had died in that field. Marked for death and damned to hell, you knew he would come back for you. 

☆

5 years have gone by since that night. Your body grew into itself and the bruises healed, leaving only a faded scar behind. Your face was fuller, mind and soul grown into a woman that had finally made a place in the world for herself. You grew out of your timidness, taking what you wanted before anyone could steal it from you.

You found a home in a town west from where you had run from, living with an elderly woman who paid you to clean her home and keep her company. You made the young boy who found you your lover as well, snatched him up and made him promise to you that he’d never leave. He gave you a silver ring to place on your finger 2 years after being together. You finally had somewhere you belonged. You didn’t feel lonely anymore.

And after that night, you never allowed yourself to be. Never once let yourself wallow in pity or crawl back into the dark hole that led you here in the first place. But on the rare occasion when you would slip up and let the shadows creep in, you could feel him.

Shivers crept up your spine and made your hair stand each time you looked outside during the night. He followed where you went, stalked and waited for the day he could finally take you for his own once more. You could often feel him call you outside, singing a sweet melody meant for only you to hear. Sometimes you swore that the scar would begin to ache. Feeling like it would rip itself open and spill blood all over again, inviting him to come and finish the job. 

You knew what he was. A Vampire. A blood sucking demon. A human soul cursed and trapped inside of a dying body forever. Unable to walk in the sun, their hearts turning darker and more rotten with each passing year their bodies stayed on this earth. 

The old woman you lived with was superstitious, her house full of herbs and smelling of incense. She had been the one to tell you all of this. She knew secrets and the way the world worked. She would cast and brew spells that warded off evil every other moon. You liked to think that she kept you safe with them. Believed that she was the one that held him back from coming to you.

“If he had continued drinking, you would be one too.” She had once said, spilling the words over breakfast like it was nothing. But to you, they were everything. 

The words kept you up at night. Consuming your mind and every waking moment for weeks with the questions of What if? Was that the fate that awaited you? If he turned you, would your heart stop beating or would you still be able to feel its phantom pulse in your chest? How lonely was eternity? Were you ready to face it? At the time, they were all useless questions. Outlandish scenarios you convinced yourself would never come to fruit. 

But now, the old lady was dead. Her spells and magic were gone. The protection and security the woman brought to you had vanished. 

You confided in your lover with your worries, and he called you mad. He grew distant, never made love or kissed you anymore. You clung onto the scraps he gave you, convincing yourself it was all fine. Until one night, when he got up and left. You found out from the townsfolk he stole a case of booze and ran off. He took that silver ring with him too.

You spent the past few years building a life, then it all came crashing down on you. 

You started to feel like the girl in the field again. Cold and shivering. So lost and scared in a world that failed you time and time again.

Were you truly destined to be alone?

Your heart sunk into your chest, falling deep into the pit of your stomach, when something else began to take its place. Something so old and forgotten that it began to creep and crawl out of your throat, plaguing you with a truth you had been denying yourself of all along. 

You tried not to think about the way you cried and begged God to bring you someone who could love you. Made it a point to not even think about it. Embarrassed by the fact you felt so desperate enough to confide in Him. But for a long time, you truly believed it was your lover. You thought him to be heaven made, sent for you. His careful and sweet touch was just what you thought you needed. “He will never leave, he will always be here.” Words you would repeat over and over to soothe yourself. But he ended up leaving like you meant nothing to him.

You couldn’t ignore it anymore. The light was gone and the darkness stared at you dead in the eye. What you thought all those years ago was true then. That man who bit your neck and breast, the reason behind the scars and fear you carried with you all those years. He hadn’t marked you for death, he marked you as his.  

☆

You were always weak to your impulses. Ruling your body with feeling over logic. You did what felt right in the moment, not caring for the consequences. And now, at your most tired and lonesome, you weren’t going to make an exception. 

It was summer once more, and the familiarity of it all came rushing to you. Hot, humid air blew in the wind. The heat that had seeped into the earth during the day now rose up to greet the night, the sun's lingering presence not giving you a moment of peace. Every window of the house was open, welcoming the slight breeze that rustled the leaves outside. You sat on a pillow by the front door, leaning against the frame. You fanned yourself with a makeshift paper fan and breathed so slowly for fear of sweating if you moved too fast. You stared out into the sky, watching the last light of the sun fade away and dip into the earth before the stars came out to shine. 

Pink and blue hues began to color the world as the sun winked its final light, making a sudden pang of loneliness pull on your heartstrings. You had decided what you were going to do earlier that day. Felt no remorse or regret. But still, the sadness began to creep in and surprise you. Of all the things you could be feeling– fear, shame, or guilt– sadness was all that came to mind. Sadness and the worn out feeling of spending years waiting and molding yourself into what others wanted you to be. You changed and broke apart pieces of yourself to fit into a narrative that wasn’t even yours. Only for it to all crumble away within a month. You had nothing left to lose anymore. 

With a deep breath, you reached into your heart. Clung onto the desperation and small scrap of faith still hidden deep within your soul, and whispered the words you hadn’t dared to utter in years.

“Come to me.”

He didn’t take long to respond to your call. You closed your eyes only for a few seconds, and when you opened them, there he was. Walking through the tall grass, coming from the trees like he had been waiting for you to call. He walked like he owned the very ground he stepped on, purpose in his slow stride. The moon was out by now, shining in her full glory. She illuminated his path towards you, as if she knew where he belonged and led him there herself. 

He looked the same as he did in your dreams. Wearing the same thin cotton button up, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and unbuttoned at the top of his chest, exposing a dark colored tank top underneath and a gold necklace that clung onto his neck. He seemed disheveled, hair a mess and clothes wrinkled. Sweat dripped from his forehead, skin damp and making his clothes stick to his skin. Every curve and muscle contoured, you could see it all. 

He walked right up and onto the porch, the wood creaking and whining beneath him as he slowly made his way to the door. A smirk painted his lips when he saw you looking at him. So frightened, like a little lamb who called for her mother and instead ended up with a wolf at her door. Just as beautiful as when he’d last seen you. 

“Took you long enough, darlin.” His voice sounded just as sweet as you remembered. As gravely and thick as sugar. Your blood went cold at the sound. 

He was here. Truly here. Most nights you wondered if the light stubble of his chin and the soft expression of his eyes were things you had imagined, made up on the long nights you would think of him– but they weren’t. He was just how you remembered him, how you dreamed him. You weren’t sure what to say. You spent countless times imagining how this meeting would go. And here you were, mouth gone dry and at a loss for words.

“I wasn’t sure you’d come.” You managed to rasp out, voice catching and cracking slightly as you looked up at him. You were still sitting on the floor of the house, body curling into itself in response to your now pounding heart. 

That made him grin, “Now how could I ever resist you? Sweetest thing I’ve ever had,” He looked right into your soul, stripping you bare with just a glance, as he said the words. His eyes roamed over your body, tracing your curves over the thin nightgown you wore. “Sweetest thing to look at, couldn’t stay away. Wanted to come and take ya sooner, but the ol’ witch knew how to keep me away from you.” His voice sounded so soft, so gentle. The kind of tone you’d use to call a pet out of a hiding spot. “It was torture.” 

Shivers crawled up and down your spine, breath hitching and catching in your throat. He spoke the words so freely, so casually– like they weren’t dripping with sin. They made your back straighten, hands shake and stomach flutter. Had you been any smarter, you would have run inside, Locked the doors and shut the windows, waited him out until your own death came for you. But it was already here though, wasn’t it? Standing right in front of you with a smirk, ready to eat you right up. 

You knew that what he said was fake. A show and act put on and practiced to perfection just for you. It should've made you cower, rethinking your decision and push him away. But all you could think about was how it’s been so long since you last heard such sweet words. Spoken by a man who knew what he wanted, like he needed and craved you so badly he was starving. 

“You’ve been waitin’ for me too though, haven’t you sugar?” He hums, cocking his head to the side and swaying closer to the door. “Jus’ finally worked up the courage to ask for it.” He bends down, meeting you eye to eye. A large and almost nasty smirk decorticated his lips, flashes of teeth showing that made a cold sweat drip down your neck. 

“I know you thought about me every night.” His voice lowered, gaze darkening. The cold void of his eyes caught the light of the oil lamp hung above your door, consuming all its warmth. You could see yourself in the reflection, all wide eyed and pale with fear. “I did too, dreamt of you.” He got on his hands and knees, inching and crawling closer towards you. 

Something told you that he enjoyed it. “How I wished I could touch you again,” he groaned, the sound coming from deep within him. He reached out to touch you, hand shaking in excitement. His fingers came close to your cheek, the tips right about to graze the soft skin, before he flinched away. A hiss leaves him, shaking his hand and bearing his teeth from the sudden pain. If you listened closely, you swore you could hear a faint sizzle.

Ah, right. 

You had forgotten about that rule. The most important rule the old woman told you about his kind. He couldn’t touch you, not while you were inside of the house. Vampires weren’t allowed to enter homes unless invited. Weren’t allowed to cross the threshold and take everything that they wanted, when they wanted. To him, it was a minor setback. To you, you thought it was some kind of divine protection. At least, just for a moment. A few more minutes to live, time to muster up the courage and ask what you had been aching to for all those years. You would let him in sooner than later.  

He chuckles, lip curling back to flash the fangs of his teeth as he begins to soothe his hand. “You gon’ let me in or not, baby?” He says it inbetween a whiny little laugh, almost whimpering. The cool collectedness of his voice was starting to slip, pulling back to reveal a type of growing and longing desperation. The sound made your heart stutter, stomach leap, you don’t think you were supposed to hear it. “I came all this way.”

The way his eyes softened, lip pouting and body begging to hunch over, made you want to believe him. Take every word he says and let it fill your fragile little heart with the illusion that he loved you. Made you want to say the words that will ruin what was left of your life. You had to take a long, deep breath to collect yourself. 

“Not yet.” You reply softly, meeting his pleading gaze. 

You turned to sit up on your knees, mirroring his own position. Your back was straight in contrast to his, head shaking as you tried to muster up the little strength left inside of you to fight off the fear that crawled all over you. You were so close to the door, hands almost slipping across that invisible line he couldn't move past. 

So much time, so days and hours spent wondering what this meeting would be like. He had taken over your mind, your body, your very soul since that first night. He knew how to lure you out. His sweet words and voice, seduction rolling off of his tongue like syrup. Yet, looking at him now. Bent over, almost begging to have you– it may be what will break you. 

God, you wanted it so badly. To have that taste of delicious sin. Feel the high of life before crashing and plummeting to your death. Feel his hands roam and touch your body, lips pressing against your skin. Your very being ached for it.

But you couldn’t. Would not allow yourself to give into the pleasures you had longed for. Not after you spent years wondering over the reason you’re still here, the reason you even called him again. Your life, your death. 

You leaned in closer to the door, hands touching the warm wood below you. Eyes slanting, seducing him back as you asked, “Why didn’t you kill me?” 

You dragged the words out, making sure he heard each one. Soft and slow, like a blade against skin, cutting deep. You stared into his eyes, making sure you didn’t leave his sight. Though the longer you looked, you swore you felt a warmth grow inside of their relentless cold.

He blinked, brows furrowing at the words. Startled and taken aback, he leaned away from you ever so slightly. As if he had never expected you to ask that. In the perfected and practiced scenario of his mind, he never thought it a possibility. He almost looked hurt, face slowly falling and the polished act had begun to slip away. You hit a nerve. One you did not even know existed. 

“You had me in your palm. I was willin’, I was ready.” You continued when he did not answer, “I still am.” You inch closer, your turn to crawl to him. To the beast outside of your door. “What changed?”

If you were the lamb, and he the wolf– why did he looked absolutely terrified all of us sudden? Petrified. His eyes widened, staring at you.Trying to look right through you and your intentions. Like you found out something only he knew. He scrambled for a response, trying to figure out the game you began to play. 

“When you taste something so sweet, wouldn’t you wanna savor it?” He whispers through nervous chuckles. 

You frowned at his response. He was lying to you. You didn’t want anymore lies. You didn’t think that you deserved them. How much longer were you supposed to follow his rules, play his games. Even at the end of your life, as you handed yourself to him on a silver platter, why could he not just say things plainly?

“Don’t lie to me.” Annoyance and ire begin to bubble. 

“Not now. Not anymore,” But the feelings fell away as fast as they came, revealing and leaving you with the tiredness you’ve felt all along. “Please.” You whimpered, not wanting to fight for it anymore. 

The words fade into the night, leaving the two of you in silence. Lightning bugs flutter and flickered their lights in the darkness. Crickets string their song in the tall grass and in a nearby tree, a lone mourning dove sings. 

You weren’t sure for how long you were like that. On your hands and knees, looking and begging at him to tell you the truth. While his eyes pleaded and begged for you to grant him mercy. Both merely an inch apart, separated by a door frame and three little words.

You had always thought that vampires didn’t have hearts. That there was only a rotten and empty shell inside of their chest where a heart must have been instead. So, why could you hear his pounding? His chest rose and fell as he attempted to steady the relentless beat, but it would not stop thumping. Not while you were in front of him, not while you looked at him like that. 

You supposed that he never understood or grasped his own desperation for you until now. Didn’t know or acknowledge just how badly he wanted you. How could he resist you? The second you called, he came crawling. He’d crawl for miles if you asked. 

“You wanna know why I couldn’t kill you?” He speaks suddenly, voice sounding like a shout in the silence. “Why I couldn’t finish it?” He gulps, inching back to you. The desperation was still there, but he made it his own. He stared you down as you did him, and you could see that he was just as done with games as you were. You nod lightly, pursing your lips shut. He rises from his position, sitting back on his knees to tower over you. 

“Caue of that..” He takes a deep breath. “Cause of that damned look you gave me.” He sighs, almost embarrassed to admit it. 

The words confused you, sending you down a spiral of questions in your mind. He answers them before you can even ask. 

“The look you gave me, right before ya fell asleep.” Ah.

You had forgotten that. Forgotten the way you thought he was your savior and looked at him like so. Like he hung the stars, like he was the first person to have ever loved you. With a mouth and face full of blood, you thought that the angel of death was sent to collect you. You would’ve never have thought to see your angel begging for you outside of your door.   

“No one’s looked at me like that. Not for a long time. Made me realize something. The reason I was able to feel you, to know you needed me.” The words sent a chill down your spine, and you felt your cheeks heat. Your breath caught, eyes widening and you saw him reach his hand towards you once more. 

“You’re mine darlin’. You’ve been mine for longer than you’ve known.” His fingertips brushed against your cheek, caressing the skin so lightly you weren’t even sure that he was. “You feel like sunlight.” Passion and defeat dripped in every word he spoke. He knew what it was he felt, he didn’t need to convince himself of it anymore. 

You’re sure that you heart was trying to escape from your chest. Pounding at your ribs, sending all the blood of your body to your head and face. You felt your hands shake, knees wobbling and every inch of you felt like it was burning. So hot, the summer heat and his touch only made you feel hotter. Your mouth went dry, and your eyes still hadn’t left his. 

He told the truth. The whole hearted, raw and bloodied truth. The rot and cold in his eyes fell away, and beneath it just lay a man. He looked so human.

“How could I kill the one thing that feels like sunlight?” He whispered so softly. You felt your chest and something so deep inside of you begin to ache at the words.

His hand wiped a stray tear you didn't even know had fallen. And just like before, your fate was sealed with just one touch and a few sweet words.

You knew what awaited you if you let him in. The death that you’re sure would’ve still followed even after this. Yet, you did not care. You’ve been waiting for each other for a long time now. Longer than either of you could recall. You needed him, the same way he needed you. Even in life, even in death.

“Come to me.” You whispered once more, and the spell keeping you from him broke. 

He crawled to you like a starved man, ready to pounce and devour the feast set before him. 

He kissed you so fast, so desperately, it took a second for you to realize that his lips were on yours. 

At the taste of you, a deep groan escaped him. You felt pure, sweet, just like before. Tasting like a sweet summer wine made just for him to devour. It had his head spinning, arms wrapping around your back to pull you against him. Holding your body close, feeling and groping all he could to make sure you were real. 

You felt your heart pound faster than before, surely  making its way through your skin and out of your chest by now. You could feel it leap out of you, along with all sense and reason. 

From the way he kissed you, the way his hands wandered and linger over your body, you knew he meant to devour. Could feel the way he meant to consume your very heart and soul from the inside out. Your body and mind surrendered into his touch, having been no longer yours since the second he came crawling back to you. You felt your knees ache, shaking and going numb from the surge of pleasure that began to spread throughout your body. 

He was the spark that reignited an old flame deep inside of you. One that had died out the second your old lover left you.

You kissed him deeper, hands grasping at his arms like some kind of tether to the world. Holding you up and pulling you closer, chest to chest like you were trying to stick yourself onto him. 

They wandered up, feeling and caressing the soft muscles of his shoulders beneath the thin cotton of his shirt, feeling the warmth of his body against yours. He felt like fire in the summer heat, burning you with every graze. 

Your hands soon find purchase in his hair. Fingertips running and combing through the soft locks, lightly grasping at small bunches. It tickled, sending shivers down his spine and forming goosebumps down his body from the way you pulled and clung onto him. It made his cock twitch. 

He hummed, mouth parting from yours to let out a soft chuckle and moan. A small trail of spit clung onto both of your lips, connecting you for a second more before breaking off and dripping down your chest. You gasped for breath, chest heaving in time with his own— panting likes dogs. Breathing so heavily, it left you lightheaded. You didn’t know where he started and you ended anymore. 

Waves of pleasure washed over you, crawling down your back and in between your thighs with the sweat that dampened your flesh. It made the fabric of your nightgown stick to you like a second skin, the feeling growing more uncomfortable and irritating by the second. It hugged your curves, bunching around your hips and thighs until it felt like you were being covered in heavier layers. 

A whine left your throat, sweet and high pitched from the way you felt his hands begin to roam down your body. Feeling you up, caressing all the bare skin he could find until all that was left to touch was the thin fabric. Thick hands stopped at your thighs, playing with the ends of the dress, running calloused fingers across the soft sensitive tops and stopping right before the place where your thighs met. 

You looked up at him, eyes pleading and begging him to undress you. To take you. Help you with the growing ache that grew in your cunt. 

You swore you felt like you were going to die. Body shaking and searching for any type of release. All you could feel, see, hear, or even think of was him. The smooth, deep musk of his body filled your nose. He smelled like pinewood and salt, tasted like iron and whiskey.  The low groans and moans that rose from within his chest shook you, the vibrations running down deeper than you would’ve thought they could. 

He had barely begun to touch you, and you were already drunk off of his very being. 

Thoughtlessly, your hips began to rut against the knee he had placed between your thighs. Having spread them and sat you over his lap when he began to kiss you. The fabric of his trousers was rough and coarse, but if you angled your hips a certain way— it felt like bliss. You grinded against his thigh, swaying back and forth as your fingers dug deep into the skin of his shoulders. Nail forming tiny crescent moons, trying to hold him still as you used him. 

The feeling of it was electric, fire coursing and flowing through your veins with every move and touch. It was in your bones. So strong and consuming. You’ve never felt this way before. 

If your mother could see you now, she’d damn you to hell twice over. Shout and call you words that a good church lady should never even know. It wouldn’t have mattered, couldn’t find it in you to care. You gave yourself to the devil long ago, ached for him to swallow you whole. 

“Poor baby,” He teases breathlessly, a smirk making his way onto his lips at your display. “Really need me that much, do ya?” His lips were at your ear, licking and biting the shell softly. His hands came to your hips, gripping at them to stop your frantic movements.  

You whined, but quickly nodded in response, all too eager. The reaction made him laugh, mouth moving down your cheek. 

“T’s alright, I’m here to make you feel good.” He whispered against your skin, before diving back in to kiss your lips. 

It was softer this time. Slower, more tender. His head dipped into yours, lips meeting in a soft sweet peck. He closed his eyes, hands crawling back up your hips before gently laying you down. The hard wooden floor hit your back, the smoothness of the boards cold against your skin. Time seemed to slow down at the sudden softness of his actions, the pulsing want of your body burning down into soft embers. 

He wanted to enjoy it now. Savor every bit and taste he took of you. No longer rushed, he realized you weren’t going anywhere. 

He kissed along your mouth, wandering down slowly to your chin and softly to your neck. Your head tilted back, exposing the sensitive skin for him to breathe in. Your skin was salty, tongue darting out to taste and lick along the lines of your collarbones as he made his way closer and closer to the junction between your shoulder and neck. Your blood was pulsing, rushing and filling each part he dared to touch. 

His hands roamed your waist, rising to grope at your breasts. He took them in his hands, feeling your heartbeat through the fat, before giving them a soft squeeze that had you moaning. Your back arched at the touch, and you had to bite your lip shut. Your nerves felt like frayed wires, everything a thousand times sensitive. Every feeling and sensation heightened in a way that had you reeling. You could feel the wetness between your thighs grow, legs starting to shake and wanting to rut against him once again. 

His lips finally made their way to your shoulders, kissing every throbbing pulse point he could find. His teeth grazed your skin, lightly biting and sucking. 

He left your chest, hands coming up to pull the flimsy straps of your night dress down. He yanked on the fabric, pulling it down so harshly that it ended up tearing right down the middle. Revealing your skin to the night breeze, your breasts and stomach clear for him to see.

On instinct, your arms moved swiftly in an attempt to cover up yourself. Embarrassment leaving your cheeks hot from the sudden exposure which came all too quick. He grabbed you by the wrists before you could even place a hand on yourself, a faux frown forming on his lips as he raised his head to look at you. Eyes wandering over your naked body, taking in every curve. 

“Ain’t no hiding from me, sugar.” He whispered hoarsely, a possessive tone beneath the words.He placed your hands to your side with force. Keep them there. 

“It's all mine anyways.” 

He dove back in quickly, meeting your breasts again. His calloused fingers were rough against the soft and plush flesh. Your nipples hardened, aching for attention in the cold air. When he took note of them, he wasted no time. Pinching and flicking at the sensitive buds, you let out an almost whimper like moan. A whiny, needy, little noise that came from the back of your throat. The sound had his cock leaking with want. 

He brought his mouth down, gently sucking one in between his lips. His tongue rolled over the bud, circling so softly it felt faint. Spit rolled down between the valley of your breasts as he moved onto the neglected one. He sucked just as softly, and you felt your desire leak. 

You pulled at his clothes, trying to tear the wrinkled shirt off of him. You wanted him naked, skin bare and flush against yours. You needed to feel him. Craved his warmth. You clawed at him, hips bucking and back arching until he got the hint.

He raised himself up, messily undoing the buttons of the shirt before throwing it off and behind him. He glistened in the moonlight, the paleness of his skin glowing with the thin layer of sweat that clung to his skin. The sight of his broad shoulders and soft muscles made your skin crawl, hands going numb and pulling away. You stared at him dumbfoundedly, like he really did hang the moon and stars.

You had never really looked or took in the male form before. When your old lover would have you, your face was always stuffed in the pillows or pressed against his head. Blind to his body, you always pictured him clothed even when he was bare and pressed against you. 

But now, looking up at this man, you realized why a woman would crave sin so badly. The way his muscles flexed with every move, the lines that contoured his chest and stomach— going all the down, down, down, to his hips. Your eyes lingered at the small patch of hair that trailed from his belly and disappeared from beneath his pants. The sight made your knees weak.  

You squeezed your thighs, taking in a shaky breath. You met his eyes once more, and behind them saw a cool darkness. Focused, pupils red and burning with lust as he admired the sight of you.

He tore the remaining scraps of your nightgown, leaving you naked as the day you were born. Body free and open for only him to see, his eyes wandered and explored every part of you. Taking in every fold, every birthmark, dimple, and scar that littered your body. 

His hands felt across your skin, squeezing and making their way across the smooth expanse so slowly. Down your thighs, up to your stomach, between your chest, caressing and worshiping every inch he touched. And where his hands went, so did his lips. He leaned his head down, kissing and licking his way up your body, savoring the taste and smell of desire that exuded off of you. 

He came up so slowly, planting open mouth kisses across your collarbones and neck. Leaving a hot, wet trail behind. His lips smiled at every squirm and whimper that left you, mouth coming to bite and kiss your puffy lips. 

Deep and harsh, you felt his tongue push past and into your mouth. Drool and saliva dripped from the corners, smudging over your cheeks and falling onto your chest. It had you gripping at his shoulders, gasping for breath with every break of your lips. Your cheeks felt so hot, like a fever has come down on you. He parted for a few seconds , breathing in the air you exhaled, before you felt a sharp sting at your bottom lip.

You winced, eyes blinking shut and brows furrowing at the sudden pain. A dullness spread throughout your skin, and suddenly the taste of iron and a thick substance melts into your mouth. Blood. 

Your eyes opened, searching for his own to find him looking right at you. A smirk decorated his lips, blood smeared all over him like it was rouge. The deep crimson color was stark against his skin, shining in the light as you looked at him. The sight made a small sense of panic crawl up your back, pleasure starting to slowly to creep away. 

He seemed to notice, quickly moving back into you

and sucking at the small puncture wound he created. He groaned, hips grinding against your core as he kissed you harder. You could feel his hard throb against your thigh, a small wet patch forming where the head rested. The action made all doubt melt away. 

You shuttered, body going limp in his arms. 

“That’s right,” he slurs against you, “Just let me handle it, yeah?” His voice was soft, almost reassuring as you felt him push away. His hands grabbed at your thighs, strong hands gripping the flesh as he parted them slowly. “Let me take care of you.” 

He slid down your body, lips kissing and mouthing along your skin once more. He left small bites and a faint trail of blood everywhere he touched. You arched into the sensation. He went lower than before, kissing down your stomach onto your pubic bone before he was face to face with your cunt. 

He laid his head between your thighs, hands holding the flesh of where your thigh and ass met in an iron grip. He moaned by simply looking at you. You could feel his burning gaze, closely watching the way your arousal and pleasure dripped out of you. 

You wanted to close your legs shut from embarrassment, a whimper leaving you as you felt his breath on the wetness that coated your folds. You bucked your hips, incoherent pleas and whiny little begs leaving your mouth. 

Your movement only made his grip tighten. His brows furrowed, sending you a glare. 

He tuts, playfully shaking his head and scolding you like a child. “If you can’t wait, I won’t do it at all.” He threatens, voice dripping with lies. God he wanted you. Craved you. He believed that if he went one more second without tasting the sweetness of your cunt he was sure he was going to die. 

“No, please,” You immediately begin to beg, “I’ll be good, I’ll be good.” You stutter over your words, head shaking and eyes glistening with tears as you look down at him. “Please.”

He grins in amusement at the display, watching you squirm beneath him. He took it in, all your desperation and neediness. The way you still slightly bucked your hips into him, your fingers gripping and clawing at the wood beneath you. 

You were right under his thumb. All his.

“Mmn, good girl.” He whispers huskily, softly nodding his head before leaning in to kiss your cunt. It was a small, faint peck. But the touch had your head dipping back with pleasure. 

His hand came around, rubbing two fingers over your lips. He gathered your wetness, smearing the stickiness all over before parting your folds. He spread you open, fingers caressing and exploring the tender skin before dipping down to tease your hole. The feeling had you shivering, a pathetic little whine escaping your throat as you felt his fingers suddenly push inside of you. 

Thick and long, his digits filled you up entirely. Your cunt clenched around them, gushing when he entered you. Your eyes squeezed shut, softs gasps escaping your lips at the feeling. He filled you so sweetly, almost entirely. 

You were so tight. Hole aching and throbbing around him. Heat spread over your body, pleasure filling and taking over every thought and sensation as he touched you. 

You could feel your wetness drip out of you and onto his skin, a light squelching noise coming from between your thighs as he began to thrust in and out of you. Your face went hot, almost going lightheaded from the overwhelming feeling.

Deep and soft, his fingers curled and stretched you out. Loosening you up, pulling you apart and picking you back up again. They touched and prodded at your sweet spot, teasing you like he already knew you from the inside out. 

Your gasps got louder, turning into soft breathy moans. Your hips began chasing his touch, trying to keep up and follow his pace for more.

His mouth latched onto your clit, tongue swirling over the sensitive bud. Sucking and licking at it so softly that each flick sent a chill crawling up your back. You arch, nipples hardening and sweat dripping down your skin as you try so hard not to close your thighs. 

 He lapped at your arousal hungrily, licking up all that flowed out if you like one would to a melting ice cream cone. He moaned into your cunt with each taste. 

He drank it all up, fingers curling and beckoning more of that sweetness out of you. It was like the tastiest honey, dripping and flowing just for him. You were sweeter than any human blood could be, more addictive than any booze or drug. He couldn’t get enough. 

Your fingers ran through his hair, pulling at his locks in a sad attempt to pull him away. But you were too weak, muscles having gone numb the second you felt him suck on your bundle of nerves. He took all your strength, taking it for himself as well as every other thought that filled your head. 

You ended up pulling him closer to you, hand guiding him into a smooth rhythm as he continued to eat you out.  

It almost felt like a dance, the way he loved. He would start off soft and slow, fingers and mouth lapping and thrusting into you like he was the world's sweetest lover. Kissing and touching all your sweet spots, whimpering against your skin like he had wanted nothing else in the world. 

Only to switch it up suddenly. Start sucking so harshly that you could feel the pleasure in your fingertips. Fingers thrusting so fast you could feel yourself spill over his palm, that nasty wet sound getting louder until you were crying from embarrassment. Tears stained your cheeks as you moaned in pleasure with each movement. 

His movements were unpredictable, slowing and speeding whenever he felt like it. He took in every moan and shake of your body, greedily trying to pull out as much as he could. 

It was beginning to feel like too much. The way his hand gripped at your skin, pulling you closer so he could taste you deeper. His nails were digging in so deep you swore you felt the skin puncture, small droplets of blood forming at the tiny tears. 

His mouth and chin were wet, dripping with your desire. He would hardly part from you, only doing so to take in a deep breath and dive back in. He groaned and moaned loudly into your cunt, the vibrations settling deep inside of you. His eyes were closed in bliss, brows furrowed in concentration as he continued his assault. 

Pleasure began to boil over, a burning sensation filling your chest and lower abdomen. Waves lapped at your core, beckoning you to fall apart and let go. You felt your body shake, hips desperately chasing his mouth for relief. 

You clench around his fingers, back arching and fingers pulling at his soft locks in an attempt to keep his mouth on you. You got wetter by the second, hole spasming with each thrust and lick he continued to give you. 

You were so close, loud moans escaping your lips as you inched closer and closer to the edge. You were going to fall, tip over into the sweet abyss of relief, until he pulled away.  

Stopping all motion and movement, he basically forced himself off of you. Fingers slipping out and mouth moving away, he left you high and dry. 

Incoherent mumbles fell from your lips, cries and begs pleading for more tumbled off of your tongue. You chased his touch, hands searching for his face or shoulders but he had already pulled away. 

He sat up, panting like a dog as he stared down at the sight of you. Legs spread wide, body covered in a thin sheet of sweat, lips still bloody from his bite and the trail he left over your skin. He wanted to let you finish, he really did. To taste your release on his tongue, lick it up until the very last drop and hear your sweet little voice pitch and whine for him. But his cock was too hard, aching and dripping with need for you. It twitched in his pants, so close to spilling from the mere act of him tasting you. He couldn’t take it anymore. 

He gulps, settling himself between your legs and laying over your body. His hands touch you once more, groping at your waist and breast before grabbing  your chin. He makes you look at him, eyes half lidded and filled with tears as he kisses you. 

“Need you baby,” He moans into you, lips wandering over your face. From your cheeks, to your temple, and down your chin. You humm, hands grasping at his shoulder until he slips back away. “Need you so bad.” His voice is nothing short of a whimper. Raspy and thick with desire, it sounds like a cry from deep within his chest. 

His hands let you go, rushing to unbuckle his pants. You watch him fumble with the belt, groaning at his shaking hands for not staying still. Excitement fills him the second he's able to actually pull his cock out, sighing in relief when it escapes the confines of his pants. 

It bobs a bit when he pulls it out. Thick and achingly hard, the tip leaks with a stickiness that drips from his head. It's heavy, a soft pink with a nice long viens that starts at the base and makes its way to the very top. He moans when he wraps his hand around himself, stroking the member and spreading his own need over himself. 

He aims it down, dipping the cockhead between your folds. Teasing and rubbing himself full of your wetness, he nudges at your clit. You whimper, closing your eyes as he teases you. He rubs himself all over, fucking your lips and coating every inch with your slick until he finally nudges the head against your hole.

You’re shaking by now. Vision white and blurred as you whimper and whine beneath him. He grabs your hips, holding you tight and steady. Drool drips from the corners of his chin, falling onto your lower belly. He groans, taking in a deep breath before finally inserting himself inside of you. 

It’s filthy, the way both you moan and whimper when you feel each other. His cock stretches you out, the ache of it easing into pleasure as you adjust to his size. Your warmth envelopes him, clenching tightly and he whines at the feeling. You're panting, catching the breath that left your lungs while you feel him all around you. 

He gives you a few more seconds to adjust, before moving his hips. 

Slowly, he moves back and forth. Pushing in and out at a steady pace. His eyes are closed shut, mouth slightly parted as he tries to control himself. His grip is iron on you once more, knuckles white and nails digging in as he holds back. 

He wanted to savour it, take in and absorb every second of this into his memory. Your breathy little moans, the way his cock throbs inside of you, the way your back arches and head tilts back. You felt like heaven, sunlight, and every other divine feeling that had been out of his reach for hundreds of years. 

He leans in closer, chest pressing against yours as he thrust in deeper. Filling you up to the hilt, his cock reaching a place you didn't even know a man could touch. 

You feel him in your stomach, the weight of him inside of you. The way the tip kissed your cervix and nudged at your sweet spot each time he moved had your eyes rolling into the sockets. Every movement he made was like he was plucking at the strings of your nerves, already raw and overstimulated. 

Your hands claw at his back, leaving tender scratches across his skin. Your legs wrap themselves around his waist, pulling him in deeper. Your skin is pressed against his. Chest to chest and he covers your body like a blanket. Placing all his weight over you and trapping you underneath him. 

He moans like a bitch in heat from just being inside of you. Louder than you have been the whole night, his body so sensitive and overwhelmed from just feeling your heat. 

He pulls his hips back, leaving just his tip inside before gradually filling you back up. His cock is thick, leaving you feeling like he’s splitting you in half with each thrust. 

Your arousal coats both of you, a loud squelching sound coming from where the two of you meet. It's everywhere, coating the inside of your thighs and his own. You even feel it drip down your ass. Utter embarrassment fills you at the way he slides in so easily, body showing just how much it wants him. 

You can feel your cunt clenching around his cock. Keeping him close and not wanting to let him go. 

You lift your hips to meet his, following where his length went to keep him inside no matter what. 

“Yeah, darlin, just like that.” He mewls when he feels you start to move with him. He lets out a sigh from deep within his chest, the rumble of it makes you gasp. You could feel it inside of you, everywhere and all around. 

You lips meet his, kissing desperately and messily as he keeps fucking into you. 

His pace begins to grow faster, needier. Hips starting to slam into you. His balls slap against your ass, heavy and full of cum with each brutal thrust. You're both moaning into each others mouths, 

He groans into your skin, breathing your scent in. 

“So good, f-fuck- dreamt of this pussy baby.” He whines, licking up your cheek and down your neck. 

“She’s grippin me real tight, knows who she belongs to.” He’s hardly moving his hips anymore. Just desperately humping and grinding into your cunt— not wanting to part from your wet warmth. 

Your head is tilted back in pleasure, exposing the long expanse of your neck and collarbones. You looked so beautiful beneath him. The way you writhed and whimpered in his hold. Eyes all teary and looking up at him with need. 

“Mnh, You and I gon’ be together forever, right darlin?” He whimpers into your skin, sucking a love bite into a pulse point at the side of your neck. It makes your body bolt, frantically nodding your head and whispering little “yes”es out like a prayer. 

“Yeah, just like we was meant to be.” He kisses lower down, passing and licking at your collarbones before coming to the junction where your shoulder and neck met. 

He had seen it the second he walked up to you,  the scar.

It was only a small mark, healed and lighter than the rest of your body. It had a wrinkly texture, looking a bit mangled from the way your flesh melded itself back together. It was in the shape of an oval, faint little holes circling it that made it look like someone tried to chew and rip the skin off. The way an apple looks when you bite it. Clear punctures of teeth. 

The scar from when he bit you. 

“Really left my mark on you, didn’t I?” He hums against the skin, kissing it so tenderly you almost didn’t feel it with the way he was fucking you. 

In more ways than one, you wanted to reply. But your mouth was dry, throat hoarse from the moans he kept dragging out of you. You wanted to run your fingers through his hair, kiss his forehead, and pull him even closer to you until your bodies basically melted together. But all strength left you. Gone along with your mind, solely focused on the way he touched and made you feel. 

So you said nothing, did nothing, but let out a high pitched cry when you felt him bite you. 

Sharp teeth tore through your flesh, opening the scar anew. You could feel him groan in delight, cock twitching inside of you as he started to suck your blood. His eyes rolled to the back of his head, pure bliss on his tongue as he tasted you. 

It awoke a primal urge inside of him, taking over his very mind and controlling his body. You were his, and he needed the world to know that. To mark you up and claim you as his in any way possible. He grew harder at the thought, pounding your poor pussy faster and biting you harder. 

Pain ran through your body, teeth grinding and hissing at the sensation that spread throughout your shoulder. You wanted to shout, tears falling from the corners of your eyes at the overwhelming sensations that took hold of you. 

Blood spurt from your neck, dripping down onto your breasts over your body. You could feel the burning heat of it flowing across your skin. The thick liquid went down to where your body met his, chests covered in the sticky crimson as he continued to eat away at you. 

His mouth was stuck on the wound, lips wrapped and suctioning around it as he drank up all that he could. His chin was covered with you, licking at your shoulder the same way he had your cunt. 

His cock dragged itself over your sweet spots, nudging and fucking your walls with a passion so intense it had you seeing stars. You could feel your body betray you, cunt clenching and fluttering around him so tightly like it was scared to let him go. 

The mixture of pain and pleasure soon started melting together, leaving only a euphoric sensation humming throughout your body. The ache of your shoulder began to dull, fading into a numbness that left every other feeling heightened. 

It shouldn’t have felt this good. The way he kept rutting into you, sucking and fucking you over a ledge and into oblivion.

His hips were flush against your, the thick hairs above the base of his length brushing and stimulating your clit. 

His mouth leaves your neck, blood dripping down his chin as he goes to kiss you. Red paints your lips, and you can taste the bitter iron of it all over. You whine, feeling him whimper and suck at your tongue. It's all messy, filthy, and so disgustingly erotic than anything else you’ve ever experienced. 

You can feel the knot of your stomach begin to tighten once more, walls fluttering around his length. You flutter around him, wetness dripping out to coat both of you and the obscene sound of it has your head spinning. 

He feels your release ready to take over you and he fastens his pace slightly. A needy little whine escapes your throat, breath catching.

“Hah- Need you, baby.” He moans into your mouth, hands gripping your shoulder to keep you in one place. “Need you so bad.” He’s close too, hips rutting desperately into you, balls tightening and threatening to spill. 

“Say you need me too.” He almost cries, movements beginning to stutter.  He’s begging for it, repeating the words into your skin over and over. Like if you said it it meant this was real. You felt so good, too good— he thought that he finally reached heaven. 

“Need you, need you.” You breathlessly managed to gasp, fingers clawing at the tender skin of his back. 

With one harsh thrust, you feel yourself falling over the edge. Waves of pleasure envelope you, drowning until white blurs your vision. Your body shakes, going numb at the feeling of his own spend filling you up. 

He lets out a wanton moan, finally cumming deep inside of you. His hips continue to rutt into you, working through both of your orgasms as he empties his balls into you. His body collapses over yours, his weight crushing you as he groans and bottoms out. 

You can feel it start to drip out of you, a white ringlet forming around his base as he finally slows his relentless pace. It's thick and needy, like he deprived himself of release for so long until he was able to give it to you. You gush all over him, walls fluttering and taking all that he gave you. 

Emotions rush through you as you come down. Delight and bliss, relief and happiness fill your chest. You’re breathing so heavily, mind and body becoming exhausted from the way he took you. You could feel yourself growing tired, the rush of adrenaline passing over. 

In its place, a strange cold began to set in. Your fingertips and toes turned numb. It pulled at your mind, whisking away all strength and energy. Your eyes grew heavy, threatening to shut. 

The familiar song of sleep called to you. Lulling you in with her sweet melody. 

You wanted nothing more than to succumb to the darkness. Wrap yourself in its embrace and not feel anything else. And you were going to. So close to falling over and closing your eyes.

But then you felt his hand come to your cheek.

Warm, wet, and sticky. It brought you back to life. 

You suddenly became aware of your blood on your skin, already beginning to dry and crust along your skin. It covered you like a thin layer of sweat, painting you red. You could feel the wound of your shoulder ache, throbbing softly as it slowly stopped bleeding. 

Right. He had bitten you. Ripped and tore your flesh with his teeth, marking you as his own. 

You were dying. 

His fingers grabbed at your chin, softly turning your head to his. His eyes glowed faintly, a deep red piercing into the veil of your soul. You were already naked. Body and soul having been torn apart and stripped to your very core by his own hands– yet his gaze had you feeling embarrassed. It felt so intimate, full of a love you’ve never seen before. Your heart ached at the feeling. 

“Fallin’ asleep?” He asks in a whisper, soft smile flashing his sharp teeth. They were full of blood, the pearly whites now a deep crimson. 

You nod lightly, eyes blurry as you look up at him.

From this angle, he looked like something heavenly. Moonlight covered his skin, surrounding him in a faint glow. The lamp above your door gave off a ringlet of warm light, his head centered around it in a way that made it look like a crown. Your blood covered his mouth and chest, all messy and filthy. A glimpse into the ravenous beast he truly was. 

The sight should be terrifying, have you crying and saying your prayers. But all you could think of was how beautiful he looked. Unearthly. Your angel of death. 

Your weak response made him chuckle, leaning down to plant a kiss on your cheek. 

The cold you had felt started to settle into your bones, making you shiver in the summer heat.

His lips wandered to yours, kissing you with a softness that almost hurt. 

“Am I dying?” You croak out. Your voice was quiet, so low and hoarse you weren’t even sure you said the words. It was a silly question, one you already knew the answer to. But asking made you feel better for some reason. Made it feel real. 

He parted from you, eyes softening and brows furrowing with concern. His hand moved to your forehead, wiping away the hair and sweat that had stuck to your skin. The feeling brought you comfort, you leaned into his touch. 

“It’s only for a bit. You’ll be with me before you know it.” His response is sweet. Holding no trace of malice or lies. 

Be with me, the words echoed throughout your head. 

What was left of your mind struggled to understand the words, unsure of what being with him meant. Until it all hit you at once.  

Oh, so this is what it felt like. 

The feeling you had been running from since the day you met him. The feeling you were always told to be terrified of as a girl. The feeling you now embrace and longed for, finally come to you. 

You can’t help but to think of the despair and sadness that lead you to this moment. From your parents' absent love to your struggling faith. You wondered if this was always how it was meant to happen. 

Was this truly the very thing you were destined for? 

“I used to be so lonely,” You start to think aloud, “I would beg God to send someone who loved me.” Your voice is frail, shaking and thin. “ I’d look for him everywhere, trying to find a sign he was listening, but I never found one.” Your own bloodied hand comes to touch his cheek, fingertips leaving a red mark beneath his cheekbone. 

“I stopped believing in him for a long time after that.”  

You can feel your mind slipping, the hand that touched him falling away back into your lap. Your mind grasped at your fading soul, but it was too weak to hold on.

“But now,  I realize he’s real. He has to be,” Small tears fall from your eyes. “He sent you to me. You were his plan all along.” Your words were dripping with hope. The belief of a girl who had nothing but her faith, coming back up and out of you like a confession. 

“Nah, ain’t no God, baby.” He replies, voice so soft and gentle. Speaking to you like how one would a weeping child. “It’s just me.”

His hand grip your hips, holding you steady as he slowly pulls away, slipping his softened cock out. The feeling has you both wincing. Sadness fills your chest at the seperation, scared that he’ll leave you alone if you weren’t feeling him. 

As if he knew, he leans back in immediately, wrapping your arms around his neck and pulling you close. His strong arms pull you up, body already half limp as he fixes you tightly against his chest. He holds you in a half hug, almost like how a bride is carried down the aisle. 

You watch his every move, awe and love filling your now faintly beating heart. You’ve never felt so warm, so loved and cherished. 

“I don’t even know your name…” You rasp out, eyes finally start to close for good. 

Your head falls, strength leaving you at last. Your mind is drifting off, heartbeat slowing by the second. 

You can’t feel anything but him now. His faint warmth seeped into you, being your small tether to the world still around you. 

You don’t even care if you wake up after this or not. At the moment, you’re just happy to have him there. To have been loved and taken by a man who made you feel like he truly loved you. Right now, that was all that mattered.  

The last of your consciousness fades, letting go of your final breath as hear him reply. 

“Remmick. It’s Remmick, darlin’.” 

His name is like a song. The way he says it like a melody. The southern drawl of his voice is gone and replaced with something so old and distant, you’re sure you must’ve known it in another life. Something so beautiful that you’re upset you even forgot about it. 

You use the very last of your strength to smile, finally falling into that deep and familiar sleep you would always come back to. 

You were always told to fear death. To cower at the very thought and run whenever it was mentioned. Foreign and horrific, everyone described. They never told the truth. How could they, they never knew it for themselves. And if they did, all they would do is talk about how sweet it truly was. 

You wake not long after. With him still holding you in his arms.  

He denies it, but swore you saw tears fall from his eyes as soon as you opened yours. 

No longer lonely, now loved and cared for, you raised your head up to give him kiss. Thanking him for finally giving you a home, a place to belong.

Thank you for reading </3!! Comments and reblogs are v much appreciated! If you have any insights please leave them kindly!!

a/n: i lowkey fear it kinda fell apart at the end, but we still ballin 😗✌️I hope the story and smut were good, im proud of myself for finally finishing something (FOR ONCE LOL)

[oneandonlycringe]

✶ ℘ EASY GOING DOWN ╲ rex sloan.

₊ཾִ ᖫྀ ⁣⁣. ⠀⎯ summary rex was trying to be better, to a new and improved man and superhero. slowly growing himself, the man turns to you in hopes of learning one, very important thing; how to get better at oral sex..

₊ཾִ ᖫྀ ⁣⁣. ⠀⎯ tags rex is ooc (i’ve never written for him before) | oral sex | past mentions of rex being a selfish lover/person | eve mention (love her) | porn with no plot | porn with complicated feelings | fingering | pet names (mama, baby) | again rex is ooc i’m sorry 😭 | uhh that’s it

₊ཾִ ᖫྀ ⁣⁣. ⠀⎯ notes i asked for requests and then literally went on vacation i’m sorry 😭😭, i’m slowly trying to get through them (though this wasn’t a request just something i wanted to write) so please bare with me and thank you for your patience. as always please excuse any mistakes, and pls enjoy

“Rex, are you fucking serious?”

“Can you give me a minute to warm u—“

“Warm up?!” You huffed loudly, quickly sitting up from your laying position. Your eyes bore into the man between your legs, spotting the way he so stupidly sat there with his tongue partially past his lips, eyebrows furrowed a little in annoyance.

The situation was odd in the simplest terms, weird at worst. Currently you found yourself in nothing but a tshirt, completely bare from the waist down whilst your close friend Rex Splode was at his knees towards the edge of the bed, attempting to eat you out.

It was no secret Rex was selfish at times; a dickhead, cheater, just a boundless amount of certain emotions wrapped into one. But luckily, he was trying to change, trying to outgrow the old Rex Sloan into a person worth being around.

And well, one of those steps was learning how to be.. less selfish during sex.

That’s where you came in. Given the two of you were pretty close — and pretty platonic, up until this point — Rex was able to come to you about his personal dilemma, practically begging to practice on you with the promise of buying you whatever you wanted; no matter the price.

It took a moment for you to give in, but something about that pretty face screwed up into a begging pout was enough. And it couldn’t be that bad, right?

Except, the man has done nothing spectacular since he started. He avoided your clit like the plague, did nothing special with his tongue, and nearly bruised your walls with the unnecessary speed of his fingers.

You flopped back onto your bed, groaning softly. “Warm up..” You repeated in soft disbelief, leaning to rest your cheek against the blankets.

“— no wonder Eve dropped your sorry a— OW!”

You shot up once again, glaring daggers at the man, “You did not just fucking bite my thigh.”

“Serves you right.” Rex grumbled, though rubbing his thumb across the bite mark as if to soothe you. He leaned his cheek against your opposite thigh, eyes trailing to focus on your face.

“Just tell me what to do. That was the entire point of me coming to you.”

Your gaze trailed back to the man, silent for a few moments before releasing a little sigh. You shouldn’t be too hard on him, despite how silly the situation seemed, this was Rex’s odd way of being better. In his own, little, very odd way.

“Well first..” You begun, adjusting your hips to catch his attention. Your legs slid open a little wider, gliding your fingers across your thighs. “Don’t immediately jump to fingers, use your tongue— you’re supposed to warm the girl up.”

Rex was quick to obey your instructions, hands finding your thighs whilst leaning closer. His tongue slowly slid out from his mouth, gliding across your folds, the tip parting them to drag against your little bud. The act was experimental, Rex clearly taking your words to heart; something you found quite cute in the moment.

Resident douche bag Rex Sloan sitting here so patiently and sweetly, eyes on you and eyebrows lifted as he awaited your next request.

Your hand rose, finding a strand from his loose bun, curling it around your finger.

“Keep doing that, focus on my clit too..” Your voice trailed the moment he gave you another lick, dragging the fat of his tongue along your slick cunt. Soft squelches begun to rise in the air as he continued, his shallow breathing fanning against you with each moment that passed.

Unlike before, Rex didn’t rush, throughly taking his time in pleasuring your body. The complete 180 had you reacting much more positively then before, sinking into the bed as the pleasure bloomed from little sparks to strikes down your spine the moment his lips wrapped around your clit.

You couldn’t help the way your thighs jolted, threatening to squeeze his head into place. Large hands spread along your warm skin, carefully taking your thighs into his palms and keeping them steady and wide.

“Shiiiit...” Your voice dragged, taking your shirt in your hands for a gentle grip. Gentle was his lips and tongue, circulating your little bud swollen, sucking even softer— your arousal pooled from within down to your taint.

A growing mess that Rex was slowly getting proud of.

His eyes dragged up your body to your face, noticing the way your eyelids rested low on your eyes, lips parted as a mix of soft breathing and quiet moans escaped. Rex’s hand adjusted, allowing his thumb to rub little circles along your labia, slowly removing his lips from your swollen button with a soft pop.

“Looks like I’m actually doing something right, huh?”

It was just like him to tease you at a time like this, lips slick with your mess and his saliva curled into the most devious little smile.

Your eyebrows pushed close, mouth opening a little wider to tell him off, only for the man to lean back down to your clit, returning to his previous ministrations.

“What’s the next step, baby?”

The words were muttered right into your wetness, eyes completely focused on your face and awaiting your command.

Your stomach was clenching into knots, hand moving over to his hair to hold instead of your own shirt.

“Just… ke—keep doing that..” You whined loudly the moment his teeth ever so gently dragged across your clit, a swear escaping you in the process.

His confidence was thriving at this point, and something else as well…. Rex Sloan didn’t put much thought into coming to you, none at all, actually. In his mind, it was nothing more than a friend teaching another how to beat a level to a game.

Nothing more right?

Except, here Rex was with his mouth right on your pretty cunt, feeling his dick twitch with every moan that escaped you. And it sure didn’t help every so often the sweetest Rex, would escape your throat; soft, as if you didn’t want him to hear at all.

That simple conclusion caused just a pinch of annoyance.

A hand of Rex’s moved, two fingers being dragged against your wet slit for a couple seconds before they slowly pushed into your fluttering hole. The man watched you carefully, watching as your eyes shut, a groan escaping your throat.

And with a single curl of his fingers, Rex was getting exactly what he wants.

“Rex, fuck!” You cried out, quick whines soon following. Your legs shook and twitched, you were trying so desperately not to crush his head but as he started to thrust his fingers; pushing at your velvety walls in slick squelches, your will was draining slowly.

You slowly sat up, leaning onto your hands and glancing down at the man with glossy eyes.

“Y—you’re good now.. you do—“ Your teeth dragged across your bottom lip, attempting to shake off the pleasure to get through your sentence. The man wasn’t even focused on you, his fingers and mouth continuing to ruin you utterly and completely. You rested on a single hand, reaching down with the other to uselessly push at his forehead.

“— don’t.. have to finish. Fu—fuck, Rex!”

The pads of his fingers were striking that little spongy spot with each thrust, thick appendages scissoring inside, rubbing against your walls so deliciously you were seeing the back of your skull and stars in one fell swoop. Your words were falling on deaf ears, or rather— ears that couldn’t give that much of damn.

Rex was quick to raise his freehand, pressing it against your stomach and effectively pushing you back to your mattress. You squirmed for a moment before quickly realizing the man didn’t work out for nothing, given he kept you seated completely without even trying.

“C—can’t take.. it, Rex— fuck!”

For the first time in a while Rex was moving away, even if just an inch — bated breath fanning across your cunt — as he released a simple;

“C’mon mama.. let me finish. I can’t half-ass end my lesson without at least getting a grade.”

You wanted to kick him, slap, everything— basically hearing that cocky grin dripping from every word. Instead you could only gasp, feeling him latch his mouth right back to your little button with much more vigor then before, little tears pricking at the corner of your eyes.

With both hands you were tugging at his hair, ruining his bun as brown strands tickled your heated skin. Coupled with this, your hips lifted off the bed, driving your pussy right into your face as desperation collected right at the pit of your tummy.

Rex couldn’t help but groan into your wet sex, muttering a soft Fuck my face, [Name] right into you, the vibrations of his words just adding to the already overwhelming pleasure.

You felt that band coming quickly, threatening to pop the longer time went on. And with how hard you were clenching, you knew your end would be intense.

Rex was quick to mutter soft encouragements right into you the moment he noticed how harshly you were clenching, sucking in his fingers so much as if you didn’t wish to let go. The man couldn’t help but grunt the moment the hold on his hair tightened, cock straining at his pants, him wondering if he could come untouched— off your tastes alone.

His name escaped you in one final pleasure filled bellow, coming all over his face and practically locking him into place with your legs. Rex didn’t seem to mind, licking you up, helping you ride out your orgasm perfectly.

Your legs shook from the aftershocks, stomach on fire as you fell back onto your mattress, legs loosening as you breathed. Between soft breaths and strokes of his hair you attempted to calm down, eyes closed and sinking into your mattress.

Only to realize Rex had not stopped once, continuing to lick at your messy cunt, not wasting a single drop of your arousal.

With a loud groan, and much rougher then you intended you were tugging at his hair, lifting him from between your thighs.

“You have to let me catch my breath, Rex!” You huffed out, moving your hips a bit the moment he pulled his fingers out.

Your eyes narrowed at the smile crossing his soaked face, absolutely hating the way he looked downright sexy with messy hair and your essence all over his skin.

“Then hurry up and catch your breath.. I still got a couple of lessons I need help with.”

Your eyes widened, releasing his hair in slight shock as you basically tossed yourself back onto your mattress.

“Five.. minutes.”

[oneandonlycringe]

John Price is definitely the type to kiss you after you sucked his dick.

Frankly he does not care, what’s his is yours and what yours is his.

He’s a grown man, only little boys worry about shit like that, it’s simple really.

So naturally he wants those plump lips that sucked him until he saw stars on his own mouth. Tasting his cum as he intertwines your tongues together.

It’s wet, it’s sloppy, moans and his grunts bounce off the walls like a symphony. You can barley breath as he explored your pretty mouth, you have to shove him off just a bit, a string of saliva leaving your lips when you pull away.

“Fuck me birdie,” he whispers as he looks at the state of you, disheavled, curls covering half your face, dark nipples hard and your wet cum covering your boarderline sore cunt, down to your thighs.

“Let me eat your pussy luvie, need you.”

You can only hiccup, a sheepish nod as you let him lay you flat on the bed, lifting your leg over his shoulder and letting his tongue meet the inner pink of your cunt.

He’s starting the process over again, eating you out till your dizzy and your legs are shaking just so he can have you taste yourself of his lips.

Let you mesh your lips together, again, and again, and again till you’re completely one.

a/n: on a nasty writing kick on a Sunday morning. You can’t make this shit up. Was practically begging the audience to put me in the game all week! Shameless!John being a freak? Love it!!

most recent masterlist shameless!John

[oneandonlycringe]

[oneandonlycringe]

[oneandonlycringe]

SOME HELL TO TAKE US TO HEAVEN

summary: the silence between you and him breaks the night you seek the gardener's touch, but it's remmick who finds you— bloodstained and defiant. blood stains everything, and remmick's claim is darker and more relentless than ever.

warnings: infidelity (just a smooch on the lips dw), angst, explicit content, sex in front of a corpse, blood kink, breeding kink if you squint, themes of: jealously, obsession, and possessiveness, violence (very subtle), oh and did i mention finger licking smut.

pairing: remmick x reader

w/c: 7k+

MINORS DNI, DNI IF TAGS AFFECT YOU

You don’t remember what day it is.

It never matters.

The curtains are always drawn. The clocks are always quiet. The house is too big, too clean, and too still—like it’s waiting for something. Or maybe mourning something that already happened.

You move through it like you’re underwater. Every step soft, every room colder than the last. The halls stretch on forever, filled with portraits you don’t recognize and furniture no one ever uses.

Servants pass you in silence. Eyes down. Hands folded. Like they’re scared of you. Or worse—trained.

You don’t speak. You don’t sleep.

You just… exist.

And Remmick?

He watches you like he’s still afraid you’ll disappear. Like he hasn’t already taken everything that made you you. He walks beside you, sits across from you at the long dining table, always close, always quiet. Pretending this is normal. Pretending you’re his.

But you remember the moment it all changed.

The pleading. The bite. The way his hands shook when he held you down and said, “I won’t let you go.”

You didn’t want forever.

He gave it to you anyway.

Now you wake up in silk sheets and live in a world you never chose. A beautiful, lifeless cage. A body that doesn’t age. A heart that doesn’t beat.

And somewhere deep down, past the numbness, past the quiet—

You’re starting to feel angry.

You sit at the long dining table, the weight of the silverware pressing cold against your fingers. The breakfast on your plate sits untouched for minutes, the eggs turning gray and the toast hardening. You drag your fork around the plate, making little circles but not really eating. You don’t remember the last time you felt hunger—or anything much at all.

The house is quiet. Too quiet. Only the faint rustle of curtains in the breeze and the distant creak of floorboards remind you it’s alive.

Remmick is across from you, staring in that calm, quiet way he always does. It’s been weeks—maybe months—since either of you spoke more than what was necessary. The silence between you is thick and cold, like a wall neither wants to break.

You stare down at your plate again, wishing you could disappear into the cold marble beneath your feet.

Then, finally, he speaks.

“We brought in a gardener,” he says, voice low and rough like it’s no big deal.

You lift your head, surprised. “A gardener? That’s pretty dumb, don’t you think? Bringing someone new here when we ain’t even allowed outside.”

He shrugs, like it don’t bother him none. “Agnes wanted it. Said the place’s been dead quiet for too long. Said we needed somethin’ living around.”

You know Agnes. The old woman who’s been here forever, watching you both with eyes that never miss a thing. She’s the only one who knows everything. She knows what Remmick did to you—how he stole your life and made you this.

You stare at Remmick. “You know Agnes knows what you did. She knows you forced me into this. You took my life and left me stuck.”

His eyes darken. “I did what I had to. I ain’t about to lose you—not again.”

You shake your head bitterly. “Well, hiring a gardener so I can watch someone else live while I’m trapped here? That’s just cruel.”

He doesn’t say nothing else. Just leans back and watches you, calm but burning underneath.

You stare at him a moment longer, the silence stretching between you like a thick rope pulling tight.

Finally, you break it. “Does Agnes even know what it’s like? Being stuck in this place, livin’ forever like some damn ghost? Watchin’ the world move on without you?”

Remmick’s jaw tightens. His eyes flick away, then back, like he’s fighting some words. “She knows more than you think. Been around long enough to see what all this does.”

You scoff, bitter and sharp. “Yeah, well, seeing ain’t the same as caring.”

He leans forward then, that rough voice low and steady. “I care. More than you know. Don’t mean it ain’t hell, but it’s hell with me by your side.”

You want to yell at him. To tell him he can’t fix this, that you don’t want his kind of ‘care.’ But the words catch somewhere deep, tangled with the pain and anger you both bury.

So you stay quiet.

Remmick’s gaze softens for the briefest second, then hardens again like he’s pulling himself back from something.

“Look,” he says, voice rough but honest, “I’m tryin’. Maybe not the way you want. But I’m here. Ain’t goin’ nowhere.”

You want to believe him. You want to reach across the table and grab whatever’s left of him. But all you do is swallow the lump in your throat and stare at the cold silverware in your hands.

Outside, somewhere beyond these walls, the gardener moves through the grounds. A reminder that life still breathes—even if you don’t.

You stand in the darkest corner of the big, empty room, where the sunlight never quite reaches. The curtains block most of it, but thin slivers sneak through, carving pale lines on the floor and dust motes drifting lazily in the air. It’s cool here, the only place you feel safe from the harsh, burning world outside—because you know you can’t touch it.

Outside the window, the gardener moves through the sprawling gardens, wiping sweat from his forehead and rolling up his sleeves. His skin shines faintly, alive and warm in a way you’ll never be again. You watch him carefully, fascinated, like he’s a mystery you don’t quite know how to solve.

He’s new. Someone who’s not bound by the silence or the rules of the house. Someone who probably hasn’t been told to never speak to you or anyone else. And maybe, just maybe, someone who reminds you what it feels like to be mortal.

Your fingers curl around the edge of the windowsill, gripping it as if it might hold you in place. You’ve never felt this strange mixture of jealousy and hope. You don’t know what he’s thinking. You don’t know if he sees you.

The house feels heavy around you, like it’s trying to pull you back into its cold grip.

Curiosity pushes you forward, and before you know it, you’re moving quietly down the marble staircase, your footsteps silent against the thick rug. You slip through the halls, careful to stay in the shadows, your heart hammering in a way it hasn’t in years.

You round the corner near the kitchen just as the gardener comes through the back door, pushing his shirt up over his head to wipe the sweat from his neck. His skin gleams faintly, muscles flexing with the motion.

You don’t mean to make a sound, but your sudden breath catches in your throat, and you startle him.

He spins around, eyes wide and alert, the shirt falling back into place.

You hold up your hands, trying to calm him. “Sorry… didn’t mean to scare you.”

He blinks, recovering quickly. “Uh… no worries. You’re…?”

…someone who’s not usually seen,” you say, lips curling into the ghost of a smile. “But I live here.”

He tilts his head, eyes narrowing just slightly, like he’s trying to figure out if you’re joking or testing him. “Didn’t know anyone was home. I’ve been out there all morning.”

“I noticed,” you say, voice softer now. “From the upstairs window.”

He rubs the back of his neck, still a little out of breath. “Guess I should’ve waved.”

That almost makes you laugh. Almost. You step closer, just enough so you’re no longer tucked behind the hallway wall, but still safely out of reach of the sunbeams stretching across the floor.

“You’re the new gardener,” you say, like you’re confirming it for yourself.

He nods. “Yeah. Nate. Got the job through an old lady—Agnes, I think?”

That name makes your spine stiffen.

You nod once, slowly. “She’s been here a long time.”

“She kinda runs the place?”

You huff under your breath. “Something like that.”

He looks at you again, this time longer. Not in a rude way, just… curious. Trying to place you. “You don’t look like staff.”

“I’m not.” You glance past him at the open back door. Bright light spills in, touching the edge of the stone floor. You don’t go near it.

He follows your gaze, then looks back. “You alright?”

You pause. It’s not a question you get asked. Not by anyone real. Not for years.

“I’m fine,” you lie. “Just… not used to new faces.”

“Well,” he says, wiping his hands on his jeans again, “guess we’ll have to fix that.”

You don’t answer, but you don’t turn away either.

And when he walks past you toward the hallway, whistling low under his breath, you feel something strange stir in your chest.

Something close to warmth.

Something dangerously close to wanting.

You’re still watching the hallway where the gardener disappeared when a voice, low and surprised, cuts through the silence behind you.

“Well, I’ll be.”

Your body tenses. Slowly, you turn your head.

Remmick stands just behind you, arms crossed over his chest, leaning lazily against the doorway like he hasn’t been watching this whole time. Like he didn’t just catch you somewhere you never should’ve been.

He raises an eyebrow, eyes cutting toward the door.

“You lost or somethin’, sweetheart?”

You blink, mouth parting. “I was just…”

“Just what?” he asks, stepping further into the hall, boots soft on the rug. “Wanderin’? Sightseein’? Didn’t know this dusty corner of the house got so interestin’ all of a sudden.”

You don’t answer. You don’t lie, either.

Remmick watches you a moment longer, then tilts his head slightly.

“You’ve been actin’ strange,” he says, quieter now. “Since the new hire showed up.”

You look back toward the door. “It’s nothing.”

“Yeah?” His voice drops, soft but sharp. “You sure? ’Cause I ain’t seen you downstairs in… what, months? And now you’re standin’ here like you’re waitin’ on somethin’. Or someone.”

You clench your jaw, gaze fixed on the sliver of sunlight crawling across the tiled floor.

“I’m not waitin’ on anyone,” you mutter.

Remmick steps closer, slow and deliberate. Not enough to crowd you — just enough to remind you he’s always near.

“Agnes said you been quiet lately,” he says. “Quieter than usual. Though then once this boy shows up, and suddenly you’re wide awake. That ain’t nothin’, darlin’. That’s somethin’.”

You finally turn to face him. His expression is unreadable, calm, but watching you like a hawk.

“You spying on me now?” you ask, voice cool.

He chuckles under his breath. “You really think I ever stopped?”

You hate that he’s probably right.

For a long moment, neither of you says anything. The hallway feels too still. Like the house is listening.

You fold your arms, lean back against the wall. “You jealous?”

Remmick’s mouth twitches, but not into a smile.

“I don’t get jealous,” he says. “I get curious. And right now, I’m real curious why you’re suddenly watchin’ a man who don’t even know what you are.”

You look away, throat tight. “He doesn’t matter.”

His voice lowers. “Then why’re you still starin’ at that door like he’s comin’ back?”

You don’t answer.

And Remmick doesn’t push.

After a long moment, he sighs, voice low and rough. “I don’t know what you’re playing at,” he says, stepping closer, eyes sharp. “But if I were you, I’d stop. Before I cut off your little… interactions with him.”

You turn to face him, eyes hard.

“Cut me off?” you repeat, voice steady. “You think you can control who I talk to now?”

He shrugs, but there’s something dangerous in his calm.

“I don’t have to control you. You choose to stay here. In that room. Away from everything. Away from me.”

Your jaw tightens.

“Maybe I choose it because it’s the only place I don’t have to feel your breath on my neck.”

Without another word, you turn sharply on your heel and stride away, each step fueled by the fire burning beneath your skin. Your anger drowns out the heavy silence, your heart hammering louder than your footsteps.

Remmick’s voice cuts through the still air, rough and urgent, but you don’t look back as he yells out your name angrily.

It had been more than a month since the gardener arrived.

Since Nate arrived.

Time slipped strangely in this place — too fast when you wanted it to slow down, and agonizingly slow when all you wanted was change. You had been watching him from windows, from shadowed hallways, from the corners where the light didn’t reach. And during that time, Remmick had… changed.

He wasn’t gone. Not really. He still lingered in doorways, in mirrors, in the space just behind your shoulder. But he spoke less. Watched more. Distant — or something like it. If someone asked, you wouldn’t even know how to describe what he was to you. Not a lover. Not anymore. Not since that last touch that barely felt like one. Not since you started counting the silence between his visits.

You thought maybe he was pulling away.

Or maybe you were.

It’s late when you go downstairs. The house is quiet, like it’s sleeping. You like it that way. No voices. No eyes. Just your bare feet brushing against the cold wood as you make your way to the kitchen. You weren’t expecting to see anyone. You weren’t wearing anything special — just the same worn shirt and shorts you always wore to bed, your hair a little messy, your eyes tired.

You reach for a glass, the tap whispering as you fill it.

Then you hear a soft sound — a shuffle behind you.

You turn slowly.

And there he is. Nate. Standing near the far end of the counter, like he’s been there a minute or two but didn’t want to scare you.

“Oh—sorry,” he says quickly, hands lifting a little. “Didn’t mean to sneak up on you.”

You blink, heart giving a strange little lurch. “No, it’s okay,” you say. “Just… didn’t think anyone else was up.”

He gives you a small smile, eyes flicking down, then back up. “Could say the same about you.”

He looks warm, even in the dim light. Hair tousled, shirt a little wrinkled like he’d been tossing in bed, or hadn’t gone at all. He leans back against the counter, arms crossed lightly. He’s looking at you in a way that makes your skin feel too tight.

“I couldn’t sleep,” you say.

He nods. “Same.”

The silence stretches between you again, but it isn’t awkward. It’s just… charged. You sip your water, but your hands feel shaky.

You shouldn’t be here.

Not with him.

Not like this.

He moves before you can think too hard — steps just a little closer. Not enough to touch, but enough to feel it. That tension. That pull. That thing inside you that’s been curling tighter and tighter the longer you go untouched.

“Do you… like it here?” he asks, voice low.

You glance up at him. “This house?”

He nods.

You shrug, setting the glass down. “It’s not really a matter of liking it. It’s just where I am.”

He watches you for a second, then says, “Doesn’t feel like you belong here.”

That makes you laugh, soft and dry. “You’re not the first person to say that.”

He tilts his head. “I don’t mean that in a bad way. You just… feel too real for a place like this.”

You don’t know what happens next. Maybe it’s the way he says it. Or the way he looks at you like he actually sees you. Or maybe it’s the memory of how long it’s been since anyone reached for you like they meant it.

Before you can stop yourself, you’re stepping into him — and kissing him.

It’s not gentle. It’s not planned.

You just grab the front of his shirt and pull him in like you’ve been starving for it. His mouth is warm, surprised at first — then hungry. You taste sweat, sleep, something earthy. Something real.

Your body presses to his, your fingers curling into the fabric like it’s the only thing holding you together. His hand finds your waist, fingers tentative but firm. You let yourself sink into it — dizzy, warm, burning. You don’t even realize your eyes are closed until the kiss breaks and you’re left panting.

You step back a little, your heart thudding loud in your ears.

“I…” you start, but the words fall apart.

You don’t know why you did it.

To feel something?

To forget how cold Remmick has become?

To punish him for every time he looked through you like glass?

You shake your head, unable to meet Nate’s eyes.

“I don’t know what came over me,” you whisper.

And it’s true.

But you already know it’s too late to take it back.

And then —

A creak.

The subtle, dragging sound of worn shoes on wood.

You look up, heart jerking into your throat.

Agnes is standing in the doorway.

Half-shadowed, half-lit by the hallway lamp behind her. She says nothing. Just… stares. One hand curled loosely around the hem of her shawl. Her face unreadable. Pale eyes watching like you’d stepped into a play she’s already seen before.

You jump, hands instantly pushing Nate back.

Too late.

Agnes doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t blink.

Just stands there, unmoving.

The room feels suddenly colder.

You open your mouth. No words come.

She still doesn’t say anything. Just… slowly turns and walks back into the hall.

Like she never saw a thing.

But you know better.

You felt her see it.

ADD DIVIDER HERE

Dinner sat cold between you, untouched like everything else lately. The quiet in the room wasn’t peaceful — it was heavy, like a weight pressing down on your chest. You could feel Remmick’s eyes burning into you from the other side of the table, watching, waiting. He wasn’t moving, just sitting there, hands clenched on his lap, jaw tight.

Finally, he spoke. His voice was low, slow, and rough with anger— that drawl twisting his words like a knife. “You don’t have much appetite these days. What’s eatin’ at you, huh?”

You didn’t answer. You kept your gaze on your plate, tracing the chipped edge with your finger, your stomach knotting with guilt and something else. He leaned forward a little, eyes sharper now, darker— like he was trying to burn the truth out of you.

“Agnes told me. She seen you, didn’t she?” His voice dropped, low and dangerous. “Saw you with that damn gardener. Told me every goddamn detail.”

You finally met his eyes. “She doesn’t know what she saw.”

His laugh was cold, bitter. “Don’t play me for a fool. I’m not blind, and I ain’t stupid.”

You shook your head slowly, stubborn as ever. “I didn’t plan it. But it happened.”

His fist slammed the table, rattling the dishes. “You kissed him.”

“Yes,” you said, voice steady even though your heart felt like it might burst. “I needed something real. Something you stopped giving me.”

His eyes burned brighter, fury laced with jealousy. “You think you just walk up and take what you want? What makes you think he’s better than me?”

You swallowed the lump in your throat and met his gaze head on. “We used to be something, Remmick. But you… you turned me into someone I didn’t even recognize.”

“Don’t you dare say that,” he snarled, voice shaking with barely contained rage. “I’ve been here. Every damn day.”

“Not really,” you snapped back. “You’ve been here, but you’ve been gone. You stopped touching me, stopped looking at me like I mattered.”

He stood up suddenly, boots thudding on the floor, pacing like a caged animal. “You think I don’t want you? You think I’m not burnin’ up inside watching you slip away?”

You stayed seated, jaw tight, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing you crack. “I didn’t ask for this,” you said. “But it happened. I was starving for something real. And you—you left me starvin’ in this goddamn house.”

He stopped pacing, stepping close enough that you could see the wild fire in his eyes. “You’re mine,” he growled, voice low and fierce. “And don’t you forget it.”

You lifted your chin, cold and defiant. “Then maybe you should’ve acted like it before this got so damn far.”

The silence stretched between you— thick and electric. Neither of you moved, caught in the eye of a storm that was only just beginning to rage.

The tablecloth whipped off the long wooden table with a sudden, violent yank. Plates, glasses, silverware—all smashed onto the floor, the crash echoing like gunshots in the stillness of the room. Your breath hitched, heart pounding loud in your ears, while your eyes darted between the shattered mess and the man standing right in front of you.

Remmick wasn’t just angry—he was a storm about to break. His gaze burned through you, dark and wild, and before you could even think of moving, his hands shot forward and grabbed the arms of your chair with a grip so tight it almost hurt. His fingers curled around the wood like iron clamps, pinning you there.

You blinked, caught off guard by the sheer force of it. You were trapped, caged, held in place not just by his hands but by the fierce, furious energy radiating off him. He wasn’t letting you go. Not now. Not ever.

He leaned down slightly, his face close enough that you could see every flicker of rage and desperation in his eyes. His voice dropped low, rough like gravel scraping against stone.

“Where d’you think you’re gonna go, huh?” he growled, his breath hot against your cheek. “Out that door? Back to him? Like you could just walk away from me like I’m some damn ghost?”

Your chest tightened, lungs struggling to draw a steady breath under the weight of his stare. You wanted to pull away, to push him off, but his grip was relentless. It was like he was physically tethering you to this moment, refusing to let you slip away.

“You think you can just throw all this away? After everything?” His voice cracked, raw with jealousy, pain, and something dangerously close to obsession. “You think I’m just gonna sit back and watch you... fall apart in someone else’s arms?”

The heat of his anger was suffocating, but beneath it, you caught something darker—something broken. A twisted kind of love that wasn’t tender or soft. It was jagged, sharp, and fierce, and it clawed at your skin.

“I’m not lettin’ you go,” he snarled, voice dropping even lower, almost a whisper now, like a threat wrapped in a confession. “You’re mine. You don’t get to just walk outta here and pretend like nothin’ happened.”

Your mind reeled, heart pounding like a wild drumbeat. You’d never seen this side of him before—so raw, so brutal. You wanted to fight back, to break free, but there was something about the way he held you, caged you, that made you freeze.

For a long moment, you just sat there, breathing hard, caught in the storm of his fury and the tangled mess of your own guilt and stubbornness.

Suddenly, he pulled back. Like your skin had burned him.

Remmick ripped his hands off the chair and staggered back a few steps, running both hands through his hair hard— fisting the hair, tugging like he needed pain to ground him. He paced, turned halfway from you, then spun back like he couldn’t decide if he wanted to yell or throw something.

“I can’t even stand to look at you right now,” he spat, voice rough and shaking with rage.

You flinched, just barely. But he caught it.

“Oh, now you flinch?” he barked, laughing bitterly. “That’s rich.”

His boots scuffed loudly against the floor as he paced again, one hand bracing on the back of a chair like he was trying to hold himself up. His chest heaved with shallow, furious breaths.

“You—you went behind my back,” he said, louder now, like each word was being dragged out of him. “With him. Like I was some fuckin’ ghost to you. Like I didn’t matter.”

You opened your mouth, but he was already shaking his head.

“Nah. Don’t. Don’t give me some half-assed excuse. Don’t act like you didn’t know exactly what you were doin’. You knew what it would do to me.”

He turned to you again—his expression cracked open, not soft, but shredded. Angry and hurt and unhinged all at once.

“Get outta my sight.”

You didn’t move.

“I said go,” he snapped, voice breaking. “’Fore I say somethin’ I can’t take back. Because right now? Right now I don’t even know what the hell’s stoppin’ me.”

You stood slowly, your legs shaking under you, but you held his gaze. Even as his jaw clenched so tight it looked like it might shatter. Even as his hands curled into fists at his sides.

He looked at you like you were everything he’d ever wanted and the one thing that could destroy him in the same breath.

You stood there, hands trembling at your sides — not from fear, but from everything boiling under your skin. You stared him down, jaw tight, pulse hammering in your throat.

He wanted you gone? Fine. But you weren’t walking out without saying what needed to be said.

“You wanna act like this is new?” Your voice was sharp now, cold, slicing through the tension like a blade. “We were already done the second you turned me, Remmick.”

That stopped him cold.

He froze mid-step, back to you, fists clenched so tight his knuckles had gone white. You could practically see the heat rolling off him as the silence stretched—tense, waiting, dangerous.

He turned around slow. Eyes wide, lips parted like he couldn’t believe you actually said it. “You wanna say that again?” he asked, low and lethal.

You didn’t hesitate.

“We. Were. Done,” you repeated, voice louder now, throat burning. “The moment you made that choice for me. When you took everything I was and twisted it into something that only fit you.”

He laughed—but it was wrong. Broken. Hollow and dark and shaking with disbelief. “So that’s it? That’s what I am now? Some monster who ruined you?”

“You didn’t ruin me,” you snapped. “You lost me. Big difference.”

That did it.

He exploded.

In one motion he kicked the chair nearest him hard, sending it crashing against the wall with a loud bang that echoed through the room. He looked like he didn’t know what to do with his hands—like he wanted to break something or scream or grab you and make you feel how much you still belonged to him.

“You think I didn’t feel that night?” he shouted, voice fraying. “You think I didn’t carry it with me every goddamn day since? I never wanted to hurt you!”

“But you did,” you said, voice low now. “And you keep doing it. With silence. With anger. With this—” you gestured between you, the broken plates, the broken everything. “This isn’t love, Remmick. Not anymore.”

His chest heaved, his jaw clenched so tight it looked like it might snap.

And then he did the worst thing of all.

He said nothing.

He just looked at you—ruined and furious and helpless—and didn’t say a damn thing to stop you as you turned to leave.

It had been a month.

Thirty long, bitter days where silence settled in like mold, clinging to the walls, seeping into the floorboards. If it was even possible, the house felt darker now. Quieter. Not just in sound—but in weight, in presence, in everything it used to hold.

You hadn’t seen Remmick since that night. Not properly, at least. You felt him, though. Somewhere in the house, pacing the halls like a storm with nowhere left to strike. His boots echoed sometimes through the upstairs hallway in the dead of night—slow, heavy steps that always stopped right outside your door. But he never knocked.

Surprisingly, he never did anything about Nate either. Never went after him. Never brought it up again. That made it worse somehow—like he was waiting for something. Or maybe punishing you by doing nothing at all.

You avoided Nate like the plague. You couldn’t look at him. Couldn’t let yourself. Not when everything between you was soaked in guilt. Not when Agnes had seen. Not when it had blown your world apart.

And Remmick? You hadn't spoken a single word to him.

Not one.

Agnes knocked every evening, soft little taps against the wood. Sometimes she even called your name, her voice muffled, strange, unreadable.

You never answered.

You only opened the door once the hallway was empty, grabbed the plate of food in silence, then set it back out hours later—cold and barely touched. Some nights you didn’t eat at all. You weren’t even sure you were hungry anymore.

You were more of a ghost now than anything else.

No longer someone loved. No longer someone feared.

Just… someone who had ruined everything.

You knew it was your fault. There was no denying it now, no softening it, no excuse to spin. You’d kissed Nate. You’d let it happen. You didn’t stop it. You’d looked at him like he saw something in you, something good. And you liked it.

But liking it didn’t make it right.

Liking it didn’t take back the way Remmick had looked at you that night— like you'd broken him in a way that couldn’t be put back together.

The walls of your room felt tighter now. Smaller. You spent your days staring out the window, watching a world that moved on without you. The curtains stayed drawn most of the time, and the air smelled like dust and rain.

You didn’t know what you were waiting for. Maybe you were just waiting for something to change— anything. But the silence held. And so did you.

The house was silent that night. Not just quiet— silent. The kind of stillness that felt too heavy to be natural. It clung to the walls, to the floor beneath your bare feet, and hummed in the corners like it was waiting for something to break.

Everyone was probably asleep.

Probably.

But you knew better.

Remmick was out there somewhere. Watching. Listening. Waiting. He always was.

You stood in the middle of your room for a long time before moving, staring at the door like it might open on its own. Like someone might be out there, daring you to step through.

But nothing happened.

Still, something tugged at you. Hunger. Thirst. Anger. Everything. It was all wound tight inside your chest like a coil ready to snap, and you were tired of pretending it wasn’t.

So you opened the door.

The hallway was dim, only moonlight from the windows painting long lines across the wooden floor. No footsteps. No voices. Just that same thick silence.

You didn’t look around. You didn’t need to.

You already knew he was there. Somewhere in the dark. Watching. Always watching.

But you didn’t stop. You walked down the hallway, each step slower than the last, until you reached Nate’s door. You didn’t knock.

You just turned the handle.

He was sitting on his bed, still fully dressed like he hadn’t expected to sleep. Like maybe part of him had been waiting, too. His eyes widened the moment he saw you, surprise flickering fast across his face.

“You okay?” he asked, voice low, cautious.

You didn’t answer. You stepped inside, closing the door gently behind you with a soft click. Nate stood up slowly. “Hey,” he said again, softer now. “Did something happen?”

Your eyes met his, and something in your stare made him pause. You weren’t the same as you had been a month ago. There was something darker behind your gaze now—something that didn’t flinch.

“You were right,” you said calmly, walking toward him. “That night in the kitchen. You saw something in me. And I think I liked it.”

He blinked, clearly unsure if this was real. His shoulders tensed. “Look, I don’t know what’s going on with you and Remmick, but—”

You cut him off with a smile. But it wasn’t soft. It wasn’t sweet.

It was sharp.

“Remmick doesn’t matter tonight.”

Nate stared at you, jaw clenched. He didn’t move as you stepped closer. You stopped only when you were a breath away, your hand lightly grazing the front of his shirt.

“You missed me, didn’t you?” you whispered, voice honey-slick and low. “You’ve been thinking about it. About me. About what could’ve happened if we hadn’t been caught.”

His breath hitched. “You’re not like this.”

“Not like what?” you asked, tilting your head. “Honest? Hungry?”

You leaned in closer, brushing your lips near his ear. “Desperate?”

Nate’s hands hovered in the air like he didn’t know whether to touch you or push you away. “You’re upset. You’re not thinking straight.”

You pulled back just enough to look him in the eye. “I’ve never thought clearer.”

He swallowed hard, eyes scanning your face. Your expression didn’t waver. There was nothing soft left in it.

You reached up and placed your hands gently on his chest. Your fingers moved slow, deliberate, dragging across the fabric. You could feel his heartbeat, fast and unsure.

He exhaled shakily. “Why are you here?”

Your hands stilled. Then you smiled again.

“Because you wanted me here.”

And he did. That much was obvious. But something deep in his gut started to twist. Unease. Fear. He opened his mouth to speak again, to say something, anything—

But your hands were already moving.

You leaned in, close enough for your lips to graze his jaw.

Then, just as your voice dropped to a whisper:

“I’m sorry.”

Your mouth met his neck.

And then you bit.

Blood was everywhere.

It soaked the sheets, dripped onto the hardwood, splattered across your arms, your throat, your collarbone. Nate’s body lay discarded on the floor, neck torn open, eyes still wide in shock. The warmth of him was already fading, pooling dark beneath him like ink bleeding from paper.

You stood over him, chest heaving, hands shaking—but not from regret. Not fear.

No.

From something colder. Hungrier.

The silence in the room was thick—until it wasn’t.

You didn’t hear the door open.

But suddenly, he was there.

Remmick.

He stood in the doorway like a shadow made flesh, his tall frame swallowing the moonlight, eyes locked on you—not the body, not the mess, just you.

And he looked...

Ravenous.

Not angry.

Not shocked.

Devoted.

His boots tracked slowly through the blood, staining the soles, leaving red prints behind. He stopped right in front of you, barely inches away, breathing heavy like he’d run through hell itself.

His eyes roamed over your face—bloodstained lips, crimson smeared down your chin, the violence still fresh—and for a second, it looked like he might drop to his knees.

Instead, he laughed.

A low, broken sound, hollow and ragged. His fingers twitched at his sides.

“Goddamn,” he muttered, the faintest drawl coloring the edges of his words. “You’re somethin’ else.”

You said nothing. Didn’t need to.

He stepped closer, hands grabbing your face—rough, trembling.

“You ain’t got no idea what you’ve done to me,” he breathed, forehead pressing to yours, voice cracking with raw, fevered need. “I watched you. Saw you take him apart. Lord, I ain’t never wanted anything more than I want you right now.”

Blood still dripped from your skin, slick and warm. His thumb brushed your lower lip, smearing the crimson like it was sacred.

“I thought I was losin’ my mind before,” he whispered, grip tightening, “but now? Seein’ you like this?”

He laughed again, sharp and wild.

“I’m done for. I’m gone.”

His mouth hovered near yours—not to kiss, but to breathe you in.

“You don’t even understand what you are,” he hissed. “You think this is guilt? That you’re some kinda monster?”

His eyes traced the blood on your throat like it belonged there. “This here? This is power, darlin’. This is love.”

You didn’t move.

You didn’t flinch.

Something deep inside, long buried and dark, started to believe him.

He leaned down, lips grazing your ear, voice dropping low and rough, the accent thickening like smoke curling in the dark.

“I wanna ruin you,” he said. “Wanna worship you. Watch you tear the whole damn world apart and know you’ll come home to me when you’re done.”

His fingers curled tighter under your jaw. No restraint left in his eyes.

“You don’t get it, do ya?” he whispered. “You just became mine. Again. And this time? This time I ain’t lettin’ you go.”

Your breath caught, tears burning behind your eyes. Your voice cracked, trembling as it spilled out, raw and ragged:

“Remmick... I’m sorry. So damn sorry. For everything. For breakin’ you. For runnin’... For not bein’ yours when I should’ve been.”

Your words were soaked in blood and pain, each one heavier than the last.

And the worst part?

You didn’t want him to let you go either.

Remmick’s breath hitched at your words, a flicker of something almost tender flashing through the madness in his eyes. His grip loosened just enough for you to breathe, but not enough to let you go.

“Damn right you’re sorry,” he murmured, voice thick with something fierce and possessive. “And hell, maybe that’s all I ever needed to hear.”

He pulled you closer, the heat of him burning through the blood and the cold, every inch of you drawn into the storm of him.

His breath hot on your neck, growls, “You’re mine, and I’m gonna make sure no one ever forgets it.” You know Nates corpse is lying nearby, a grim reminder of the darkness that binds you.

“You’re a fuckin’ mess, ain’t ya?” Remmick’s voice is a low drawl. He pushes you back onto the bed, the warm, sticky wetness of the crimson sheets seeping through your clothes. His body covers yours, his weight pressing you into the hard surface. The mattress groans under your combined weight, but the sounds of the bed are drowned out by your mutual ragged breaths.

His hand tear at your clothes.

You don’t resist. Your body aches with need.

He tosses the shredded remnants aside, his eyes roaming over your naked form, taking in every detail. You’re covered in blood, your skin slick and glistening, your mouth and chin stained with it. He groans, his cock hardening against your thigh.

Nate’s lifeless eyes seem to watch you, but you don’t care. This moment is yours. Yours and Remmick’s.

Remmick’s mouth claims yours in a brutal, hungry kiss. His tongue invades, claiming, possessing. You melt into him, your body molding to his, your senses drowning in his scent, his taste, his touch.

You don’t know when he’s lowered his pants, though somehow in between you could feel him, feel his length.

His hands grip your wrists, pining them above your head. Remmick’s kiss turns ruthless, his teeth scraping against your lips, drawing blood. He licks it away, gowling low in his throat. His body grinds against yours, his cock hard and insistent.

You try to move, but his grip is like a vise, unyielding and dominant. He breaks the kiss, his lips trailing down your neck, his teeth nipping at your skin.

You feel the rush of blood in your veins, the heat of your arousal, the desperate need for release.

He moves lower, his lips and tongue exploring your breasts, your stomach, his touch driving you wild with need. You arch into him, your body begging for me, your hands straining against his hold.

“You’re gonna take everything I give you,” he says, his voice rough with command, that slight drawl only making it hotter.

His mouth finds your inner thigh, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin. You shiver, your breath hitching as he bites down, hard enough to leave a mark. He soothes the sting with his tongue, his hands gripping your hips tightly, holding you in place.

His mouth moves higher, his tongue tracing the line of your pussy, his breath hot against your flesh. You moan, your hips lifting off the bed, your body begging for more. He teases you, his tongue flicking against your clit, his fingers spreading your lips wide. You can feel the anticipation building, the pressure in your core, the tightening of your muscles. He brings you to the edge, then pulls back, leaving you panting and frustrated.

“You’re mine,” he says, his voice rough with emotion.

He smiles, a slow, wicked curve of his lips, and then he’s moving, his body sliding up yours, his cock pressing against your entrance. He looks down at you, his eyes locked on yours.

You smile back, a slow, seductive curve of your lips, and he groans, his body trembling with restraint. You can see the muscles in his arms and chest straining, like he’s barely holding back.

With a single, brutal thrust, he enters you, filling you and completing you.

You moan, your head falling back, your body arching into his, your senses drowning in the pleasure of his touch. He moves slowly at first, his hips rolling, his cock sliding in and out of you, his body driving you wild with need.

The room is thick with the scent of sex and blood, the air heavy and oppressive. Remmick’s body is slightly slick with sweat, his muscles tense as he hovers over you. “Fuck,” he hisses, his voice laced with a mix of lust and suddenly with anger. He leans down, his breath hot on your ear.

“You think you can just walk away from me? Think you can take what you want and leave me hangin'?"

He thrusts hard, his hips slamming against yours, his cock driving deep into you. You gasp, your body arching off the bed, your nails digging into his back. His voice is rough, his accent dripping with sex and dominance. "You're mine, and I'm gonna remind you of that every fuckin' day."

He pulls back, his cock almost leaving you, before slamming into you again. The bed shakes, the headboard banging against the wall. You moan, the sound raw and primal, your body trembling with the force of his thrusts.

His hands grip your hips, his fingers digging into your flesh, leaving bruises. He’s relentless, his body pounding into yours, his cock hitting that sweet spot deep inside you. You can feel the pressure building, the heat in your core, the tightening of your muscles.

"You like that?” he growls, his voice a low rumble. "You like it when I fuck you hard? When I remind you who you belong to?"

He leans down, his teeth grazing your neck, his tongue licking the sweat from your skin. You shiver, your body arching into his touch, your breath coming in short, sharp gasps.

"You know I do," you whisper, your voice hoarse with desire. "You know I crave it."

He groans, his body trembling with restraint. "That's right, you do. And I'm gonna give it to you. Every fuckin' day. Every fuckin' night."

He sits up, his hands gripping your thighs, spreading you wide. He looks down at you, his eyes roaming over your body, taking in every detail. You’re covered in blood and sweat, your skin glistening. He groans, his cock hardening even more, if that's possible. "Look at you," he murmurs, his voice filled with awe and hunger. "So fuckin' beautiful. So fuckin' mine."

He leans down, his lips capturing yours in a brutal, hungry kiss. His mouth trails down your neck, his teeth nipping at the skin, leaving love bites that will most definitely bloom into bruises. You can feel the rush of blood in your veins, the height of your arousal.

He moves lower, his lips and tongue exploring your breasts, stomach, your hips, his touch driving you wild with need. You wanted more.

His fingers trailed low, his thumb circling your clit, his touch light and teasing. He wants you with need. You moan, your hips lifting off the bed, your body begging for more. He chuckles, a low, dark sound. It was too much for you all of a sudden.

You try sitting up, to ease the intensity, but he pushes you down, his hand pressing against your chest. “Nah sweetgirl, your gonna take me.” He moves his thumb away from your clit, his relentless thrusts increasing.

“You wanna come, don’t you?” he whispers, his voice a low growl. “You wanna come all over my cock. You wanna milk me dry, don't you?” You nod, your body trembling, you could barely make a word out.

He pulls your legs up slightly, his cock hitting depper if that was even possible. You moan, your voice echoing in the room, your body shuddering with the intensity of your release.

He follows soon after, his body tensing, his cock pulsing inside you as he spills his seed, his groan of pleasure a symphony to your ears.

“I love the way you sound,” he says, his body collapsing on top of you. “I fucking love the way you feel. All tight and wet. All for me.”

He cups your jaw, his thumb brushing away Nate's dried blood. “You’re mine,” he states darkly. “And I ain’t ever lettin’ you go. You hear me? Never.”

And you don’t answer—not with words. Your breath shudders against his, your eyes heavy-lidded and glassy, like you’re drowning in him.

He leans in, his lips ghosting over your cheek, your temple, not kissing—claiming. His voice is low, hoarse from want and something deeper.

"You remember that," he whispers, breath hot against your ear. "Every time I touch you tonight… every sound I pull from your throat… every time I make you come apart beneath me—remember."

His hand slides down, leaving a trail of blood and heat in its wake.

"You said sorry," he murmurs, like it’s a vow now. "But you don’t gotta be sorry, darlin’. Not for who you are. Not for what you did."

And he reminds you of that, over and over, well into the night—until the walls know his promises by heart and your body forgets it ever belonged to anyone else.

[oneandonlycringe]

cw piss; explicit sexual content MDNI

oliver quick who wakes up in the middle of the night with a sudden urge to empty his bladder. he wanders into the bathroom, rubbing at his eyes and trying to clear his sight, but he can clearly hear someone else pissing.

he wonders if it’s felix, and excitement floods his senses. it wakes him up.

he reaches the bathroom, gets to the toilet, and peers through the open door to find you there, half asleep and sitting atop the seat with your arms loosely dangling between your legs. there aren’t any panties pooled around your ankles, and you wear nothing but a tiny nightgown that’s bunched around your waist.

you hear him approaching and your eyes lift to stare at him, a little lazy and unfocused.

“‘m almost done,” you tell him, voice a hoarse whisper. you yawn, stretch your arms above your head, and oliver catches sight of your abdomen.

“can’t wait,” he reasons, approaching you and freeing his cock enough to piss.

“i’m fuckin almost done, ollie. jus’ gimme a second.”

there’s a bite to your tone but oliver quickly shuts that down when he kicks your knees apart and aims between your legs. it only takes a second before he’s pissing between them, the warm stream knocking against your cunt on the way to the bowl, where both of your fluids combine.

you don’t protest. you don’t stop him. you don’t say anything at all, actually. instead, you stare down at the stream, even spreading your legs a little bit more to accommodate.

oliver takes a closer step, you push your hips forward a little more, and you don’t have to be told to use one hand to peel your lips apart.

his stream is strong enough to nudge against your clit, and like a filthy slut, you fucking moan. your eyes fall shut, your head lulls back, and your jaw drops as you continue to let oliver quick pleasure you by pissing on your clit.

[oneandonlycringe]

LOVING EVERYTHING ABOUT THIS. GIMME MORE! 😍

[oneandonlycringe]

you keep dancing with the devil, one day he’s gonna follow you home