sapphiressmoke - Tumblr blog

sapphiressmoke · 17 days ago

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my heart 😭

𝕱𝖆𝖒𝖎𝖑𝖞

ᴘᴀɪʀɪɴɢ: ᴏʙꜱᴇꜱꜱɪᴠᴇ!ᴅᴏᴍᴇꜱᴛɪᴄ!ʀᴇᴍᴍɪᴄᴋ x ꜰ!ᴍᴏᴅᴇʀɴ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: ᴘᴏʀɴ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴀʟᴍᴏꜱᴛ ɴᴏ ᴘʟᴏᴛ, ᴀɴɢꜱᴛ, ꜱᴍᴜᴛ, ꜰʟᴜꜰꜰ, ᴏʙꜱᴇꜱꜱɪᴠᴇ-ɴᴇᴇᴅʏ-ᴘᴀᴛʜᴇᴛɪᴄ!ʀᴇᴍᴍɪᴄᴋ, ᴘᴏᴡᴇʀ ʙᴏᴛᴛᴏᴍ/ᴛᴏᴘ(ɪꜱʜ?) ʀᴇᴍᴍɪᴄᴋ, ꜰ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ, ᴍᴏᴅᴇʀɴ ᴇʀᴀ, ᴄᴜɴɴɪʟɪɴɢᴜꜱ, ꜰɪɴɢᴇʀ ꜰᴜᴄᴋɪɴɢ, ɢᴜɪᴅᴇᴅ ᴄᴏᴡɢɪʀʟ, ʜᴜɢᴇ ʙʀᴇᴇᴅɪɴɢ ᴋɪɴᴋ, ᴇᴍᴏᴛɪᴏɴᴀʟ ᴅᴇꜱɪʀᴇ, ᴏᴠᴇʀꜱᴛɪᴍᴜʟᴀᴛɪᴏɴ, ᴍᴜʟᴛɪᴘʟᴇ ᴄʀᴇᴀᴍᴘɪᴇ, ᴍᴏᴀɴɪɴɢ, ᴡʜɪɴɪɴɢ, ᴍᴇɴ ᴡʜᴏ ᴄʀʏ, ʀᴇᴍᴍɪᴄᴋ ᴛᴏʀᴇᴛᴛᴏ ᴡᴀɴᴛꜱ ᴀ ꜰᴀᴍɪʟʏ, ꜱᴡᴇᴀʀɪɴɢ, ᴇxᴘʟɪᴄɪᴛ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇɴᴛ, ᴅɪʀᴛʏ ᴛᴀʟᴋ, ᴇxᴄᴇꜱꜱɪᴠᴇ ᴜꜱᴇ ᴏꜰ ᴘᴇᴛ ɴᴀᴍᴇꜱ.

𝘼/𝙣: 𝘓𝘢𝘥𝘴, 𝘢𝘭𝘸𝘢𝘺𝘴 𝘵𝘢𝘭𝘬 𝘵𝘰 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘵𝘯𝘦𝘳𝘴 𝘢𝘣𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘯𝘦𝘦𝘥𝘴 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘥𝘦𝘴𝘪𝘳𝘦𝘴 𝘧𝘪𝘳𝘴𝘵; 𝘯𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘺𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘨𝘳𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘥. 𝘈𝘭𝘴𝘰, 𝘶𝘴𝘦 𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘵𝘦𝘤𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘴, 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘎𝘰𝘥'𝘴 𝘴𝘢𝘬𝘦!

𝘗𝘴: 𝘠𝘦𝘴, 𝘪𝘵’𝘴 𝘑𝘢𝘤𝘬 𝘖’𝘊𝘰𝘯𝘯𝘦𝘭𝘭 𝘧𝘶𝘤𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘨𝘪𝘧🫠

𝔹𝕒𝕤𝕖𝕕 𝕠𝕟 𝕥𝕙𝕚𝕤 𝕄𝕒𝕚𝕟 𝕊𝕥𝕠𝕣𝕪

ᴡᴏʀᴅꜱ: 4ᴋ

It’s been a couple of days since the baby shower.

A sweet afternoon. Streamers and soft music. Polaroids on string. Bowls of sugared almonds in pastel pink and blue. The kind of event that hums with gentle domesticity — safety, joy, quiet dreams about a new life on the way.

And for the most part, it was exactly that.

You hadn’t seen your friend in months, and she looked radiant. Glowing in a way that went beyond pregnancy, beyond the usual compliments.

There was something otherworldly about her — not in her features, not in the way she moved, but in the stillness around her. Her smile… there was something unreadable behind it, as if she carried a secret deeper than the child inside her.

You didn’t question it.

You were just happy for her.

You had smiled when you saw Remmick arrive, finally free to join the party now that the sun had dipped below the horizon — and after finally deciding to wear something less 1930s.

You had pulled him through the crowd by the hand, introducing him to the others with that effortless charm of yours. But something in him — subtle, almost imperceptible at first — had changed.

He’d looked in a specific direction, just over your shoulder, with an almost vacant expression. Like something had caught in his throat. When you turned to follow his gaze, you saw only your friend’s husband. Tall, calm, quiet. Kind to everyone. An ordinary man.

But Remmick seemed to keep his distance.

He didn’t say anything at first. He passed the evening in peace — but rigidly. Too rigidly. Every answer measured. Every word filtered.

He never lost control. But you noticed the way his jaw clenched just a little too often, or how his fingers tightened around his glass as if he might shatter it.

Only later — much later — while you were driving home in the quiet dark of the car, he finally spoke.

“She’s not with a human.”

You paused. “What?”

“She’s carryin' somethin' strange, y'know. Didn’t come from any human, that's for sure.” His voice was quiet, but not unsure. Not even remotely.

Your brow furrowed. “She didn’t say anything—”

“Why would she, now?” he cut in, eyes locked on yours. “I can feel it in me bones. Not vampire — somethin' else entirely. But human? No chance.”

You stared at him. Not in fear. Not even disbelief.

Just silence.

Because you know what he is. What he’s capable of sensing.

But even then, even with that revelation hanging between you, you found yourself smiling.

“She looked happy,” you said simply, curling your fingers around his. “That’s all that matters to me.”

Remmick didn’t argue.

But later that night — when the lights were off and you thought he was asleep — you felt the way he pressed closer to you. The way his hand moved down to your stomach, spreading across it with slow, deliberate pressure.

Like he was checking. Like he was counting time.

The movie flickers quietly across the TV screen, painting soft lights across the dim living room. You’re half-sprawled out the couch, one leg tucked under you, the other stretched out — and it’s under that leg that Remmick rests, head nestled against your thigh like it’s the only pillow he’ll ever want. His arm is draped lazily over your knee, fingers absently tracing slow, warm patterns against your skin. A blanket’s tossed somewhere nearby, but you don’t need it — the heat of his body, and the cozy hush of evening, are more than enough.

Your cat is curled up behind you, nestled into the small ledge of space between your head and the back cushion of the sofa. Occasionally, it flicks its tail against your hair in quiet judgment — clearly unimpressed with the movie or the company, but tolerant of both.

Your body hums in a slow, satisfied way — not exactly tired, not quite alert. The kind of stillness that only comes after a long day and a long, long shower with Remmick, where he’d had you pressed to the tile, whispering filth and adoration into your skin while the water did nothing to cool him down.

You’d expected him to be sated.

He’d even looked it, once you’d finally gotten back to the couch — hair wet, eyes soft with post-orgasm warmth. You’d thrown on a long T-shirt and dropped beside him, both of you content for a rare moment of peace. And for a little while, it had been just that: peace.

But now, that same hand tracing lazy circles on your leg has begun to drift. Not urgently. Not obviously. Just a little… lower. A little more deliberate. His fingertips start to wander the hem of your shirt — never quite slipping beneath, but close enough that your skin prickles in anticipation.

You glance down at him. His eyes are still on the TV. Pretending.

But the corner of his mouth is twitching.

“You’re doing that on purpose,” you murmur.

“I’m not doin' anythin'.” His voice sounds like false innocence.

His hand creeps higher, dragging across the soft flesh of your inner thigh. Slower now. Less tracing, more claiming.

You shift a little. Adjusting to get away from him — just a little bit. He notices so he turns his head, rests the side of his face directly over your skin and inhales — long and deep.

“Rem,” you sigh. “I’m watching the movie…”

“I know.” His lips graze the top of your thigh, his short bear tickling you. “So am I.”

But he’s not. Not really.

His hand is bolder now. Slipping under your shirt, dragging along your hips, finding that soft dip of skin just below your belly. His touch is slow, reverent — but present. Not teasing anymore. It’s filled with a gentle kind of insistence. A promise he’s building with each stroke of his palm.

And then — with a sigh too innocent to be anything but sinful — he shifts.

He sits up slowly, like a cat stretching after a nap, rising from your lap until he’s kneeling beside you on the couch, his eyes now fully focused on you.

You try to ignore it, keeping your eyes on the screen, but your heartbeat betrays you — and he knows it. He always knows it.

He leans down, kisses the curve of your neck. Light at first. Barely there.

Then again, just beneath your ear.

Again, slower, lingering.

You swallow. “Rem…”

You try to turn your head away — needing to regain control — but he follows, his hand coming up to cradle your cheek, keeping your face gently caged. Not forceful. Just enough to guide.

Then, wordlessly, he presses his lips to your neck again with a quiet, low growl, burying his mouth into the skin like he needs to drink you from the source.

You try to squirm away again, but this time his arms shift, moving you.

He lifts your legs with one hand, adjusts your hips with the other, guiding your back gently against the arm of the couch. You gasp as the soft cushions meet your shoulders, and then — he’s over you.

Not heavy, not aggressive — but surrounding.

His body fits between your thighs like he’s lived there, like this is where he was always meant to be. You’re still just wearing that long shirt, and it’s ridden up dangerously now, barely covering you.

“Remmick—” you start again, already breathless. “We already had sex in the shower like thirty minutes ago…” you sigh, turning your head to look at the screen, as if the movie might rescue you from the heat crawling through your limbs.

“Sure,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your shoulder. Then another, higher. “I remember. I remember how ye sounded.”

His lips trail up your neck again, soft and wet, voice getting lower, needier.

“Ye were so warm inside, love. Ye still are. I can smell meself on ya.”

You groan softly, dragging a hand through his damp hair.

“I’m tired,” you protest weakly. “It was a busy day at work…”

That’s when he really melts.

His voice is almost a whine when he replies. Desperate. Soft. Pathetic.

“Ya don’t have to do a thing…” he breathes, kissing your collarbone. “I’ll take care o' ya. I promise. Just let me touch ya. Let me help ya relax.”

His hips grind down, just once — gently — letting you feel the hardness pressed between your thighs, hot and growing harder by the second.

“Ya know I can make it better,” he murmurs into your skin. “Better than anythin'. Better than sleep. Better than this bleedin' film ye’ve seen a hundred times.”

You don’t even answer him with words.

You just let your body soften beneath him, let your eyes flutter shut, let your fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt. He feels it — the shift in you. And his breath catches like you just handed him something sacred.

His hands move slowly at first, dragging the hem of your shirt higher, exposing your thighs, your hips, the curve of your belly. His eyes flicker — dark and glassy with hunger — but he doesn’t pounce. He kisses his way down.

Your cat shifts behind your head, tail flicking near your face once in vague disapproval.

Remmick lowers himself onto his stomach, settling between your legs like it’s the only place he ever intends to be again. One large hand rests across your belly, keeping you grounded, the other gently easing your thighs open wider.

“Just stay right there…” he murmurs. “Don’t be movin'. Let me do everythin', me dear.”

You can barely breathe as he kisses the inside of your thigh, then the other, his stubble scraping the delicate skin as he works his way in.

Then finally, finally, his mouth finds you.

He doesn’t rush. He starts with long, slow licks — lazy and deliberate — like he’s savoring you, tasting every part of what he already owns. The flat of his tongue presses through your folds, hot and slick, and you feel your hips twitch, instinctive and immediate.

You’re already starting to melt into the couch, limbs loose, thoughts blurred from the rhythm of Remmick’s mouth working you close and you swear you can feel him smiling every time you gasp.

Then suddenly—he pauses.

You feel it before you hear it. His breath stills. His tongue withdraws.

And then he growls.

Not loud — but deep. Low in his chest. A vibrating, frustrated sound that sets off something instinctive in your core. You tense, your hand twitching in his hair.

“…Rem?”

He doesn’t answer right away. He presses a kiss just above your clit, and then inhales, slow and deliberate. Searching. Testing.

And when he exhales, the sound that escapes him is darker. Almost wounded.

He pulls back from between your legs just far enough to stare, his breath hot against your inner thigh, his eyes searching. Desperate.

“Where is it…” he whispers, almost like he’s talking to himself. His brows furrow, lips parting in disbelief. He leans in again, mouth dragging through your folds, slower this time — tasting, checking — and then again, rougher, more frantic.

And when he doesn’t find what he’s looking for…

He whines.

“No,” he murmurs. “No, no—darlin'…”

You blink, flushed and confused, chest rising and falling.You are not understanding.

“Ya scrubbed it clean.” His voice is barely more than a broken breath, trembling with devastation. “Washed me right off o' ya.”

He kisses your entrance, tongue flicking gently, like he’s begging forgiveness with every motion. He sucks your clit, hard, and you writhe beneath him, moaning his name like a warning and a surrender.

“Ah, but don’t be worrin', love” he growls, licking up your slick with renewed hunger. “I’ll fix it.”

He pushes two fingers inside you — not harsh, but firm crooking them just right, and your legs twitch around his shoulders. By now he knew the right points without even making a serious commitment.

His fingers slide in and out of you for a few more moments, wet and trembling, his mouth still pressed reverently against the inside of your thigh like he’s whispering a prayer you can’t hear.

When he finally looks up, his eyes are wild.

You barely have time to ask him anything before he’s shifting, scooping you up into his lap in one swift, desperate movement. You gasp, hands grabbing at his shoulders instinctively as he sits back into the couch, pulling you with him, positioning you so your knees straddle his hips and your body rests fully against his chest.

Your cat immediately huffs, jumps off the back of the couch with a dramatic flick of its tail, and disappears into the hallway — likely muttering curses in feline under its breath.

But Remmick doesn’t notice. Doesn’t care.

He’s already moving your panties to the side, the other one large hand sliding up your butt to keep you suspended.

“Just let me…” he pants, the head of his cock pressing against your entrance, not pushing yet — just feeling. Just existing there, trembling with the weight of what he wants.

“Swear, I’ll be gentle,” he breathes, lips brushing your cheek, your jaw. “I’ll be so good. Good as gold for ya…”

You whisper his name — not a protest, not encouragement. Just his name.

And that’s all it takes.

He grips your hips with shaking hands, slowly guiding you down onto him.

You both gasp — you from the overwhelming stretch, the still-sensitive ache of overstimulation, and him from sheer, unrelenting relief.

“Oh—fuck, yes…” he moans, his head falling forward against your shoulder, voice trembling as you sink fully onto him. “There ye are. There ye are.”

He doesn’t move right away. He just holds you there, buried to the hilt, arms wrapped around your waist like he’s afraid you’ll go away if he doesn’t hold on tight enough.

You can feel his cock twitch inside you — thick and hard and throbbing. You can feel the shake in his legs, the unspoken need in his every breath.

“Goin' slow,” he murmurs, half to you, half to himself. “I have to go slow.”

And he does — but it’s the kind of slow that’s full of tension, like he’s pulling every thread of restraint until it’s one second from snapping. He lifts your hips barely an inch, then presses you back down again with a shuddering groan, his lips catching against your neck.

“Ye’re still so tight,” he whispers. “Still so warm… like yer body wants to keep me now.”

You don’t answer — can’t — too overwhelmed by the way he moves, the way he’s not thrusting so much as rocking you back and forth, his hands gentle but gripping, grounding you to him.

“I’m gonna leave it in this time, so I am,” he breathes, mouth brushing against your ear. “Not lettin' ya wash me away again. I’ll keep fillin' ya, love— till yer body can’t forget. Till I’m still spillin' outta ya in the mornin'…”

His voice wavers. Cracks.

“Need it to stick,” he whines. “Need ya to hold me.”

He keeps rocking into you, deeper with every pass, your foreheads pressed together now, your breaths mingling. You feel every inch of him — the depth, the thickness, the weight of his want.

And beneath it all, that vulnerability: not lust, not dominance.

Just a man breaking a little more each time he feels you clench around him and knowing that he can never get close enough.

When you finally start to shake around him again, your nails dragging into his shoulders, he groans — desperate and ragged, his thrusts faltering as you flutter around him.

“Gonna come, baby,” he gasps. “Gonna fill ya again. Gonna give it all back.”

You whisper his name — broken, pleading — and he falls apart.

He buries himself deep, jerking his hips once, twice, then holds you there, pressed flush against him as he comes with a low, pathetic cry, spilling inside you in thick, pulsing waves.

His forehead is pressed against your shoulder, damp with sweat, his breathing shallow and content.

But he doesn’t soften.

You shift slightly, trying to get more comfortable, and that’s when you notice it: the pressure. He’s still hard.

You run your fingers through his hair, slow and soothing, meaning to help him relax—ground him, maybe. And he purrs.

A low, almost embarrassed sound vibrates from his chest, like something primal he didn’t mean to release. His arms tighten around you, his hips twitch just once—reflexive, almost apologetic.

You smile. “Rem… seriously?”

“Can’t help meself,” he mumbles, voice muffled against your neck.

You give a shocked laugh, barely recovered. “That wasn’t an invitation.”

But he moves again—intentionally this time. A slow, deep roll of his hips that makes you gasp and grip hard his shoulders.

“Remmick,” you breathe. “We just—”

“I know,” he says, lips brushing your throat. “But it's not enough, it's just not enough, love…”

He pulls back just far enough to kiss you, deep and slow and needy. Your fingers curl in his hair, tugging—trying to make him stop. But he moans into your mouth and presses deeper, harder. His fangs scratching your lips as a warning.

You try again, breaking the kiss. “Stop—seriously, I’m—”

He doesn’t let you finish. With a growl, he wraps his arms beneath your thighs, lifting you effortlessly, cock still inside, and carries you toward the bedroom.

“Remmick—!”

“Please, darlin’,” he mutters, pressing kisses along your jaw, barely holding back his panting. “Please, lemme give it to ya… let me give ya everythin'.”

You claw at his back in protest—halfhearted, overwhelmed—and he whines, hips jerking with each drag of your nails.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart” he pants, nuzzling into your neck. “I know yer tired… I do. I just— I need to, I have to—”

He stumbles into the bedroom, pushes the door open with his foot, and sets you down on the mattress—not gently, but not roughly either. Just… desperate. Urgent.

You try to crawl away, breathlessly, but he’s already on you, pinning you down with his weight, his cock still hard and so ready as it slides back into place like he never left.

He groans at the feeling—like he’s home again.

“Ye’re squeezin' me so tight,” he growls into your neck. “Yer body wants it. It needs me. I know how much it needs me…”

You cry out as he starts moving—no teasing, no slow build. Just deep, messy thrusts, his need spilling out of you with every roll of his hips.

Every wet smack of his hips against yours and the obscene sounds of your arousal mixed together only drive him wilder. All you can do is reach his back, your nails dragging down leaving scratched, walls fluttering around his aching length, and moan your breathless yeses into his ear.

You feel the blood and skin getting under your nails and he gasps.

“Do that again,” he begs. “My sweet girl, my sweet mama.”

You pull at his hair, with the intention of hurting him but he retreated, pushing himself against your lips for a kiss, and it’s too much. He groans into your mouth, sloppy and broken, his hips stuttering.

Your cunt clenches around him on instinct, and he loses it.

He drives in deep, burying himself to the hilt, and comes—loud and raw, his body shuddering as you scratch at his back again, as if the pain grounds him deeper into the pleasure.

Hot, pulsing ropes of cum fill you once again, and he moans your name like a prayer, like a plea, like he’s giving you everything that’s left in him.

He collapses over you, shaking, panting, his cock twitching inside you with aftershocks, finally starting to soften. His arms are around you, his face pressed into your neck like he’s afraid of being seen.

And for a moment, all you can hear is the sound of both your breathing.

But then something begins to rise in you — not pain, not anger… just something unsettled.

“Remmick,” you whisper, throat dry.

He doesn’t answer.

You shift slightly beneath him. Not to push him away, not even to leave — just move. Reclaim a sliver of yourself.

“Rem,” you repeat, a little louder and colder now. “I need you to get off me. Please.”

He freezes. Completely.

You feel his breath catch, then stutter. And then his whole body shakes.

“I’m so sorry—”

His voice is small. Broken.

“I’m sorry,” he chokes out again, voice hoarse. He lifts his head, and when you see his face, your heart clenches.

His cheeks are wet.

His eyes, completely red and glossy, desperate.

“Did I…did I hurt ya?”

He tries to sit back, tries to pull out, but his hands won’t stop shaking. He looks wrecked, ashamed, lost.

You sit up slowly, reaching for the blanket, covering yourself instinctively as he backs away onto his knees, still trembling, his breathing turning ragged.

He presses his palms into his eyes, trying to wipe away the tears, but they just keep coming.

“I’m sorry,” he chokes out again, voice hoarse. “I didn’t mean to. Got selfish. I’m so sorry, love.”

You reach out, lay a hand gently on his arm.

“Remmick,” you whisper. “You didn’t hurt me.”

He looks at you like he doesn’t believe it.

You pause.

“But you didn’t listen until now. That’s what scared me.”

He drops his head, shoulders curling inward, like your words are physically hitting him.

You speak again, softer now.

“What’s happened to you these days?” you ask, voice almost breaking. “You’re so… clingy. Obsessed. You’ve always been intense, but this? It’s not you.”

He doesn’t speak for a long moment.

And then, barely audible—

“I saw how ye looked at 'em.”

You blink. “Who?”

“At yer friend. At her belly.” His voice is strained, lips trembling. “I saw the way yer hand lingered a bit too long when she talked about kickin'. Heard yer heart flutter when I told ye her husband wasn’t human. Ye didn’t say a word, but I felt it all the same.”

You freeze.

He swallows hard, like the confession is strangling him.

“Ye want it,” he says, finally meeting your eyes. “Ye want what she has.” Tears well up again. “And I want to give it to ye.”

The room stills.

“I want to build somethin' with ye,” he says, voice cracking. “A…a family…”

He shifts closer, hesitantly, hands gentle as they reach for yours.

You stare at him, lips parted, breath caught in your chest.

You reach up slowly, brushing his cheek with your thumb. He leans into it instantly, like a starving man offered warmth and closed his eyes.

You swallow hard.

“Rem…” you begin, hesitating. “We’ve… we’ve had it thousands of times before. You and me. This. All of it.”

He doesn’t speak, but his jaw tenses slightly.

You keep going, softly.

“But nothing’s ever happened. Not even once.”

You feel his breath hitch.

You almost stop — but you don’t. He needs to hear it.

“Maybe…” Your voice falters. “Maybe he’s something different, even for reproduction. You said it yourself — he’s not a vampire like you. And you…”

You feel his body go still.

“You died, Remmick,” you whisper. “Before you became what you are. Maybe that’s what it is. Maybe you just… can’t.”

For a moment, he doesn’t move at all. Then he pulls slightly away, just enough to look up at you — and the look in his eyes breaks you.

There’s no anger there. No blame.

Just quiet devastation.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, voice raw. “I’m sorry I can’t give ya what ye want.”

The words land like a stone in the center of your chest.

Before you can even process them, he drops his head to your shoulder, wrapping both arms around your waist and holding you tight — tighter than usual. Not desperate. Not possessive.

Just… broken.

Your arms wrap around him instantly, protectively. You hold back your tears, feeling just how deeply you hurt for him. It was so clear how much he longed for a family. You’d never spoken about it, but you understood why. It was destroying him.

“Remmick, it doesn’t matter if nothing ever comes from this. You are my family. I have everything I want in my arms right now.”

And you truly had everything in your arms.

#remmick smut #remmick x reader #remmick sinners

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sapphiressmoke · 21 days ago

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i have sooo many unhinged things to say about the intro

not my edit !!

credits to halbrnds on tiktok

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sapphiressmoke · 22 days ago

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show me your teeth ; Remmick x reader

summary: maybe you've heard the tales. maybe you don't care. maybe you hear him every night, rustling around outside. maybe, just maybe, you decide to lure him out from wherever it is he's hiding.

word count & w a r n i n g s: 1.9K | SMUT, female reader, unprotected sex, monster fucking, vampires, vampire sex, monster sex, outdoor sex, threat of getting caught, semi-public sex, spit/salivia mention, spit kink, scent kink, blood drinking, blood loss, hinting that reader gets bitten at the end of this.

a/n: requested by @zombifiedx! thank you for being so patient, I'm sorry this took me so looooong!!! and thank you to my lovely lovely beta reader @genevievedarcygranger - appreciate you immensely baby! banners by @/adornedwithlight, @/saradika-graphics, and @/arminsumi!!

↓ fic under cut! ↓ / ao3 link here! / I don’t have a taglist anymore, but please turn on post notifications if you’d like to be notified of future fics!

You knew they were out there.

You knew it every night.

After everyone had fallen asleep, you'd go downstairs, unlock the front door and stand at the threshold. You'd see their glowing eyes in the night, in the distance. Never close enough to see them, though. Just their eyes. You'd have thought they were animals, like coyotes or something, had you not heard the stories.

Oh, you'd heard the stories. And they should've frightened you.

Operative word; should've.

But didn't.

You wanted to find out.

You open the screen door carefully, holding it tightly as you guide it back into place. You'll be damned if a creak ruined your fun.

You'd learned to play the violin at a young age. It had been a fun little talent, used for get together but now, as you bring the bow to the strings, it's being used for a far more sinister purpose. A low resonant sound drifts through the air. You aren't playing anything in particular, but hope it's seductive enough to bring him forward.

At first, there's darkness, as there always is. It looms in front of your house like a storm cloud and the overwhelming feeling is somehow inviting and ominous at the same time. The darkness encroaches. Like it's sentient and has two big arms that want to swallow you whole. You don't dare step off the front porch, though. Not yet.

You continue dragging the bow, fingering out a low, almost mournful tune. You close your eyes, feeling the melody as it resonates through your hand and up your arm. You're lost for a second, just feeling the music, but quickly regain awareness, opening your eyes. You blink and swallow, focusing on the melody that drifts out into the forest ahead.

And after a few minutes… one pair of reflective eyes blinks back in the distance. Once, twice. They bounce as he walks closer. You hear the crunch of the dirt underneath his shoes as he approaches, comes into the bright spot that your porch light emits.

You bring the violin away from your shoulder, lowering it down to your side. "I'm almost surprised you came."

"That was some mighty fine playin' there, darlin'."

"It worked well enough, I suppose."

"What — you lure me here to string me up or somethin'?"

You shake your head at him, and say: "I wanted to see ya'… I know you've been lurkin' outside my house for weeks. I hear you."

He smiles, like a man caught — but a man who isn't ashamed of being caught.

"Well, I hear you."

You shift your weight, and take a step away from the door. "Why you always out here? You ain't never come to the door, though."

He takes a step. "Your violin there ain't the only thing singin'. Damn near drove me insane how strong I could smell ya'. Just like I can now, sweet girl."

That sends a jolt of arousal directly to your core. You hum and lean back against your doorframe. Remmick takes another step forward. You're bold, standing outside like this for him to approach. So far from safe, you can't even remember the feeling.

"I know what you are."

He grins; it's a mouthful of teeth that catches you off guard. When he speaks, it sounds full, like he's fighting around the teeth. His eyes flash red, and his tongue runs along the jagged line of his fangs. "Do ya' now? Saves me some trouble, then."

Something clenches in your gut. It's hot and wet like anticipation, but clings to your insides like fear. If you're afraid, it's trumped by your unbridled, burning curiosity to taste the forbidden. You set the violin on the rocking chair on your porch. It wobbles slightly, the wood creaking underneath, and you reach out to steady it with your hand.

You stare at him.

He stares at you.

He takes another step forward, his hands in his pockets. Casual. Disarming. He's got one foot up on the porch and you know there's no turning back now. You wouldn't make it inside.

"I want to know," you murmur. Brave. Curious.

Remmick chuckles at that, looking down to the floor before his reflective eyes flit back up to you. "What, my name? It's Remmick."

You smile crookedly. "I meant… something else."

To punctuate your sentence, you run your hand down the length of your body, over your breasts, down the curve of your stomach, stopping just before you reach your cunt. Remmick's eyes follow your hand as it trails down your body, his own hunger tripling. When you stop, his gaze doesn't drift from the spot between your legs.

"I'm curious what it feels like," you say.

His jaw juts out to the side, almost cockily. He looks like he's tasting your words, and they amuse him. "Careful, now… when I come on, I come on like a fever."

"Countin' on it. C'mere," you say, taking a step and reaching your arm forward. Your fingers take a hungry fistful of his shirt, pulling him fully up onto the porch. Your chests are flush now, your breasts pushing against the hard planes of his pale body. Neither of you waste any time; you're both starved, it seems. He smears his face along yours, his breath hot and heavy over your open mouth. It's desperate and animalistic, like a hungry beast that hasn't eaten for days. He's inhaling you in lungfuls, and you can't help but moan low.

Your hand snaps to his face abruptly, your thumb pushing up into his top lip, exposing the needle-sharp fangs. A line of saliva stretches from his tongue, and Remmick relents, opening his mouth wider to let you explore his mouth with your fingers. You run your thumb along one of the points, not enough to puncture, but enough to sate your curiosity. When he finally kisses you, it isn't sweet or gentle. It's sharp and heady and leaves your knees feeling rubbery.

Something creaks in the house behind you — you don't hear it, but he does. He cranes his neck, moving his head away from yours briefly. He gazes at the house behind him with a disappointed glimmer in his eyes. You drape your arms around his neck, pulling his attention back to you. You're just as needy as he is.

"Ahhh," he breathes into your mouth. "You ain't alone."

"Aw, don't you worry 'bout that. They won't hear nothin'."

They were all asleep, and they'd stay that way, despite what you wanted to do. You knew when to keep your voice down. Keeping your arms wrapped around his neck, you walk him back towards the corner of the porch, pressing your back against the wood. Remmick reaches around his neck, grabbing one of your hands sharply. Those clawed fingers wrap around your wrist with ease as he brings it to his mouth, exhaling against the soft skin. Your blood runs just beneath the surface, and it's singing a symphony to him.

Without warning, the sharp point of his thumb nail slices just below your palm. You hiss through your teeth. There's a hot sting as the nail lacerates, then a runnel of bright, red blood hurriedly snakes down your inner arm. Remmick is quick to catch it though, laving his cool, wet tongue all over the skin. As he hungrily laps, you lean your head back against the wood, a sense of euphoria settling over you. It's not from blood loss, but an indescribable feeling of being consumed by something other than a man.

"Remmick," you whisper, reaching down to hoist your cotton nightgown up your soft thighs. You're already wet with want, you can feel it.

At first, he doesn't react, too busy squeezing your wrist and urging more blood from the wound. When you press your bare cunt against him, smearing your wetness against his slacks — the intoxicating scent of arousal hits him. He looks down between your bodies. Sees you grinding your hips against his. Something glimmers in his red eyes, something hungry.

"Whoooo," he says. It should be hollered, but instead, it's whispered. "You just waitin' to be grabbed, ain't ya'?"

His hand leaves your wrist, sliding down your body, nails first. He palms your cunt, just feeling the damp heat that radiates off of her. With a low hum, he moves over your folds, slick and warm, and spreads her open with the pads of his fingers. A thick ribbon of drool dribbles from the corner of his mouth, and you lean forward, flicking your tongue along it. Warmth erupts in your core, somehow more fiery than before. Something settles over you. Heat. Hunger. Willingness. As if you weren't before? Nonsense. You asked for this.

"Go on an' tell me you want this," he drawls. With his other hand, he frees himself, pulling his rigid cock from the confines of his trousers. You feel it bump against your stomach, which clenches in response.

"Show me," you start, walking your legs out slightly. Keeping your eyes on him, you angle your hips to give him easier access. "Show me what it feels like. I wanna' know."

He pushes himself down with one hand, lining it up. The leaking tip of his cock prods your slit a few times, pushing in gently before he pops the head in all the way, and you arch your back against the wood.

You're soaked, and already tightening around him, trying to pull him in further.

"Fuck," he says. "This here is what bein' curious will get ya', lass."

His hips buck hard once, sheathing himself inside you. You don't protest, despite the way he splits you open. His hips find an impatient, hurried rhythm of fucking up into you and your jaw drops in a silent scream, your eyes lifting to the overhang of the porch.

Remmick sates himself in you, like you exist for his pleasure and his pleasure alone. The frenzied thrusts have your breasts bouncing against your chest, and one of his hands come up to grab one, his thumb flicking over the nipple. You tangle your fingers in the hair on the back of his head, pulling hard. He snarls close to your face, and an intoxicating blend of fear and arousal shudders down your spine. This was what you wanted, after all. You silence his snarl with a brave kiss, running your tongue along his bottom lip. He reciprocates, letting his own wet muscle tangle with yours, taste every inch of your open, pleading mouth.

Your release gallops toward you, too quickly. Remmick notices this. Or maybe he can smell it in the air, feel it in the way your cunt squeezes him with every thrust, taste it in the way your short, little panting breaths come. His hand clamps down over your lips, hard, mean — like he can hear the scream inside your throat. Your eyes roll back, lids fluttering helplessly as you come, clenching around his dick in a spasming grip.

It doesn't take long for Remmick to follow you, not with the way he's thrusting into you. Seconds later, he's filling you until he leaks out the sides. He doesn't pull out, keeping himself stuffed inside you.

"You'll make a mighty fine addition, darlin'. A mighty fine addition."

Your fists ball at your sides, the first whispers of fear clouding your mind, darkening it around the edges like a vignette. You're afraid now. Afraid of the pain, of the way it'll hurt, of what you'll leave behind. You swallow hard, reminding yourself that you wanted to know, you wanted to find out, and you lured him from his hiding spot in the woods. His hold tightens on your jaw as he yanks your head to the side, exposing the sweaty column of your neck to him. He kisses the skin. Once. Twice. And then you feel his jaws part, open wide on your neck.

Curiosity really does kill the cat.

#remmick smut #remmick x reader #remmick sinners

537 notes · View notes

sapphiressmoke · 23 days ago

Note

he’s so baby girl and ditzy. I love him

Omg this idea has been simmering in my head for days SO, we've seen protective Remmick and we love but I'd love to see protective reader ngl! I'm thinking like obviously Remmick is the more experienced vamp here BUT I feel like sometimes he gets cocky and plays around too much and he'd get himself into trouble sometimes, in comes feral no-nonsense reader, on some guard dog shit lol. I think it'd be interesting to explore how he'd feel about being protected after he's been alone and had to be independent for so long.

And I just wanna finish this by saying thank you! I love your writing, its so comforting. <3

Wrangled Heart

☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆ .。.:*

A/N; Tysm for giving me this request!! I really appreciate you thinking my writing is comforting, that’s the biggest compliment <33 I had tons of fun writing this one and exploring the reader character!! It’s a little different from my normal stuff and I enjoyed it! Also I’ve been watching a lot of Godless recently so I couldn’t help leaning into that western vibe a bit :^) I hope I’ve done this idea justice for you <3!!

Summary; Remmick gets himself into trouble, but luckily he has you to save him.

Content; NSFW 18+, AFAB reader, angst to fluff, cowgirl reader, vampire reader, you own a farm, vampirism, hive-mind, shared pain, getting turned, Remmick saved your life, now you save his, protective reader, stubborn reader, vampire hunters, blood and injury, you get kinda fucked up, sharpshooter reader, you chew Remmick out, very pathetic Remmick, eating out, fingering, slight dom reader, Remmick cums in his pants, heavy aftercare, soft Remmick

Wc; 7.9k

☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆ .。.:*

It’s two hours until sunrise when you feel it.

A sudden, sharp pain in your side that makes you gasp, makes the bowl you’d been holding fall from your hands and shatter on the wooden floor. You clutch at the unseen injury, wondering if some organ inside of you just ruptured, if that’s even possible for a vampire. The next one hits your left leg, right below the knee, nearly sending you to the ground with a loud curse. You grip onto the counter for balance, your claws coming out on instinct to scratch at the polished linoleum.

You hunch over, your fanged teeth gritted and your breath coming in shallow pants as new phantom injuries bloom along your body. You have to struggle to push through the forefront of panic in your mind, quiet the alarms so you can think rationally. You force yourself to calm, to realize you aren’t being attacked as the pain quickly dulls to nothing more than an itch beneath your skin. You understand these sensations, have felt them enough times before for there to be a sinking feeling in your gut.

You reach out towards the bond, the invisible tether that ties you directly to the beast that turned you, to Remmick. You follow it across the distance between you, the thing pulled tight like a bowstring, quivering with each other’s thoughts, emotions, and memories. Your head swims with flashes of the night through Remmick’s eyes, of unfamiliar men surrounding him, the scent of his blood thick in the air, his fear laced through it like a toxin. He struggles against the men but it’s futile in his state, his fangs flashing in attempts to fight them off. He gets punched in the jaw so hard that it snaps you back into your own body, the ache of the hit resonating in your teeth.

“Goddamnit, Rem.” You snarl under your breath, already turning on your heel and dashing upstairs. You’re quick to shed your nightgown, swapping it for your well-worn pair of work pants and a button up, then shoving your feet into your sturdy boots. You grab your cowboy hat off the hook you always put it on, securing it onto your head and snatching your hunting rifle resting just above it. You sling the strap of it across your chest because even with your claws and fangs and inhuman strength, you’ve never been able to give up your gun.

You burst out the front door of your farmhouse, immediately running towards the stables around the side. You haul the gate open, hurrying to the stall of your trusted horse, Ranger. She’s the granddaughter of the horse you’d had thirty years ago, each line of her family always being your chosen favorite. Ranger’s brown and white pelt is sleek and well groomed, her dark mane straightened, and her hazel eyes wide and alert, like she was ready for you. She huffs at you, her foot stomping once at the fact you’ve disturbed her rest. “I know baby, I know. I’ll make it up to ya, I promise.” You coo as you secure the saddle to her back with practiced ease.

As soon as you’re seated atop her, you bring her out from the stables and press your legs against her sides to urge her into a full gallop. Her hooves pound into the dirt as she breaks your property line, following your guidance towards the woods in the east. You let your bond chart your course, the rope that connects you to Remmick getting shorter and shorter by the minute. The remnants of the moon just barely illuminate the forest path, the one that’s been walked and trodden hundreds and thousands of times before. It runs miles into the untamed trees, lined with thick underbrush that rustles with the inhabitants of these woods that fall silent as your horse sprints past.

The deeper you go, the thicker the scent of panic and terror becomes. You can taste it on the roof of your mouth, can feel the way it makes your muscles tense like you’re the one being hunted. Your breath is sharp in your lungs, each one a little constricted with anxiety, not knowing what you’ll find at the end of the tether. It’s when there’s only a good fifty feet between you that you pull on Ranger’s reins, bringing her to a halt to dismount. You hide her amongst the bushes, tying her lead around a tree to keep her in place.

You soothingly run your hand along the bridge of her nose. “Be good for me, sugar. I won’t be long.” You promise, placing a kiss on her muzzle, Ranger’s head leaning up towards your touch.

Your steps are careful as you continue forward on foot, each step too light to possibly be human. You take off the strap of your rifle in a smooth motion, the weight of it familiar in your hands, loaded and ready. It feels like every part of you is on edge, your eyes wide, ears perked to any possible sound. You veer off the path to the right, concealing yourself in the underbrush, following the smell of blood and the constant, invisible tug that you accepted a long time ago.

Your grip on your gun tightens when you begin to hear snippets of conversation, of voices who aren’t concerned with disturbing the sanctity of night. They’re loud, crude, tinged with cruelty, and ones that you don’t recognize. You sneak forward until you reach a small clearing, stopping just at the edge of it, anger bubbling inside you at the sight of what’s before you.

Remmick slumped against a tree, his weakened body bound with thick rope, blood staining his torn clothes and skin, one eye swollen shut. He’s surrounded by five hunters, each of their outfits like an armory against your kind. Silver blades and bullets, wooden stakes, bits of garlic, and crosses around the necks. They laugh with each other, their faces concealed in shadow, their horses clearly uneasy.

“Can’t we talk this out, fellas?” Remmick coughs, his voice strained and cracked.

“Ain’t no talkin’ with the devil.” The man still sat on his horse sneers. You immediately connect that he’s the leader, something shiny like a badge pinned to his breast.

One of the hunters, the youngest one by the looks of him, crouches in front of Remmick. He digs his fingers into the vampire’s short black hair, his boldness near startling as he yanks Remmick’s head back. He winces at the rough motion, his fangs showing from his drawn lips. “This the one we been lookin’ for, ain’t it?” The hunter asks. With his free hand he draws a phantom line across Remmick’s neck, calculating. “Should we bring his head back for the sheriff?”

Another one scoffs. “If we can keep it from burnin’ up.”

“Easy enough. Just wrap it in one of them tarps or somethin’.” A third chimes in.

The younger man holding Remmick releases the vampire, leaving his head to fall limp with a small groan. The hunter motions to one of his companions. “Here, gimme yer knife.”

The other one, half his face covered in a thick beard and mustache, grumbles. “You ain’t bring yer own, boy?” He says while reaching back to his sheath.

“I forgot it, now just give it to me.” The other one says with an eye roll, making a grabbing motion with his hand.

The knife never gets to reach his grasp before a bullet cuts clean through his skull.

You’re quick to reload, shooting a second one dead before true chaos ensues. The hunters yell as their two buddies fall to the ground with blood splattering against the grass and horses rear up, shrieking to the skies. They search for the source of the gunfire before seeing the gleam of your eyes between the trees. “There’s another one of them monsters!” The hunter on the horse shouts, immediately aiming a pistol at you, firing without restraint while trying to keep his animal steady.

The bullets splinter the trunk you’d darted behind, following your path as you dash through the bushes. One manages to catch your arm, cutting through your shirt and burning the skin beneath with a hiss. You toss your own rifle aside, charging the clearing with sharpened teeth and extended claws. You jump up to tackle the leader off his horse, his surprised scream ringing in your ears as you both hit the ground hard. He thrashes in your hold, kneeing into your stomach, slamming the butt of his gun against you again and again in a desperate attempt to shake you off.

It doesn’t work before your fangs are digging into his neck, tearing his skin apart, letting his blood fill your mouth like it’s fresh water. It lights up your veins with a newfound strength, quieting the hunger that’d been pricking the edges of your mind. So focused on the man below you, you barely have time to react to the one that had come up behind you. You try to roll out of the way, but it doesn’t stop the knife from being buried in your side.

You screech as agony explodes through your body, your own blood pouring out around the blade as the hunter withdraws it. You attempt to lunge at him, to take him down like you did their leader, but you’re slammed into before you can. You’re shoved harshly against a tree with enough force to make something crack, the bearded man’s face a whirlwind of fury, his fists hitting your abdomen. He pulls you forward only to ram you into the trunk once again, your right shoulder dislocating with a loud pop. You see stars for a split second, your voice leaving you in a whoosh from the pain.

Remmick is fully alert now, straining against the ropes that bind him, your appearance giving him a new vigor. His red eyes are wider than the moon as he watches you, his mouth dropped open, fangs glinting and shiny with his saliva. His own thoughts are a chorus in the back of your mind, full of rage and awe:

My love. Don’t hurt her. Kill them all. My wife. So strong. Mine. Kill them, kill them-

“Shoot her!” The bearded one shouts, gritting his teeth as your claws drag along his arm.

Just beyond him you can see the other one taking aim, hoping to get you between the eyes. Right as his finger rests on the trigger, you bring your knee up into the gut of the man holding you hostage, a choked sound coming from him. You use the blaze of your pain as energy, dragging him forward as a gunshot rings in your ears. The bullet lodges into the man’s back, right above his heart, his yell being cut short. You let him fall to the ground, leaving the last one shaking in his boots, indistinguishable prayers whispered through his teeth.

His hands are quivering too much to take proper aim, so even in your bruised and bloody state you manage to dodge his bullets. You bring him down, ignoring the pain he tries to inflict with kicks and hits, your teeth opening his neck for you to drink from until he goes still.

Silence rings in the clearing as you sit up, your chest heaving, every part of you feeling like it’s covered in blood, and you have no idea what’s yours and what isn’t. You stagger to your feet, stumbling towards Remmick. You pick up your hat that had fallen off along the way, placing it safely back atop your head.

“Yer the hottest thing I’ve ever seen in my whole life.” Remmick says when you reach him.

“Will you shut your damn mouth?” You snap, in no mood for his syrupy flirting while trying to undo his ropes with your one good hand.

His response is near instant. “Yes ma’am.”

As you work, you notice the man who got shot is still twitching on the ground. You can sense the way his life is quickly thinning, his quiet gurgles a plea for death. “Go eat.” You tiredly tell Remmick as you finally get his binds undone, sicking him on the hunter like a dog. It’s not like he deserves the free meal, but it’ll keep you from having to deal with him bitching and moaning about his injuries all day long.

Remmick visibly swallows, almost in disbelief of your graciousness. “Th-thank you, baby- yer so good t’me-”

You roll your eyes, watching as he latches onto the hunter, his noises finally going quiet as Remmick finishes him off. The sloppy sounds of his eating breaks the quiet and you see the way his numerous wounds steadily begin to heal. The discoloration on his skin disappears, the worst of his cuts closing at the edges. When he’s effectively sucked the man dry, you yank him up by the collar, blood soaking his front, a new shine to his eyes.

“Let’s go.” You say, ignoring the way Remmick bristles when you sidestep his offered support, his desire to try and help you in your injured state. You’re still too pissed to take it, to let your pride fall any further.

There’s two horses that ended up sticking around for the bloodbath and with a whistle, you get them to follow you. There’s always been something about you that draws animals to you, even with your supernatural attributes. You pick up your rifle you’d tossed aside when you pass through the bushes you’d hidden in just minutes prior, securing that strap across your chest once more.

With the horses on one side and Remmick on the other, watching you carefully, you make your way back to Ranger. She’s waiting for you right where you left her, ears swiveled forward, tail swishing behind her. You pet her with your working hand. “That’s my good girl.” You coo at her, undoing her lead. You swing yourself onto her back with some effort, hissing as the wound in your side oozes more blood, healing ever so slowly.

Remmick and Ranger watch each other uneasily, neither of them ever being real fond of the other. She takes a single step away from him, a snort blowing out of her nose with a shake of her head, making him hesitate. You grit your teeth together. “Remmick, so help me God, if you don’t get your stupid ass on this horse I’ll leave you out here to burn.”

He grumbles indistinctly but he steps forward and braces his hands on the saddle, not wanting to face any more of your wrath. He tries once but between his injuries and Ranger’s shifting, his foot slips and makes him stumble. The same thing happens a second time. “It’d help if you kept this damn thing steady.” He snaps.

You scoff. “Not my fault she don’t like you.”

He finally gets up on the third try, situating himself behind you, his chest comfortably pressed to your back. His hands come to your sides, some of your blood sticking to his palms but it doesn’t bother him any. You allow yourself to relax into his touch as you nudge Ranger into a trot, the other horses following behind. Part of you is relieved to feel Remmick’s body weight against yours, his thumbs drawing gentle, apologetic circles on your hips, knowing you very well could’ve lost him tonight. His presence has become so oddly steady and important in your life, it has been for years, and you don’t quite know what you’d do without it anymore.

It was a long time ago when you first met him, found him bleeding in your barn, not looking much different than he does now.

It had been the middle of the night when you were woken by the pigs causing a racket, squealing to the high heavens. You’d jumped out of bed, not even changing out of your night gown before you were grabbing your rifle, putting on your boots, and running outside. You’d thought for sure some big bad animal had managed to weasel into the barn, had gotten past your fences and locks.

The barn door was ajar, unlocked like someone or something had slipped inside and didn’t bother closing it behind them. You’d scowled and tightened your grip on your gun, holding it steady in front of you as you stepped past the doorway. There was only one light, a dim overhead that you kept on during the night, illuminating the place in a sickly yellow glow. The first thing you noticed were the splatters of red on the concrete floor, like somebody had dragged something bleeding across it. It led all the way to a back corner, the one closest to the goats.

The pigs were still throwing a fit, running around their pen, squealing to each other. Some of the other animals had joined in; goats were bleating, chickens were clucking in their coop, and from the smaller barn outside, you could hear your two cows mooing with everything they had. It was a proper cacophony. A few of them quieted when they saw you, knowing you were here to take care of whatever threat had invaded their home, giving you a chance to think above the noise.

The closer you got to that corner, the more you could make out some kind of lump that wasn’t there before. The stench of death and blood wafted from it, making your stomach churn. At first, the lump didn’t budge… but you moved a little too loud, your boot crunching a loose clump of hay, and then there was a flash. A flash of red eyes, more animal than human with the way they reflected the light that barely reached, a flash that had you gasping and your finger flying to the trigger. The red faded into a deep blue so quickly you thought you imagined it, now left with a babbling man instead of a monster.

He shied away from your gun, backing himself up even further, shaky hands in front of his face like protection. His body was laced in wounds, beaten, bloody, and bruised, his clothing torn and soaked with red. His voice was fractured, coated in a thick southern drawl. “Please- please have mercy I- I ain’t have nowhere else to go they- they was chasin’ me I- just for the night ma’am, please-“

You nearly shoved the barrel of your gun to his forehead. “Who? Who was chasin’ you all the way onto my damn property?”

He was almost crying now, his words stumbling over one another. “Real- real bad men, ma’am- they wanted to rob me- take everything I got I- I didn’t know where else to go-“

“And you ain’t come to the house? Decided to crawl into my barn instead?” You demanded.

“I- I didn’t wanna bother ya- just needed somewhere to hide-“

You glowered. “Bothered my pigs plenty.”

“And I’m very sorry ma’am I- I promise I won’t bother ya none just- just let me stay for the night I- I’ll be gone by mornin’-“ He said, his whole body shaking like a dog left in the cold.

With the way he was bleeding, you didn’t know if he’d even last until morning. You kept staring at him, studying his dark hair, his sturdy features—he looked as if he’d known what it was like to work on a farm. “What’s your name?” You finally asked after a minute of tense silence.

He gave an uneasy smile, one that seemed too sharp instead of polite. “Remmick, ma’am. Yours?”

You hesitated before giving him your name, figuring you might as well return the pleasantry. You didn’t trust this Remmick fellow for shit but if you wanted to not deal with a dead body by sunrise and for your animals to have some peace, you needed to get him out of the barn. Regardless, your papa taught you better than to leave anyone—man or animal—to suffer. Plus, you had a gun and perfect aim and he didn’t.

You sighed, lowering the rifle by just an inch. Remmick noticed, something sparking behind his eyes like some twisted sense of hope. “C’mon then. I’ll patch you up and then send you on your way. Don’t want you ‘round here longer than you need to be.” You said, nodding towards the barn door.

His mouth dropped open just barely in disbelief, his hands coming together like he was praying. “Oh, thank you- thank you ma’am I- I owe ya my life-“

“Don’t be sayin’ that just yet.” You muttered.

You made him go ahead of you, still keeping your rifle tight against your chest as you both walked towards the farmhouse—well, more like you walked and he stumbled. You stepped into the house, expecting him to follow you, only to find he halted at the doorway, looking at it nervously. You arched a brow at the weirdo. “C’mon, what are you waitin’ for?”

You caught the subtle way his whole body seemed to react to your words, a barely there shudder and another flicker in the blue depths of his eyes. His hesitation was gone after that, immediately joining you inside with sure footsteps. You brought him into the kitchen, had him sit at your table while he looked around and you dug through a cabinet for the first aid kit. You got a bucket of water and a few rags before sitting yourself in front of him.

Remmick let you touch him without reservation, watching intently as you scrubbed the blood off his muscled arms, dabbing whatever wounds you found with antiseptic. There weren’t as many as you thought, and the ones that had seemed bad had miraculously started to close. You tried to ignore it, thinking instead that maybe he’s just a strangely fast healer.

While you were busy, his eyes had locked on to the old wedding ring on your finger, the way it caught the light drawing his attention. “Your man somewhere ‘round here?” He asked, breaking the silence so suddenly that you flinched. His voice had changed, holding more confidence, no longer a whimpering mess.

You met his gaze for just a second. “Why’re you askin’ about him? Thinkin’ of tryin’ somethin’? Think I can’t kill you myself?”

Remmick chuckled at that, a deep, throaty sound that sent a shiver up your spine. “Oh I know ya could, sweetheart. I was just wonderin’ what kinda man sends his wife into the barn alone with a gun to fend off a beast.”

You looked at him skeptically. “Yeah? And what kinda beast are you?”

He hummed low. “Maybe the worst kind, darlin’.”

You scoffed, nearly laughing in his face. “Yeah, right. You’d die to a bullet just the same.”

Before he could respond, you took his face in your hand, bringing him closer so you could wash off the dirt and blood. “My husband ain’t around anymore.” You said. “Hasn’t been for five years. Sickness took him.”

“M’sorry.” Remmick managed to say despite the way you squished his cheeks.

You shrugged. “Don’t be. I miss him every now and again but I’ve been handlin’ myself and this place just fine.”

You sat back when you deemed him clean enough, free of all the blood on his skin with a couple patches over the worst of his injuries. You gave him a pair of your husband’s old clothes, ones that fit him surprisingly well, and brought him into the living room, showed him the couch. “You can stay here for the night but if you move from here I’ll shoot you, understand? And I want you gone by morning.”

Remmick nodded earnestly. “Yes, ma’am. Thank ya for your kindness. If there’s any way I can repay ya-“

“You can repay me by bein’ gone, and not bringin’ anymore trouble ‘round here.” You said sharply, to which he just nodded again and took his place on the couch.

It was over for you after that night, because Remmick never left. You didn’t know what it was about him that made you let him stick around, to turn your home into his as well. It didn’t help that he was already enthralled with you from the first moment he saw you. With your rugged and earthy scent with a hint of something sweet beneath it like it was buried a long time ago, your complete lack of fear, and those sharp edges that he wanted to see every side of, he couldn’t get enough. It made him stay, made him watch you curiously and follow you around to see what you did.

He fit into your life like some puzzle piece you didn’t know you were missing. Though he was definitely an odd one, you didn’t question it. Didn’t question the way he never ate the meals you cooked, the way he stayed far from open windows, the way he always slipped out in the middle of the night when he thought you were sound asleep, the way his eyes caught the candlelight wrong. You didn’t question why he never stepped foot outside during the day, or why he came back smelling like rusty metal in the morning.

You two lived in easy cohabitation for close to a year, with you spending your days out in the fields with the animals while he remained safely tucked inside the farmhouse. Remmick fell into farm life easily, as if it was something he’d been doing for longer than you could understand. He eagerly helped however he could when the sun went down—hauling bags of feed into the storage shed, wheeling in bales of hay, grooming whatever animals would tolerate him. Most of them didn’t like him, didn’t trust him, like they knew something about him wasn’t right. It made you laugh harder than you had in years when one of the pigs rammed into him and knocked him over.

There was one night you were in the barn together, Remmick giving a few of the animals their dinner while you were high on a ladder, trying to fix some faulty wiring for the heater that had been acting up. You had been so focused on it that you didn’t realize how far you’d been leaning forward, or that the ladder had been resting on an uneven part of the floor.

Remmick wasn’t quick enough to catch you, to notice the way the ladder wobbled so dangerously, the thud and crack of your body making him violently sick. Bag of feed dropped and forgotten, he’d ran to your side. You’d never seen him so horrified as he fell to his knees, whispered no’s falling from his lips over and over while he cradled your broken body close, something within it shattered beyond repair. You couldn’t speak, could barely breathe, trembling hand just barely finding his sleeve to hold while you stared at the ceiling. You knew you didn’t want to die, especially not like this, but you were glad you weren’t dying alone, at least.

He couldn’t stand it—you, who had taken him in, cared for him so, who didn’t ask questions, now lying in his lap as the light visibly dimmed from your eyes. He wouldn’t let it happen, wouldn’t let you die right in front of him while there was still something he could do. He’d save you in a different way, the way he knew best, with teeth and blood and the tearing of flesh. The last thing you saw was those fangs you always tried to ignore, red eyes burning bright and fierce with desperation and need.

You woke up as something else, something new and as bloody as the day you were born. You were still you, but you knew you weren’t the same, that you never would be again. Your eyes opened to the sound of humming, a tune you didn’t recognize but felt older than the earth, a tune to lead you from death. Your breath came through your lungs in a strangled gasp, like your unfamiliar body wasn’t used to the action. You jolted harshly, your hands scrabbling at the air before a comforting, calloused hand found yours and held tight. “I got ya, baby, I’m here.” Remmick said soothingly, his other hand brushing the hair from your face. You were still in his arms, him holding you close like he was scared you’d drift away. There was nothing but relief in his crimson eyes when he saw you blink up at him, when your bones snapped back into place.

You sat up slowly, finally able to get a good look at Remmick, to see what he truly was. Blood stained his front—your blood, coating his chin and neck and the sharp teeth in his mouth. You felt your connection to him almost immediately, like the tightening of a knot, tying you to him in the deepest way possible. Every one of his memories was now yours, every thought and emotion shared between you like the flowing channel of a stream, able to flip through him like an open book.

“Re- Remmick- what-“ You tried to say, your throat struggling to remember the shape of the words or how to speak them without making them crack, like they became shredded by your new fangs on their way out.

“Easy, baby, just take it slow.” He told you, a hand gentle on your back. “Yer like me now, darlin’, hungry and wrong and violent and m’sorry- I- I just couldn’t let ya go, it was the only way. These animals need ya, I need ya. I’ll show ya everythin’ I know, I promise. You’ll always have me.”

You were slow to take to being a vampire. There was still part of you that was disgusted at having to drink blood, though you were no stranger to it because of the farm. You hated the way hunger constantly prodded at the back of your mind, you hated not being able to feel the sun on your skin anymore, not being able to sweat out in the fields with the horses.

Now unable to work during the daytime, you had to hire farmhands. Ones that didn’t question the fact they never saw you, ones that just quietly did their jobs, took their pay, and went home. You also had them take your produce into town, to sell it at the markets and bring back the profit so the townsfolk wouldn’t get too suspicious. If anybody did ask, you always said you got too busy, too caught up with caring for the farm to venture out. It made it stupidly easy for you and Remmick to slip out and find food without being discovered.

No matter what, you weren’t alone because Remmick held true to his promise, he taught you every little thing he’d learned over his impossibly long life, eager to finally be able to show you something new for once instead of the other way around. He always caught you when you stumbled, held you close when it got hard, kissed away your frustration, made all of it seem okay, made you believe in him.

It’s gotten better with time, just like it always does, and you think you’ve finally fallen into a cycle you could get used to… until there’s nights like tonight when Remmick decides to cause trouble.

You’re broken out of your thoughts as you gain view of the farmhouse, as you lead the new horses to pasture and Ranger back to her stall, freeing them of their saddles and gear. With your wounds still open and tender and closing slowly, you stagger towards the house as the sun threatens to rise over the horizon. You let the door slam shut behind you both, roughly propping your gun on the ground.

“The hell were you thinking, Remmick? The fuck did I tell you?” You demand, watching as he flinches at your raised tone, the rage simmering in your eyes.

He holds his hands up as if in surrender. “I’m sorry, darlin’, I know-“

“No, you clearly don’t know! It don’t get through that thick fucking skull of yours that you can put both of us, all of this,” you motion to the house, to the farm outside, “in jeopardy, bringing those damn hunters ‘round here, putting their bodies this close to my fucking property line. You better pray to whatever god damned you that nobody finds them before I can go back and get rid of them.”

Remmick’s face is full of regret, knowing how badly he fucked up, knowing he’s the reason you got hurt, the reason you’re so upset. “Baby please just- I didn’t mean t’bring ‘em here I- I tried to draw ‘em away but they kept chasin’ me-“

“I told you not to go east! I told you so many fucking times that there’s hunters that way, and what do you do? The fuck were you doing over there anyway, huh?” You snap, your teeth glinting with every word, your clawed hand gesturing wildly.

His body hunches in on itself like he’s trying to look smaller, more apologetic. “There wasn’t enough food ‘round here, I just-“

“God forbid you listen to me, right? I been doin’ this shit for nearly fifty years now and you still seem to think that means I don’t know what I’m talkin’ about. Why do you think I ain’t fightin’ for my life every week, huh? I ain’t runnin’ from hunters and wooden stakes and holy water, I ain’t dragging them back to my goddamn home. How d’you think I do that, Remmick? I’m quiet, I don’t bother anybody, and I stay where I’m s’posed to.” You’re inches from him now, tension sparking between you, your eyes ablaze. You flinch back when your shoulder sends a jolt of pain through your body, making you groan. “And now my shoulder is fucked—again.” It’s ironic that the one that got dislocated is the same one that’s always caused you trouble, even now in your immortal life.

Remmick reaches out towards you, but you step away from his hold, making him pause, even though his frustration is clear in his expression. “Baby, just let me help-“

“Go get some water and a rag.” You tell him sharply, already making your way upstairs without another glance.

Though Remmick would usually argue, would stake his place, he knows you better than that, knows to let you have your space when you need it. He lets you disappear upstairs while he does as you told him. It’s not unusual for you to act like this, to use your anger as some type of shield against worrying about him. The anxiety that had been clenching your lungs ever since you found him in the woods has finally let go enough to allow you to breathe. In the safety of your home, you feel like you could collapse at any second, and there’s still some guarded part of you that doesn’t want to do it in front of him.

Once in your bedroom, you allow yourself to take a deep, shaky breath. You shuck off your bloody and torn shirt—another one to throw away—leaving you in your bra and pants. The cold air kisses your skin, leaves goosebumps in its wake, and reveals the mess of your other injuries. The worst is your stab wound, though it’s nearly closed now but still pulsing beneath the surface.

You move towards your record player, putting on one of your favorites, the soothing melodies filling the room and calming the fire burning in your gut. You then stand in the doorway, bracing your shoulder against the edge, drawing breath into your lungs for some kind of courage. You hold it tight as you slam your shoulder as hard as you can into the wooden frame, a choked yell and a curse forcing its way out of your throat and a newfound pain bursting through your limbs. There’s a successful pop while your vision spins and you think you’d fall to the floor if Remmick didn’t catch you in his arms first.

“Now baby, why would you go and do that?” He demands, full of concern. “You should’ve let me do it-“

“I got it just fine on my own.” You say, though your words sound strained. You make yourself stand, pushing away from him, rolling your shoulder experimentally. The functionality is back, though you can feel the residual ache that makes you wince.

You avoid Remmick’s gaze despite how he tries so desperately to catch yours, instead pretending to be focused on your blood-stained arm and god- it breaks him. He takes your hands roughly in his, making you turn towards him. “Darlin’ please- please just look at me- I’m sorry baby, I know I messed up- yer right I- I shoulda listened to ya just please look at me-“ He begs, practically falling apart at the seams at the thought of you not gracing him with your affection. “I- I can’t live in this world if yer mad at me- you can’t do that to me, baby- we’re together in this you promised me-“

The pure desperation in his voice, the undercurrent of real fear, makes you finally meet his eyes. You reach your hands up, cradling his face between your palms, watching as he shudders at the action, a shaky sigh leaving his lips. “Damnit, Rem, you scared me.” You whisper. “You got into real trouble tonight.”

His hands eclipse yours. “I know, m’sorry-“

You break off his apology with a kiss, one fierce and bruising, relishing the way he instantly leans into it. You can feel how grateful he is for your touch, like he wouldn’t care if the entire world burned down as long as you kept holding him. Your tongues brush against each other, swiping off the last remnants of blood, tasting the iron tang that’s a constant between you. He groans appreciatively, his hands finding their place on your waist, the weight of them steady and familiar.

Remmick leads you to the bed while keeping his mouth on yours, swallowing every sound you make, drinking your spit like it’s water. He sits you down gently, nudges your legs apart with his knee before his lips are trailing down your body. “Lemme make it up to ya, baby. Lemme treat ya good.” He murmurs, kissing along your jaw and then down your neck, past where he bit you all those years ago. He cleans the blood off of you as he goes, the water and rag you’d told him to get long forgotten as he licks you like you’re his dessert. He kisses over your injuries, quietly urging them to heal faster, cursing the men that dared lay a hand on you.

He shimmies your pants down your legs so that all you’re left in is your hat and undergarments, though those don’t last long. Your bra and underwear find themselves on the floor, your nipples perked in the sudden chill. His palms smooth up your thighs as he sinks to his knees between your legs, spread wide to reveal your glistening cunt to him. His eyes gleam in the darkness, full of a different kind of hunger, drool pooling at the corners of his mouth. “My pretty girl.” Remmick tells you, kissing the insides of your thighs, steadily building up to that first lick through your folds.

As soon as his tongue is on you, your head falls back with a sound caught between a hum and a moan. With your arousal now heavy on his taste buds, he knows there’s no holding himself back. Remmick dives into your pussy like a man starved, collecting every drop that you give him with the flat of his tongue, dragging it up through your cunt and to the bundle of nerves at the top. He sucks your clit into his mouth, sending sparks of pleasure up your spine, your whines becoming louder as your hips begin to move in rhythm against his face.

Your fingers tangle in the black waves of his hair, keeping him right against your pussy—though he wasn’t going anywhere anyway. You know he loves when you pull at him, when you use him like a toy for your release. “That’s it, Rem, doin’ so good-“ you gasp, making him groan at the praise. You can feel the reverberations in your core, nothing but pure desire in them as he sucks and licks and kisses, the tips of his claws digging into the plush skin of your thighs. His cock strains painfully against his pants, and he can’t help but grind against your leg at the same time, desperate for any kind of friction.

You moan loud when he adds two fingers, stretching you open and pressing in all the right places. His tongue focuses on your clit, drawing patterns in a mixture of slick and spit while his fingers pump in and out of you with a steady pace. “Fuck- yes- such a good boy-“ You whine, Remmick shuddering from the petname, grinding his dick against you a little harder.

Remmick knows you’re close with the way your muscles tense, your pleasure becoming his pleasure between the bond that connects you, a knot forming in your lower abdomen and a fire raging beneath your skin. It only encourages him, his tongue licking across every inch of you, his fingers scissoring your plush walls, feeling the way they pulse and flutter. He whines into your cunt, humping you like an animal, chasing his own release at the same time.

With a final suck of your clit, you’re cumming around his mouth and fingers, nails digging into his scalp and your moan echoing in the room. He’s quick to follow, groaning brokenly as he soaks his boxers with his cum, the hot, wet mess pressing through to his pants, his whole body trembling. He doesn’t stop licking at you until he’s sure he got every ounce of your cum, until you have nothing left to give and you’re twitching in his grip. “Can’t get enough of ya- taste so goddamn sweet-“ Remmick pants against you when he finally pulls away to rest his head on your thigh, his chin shiny with your cum and his drool. You hum, brushing the sweat soaked curls from his forehead, his eyes closing like a content cat.

There’s a moment of pause where the room is only filled with the sounds of your shared, heavy breathing before his hand finds your knee, his thumb rubbing circles against your soft skin. “Yer still upset with me. I can feel it.” He mumbles, eyes opening again slowly so they can reach yours. One tug at your bond and he can feel the way you’re still tender from the night in more ways than one, even as you act soft with him now.

You sigh and cup his face once more, holding the weight of it in your palms. The red of his irises has begun to fade, blue beginning to poke through as his adrenaline dwindles. There’s so much emotion within them as he looks at you, silently begging you to be honest. “You almost got killed.” The words are quiet, like an admission of a fear you don’t want to speak into the world.

“And you saved me.” He responds, equally as quiet but laced with reverence.

“I might not always be here to do that.” You say bluntly, forcing yourself to speak hard truths, even despite the way they threaten to make him crumble. You can see the way alarm sparks in his eyes at the mere suggestion. Your thumbs rub against his cheeks. “Why didn’t you call for me? Why did you leave me to guess at what happened?”

Remmick’s face turns just slightly so he can kiss your palm. “Because if I was gonna go out, I wanted to go out knowing you were safe. But I shoulda known better.” He huffs a laugh. In truth, he’s still not used to having someone care for him deep enough to actually come for him, to be there when he needs it most after hundreds of years of being brutally alone. Even now, he struggles to understand why you do it, why you put yourself on the line for something like him.

You’re quiet for a moment, and then, “I could’ve lost you.”

“I ain’t goin’ anywhere, baby, I promise.” He says with nothing but earnesty. “M’sorry, please don’t be mad, darlin’. I’ll do anythin’.”

Remmick knows he probably shouldn’t have said that as soon as you get a gleam in your eye. Your smile is soft but teasing. “If you really mean it, then you can wrangle the pigs inside later tonight.” You tell him, knowing how much trouble they always give him, running circles around him like he holds no authority at all.

His head hangs dramatically with a sigh. “Fine, anythin’ for you, baby.”

“And the goats.” You add. “Oh, and collecting the chickens. The horses too.”

He immediately sits up at that, expression terrified as bad memories spring to the forefront of his mind. “Now hold on, nuh uh, I ain’t gettin’ kicked again. I’ll do everythin’ else but those beasts.”

You laugh, taking your hat and pulling it down over his eyes, making him smile. “Alright, that’s your one exception.”

He always looks good with your hat on, especially as he tilts it back up over his forehead to rest properly on his hairline. You pull him up to kiss him, a soft, loving thing between you this time. It’s broken when your right shoulder smarts, still recovering from being dislocated, making you wince. Remmick frowns, kissing your shoulder like he could make it better with just his adoration. “How ‘bout I run you a bath? Get you cleaned up?” He offers quietly.

You hum your agreement. “Only if you join me.”

He smirks. “‘Course darlin’.”

Remmick helps you up, enjoying how you finally lean your weight against him, letting him lead you to the bathroom. He runs the hot water until the tub is full, adding the soaps and oils you like the best, holding your hand as you gingerly step into the warmth and he slips in behind you. You relax into his hardened body and gentle touch as he scrubs all the grime of last night off of you, as he rubs your shoulder with experienced hands to try and get out the aches and knots.

You stay there until the water starts to run cold, until Remmick is drying you off and putting you in your softest robe and nicest pair of pajamas. “You don’t have to treat me like I’m ’bout to break, y’know.” You tell him, even though you do appreciate the extra care. Now all clean and comfortable and your wounds gone, you can finally be at ease.

He kisses your cheek as he brings you back to bed, the sheets freshly changed and smelling like soap. “I’m just treatin’ ya like the woman I love, darlin’.”

Under the covers he brings you into his arms, holding you tight as you do the same, fingers clutching at his shirt. Your eyes drift shut, and the last thing you think is how grateful you are that you get to have him for another day.

#remmick smut #remmick x reader #remmick imagine #remmick sinners

865 notes · View notes

sapphiressmoke · 27 days ago

Note

I’m sat… on him

Can you write something about Remmick letting reader check out his vampire teeth? His vampiric body is so interesting I’d sit for hours just looking him over✨

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: ᴅᴏᴍ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ, ɴᴇᴇᴅʏ!ᴘᴇᴛ!ʀᴇᴍᴍɪᴄᴋ, ꜰʟᴜꜰꜰ, ᴇᴅɢɪɴɢ, ʙʟᴏᴏᴅ, ᴠᴀᴍᴘɪʀᴇ ᴀɴᴀᴛᴏᴍʏ ᴡᴏʀꜱʜɪᴘ, ꜰᴀɴɢꜱ-ᴄʟᴀᴡꜱ ᴋɪɴᴋꜱ, ᴊᴇʀᴋɪɴɢ ᴏꜰꜰ (ɢᴜɪᴅᴇᴅ), ᴘʀᴀɪꜱᴇ ᴋɪɴᴋ, ʙᴇɢɢɪɴɢ, ᴏʀᴀʟ ꜰɪxᴀᴛɪᴏɴ, ᴅɪʀᴛʏ ᴛᴀʟᴋ, ᴇᴍᴏᴛɪᴏɴᴀʟ ɪɴᴛɪᴍᴀᴄʏ, ʟɪɢʜᴛ ᴅᴇɢʀᴀᴅᴀᴛɪᴏɴ, ᴍᴏᴀɴɪɴɢ, ᴡʜɪɴɪɴɢ, ᴇxᴄᴇꜱꜱɪᴠᴇ ᴜꜱᴇ ᴏꜰ ᴘᴇᴛ ɴᴀᴍᴇꜱ.

𝘈/𝘯: 𝘑𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘤𝘢𝘵𝘤𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘶𝘱 𝘰𝘯 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘱𝘦𝘯𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘳𝘦𝘲𝘶𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘴 𝘴𝘪𝘯𝘤𝘦 𝘐’𝘷𝘦 𝘣𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘭𝘢𝘤𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘰𝘳𝘪𝘨𝘪𝘯𝘢𝘭𝘪𝘵𝘺 𝘭𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘭𝘺. 𝘈𝘭𝘴𝘰, 𝘩𝘰𝘸 𝘤𝘶𝘵𝘦 𝘪𝘴 𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘤𝘳𝘢𝘵𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘴 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘴? 𝘐 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘢 𝘧𝘢𝘤𝘵 𝘩𝘦’𝘴 𝘨𝘰𝘵 𝘯𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘩𝘰𝘵 𝘢𝘪𝘳 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘣𝘳𝘢𝘪𝘯 𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘣𝘦.

ᴡᴏʀᴅꜱ: 1,8ᴋ

Remmick’s mouth curled into a lazy, teasing smile as you climbed onto his joined legs, fingers idly trailing over the waistband of his lounge pants. The soft golden lamp behind him cast an intimate halo around his pale frame, but his grey eyes gleamed in the half-dark. He tilted his head back against the couch, chest rising slowly, like he enjoyed being looked at. He knew you were staring. He wanted it.

“Yer after starin' at me mouth again,” he purred, voice syrup-thick and smug. “You wanna see, love?”

You nodded — maybe a bit too fast — and he laughed low in his throat. The sound was sharp and sweet, like wine poured over sugar. Then, slowly, like a gift unwrapped in reverence, he opened his mouth and let you see.

Those fangs — long, curved, pearl-white against the wet pink of his tongue — made your breath hitch. They gleamed as he let his tongue glide over them, deliberately slow, like he knew just how much it affected you. The tips were so sharp, so pristine, you could almost feel the sting of them in your imagination. He smiled wide, revealing the full set in a grin not quite human.

“Pretty, aren’t they?” he asked, breath brushing against your cheek as you leaned closer. His claws flexed against the couch cushions. “Yer always lookin' at me like I’m some specimen. You like how unnatural I am, don’t ya?”

You nodded again, this time slower, more reverent. “I could watch you forever.”

Remmick let out a pleased hum, shifting just enough to allow you to hold him tighter and closer to your body with your legs.

“You wanna touch?” he whispered.

Your hand was already rising. His mouth stayed open for you. Remmick’s hands clutched the hem of your shirt like he needed something to hold onto — something to brace him against your gaze, your touch.

Your thumb brushed over his lower lip first — soft, pink, still damp from his tongue. You eased it down just slightly, watching how obediently his mouth stayed parted. His fangs caught the light again, but now you leaned in closer.

God, they were perfect.

Longer than you expected up close. Not just the upper canines — though those were the stars, twin ivory scythes — but the bottom ones, too, subtler but just as sharp. You reached up and touched the tip of one with your index finger.

He whimpered, the danger of it making your heart race. He was so sensitive there — the vampire equivalent of a gasp against a lover’s neck. His claws clutched the sofa material, tighter, desperate.

“They—eh… they’re wired into me nerve. Not just for bitin', y'know.”

You dragged the pad of your finger along the inner curve of one fang. It was smooth, cool, hard as enamel but with an organic feel — like carved bone warmed by his body. There was a faint, almost imperceptible ridge near the gum line. His lips trembled under your touch.

Then, with slow intent, you slipped your finger along the inside of his mouth, tracing the edge of the opposite fang with the same reverence you’d use to touch a blade. He whined, barely able to sit still.

“Are you okay?” you asked, taking your fingers out of his mouth so he wouldn't bite you.

He nodded, eyes wide. “No rush, darlin'. Pretend I’m yer own private monster on display.”

You still had your thumb at the corner of his mouth when you caught it — the flicker. A shimmer under the surface of his irises, like coals catching flame.

Remmick looked wrecked already — flushed, trembling under your touch, claws curled in tightly against his own ribs like he didn’t trust himself to touch you back. But then his eyes… oh, his eyes.

You leaned closer. “Look at me.”

He obeyed — breath hitching — and that’s when you saw them fully.

The blue-grey of his human disguise had fractured. Beneath it, that deep, impossible red pulsed to the surface. Not just a glow — no, these were layered, swirling like smoke and blood beneath glass. Dark scarlet slowly taking over the entire iris.

You cupped his face, thumbing under one eye so you could study it up close, and the moment you did, he shuddered.

“Your eyes,” you murmured. “They change when you get worked up.”

“I can’t help it,” he whispered, voice raw. “Not when ya touch my fangs like that—not when ya look at me like...like this.”

You laughed softly, warm and low in your throat, dragging your nails up along Remmick’s pale chest until his breath caught. You weren't sure what look he was referring to, but you were sure the adoration you felt for the way he opened up to you was reflected well in your eyes.

“Do you have anything else to show me?” you asked, sweet and teasing.

And oh, that did something to him.

Remmick’s chest rose with a shaky inhale, and then — all excited — he moved just a little below you and held out his hands for you like a dog presenting its paws.

You took them gently in your own, watching him squirm under the weight of your stare. His claws were out — long, graceful, wicked — like delicate pearls knives at the end of his slender fingers. Each one tapered to a fine point, perfectly shaped, gleaming faintly in the low light just as his teeth.

You turned one hand palm-up, stroking down the center with your thumb. His fingers twitched in your hold, then curled — just slightly — as if they wanted to hold you back but didn't want to interrupt your in-depth study.

“You have such elegant hands,” you hummed, tracing from the base of his palm to the very tip of his middle finger.

You brought one clawed finger to your mouth, eyes never leaving his, and kissed the tip.

He whined. He, actually, whined.

His hips jerked slightly under you — not demanding, just a desperate twitch like his body wanted more of whatever this was.

And then you said it.

Soft. Unshaken. True.

“You are beautiful.”

Remmick’s breath hitched. Just a little.

You kissed the next fingertip. Then the next. Then slid one of his long, clawed fingers into your mouth and sucked, slow and hot, letting your tongue glide over the smooth underside.

He looked at you, ecstatic and confused at the same time. It was hard for him to understand how you could love such a monster.

You popped the finger out slowly, dragging your lips over the knuckle, and watched his face melt into something soft and overwhelmed.

Red eyes wide. Mouth open. Claws trembling.

And beneath it all, his cock was hardening, twitching against the fabric of his pyjama pants — aching, grateful.

A delicious thrill crawled down your spine.

“Touch yourself for me, Rem.”

Remmick’s breath caught. The glow in his eyes pulsed brighter.

His hands hovered uncertainly for a second — those long, pale fingers — and he looked up at you like he was asking permission with just his eyes.

His right hand slipped down his abdomen, past the trimmed patch of hair above his cock, and hovered over it — flushed, twitching, leaking. He was aching, and he hadn’t even wrapped his hand around it yet.

“Tease yourself like I would.”

He swallowed hard and untied the laces. You gave him a little room to let him pull his pants down below the curve of your butt, freeing his hard erection.

One claw traced down the line where thigh met groin, curving in toward the base of his cock. He shivered violently, muscles drawn tight as wire.

“Aw, look at you. Following instructions like a pro.” Your hand nestled at the base of his neck, playing with the dark hair. “What, trying to impress me?”

Without wrapping around it fully, he lets his fingertips glide along the underside — from the base, where the skin is taut and sensitive, all the way up to the tender head. The touch is featherlight, almost reverent. Just as you told him.

He lingers there for a moment, brushing side to side in slow, delicate touches. His breath hitches, then deepens — quiet but building, each inhale slightly shakier than the last.

But what really makes your breath catch is his eyes.

They’re locked on you now — riveted — his mouth slightly open, panting, but utterly entranced. His own pleasure is secondary. The true thrill is in pleasing you.

Being good.

“C'mon, stroke it.”

He did.

A long, slow pull from root to head, his breath catching, fangs bared with the effort of holding still. The red in his eyes was burning now — full-blown lust, desperation, devotion.

“Faster.”

He moaned your name and obeyed.

His hips trembled beneath the rhythm you ordered, stroking fast and tight, his abnormal fingers surrounding delightfully his shaft. You watched his stomach flutter, his thighs tense.

“Look at yourself,” you said. “Look at those deadly hands. Look what they’re doing for me.”

He glanced down at his hand wrapped around his cock, claws glinting, dripping with precome. His breath caught in his throat.

“I look—” he bit his lip, blood flowed, “—I look like a fuckin' whore.”

“You look perfect.”

He let out a strangled moan.

“Don’t come yet,” you warned, seeing his rhythm stutter.

He whined. “Please—please, I want to. Please let me come for you—please, I’ve been good—”

The wrist slows its movement, the thumb rubbing against the foreskin to hold back. His claws scratched light red marks around his thighs by accident, but he didn’t stop.

Your free hand rose to cradle his face, rubbing the blood from his chin.

His glowing red eyes are glassy now, struggling to stay open, flicking between your face and your mouth.

“Ma'am...kiss me,” he begs. “Please, need yer mouth on mine when I come. Want to fall apart in yer kiss, ma'am. Please.”

And it’s not performative. There’s no seduction in the way he says it. It’s raw.

You slid closer to his lap, giving him just enough space to continue touching himself, and leaned over his red-slicked lips.

“Fuck your hand, pet.”

When you finally press your lips to his — hot, open — he breaks for you.

He quickly regained control, squeezing and pumping himself rapidly, chasing the long-awaited orgasm and when the taste of iron blooming in his mouth as his fang accidentally nicked your tongue, he lost it.

With a loud cry, his whole body tensed, cock twitching in his own fist as he spilled across your t-shirts, thick and hot and messy. His legs shook, the free claws digging into his own thigh as aftershocks racked him.

And even after, when the tremors fade and his hand drops away, he doesn’t stop kissing you — desperate, sweet, clinging.

“Thank ya, darlin',” he purred between kisses. “Thank ya. Thank ya—”

You stroke his hair, still cradling his face.

“Such a good boy.”

#remmick smut #remmick x reader #remmick imagine #remmick sinners

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sapphiressmoke · 28 days ago

Note

Saw the virgin remmick fic and now I need a corruption version

Reader edging him and overstimulating him until he's sobbing and begging, he's completely and utterly ruined and yours

Title: “Mine to Ruin”

Virgin!Remmick x GN!Reader

Word Count: ~810

---

Warnings: NSFW, edging, overstimulation, loss of virginity (Remmick) , begging, sobbing, emotional corruption, possessiveness, praise + degradation, aftercare implied.

---

He was trembling beneath you—centuries-old and trembling. A vampire, yes. A killer, a survivor, a ghost of a man who’d lived far too long without warmth, without want.

But now he wanted. He ached.

And you were the one who gave him that hunger. The one who promised him pleasure and then denied it, again and again, until it was all he knew.

Remmick’s thighs were shaking, slick with sweat despite the unnatural cool of his skin. His lips were swollen from kissing, from whimpering your name, and from biting down to try and stay quiet.

He failed at that last part, gloriously.

“Please—please,” he choked out, hips twitching helplessly under your grip. His cock was flushed a furious red, leaking, twitching. His fangs were out. His eyes were glassy, red-rimmed, and brimming with tears.

You grinned down at him, a hand dragging up his chest, slowly circling his nipple until he gasped, arching up into your palm like he needed it to live.

“You’ve waited over a thousand years for this,” you whispered against his neck, tongue teasing the curve of his jaw. “You can wait a little longer, can't you?”

He shook his head. “No—no, I can’t, please, please, I need it—I need you—”

“You’ve had me all night, Remmick,” you cooed sweetly, kissing the corner of his wet eye. “You’re the one who hasn’t earned a thing yet.”

He sobbed. Literally sobbed—his whole chest hitching with the force of it. It made your stomach clench, molten heat crawling through your gut.

You had him. Really had him.

He was ruined. Yours.

You let your fingers slide down again, teasing his cock with just the tips. He whimpered, legs twitching, hips jerking up involuntarily—and then you pulled away again, letting him hump at the air with a broken little cry.

“Fuck!” he snarled, nails scratching at the sheets. “I—I can’t take it—I c-can’t—”

You grabbed his chin, forcing him to look at you. “You will.”

His lip quivered. His pupils were blown wide.

“You’ll take everything I give you and thank me for it,” you continued, voice low and firm. “Because you want to be ruined, don’t you? You want to be good for me. Filthy and broken and sweet. Just mine.”

His fangs gleamed when his mouth fell open, panting. He nodded quickly, eyes wild. “Yes. Yes—I want that. I want you—I want to be yours, please, I’m yours, I swear—”

“Prove it,” you whispered, lowering yourself again, your tongue dragging along the underside of his cock so slowly it made him scream.

He didn’t even notice his hips bucking off the bed—didn’t notice the tears spilling over. You held his thighs down, kissed the flushed tip of his cock like it was a holy thing, and smiled when he sobbed again.

“Gonna come,” he warned, voice hoarse and high and utterly broken. “I—I can’t hold it, I swear, I’m gonna—please—”

And once again, you stopped. Let go. Moved your mouth away and waited while his body crumpled with the grief of it, his hips stuttering in desperation.

He screamed into the sheets.

You laughed softly.

“Oh, baby,” you purred, stroking his hair gently. “You poor thing.”

“Don’t—don’t laugh,” he sobbed. “I—I need you, please, I’m begging you, I’ve never felt anything like this—”

“I know you haven’t,” you whispered, kissing his cheek tenderly. “That’s why it’s so fun.”

He looked up at you, wrecked. There were tears and sweat and blood from where he’d bitten his lip. His chest heaved with every shaky breath.

“I’d do anything,” he said, voice raw. “Anything. Just—please let me come. I don’t care what you do, I just—I need—”

You crawled over him again, straddling his hips, your weight pinning him. You leaned down, mouths almost touching.

“I want you sobbing when you come,” you whispered. “I want it to break you.”

He groaned—almost growled—and you knew he was so close to unraveling that the line between pain and pleasure had disappeared completely.

You wrapped a hand around him again and didn’t stop this time.

No teasing. No edging.

Just a firm, steady stroke, slick and tight and unrelenting.

His mouth fell open, a strangled moan spilling out.

You kissed him while he came—kissed him through his cries, through the shudders of his body, through the tears on his cheeks as he sobbed your name over and over like a prayer.

He came hard—hot and messy between your bodies, hips bucking, eyes fluttering shut, completely and utterly destroyed.

And he didn’t stop crying. Not for a long time.

You didn’t make him. You just cradled him, held him tight, whispered in his ear:

“There’s my pretty boy… ruined just right.”

---

Masterlist

#remmick x reader #remmick smut #remmick imagine

347 notes · View notes

sapphiressmoke · 28 days ago

Text

“god turned his face, and he took me whole.”

| fem!reader x remmick

salem witch trials au

word count : 15.1k

sypnosis : you were supposed to die for a crime you didn’t commit. instead, you’re pinned beneath the very sin they accused you of—blood on your thighs, your name on his lips, and no god listening.

a/n : i applaud writers who can make headers for all of their one-shots 😭 i scrapped like four and just gave up. i would like to thank some fellow freaks from the server for hyping me up to write this. this is also a little treat to @iceemochaa, because she loves dark!remmick & predator/prey play <3

mind the tags, y’all !! never thought i would ever have to use ‘dead dove: do not eat’ but here we are …

warnings (mdni !! 18+) : dub-con (coercive undertones/reader ‘owes’ a debt), dead dove: do not eat, period-typical misogyny, monsterfucking (fully vamped out remmick), power imbalance, predator/prey dynamic, rough sex (reader does bleed), virginity taking, unprotected sex (p in v), gore (descriptions of slaughter of townspeople), religious trauma/witch trial themes, sacred defilement, pain/pleasure overlap, mild degradation, marking (biting, bruising, bleeding), body worship/cock worship, breeding kink/creamipie, overstimulation, fluid exchange (drool, blood, cum), primal/feral behavior, biting (vampiric feeding), drool/spit, oral (f!receiving), fingering with claws (f!receiving), almost execution (reader is almost hanged), who let me write this ??

It had been only a night ago when he first appeared—his voice low and trembling, asking for help.

Your family had long since gone to bed, their snores drifting like uneasy hymns through the cracked windowpanes. The house was still, but you weren’t. You sat outside on the front porch, shame curling in your chest like smoke from a smothered flame.

You knew the hour was wrong, that a woman had no business sitting out alone in the dark—least of all you, unwed for only a few more hours. The town would call it wanton. Your father would call it foolish. Your minister would call it sin.

And still… you could not bring yourself to sleep. Not with the knowledge that come morning, you would be passed from one man’s house to another’s. From your father’s word to your husband’s rule. Like a parcel. Like livestock.

So you sat there, clutching your shawl, listening to the night whisper things no one dared say aloud. The air was cool, damp with mist and the scent of turned soil. Your heart beat fast despite the stillness. A flickering candle burned beside you, its light throwing trembling shadows across the wood.

Dawn had just begun to break—a faint silver line easing its way across the sky—when you heard it.

Panting.

Loud and ragged.

Footsteps pounding fast across the dirt road.

You stood without thinking, fear crawling up your spine. And then you saw him.

He stumbled into view, half-collapsing near the porch steps. His shirt was torn and stained dark with dried blood, clinging to a body marked with bruises and claw-like gashes. His hair was tangled, and his eyes—wide, wild—flashed with something not quite human.

You didn’t know who he was.

You should’ve screamed.

You should’ve run back inside, locked the door, and prayed like a good daughter would.

But you didn’t.

Because there was something in his face that stopped you cold—something wounded, something pleading. And maybe… something familiar.

And in Salem, when anything unfamiliar came crawling out of the woods—wounded, bloodied, alive—you were supposed to name it devil.

But you didn’t.

Not yet.

He didn’t ask. He just moved.

One foot stepped onto the porch, the wood groaning under his weight, and you instinctively stepped back—putting distance between you and the stranger, even as your body stayed rooted to the spot.

Then came his voice—quiet, but edged with urgency.

“Please,” he said. “They almost got me before. Don’t let them hurt me no more.”

He practically begged, his voice cracked and trembling with something raw, and unfortunately… you felt it. That tug. That foolish, dangerous ache in your chest called pity.

You weren’t supposed to feel sorry for strangers. Especially not ones who came crawling from the edge of the woods with blood on their shirts and no god on their tongue.

But you did.

He didn’t give you specifics—didn’t say who had chased him or why. And perhaps it was better that way. Easier not to ask questions when you knew the answers might brand you guilty by association. Aiding a fugitive could get you hanged. Or worse—called a witch.

Still, you led him around the side of the house, past the trellis and the roots of the old pine, toward the small shed where your father kept his tools. The sun was beginning to stretch across the land, weak morning rays slipping over the fields—but he avoided them. You noticed the way he moved, trailing you with silent, frantic steps, almost like he was chasing you—not to catch, but to escape with you. From the light.

He entered the shed without hesitation, crouching in the corner like an animal that had known too many lashes.

You left the door cracked—just enough. And before you turned to go, you looked at him once more. Bruised. Silent. Eyes that glowed faint in the dim light.

“I’ll come back,” you said softly. “Later. To see if you’re alright.”

And then you left.

Just like that.

You didn’t see the way his eyes followed the curve of your back as you walked away. You didn’t see how his fingers twitched—like claws longing for flesh. You didn’t see the hunger bloom across his face, dark and ancient.

Because while you offered him mercy,

he had looked at you like he wanted to tear you open and feast on the warmth inside you.

That same day, you were wed to Marcus.

He was older and already a man of means. He owned a wide patch of land, tilled by others and praised by men at the meetinghouse. The match had been arranged swiftly, without courtship, without affection. It was, as most unions were in your town, a transaction blessed in God’s name and bound in practicality.

Marcus was… respectful, or at least as respectful as a man could be in these times. He didn’t leer at you in church. He spoke with a steady voice. But he made one thing very clear the morning your father finalized the terms:

You were to be a good wife.

You were not to embarrass him.

You were his, and the world would see you as such.

The ceremony was plain. No flowers, no music. Just the minister’s voice echoing off wood-paneled walls and the shuffling of heavy boots on the dirt floor. Vows were spoken as if repeating scripture—cold, rehearsed, obligatory.

Afterward, you were floated back to your father’s home like a ghost caught in a current, your new husband beside you. There, supper was laid out—bread, roast root, boiled corn—and you sat stiffly at the table while the men laughed and spoke loudly around you. Their voices clanged like hammer to iron.

They spoke of the move. Of Marcus’s land. Of how you’d wake the next morning in a different bed. In a different life.

You kept your eyes on your plate, nodding when needed.

When you excused yourself—your voice soft, your tone rehearsed—no one batted an eye.

You slipped away, collecting a good portion of the food into a cloth—enough for a starving man, or something like him—and moved through the house toward the small back door. You stepped out into the evening, the warm air still touched with the scent of supper and grass.

The sun was beginning to fall. But the rays still burned bright and low across the land, stretching long shadows over everything. They painted gold across your path as you made your way back to the shed, the cloth bundle pressed tight against your chest.

You didn’t look back.

You didn’t dare to ask yourself why you were going.

Only that you were.

When you opened the shed’s door, you expected him to be slumped in the corner, half-conscious, maybe groaning from fever or starvation. His condition had been so pitiful the night before—bruised and torn, as if beaten by the Devil himself. You had imagined him weak, maybe even near death.

What you didn’t expect… was blood.

It coated his lips, slick and dark like spilled wine left too long in the cold. Feathers clung to his hands—tufts of white and rust-red, matted and stuck between his fingers like wet hay. His chest rose and fell with shallow, slow breaths, his shirt still torn but his wounds now mostly closed, like something had stitched him together in the dark.

Your eyes snapped to the corner, to where a broken chicken neck lay limp against the dirt floor—its body half-consumed.

The bundle of food in your hands dropped, thudding softly against the packed earth.

He wasn’t half-dead.

He had fed.

But not on what you’d brought.

Your stomach churned, the metallic scent of blood and feathers coating the air like incense, thick and cloying.

He didn’t speak. Not at first. He only lifted his head slowly—unnaturally slow—and locked eyes with you.

They glowed in the dark like embers in a dying fire.

Not brown. Not black. Not human.

Red.

A sound stuck in your throat as your body jerked backwards—instinct, maybe. But before your heel could find purchase in retreat, he shook his head, soft and deliberate. Not pleading. Not desperate.

Commanding.

And then, with one small motion, he beckoned you closer.

You didn’t know why your feet obeyed. Whether it was fear, or curiosity, or something stranger. But the moment you crossed the threshold of the shed—just one step, your skirts brushing the earth behind you—he was suddenly there.

In front of you.

Close.

Too close.

It was as if he moved faster than sound, faster than thought, materializing before you like a whisper you couldn’t stop hearing. You felt the air shift, felt the rush of something unnatural as your breath caught in your throat.

Your heart beat like a hammer in your chest, and yet… you didn’t scream.

Your mouth parted as your voice rose—a trembling whisper of the Lord’s Prayer crawling past your lips. You recited it like armor, each word a shaky plea. “Our Father, who art in Heaven…”

You thought, maybe, if the words were strong enough—if your faith was strong enough—this thing before you would vanish. As if God might peer into that shed and cast the demon out with a breath of wind.

But there was no wind.

Only the sound of your pulse in your ears.

Then, his hand rose—slow and soaked in dried blood—and pressed against your mouth.

The flesh of his palm was warm. Too warm. It smelled of iron and dirt, and it muffled your prayer with cruel ease. A shadow of a grin twisted on his face as he leaned in, voice a gravelly murmur that rasped through your bones.

“Ain’t no God here,” he said. “Just me.”

You inhaled sharply beneath his hand. A sob tried to rise from your chest but had nowhere to go. You turned your head, inching backward—but your spine hit something solid. The door. Closed.

You hadn’t closed it.

The summer heat still clung to the air, humid and slow, and no breeze that night could have swung the latch shut. But here you were—trapped, pressed against splintered wood.

He leaned forward again, his nose grazing your throat. Inhale. Deep. Savoring.

You flinched as the scent of him filled your nostrils—earthy like the grave, sharp like copper, and foul with sweat.

Still, you couldn’t move.

Not yet.

You were frozen—not by magic, but by something deeper. Fear. Confusion. A chilling sense that this wasn’t just a man. That you had let something into your father’s land you could no longer explain away.

And then… his tongue—unnaturally long and wet—slid across the side of your neck like a serpent tasting sin.

It broke you.

You shoved him back, hard enough to make the shed creak in protest. He let you. He stumbled backward a step and only watched with gleaming eyes as your trembling hand scrambled for the latch.

The door flung open under your weight, and you stumbled out into the falling dusk.

But you stopped.

Standing just a few feet ahead, framed in the gold-tinged light of the setting sun, was a girl no older than twelve.

Her hair was tied with a ribbon, and her bare feet were stained with soil.

She clutched something tightly in her small hand—too tightly. You couldn’t see what it was, but your heart sank.

She didn’t scream.

She didn’t speak.

But her eyes drank you in—your wrinkled dress, your flushed face, the sheen of sweat on your brow and neck.

Recognition flickered behind her gaze. No fear. No innocence. Just calculation.

She was one of them.

One of the girls who had spent the past few weeks pointing fingers at neighbors, crying “witch!” with wide eyes and voices sweet as milk.

And she had seen you.

And worse—she had seen enough.

She backed away, her eyes wide but her expression unflinching. Whatever she held in her palm vanished deeper into her fist, and her fingers curled around it as if it were a weapon forged just for this moment. You took one cautious step forward, hand lifted—gentle, pleading.

“Wait—”

But her mouth opened before your words could even finish forming.

“Witch!”

It rang out like thunder in the still evening air—shrill, terrified, and deliberate.

The word struck you like a blow to the chest.

Your mouth parted in a sharp, choked gasp, but nothing came out. You turned—heart leaping into your throat—eyes snapping back toward the shed.

It was empty.

Utterly empty.

Not a single feather. Not a drop of blood. Not a footprint.

The man—no, the thing—was gone.

Vanished like mist at sunrise.

No trace, no sign. As if you had conjured him from madness.

But he had been there.

The back door slammed open.

The heavy sound of boots and frantic voices followed. The back porch flooded with faces—your father, your sister, and Marcus, your new husband. The light from the house spilled out behind them, casting long shadows that stretched over the garden and across the trampled dirt. The smell of roasted meat and smoke clung to their clothes, mixed now with sweat and alarm.

They all stared at you.

Your hair, disheveled. Your dress, wrinkled and half-falling from your shoulder. Your hands, streaked faintly with grease from the meat you'd carried. And your eyes—wild, startled, brimming with something they didn’t understand.

You tried to speak.

But the words caught in your throat.

Marcus stepped down first. He looked at you like a man already betrayed, though you had done nothing but breathe. The girl pointed again, her voice cracking now with false sobs and trembling hands.

“She came out of the devil’s shed!”

Your father looked at you like he no longer recognized the child he’d raised. And as your sister drew your shawl tighter around her own shoulders—protective, suspicious—you realized what had already begun.

The devil hadn’t dragged you down screaming.

He had smiled and left you in the light.

And the ones who once claimed to love you… were now your judges.

The trial was long, pitiful, and more humiliating than anything you could’ve imagined. The church where it was held—small and packed with townsfolk—felt colder than any wind you’d ever walked through. The walls creaked under the weight of God-fearing judgment, and every breath you took seemed to betray you.

You stood in the center, shaking, hands clenched so tightly at your sides they’d gone numb.

“I—I only gave shelter to a man who was hurt,” you said, voice trembling as you stepped forward. “He said someone was chasing him. I thought—he looked like he’d been mauled! I thought he might die.”

Your words were cut off by the shrill, rehearsed voice of the girl who had screamed witch.

The girl was there, tear-streaked and trembling, flanked by the others of her little group—faces innocent, pale, and hollow like porcelain dolls who whispered only lies.

“She lies!” she cried out, pointing at you with trembling fingers. “I saw her… standing outside that shed. Her hair undone, her dress wrinkled like she’d—like she’d lain with the Devil himself!”

A gasp rippled through the room like fire on dry grass.

“That’s not true—” you tried, stepping forward again, but one of the ministers slammed a hand on the bench in front of him.

“Silence!” he barked. “You will speak only when asked!”

The courtroom smelled of sweat and dust and judgment. The judges sat high above you, like they were gods on a crooked throne—old men with white hair and eyes that had stopped seeing truth long ago.

You flinched.

“She bewitched the chicken pens,” another girl wailed. “They say a beast came in the night, and the hens were left torn apart. It was her! Her eyes were glowing!”

“I didn’t do anything,” you whispered. “Please, I didn’t—”

“You disobeyed your husband!” one of the judges interrupted, leaning forward with a slow scowl. “You walked alone at night. You disrespected your place. And now—there are witnesses to your consort with unholy things.”

A tear slipped down your cheek, but your voice cracked through the quiet.

“I helped a man who was bleeding. He said he needed shelter. That was all.”

“You opened the door to evil,” another judge said. “And you invited it in.”

Your father finally stood, slowly, his hands shaking at his sides. His voice was low, but steady enough to reach them.

“She’s young. Foolish,” he said. “Her mind’s soft like her mother’s was—always reaching to help, always trusting. I—I don’t believe she meant harm.”

You turned to him, but he wouldn’t meet your eyes.

One of the judges leaned forward, gray hair powdered and curled beneath his wide-brimmed hat.

“Would you stake your soul on her innocence, Goodman?”

Your father hesitated. Just for a second.

“I would stake only that she was misled.”

It was all they needed.

A gavel slammed against wood.

“The court finds you guilty,” the head judge said, voice like thunder.

You were to hang.

For the crime of adultery.

For the sin of laying with the devil.

For the act of witchcraft, of plotting, of being touched and left alive by something no good soul could’ve endured.

They said the devil’s mark would be carved out of you by rope.

And the crowd applauded.

“No,” you whispered.

Two men grabbed your arms.

“No, please—!”

Your voice was buried under the sound of rising voices. The girls who had accused you fell to the floor in practiced hysterics, trembling and crying into one another’s arms.

You were thrown into the holding quarters like an animal, the heavy door slamming behind you with a finality that rang in your bones. The air was thick—of fear, of stale breath, of rot and dust.

There were others in the cell. All of them marked.

An elderly woman sat on the far end, rocking gently with her hands wrapped around her elbows. She glanced up when the door creaked shut. It took you a second, but you knew her. She used to gift your younger sister scraps of ribbon when your parents couldn’t afford cloth.

Next to her, huddled together on the damp stone floor, was a woman and a boy. The child’s cough rattled low in his chest, and his mother’s hand never left his back.

Two girls sat in the shadows near the wall. You recognized them, too. They’d dared to speak against the others—to challenge the “visions.” They were here for their defiance.

Your chest ached. They were all here to die.

You sank to your knees in the straw and grit, the weight of it all finally pressing down on you. There was no trial to wait for. No family to speak up. It had already been decided.

You would hang.

Tonight.

Your hands trembled in your lap, and for a moment, your ears rang with the memory of the judge’s voice as they dragged you from the church.

“When the moon is high,” he had said, without hesitation. “She shall meet her punishment under the Lord’s eye, and let her sins be judged in the shadows.”

You had stumbled then, your knees buckling as you were pulled out beneath a sky that hadn’t yet darkened.

Now, the minutes passed like a cruel joke. The walls didn’t move. The moon rose.

And no one came.

Not yet.

A girl’s voice broke the silence.

“They sometimes come before the hour. To ready you,” she said, her voice dry, almost gone.

You turned your head toward her.

“They’ll wash your face. Bind your hands. Tie the cloth around your mouth if you cry too loud.”

“They gag you?” you asked, surprised you still had a voice.

“If you scream scripture,” said the other, eyes staring blankly at the ceiling. “They don’t like that.”

You swallowed hard, bile rising.

You didn’t know if you should pray or beg or scream.

You didn’t do any of it.

Instead, you stared at the floor, at the ragged edge of your skirts, and waited for the man to come.

And when the door finally opened again, and the torchlight spilled into the cell, you didn’t flinch.

“Get up,” the constable grunted, stepping toward you.

Your mouth opened but no words came. Your legs shook as you rose.

You wished you had more time.

Just another hour.

Another breath of fresh air.

Another moment to tell your sister you were sorry.

That you’d done nothing wrong. That you weren’t a witch.

That you had only tried to help someone.

But they were already pulling your arms behind you.

The ropes bit at your wrists. You took one last look at the boy in the corner. At the girls. At the woman who had once tied ribbons in your sister’s hair.

And then you were led into the night.

—————

You try to drag your feet, to resist in even the smallest way—to earn yourself a few more seconds—but the constable’s grip is iron, his fingers digging deep into your arms with no mercy. He hauls you forward with a grunt, each step closer to the gallows sends panic crawling up your spine.

The tears prick at your eyes before you even reach the stairs, but once you are standing at the base of them, staring up at the wooden platform under the pale moonlight, they begin to fall. You tremble as your foot lifts for the first step, the coarse wood scrapes against your bare soles. It feels like a walk to the heavens and hell all at once—upward into judgment.

The townsfolk are there. Most of them. Hushed and unmoving in the dark. Children are not permitted out of their homes after dusk, and so it is only the adults—the elders, the watchful, the pious and proud—who stare up at you with stone faces and sharp, burning disdain.

No one meets your eyes.

Not your husband, not your father.

Not even the preacher.

You open your mouth as the rope is pulled tighter around your wrists behind your back, biting into raw skin. The man tying it doesn’t flinch at your wince, and when he steps in front of you, he wastes no time slipping the noose around your neck. The coarse rope scratches your collarbone. Your chest starts to heave.

The pressure in your throat builds until it aches.

And then it breaks.

A sob sputters out first, helpless and wet. Your shoulders tremble, and soon, it isn’t just one—it’s all of them. The kind of crying that doesn’t come from the throat, but from somewhere deeper—from marrow, from soul. Sobs rack your chest like thunder cracking through old wood. Your legs buckle slightly beneath you.

You try to speak, try to plead—anything—but all that comes out is a desperate mess of sound, unintelligible and thick with despair.

“I—please, I didn’t—God—please—”

Your cries spill over your tongue like blood. Nonsensical. Childlike. The kind of sound that makes no difference, no matter how much it begs to.

Still, you weep, your shoulders heaving as the townspeople stare.

As the hangman takes his place.

You open your mouth again, the air sharp in your lungs, and begin to pray.

Not to God alone—though His name crosses your lips first—but to anything, anything, that might hear you. Your voice is barely audible at first, your lips trembling as you mouth sacred words through gasps and salt-slick breath.

“Our Father… who art in Heaven…”

Your lashes flutter against your tear-drenched cheeks, and then slam shut, darkness pressing against your eyes as you whisper into the thick summer night. The rope scrapes the soft skin of your throat each time your chest rises. It feels like burlap and iron, like death’s fingertips pressing too gently before the squeeze.

“Please… please, please,” you murmur into the hush. “Deliver me. I don’t want to die…”

The world holds its breath with you.

Then—

A sound.

A sharp, visceral cry splits the air like lightning against a tree trunk. It doesn’t come from the gallows. It comes from the crowd—sudden and strange, high and raw, too deep to be a child’s voice and too broken to belong to someone still whole.

You freeze, breath hitching.

Another sound follows—a scream—shrill, panicked, dragged from the gut.

Your eyes remain shut, but your ears open like windows to a storm.

Feet pound the dirt—dozens. The soft thud of slippers, the frantic scrape of boots. Sandals dropping. Wood clacking. People are running, pushing, fleeing.

You don’t dare look.

The crowd has become a stampede. You hear it: the shriek of splintering wood as benches are overturned. The sharp crunch of someone stepping on a dropped lantern. The crackling roar of fire somewhere nearby. Screams build like a choir of agony—men and women alike crying out for mercy, some cursing, others weeping prayers into the earth.

“Devil—the Devil is here!”

“He’s got her—he’s come for the witch!”

“God help us—run!”

You tremble violently, lips still moving. You can’t stop praying now. You barely hear yourself over the chaos. Your voice is threadbare and tight, but it doesn’t stop.

“Lead us not into temptation… deliver us from evil…”

Your knees want to give. Your heart batters against your ribcage like it wants out.

Still, you whisper, shaking.

You feel the gallows shift beneath you—wood creaking like it’s groaning under a new weight.

The noose loosens.

Ever so slightly.

Your chest heaves, throat raw from whispering the same half-finished prayer over and over again—words tremble and crumble as they spill from your lips. Each breath you take burns through your lungs, like they are inhaling fire and ash instead of air.

The scent hits you before anything else. Blood. Thick, coppery, and metallic—so potent it seems to crawl up your nose and nestle itself behind your eyes.

Then the scent of something old.

Like soil soaked in centuries of rot and ruin. Like the breath of a cave that had never known light. It slides into your nose like silk and shadow, sweet and wrong all at once.

Your stomach turns, but you don’t dare open them. You stay like that, lids squeezed tight, arms trembling, begging whatever was out there to let you wake from this—if it was a dream, a nightmare, anything but real.

Then, a voice.

Low. Drawling. Drenched in something not quite human.

“Come on now, darlin’,” it murmurs. “You know it’s me.”

There is something wet in his tone, like his throat is thick with blood. Like he is gargling it between every word. Your prayers halt, lips part in disbelief, and the silence around you becomes deafening. The town square—the gallows—is still. Unnaturally so. A void, hollowed out of noise except for the faintest sound of wet, gurgled breathing nearby. You think you can hear something sliding across skin, or bone cracking like branches underfoot.

Your eyes stay shut.

“Open your eyes.”

It isn’t a question. It is a command. Tense. Sharp.

Hands touch your face—hot, trembling, and soaked. You flinch hard, trying to recoil, but his palms cradle your cheeks with a hold that tightens when you pull back. The sticky warmth of blood smears across your skin, seeping into the corners of your mouth and staining your chin.

“…Look at me.”

His voice is tightening now, and his fingers dig in, almost trembling from restrained impatience. His breath, hot and ragged, falls against your lips like steam from a boiling pot. You can hear the wet squelch of his boots in the blood pooling at his feet.

You open your eyes—slowly, like lifting a veil—and you gasp.

There he is. The man you helped that night.

The man from the shed.

But not like before.

He stands before you, soaked in death. Blood mats his shirt, his chest, his neck—his very skin seems stained with it. It clings to his cheeks and mouth like ink smeared across paper. A thick stream runs down his chin and drips onto his chest in rhythmic plops. His lips, slightly parted, reveal rows of teeth too sharp, too wrong, gleaming beneath the flickering torchlight. And those eyes… glow a vivid, haunting red that pierces through the night, brighter than any flame.

His hair is drenched, sticking to his forehead in dark, wild strands, and sweat glistens along his brow as he swallows audibly—gulping down the last remnants of blood still pooling on his tongue.

Your gasp comes like a sob, shaky and full of disbelief, and still, he only stares at you.

He just stares at you.

Silent.

Unblinking.

His eyes burn through the dark like blood-fed embers, glowing brighter each time your body jerks with a sob. There’s no remorse in them—no kindness, no understanding. Only hunger. The kind that doesn’t fade with food or flesh. The kind that settles into something deeper, darker. Eternal.

You gasp again, trembling from the inside out, your sobs tearing through your chest like splinters. You’re shaking so hard your knees threaten to buckle, the rope still loose around your neck. Your breath catches in stutters, and your body jolts with every one.

He tilts his head—slow, measured. Like a predator studying prey that won’t run.

His mouth is parted just slightly, his lips slick with blood. Some of it’s dry, but some of it still glistens, smeared thick along his jaw, dripping fresh from the corner of his mouth. He licks at it absently, as though it’s just the remnants of a meal, not the lives of half the town.

And he still says nothing.

Just watches.

The wind picks up, finally—moving through your hair, stirring the bloodstained strands on his brow. The gallows creak behind you. The ropes sway.

Then—he adjusts his hand again.

Not toward the noose.

Even though your entire body flinches, even though instinct screams to run, you don’t move. You can’t.

He brushes the back of his knuckles down your cheek, and it’s not gentle. It’s slow. Curious. His hand is cold. Slick. The blood on his skin smears across your face, and you suck in a breath like it’ll cleanse you somehow.

“You cried for God,” he murmurs, his voice low, guttural—wet with the blood still clogging his throat. “But I came.”

The sob that escapes you is ugly. Raw. You can’t stop it. You don’t even try.

“Why?” you whisper, your voice a cracked, broken thing.

His expression doesn’t change much—but something flickers. A twitch in his brow. A shift in the tightness of his jaw. Then, a breath.

“Because you showed me mercy when no one else would.”

He steps closer, the air thickening around you, colder now despite the heat radiating off the blood on his body.

He leans in, and his next words are whispered against your lips.

“And I never forget a kindness… no matter what I am.”

His teeth peek through his parted lips, stained red and jagged, not like a man’s at all. His pupils dilate, drowning out the red. And for a moment, you can see it again—that hunger.

It doesn’t matter that he spared you.

He’s still starving.

His tongue darts out again—quick and slick—and this time, you catch the shape of it.

Forked.

Split right at the end like a serpent’s, both tips twitching ever so slightly before disappearing back behind bloodstained teeth.

A gasp chokes in your throat. Your breath stutters out in one sharp hitch, and your lips part with shock you can’t swallow down.

He leans in closer, slowly—like he has all the time in the world—his eyes dragging across your face with a quiet, unnatural intensity. Not the way a man looks at a woman. No. It’s colder than that. Hungrier. As if he’s trying to read you—not your thoughts, but the stitching of your skin, the tremble of your pulse, the heat beneath your flesh.

His head tilts slightly to the side, birdlike. Curious. Unnerving.

You can feel it now, the shift in the air between you—heavy and electric. Something ancient curling at the edges of your gut. It coils tighter with every second his gaze lingers, like it knows you’re being studied not by something human, but something older.

His lips part just slightly, and you see it again—his tongue moving behind his teeth, restless. The memory of its forked tips still dances across your skin, as though he touched you with it instead of the air.

He hums, soft and low, as if he’s decided something.

His head tilts again, eyes never leaving yours, and when he finally speaks, his voice is low and wet—slick with blood and something darker beneath.

“You saved me,” he says simply, like it’s a fact carved into stone. “Dragged me from the edge when I should’ve burned alive in that shed.”

You swallow hard, your lips trembling, but you don’t speak. You can’t. Not when the heat of his breath ghosts over your face and the blood on his skin seeps into the air like smoke.

He leans in closer—closer than he should be—and presses his brow to yours, just barely, enough that you feel the stickiness of whatever coats him.

“And I saved you,” he murmurs, tone shifting—more weight behind it now, like something owed. “Dragged you from the rope. From their fire. From their lies.”

His forked tongue flashes again between his lips as he inhales, as if tasting your skin. You feel the shiver start in your stomach and crawl up your spine.

“Now,” he says, pulling back just enough to let you see the hunger in his eyes, “that makes us even.”

A beat. Then another.

“No… no, wait.” He smiles, and it’s wrong. Sharp and gleaming and too wide. “That makes you mine, doesn’t it?”

His bloodstained fingers trail down your jaw, leaving a tacky path of red in their wake.

“You owe me now, little lamb.” His voice drops to a whisper, barely audible. “And I always come to collect.”

Your breath catches at his words—mine, owe me, collect—and the weight of them settles heavy in your chest like stones dropped into water.

“I… I don’t understand,” you whisper, voice small and thready, like it barely belongs to you.

You mean to ask him what he means—what he wants—but the look in his eyes turns your question to dust. There’s nothing kind in his gaze. Nothing human. Only want. Possession. Hunger.

Not like before.

Worse.

He moves suddenly, too fast for your eyes to follow—one moment standing inches away, the next his entire form flushes against yours, slick chest pressed to your bodice, wet blood soaking through the linen. His hips pin you to the wooden frame behind you and the shock knocks the air clean from your lungs.

You gasp, trying to recoil, but your arms are still bound tight behind your back. The coarse rope bites into your wrists as you jerk against it, panic flaring in your gut like flame to dry grass.

“Please—” you choke out, but your feet shuffle awkwardly on the gallows and you stumble.

The noose.

It pulls tight against your throat the moment your weight shifts, and a strangled cry rips from you. The rope burns across your skin, cruel and unforgiving, and the jolt sends stars bursting behind your eyes.

His hands flash out, catching you by the waist with bruising force, steadying you. His mouth splits into something almost amused—almost delighted.

“Careful now,” he murmurs, tongue flicking out across his lips. “Would hate to lose you so soon.”

His grip doesn’t loosen. If anything, he pulls you closer.

Your breath shudders in your chest as he steadies you, fingers digging into your waist like claws only just restrained. You feel the tremor running through him—not from fear, but from something deeper. Need. Desire. Like it takes effort for him not to devour you where you stand.

The rope still kisses your throat, unforgiving, and you dare not move again.

He leans in slowly, far too slow for comfort. His breath ghosts over your cheek—hot, wet, reeking of iron and rot. Your skin prickles at the sensation, and you squeeze your eyes shut against the closeness.

“Open your eyes,” he murmurs, voice low and velvet-wrapped with something darker beneath. “Don’t you want to see the man who saved your life?”

You shake your head weakly, but your body betrays you. The scent of him overwhelms your senses, and when you do open your eyes, he’s watching you with a look that isn’t kind—it’s possessive. Like you’re a thing he stole from death and now refuses to give back.

“I pulled you from the noose,” he breathes, one hand moving—slow and deliberate—up your side, knuckles grazing the swell of your breast, slow enough to feel every ragged inhale you take. “And you tremble for me now. Not Him. Not God.”

Your mouth parts but no words come. The world is quiet now, too quiet. No more screams. No footfalls. Just the creak of the rope when you breathe wrong and the press of his blood-warm body against yours.

“What… what are you?” you manage to whisper, your voice hoarse from fear and rope-burn.

He only smiles—lazily, horribly—as if the answer isn’t important. As if you’ll know soon enough.

His tongue flicks out to taste the sweat beading at your temple.

“Yours,” he says. “And you, mine. It’s simple, really.”

Then his hand comes up behind your head—not gentle, not harsh—and he leans in again, lips so close you can feel the blood-slick heat of them hover just over your own.

“But first,” he murmurs, “you need to ask me to cut you down.”

And that’s when you realize—you’re still tied. Still caught in the noose. Still held in this half-life between death and something worse.

And if you want to live, you have to ask him.

You have to choose him.

Your lips part, but for a long moment, nothing comes out.

You’re trembling. Not from the cold—it’s still a summer night, and the air clings thick with heat and blood—but from the unbearable weight of his presence, the nearness of his body, and the rope biting into your neck with every tiny movement.

He waits.

Not patiently. His fingers twitch against your skin, the tension rolling off him in waves—like an animal holding itself back from pouncing. His glowing eyes flicker between your mouth and your throat, as if he’s not sure which he wants more.

Your voice is barely above a whisper when it finally pushes past your throat:

“P–please…”

He leans in, ear tilting toward your mouth, as if he’s savoring it. As if he wants to hear every stuttered syllable spill from your lips like a prayer.

“…cut me down.”

The second the words leave you, his smile blooms—dark, wide, wrong. There’s blood in his teeth, and something older in his gaze.

“Atta girl.”

His hand disappears behind you, fingers brushing your bound wrists. The rope creaks above your head as he lifts one arm, and for a brief second you fear he’ll bite it clean through.

But instead—shnk—you hear the sound of something sharp slicing through the binds.

Your arms fall limp at your sides, aching and numb.

Then, his claws move to the noose at your neck.

The tension lifts.

And you collapse forward, into him—too weak to stand, too afraid to pull away.

His arms catch you easily, one slipping around your back, the other curling beneath your knees.

“Now,” he says softly, like a secret pressed to your temple. “You’re mine.”

He begins to walk—away from the gallows, from the moonlit square, from the blood-stained air and the silence that followed slaughter.

You press your face into the damp fabric of his shirt—what’s left of it, trying not to smell the iron-rich blood or the dirt clinging to his skin—but it clings anyway. Everything about him does.

But something tugs at you, something morbid and magnetic. You open your eyes.

And then you see.

Bodies. Dozens of them. Men you recognized from church pews, from town meetings, from your wedding just yesterday. Faces frozen in terror, mouths agape, necks torn or throats crushed in ways no human strength could manage. A few still twitch—barely alive, gasping like fish in the last gasp of a dream.

Your breath stutters.

He doesn’t look down. His eyes stay forward, unreadable, jaw locked, as if this is nothing more than a routine walk in the woods.

But you can’t stop looking. A woman lies in a heap at the edge of the square—her apron soaked with blood, hand still reaching toward something long gone. Another man, one of the judges, is propped against the gallows post. His eyes are wide open, unseeing.

Your throat tightens as nausea crawls up it.

And yet—your arms stay looped around his neck, trembling but holding on.

He carries you like something claimed.

The deeper into the night you go, the quieter it gets—until all you hear is the slow beat of his footsteps through the dirt, the whisper of leaves, and the wet shift of blood against his skin.

Your home appears at the edge of the trees. Familiar. Too familiar. The little house with the sloped roof and the white shutters.

His boots hit the porch with a dull, deliberate thud. The wood groans under his weight, the stillness of the night holding its breath around you.

But he stops.

Right at the threshold.

He doesn’t reach for the handle. Doesn’t push forward.

Instead, he turns his head toward you—slowly. His jaw is tight, eyes darker now, the red glow reduced to a simmering coal at the center of each one.

“You need to invite me in.”

The words are low and quiet, but they drag through the air like smoke, curling with something that doesn’t feel like choice.

Your lips part, the words sticking in your throat.

You hesitate—because you remember the way he looked covered in blood, the pile of bodies you just passed, the way he moved when he tore men apart like wet cloth.

But your body aches. Your wrists burn from the rope. Your neck still tingles from where the noose nearly took your breath.

And you are so tired.

Your gaze meets his, and you whisper—so softly you barely hear yourself:

“…you can come in.”

It happens instantly.

He moves with that impossible speed again, crossing the threshold like smoke funneling into a fire. The moment the house allows him in, it changes him.

The tenderness with which he once carried you drains away in an instant.

Without a word, he strides through the dark house, straight into your bedroom. You barely register the familiar surroundings before you feel it—his fingers tightening around your waist.

And then he throws you.

You hit the bed hard, the mattress creaking beneath you as you gasp, stunned.

His body looms in the doorway now, the low candlelight flickering against the blood still smeared across his skin. His shadow stretches long across the floorboards, swallowing the rug beneath your bed, crawling toward your legs.

Your breath catches as the mattress shifts beneath you. Without thinking, you scramble upright, the back of your gown twisted around your thighs. Your hands press behind you for support, trembling as you push yourself backward until—

thud.

Your spine meets the headboard. Nowhere else to go.

Your eyes never leave him.

He’s moving—slowly, purposefully. A predator that knows its prey is cornered.

The bed dips beneath his weight as he climbs onto it, one knee at a time. His movements are deliberate, like he’s enjoying the fear trembling across your skin. Like this is part of the meal.

His palms plant on the bedspread as he crawls forward, over you. You try to flatten yourself against the headboard, but it’s no use. His frame blocks the candlelight now, casting you in shadow.

He stops only once his body is hovering over yours, so close you can feel the weight of him in the air. His breath fans over your cheek—warm and thick with something metallic beneath it.

You can’t speak. Your throat tightens with fear, with the desperate, unspoken question hanging in the space between you:

What do you want from me?

He doesn’t answer it. He just stares down at you, mouth parted slightly, a drop of something red slipping from the corner of his lip to your neckline.

And then, quietly, he whispers, “You’ve got nowhere left to run, sweetheart.”

Your breath hitches—sharp and shallow—as his shadow swallows yours.

He’s not touching you, not yet. But he doesn’t have to.

The weight of him above you is crushing enough.

You press your back harder into the headboard, trying to disappear into the wood, to shrink beneath the intensity of his stare. But he only leans closer, tilting his head as if he’s studying you like a curiosity. Or prey.

A low sound hums in his throat. It isn’t a growl, not quite—but there’s something inhuman in it. Something that makes your stomach twist and your skin prickle like frost had settled there.

His hand lifts slowly, and instinct makes you flinch—but it doesn’t stop him. His fingers graze your cheek, trailing blood along your skin where his nails cut earlier. The pad of his thumb drags over your lower lip, slow and deliberate. Testing the shape of your mouth.

Your lips part on reflex, a tiny, stuttered gasp escaping. His eyes darken at the sound.

“You’re still afraid of me,” he says. It’s not a question. It’s a certainty.

And he likes it.

You try to speak, but nothing comes out at first. Your throat is too tight. Too raw. You manage, finally, to whisper, “What… do you want from me?”

He leans closer—so close now you feel the scrape of his breath along your collarbone, the damp heat of his presence like fire trapped beneath your skin.

“I told you,” he murmurs. “You saved me. I saved you. But we’re not even yet.”

He brushes his nose along your jaw, inhaling deep.

“There’s still a debt to be paid, darlin’.”

His mouth hovers just over your throat, lips parted, breath warm, and you feel the tremble work its way through your limbs. You can’t tell if it’s terror—or the slow, confusing churn of something else.

His lips finally press to your throat—wet and warm, and slick with blood not your own.

You suck in a gasp, your body tensing as the sticky smear coats your skin, seeping into the hollow beneath your jaw. The kiss is slow, deliberate. Not tender. Not loving. It’s a claim.

You try to pull away, but his hand rises—steady, unshakable—and cradles the side of your head. Fingers dig into your scalp just enough to keep you still.

“Stay,” he murmurs against your pulse, voice low and thick, tongue brushing the blood as he speaks. “You move again, I might take it as a challenge.”

You can feel his breath as he drags his mouth along your throat, smearing more blood across your skin. It’s warm. The scent of iron is sharp and cloying in your nose, filling your head with a dizzy fog.

He kisses you again, just under your jaw this time, slower, wetter. His tongue flicks out briefly, tasting your skin like it holds the answers he’s starving for.

Your hands clench the sheets beside you.

He presses his nose to your neck—just above the frantic flutter of your pulse—and inhales deep.

A low, guttural groan spills from him, hot and damp against your skin. The sound vibrates through you, setting every nerve alight.

You feel him then—his hips shifting forward, grinding into your thigh with deliberate pressure. He’s hard. You can feel it, heavy and insistent, even through the bloodied fabric of his clothes.

His breath stutters as he ruts against you once, twice, like he can’t help it. Like the scent of your fear and heat has unraveled what little restraint he had left.

“You smell like life,” he murmurs, voice husky and ragged. “Like fire beneath flesh.”

His mouth skims your jaw, sticky with blood and slick need, and his hips roll again—slow and filthy. The hand at your head tightens just slightly, not cruelly, but enough to remind you who holds you still.

“Tell me no,” he whispers, “and I’ll stop.”

But he doesn’t move.

Doesn’t pull away.

Just waits—panting and trembling against your skin—while his body thrums with monstrous want.

You’re about to shake your head—your breath trembling as it catches in your throat—but then he lifts his face from your neck.

His eyes, still glowing faintly red, lock with yours.

He stares for a moment too long, and something in you stills. Like a rabbit caught in the gaze of something far too hungry to be human.

“I’m so thankful you helped me,” he murmurs, voice low and syrup-thick with emotion. “You didn’t have to. But you did.”

His thumb brushes your cheek now, tender, as if he hadn’t just smeared blood across your skin. As if he hadn’t slaughtered the people you once knew and loved.

“And I was happy to help you,” he says. “To save you. I’d do it again. For you.”

You’re breathing harder now, chest rising in shallow waves. You don’t know what to say. You don’t know if you’re more frightened of what he’s done—or what he’s doing now.

His eyes soften, just enough to make you question the fear clawing at your ribs.

“We were meant to find each other,” he continues, his voice dropping to something more fragile, more human—though the monster still lingers in his gaze. “You feel it too, don’t you?”

He leans closer, so close his nose nearly brushes yours.

“You belong to me now. That’s what this is. You saved me, I saved you. That means something.”

Your mouth opens slightly, but no sound comes out.

His fingers slide down your neck, slow—possessive.

“This world turned on both of us,” he breathes. “Let me give you something good… something real. You don’t need to be scared anymore.”

His lips hover just above yours, and his hips shift again—subtle but weighted.

“Just let me,” he whispers. “Say yes, and I’ll be gentle.”

But the look in his eyes says he’s not asking. Not really.

You stare at him for a long time.

Too long.

The air between you thickens, weighed down by the scent of blood, sweat, and something darker—older. Your heart thuds violently behind your ribs, like it knows something your mouth hasn’t yet spoken.

The hesitation builds in your chest like a fire—flickering, choking, desperate for air. You don’t know what part of you it’s burning away: the fear, or the voice that told you to run.

He waits, unmoving.

Patient.

Predatory.

And you’re still frozen beneath him, lips parted slightly, your breath shallow and hot against the space between your bodies. His eyes don’t waver. They hold you there, like he’s already claimed you, and this—this moment—is just formality.

Slowly, your head begins to nod.

It’s barely perceptible at first, just the smallest tremble of motion. But he sees it. You know he does. The corners of his mouth twitch, something like triumph—or hunger—flickering through his expression.

Your lips part. A breath escapes you, shaky, thin.

“…Yes.”

The word barely leaves your mouth before he moves.

His mouth crashes onto yours.

There’s nothing gentle about it—no softness, no pause for breath. It’s all heat and hunger, his fangs clashing against your teeth like he’s trying to devour you whole. The taste of iron smears across your lips as his mouth moves with a desperation that feels less like a kiss and more like a claiming.

You gasp against him, and he takes it—draws it in like it belongs to him.

At first, you’re still, rigid beneath the weight of him and the overwhelming wildness of his kiss. But then—slowly, almost helplessly—your lips begin to move with his. Guided by his mouth, his hunger. His rhythm. As if something inside of you recognizes the language of his want and answers back in kind.

His hands frame your face now, blood-slicked palms holding you still as his kiss deepens, grows messier. You can feel the sharp graze of his fangs against your lip, and the heat of his breath as he exhales through his nose—shaky, trembling with need.

One of his hands drifts down from your face, gliding over the curve of your body until it finds your hip. His fingers dig in—tight, possessive—like he’s trying to mold your flesh to fit beneath his palm. You gasp at the sudden pressure, your breath hitching sharply in your throat.

And he takes it—takes you.

The moment your lips part, his tongue pushes into your mouth, slick and hot and demanding. He tastes of copper and something darker, something old. His tongue moves with purpose, curling against yours, exploring the inside of your mouth like it belongs to him.

The grip on your hip tightens as his body presses more firmly into yours. You feel the slow, grinding weight of him, the way he cages you in, the way your body responds even through the haze of fear and confusion. His kiss grows deeper—sloppier—and he groans low into your mouth, like your taste is enough to unravel him.

Teeth scrape against your lower lip, his fangs threatening to pierce as they press too close. A sound tears from his throat, something between a groan and a growl, and his hips roll hard against yours. There’s no mistaking the shape of him—thick and hard through the rough fabric of his trousers, grinding against your soft, yielding body like he can’t help himself.

His hand leaves your hip only to grab at your thigh, lifting and forcing it around his waist as he settles more fully on top of you. He feels inhuman in his strength—like bone and sinew stretched tight around something not made to be here. Something wrong.

His voice comes hot against your jaw. “you feel that?” he grinds harder. “That's all for you, little lamb. mine now.”

His fingers move up, skimming the underside of your dress. not gentle. not kind. rough hands that tremble from restraint—like he’s holding back something animal and barely leashed. The fabric tears when he grows impatient, the sound ripping through the room like a warning. He hisses in delight at the sight of your bare skin, slick with sweat, trembling beneath him.

“So warm,” he murmurs, dragging his nose along your collarbone. “like something begging to be ruined.”

Your breath catches when he bites—not hard enough to break skin, but enough to sting. To threaten.

You don’t know if your body is burning from fear or need, but your thighs part all the same when he presses between them.

His hand slides higher beneath your gown, slow like a promise or a threat—you can’t tell which. The fabric gathers at your hips, baring your thighs to the cool air and his greedy touch.

His fingers trail the soft flesh of your inner thigh, feather-light at first, but filled with purpose. A tremble rolls through your legs, and he hums at the way your body reacts—how it anticipates him now.

“So soft,” he murmurs, almost to himself, the tip of his nose brushing your cheek. “like you were made for this.”

You barely get the chance to breathe before his fingers reach the place where the ache pulses hot and steady.

A sharp gasp tears from your throat the moment he squeezes—tight, possessive—and something stings.

Pain blooms bright and sudden in your skin, not deep, but there, and your eyes snap wide as the pressure sharpens.

You glance down just as his claws—no longer fully hidden—dig gently into your thigh. not enough to draw blood… but enough to threaten it.

His smile turns wicked. “Whoops.” he doesn’t sound sorry.

The heat between your legs flares at the sound of his voice, dark and rough with desire.

“Shouldn’t be scared,” he whispers as his nose presses into the crook of your neck again, inhaling deep. “You said yes, remember? I'm just gettin’ what’s mine.”

And still—his hand doesn’t move. it lingers right there at the edge of your ruin, fingers twitching, claws grazing, daring you to beg.

His hand lingers. Unmoving. Heavy with intent.

You can feel the heat of his palm radiating just inches from where you need him most—so close it makes your thighs twitch. But he doesn’t touch you. not yet.

Instead, his claws—those wicked tips—trace slow circles along your inner thigh, a whisper of sensation that sends goosebumps skittering up your spine.

“Look at you,” he mutters, voice thick and unholy against your throat. “shakin’ like a sinner in the rain.”

His tongue darts out again—forked, you remember now, serpentine—and it licks a slow line up the column of your neck, tasting you like a promise.

You gasp, chest stuttering against his. Your hips shift upward—an unconscious plea—and he laughs, low and breathless. It’s not kind.

“You want it,” he says, and there’s no question in it. just fact. “want me to play with you… open you up real slow.”

Your lips part, a shaky breath hitching in your throat, but you can’t bring yourself to say it. You just nod—small, trembling.

“Good girl,” he breathes, and then—

His fingers move.

Slowly. Deliberately.

One clawed finger curls beneath the band of your panties, and he wastes no time—tugging them down in one slow, deliberate pull. The fabric peels away from your heat-damp skin, dragging over your thighs as he goes.

The slickness clings and catches, smearing along your inner thighs as he lowers the garment inch by inch, until it pools loosely around your ankles.

His breath brushes your bare skin as he leans in, admiring the sight of you now fully exposed, and you feel your chest rise and fall like a trembling wave.

His hand returns—slow, deliberate—settling between your thighs like a promise. One finger lingers at your entrance, hovering just long enough to make your breath hitch. And then—he slips just inside.

A slick, gliding motion up through soaked folds.

He groans.

The sound is guttural, unrestrained, like the feel of you has undone him completely. His head drops against your shoulder, his breath hot and heavy against your skin, as if the wet heat of you alone is enough to shatter his composure.

“So warm,” he murmurs, tongue flicking against your skin as he speaks. “So wet.”

He doesn’t push completely inside you—no, not yet. Instead, he drags his finger up and down your slit in torturously slow motions, letting the pads of his claws skirt over your clit without ever pressing in.

your hips jerk, breath hitching, and he chuckles darkly.

“Beg,” he whispers. “say you want it. say you want me to ruin you.”

You hesitate—just for a moment.

Your breath stutters, caught in your throat like a prayer. The weight of him, the heat of his body pressed so close, the slickness between your thighs—it’s overwhelming. Too much. Not enough.

Your fingers curl into the sheets.

“Please,” you whisper, the word barely audible—hoarse and trembling. Your voice breaks as you say it again, louder this time, needier. “Please… go further.”

His breath drags out, thick with hunger, and you feel the way his shoulders tense at your plea. A low sound escapes him, something dark and pleased—as though your begging had been what he was waiting for all along.

Without a word, he shifts, and you brace yourself as his hand moves again—broad, streaked with gore, the pads of his fingers still damp from teasing you. He drags them slowly back through your slick folds, spreading the wetness, smearing it across your skin like oil to flame.

You twitch beneath him.

He hums at that. Low. Dark. Amused.

Then he presses the tip of a single finger in.

You tense instantly.

It’s not the stretch—yet. It’s the feel of it. Cold. Smooth. Not entirely human.

His claw.

You feel the way it curves ever so slightly—natural, bone-deep—just enough to make your breath catch.

He pauses.

Not out of mercy.

Out of reverence.

Like your cunt is something sacred, and he’s been denied it for far too long.

“You’re tight,” he murmurs, voice low, like it’s for you and no one else. “Still scared?”

You don’t answer.

Your hands fist the sheets, breath coming in shallow gasps. Not from fear. Not fully. It’s something more than that—something deeper. Wound tight behind your ribs.

His clawed finger presses in farther.

A slow, deliberate thrust. Not enough to hurt, but just enough to remind you what he is. What he’s capable of. What you’ve owed him since he saved you from death.

You suck in a breath through your teeth. Your body clenches, involuntary, around the intrusion.

He groans.

Deep. Rough. Like your walls fluttering around just one finger wrecks him more than any throat he’s torn open.

“Still soft,” he says, dragging it back out with the same aching slowness. “Still warm.”

His thumb grazes your clit as he thrusts back in again—this time deeper.

You arch.

Your hips rise to meet him without meaning to.

And he stills.

“Mm.” His head tilts slightly as he watches your body respond, like he’s studying it. Studying you. “You’ll take more.”

It’s not a question.

It’s a sentence.

His voice drops lower, almost tender—almost.

“You owe me.”

Your throat tightens.

His hand is steady, patient, as his finger moves again, careful of the claw—pumping in and out at a rhythm just slow enough to drive you mad.

He leans down, lips brushing your jaw.

“I’ll take my time.”

He doesn’t move faster.

Just deeper.

The tip of his finger curves with every pump, dragging along the soft, untouched parts of you no one’s ever reached.

He watches the way your body reacts—how your thighs twitch, how your breath stumbles. How your walls keep fluttering around him, trying to draw more in, even as your shoulders tense.

His mouth brushes your ear.

“You’ll stretch for me,” he whispers.

It’s not just words—it’s a prophecy. A vow. A threat wound in velvet.

His thumb returns to your clit again, no pressure, just presence. Circling. Watching. Waiting.

“You’ll take all of me, even when it hurts,” he says, his voice hushed and rough. “Even when you’re begging me to stop.”

You flinch—whether from fear or need, you don’t know.

His finger pushes in again. Deeper this time. Firmer.

“You’ll beg again,” he murmurs, and his smile is audible now. “But not like you just did.”

Another slow curl of his knuckle, and your hips jolt.

“You’ll beg for me to finish inside you. To spill into you until it sticks.”

Your breath catches hard.

You’re trembling now—quiet, barely breathing, pinned to the bed by nothing but the pressure of his hand inside you and the sound of his voice in your ear.

He drags his mouth down your throat—presses a kiss to the skin there, where your pulse flutters wild beneath his lips.

“And when I do…” His voice is low. Hungrier. “When you’re marked on the inside… swollen from what I gave you…”

His nose brushes your cheek. Blood still streaks his mouth, dried in the corners.

“…You’ll carry it for me. Every drop.”

His finger curls again.

You moan—quiet and broken.

His lips part in a pleased sigh, like that sound was all he needed.

He doesn’t stop.

Doesn’t add another finger yet.

Just keeps working that same one inside you—slow, knowing thrusts, letting your body shape around him, letting the air grow heavy with heat and inevitability.

The promise of what’s coming.

Of what you’ll take.

Of what he’ll leave inside.

And when you clench again, when your breath slips out in a shaky sob—he moans back.

Like he feels it too.

His finger slips out of you with a soft sound—wet and obscene in the silence.

You gasp at the loss, your hips lifting slightly in a wordless plea, but he doesn’t respond. Not with touch. Not yet.

Instead, he lowers himself between your thighs.

The mattress shifts.

His breath ghosts over your inner thigh, dragging a shiver straight up your spine. He doesn’t speak this time. Just spreads you wider, his bloodstained hands pushing gently at the backs of your knees until you’re laid open for him.

You feel the air brush your slick folds. Feel the weight of his stare.

And then—

his tongue.

One long, slow lick from your entrance to your clit.

Your whole body arches.

It’s not just his mouth—it’s the groan he lets out when he tastes you. A deep, guttural sound that vibrates against your skin, like he’s been starving and you’re the only thing he’s ever wanted.

He moans again, sloppier this time, mouth dragging down to press hot kisses against the inside of your thigh—right where your blood pulses.

His fangs skim there. Light. Teasing.

But he doesn’t bite.

Instead, he spits—just a little—against your cunt, watching it drip down between your folds.

“Slick already,” he murmurs, voice reverent. “Just from a finger.”

You barely manage a sound. Just a soft whimper, desperate and unformed.

And then you feel it again.

His fingers.

Two this time.

He doesn’t warn you.

He just pushes in—slow but firm, stretching you open with more pressure, more weight, the curve of his claws dragging just right along the softest parts inside.

Your breath shatters. Your legs twitch.

He groans into the inside of your thigh as he fucks you with his fingers, the pace slow but deep, like he’s mapping you from the inside out.

“Look at that,” he breathes. “Takin’ both. Tight little thing.”

Your hips jerk. His mouth finds your clit this time, licking once—slow and lazy—while his fingers press deeper still.

“You’ll take my cock next,” he growls. “Every inch. And you won’t be able to close your legs when I’m done.”

He pumps his fingers again. Steady. Wet. Deep.

“And you’ll thank me for it.”

He groans again—quiet, but raw.

You feel it in the way his fingers curl deep inside you, pressing up until your back arches sharply off the mattress.

“There,” he says, almost gently.

“Right there.”

He finds it again, that soft, hidden place inside you, and strokes it.

Once.

Twice.

Then again.

And again.

Your legs start to tremble. Your breath shatters.

His mouth returns to your clit—hot, open-mouthed kisses, slow laps of his tongue between the pulses of his fingers working inside you.

Sloppy. Focused. Worshipful.

“Don’t fight it,” he murmurs between strokes. “Let me feel you come on my hand.”

You choke on a gasp. Your hands claw the sheets.

Your body feels stretched tight, everything burning and wet, the heat of it building in your belly, climbing with every push of his fingers and every pass of his tongue.

You whimper.

That only spurs him on.

He sucks your clit into his mouth and groans, deep and low, his tongue flattening over it just as his fingers pump harder—curling with more pressure now, more purpose.

The tension snaps.

Your orgasm hits like a wave crashing through your ribs—sharp and hot and all-consuming.

Your thighs lock around his head, hips grinding up against his mouth as you sob out something that barely sounds like his name.

He holds you there.

Lets you ride it out.

Fingers still stroking deep.

Tongue still moving, slower now, coaxing every drop of pleasure from you.

“Good girl,” he breathes, lifting his head, lips shiny with your slick.

His voice is ragged with hunger. “That’s it. That’s what I wanted.”

Your body trembles.

You’re soaked. Wide open. Panting.

And his fingers are still inside you.

You’re still trembling.

Your thighs twitch where they fall open again, slick with sweat and the mess of your climax. The air feels too thick, the bedsheets too hot. Your pulse pounds between your legs—and in your throat—and everywhere else he’s touched.

He pulls his fingers from you slow.

Your walls clench around the loss, fluttering as though they could drag him back in, and you hear the soft, wet drag of your arousal clinging to his skin.

He doesn’t wipe it away.

Instead, he brings those blood-streaked fingers to his mouth and sucks them in, slow and deep, lips wrapping around the taste of you with a low, obscene groan.

You watch. You can’t look away.

And then he moves.

Crawls up the bed until he’s over you—his body heavy, shadowed, warm despite the blood dried against his chest. His scent is thick with iron and earth and something that still smells like your cunt.

He leans down.

Mouth beside your ear. Lips nearly brushing your skin.

One hand plants beside your head. The other drops low—palm pressing over the hard shape of his cock, still trapped behind his pants.

You feel it.

The size of him. The heat.

The tension in his arm as his hips twitch, just slightly, against his own hand.

He groans again—low—like the weight of it is almost too much to hold back.

“I should make you beg again,” he whispers, voice thick, soaked in something primal. “Make you cry for it.”

His hand rubs down the length of himself, slow, deliberate. You feel the bed shift beneath the movement, the air growing warmer as he exhales into your hair.

“Should keep you like this for hours. Open. Shaking. Dripping all over my cock without ever gettin’ filled.”

You moan—quiet and aching.

His lips graze your earlobe.

“But I think I’ve waited long enough.”

He palms himself again—more pressure this time, the drag of his hand slow, teasing. You can hear it now, too. Hear how wet he is from you. How soaked the front of his pants are.

“You feel how hard I am, don’t you?” he breathes.

You nod.

His mouth trails along your jaw, lips brushing blood-streaked skin. “I’m gonna tear this cunt in half, sweetheart.”

You shudder.

He presses his hips into you—just enough for you to feel it. The length of him, thick and aching, ready to push in and ruin you.

“But not yet.”

His fingers trace your mouth, smearing a mix of your slick and his spit across your lips.

“I want you to remember every second before it happens.”

He kisses your temple once, strangely gentle.

Then he moves back.

And starts to unbuckle his belt.

The buckle clinks.

Loud in the quiet, like the toll of a warning bell. Like the sound of something final, and coming.

You watch his hands—blood-caked knuckles, the dried gore at the bend of his wrist. His fingers move unhurried, practiced.

The leather slides free from the loops, slow enough that the soft pull of it against fabric makes your stomach tighten.

He doesn’t speak.

Doesn’t have to.

The air between you says enough—thick with your scent, with blood, with the lingering weight of everything he’s already promised to do to you.

His pants hang open.

He presses his palm flat to his cock, rubbing once over the soaked front of his briefs. He hisses through his teeth—his jaw tight, head tipped back for a single breath.

Then he pushes them down.

And you see him.

All of him.

There’s no flourish. No pretense. Just heat, and want, and the slick glisten of precum painting the tip of his cock—dark and flushed and heavy, already so hard it twitches when the air hits it.

You can’t look away.

He’s thick. Long. Veined with something that looks almost wrong under the low light—like it’s alive in a different way than a man should be.

He sees your stare.

Smirks.

“Bigger than you thought?” he asks, voice dry, rasped.

You say nothing.

You can’t.

Your mouth is dry. Your thighs wet. And your body—already open, already aching—tightens around nothing as if it can feel him there already.

He wraps a hand around the base of himself, slow, languid.

Strokes up once.

You flinch at the sight of it—not from fear, but from knowing.

He’s going to ruin you.

He leans forward, eyes never leaving yours, and murmurs—

“You sure you want this?”

It’s not a question of consent.

If anything, it’s a question that gives you a false sense of control.

And you answer the only way you can—lips parted, legs still wide, cunt fluttering from the memory of his fingers.

He doesn’t speak again.

Not when he climbs over you, the bed dipping beneath his weight.

Not when his hand slides beneath your knee, lifting your leg just enough to open you wider for him.

Only his breathing changes—

deepening.

Thickening.

Turning hungry again.

His cock presses to your entrance—hot, slick, heavy—and your breath stutters the second you feel the blunt head notch against you.

You’re still wet.

Still pulsing from the last orgasm.

Still stretched—but not enough.

Not for this.

He holds himself still for a moment, just… there—the heat of him burning against your folds.

“Relax,” he murmurs, the words barely a breath.

Then he pushes.

Just the tip.

You tense—your walls tightening reflexively as they struggle to accommodate him.

He groans through his teeth, like the squeeze of your body already has him seeing stars.

“Fuck,” he rasps, head bowing. “You’re gonna be the death of me.”

He gives you another inch.

Slow.

Measured.

Unforgiving.

Your jaw falls open, eyes fluttering.

He’s thick—every ridge, every vein dragging against your walls in slow motion. He moves like he wants you to feel it. Every inch. Every stretch.

And you do.

Your body trembles, helpless under him.

Your nails curl into the sheets.

He bottoms out on a breathless moan.

“Just like that,” he pants. “Took all of me.”

He doesn’t move.

Not yet.

You’re too full. Too stretched. Your cunt spasms around him, slick and tight and overwhelmed, and you swear you feel your heartbeat in your core.

He leans in—mouth at your ear, voice wrecked.

“Feel that?” he whispers. “That’s mine now.”

Then he rolls his hips—just once.

And your whole body shatters open.

He stays deep.

Buried to the hilt, his hips pressed flush to yours, cock pulsing inside the tight, wet clutch of your cunt.

Neither of you moves.

Your chest rises and falls in shallow, ragged breaths, sweat beading at your collar. Your thighs tremble, parted wide around his hips, your muscles strained and twitching from the stretch of him.

It’s too much.

You try to speak—but all that comes out is a shaky breath, your eyes fluttering closed, jaw slack with the effort of staying open for him.

Remmick watches you.

Eyes dark.

Mouth parted.

Throat working like he’s barely holding something back.

His body is trembling above yours. Not visibly. Not to most. But you feel it—his tension, the restraint in his muscles as your walls pulse around him.

And then—

He bucks forward.

A sudden, involuntary thrust—deep, sharp, too much—and the sound that rips from your throat is raw, startled, halfway to a sob.

But before you can speak—before you can breathe—

his mouth crashes against yours.

He kisses you hard. Not rough—but consuming.

A kiss that devours your cry, swallows the noise in your throat.

His hand cups your jaw, blood-warm and steady, as his hips hold deep inside you, pulsing, unmoving again.

When he finally pulls away—his breath stuttering across your mouth—his forehead stays pressed to yours.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, voice low.

But he isn’t.

You hear it in the curl of it.

The breathlessness.

The way his mouth twitches like he’s tasting the echo of your cry and savoring it.

He nuzzles closer, voice quiet.

“You’re just… fuck,” he breathes, cock twitching deep inside you. “You’re too tight. Too warm. I couldn’t help it.”

The words sound gentle.

But there’s no guilt in them.

Only want.

Only the promise that he’ll do it again.

And when his hips shift just the smallest bit—just enough for you to feel him still hard, still throbbing—he groans against your throat and murmurs:

“Don’t tense up now, sweetheart.”

A pause.

Then—his lips at your ear, soft and cruel:

“You’re gonna feel every inch again.”

His hips shift.

Not a thrust. Not yet. Just pressure.

The slow grind of his cock dragging along your walls, stretching you in that same unbearable fullness—but with movement now. With friction. With promise.

You gasp, the sound punched out of you before you can catch it.

He hears it. Feels it.

And he smiles.

Not soft.

Not kind.

But slow—and satisfied. The kind of smile a man wears when he knows he has time. When he knows you’re not going anywhere.

He draws his hips back.

Only an inch.

Then pushes in again.

Deep. Unhurried. Intentional.

You moan, thighs twitching around his waist.

His hands frame your hips now, holding you in place like he’s anchoring you to the bed—like he’s the only thing keeping you from floating off somewhere too bright, too much.

He leans in again, nose brushing yours, lips nearly touching.

“You feel that?” he murmurs.

Another slow thrust.

Another sharp inhale from you.

“Every inch,” he breathes. “You’re squeezin’ me like you never wanna let go.”

Your fingers claw weakly at the sheets, nerves frayed with overstimulation. He’s so deep, so full, that your body doesn’t know what to do except take it.

And he knows that.

He watches your face as he fucks you slow—eyes locked to every flicker of pain, of pleasure, of tension trying to hold on.

“You were made for this,” he says. “To be filled. To be bred.”

He thrusts again—just a little harder this time. Still slow. Still measured. But enough that it presses deep, kisses the part of you that makes your toes curl.

You cry out again—soft, desperate.

His thumb brushes your lower lip. Blood smears from his knuckle to your mouth.

“You wanna come again, don’t you?” he whispers.

Another thrust.

Long. Heavy. Grinding.

“You want me to make you soak this cock—over and over—until I’ve filled you so deep it leaks for days.”

You nod. It’s all you can do.

He moves again.

A sharper buck of his hips this time—still deep, still slow, but with weight behind it. You gasp, body jolting beneath him, fingers grasping blindly at his forearms.

He does it again.

Then again.

Each thrust steadier. Harder. Dragging the thick length of him out just enough before slamming back in, until your gasps become a rhythm of their own—soft, punched-out sounds he seems to be chasing with every movement.

You can feel him growing hungrier with it.

Not just in the way he fucks you—but in the sounds he makes. The way his breath goes ragged at your ear. The way his hands tighten on your hips. The way his cock pulses inside you like his body is starving for release.

“You hear that?” he pants, voice rough now. “That wet fuckin’ sound you’re makin’?”

Another thrust—deep, unyielding. Your back arches.

“You did that. That’s you.”

His hips snap forward again, harder.

And again.

Until there’s no mistaking what this has become.

He’s rutting into you now—thrust after thrust, the rhythm no longer gentle, no longer careful. It’s claiming. It’s brutal. It’s the kind of fucking that leaves bruises deep where no one can see.

Your breath comes in ragged whimpers, the stretch of him constant, overwhelming. Your legs shake where they wrap around his waist. He reaches down, grabs the back of your thigh, and hauls it up higher over his hip, opening you wider.

You cry out at the angle.

“That’s it,” he growls, fangs scraping your cheek now, breath hot and wet. “Take it. Let me ruin this pussy the way I was meant to.”

He slams in again, and your whole body rocks with it.

He groans—deep, guttural—and his voice slips low, almost reverent as he fucks into you, faster now, chasing something dark and inevitable.

“I’m gonna fill you up,” he pants, hips relentless. “You’ll be dripping with me for days.”

He doesn’t hold back.

His hips slam into yours with punishing force, cock driving deep again and again, the wet slap of skin on skin filling the room like thunder. Each thrust punches a sound out of you—gasps, moans, strangled cries as your body surrenders under him, trembling from the force of it.

He’s grunting above you now—low, growling sounds, rough with effort. With hunger. With something darker still.

You clutch at the sheets. At him. At anything.

But he doesn’t notice.

Or—he doesn’t care.

Something’s shifting in him.

You feel it in the way his hips move—more erratic, more brutal. There’s nothing tender left in the way he drives into you. Just raw need. Just power. Just the demand to be felt—to be remembered inside you.

He snarls suddenly, and you flinch—not from fear, but from instinct.

His head jerks back.

And that’s when you see it.

His mouth is open—lips curled, fangs fully descended, sharp and slick. Drool spills from the corners, thick and shining in the low light, trailing in slow ropes down his chin.

It drips onto you.

Hot.

Wet.

Lands on your collarbone with a soft splatter, and more follows—warm streaks of saliva painting your skin as he fucks into you like an animal in heat.

You stare up at him—chest heaving, lips parted, eyes wide.

His eyes don’t meet yours.

They’re half-lidded. Unfocused. Wild.

His tongue swipes across his bottom lip, catching the next drop of spit—but another trails right after, falling from his mouth to your throat like he’s starving and you’re the feast he doesn’t dare bite yet.

“Mine,” he snarls, voice guttural. Barely human. “You’re mine.”

His hips snap forward again—harder than before—and your whole body jerks from the force.

The mattress creaks beneath you. The headboard knocks faintly against the wall. Your nails dig into his back now, desperate for something to hold onto.

And still—he keeps going.

Cock thick and heavy inside you, drool slicking your chest, fangs glinting just inches above your skin.

There’s no man left in him now.

Only the monster.

Only the thing that waited. That hunted. That took.

He pulls back.

Not fully—not out of mercy, and not to give you any relief.

Just far enough to look.

His thrusts slow, but stay deep. He shifts his weight onto one arm and lifts his torso slightly, gaze dropping between your bodies.

And then—he groans.

Low. Heavy. Shattered.

Because he sees it.

The thick, slick mess coating his cock, shining in the dark.

Your fluids—the aftermath of your orgasm, still glistening where you’ve soaked his fingers. His own precum, smeared in milky strands along the base. And now—blood.

Bright.

Wet.

Where the relentless drag of him forced your body beyond its limits.

He watches it all—entranced.

Watches the way your cunt stretches around him, fluttering helplessly as he pushes back in. Watches how the mix of blood and slick gathers at your entrance, squelching as he thrusts.

A string of it clings to the root of his cock when he draws back again, sticking to your folds, then snapping as he drives home with another sharp thrust.

You gasp.

Your legs jerk.

And still—his eyes stay fixed on the spot where your bodies join.

“Look at this pussy,” he growls, almost to himself. “Fucking dripping for me.”

He grinds in again, slowly this time, like he wants to feel every inch drag through the mess.

Your body quakes beneath him.

Your walls tighten in pulses, trying to keep him there, milk him deeper.

Another low moan leaves his throat—wrecked, shaky, like the sight is unraveling him faster than he can control.

He rocks into you again.

Deeper.

Slower.

Until blood and slick spill from your cunt in slow drips, painting the backs of your thighs, the sheets below.

And still—he doesn’t look away.

“You see this?” he rasps, glancing up at you through his lashes. “You see what I did to you?”

You can barely nod.

He leans down then, tongue dragging up the blood-smeared column of your throat.

“I haven’t even come yet.”

He doesn’t hold back now.

His restraint breaks all at once—like something in him snaps—and suddenly, he’s slamming into you with full force, hips snapping forward in hard, merciless thrusts that make the bed frame groan beneath your bodies.

Your cry catches in your throat.

He buries himself deep, over and over, and each time the drag of his cock sends a jolt through your spine. He’s not just fucking you—he’s consuming you. Devouring every sound, every shiver, every flutter of your body trying to keep up.

You feel it again.

The pressure.

The tight, hot build of release curling deep in your belly.

Your thighs start to shake. Your nails claw into his shoulders.

And he feels it too.

Feels the way your cunt starts to flutter around him—too wet, too tight, too close to the edge.

“Fuck,” he pants, mouth at your ear. “That’s it. Just like that. Squeeze me—fuck, baby, you feel that?”

His voice is a mess now—deep, breathless, ruined.

You try to speak, but it turns into a gasp as he drives in deeper, harder, his cock punching into the softest part of you until your whole body arches.

“You gonna come for me?” he snarls. “You gonna come all over my cock? Let me feel it?”

You sob out a yes—barely a word, barely a sound—but it’s enough.

He pistons into you, chasing your climax, chasing the way you tighten around him, the way your walls start to convulse, wetter with each thrust.

And then it hits.

Your orgasm tears through you like fire—legs locking around him, body trembling as you clamp down on his cock with a slick, vice-tight grip that makes him groan loud against your neck.

“Shit—just like that—”

He keeps thrusting.

Rougher now. Harsher.

The wet sounds of your bodies slapping together are soaked and obscene, echoing off the walls as your cunt milks him through the aftermath of your release.

And he’s cursing with every thrust now.

“Fuck— so tight—fuckin’ perfect—gonna fill you up—”

His voice breaks.

His thrusts falter.

He’s right on the edge.

He doesn’t last another second.

Not with the way you’re pulsing around him, cunt still spasming from your climax. Not with the way you cry out again—soft, broken, desperate—as he thrusts through it like he’s drowning inside you.

His breath punches from his lungs.

His hips slam forward one last time—so deep you swear you feel him in your throat—and then he growls.

A vicious, guttural sound that comes from somewhere deeper than his chest. Something ancient. Something monstrous.

And then—

He sinks his teeth into your neck.

Hard.

His fangs pierce deep, past skin, past the bruises already blooming across your throat. The pain is sharp, white-hot—and then it’s drowned in heat.

Because he comes.

Hard.

His cock jerks inside you, and then he’s spilling himself—thick, endless pulses of hot cum filling your cunt, spilling past the tight clutch of your body as he holds himself buried deep, grinding through every pulse.

Your breath stutters—choked by the sting of his bite, by the warmth flooding your core.

You feel everything.

The stretch. The weight. The claiming.

His cock twitching inside you. His tongue lapping at the blood seeping from your neck. His hips rolling slowly, shallowly, wringing every last drop of release into you.

And still—he doesn’t let up.

Doesn’t pull out.

Doesn’t stop.

He growls again against your skin, quieter now, mouth still latched to the wound as he licks over it. You feel him swallow.

You feel him stay.

Even as the spasms slow. Even as your body trembles beneath him—wrecked, open, slick and full.

Even then, he stays buried to the hilt, cock slowly softening.

And then you hear him whisper—against your bloody throat, voice rough:

“Now you’re mine.”

#remmick x reader #remmick smut #remmick imagine

687 notes · View notes

sapphiressmoke · 29 days ago

Note

Literally just this

That's it, bestie

@pixieofthesun

Title: “Starved”

Pairing: Virgin!Remmick x GN!Reader

Word Count: ~1,158

—

Content Warnings: Loss of virginity (Remmick), reader-receiving oral, fingering, soft dom/sub undertones, overstimulation, praise, desperation, crying during sex (Remmick), intense edging/teasing, aftercare, slightly rough/delirious moments, emotional vulnerability

---

You’d never seen Remmick look like this.

He sat on the edge of the bed, legs spread like he didn’t know what to do with them, hands shaking on his knees. He looked too big for the world, let alone this room—built from wood and silence, lit only by the moody glow of the lamp beside the bed. The same lamp that now flickered against the deep red of his irises, blown wide, caught somewhere between bloodlust and something… far deeper.

Need.

“Are you sure?” you asked softly, standing between his knees.

Remmick didn’t speak right away. His mouth opened, shut again, and then he nodded, brow furrowing like the weight of this admission was heavier than all his years.

“I don’t think I’ve ever…” He swallowed, sharp Adam’s apple bobbing. “Wanted anything so much. I can’t— I don’t know what I’m doing. I’ve never… I never had the time.”

You reached out and touched his cheek. He leaned into it like a man dying of thirst.

"Never?"

He shook his head, red curls falling over one eye. “Not once. Not in thirteen hundred years. Always runnin’. Hiding. Killin’. Bleedin’. Had to learn how to survive—didn’t know how to be touched.”

Your thumb stroked the rough stubble on his jaw.

“You’ll let me touch you now?”

His breath caught.

“Please.” The word was hoarse. He gripped your waist like you were the last thing keeping him from unraveling.

You climbed into his lap slowly, letting your knees frame his hips, your hands curling around his shoulders.

His fingers twitched. “I can smell you,” he whispered, voice strained like he was in pain. “I’ve been smellin’ you for weeks. Every time you walked past, every time you sat beside me on the porch. I can’t get the scent of your skin off my tongue.”

“Do you want me to stop?” you asked, breath warm on his lips.

He groaned—begged. “Don’t you dare.”

You kissed him then—soft at first, letting him feel it, letting him melt into it. He whined when your lips pulled away.

“You’re shaking,” you whispered.

“I ache.” His hips rocked without permission, grinding up into you with nothing but denim and thin fabric in between. “I don’t know how to do this gentle.”

“You don’t have to be gentle,” you told him, threading your fingers through his wild hair. “You just have to feel it.”

He shivered like you’d struck a nerve.

And when your hands moved down his chest—fingertips ghosting over his shirt, tugging it up—he leaned back to help you strip it. You kissed along the soft trail of dark hair that led down his abdomen, earning a trembling sigh, his hands gripping the sheets so hard the seams popped.

You kissed lower. His hips jolted.

“F-fuck,” he choked. “Don’t tease. I’ll— I can’t take that.”

You opened his pants slowly, watched the outline of him twitch under the fabric—thick, heavy, leaking already.

His head fell back against the wall when you freed him.

“Oh my God—” he gasped. “You can’t just—”

But you did. Your lips wrapped around the head of his cock and he screamed. Not loud. Not angry. Just wrecked.

He sobbed your name, hips jerking up once, then twice, then freezing as he gripped the base of his cock, trying to keep from coming.

“I can’t,” he whimpered. “I’ll come. I’ll fucking explode if you keep doin’ that.”

“Good.” You smiled up at him, your lips wet and swollen. “Let yourself. Just feel it.”

You stroked him with your hand, watching his face twist with every pass.

“W-wait—fuck, please—no—”

He came.

It hit him like lightning. His whole body jerked, eyes wide, chest heaving. He moaned your name like a prayer, hips stuttering as thick spurts painted your hand and his stomach, his body wrung out after so many years of denial.

He didn’t stop shaking.

You kissed his neck, soft and slow, grounding him. “Still with me?”

Remmick whimpered, chest rising and falling like he couldn’t catch his breath. “It won’t stop,” he whispered. “I still need it. Still want you.”

“Then have me.”

You kissed him again and this time, he took—tongue desperate in your mouth, hands fumbling with your clothes like he was afraid they’d vanish. He mouthed at your neck, at your collarbone, biting softly, sucking marks into your skin like he needed to claim every inch.

He slid you back on the bed, kneeling between your legs, licking his lips as his hands spread your thighs. His voice was low, trembling.

“Can I taste you? Please?”

You nodded, and he moved so fast it startled you—face buried between your legs, mouth clumsy but so devoted. He moaned into you, sloppily lapping, whimpering each time you gasped.

He loved this—loved the way you squirmed, the way you cried out for him. He held you down by the hips, tongue relentless, and you realized he was rutting against the sheets like he couldn’t stop.

“Remmick—!”

You came, and he moaned like he felt it, drinking it in like wine.

When he rose, his lips were glossy, chin wet, eyes blown out with adoration and need.

You guided his fingers to your entrance, and he swallowed hard.

“I’ve never done this. I—”

“You’re doing perfect. Just go slow.”

He did. He watched your face the entire time, listened to every sound you made, adjusted with each whimper and gasp.

When you were open enough, you nodded.

“Now. I want you.”

His hands shook as he lined himself up, forehead pressed to yours, hips trembling.

The first push made his eyes roll back.

“Oh, holy fuckin’ shit, baby—”

He whimpered your name over and over, hips slowly grinding in deeper, muttering nonsense in that old Irish lilt that made you shiver.

“I’ve waited centuries. Centuries. And you—you—you feel like fuckin’ heaven.”

He bottomed out, chest pressed to yours, breath shaking.

And when he started to move, it was with growing desperation. Each thrust got needier, rougher, more feral. He kissed you through it, kissed your neck, your jaw, your lips, until he was crying—real tears dripping down his cheeks.

“I can’t stop—I can’t stop—I don’t want this to end—”

You held him, wrapped your legs around him and kissed the tears from his cheeks.

“Let it happen,” you whispered. “Come for me again.”

He did. Buried deep, biting your shoulder, gasping your name like it was a spell.

---

Aftercare was long.

You pulled him into your chest and let him come down. He clung to you, still shaking.

“I feel…” he breathed.

“Like you were made for it?” you teased.

He laughed, breathless. “No. I feel like I’m yours.”

You kissed his forehead.

“You always were.”

—

Masterlist

#I LOVE WRECKED REMMICK #remmick smut #remmick imagine #remmick x reader

182 notes · View notes

sapphiressmoke · 29 days ago

Note

mgmgmgmdhgdjsdjdvdh begging for remmick taking care of you while youre ovulating n just being so sweet and soft and lovey please god thank you

ʙᴇᴅ ᴄʜᴇᴍ

ᴡᴄ: 6.3k

ᴀ/ɴ: come right on me, I MEAN CAMARADERIE! short n sweet was on repeat as i wrote this, and god damn did i love it. anon you are a genius for requesting this and i'm gonna need more feral asks from you by TOMORROW! i don't do taglists personally, so just follow me if you want to be updated when i post.

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: 18+ MDNI (!!!!!!), filthy disgusting shameless smut, minimal plot all porn, established relationship, very very very exaggerated ovulation but is it really ladies, fingering, cunnilingus, p in v, begging, baby fever, drool, spit kink, pussy drunk, vampirism, biting, blood, inappropiate use of heightened senses, praise kink, breeding kink, scent kink, body worship, hands-free orgasm, dry humping, rutting, belly bulge, cervix fucking, multiple orgasms, cockwarming, sick!reader, needy!reader, freaky!reader, a little bit of dom!reader, sub!remmick, pathetic!remmick, service!top!remmick, a little bit of pet!remmick too, excessive use of pet names, don't read without a rose toy

The fever had started sometime in the late afternoon, slow and creeping, like it was building itself bone-deep before you even noticed it was there. By evening, your skin felt too tight, your legs too weak, every nerve sparking and hot under the thin sheen of your nightgown.

It didn’t help that the gown itself—sheer as could be, clinging in all the wrong places—had been his idea. Or that he’d chosen it with those soft, guilty eyes, promising it would help you cool down.

It didn’t help at all.

You shifted in the bed, trying not to whimper as another wave of heat curled between your thighs, low and molten, like something was blooming there. Something that wouldn’t stop. No matter how you squeezed your legs together or turned your head into the pillow to muffle the sound.

Remmick was moving around the room in that careful, deliberate way of his, like he was trying not to spook you. Like he was afraid if he moved too quickly, you’d break apart entirely.

He set the teacup down on the little table beside you, fingers brushing your wrist as he pulled his hand away. Even that fleeting touch felt like too much. Like it cracked something open in your chest.

“Feelin’ any better, sugar?” His voice was low, uncertain, threaded through with worry.

Another wave of heat rolled through you, leaving you dizzy, breath catching in your throat. And you saw it—just for a second—the way Remmick drew back a fraction, turning his head and covering his mouth and nose with his hand, like he was trying not to breathe you in.

It made your pulse stutter, your thighs squeezing tighter beneath the sheets.

Your throat worked. You tried to answer, but it came out as a shaky sigh. One of your hands drifted down to your belly without you meaning to, resting there, pressing lightly against the dull, constant ache.

He followed the motion, eyes darting to your hand. He swallowed hard, jaw flexing like he was trying to keep himself in check.

“I can—” He stopped, cleared his throat, started again, softer. “I can get ya another blanket. Or—take some off, if y’too warm.”

You shook your head, breathing unsteady. You were already too warm. Every inch of your skin felt flushed, hypersensitive, the thin fabric brushing your nipples like a deliberate tease. You didn’t trust yourself to move too much. Didn’t trust yourself not to reach for him.

Remmick hovered, hands opening and closing at his sides. He’d been pacing between the bed and the doorway for the last hour, fetching little comforts—tea, cool cloths, the stack of pillows he’d so carefully arranged behind your shoulders. All of it done with the tender focus he reserved only for you.

But none of it helped.

Not really.

Because no matter how much tea he coaxed you into sipping, no matter how many times he pressed a damp cloth to your hairline, you were still left with the same low, pulsing need that had your thighs pressing together under the sheets. The same feverish ache that made your thoughts turn vulgar. Shameless.

You tried to look away, but his eyes caught yours—soft, uncertain, searching. You wondered if he could read all of it on your face. If he knew what you were imagining. His mouth between your thighs, his hands on your hips, his voice—that voice—telling you to be good for him, to open up, to let him see.

A little shiver wracked you, and you felt your cheeks go hot.

Remmick made a quiet sound, something between a sigh and a groan, and sat carefully on the edge of the mattress. He reached for your hand—just your hand—and cradled it in his calloused palm, thumb tracing over your knuckles.

“Don’t reckon I’ve ever seen ya like this.” His voice was barely a whisper. “Breaks my heart a little.”

He didn’t sound teasing. He sounded afraid. Like he wasn’t sure if this was something he was allowed to touch. Like he was worried he’d ruin you if he tried.

You swallowed again, mouth too dry to answer. Your gaze dropped to his throat, where you could see the way he swallowed, too, the muscle jumping as he tried—and failed—to stay composed.

“Just…tell me what y’need,” he murmured, a little hoarse. “I’ll do it, sweetheart. Anything ya ask.”

You knew he meant it. Knew he’d give you everything if you so much as whispered the word. But the thought of saying it out loud—admitting how badly you needed him—made your breath catch, made your body throb with another hot, rolling wave of want that made you clench around nothing.

Your eyes fluttered closed.

You thought you felt him lean closer, the mattress dipping under his weight, his breath stirring the wisps of hair at your temple.

But you didn’t open your eyes.

Because if you did—if you saw how he was looking at you—you knew you’d beg.

And you weren’t sure you’d ever stop.

Except you felt it—his hand easing onto your thigh. Not rough, not possessive, just the weight of his palm resting there, fingers spread, like he was testing the waters of his own resolve.

Your eyes flew open.

And your inhibitions shattered like glass.

Because the second you saw his face—those soft blue eyes gone dark and stormy, lips parted, fangs just barely peeking through—you let out a sound that was almost a sob and lunged for him.

Your mouth crashed against his, no patience, no hesitation. Your tongue swept past his lips before he could even gasp, tasting him, drinking him down, your fingers clutching at his shirt like you’d drown without something to hold.

You scrambled into his lap, knees pressing to either side of his hips, sheer nightgown falling open around you as you twisted your hands into his hair and kissed him deeper, wetter, like you couldn’t get close enough.

He let out a strangled noise, arms coming up automatically to steady you, fingers flexing against your ribs. For a second, he kissed you back just as fiercely—tongue tangling with yours, teeth grazing your lower lip, a shiver rolling through his whole body that you felt through your thighs.

But only for a second.

Because then he pulled back with a sharp breath, eyes squeezed shut, trembling like he was holding himself together by a thread.

“Darlin’, wait—”

You were already shaking your head, tears springing to your eyes as the ache inside you clawed deeper, harder, until it felt like it might swallow you alive.

“Remmick,” you gasped, voice splintering around his name. “Please. Please, I need—”

He held your face between his palms, thumbs brushing under your eyes as though trying to wipe away tears that hadn’t even fallen yet. His voice was so soft, so wrecked.

“I—sugar, listen to me. I’ll get ya anythin’ else. More tea. Somethin’ cold. A bath. Somethin’ to take the edge off—”

“No.” You shook your head harder, hips grinding down against his lap despite yourself. “No, no, Remmick, I don’t want tea, I don’t want a bath—I want you. I need you.”

His fingers twitched where they framed your face. His eyes darted everywhere—your lips, your heaving chest, the thin stretch of silk over your thighs—and then he squeezed them shut like he couldn’t bear to look.

“I don’t wanna take advantage of ya,” he murmured, voice rough. “You ain’t thinkin’ straight, sweetheart. I know y’ain’t.”

But you pressed closer, nose brushing his, your breath quick and shaky. “Then make me think straight.”

A tremor rolled through his arms.

“Darlin’…” His voice broke, low and desperate. “I c-can smell how wet ya are. Jesus, it’s makin’ me—”

“Then feel me,” you whispered. “Taste me. Fuck me. Remmick, please—I can’t—”

A sob hitched in your chest. The heat between your legs felt molten, throbbing like it was tied to your heartbeat, slick gathering so fast you swore you could feel it sliding down your thighs.

He opened his eyes at the sound of your sob. And the look in them gutted you—like he was seeing his whole world crumbling and still couldn’t make himself look away.

“You can be gentle,” you said quickly, crowding closer until your foreheads touched. “You’re always so gentle. Just—please, Remmick, I need you.”

He looked like he might argue one more time. But then you tipped your face closer, brushing your mouth over his and whispering, “Please. I’ll be good. I’ll be so good for you.”

And that—God, that—was what did it.

You felt the way his hands fisted in the thin fabric at your waist. The way his breath stuttered out in a groan.

And then he was moving, gathering you up like you weighed nothing, gently shifting you back onto the bed until your spine pressed into the pile of pillows he’d so carefully arranged earlier.

You gasped as the cool sheets hit the backs of your thighs, and the nightgown fell open wider, baring the flush of your skin, your nipples tight and dark through the gauzy fabric.

Remmick settled between your knees, eyes flicking hungrily over your body as he propped himself up on one elbow. He brushed your hair back from your damp forehead with trembling fingers.

“Tell me if it’s too much,” he said, voice low and ragged. “Promise me, darlin’. You’ll tell me.”

“Promise,” you whispered, already trembling.

He swallowed. And then his hand slid lower, fingers trailing feather-light down your ribs, over your belly, until he reached the soft heat between your thighs.

The second he touched you, you whimpered—a sound so raw and needy it made his fangs flash in the low lamplight.

“Oh, …” he breathed. “Look how wet ya are.”

You squirmed, thighs falling further apart, hips canting upward into his palm.

Slowly—so slowly you wanted to scream—he pushed two fingers inside.

You cried out, head falling back against the pillows as your walls clenched around him, sucking him in like you’d been starving for it. A sharp, trembling exhale left him, his eyes fluttering half-shut as he watched his fingers disappear into you, slick already coating his hand to the wrist.

“Shit…” he whispered, voice shaking. “I—I don’t… darlin’, ya feel…”

His breath hitched, and he had to shut his eyes for a moment, like he couldn’t even bear to look at you without falling apart.

“Are ya—are ya okay?” he stammered, brow furrowed as he tried to keep his fingers moving, gentle and slow. “Is that… is that too much?”

“Remmick, please…” you gasped, hips rolling as he stroked in and out, torturously slow. “Faster—please—I need—”

But he only shook his head faintly, jaw working as though he was biting back words, or maybe sounds he didn’t want you to hear.

“I… I don’t wanna hurt ya,” he murmured, voice breaking as he tried to swallow down a soft moan. “God, sweetheart, ya… ya squeezin’ me so tight. I… I dunno if…”

He leaned down and pressed a trembling kiss to your jaw, lips lingering there like he couldn’t help himself. When he pulled back, his breath was coming in shaky little bursts, his eyes wide and dazed as he blinked down at where his fingers disappeared into your body.

“Christ,” he whispered, cheeks flushed, a bead of sweat rolling down his temple. “It’s so warm in there…”

A broken noise slipped out of him, half-whimper, half-moan, and he squeezed his eyes shut again, trying to rein himself in.

“Tell me… tell me if y’need me to stop,” he gasped, voice wobbling, his free hand clutching at the bedsheets beside your hip. “Or… or if y’want more. I’ll—I’ll give ya more, darlin’, I promise, just… please… tell me what t’do.”

He sounded like he was about to cry from how overwhelmed he was, shoulders shaking as he forced his fingers to keep thrusting slowly, gently, even while his own hips gave a helpless jerk against the mattress, as if he couldn’t help how your heat pulled at him.

But it wasn’t enough. Not when your whole body felt like it was splitting open with need. Not when the ache was gnawing at your bones, each drag of his fingers too slow, too shallow, nowhere near the frantic, pounding rhythm your body screamed for.

“Remmick—” You choked out his name on a trembling gasp, fingers clawing into the muscles of his shoulders. “Please—please go faster. It… it hurts when you’re so slow—”

His eyes flew open, stricken, lips parting in a wounded little sound. “Hurts—? Oh God, sugar, I didn’t mean—”

“It’s worse when you’re gentle,” you whispered, voice breaking like glass. “I need more. I need it faster. Harder. Please, Remmick—please.”

A tortured whimper slipped out of him, and you could feel his breath coming quicker against your cheek, his chest heaving under your palms.

“I… I dunno if I should—”

“More fingers,” you said, cutting him off, your voice trembling but urgent as your hips rocked up into his hand. “Put more fingers in me. Please, Remmick, I can take it—”

His eyes went impossibly wide, pupils swallowing up the pale blue, and he sputtered, shaking his head. “N-no, darlin’, I—I don’t wanna hurt ya, I can’t—”

But before he could finish, you seized his jaw, pulling him into a kiss so fierce it made his shoulders tense and his whole body jerk.

You kissed him hard, pressing your open mouth over his, swallowing the thick, sweet drool he’d been struggling to keep inside his mouth, drinking him down like you needed it to breathe. A broken moan shuddered out of him as you licked into him, tasting the coppery tang of blood that always lurked under his tongue, making his hips twitch desperately against the mattress.

“Please,” you whispered again, voice shaking as you pressed your forehead to his. “More, Remmick. I need it.”

He was trembling so hard you thought he might collapse, eyes glassy, lips parted and wet as he tried to gather enough air to speak.

“I… oh God…” He squeezed his eyes shut, a tear sliding free despite himself. “I can’t say no t’ya, sweetheart. I c-can’t…”

His hand shifted lower, and you felt the stretch as he eased another finger in, his breath catching on a ragged moan as your heat swallowed him deeper.

You cried out, hips arching off the bed, and his fingers flexed inside you instinctively, like he couldn’t help chasing the squeeze of your walls.

“Oh, fuck… fuck—” he gasped, forehead dropping to your shoulder as he tried to keep moving, his voice dissolving into shuddery little whimpers. “You’re so… ya squeezin’ me so damn tight… can’t… can’t hardly…”

“Faster,” you begged, voice raw, your fingers digging into his hair. “Remmick, please—don’t stop—”

He let out a strangled sob and finally gave in.

He fucked his fingers into you not with roughness, but with a desperate, stumbling urgency, his whole arm trembling as slick poured over his palm, soaking the sheets beneath you.

“Jesus, darlin’… y’feel… y’feel so good,” he babbled, words spilling from him in breathless, high-pitched fragments as he tried to keep up with your rolling hips. “Oh God, oh God, I can’t—I can’t stop—”

Your cries spilled into the room, each thrust dragging across that tender, swollen spot inside you that sent sparks dancing up your spine. You could barely speak, babbling half-formed words as your vision blurred with tears, your thighs shaking violently around his waist.

“Remmick—!”

That was all it took.

A single, broken cry ripped out of him as his hips bucked into the bed, his free hand grabbing onto the sheets so hard the fabric nearly tore. He pressed his forehead hard into your shoulder, shaking all over, as his breath hitched into sobs.

“Oh fuck—I’m—I’m—shit—”

And he came in his pants. Hard. His entire body shuddering with it, a wet heat blooming against his zipper as a sob punched out of his chest, his shoulders curling forward like he was trying to fold himself around you.

He kept moving his fingers inside you even as he was spilling into his clothes, his voice catching on choked grunts, breath warm and fast against your neck.

“God—oh God, yer... yer so good, darlin’—s-so good for me—”

You clenched around him, crying out as your own climax crashed through you like a wave breaking over rocks, your body seizing up tight around his trembling fingers.

He worked you through it, breathless and half-crying himself, pressing frantic, damp kisses to your throat as your walls pulsed and fluttered around him.

Before you could even catch your breath—before you could ask for more—he was already lowering himself between your thighs, licking his lips, eyes blown wide as he inhaled deeply, his voice breaking apart as he murmured, half to himself.

“Need it… need t’taste ya… God, ya smell so fuckin’ good…”

He barely got the words out before his mouth was on you.

He dove in like a starving man, lips wrapping around your soaked, swollen clit as he moaned so loud it vibrated through your entire body. The wet heat of his tongue slithered over you, lapping broad, messy strokes through your folds, and then he was sucking you in tight between his lips like he was trying to drink you down.

Your head slammed back against the pillows, a ragged scream ripping from your throat as your hands flew into his hair, yanking him closer.

“Remmick—oh God— yes—there—right there—”

He whined at the praise, hips jerking into the mattress, his entire body trembling as he shoved his tongue deeper, licking so hard and fast your thighs started shaking around his ears. Slick noises filled the room, obscene and wet, each lap of his tongue punctuated by soft, high moans that shivered out of him like he couldn’t keep quiet to save his life.

And you didn’t want him quiet.

You pulled his face harder against you, rolling your hips up to grind against his mouth, chasing every flick of his tongue, every sloppy, desperate suck.

“More,” you gasped, voice breaking as heat coiled tighter and tighter inside you. “Remmick—more—don’t stop, don’t you fucking stop—”

He let out another whimper, pressing his face in even deeper, tongue plunging into you before circling up to flick rapid, trembling strokes over your clit until your vision blurred. His fangs scraped ever so lightly against the tender skin there, not quite biting, just teasing the edge of pain as pleasure roared through your veins.

And all the while he kept babbling, words slurred and wet against your flesh.

“Fuck… s’fuckin’ perfect… can’t… can’t stop… y’so sweet… taste like heaven…”

Drool poured from the corners of his mouth, mixing with your slick as it spilled over your thighs, soaking the sheets beneath you both until you could feel the heat and wet seeping into the mattress.

Your whole body was trembling, every muscle taut and straining as he sucked and slurped at you, licking you like he’d die if he didn’t taste every last give.

“Remmick—I’m—I’m gonna—”

But he didn’t slow down. If anything, he got wilder, moaning like he was the one about to come as his tongue flicked over your clit in fast, punishing circles.

Your orgasm hit you so hard you thought you might black out, your vision going white as your body convulsed around him. You screamed his name, sobbing through it as your thighs clamped around his head, trying to pull him even closer.

He growled into your cunt, shaking like a leaf as he kept his mouth sealed tight against you, sucking every gush of slick straight into his throat, refusing to let a single drop escape. His arms wrapped around your hips, anchoring you down, forcing you to ride his face through the aftershocks as your entire body spasmed helplessly.

“Fuck—Remmick—oh my God—can’t—can’t—”

But he didn’t even hear you.

He didn’t pull away, didn’t pause, didn’t so much as falter. He just kept lapping at you, like a man possessed. His moans vibrated through your entire body, soft, high-pitched, almost desperate, like he was drowning and your taste was the only thing keeping him alive.

You tried to squirm back, hips stuttering from pure overwhelm, but his arms locked tighter around your thighs, pinning you to the soaked sheets as he pushed his face in closer, nose pressing hard into the swollen, aching bundle of nerves at the top of your slit.

He was starving for you.

Each drag of his tongue sent sharp little bursts of pleasure slicing up your spine, your muscles clenching wildly around nothing as he slurped and sucked and swallowed everything you poured out for him.

“Rem—Remmick—please—too much—”

But he just groaned into your cunt, the sound muffled and wet, and sucked harder, tongue plunging inside you again and again until you were sobbing, your vision swimming with black spots.

You weren’t sure if it was seconds or minutes or lifetimes before you came again, a shattering, brutal wave that wrung a scream from your raw throat, your body clamping around his tongue so hard you felt him mewl deep in his chest.

Still, he didn’t stop.

Your fingers grasped at his hair, clutching so tight you thought you might tear strands free, but he only moaned louder, hips grinding desperately into the mattress as if he was trying to get relief.

And finally—finally—he pulled away, panting so hard his shoulders shook, his face dripping with you, lips swollen and shiny, pupils blown so wide the red had nearly swallowed the blue.

He blinked up at you like he was coming out of a trance, chest heaving, throat working as he tried to swallow back the thick saliva still pooling in his mouth.

“Darlin’—” His voice cracked, high and thin. “Darlin’, please—I need—”

He pushed up onto his knees, slick dripping down his chin onto his shirt, eyes darting frantically between your face and the wet heat still clenching and fluttering below.

“I gotta—I gotta be inside ya,” he choked out, hands gripping your hips like he was afraid you’d vanish. “Please—please, sugar—I’ll make it feel so good, I swear t’God, I’ll take care of ya—”

He bent closer, pressing messy, trembling kisses over your stomach, your ribs, his breath stuttering as he tried to get the words out through shaky sobs of need.

“Y’smell so good… fuck, I can’t—I can’t stand not bein’ in ya—lemme—lemme—”

He pulled back just enough to look at you, voice breaking entirely as he pleaded.

“Lemme fuck ya, darlin’. I wanna feel ya squeezin’ me, wanna fill ya up so deep—make y’feel good, make y’feel so good you’ll forget anythin’ else ever existed.”

Your chest heaved, breath catching on a soft laugh you couldn’t hold back—because God, you’d never seen him like this. So wrecked, so needy, so close to coming undone just from the thought of being inside you.

And you loved it.

You tilted your head, studying the way his eyes shone—wet and raw and hungry—and let your voice drop to a warm, lilting hush.

“Yes.”

He let out a noise—a ragged, half-choked cry that didn’t sound anything like the man who usually spoke with slow, easy drawls. It tore straight from his chest, raw and high, as though the single word had physically cracked him open.

“Yes…?” he echoed, blinking at you, dazed. “Y-ya mean it? Ya… ya want—”

“I want you,” you murmured, fingers sliding up into his hair, nails scraping lightly over his scalp. “Now. Remmick, please.”

He didn’t waste another breath.

In a blur of motion, he yanked at the buttons of his shirt, fumbling so badly with trembling fingers that you nearly laughed again, though the sound stuck somewhere in your chest because of how beautiful he looked like this. His chest heaved as he finally shoved the shirt off his shoulders, baring pale, lean muscle slick with sweat.

Then his belt came undone with a sharp metallic jingle, and he kicked off his now-sticky pants and underwear in one desperate shove, cock slapping up heavy and flushed against his stomach, already leaking strings of wetness that glistened in the lamplight.

But even in his frenzy, he reached for you like you were something precious.

His hands moved to your nightgown, sliding it carefully up and over your head, pressing reverent kisses to your shoulders, your collarbones, the curve of your breasts as he freed each inch of skin. His lips found every sensitive spot he’d memorized, leaving you shivering and gasping as he fawned over you with soft whispers.

“God, darlin’… look at you… s’beautiful… perfect… perfect… made for me…”

His voice shook as he shifted higher to press soft, lingering lips at your neck and jaw.

Then his mouth descended again, finding one nipple and suckling gently, tongue swirling around the pebbled peak until you gasped, your back arching toward him.

“Can’t believe… can’t believe I get to touch you… y’real, right? Mine?”

You were panting by the time he finally pulled back enough to meet your eyes, cheeks flushed, hair tousled, cock twitching where it rested heavy against your thigh.

He swallowed hard, shivering as he lined himself up at your entrance, pressing the leaking head just barely against your slick folds.

Then he forced his eyes up to yours, breath catching as he managed, in a voice barely above a whisper:

“D… d’ya want me t’go slow, darlin’? Or… or fast?”

Your grin was wicked, but your voice stayed soft as silk. “Start slow,” you murmured. “Then fast.”

He blinked.

“Y… y’sure?” he stammered, hips twitching forward half an inch before he forced himself still. “I… I dunno if I can—”

“Be a good boy for me, Remmick.” You dragged your nails down his chest, just lightly enough to make him shiver. “Slow first. Then fast. Can you do that for me?”

His breath hitched so violently you thought he might faint.

“Yes—yes, ma’am—” he gasped, voice breaking into a sob as he pressed forward, sinking into you with agonizing, careful slowness.

He choked on a moan as your heat wrapped around him, eyelids fluttering as he let out one shattered, keening sound.

“Christ— oh—oh God—”

You clenched around him as he bottomed out, just to see the way his mouth fell open, the way a strangled moan clawed up his throat.

“Good boy,” you crooned. “Such a good boy, goin’ slow for me. Feels good, doesn’t it, baby?”

“Uh—uh-huh—” he gasped, voice high and trembling, hips rolling forward in tiny, controlled thrusts that nevertheless made both of you shudder. “S-so good… God, y’feel so good, I can’t—”

He squeezed his eyes shut, hips stuttering.

“Please… please, can I—”

“Faster,” you said, smiling sweet and dark as you dragged your nails lightly over his shoulders. “Now.”

And Remmick broke.

He surged forward with a ragged cry, hips snapping into you as though his body had been waiting for nothing else. Each thrust punched a soft cry from your chest, his moans spilling freely as he babbled half-words, lost entirely in the feel of your walls clutching around him.

And through every thrust, every helpless sob of pleasure, he kept whimpering it over and over.

“Good boy… m’bein’ a good boy… wanna make you feel so good…”

But even as he said it, there was nothing good about the way Remmick fucked you.

He was snarling just above, hips slamming forward so hard the headboard cracked the wall with every thrust, the mattress creaking beneath the wild pace he set the instant you gave him permission. His cock dragged inside you, thick and hot, each stroke punching needy little gasps out of your lungs as your whole body rocked with the force of it.

And he wouldn’t shut up.

“Fuck… oh fuck—y’so tight, … squeezin’ me so good—can’t—fuck, I can’t believe—”

Drool spilled from his open mouth, dripping warm and wet across your collarbone as he shoved his face into the crook of your neck. He was panting like a beast, eyes wild and red, fangs nicking lightly at your skin as he gasped your name over and over.

“Am I—am I doin’ good, sugar?” he cried out, voice rising high as his hips pounded into you faster, relentless and desperate. “Tell me I’m doin’ good—please, I gotta know—”

But you couldn’t speak.

Every time you tried, all that came out was a strangled moan, your nails clawing at his back as your thighs trembled around his waist. You were soaked, juices slicking his cock, pooling under you as he drove into you over and over with a fevered rhythm that made stars burst behind your eyes.

Your head fell back, a broken sob shuddering from your chest.

“Rem… Remmick—”

But that was all you managed before he slammed into you again, bottoming out so deep it stole the breath from your lungs.

“Shit— oh God, sugar, d’ya like that? D’ya like when I’m deep?” His voice was shredded, half-sobbing as he pulled back only to ram into you, sharp and brutal.

He was drooling everywhere now, thick strings of saliva falling onto your chest, slicking your skin as he babbled incoherently into your throat. His tongue darted out to lap at the mess he’d made, smearing it across your skin, leaving your chest shiny and wet as his hips kept driving forward.

He kept trying to slow down—little stuttering attempts to ease his pace—but each time your walls clenched around him, he let out a high, choked sob and lost control all over again.

“Fuck—fuck, I’m sorry—I’m tryin’ t’go slow—I swear I am—y’just feel—fuckin’ perfect—oh God—”

You managed a half-word, some slurred plea, and he groaned so loud it vibrated through your whole body.

“Oh God, ya sound so pretty… c’mon, darlin’, talk t’me… tell me m’good, please, please…”

His cock was driving into you so hard now you thought you might break apart, the obscene slap of skin on skin echoing off the walls as slick gushed out around him, dripping down your thighs onto the sheets.

“Remmick—” you gasped, voice trembling, eyes rolling back as he thrust even deeper. “S-so good—you’re so good—”

He let out a sound that was almost a growl, but cracked high at the end, breaking into something like a whimper as he drew back and slammed forward again.

“F-fuck—fuck—darlin’, look—look at me—”

He caught your jaw in one trembling hand, forcing your eyes down to where his cock disappeared inside you with each savage thrust.

“Look how m’stretchin’ you out… fuck… y’see how deep I’m gettin’…?”

He slammed in hard, and your vision sparked white as you felt the thick crown of him shove right up against your cervix, pressure so intense it made you sob.

“Oh God—”

“Can… can y’feel me there?” he babbled, voice cracking with every syllable as sweat poured down his temples. “Feel me right there, bumpin’ your little womb—fuck, sugar, y’so tight—I can see myself—”

He panted raggedly, eyes rolling as he stared down, watching the bulge his cock made in your belly every time he drove in deep. His fingertips drifted trembling over the swell, pressing lightly so he could feel himself sliding in and out under your skin.

“Holy… shit, darlin’, look… look how y’take me—s-so fuckin’ perfect—m’dick’s all the way in your fuckin’ guts—”

He slammed forward again, eyes wild, and you choked on a sob as the rounded shape in your belly shifted under his palm.

“Fuck—fuck, I wanna—wanna breed you so bad—” His voice rose into a panicked, high-pitched whine. “Darlin’, I can’t—I can’t stop thinkin’ ‘bout it—fillin’ you up, makin’ you so fuckin’ full—gonna put a baby in you, swear t’God—gonna make you mine forever—”

“Remmick—” your voice wavered, another moan catching as he bottomed out again. “Please… keep going… don’t stop—”

He let out a sob, hips bucking so hard the bed rattled. “Y… y’mean it? Y’want me t’fuck a baby in ya, sugar? Oh fuck—fuck, I’d take care of ya—swear I would—”

He was rambling now, words tumbling out in frantic, broken gasps as he hammered into you with quick, shallow thrusts that battered your cunt with each snap of his hips.

“Keep ya safe—keep ya fed—ya’d never have t’lift a finger—just wanna see you round, so round with my kid—so fuckin’ pretty—wanna see y’belly swellin’ up again and again—”

He squeezed his eyes shut, voice breaking into high, helpless cries as he fucked you deeper, the shape of him shifting inside your belly with each ruthless stroke.

“Shit—shit—y’take me so good—fuck, I’ll make ya my wife a thousand times over—make sure nobody ever takes ya away—gonna breed you, darlin’, fuckin’ breed you—”

“Remmick,” you gasped, your hands flying to his cheeks as he pounded into you. “Yes—yes, I want it—want you to fill me up—want your baby, Remmick—”

“Oh God—oh fuck—thank ya, darlin’—thank ya—fuck, I’m—I’m gonna—”

He barely got the words out before his hips slammed forward one last time, burying himself to the hilt as his entire body went rigid above you.

You felt it—a hot, gushing flood as he spilled inside you, cock jerking and pulsing so hard it sent shuddering ripples through your walls. The heat of it bloomed deep in your belly, thick and heavy, and the pressure made you sob out a choked cry as your own orgasm crashed into you like a tidal wave.

“Remmick—!”

But he was gone.

With a strangled groan, he lunged for your throat, fangs glinting in the lamplight, and sank them deep into the soft flesh where your neck met your shoulder.

Pain flashed white-hot for half a second—sharp, searing—but it melted almost instantly into a dizzy, swirling heat that spiraled straight down to your core.

You clenched around him so hard you felt him twitch inside you again, and his growl vibrated against your skin as he drank deep, swallowing mouthful after mouthful of your blood in greedy gulps.

He stayed completely bottomed out the whole time, hips grinding forward in tiny, helpless thrusts as his cock kept spurting warm ropes of come deep inside you, each pulse making your walls flutter and squeeze even tighter around him.

His moans were muffled against your throat, wet and broken, slick noises rising as blood and drool spilled from around his lips, sliding hot down your collarbones.

“Mine… mine… mine—” he babbled, voice muffled around the seal of your skin. “Fuck… fuck, sweetheart, I love ya—love ya so fuckin’ much—oh God, y’so good to me—so good—”

You could feel the drag of his tongue lapping at the wound between swallows, the sucking pull of his mouth matching every ripple of pleasure still tearing through your body.

And still he kept moving inside you, grinding deep, his cock so thick and swollen you could feel it pressing up against you with each tiny push, still leaking warmth into you.

“Was I good?” he whimpered suddenly, pulling his fangs free just long enough to speak, lips slick and red with your blood. His voice cracked, high and terrified: “T-tell me I was good, darlin’… please… did I… did I make y’feel good…?”

Your vision was swimming, but you forced your trembling hands up to cradle his face, dragging him down for a bloody, open-mouthed kiss that tasted like iron and slick and saliva and something else uniquely him.

And Remmick whimpered into your mouth, still moving in tiny, desperate thrusts, his hips pressing close as though he couldn’t bear a single inch of space between you.

He stayed pinned there, trembling, burying his face against your neck as he breathed raggedly, each exhale hot and damp on your skin. His cock pulsed inside you one last time—and then, finally, he went soft, the relentless tension easing from his muscles as his weight slumped heavier onto yours.

“Fuck… fuck, darlin’, m’sorry,” he gasped, pressing frantic kisses along your jaw, your cheeks, your swollen lips. “I got carried away—shouldn't've been so rough—Christ, I couldn’t stop, ya were just—just so fuckin’ sweet—”

He tried to pull out carefully, but the moment he slipped free, a hot gush of his come spilled from you, and you let out a sharp, choked whimper.

“Oh, no—no—I’m sorry, I’m so fuckin’ sorry—” His hands flew to your cheeks, eyes wide and panicked, blood still drying on his lips. “I didn’t mean t’hurt ya—God, I should’ve gone slower—I—I—”

You shushed him with a weak little smile, pressing your fingers to his lips before he could spiral further.

“Remmick,” you croaked, your voice hoarse from screaming his name, “just… go get the bath ready.”

He stared at you as though he couldn’t quite believe you weren’t upset with him.

“Y… y’sure?”

“Bath, Remmick.”

A flush climbed his throat, and he swallowed hard, pressing one last shaky kiss to your temple before scrambling off the bed on unsteady legs.

“Y-yes, ma’am—right away…”

You lay there for a moment, utterly wrecked, the sheets beneath you soaked through with sweat and slick and the lingering spill of his release. The ceiling spun a little as you exhaled, your pulse still thrumming gently in your ears, a tender fluttering between your thighs where he’d been buried so deep you could still feel the ghost of him inside you.

From the bathroom, you could hear water running, the sharp hiss of the faucet and Remmick’s quiet voice as he murmured to himself—probably panicking about water temperature and lavender oil and whether he’d scrubbed the tub well enough.

And for the first time all day, you let your mind drift, feeling the sweat cooling on your skin, your body limp and spent.

A laugh—small, incredulous—bubbled up in your chest, surprising even you.

Because the ache that had driven you half out of your mind, that clawing, endless heat that made you beg for his touch, was gone.

Utterly, blissfully gone.

And you couldn’t help but laugh again as you whispered into the empty room.

“Guess that did the trick.”

#remmick x reader #remmick sinners #remmick imagine #remmick smut

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sapphiressmoke · 30 days ago

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#remmick sinners #remmick smut #remmick x reader

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sapphiressmoke · 1 month ago

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You Gotta Earn It First

Professor!Remmick x Fem!Reader

Fic Playlist & AO3 Link

Summary: The new Irish Folklore professor seems to have it out for you. Constant critiques and unfair grades. There's a strange air to him, beyond the passionate lectures and the other students who seem to adore him. As much as you'd like to deny it, you too find yourself under his spell. WC: ~14.2k Tags/Warnings: NSFW/MDNI 18+ ONLY. heavy dubcon: somnophilia (f!receiving oral), power imbalance & manipulation. modern day professor AU. no use of y/n. dom!remmick, brat tamer!remmick, cheating/infidelity (reader cheats on bf w/ remmick), hive mind plot device, semi-public masturbation & sex, panty stealing, panty sniffing, blood kink, marking, spanking, degradation, praise, oral sex (f! & m!receiving), anilingus/rimming (m!receiving), unprotected vaginal & anal sex (f!receiving), classroom sex, hair-pulling, creampie, possessive language, obsession, rough and soft sex, jealousy. A/N: I could not have written this without the support, help & ideas from these lovelies: @confetti-cakemix @weavingduck @madkingcrowley @fuckoffbard @remmicks-salvation with a special thanks to my love @eternalstrigoii for beta reading! Credit to @cafekitsune for dividers.

When you first signed up for the Irish Folklore course this semester, you never imagined it’d turn out like this. Every student is required to take a Humanities course for their degree and this one seemed to be the perfect fit. It piqued your interest, fit into your schedule with work and other classes with a meeting time in the evenings, and you (foolishly) figured it’d be easy enough to pass without much effort.

You were very wrong.

It’s a Tuesday night when class convenes, a handful of students scattered about at their desks in the small room stationed on the first floor in one of the oldest academic buildings on campus. You preferred small classes like this, it was more intimate, helped you be immersed, and provided better opportunities to connect with the professor. If only this Professor didn’t seem to have some personal vendetta against you, targeting you every chance he got. Professor Remmick, he insisted you all call him. Not Dr. O’Brien or Professor O’Brien, just Professor Remmick.

“Alright, now. Before we pick up where we last left off on the discussion of Filidh, I’m returnin’ your last graded assignment.” Remmick peers down at the stack of papers in hand through the clear lenses of the glasses fixed on the bridge of his nose before he shifts, standing from his spot leaning against his desk to begin walking down the aisles. “Most of y’all did well.”

Most.

The word echoes in your ears and a heavy weight settles in your gut, churning with each appraising comment he gives to the other students upon returning their graded work.

Nice work, Chris.

Good job, Jess.

Your teeth begin to nervously chew on the inside of your lip as he draws nearer, hoping for the string of praises to continue but dreading for more of the endless criticism you’ve received since the start of the semester.

Polished black cap toe shoes scuff against the linoleum as he stops by your desk. You chance peering up at him, but he doesn’t even glance your way before sliding the paper onto the desk like it’s a discreet, dirty secret.

A silence passes, quiet but resoundingly loud, before he moves on to the next student. He doesn’t say a word and that’s somehow worse than if he had told you it’s the worst work he’s ever seen in front of the entire class. Your eyes immediately search for the damage, landing on the C- circled and written in red ink at the top of the paper.

Disappointment floods through you before frustration, and finally anger. You’ve never gotten a C in any college courses until this class, until this Professor. If someone had told you before that the hardest class you’d take in college would be an Irish Folklore course, you would’ve laughed and looked at them like they grew two heads.

Your eyes trail down the paper, glancing over every note written in red.

Grammar.

You’re rambling a bit much here.

Not quite.

There is room for improvement. I expect better on the next assignment.

You don’t get it. You could’ve sworn you did everything right and had all the correct information. Hell, you probably could’ve spent hours working on it and he still wouldn’t give you an ‘A’. A heavy exhale huffs out through your nostrils as you lean back into the hard plastic seat, arms crossing over your waist.

This class is shaping up to be more trouble than it’s worth, and you can’t help but wonder how you’d have fared with the original professor, Dr. Hughes.

It was only a few months ago when Remmick found himself in this little college town. He didn’t seek it out intentionally, only meaning to pass through on his journey to an undesignated destination. He’d been wandering for so long, he couldn’t tell you a specific number of years. After so many failed attempts to find connection to his old home, he’d begun to lose hope. That was until that December night when he found himself strolling across the quiet, concrete paths and grassy patches of your campus. When the familiar words of the legend of Fionn Mac Cumhaill and the Giant’s Causeway floated through the night air and to his ears, it stopped Remmick in his tracks. He followed it to an open window in one of the campus buildings where he lingered in the shadows, watching and listening as this Dr. Hughes butchered the retellings of the legends and myths from Remmick’s homeland, the stories near and dear to his heart. What else could he have expected from a damn Englishman. Worst of all, these students were victims of it.

And Remmick… Well, he just couldn’t have that.

So he continued watching Dr. Hughes’ flimsy lecture until the class adjourned, waiting as the students filtered out of the old building until finally, the professor emerged. Remmick followed him as he made the walk to the Faculty parking lot, oblivious to the danger lurking in the shadows. By the looks of the dark and quiet campus there didn’t seem to be many night classes, and after that night the college would lose one of its professors.

After that, all it took was a forged degree and resume, which along with his vast knowledge on the course subject landed Remmick a position as an adjunct professor.

He’d finally found something to give him purpose.

Remmick, oblivious or uncaring to the anger simmering within your body, continues on with class as usual, picking up where he last left off in the discussion of Irish filidh and traditional music. Palpable enthusiasm and confidence ooze from him as he lectures with an undisputable knowledge on the subject. Qualities that initially sparked excitement at the beginning of the semester, that now annoy you like an itch under your skin you just can’t scratch.

Remmick leans back against his desk as the oldest recording of The Rocky Road to Dublin plays through the computer speakers, the only time he elects to utilize electronics in class. You should be paying attention, immersing yourself in the tune, but your mind wanders elsewhere.

Still ruminating on your bad grade, on your workday, other classes, upcoming exams, your boyfriend, James.

At the thought of your boyfriend, your eyes fall to the Claddagh ring fixed on your right ring finger. A soft smile graces your lips, briefly remembering the moment James had gifted it to you on your birthday, telling you it symbolized love and loyalty with two hands holding a crowned heart.

You’re distracted as you admire the ring before the hairs on the back of your neck rise with the unmistakable feeling of being watched. Slowly, your eyes lift to seek out the culprit of the discomforting sensation in the surrounding classroom. A look to the left toward your classmate Chris makes you pause, catching his eyes slowly trail up your legs to the curve of your ass and up to your breasts, until they finally lock with yours. He catches your look of disgust and before he can even react Professor Remmick clears his throat, loud and abrupt from the front of the classroom. Chris’s head snaps forward like an obedient dog following a command before it lowers, whether from shame or embarrassment, you aren’t sure.

Remmick doesn’t look at you, only exhales sharply and licks his lips before delving back into the lecture as the song comes to a close. The distraction of catching Chris undressing you with his eyes pulls your focus back to the lecture for a moment, but as Remmick discusses the significance of the traditional ballad, your mind drifts once again. This time, it isn’t toward thoughts of your boyfriend, work, or your other courses. It’s solely focused on your professor. Your frustration with him is still tangible and simmering in your body, but it begins to mix and fuse with another emotion.

Your eyes follow Remmick’s movements as he slowly paces at the front of the class.

The way he talks with his hands.

Thick, calloused fingers. You imagine they’d feel both rough and soft dragging along your bare skin.

The gold chain hanging from his neck. You wonder how it would catch the light as it swings back and forth above you.

That crooked, almost boyish yet calculating smile.

The soft curve of his cupid’s bow, plump bottom lip shining under the overhead lights as his tongue darts out to lick them once more.

The way those lips wrap around each word, moving in a way that seems downright vulgar.

Biceps outlined by a light blue button up shirt, sleeves rolled up to the elbow. You imagine how much strength is harbored within them.

The ego that earlier wrought your irritation now mixes with admiration for his passion and knowledge.

Your mouth grows dry as the heat rises in your body with the wavering thoughts. Remmick’s eyes catch yours briefly with what you perceive to be a heavy weight of unspoken words within them, and it’s enough to send a tingle right between your clenched thighs. His eyes leave yours just as quickly as they met, but the undeniable signs of arousal pulse through you, a wet warmth resonating at your core.

A glance at the clock on the wall. 9pm. Still another hour left.

With each passing minute the hunger residing in your body only grows, becoming harder to ignore. You can’t make it another hour like this.

“-explores the mostly misfortunate adventures of a man on his journey to-”

“May I go to the bathroom?” You blurt out with a raised hand, too impatient to wait for him to call on you.

The classroom falls silent as Remmick takes a deep inhale, his lips forming into a thin line from exasperation at your interruption. His gaze meets yours before he reluctantly gives a curt nod, freeing your thrumming body from the seat. Your feet quickly follow the path to the door at the front classroom, only for his voice to stop you.

“Aren’t you forgetting something?”

You can’t help but roll your eyes before turning to face him. A fiddle bow turned bathroom pass sits in his outstretched hand, though his gaze remains cast forward to the rest of the class. You huff under your breath at the ridiculousness of it, no one else is even in the goddamn building. Nevertheless, you cross the short distance to retrieve the bow from his hands, but he doesn’t release it.

A sharp tug jerks your body toward him, close enough to feel his breath fan over your skin as his eyes finally meet yours.

“Don’t take too long.” He murmurs a low and gravely warning that practically sets your body ablaze, flames licking at your most sensitive, aching parts.

As soon as his hand drops from the bow and eyes shift back toward the other students, you turn and exit the classroom as quickly as your feet can carry you.

One of the advantages of taking a night class was having the entire academic building to yourself. Something you’re grateful for as your fingers part your slick pussy lips in the bathroom stall. You’re so goddamn worked up and throbbing for release with the confusing mix of anger and arousal.

You can’t decide if you hate Professor Remmick or want to fuck him, but it’s becoming painfully obvious that it’s both.

Who the hell decided to hire him in the first place? He’s far too hot to be a professor, let alone a hard-assed one.

You sigh softly with a jerk of your hips, a finger finding the sensitive bundle of nerves.

Your thoughts drift to wonder how his tongue might feel instead of your fingers, imagining he knows just the right places to lick and suck, since he seems to know everything.

“Fuck” The soft moan fills the empty bathroom, mixing with heavy breaths as you rub your clit in tight, slow circles.

You can’t decide if you want more of his punishment or to take your anger out on him.

If you want him to bend you over that mahogany desk and spank your bare ass until you give him the correct answers,

Or if you want to straddle him in that desk chair and ride that cocky grin off his pretty, plump lips.

Your walls pulse and squeeze, body vibrating with waves of pleasure as your fingers move faster, teeth biting your bottom lip to muffle the whimpers.

He’s big and thick, stretching you wider than any other man has, but the way you wrap around him would have him a whimpering mess beneath you, suddenly devoid of arrogance as his hands grip onto your body like it’s the only thing keeping him from blowing his load inside you.

The pleasure builds in your core, a single thread on the brink of snapping.

You’re so goddamn close.

His calloused hands would soothe your reddened, sore flesh before moving to the wet patch of your panties. “How badly do you want that ‘A’?”

With a stutter of your hips and a muffled cry, the thread finally snaps, granting the release of intense pleasure to course through your shaking body. The tight, fast circles on your clit slow and loosen as you ride out the high until your breaths finally even out.

It isn’t long before guilt replaces lust. You have a boyfriend for god sakes and here you are, in the bathroom of the lecture hall masturbating to your professor. With a groan, you pull out your phone and open the Messages app.

Are you coming over after class?

You hit send before setting to clean up the evidence of the escapades between your thighs and head back to class, unsure if you’ve been gone long enough to raise suspicion. Head down and gaze averted, you hope not to draw attention to yourself as you slip the bow back onto Remmick’s desk and return to yours with a silly worry that everyone knows exactly what you just did.

And he does.

Remmick takes note of the flush of your skin, the shame written all over you, the smell radiating from between your thighs and into his flared nostrils. He’s unable to stop the small smirk that tugs at his lips before steeling his mask and resuming the lecture as if he wasn’t aware of your very presence or absence.

The cool night air is a welcomed respite against your still warm skin as you step out of the building and onto the concrete pathways of campus. You love walking around at this time of night, sidewalks and roads devoid of the daytime bustle of bodies and cars. A few straggling students camping out in the library until closing time and the small group of your classmates being the only signs of life.

“So, what did you think of tonight’s lecture?” The cheery sound of your classmate Sarah’s voice pulls you from your thoughts as she comes into step at your side. You cock an eyebrow at her with an exasperated, scoffed laugh.

“What?” She questions with an oblivious but amused tone, to which you sigh.

“I mean… the subject matter is interesting.”

“Okay…? What, you don’t like Professor Remmick?”

“Like? I think he’s a bit of an asshole, actually. I had an easier time in Chemistry, for christ’s sake.” The bitterness for what you perceive as unfair treatment seeps into your voice.

In the solitude of the now empty classroom, Remmick listens in through Sarah, letting out an amused chuckle at your crass retort.

“Yeah, I guess he can be a hard grader. At least he’s kinda cute though, right?” Sarah counters with a shrug and a coy smirk. Your eyes widen slightly and you’re caught off guard for a moment before quickly brushing it off with a laugh.

“I have a boyfriend, remember? I’m not worried about how cute a professor is.” It’s a flimsy lie, you know it is, but it’s all you can conjure up in the moment. You can hardly handle the confusing feelings the professor provokes in you, let alone admit them outloud.

Remmick rolls his eyes.

“Okay.” Sarah murmurs, sounding unconvinced. “How are you and James doing anyway?”

Your phone vibrates at that moment, the screen illuminating with a new text.

Not tonight, babe. Me and the boys are watching the game.

That stupid goddamn fraternity. You fight back the urge to let the irritation reflect in your expression before dimming the screen and turning your attention back to Sarah, just as the lights from the dorms begin to come into view.

“Oh, you know. We’re both busy with classes and work but we’re good.”

Not for much longer.

You give Sarah a tight-lipped smile, unsure how effective it is, but she returns it and nods nonetheless.

A bid good night sends the two of you parting ways where the sidewalk splits, leading to your respective buildings. Under Remmick’s selfish influence, Sarah’s eyes follow your movements. Watching the way your hair flows with the wind, the bounce of your ass with each step until your form disappears through the glass doors of the dormitory.

It turns out turning a few students had its advantages. At first, it was merely for information, inserting a few spies into the web of the college. It didn’t take long for Remmick to lose himself in the role of a professor, and even a centuries old vampire like himself wasn’t immune to falling into the allure of petty professional rivalries. Particularly that bastard of an English professor Dr. Michaels, who seemed to turn every compliment Remmick received into a boast about himself.

That was until you. Until he first saw your pretty face and that tempting body strut into his classroom. Everything Remmick’s done since then has been with tunnel vision.

And boy, has he learned a lot about you and that boyfriend of yours.

It doesn’t take long for exhaustion to overtake you upon returning to your room and stripping off the clothes carrying the weight of the day. A few hours later, you’re deep in the throes of sleep. Campus is dead silent at this time at night with the exception of a few students pulling an all nighter for one reason or another. That meant no witnesses as Remmick helps himself through the window you conveniently left open in an attempt to seek the cool night air to aid in your slumber. Remmick just can’t help himself as it becomes increasingly harder to stay away from you. And after what he knows you did in that bathroom tonight, he needs more. He needs something to hold him over until he can have you completely.

Upon entering, his eyes immediately fall to your sleeping form scantily clad with the covers thrown about. Restless sleeper, it seems. An oversized shirt hands loosely around your body, the hem ending dangerously close to the curve of your ass, leaving your bare legs on full display. A deep, shaky inhale passes through him in an attempt to offset the onslaught of raging emotions and desires seeing you like this spurs within him. He forces his focus to shift to the surroundings of your room, to soak up the opportunity to be in your space.

He takes everything in, from the trinkets that line the desk and shelves, to books housing stories of romance and mystery, fingers running along them as if to commit every memento that is you to his memory.

Posters of musicians and movies line the painted brick walls, along with pictures of you with friends, family… that loser boyfriend. Remmick scoffs lightly at the photograph, knowing soon enough he’d be out of the picture. He’d make sure of it.

His exploration continues until his eyes land on the laundry hamper by the foot of the bed, a discarded pair of underwear lying on top. The faint smell hits him as soon as he sees it, beckoning him closer step by step.

Hands grasp the flimsy lace material before lifting it to his face. A deep inhale of the unmistakable scent that was wafting off of you earlier fills his nostrils. The smell of pure, lustful desire. He can’t help but groan softly, the sound of satisfaction and hunger rumbling in his chest. His hand curls, balling your underwear in his fist before slipping the fabric into his pocket. He’s not leaving without a token of yours and this is just what he was looking for.

Just as he considers it’s time to leave, Remmick’s eyes fall to your sleeping form once more and his feet draw him closer to the side of the bed. You could only look more beautiful than you do now whilst in the throes of pleasure, he imagines. A sight he aims to see for himself very soon.

His breathing slows as his hand gently clasps around your ankle, warmth radiating off your body and into his palm, a sensation that both balms and ignites the restless desire for you residing in his chest. Even as his heart hammers against his ribcage, his fingers trail up your skin leisurely but with full intent. Intent to memorize the feeling of this, your warm, soft skin beneath his hands at last. The touch is tender, ghosting, and reverent.

“Rem-”

The movement stills over the plush flesh of your thigh, eyes darting up to your closed ones at the sound of the muffled groan. You’re still sleeping soundly, eyes moving behind the closed lids. His heart stills, breath catching at the realization he hadn’t imagined the beautiful sound.

“You dreamin’ about me, doll?” A low and raspy whisper leaves his dry throat. Teeth digging into the plump flesh of his bottom lip, his hand presses more firmly against your skin, caressing the meat of your thigh and inching higher and higher to the hem of your shirt.

“Remmick…”

There it is. The airy, needy murmur of his name from your parted lips goes right to his hardening cock. You put on a good front in class, but even in the depths of sleep he is the one you want, the one you desire. The one you call out to within the realm of filthy dreams, fueled by unbridled lust. There’s no denying it now.

And fuck, look at you. So tempting. Laid out like a platter of ripe fruit, begging to be tasted, to be savored. And who is he to deny you, to deny himself? He only came for a token to keep with him while you’re gone but now, he’ll have the memory and lingering taste of you on his tongue. Just a little taste, right from the source.

The path of his hand continues traveling up the back of your thigh until reaching the hem of your shirt where he pushes past, hiking the fabric up to reveal the bare globes of your ass.

“Fuck…” Remmick mutters under his breath, mouth salivating at the sight of your juicy ass and pussy completely bare with no panties on. A wicked smirk pulls at the corner of his lips, “Always hoped you were a naughty girl.”

Carefully, his body lowers onto the bed between your parted thighs, one leg bent and hiked up. Your swollen lips aren’t even parted yet and he can still see the wetness held within them, seeping out of the glistening folds. His hands gently squeeze the fat of your ass, eyes fixed on the way it makes your puffy lips spread to give him a glimpse of the paradise held within- like digging into a succulent, juicy peach.

“So wet for me…”

He leans closer, the tip of his nose nudging along the slit before taking a deep inhale that sends a wave of shivers down his body, filling his mind with a hungry, lustful haze. Parting your slit with a flat tongue and a breathy moan, he collects the juices from your clit to your throbbing hole, taking a moment to savor the flavor spreading along his tongue, like a man dying of thirst cherishing that first sip of water.

You’re magnificent.

With a groan, he dips back in for more. Curled tongue delving into your tight, wet channel, licking up every drop of your sweet nectar he can. Remmick moans at the taste, the feeling of your walls squeezing around his tongue, the soft, breathy moan that slips past your lips. He’s drunk on you, on your taste, the sounds you make. He needs more.

Satisfied he’s licked up every drop, his mouth lowers to your swollen clit. With a glance up toward your sleeping, blissful face, his tongue flicks against the bundle of nerves teasingly, eyes watching for any reaction. Satisfied you won’t stir, he presses the muscle more firmly against you, swirling around and licking the sensitive bud. A mix between a sigh and moan rises from your throat, like beautiful, sinful music to his ears. It spurs him on, eliciting his lips to seal around your clit and gently suckle it into his mouth.

Your pussy pulses against his nose with a slight jerk of your hips, the movement pushing your cunt firmly against his face. He obliges your unspoken plea, fingers digging into the meat of your ass as he sucks harder on your tender clit. Within the confines of his pants, his cock strains and throbs against the material, pre-cum no doubt staining them.

“Remmick…” The words slip from your lips so quickly in a stifled, high-pitched moan, but he hears it, the sound sinking in and echoing in his ears. Even in your slumber, your body and mind associate pleasure with him and it only strengthens his raging desire for you, the resolve to make you cum on his tongue before he leaves.

A low groan rises from deep in his chest, muffled against your slick folds as his mouth continues to work your throbbing clit to a heightened bliss. Until he hears your breath hitch, your body tense beneath him, and a shaky gasp burst from your mouth. Remmick’s eyes roll back behind closed lids, moaning softly as you cum with a buck of your hips. He softens his attack on your clit as the waves of pleasure course through your lush body, and only when you relax and fall slack against the sheets does his tongue return to your still spasming channel, lapping up your release like a reward.

With a sigh, his face turns to rest against the delicate flesh of your inner thigh as the haze of lust in his mind and body calm to a low thrum, one he won’t be able to ignore for much longer. He can take care of that later, for now he knows he needs to depart with your token stored in his pocket and lingering on his taste buds. But, not before he leaves you with a token of his own. Remmick’s lips kiss your tender skin before latching onto it, sucking gently to leave behind a small bruise to form overnight, effectively marking you as his.

Reluctantly and with one last kiss along your skin, Remmick carefully rises and slips off the bed, pulling your shirt back down to its previous position. With your arousal stained panties in his pocket and one last look over your peaceful form, he leaves the way he came, through your window and out into the dark depths of the night.

It isn’t until hours later with the sun risen above the treeline, the chirping song of birds flowing into your open window that you finally awaken to the obnoxious alarm on your phone. You silence the nagging sound with a tired groan before sitting up, legs lazily shifting to hang over the edge of the bed. As the full depth of your senses slowly return, you’re unable to ignore the slick, wet feeling between your thighs. You can’t usually remember your dreams beyond small details and flickers of images, but you know last night’s sleep consisted of another ‘wet dream’ involving your professor.

Only when your vision drops to your legs do you see something purple and part them to reveal a small bruise on your inner thigh. Your brows furrow in confusion regarding its creation. Was it from the last time you and James had sex and you just didn’t notice until now? Maybe you need to get your iron levels checked at your next doctor’s appointment…

Regardless, you don’t linger on questioning the source of your new bruise for long as the reality of your day full of work and exams comes to the forefront of your mind.

The following night, you return to the old, cracking stone building for your next Irish Folklore class. Your movements are sluggish upon entering the classroom and taking your seat, brain exhausted but anxious as your eyes mindlessly survey the antiqued items and posters reflecting Irish culture hanging along the walls. You’d already had a number of exams today with more scheduled tomorrow, not to mention the one you’d be taking in the next few minutes.

You hadn’t studied as much as you probably should’ve for this exam with your other classes taking priority, and it leaves you with a growing pit in your stomach. You fool yourself into believing you can still perform well on it, all while knowing Professor Remmick would no doubt slap that hope down just as quickly as it bloomed. The thought beckons a restless bouncing of your leg under the desk as class convenes and Remmick begins to walk down the aisles, handing out the exam to each student. With a nervous gulp, you don’t dare to meet his eyes as he passes your desk, wordlessly sliding the multi-paged, stapled test on top.

You close your eyes and take a deep inhale that does little to unravel the knot residing in your stomach before diving in. There’s no turning back now. As you begin, the questions seem easy enough, mind readily recalling the information from previous classes. Then there’s the questions you have no recollection whatsoever of going over, and with it a wave of embarrassment passes through, realizing you may have missed those moments while daydreaming about fucking your professor. Then, there’s the questions that are worded in a misleading way. The kind of question that you think you immediately know the answer to, only for there to be another very similar answer… fucker. It prompts you to begin second-guessing all your other answers thus far, eyes tracking over every single word until you feel an ache begin to form in your temple. He’s gotten in your head, making you doubt yourself even when you were so sure.

Your hand moves to your forehead, supporting the weight as your fingers massage your temples. Your mind is foggy and exhausted, frazzled from lack of sleep, hours of studying, classes, and work on top of the very specific stress of this course you just can’t seem to function in. Suddenly, a crimson drop splatters onto the test beneath you, dark red staining and spreading into the white paper.

Remmick’s nostrils flare and eyes squeeze shut as the scent hits him like a wave. By connection and nature, the other students can smell it too, but as Remmick’s eyes open to land on you, he directs them to focus elsewhere. With brows furrow in confusion, your fingers seek out the source at the opening of your nostrils where the slickness of blood quickly coats them.

One second, you’re staring down at the drops of blood along the pads of your fingers and in the next, Remmick is standing before you, expression concerned as his hand gently curls around your bicep.

“Let’s step outside,” His tone is soft and hushed with a cocking of his head toward the classroom door.

You nod absentmindedly, standing from the desk to follow behind him with fingers pressed against your bleeding nose.

The empty silence of the hallway engulfs the two of you, the classroom door shutting behind to leave you truly alone. Your eyes catch sight of a white tissue in his hand as it lifts toward your face.

“Oh, thank-” You attempt to take the tissue from Remmick’s hand only to be immediately cut off by an “aht” as he shakes your hand away, raising his own to dab the tissue against your nose.

Your eyes widen, staring up at him dumbfounded and confused by the seemingly tender gesture, a stark contrast to the treatment you’ve received from him thus far. You hate the way your body reacts to it, the flip in your stomach, the breathless hitch in your throat, the flutter in your chest.

He notices your confused expression and a smile tugs at the corner of his lips, “What? It’s just blood.”

Just as your vision flickers down to admire the plumpness of his lips, he gently tilts your head back, pressing the tissue gently against your nose.

“Didn’t know I was workin’ you hard enough to bleed.” He murmurs, but you can hear the subtle amusement in the words. Your face twists up with a weak scoff, a mixture of bewilderment and frustration flaring at the weak concern, but it fizzles out just as quickly with his close proximity and caring touch.

Does he not know how much of a pain in the ass he is to you?? Surely he does, there’s no way it’s not intentional.

“It’s just been a stressful week is all.” You manage to reply, earning a soft hum in response.

He pulls the tissue from your nose and you sniffle in response, tilting your head back down to meet his eyes.

“Well, you need to take better care of yourself then, darlin’.” The pet name stuns you, spurring a warmth to bloom and grow inside you. Still stunned as you watch his fingers close around the bloodied tissue before it disappears into his pocket, not thinking anything strange of it.

His nostrils flare with a deep inhale, squaring his broad shoulders and expression growing stern. “I’ll have to mark your exam as incomplete. You’ll just have to come back tomorrow night and make it up.”

Taken aback, your head shakes side to side at the directive.

“Seriously? On a Friday night?” You blurt out, anger flaring by what you perceive to be yet another set back personally handed to you by Professor Remmick.

“Oh, I’m sorry. Do you have more important plans to attend to?” He feigns concern, leaning closer and daring you to argue further, effectively fizzling out the protest that was dancing on your tongue.

“No…” With a quiet mumble and deep sigh, your shoulders slump in defeat.

“Good.” A flicker of that cocky grin flashes across his lips before it disappears. “Now, go collect your things and head home. Ya need to get some rest.” He leaves no room for argument, reaching for the handle and holding the door open for you to reenter the classroom.

Even with stubborn reluctance you follow his instructions, collecting your bag and now blood-stained exam, returning the latter to his desk where he stands.

“Tomorrow at 8. Don’t be late.” Remmick’s low voice stops you just as you’re about to depart the classroom, eyes locked from over the rim of his glasses.

You nod curtly before stepping out and back onto the cement pathways leading to your dorm room, a nervous excitement bubbling in your gut at the prospect of being completely alone with Remmick in the empty classroom tomorrow night. James won’t be happy about your delayed Friday night plans, but part of you that you’re afraid to acknowledge doesn’t really care.

Given your spectacle in class, you know you should be in bed, likely mindlessly scrolling through social media while trying to fall asleep. But instead, you’re sat in the desk chair, laptop open and idly sitting on the google home screen as your professor permeates your thoughts once again. Your thumb nail has found a temporary home amongst teeth as your mind tries to make sense of the confusing mix of emotions he’s brought onto you, trying to make sense of him. This feels beyond the scope of a standard crush, and there’s something… off about him.

Within the solitude of the now empty classroom, Remmick sits at his desk replaying the events and images of you over the last few days in his mind. Your now dried and bloody tissue rests in his palm before he lifts it to his nose, taking a deep inhale of the intoxicating, coppery scent. A groan rumbles in his chest, the smell sending an electrifying frenzy through his body all the way to his already hardening cock. He palms it as his mouth begins to salivate and fill with thick drool, bringing the tissue to his lips and sucking, trying to taste the little bit of your blood that’s trapped within the fibers.

You can’t quite put your finger on what it is about him. He looks rather young for a professor, especially compared to the others at your university. Despite this, there’s an older, wiser air to him in the way he speaks and runs the class. Old-fashioned, for sure. No electronic assignments, a stark contrast to what’s been the standard for as long as you can remember, instead insisting that everything be hand-written and physically turned in. Then, there’s the way he speaks during lectures. You’ve always appreciated professors that are passionate in their taught subjects, but Remmick seems to be on another level. He speaks of the Irish folklore myths and legends with such reverent fondness and innate knowledge, knowing the information like the back of his hand.

The hints of your blood spread across his taste buds, making his cock throb and strain against the tight fabric of his slacks. Hands make quick work of the button and zipper to free his hard, red cock from its confines, the swollen head leaking as he sucks the last little bit of your blood from the tissue. It tastes just as divine as your cunt. He hums, reaching for the panties kept within his back pocket with his free hand. He wraps the fabric stained with your juices around his leaking tip, letting his own arousal mix with the evidence of yours.

Then there’s the somewhat off-putting love all the other students in class seem to have for him, the kind of power he seems to hold. Like Chris. The way he ripped his eyes from ogling your body the second Remmick seemed to notice, like a dog heeding its owner’s command. The Google search bar reflects back to your blank stare, questions and suspicions looming in your mind. You need to know more. With a sharp breath, your fingers land on the keyboard and type out “Remmick O’Brien” into the bar and hit search. Within seconds only 2 results are presented back, both of which are from your university’s website. One from an article welcoming him to the department, another from the department’s staff listing page. Your brows furrow and brain short-circuits for a brief moment of bewilderment. Everyone has some kind of digital footprint bigger than this. Shouldn’t there at least be some kind of result from whatever college he attended?

Remmick’s head falls back as the fabric slides down his thick, throbbing shaft, his hand guiding the slow, stroking movement. He imagines it’s your tight, wet cunt wrapped around his girth instead, squeezing and pulsing around him. His chest rises and falls with heavy breaths, tongue darting out to wet dry lips, low groans slipping out as he squeezes the flimsy fabric around the base of his cock.

You think, searching for any memories where Remmick might’ve shared where he got his degree, surely he mentioned it during your first class. Boston, that’s it. “Remmick O’Brien Boston”. Search. 0 results. You huff, crossing your arms and leaning against the back of the chair. There’s just no way. No social media, you can understand. But not even a Dean’s List or Commencement article? Shit, did your university even verify his degree? Surely, they’d have had to… right? Teeth dig into your bottom lip, chewing on the cushioned flesh as your thoughts race with confusion.

Remmick’s hand moves faster, jerking himself off with your panties and the lingering taste of your blood dancing on his tongue. The swollen tip continuously leaks and soaks into the fabric as his mind is filled with images of you in every goddamn position imaginable, remembering the way you called for him in your sleep, the way your cunt tasted, the sight of your doe eyes, the way your cheeks burn with a heady mix of frustration and desire for him. It’s just enough to get him there, to hold him over until tomorrow night, when this little game you’ve been playing finally comes to a head. When he can finally have you all alone and make you his.

You’re left with no answers to your questions, your lack of findings only fueling the conflicting emotions swirling inside you, adding to the nervousness residing in your gut ahead of tomorrow’s ‘make-up exam’ all alone with him. Sure that you can’t possibly get anywhere farther tonight along with the exhaustion weighing heavily in your body, you slam the laptop shut before standing from the desk, cutting out the lights and crawling into bed. It’s another in a string of recent nights where your professor has overtaken your thoughts and dreams, and as much as part of him is unsettlingly mysterious and frustrates you to no end… you don’t object to his residence there in your mind and fantasies, with an undeniable craving for more growing hungrier every day.

A choked groan of your name, a stutter of his hips, and a hard squeeze of his cock sends Remmick barrelling over the edge, his seed seeping into your panties. A dazed, sloppy smile adorns his lips at the sight before using the fabric to clean himself up as the high slowly wanes. Only one more day and he’ll have you fully within his grasp.

There’s an anxious gnawing in your stomach, a quickening of breaths with every step toward the old stone building that houses the Folklore class. It’s quiet. Not a soul in sight wandering the buildings this time of night on a Friday. You can hear the distant buzzing of cars, people in town just down the street starting their festivities for the night. Festivities you’d otherwise be partaking in, likely at your boyfriend’s frat house. Another sweaty party filled with drunk college kids, loud music, and meaningless conversations. Your boyfriend surprisingly didn’t seem too upset about your absence for the first part of the night, and you yourself aren’t too upset about it either.

The creaking of the building’s glass entrance doors echo down the empty hall, followed by your singular footsteps. You chew on your bottom lip as your feet bring you closer to the classroom door, taking a deep breath before entering. He’s the first thing you see, sitting at the desk fashioned at the front of the classroom grading papers. At the sound of your steps, his gaze rises from the collection of papers, meeting your eyes over the brim of dark framed glasses with the flicker of a smile and a murmur of your name.

“I do hope you’re feeling better tonight.” Remmick leans back into the leather chair, gaze slipping to taking in your form.

You step closer toward the edge of the desk, skin tingling under his probing gaze.

“I am, thanks.” A beat of silence. “So um, am I just finishing yesterday’s exam?”

“Oh, no. Of course not.” He chuckles as if you cracked a joke. “I made a new exam entirely for you. Can’t trust that one of your classmates didn’t give you the answers.”

There’s that cocky grin again, a playful gleam in his eyes. You stifle the scoff bubbling up your throat, eyes closing with a deep inhale at the insinuation you’d cheat. “Okay…”

Another stretch of silence hangs heavy in the air as you survey on another.

“You know,” He speaks up just before you can try to break the tension. “I suppose I’m glad things worked out this way. I’ve been meanin’ to have a talk with you.”

“Okay. A talk about what?” You ask, despite already knowing it must be about your ‘performance’. Preparing for the onslaught, you stand before him confidently, arms crossing as your hip leans against the edge of his desk..

“About your grades. Should come as no surprise to you that you- well… you’re not doin’ well.” His fingers interlock, hovering above his chest as if contemplating. “Lackluster papers, missin’ assignments, often distracted in class… Quite frankly, I don’t think you’re puttin’ in the effort.”

You sigh, briefly looking away to collect your thoughts. Confrontation has never been one of your strong suits, let alone being put on the spot like this.

“Look, I know I’ve missed some assignments or turned them in late but it’s just… I’m busy-” You regret the words as soon as they come out and in turn, word vomit the rest. “I’m taking a lot of classes. I work. I have club meetings. Sometimes I just forget or I’m too tired to-”

“Well,” A scoff cuts you off, shaking his head with a smirk at your excuse. Your body grows fidgety with a wave of frustration at his interruption and dismissive gesture. “Your classmates have the same responsibilities and still manage this class just fine.”

His eyes bore into yours as he stands, sliding one hand into the pocket of his slacks as the other plants onto the desk, propping up his leaning body. “In fact, I’ve spoken to a few of the other professors and they all speak very highly of you. You seem to excel in their courses. A star student.” His words are almost mocking as he takes another step closer.

“So tell me… why is that?” His gaze is scrutinizing all the while that soft smile plays on his lips. He’s enjoying this.

You falter for a moment, mind racing as you contemplate what to say.

“I just… sometimes I don’t have time to do everything and I have to decide what’s more important to work on…”

“Oh. So what you’re saying is this class isn’t a priority for you, is that it?”

“No, that’s not-”

“That just because this class isn’t in your major, it’s not just as important and worthy of the same attention?”

It feels like the walls are closing in around you, like he is closing in around you. Judging and critiquing, pushing your buttons to get a rise.

“No.” The word comes out weakly as your mouth goes dry, a lump forming in your throat as your heartbeat quickens.

“What is it then, hm? Does all the intelligence in that pretty lil head of yours just dissipate the moment you cross that threshold?” He motions dramatically with the words, tilting his head to survey you, waiting expectantly for whatever grand explanation you’ll give.

Your eyes widen with a scoff, mouth falling open in shock before resentment replaces it with the furrow of your brows.

“You’ve got some nerve…” You bite back with a little surge of confidence, even as his face softens in amusement. In that moment, your mind flutters back to your findings, or lack thereof, on his background and credentials online.

“It’s funny how hard you’re hounding me right now, considering it’s unclear if you’re even a real professor. Yeah, I looked you up and there was nothing to be found. Nothing from the college you attended, no Dean’s List or Commencement mentions, no social media. In fact, if you hadn’t started working here, there’d be no evidence you even existed!” The volume and confidence in your voice rises with anger at the disrespect that tainted his words, reflecting his own scrutinization back onto him as you place your hands on your hips.

You watch his expression, looking for any signs of panic or his smirk faltering. But it doesn’t. The lines around his eyes crinkle as a rumbling snicker slips past his lips that pull into a wide grin. He nods, almost out of respect at your little outburst before leaning in closer.

“Ya know, if you put this much effort into your classwork, you wouldn’t be failin’ miserably… maybe think about that.” He mutters lowly, eyes trailing over your faltering expression before he steps back and turns away, leaving you to stand there dumbfounded.

You’ve always known yourself to be a little sensitive at times and you can’t deny the way his words sting.

“You don’t have to be so mean about it!” Your voice has lost its edge despite you, faltering along with your resolve.

“Aw, sensitive lil thing aren’t ya?” A low hum as he looks toward you again, tone lacking any actual sympathy or concern. “In more ways than one I bet…” His voice lowers, gaze faltering to trail down the curves of your body.

“What?” The question comes out in a shocked whisper, brows furrowing as you question if you actually heard him right.

“Maybe it’s somethin’ else that’s affectin’ your performance in class… maybe it’s this boyfriend of yours.” His eyes fall to the inaccurately placed Claddagh ring on your finger. “Or maybe it’s just me…”

You roll your eyes at the first suggestion before they narrow with the second. Of course it’s him.

“Uh, yeah. I’d say it’s you.” You retort matter of factly. “You’re the one being an ass and critiquing every little thing I do-”

“No, no…” Remmick shakes his head softly, his voice a breathy rasp. “I’ve seen the looks you give me, even when you think I’m not lookin’. Not to mention those long bathroom breaks you take. Ya think I don’t know what you’re doin’ in there?”

Your eyes widen in surprise, had you really been so foolish to think he wouldn’t notice? You didn’t think you were that obvious, but you’re definitely not about to admit it to him.

“You’re crazy. I don’t know what you’re talking about.” You hope your words are more convincing than you feel.

He grins at you, seemingly unconvinced by your proclamation. Despite your words, you feel your body ignite with his close proximity and unwavering gaze from your eyes and body, prompting the return of that familiar pulsing between your thighs that he always seems to awaken.

“Well, let’s just see about that then, hm? If that’s the case, you should be able to pass this oral exam no problem.”

Oral exam?

The words send a spike of anxiety through you. Written exams are enough of a pain in the ass, but being expected to verbally recall the answers on the spot with no time to contemplate? You grimace, watching as he steps back to return to the leather chair like he’s settling in for a show.

“Please,” Remmick gestures. “Both palms on my desk.”

“W-What?” Your body stills, staring at him like a deer in headlights.

“Both. Palms.” The deep timbre of his words sends an electric charge through your immediately flushing body.

With a gulp and lick of your dry lips, you obey. Stepping closer, you turn to face the desk, your back facing toward him merely a foot behind you and lay your palms flat against the cool, polished wood surface.

You mentally chastise and thank yourself for wearing a skirt tonight, the slight lean forward of your body causing the fabric to hike up just a fraction, enough to feel the air hit the tender flesh of your upper thighs. You can only imagine the view from his seated position behind you, heat spreading up your neck and across your face at the thought.

“Let’s start with something easy, hmm?” Remmick’s eyes glide up your bare legs to where the hem of your skirt rests dangerously close to the curve of your ass.

“Name 5 of the ancient Celtic gods.”

A brief moment of silence passes as your brain catches up to your ears, recalling the names repeatedly mentioned throughout class.

“Rhiannon, Morrigan, Lugh… Dagda… Bridgid.”

No praise or criticism, he simply moves on.

“And the four cycles?”

“Mythological, Ulst-” You stutter, feeling the sudden touch of calloused fingers gently caressing the back of your knee, a ticklish sensation that shoots up your thigh and throughout your body.

“Ulster… Fenian… Cycle of Kings.” Your voice and breaths waver as his touch, feathery light and painfully slow, glides up the back of your thigh, leaving a trail of rising goosebumps behind.

“Good.”

“Profes-”

“When is St. Brigid’s Day?” A swift cut off, moving onto the next question.

“The first day of spring?”

“Which is?” The dancing of his fingers along your thigh ceases, waiting as you hesitate and struggle to recall the answer. You’re almost ashamed of the way your body reacts to his halted touch, spurring a flicker of panic and racing heartbeat.

“Um, February… 1st?” It’s a guess you’re only half-confident in, but a lucky one nonetheless as his touch resumes, hand moving under your skirt to caress the bare skin of your ass.

A shaky exhale escapes your parted lips, eyes fluttering closed as the stroke of his fingers turns the kindling fire flickering in your core into a wild blaze. Your body automatically reacts by bending forward slightly to lean into the touch, the meat of your ass pressing fully against his palm. You hear his hum of approval, the palpable hunger in his low, breathy voice.

“The mother goddess of Tuatha Dé Danann?” Remmick pushes the fabric up, fully revealing the round globes. No panties… He groans at the sight of wetness already slicking your puffy folds and the sound goes right to your core, a shiver running up your spine as the air hits your bare cunt. You can’t think straight, mind focused solely on your professor’s groping and caressing hand, your most private regions exposed to his ravenous gaze.

Remmick himself is distracted until a moment passes and he realizes you haven’t answered the question. “Oh, don’t disappoint me now, darlin’. You’re doin’ so good.”

The soft creak of leather hits your ears, his presence shifting behind you until the fabric of his clothes brushes along your skin, mouth hovering by your ear.

“Fuck,” You mutter under a breath, palms growing sweaty against the polished wood. Think. “Morrigan?”

The tsk hits your ears as a disappointed chide, all movement stalling before his gravelly voice whispers, “Lay your chest against the desk.” Breath fanning over your ear, a sick and anxious thrill shoots through you with the command.

You obey and bend over fully, upper body flush against his desk. The coolness of the polished wood is a welcomed shock, a stark contrast to your blazing, flushed skin. He makes you wait, only just for a moment to make you antsy and anxious, fidgeting with anticipation for what you know will inevitably come.

Knowing doesn’t prepare you.

Remmick’s hand collides with your bare ass, a smacking sound that echoes off the walls of the empty classroom, pulling a broken gasp from your parted lips pressed against the desk.

“One more chance. Try again.”

He’s trying to utterly wreck and humiliate you. You try your best to think of the correct answer, at this point you’ve nearly forgotten the damn question.

“Fuck. Eriu? I don’t know!” He grins at how pathetically desperate you sound, returning the incorrect answer with another resounding smack against the tender, already reddening skin of your rear.

Your body jerks against the desk with a whimper and then a yelp when he spanks you again, unexpectedly and hard. He’s not sure he wants to stop, seeing the way his handprint is beginning to mark the flesh, watching the way it jiggles with each smack. “That one was for being a mouthy little brat.”

Another smack.

The pain bleeds into pleasure, reverberating throughout your body and spreading right to your soaking cunt. You don’t think you’ve ever been so wet in your entire life. Remmick seems to take notice too as his calloused hand soothes the red, beaten flesh.

“I think I’ve found the root of your problem, sweetheart.” He hums before his hand trails down and two digits slowly part your puffy, slick lips. The two of you moan softly in tandem, body trembling with the touch as your pussy throbs with want, with need.

“Too busy thinkin’ with this,” A flinch and a gasp as his hand spanks your cunt. “instead of your brain. Isn’t that right?”

You can barely nod, too focused on the way his fingers soothe your pussy just as they’d done with your ass.

“Answer me.”

“Yes, Professor.” You answer obediently, voice thick with barely restrained desperation that mirrors your restless body, unable to resist the impulse to rock your folds back against his hand.

“Poor thing. ‘Course you can’t pay attention when all the blood in your body is between your legs.” The outline of his hard cock nudges along your thigh, breath hot against your ear. “I could give you what you need, darlin’. If you want me to fuck you, all you have to do is ask…”

His touch stalls, waiting for you to obey, to beg him for what you both know you want. But even in the haze of arousal, a moment of clarity passes through as you remember your supposed commitment, the loyalty you’ve already broken.

“I shouldn’t… I- I have a boyfriend.” Your protest is shamefully weak and your cunt, well she has a mind of her own, pulsing pathetically in protest from the lack of your professor’s touch. Remmick knows it too, can hear it in your voice, can see it in your eyes.

“Ah, yes. James…” A breathy laugh and devious smirk. “Quite a flirt from what I hear.”

Your eyes widen, visibly taken aback. “Excuse me?” You question despite knowing you have no ground to stand on to be hurt or upset, given you yourself have already crossed the line.

And Remmick, well, he’s more than heard that James is a flirt. He happens to know that in this very moment under the guidance of that powerful little hivemind, James is currently tangled up with his spawn and your classmate, Sarah. It hadn’t taken much convincing at all.

He won’t tell you that part, though. You don’t need to know. You’ve already let Remmick in, let him touch you in your most intimate area and now, all you need is a little push.

“You heard me, darlin’. Your little ‘relationship’ clearly isn’t serious to him… and judgin’ by the way you’re soakin’ my fingers right now, I’d say it’s not serious for you either.”

A muffled gasp slips past your lips with a flick of his calloused fingers stroking your throbbing, needy clit.

“This pretty lil pussy is all wound up. She needs a man to take care of her… all you gotta do is beg me for it.” He practically growls, hunger lacing the filthy words as his lips brush against your ear.

The little voice reminding you of your commitment to James grows quieter until fizzling out all together, leaving just the raw arousal for your professor behind. Your body is trembling and aching for it, to give into your forbidden carnal desires.

“Yes,” The words slip eagerly from your tongue with a languid nod. “Please.”

The pad of his thumb continues its ministrations against your clit as his other hand grabs your jaw, not enough to hurt but enough to exert his power. His fingers flex against your soft skin, grip forcing your lips into a pout that you’re sure looks as pathetic as it feels, even as a newly discovered part of yourself loves it.

“Please what? You’re gonna need to get more specific, darlin’.” Remmick taunts, lips moving to the blazing skin of your cheek.

“I want you to fuck me. Please, Sir.”

Remmick’s cock aches behind the confines of his slacks at the pure, unbridled need in your voice. He could push you further, make you beg and edge you until tears stain those pretty blushing cheeks. Hell, maybe he will later. But for now, even he can’t hold back anymore.

Remmick uses his grip to turn your head to face him, the rest of your body quickly following suit as his lips crash against yours in a demanding kiss. It’s wet, sloppy, and full of ravenous hunger as you readily return it, lips moving in a frenzied, passionate dance. There isn’t an inch of space between your bodies pressing flush together, his hands greedily roaming your backside as your own grip onto his biceps to ground yourself amidst the dizzying sensations of his touch.

As soon as your lips part, his tongue delves in to explore and claim the depths of your mouth. He swallows your wanton moan at the feeling of his tongue against yours, licking and tangling together as one of your hands trails up his arm to thread your fingers into his short, curled strands of hair. Rumbling groans rise from his throat with the mixing of your spit and you’re too lost in a daze of arousal to question the thick, viscous consistency of his. You readily lap it up as the throbbing between your legs intensifies with every brush of his tongue against yours, every breath that presses your chests closer together.

With a shuddering gasp, Remmick pulls his lips from yours, a thick string of saliva still connecting your lips. He sees the same glazed over look in his eyes reflected in yours. With his hand cupping the side of your jaw, the calloused pad of his thumb slowly rubs along your now swollen bottom lip, breaking the chain of spit and collecting the rest off the plump skin.

A grin appears as he pushes his slick thumb into your mouth, eyes locked in an intense gaze as you softly suck the remnants of the kiss from his finger.

“Good girl” The raspy praise washes over you in a wave of sweet relief, settling into your knees that wobble under the weight of it. His praise is a refreshing drop of water down your parched throat, a substantial load off your shoulders that leaves you stumbling after weeks of persistent criticism.

A soft smacking sound leaves your lips with a slow pull of his thumb, dragging down to your chin before his palm leaves your face entirely. His body follows, eyes locked onto one another as he steps back, watching in amusement when your brows furrow in confusion from the loss of touch.

Your eyes follow as he casually sits back into the leather cushioned desk chair before you, thick fingers working the button and zipper of his slacks with practiced ease. “You wanna pass this class? Want me to fuck you? I can give you everything you want, baby, but you gotta earn it first. On your knees.”

All it takes is a slight push down of the waistband for Remmick’s aching cock to spring free and stand at attention in all its engorged glory, the swollen head red and leaking. Your eyes take in every detail, following the pulsing veins that run the length of his thick girth, mouth watering at the sight alone. It feels like you’re in a trance as your body slowly lowers until your knees land on the cold tiled floor, lips parted with every heavy breath flowing freely. On hands and knees you crawl toward him and his waiting cock, his own eyes flickering between your hungry expression and the sway of that sinful ass with each shift of your hips.

The movement halts once your shoulders become caged between his knees. A tentative glance up to those eyes staring back, shadowed by the overhead light behind him. There’s a light twinkling within them. It flickers, the white glimmer shifting to crimson before it disappears just as quickly. It should scare you, should send a shiver of fear down your arched spine… but it doesn’t. The heat radiating throughout your body, the hunger residing in your core only grows. The moment only adds to the looming mystery around your professor, but also, his intoxicating allure and pull.

Your gaze settles back onto Remmick’s leaking cock before you, watching as it twitches in anticipation before you can no longer deprive the both of you. With your tongue sticking out flat, it slowly drags along from the base to the tip, gathering a taste before curling to flick at the cleft marking the underside of his swollen head. A swirl to collect the drops of dripping pre-cum onto your tastebuds sends a shudder through his heaving chest, eyes falling half-lidded as he watches your pursed lips pepper kisses between kitten licks along his throbbing shaft.

“That’s it.” He breathes out, fingers anchoring into the hair on the back of your head when your lips finally wrap around him. The warm, wet cavern of your mouth feels better than he could’ve imagined, hot saliva engulfing his length with the teasing wiggle of your tongue that makes his breath hitch.

The grip on your hair tightens with each inch that disappears past the plump curve of your lips, testing just how much of him you can take before a gag, pop, and a gasp bursts from your lips with the incessant nudging of his head deep down your throat. He smirks, tongue darting out to wet his lips when you do. But if anything, you’re determined and already craving more of the salty, heady taste of him.

A deep satisfaction settles into his bones, mixing with the sparks of toe-curling pleasure your mouth ignites throughout him. “Look at that,” A breathy chuckle rumbles from his chest. “Turns out you are good at somethin’ besides runnin’ your mouth.” He comments as his fingers work to undo the buttons of his shirt, voice beginning to strain when your tongue swirls around the tip with each bob of your head.

His words only spur you on more, prompting your fingers to reach for the waistband of his slacks and impatiently push them all the way down and off until there’s no barrier, no resistance to keep you from fully sliding yourself between his legs. Your arms straddle his strong, thick thighs, hand joining your mouth to move in sync stroking up and down the thick girth, eliciting a deep groan of approval.

Despite his fingers remaining tangled in your hair, he doesn’t try to guide or force your movements. He can tell by your closed eyes, the moans that vibrate through his length, the deeper you take him, the faster your mouth moves, the harder you suck, that you’re enjoying this as much as he is. So he lets you, reveling in the most pleasure he’s had in a long time, so long that the past pales in comparison to this, to you.

Then, you open your gorgeous eyes to lock onto his just as your free hand falls to cradle and rub his heavy, aching balls. All the strength in his body can’t stop the drawn-out moan that leaves his mouth or keep his eyes from rolling back. “Fuck… so good, darlin’.” The shaky guttural praise only heightens your resolve and hunger to a degree you’ve never felt before. You’ve been horny and aroused, but this, this is a different level entirely.

Your lips pull from his cock with a wet pop while your hand continues to pump him, body lowering and back arching as your mouth moves down to his heavy sack. Your hot, heavy breath surrounds his balls before your mouth does, licking and swirling before gently sucking them into your mouth. Remmick practically growls at the intense stimulation and your eyes watch as his head falls back against the cushioned headrest. His jaw tenses, chest shaking with every exhale, veins protruding along the thick column of his throat.

You lather his sensitive sacks with attention amid the dripping arousal between your legs. You crave more, you need more. More of him, every inch you can get, every depraved sound and moan you can pull from those plush lips. You’re lost in the throes of hunger, with the desire to please him, to taste every inch of his alluring body you can.

With a mind of its own, your tongue slips lower in hopes of exploring more of him and his pleasure, moaning as it lavishes the stretch of skin below his balls. An experimental zigzag of your tongue against it elicits a shaky moan, Remmick’s eyes opening to watch you sink lower and lower. Your own eyes lock onto his as your tongue flicks out, giving a testing lick against his puckered hole. It’s uncharted territory for you, but you can’t resist the intoxicating urge to keep going, especially with the way his breath hitches.

“Fuck, I knew you were a filthy girl.” He groans as the feeling of your mouth becomes dizzying, his cock rock hard in your still stroking hand. His grip on your hair tightens as he spreads his legs wider, shifting lower on the seat to grant easier access as your tongue presses firmer with another lick and swirl against his asshole.

“Oh god,” Remmick’s head begins to fall back before he catches himself, forcing his eyes to focus on the dirty, sinful sight of you. On all fours, back arched with that perfect ass in the air, glazed eyes fluttering up at him with your mouth buried beneath his balls. “You eat your boyfriend’s ass like this?” His breathy, strained voice reflects his quickly crumbling composure, only furthered by the way he can practically feel your smile in response.

“Uh uh,” You gasp, only pulling from his core enough for him to hear you. “Just you, Sir.” He groans as you waste no time diving back in, your tongue incessantly licking and prodding at the sensitive hole with a one-track minded hunger that reflects his own.

Fuck, you’re going to be his unravelling. Body, flesh, soul… his entire being.

The pleasure coursing through him builds at a rapid pace, balls drawing up tight with the coil in his lower stomach with each lewd lick and moan muffled against him.

Using the leverage of his fingers in your hair, he pulls your mouth from him with a guttural curse, almost busting right there on the spot upon seeing your expression. You gaze up at him like a newborn dazed and drunk off their first taste of blood. His cock aches and twitches at the sight before his lips collide against yours with a swift speed.

Strong arms lift your body with his as he stands from the chair, tongue invading your mouth to taste himself from you. A few stumbling steps and the cool surface of the desk presses against your backside. “Bend that ass over the desk again, now.” Long gone is the cool, snarky and collected persona from earlier, stripped away to leave only the primal, feral lust behind.

There’s no time wasted on stripping off the remainder of your clothes, the impatient need to be connected on the most carnal level taking precedence. With your body resuming its previous position bent over his desk, Remmick settles behind you and flips up the flimsy fabric of your skirt. His cock slots between your puffy lips, thrusting slightly to coat the length with your slick.

“Tell me you want it,” He pleads, rasping your name against your ear with his last bit of restraint, your sweet, depraved begging the last thing he needs to hear before he fully lets go. You swear you’ve never heard your name sound so beautiful and with such desperation before.

“Yes. God, yes! Please, Professor. I need you.” Your bottom lip trembles as you beg, your entire body thrumming with need, hips rocking back in an attempt to chase the promise of what you both know only he can give you. Ecstasy beyond your comprehension, beyond what you’ve ever experienced.

The swollen head of Remmick’s cock breaches your cunt with a shuddering exhale before slowly sinking deeper. He leans back to watch his length disappear inside you, the tight, wet warmth of your pussy surrounding him inch by inch until he’s fully hilted inside. Your gasping whimpers are like music to his ears, tight walls fluttering as they attempt to accommodate his thick girth. So thick it makes your eyes roll back, stretching you farther than anyone before ever has, filling your walls with an intoxicating ache that borders on painful.

“So fucking tight.” He grits out through clenched teeth, fingers digging into the fat cushioning your hips. His eyes follow the slow unsheathing of his cock from your cunt before a roll of his hips sends him plunging back into you with a deep, hard thrust that knocks the breath from your lungs.

Remmick doesn’t give you time to catch it, setting a rough and fast pace as one hand slides up the curve of your spine to land at the nape of your neck, curling his fingers around the tender skin with a tight grip.

“Oh, fuck!” A high-pitched whine bursts from your lips, body jerking against the desk with every sharp thrust that sends your fingers searching for purchase along the cool, smooth wood. His body brackets you against the solid furniture, forcing you to take the full brunt of his relentless pounding.

The desk begins to shake, sending pens, papers, and books clattering to the floor. The sound joins the echoing symphony of your combined, debauched moans and the slapping of skin against skin.

“This is what you wanted, isn’t it?” Remmick’s hand moves from your neck to collect your hair, gripping and tugging it back. “For me to fuck you and put you in your place, hm?” His voice takes on a unrestrained, feral quality that matches the way he’s fucking you, juxtaposing your choked, wanton cries.

“Yes, Sir!” The way your words jumble with each thrust only makes his cock twitch and pulse inside you, you’re already so fucking wrecked and drunk off him.

“Yeah? You wanna be my good little pet?”

“Oh god, yes!”

“Yes what?” A harsh tug on your hair and a sharp smack against the bouncing meat of your ass. “Yes, Professor!” Actual tears begin to brim your eyes with the overwhelming sensations, your pussy throbbing from the unrelenting abuse of his cock while aching for more.

A near animalistic growl rises from his throat, sweat beading and slipping down his forehead. His eyes are locked onto the way your ass recoils with each stroke, the sight of his length repeatedly disappearing inside you, the feeling of your tight cunt squeezing him like it never wants to let go.

A shift in angle sends your hands grasping at the edge of the desk with a high-pitched gasp, stars beginning to bloom behind your eyes. Remmick’s length rubs against that spongy spot inside you that James could never find, sending radiating waves of intense, hot pleasure through you. It rapidly builds, walls fluttering with a deep throb.

“Fuck, harder!” You beg, craving more of that intoxicating feeling that already has your body trembling.

“Louder!” He demands, not caring if anyone left on this side of campus at this time of night hears the utterly depraved sounds he’s pulling from you.

“Please! Harder, Sir!” You use all your breath to raise your voice into a desperate cry, one that seems to satisfy as his cock hits that sweet spot even harder. It’s nearly too much to handle as your nails dig into the wood, feeling yourself begin to slip. “I-I think I’m gonna-”

“Let it out. Give it to me. Now.”

Your body immediately reacts by obeying his command, releasing a flood of pure, blinding ecstasy with a scream of carnal rapture. Remmick’s guttural groan joins you at the feeling of your juices flooding his shaft, walls spasming around him with a vice grip. He fully hilts himself inside you as his own release crashes over him, cock twitching as it fills up your cunt with his seed, possessive satisfaction mixing with pleasure.

The sounds of your heavy breaths fill the room, chests heaving and cores pulsing together, still joined. Remmick slowly pulls his now drenched cock from your pussy, smirking at the way it clenches around nothing from the loss. Despite the intense orgasm and his seed stuffed deep in your cunt, he’s not done with you yet as desire still simmers between your bodies.

He tears off the already unbuttoned shirt hanging off his arms, one hand rubbing along the arched curve of your back as the other grips the base of his cock. His tip slides up and down your soaking slit, collecting your combined juices before teasingly rubbing the swollen head against your puckered, unused hole.

“Ya ever let your boyfriend fuck you here?” The raspy question meets your still ringing ears with the feeling of his tip teasing your asshole.

“No, Sir…” Teeth dig into your bottom lip and even as your body tenses with the unfamiliar territory, a thrill shivers down your spine with the prospect.

A grin pulls at his lips, muffling a short, rumbling chuckle before he lets the thick saliva pooling in his mouth drip out onto his cock and your unused hole.

“Good…” His voice hits your ears like honey laced whiskey, twinged with an undeniable dark, defiling possessiveness.

He braces a hand on the desk next to your waist as the other guides his cock, steadily pushing forward until the head breaches your opening. A grunt and heavy breath escapes him at the feeling, your ass is even tighter than your pussy, the walls resisting his exploration.

“Just relax, baby. Let me in.” The cooing of his voice combined with the soothing touch along your spine sends sparks fluttering throughout your body. You try to focus on steadying your breaths, relaxing your muscles to ease his way inside.

With each inch he sinks deeper, his body lowers until he’s fully hilted inside your pulsing walls and his chest is flush against your back. The uncomfortability slowly fades as he holds himself there, waiting for your breaths to even out until all that remains is a foreign ache and you fully relax around him.

“There you go.” Remmick praises as he withdraws and thrusts back in at a leisurely pace with less resistance, hearing the soft gasps that begin to leave your lips. “You’re takin’ me so well, baby.”

The praise goes right to your head, already spinning and hazy from the stark shift in his disposition, from rough and feral to the now slow and tender that makes your stomach flutter. This, it’s just as charged with hunger and desire, but far more intimate.

His hips set a steady rocking rhythm, thick cock stretching your virgin ass with long and deep strokes. You feel every heavy breath tickle the sensitive skin along your neck and ear, making your walls squeeze around him, rewarding you with another wrecked moan from his lips.

Soon, the shift in your moans and body is palpable, eyes fluttering as waves of pleasure flow through you with each plunge of his dick inside you. “Yeah… you like that, darlin’?” A breathy whisper fans across your cheek with a tilt of Remmick’s face, pressing his forehead to rest against the side of yours.

“Yes. You feel so good, Sir.” You answer with a needy whimper, turning your face slightly to lean into him. A shuddering sigh passes through him in response and despite already being inside your tight ass and feeling the parts of your body flush with his, he still needs more, needs to be even closer, needs you to feel absolutely surrounded by him.

“Such a good girl for me, aren’t you?” He murmurs, lips brushing against the flushed skin of your cheek as one hand searches for more, reaching around to grasp at the low neckline of your shirt. A slight tug is all it takes for the soft mounds of your bare breasts to fall free, his hand immediately moving to grab and massage the tender flesh.

“Yes, Professor.” You practically purr for him, the added stimulation of his fingers tweaking your sensitive nipples making your eyes roll back.

“Say it, baby. Tell me who you are.” Remmick pushes further, shifting his other hand to cover yours that’s holding onto the edge of the desk. He flinches as the silver of your Claddaghs ring burns, but he doesn’t pull away, instead slotting his fingers into the spaces between yours.

“Oh, god. I’m your good girl, Sir.” You answer with a broken, breathy moan, eyes opening to meet his half-lidded ones.

They gaze back at you with affection and desire, his lips parted for every breath and groan to slip freely. “Fuck, you’re so beautiful like this.” The blissed out expression on your face, the glazed look in your eyes, put there by him.

There’s no time to respond before his lips capture yours in a deep, passionate kiss. The speed of his thrusts picks up slightly, spurred on by your moans that muffle against his lips. You part them, tongue freely and languidly sliding in to tangle with his. That familiar blinding heat begins to bloom in your core once again, heightened and building with each added layer of stimulation.

The full, pleasureful ache of his cock in your ass. The feeling of his body and skin flush against yours. His hand fondling your breast, teasing your hard, sensitive nipples. The other covering yours, fingers laced together. Mouths swallowing each other's moans as your tongues engage in a dance as old as time.

The forbidden filth and yet intimacy of it all.

Remmick can tell you’re getting closer, can feel it in his own tightening coil. Your breaths quicken, tight walls squeeze rhythmically around him, your sweet, muffled sounds growing higher-pitched.

Your orgasm hits you like a freight train, waves of pleasure crashing over your trembling body. Remmick holds you through it as he cums with you, the tight grip of your ass around his thick girth spurring on new heights of ecstasy. Your moans and heavy breaths mingle, chests heaving in sync as he pumps you full, laying claim to both of your holes with his seed.

You remain there together joined over the desk, basking in the afterglow of your orgasms until it eventually wades. Remmick presses a soft kiss to your lips before easing his length out of your sensitive, still pulsing hole. You remain there on the desk, catching your breath and waiting for the haze of ecstasy to clear from your mind amidst the sound of shuffling clothes, the buckling of Remmick’s belt.

When you lift your chest from the desk to stand straight and turn around, Remmick’s stepping back toward you. His slacks are back on, shirt pulled back over his arms but still unbuttoned. His hands quickly return to your body, moving to adjust and fix the neckline of your shirt as you look at him with those doe-eyes.

“Now, given our… discussion, I’m willin’ to look past those missing assignments.” A wide, bashful smile pulls at your lips, matching his own grin as his hands drag down your sides.

“And my exam? Do I get an A?”

“Greedy now, are we?” He chuckles at the tilt of your head, the innocent batting of your eyelashes. “I’ll give you an A… but you’re still gonna run home and do your reading for the next class like a good girl, aren’t you?” His voice grows deeper, hands sliding to smooth the now wrinkled fabric of your skirt back down over the curve of your ass.

“Yes, Sir.” You answer with a dazed smile, heart still pounding against your ribcage.

Remmick’s gaze shifts down as his hand moves to take yours in his palm. His expression falters for a moment upon seeing the Claddagh ring gifted to you by James before a smug grin returns.

“Ya know, the way you’re wearin’ this ring… it means you’re single.” Your eyes shift down to watch as he reaches for it, already prepared for the burning sting once he grasps and slowly pulls the silver band off the column of your finger. He turns it so that the heart is facing inward and slides it back onto your right ring finger. “That means you’re in a relationship.”

You blink in confusion, unaware there was a significant meaning in the ring’s placement, James had surely never told you so either. The feeling of your professor’s fingers along your jawline snaps you from your thoughts as he gently lifts your face to meet his once more.

“And don’t be mistaken. It’s not with that boy, either… You’re mine now, ya understand?”

#remmick x reader #remmick smut #remmick imagine

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sapphiressmoke · 1 month ago

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𝐇𝐢𝐬 𝐔𝐬𝐮𝐚𝐥 𝐋𝐮𝐧𝐜𝐡

i'm pretty normal, actually. inspired by that meme, i cranked out this quick little fic—pure smut, porn without plot, just a man on his knees worshiping where he belongs (pussy eating) | remmick x fem!rader | wc. 600 | content +18 below the cut

The more he ate you out, the worse the state between your legs became—completely drunk on that thick, milky saliva. And the more you moaned, too fragile and weak to form any coherent line of thought beyond broken phrases like: “Remmick,” “don’t stop!,” “fuck me harder,” or “eat this pussy just like that.” But the monster reveled between your thighs. Between your thighs lay his delicious feast: something warm and soft where he buried his mouth full of sharp teeth, stared at you with crimson eyes blazing with desire, twisted his face into the expression of a beast at the peak of lust, making muffled noises against your swollen, abused clit with his thick lips. The little entrance of your pussy got fucked by the tip of his soft tongue, his pointed claws scratching you as he held your hips up so his entire head fit between the frame of your thighs, his nearly pointed ears heating up while he dragged his mouth side to side with wet, sloppy sounds.

It was like this every day—or rather, every night—with the pussy-and-cum-starved vampire chasing after you like a beast in heat, pathetically begging for “a coochie on his face,” laughing victoriously once he had you trapped in his strong arms, fucking you as deep as he could, growling hoarsely: “You and this pussy belong to me, and only me.” He devoured you in every unimaginable way, making you shiver and lose your mind for him.

Maybe it wasn’t such a bad idea after all, moving in with that strange man—who, as it turned out, was a centuries-old vampire. Strange, yes, but you were strange and batshit crazy yourself, so the idea of dating (and being fucked silly by) a monster fit you like a glove.

And tonight, you were the happiest person on earth, with Remmick groaning softly and rough against your pussy, his mischievous tongue circling your clit before closing in for a heavy, sucking kiss, watching you with pleasure as your body trembled and arched for him. He savored the warmth of your skin—so human, so sensitive—under his hands, salivating more and more. He lifted himself slightly, his torso exposed in its pale glory, the gold chain glinting under your kitchen lights as you lay sprawled across the table, dishes and silverware shoved aside. He was the most fucking beautiful beast: eyes bloodred with desire, a twisted smile full of sharp teeth, pointed ears flared, nostrils flaring as your scent intoxicated him, dark hair disheveled, mouth utterly drenched and dripping with how badly he wanted you. Still holding you, he laughed:

“Oh, little princess, you’re always the best part of my meals,” he taunted. You let out a choked laugh between a needy moan:

“Shut up and get back to eating me out, Remmy!” You tried to grab his head, but the vampire was faster, dodging your bold hand and shooting you a narrowed glare. He laughed at your frustration, leaning back down toward your exposed pussy.

“You want this?” he teased, flicking your clit with a quick lick. You moaned but said nothing.

Remmick stopped, lifted his head, and waited.

Tonight, he was in a dominant mood rather than a submissive one, you noticed. Biting your lower lip, you surrendered to your pulsing desire, which throbbed his name in waves:

“Fuck, just fuck me already, you beast!”

“That’s how I like it, my princess…” His face slid back between your thighs, dragging against your soaked pussy, coating himself entirely in your delicious juices. You felt the tip of his nose press against your clit, that sweet pressure sending shocks through your body:

“Nice and spread, nice and wet… so I can devour you whole.”

#remmick smut #remmick fanfic

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sapphiressmoke · 1 month ago

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I’m creaming! Sorry, I meant screaming

𝕰𝖞𝖊𝖘 𝖔𝖓 𝖒𝖊

ᴘᴀɪʀɪɴɢ: ꜱᴜʙ!ᴅᴏᴍᴇꜱᴛɪᴄ!ʀᴇᴍᴍɪᴄᴋ x ꜰ!ᴍᴏᴅᴇʀɴ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: ᴘᴏʀɴ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴘʟᴏᴛ, ꜱᴍᴜᴛ, ʙʀᴀᴛᴛʏ!ʀᴇᴍᴍɪᴄᴋ, ꜱᴜʙ ʀᴇᴍᴍɪᴄᴋ, ᴅᴏᴍ ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ, ᴠᴀɢɪɴᴀʟ ꜰɪɴɢᴇʀɪɴɢ, ᴀɴᴀʟ ꜰɪɴɢᴇʀɪɴɢ (ᴍ ʀᴇᴄᴇɪᴠɪɴɢ), ᴀɴᴀʟ ꜱᴇx (ᴍ ʀᴇᴄᴇɪᴠɪɴɢ), ᴘᴇɢɢɪɴɢ, ʜᴀɴᴅᴊᴏʙ, ꜱʟɪɢʜᴛ ᴇᴅɢɪɴɢ, ᴏʀᴀʟ (ꜰ ʀᴇᴄᴇɪᴠɪɴɢ), ᴅʀᴏᴏʟɪɴɢ, ꜱᴡᴇᴀʀɪɴɢ, ᴇxᴘʟɪᴄɪᴛ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇɴᴛ, ᴅɪʀᴛʏ ᴛᴀʟᴋ, ᴇxᴄᴇꜱꜱɪᴠᴇ ᴜꜱᴇ ᴏꜰ ᴘᴇᴛ ɴᴀᴍᴇꜱ.

𝔹𝕒𝕤𝕖𝕕 𝕠𝕟 𝕥𝕙𝕚𝕤 𝕄𝕒𝕚𝕟 𝕊𝕥𝕠��𝕪

ᴡᴏʀᴅꜱ: 6ᴋ

Your mornings used to start with bright sunlight. Now they start with Remmick.

A cool arm tightened around your waist instinctively, pulling you flush against an immovable chest, bare and chilled like marble beneath sheets. You felt the tickle of dark hair brushing your neck, and a soft groan as he buried his face into the curve of your shoulder. His hair is still damp from last night’s bath — you always help brush it out, and he always insists he doesn’t need it, then makes that soft, pleased little noise the second you start.

He holds you like if he loosened his arms, you’d slip into the air and disappear.

Which, in his defense, you’ve done before. Once. For five minutes. To brush your teeth.

That was apparently enough for him to spiral into grief.

This morning is no different.

You shift a little in his arms. He clutches you tighter immediately.

“Don’t,” Remmick murmurs, voice still thick from sleep. “Ye gave yer word.”

You smiled, already too used to his particular brand of dramatics. “I’m not going anywhere,”

“Mh” He nuzzles into your neck. “Good.”

In fact, you had managed to take a week off work because lately, Remmick had become increasingly unstable and in need of attention. He had started getting very clingy before you left the house, always finding some excuse to make you late.

Often, when he returned from a hunt, he would silently slip between your legs — still dirty with blood and soil — and drain you of so much energy that when the alarm rang just a few hours later, you were still completely wrecked.

One of those nights, as he tilted his hips against yours and rubbed his erection along your folds — still dripping from your shared pleasure — ready to start another round, you had begged him to let you rest, promising in return that you’d ask your boss for a whole week off to stay home with him.

That had calmed him.

You sigh. This is normal now. This very specific brand of obsessive clinginess — but it’s never suffocating. Not really. Remmick’s the kind of touch-starved that’s more endearing than frightening. A centuries-old creature of the night who wants nothing more than to be tucked under the covers like a dog and held.

He doesn’t even open his eyes. Just slides a hand beneath your shirt and lays his palm over your stomach.

“I could keep ya here 'till the end o' time,” he whispered, almost to himself. “I'd feed ya, dress ya, keep ya warm with meself every day.”

You arched an eyebrow, face still against the pillow. “You’re being creepy again.”

“I’m a soft-hearted fool, I am,” he protests weakly. “I’m adoring ya.”

“Like a creep.”

“Like a proper lovely husband.” He nips your shoulder, not even sharp enough to mark.

You laugh softly, turning in his arms to face him. His eyes finally open — glassy and grey in the low light. He blinks at you like you’re too bright to stare at for too long.

You cup his face. He melts into it, instantly.

“Is that a proposal?” you tease.

He grins. “It’s a threat.”

You lean in to kiss the corner of his mouth.

His hand slips out of your t-shirt, and reaches your hands, fingers locking with yours. He shifts above you without hesitation, settling between your legs like he belongs there. His mouth finds your neck again, lower this time, the cold tip of his nose dragging across your collarbone.

“Let me stay curled up here all day.”

“You do that anyway.”

“I mean in the bed. With you. Inside ya, if you'd have me.”

You snort. “Is that what you want? Morning sex?”

He gives you the most pitiful look — somehow fragile and greedy at once.

“Nope,” he whispers. “I want…y'know, to be close.”

You stare.

“And maybe a bit of sex, yeah” he adds.

Of course.

He kisses your collarbone. Your jaw. The little hollow beneath your throat. Everywhere except your lips — like he’s saving them.

“Ya always smell so fuckin' good,” he murmurs. “It drives me mad, so it does.”

When you finally guide his mouth to yours, he groans like he’s been starving — and maybe he has. Not for blood, but for this. Intimacy. The kind that’s deeper than skin. The kind he panics without.

You don’t even need to speak. You just tug his shirt off, slide yours up, and pull him down. His hips slot to yours like muscle memory, his kisses growing hungrier, needier.

But it never turns rough. Never hurried.

Remmick isn’t like other lovers — not greedy for climax, not detached after. He clings. He holds your hand, kisses your knuckles, presses his forehead to yours as he rocks into you slowly, like he’s trying to stay connected at the deepest point possible.

“I missed ya,” he whispers, voice cracking.

“I was here all the time.”

“I still missed ya.”

It’s always like this — even when it’s barely been hours. You’re the sun to his cold-blooded orbit. He can’t help it. You let him cling.

Afterward, he doesn’t move. Not at all. Just lays on you, face pressed between your breasts, arms wrapped snugly around your torso. You stroke his hair, the way he likes. He’s humming something soft under his breath — a lullaby in a language you don’t know.

It’s domestic in a way that surprises you. He was all shadows when you met him — blood-slick and unreadable. But now, in the hush of morning, with your scent still on his skin and your name still soft on his tongue, he’s just your Remmick.

The phone rings.

Sharp. Loud. Inevitable.

Remmick stirs, the line of his nose pressed between your ribs. He lets out a small, wounded whimper, as if the sound physically pained him.

“Leave it now, don't,” he mumbles immediately, voice muffled and slurred from sleep. His arms tighten around you like an anchor, dragging you deeper into him.

“It might be important,” you murmur, voice already laced with guilt.

Remmick exhales hard. “There's nothin' more important than meself.”

You glance at the phone without moving too much—just enough to read the name glowing on the screen.

Iwan.

Of course. Work. Again.

You try to twist, just a little, to reach the phone on the nightstand. Your hand stretches. Your fingers graze the corner.

And then—grab.

Remmick's hands clamp hard onto your hips, pulling you down and back under him with surprising force. A deep, warning growl rumbles in his chest.

“You'd pick up the phone,” he hisses, outraged. “While I'm holdin' ya close...in me arms like. D'you hate me that much?”

You laugh despite yourself and press a kiss to the top of his head. “Stop being ridiculous. I don’t hate you.”

“You’re leavin' me behind, so you are” he accuses, dramatic as ever, “right here in our bed.”

You try to slide out from under his weight, but he locks his arms tighter, like a python constricting around prey.

“Remmick.”

He looks up at you, with his big grey eyes and genuinely wounded. “I’ll lob it out the fuckin' window.”

You sigh. “Let me take the call.”

With a groan that sounds like the death of romance itself, he flops onto his back, sheets twisting around his hips, his hair a disheveled mess of sleep and defiance. His pout is theatrical. He watches you grab the phone like you’ve just chosen to betray your nation.

You answer. Quietly. Calmly. Regretfully.

“Iwan, hey.”

“Sorry, I know you’re at home,” comes the too-eager voice from the other end, “but I can’t find the May order file. I’ve checked the whole drive and—”

You bite your tongue. Hard. “Sure. Give me a sec.”

Sliding out from under the blankets, you sit on the edge of the bed, your body still bare save for your underwear, skin kissed red in a few places where Remmick had clearly claimed you earlier in the evening.

Remmick watches your every movement.

Like a man injured.

Still, he behaves. For a while.

You grab your laptop, open the folder, fingers typing quietly, carefully. The soft click of the keys fills the room like rain.

Iwan keeps talking.

And talking.

You try to stay professional, but the edge in your voice is rising with each needless question. You’re spoon-feeding him answers he could find himself. Patience thins. Muscles tense.

And then—movement.

You don’t notice it at first. A shift in the sheets. A shadow at your back.

Then: the long press of Remmick’s thigh curling behind you.

The warmth of his skin against yours.

His hand. Resting on your knee. Innocent. Still. For three seconds.

He moves.

Fingers sliding in light, teasing strokes. Just enough to make your breath catch—not enough to call him out. The kind of touch that dares you to pretend it’s nothing.

You keep typing.

Iwan asks something about export folders. You answer through gritted teeth.

And then, a pinch.

Sharp. Right on the inside of your thigh. You jolt, inhaling a gasp.

“Everything okay?” Iwan’s voice filters through the speaker.

“Yeah. Just—uh. Stretching a little.”

Behind you, Remmick presses a slow, smug smile into the nape of your neck. You feel the brush of his nose first, then the heat of his mouth. His hand trails up your bare stomach. You twitch.

You try—gods, you try—to push him away. But it’s a weak push. A push that means not now more than stop.

And Remmick knows the difference.

He chuckles. Low. Sinful.

His mouth lowers to your collarbone, tongue dragging lazily before his sharp teeth graze the skin—just enough pressure to make your jaw clench.

“Rem…” you whisper, eyes darting toward your laptop.

He doesn’t stop. If anything, he becomes more deliberate.

You squeeze your thighs together, trying to ignore the rising ache, the heat blooming between your legs, the pulse under your skin.

“Okay Iwan, the file’s there. Under ‘archive–invoices–2025.’”

Your voice is steady, measured — more or less. You’re proud of that, honestly, considering the warm, taut body practically wrapped around your back like a second skin.

“Oh! Got it. Perfect. Wait though—”

Remmick’s hand slips into your panties.

Your eyes fly wide open. Your fingers freeze on the keyboard. Your breath catches in your throat.

“Everything okay?” Again. That faraway voice, so out of place in the heat you are drowning in.

“Yeah. Yes. It’s just… the cat. Bit me.”

A scandalized little gasp explodes into your ear as Remmick presses his lips behind it.

“Liar,” he breathes. There’s amusement in his voice, but darker heat beneath it. “It's not the cat that's got ya all wet like that.”

His fingers start to move. Predatory. Slow. Certain.

He knows you. Knows exactly where to touch you.

Where to press. Where to tease.

Where to ruin you.

And you try so hard to stay quiet but the filth of it only turn you on more.

“Iwan, really, if you found everything, I—”

“One last thing, sorry—uh, the shipping doc? With the labels?”

Remmick bites your shoulder, gently.

You gasp — sharp, involuntary — just as he pushes two fingers into you without warning.

Your legs jerk. You have to blink hard to see what words are on the keyboard.

“The document…” you echo, in a daze. “Yeah, I’ve got it.”

You don’t got it.

What you got is Remmick’s fingers inside you, thrusting deep, wet and slow, curling perfectly — each motion slick, obscene, muffled by the blanket twisted around your hips. The air around you is thick with heat and unspoken sounds.

He reads your body like a language he’s fluent in: the way your breath hitches, the goosebumps rising on your arms, the involuntary roll of your hips when he grazes just right.

And then he speaks again, so quiet, so close:

“Let me shower ya with all me love.”

You freeze.

Because you know that tone — the false sweetness. The danger underneath it.

It’s the same voice he uses before making beautiful disasters of you.

He grins, grabbing you by the hips to put back your legs on the mattress and slide in front of you again.

He disappears under the covers.

You fall back against the pillows, struggling to balance the laptop on your knees as he eases between your legs.

The heat of his breath undid you. You feel him breathe you in, savoring you, like he wants to taste how close you already are.

And then—

His tongue. The wet muscle flattened against your mound, tracing the entire path until it reached your entrance.

Your eyes squeeze shut. Your teeth sink into your bottom lip. You smother the moan, clawing its way out of your throat.

“You okay?”

You nod—too fast. “Yes. I’m fine. Just… just send me an email, okay?”

“But if you could just—”

You hang up.

Breath shatters. Back arches.

The phone hits the floor, replaced by his head, his hair, his body consuming you like you were the only thing that could satisfy his hunger.

“All that just to get me off a call?” you hiss, your hips grinding into his mouth on instinct now.

“No,” he says, licking his lips. “All this just to remind ya who gets served first, darlin'.”

You feel him before you see him rise again — the trail of his cool breath brushing over your skin as Remmick’s mouth makes its slow ascent.

He kisses the inside of your thigh — a gesture almost punitive, a reprimand for your impatience. Then your stomach, the edge of your ribcage, the hollow center between your collarbones. He skips nothing. He takes you in, inch by inch, as if mapping a territory he already owns.

When he finally reaches your face, he looks at you.

And in that moment, you realize: the pleasure he gave you wasn’t for its own sake. It was a ritual, a soft submission, a gentle form of reverence.

An offering.

He stares at you — long, shameless, indecent.

Then he leans in and kisses you.

His mouth claims yours — cooler than your own, wet, with deep, constant pressure. He parts your lips with his tongue without asking permission, but without brutality. He slides inside and tastes you like he wants you to feel every inch of the pleasure he just gave.

His hands come up to cradle your face, fingers strong and cool, holding you still. His mouth moves against yours with an oppressive slowness, dragging lips, gently sucking your lower one before plunging back into a wetter, deeper kiss. His tongue strokes your palate, retreats, then returns like it never intends to leave.

You let him.

Just long enough to let him believe he’s still in control.

Then your hand shoots up and grabs his chin.

Hard.

And you pull him back.

He blinks — confused, surprised — a flicker of hunger still caught in those red-ringed eyes. But the expression fades the moment he sees your face.

The narrowed eyes.

The mouth curled into a vicious little smile.

“Is that how you think you should behave?” you ask, voice low and steady.

Remmick swallows.

Slowly.

“I was only tryin' to—”

“Quiet.” The word lands like a bite.

He freezes.

You sit up, never looking away from him, your gaze anchored deep in his. You watch him kneel back on the bed, his face flushed, smeared with your pleasure, his breath still shaky.

Slowly, deliberately, you slide your soaked panties down your legs and toss them aside.

He watches — hungry. But he doesn’t dare move.

“Did it seem like a good idea, Remmick?” Your tone is laced with venomous sweetness. “Licking me while I was on a work call? Trying to make me cum mid-conversation?”

There’s a sliver of a smile — sharp-edged. Dangerous.

Remmick opens his mouth. Then closes it again.

You crawl down the bed until you’re in front of him, kneeling. Your bodies barely touch. Your gaze slices through him.

Your hand wraps around his cock — hot, swollen, tense beneath your fingers. The skin is flushed, glistening. Remmick gasps as if just the touch might undo him entirely. His eyes plead, glassy with need and anticipation.

“Where did all that arrogance go?” Your voice is calm. Controlled. Lethal.

He doesn’t answer — just a low, fractured whimper escapes him. His thighs twitch, already tightening under the strain of held-back pleasure.

You squeeze — not to hurt, just enough to warn.

Just enough to remind him: every second with you is a gift, not a guarantee.

“Then we start here.” Your voice cuts like a blade. “Apologize.”

He trembles.

His pupils widen instantly — those familiar red flecks blooming in his irises, mouth parting, lips already flushed and damp. He wants to obey, but his body is caught somewhere between thought and need. Between control and surrender.

Then, barely above a whisper:

“I’m sorry. Didn’t mean—”

Slap.

Sharp. Clean. Not cruel — but undeniable. His cock jerks sideways with the motion, followed by a choked cry from his throat. You’re already stroking him again a moment later, your fingers returning like a balm after the burn.

“‘Didn’t mean’ isn’t an excuse, and you know it.” You lean down toward him.

Remmick inhales, but the breath stutters in his chest when you slide two fingers between his lips, pushing in slowly but firmly, forcing him to open for you.

His tongue brushes your knuckles involuntarily. A small, guttural sound slips from his throat.

“If you won’t talk, I’ll use your tongue myself. Maybe I’ll sit on it. What do you think, hmm?”

Then you smirk, watching the way his eyes flash with mischief.

“But you’d like that, wouldn’t you? Mute under me, mouth full. That wouldn’t really be punishment.”

He lets out a filthy, disappointed moan. His hands twist in the sheets like he’s trying to stop himself from coming just from your words alone.

“Apologize.”

You draw out the words slowly, deliberately, like a sentence being handed down.

Finally, he gives in. His voice clumsy against the saliva and your fingers.

“Please… Ma’am… I’m sorry. I’m sorry, so I am. I was bein'… a bit bratty. Dis-r-rrespectful, I know.”

He stumbles over the word, but you don’t help him. You want to hear him trip over his own shame.

You nod slowly, approving.

Your fingers slide from his mouth with a wet pop, and then you take him by the nape, your hand warm against his neck, dragging him gently but with no room to escape toward you. His lips brush yours, his breath tangler there. Your foreheads touch.

Remmick lets out a sound—wet, shaky—vibrating between his teeth. His eyes seek yours, flushed and shining.

“Do you want me to teach you not to interrupt me while I work, Remmick?”

He tries to respond, but only a broken moan escapes—frantic, breathless.

You grip his throat, firm but not cruel, just enough pressure to make him return to earth, eyes flying open.

“Speak clearly, pet.”

“Ah, yes! Yes, please. Make me pay, I’m beggin' ya.”

There’s desperation in his voice—but beneath it, hunger. A need only you know how to satisfy.

You smile, just slightly. Good boy.

You push him back. One hand to his chest, the other on his shoulder. His back hits the mattress, and he drops like a broken doll. His legs fall open instinctively. His cock is hard, flushed, leaking precum across his stomach. It looks like it’s begging as much as he is.

You look at him. Laid out. Offered. Submissive.

Your fingers trail over his stomach, drawing lazy spirals over the soft hair above his groin, while the other hand holds his trembling hip still.

You lean down and blow softly across the head of his cock without touching.

The sound that leaves him is wet, wrecked, humiliating.

“Look at you tremble,” you murmur, voice warm and calm but edged like a blade. “I haven’t even touched you properly and you’re already falling apart.”

Then your fingers move lower, sliding slowly between his thighs, your fingertip pressing lightly over his perineum. He jolts under you, the muscles in his legs tightening, then relaxing in surrender. A tremor runs through him from the inside.

“A needy little whore like this…” you whisper, pressing your middle finger lightly against his entrance. You don’t push in—just circle, letting him feel how close you could. The small ring of muscle flutters against your touch.

He gasps louder. His hips twitch. His cock jumps. His fingers clutch the sheets.

“…clearly needs to be fucked.” You lower your head and kiss the inside of his thigh gently. “Is that what you are, Remmick?”

“Y-Yeah…” he breathes, voice thin and already unraveling.

But one word isn’t enough. You press your fingertip more firmly, drawing the truth out of him.

“Say it better.”

He squeezes his eyes shut, mouth open in a fractured sigh.

“Aye, I’m… a right ol' whore. I want to be fucked. By ye. Always…”

This time, you push in. Just a little. The warmth of him welcomes your finger, slow and steady. Your other hand shifts underneath, knuckles brushing his perineum, your palm cradling his balls with slow, teasing pressure—too light to satisfy.

His breathing becomes ragged as his body draws you in, clenching greedily around your finger. You spit between yourselves, wetting the fingers with saliva, letting the slick, obscene sound fill the space between you.

Then you push them to his entrance again—already soft and sensitive—and begin to enter the second finger in beside the first. Gently, insistently, stretching him.

You watch his face closely. The way his lashes flutter. The heat blooming across his cheeks. The way he bites his lip to keep himself from crying out.

His thighs tremble. Now visibly. Desperately. His cock twitches against his stomach, shiny and swollen.

You push deeper. The two fingers move slowly, precisely, until you curl them forward at just the right angle.

And there it is—the spot.

The reaction is immediate. His whole body jolts, a sudden jerk like a jolt of electricity. A moan rips from his throat, uncontained, trembling.

Your smile spreads slowly.

Satisfied. Inescapable.

Like a hunter who knows they’ve hit the nerve.

Maybe… maybe you should make him come like this.

After all, that week off was for him. He hadn’t asked for much—just your time, your body, your attention. You were the one who promised rest, who said, “I’ll give you everything. Every minute. Every touch.”

But then work messages came. Fatigue. Half-nights. Rushed kisses. He’d been patient, as always.

And now here he is—laid out beneath you, legs open, body shaking, breath heavy with expectation and quiet frustration. His cock is hard, red, aching from too long denied. Pulsing like it’s begging to be seen.

You lean down, lifting your hand to stroke him—to give him at least this.

But the moment your fingers brush his sensitive skin, Remmick tenses, jerking his hips away like your touch burned him.

You freeze.

Surprised. Concerned.

Your brow furrows. For a split second, doubt creeps in.

Did you misread something? Go too far? You’re about to ask—

But he beats you to it.

His voice reaches you — cracked. Tight.

“More.”

“More?” you whisper, your hand still between his legs, fingers buried in his warmth, still inside him, still wet with your spit and his surrender.

Remmick lets out a sound — low, deep, desperate — and rocks his hips toward your hand.

“It’s not… nearly enough,” he pants, voice catching between a moan and a plea. “Ma’am…”

His gaze shifts—quick, longing—toward the far corner of the room. Toward the wardrobe.

Your eyes follow.

And land on it.

The box.

That black velvet box you both know too well. Where you keep your toys.

Where your strap-on waits.

Your chest tightens. Your fingers, still slowly curling inside him, go still.

Silence descends.

Then—a sharp smack splits the air.

Your hand slaps the inside of his thigh, a precise slap, and his body jerks violently, a broken moan catching in his throat from the hypersensitivity. His legs try to close but you’re already there, holding them open with your knees, looking at him with the kind of look he knows all too well.

“You keep sticking your nose where you shouldn’t, honey.” Your voice is low, slippery like warm honey. “I’m pretty sure it said not to open the fucking box.”

Your fingers go back to work, slow, merciless. Two inside him, straight, deep, the others pressing his perineum with merciless sweetness. Remmick writhes, searches for air, a thread of breath that doesn’t come. Then you find it again.

That spot.

His body tenses again. His heels lift off the bed, his throat making a sound that no longer has any form. He’s choking on pleasure. Under your fingers he’s becoming a beautiful mess.

“Maybe I should leave you like this,” you whisper in a venomous caressing tone. “After all, naughty whores don’t deserve to be fucked properly.”

“No!” he gasps immediately, his voice breaking. Remmick's sharp teeth glint in the dim light of the room. “No, please, Ma'am. I’m sorry… I’m sorry, I just—”

Your gaze freezes.

You didn’t ask for explanations.

You never wanted justifications.

Remmick understands. And changes his tone. His voice drops, pleading, a hoarse thread of words that seem to come straight from the heart:

“I’ll be good, love. I’ll be a fuckin' saint all month, so I will. I won’t makin' ye late for work, I swear it on me ma. I won’t be clingin' to yer feet tryin' to stop ye leavin' in the mornin… I won’t…fuck…put up with that bleedin' furball on the couch if you just—”

Your fingers strike with mathematical precision that spot inside that shatters him. Remmick pants hard, almost sobs. His hands fly to his now-dripping cock, his belly tense in spasm.

For a moment you think he’s about to touch himself, to give in… But you see him do something completely different: he grabs the base of his cock, squeezing hard, trying to block the orgasm.

He wants to wait.

He wants to explode only when you let him.

Your smile bends, slow, carnal.

“Fuck me,” he says. His voice broken, raw, sincere. “Please, me love.”

You stand up calmly. His eyes follow you, continues to beg.

You walk over to the closet, and with a slow, controlled gesture you take the box. You carry it to the bed, open it in front of him.

Inside, the belt. Black. Heavy. The long, thick, perfect silicone dildo. The buckle shines in the warm light of the room.

You look at him.

Remmick is still there, lying between the rumpled sheets, his chest heaving in jerks, his skin shiny with sweat, his eyes red and haunted, his mouth open… and that damn puppy voice that knows how to break you.

“Please, me love.”

You smile as you close the box and put the belt on with fluid movements.

You can’t help but think: who the fuck has ever been able to say no to him, when he talks like that?

Certainly not you.

From the heat, from the urgency that you feel growing in your gut, you climb between his legs, his thighs opening for you as if they were created with a single purpose: to welcome you. You grab his hip, hard, as if to carve the command into his flesh, and you push him gently to the side, indicating that he should turn, to offer himself to you completely.

But then you stop.

Because he doesn’t move.

Remmick looks at you.

Tearful eyes, wide open in a request that doesn’t need many words.

“Would ya…” his voice is a whisper scratched by pleasure, “would ya let me watch ye fuck me?”

There is a moment of silence. And in that silence, a thousand things: the erotic tension, the crazy heartbeat, your hand still on his hip… and his truth.

Remmick doesn’t just want to have sex. He wants to be there. He wants to see your eyes as you take him. Hearing your voice up close. Feeling every gesture with your soul before your body.

He wants to be loved even as he’s being torn apart.

You look at him for a moment, and there’s a change in that look. It’s not less domination—it’s just another kind of domination. Not just about strength and control, but about understanding, about caring, about absolute presence.

Nodding slowly, you cup his face in your hands. You caress him with your thumbs, wiping away a tear he’s not even sure he shed.

“Of course you can, Rem.” Your voice is low, rounded, almost a caress. “I want you to look at me. I want you to see everything.”

You ease him down, his ass against the pillow you’ve moved beneath him, his legs flexing, and you calmly position yourself in the middle. You pour a generous amount of lube onto your strap-on and brush against his taut skin, sliding against the inside of his thigh as you adjust yourself.

Remmick’s breathing is short, but his gaze is fixed. Not on what you’re about to do, but on you.

When you enter him, slowly, steadily pushing all the way in, his mouth opens wide in a deep moan, and he doesn’t stop looking at you. His hands seek you. One grips your hip. The other rests behind your back. He wants you close. He wants to touch you.

And you let him.

You lean in, chest against his, mouths brushing, breaths merging. You begin to move inside him gently. Each thrust is full, round, precise—but neither breaks the contact of your eyes.

“Like this?” you whisper on his parted mouth. “Is this what you wanted? To watch me take you?”

Remmick nods frantically. “Ye’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever set me eyes on, love.”

His cock—neglected, stiff, now dripping—throbs between you, pressed against your lower abdomen, skin against skin, heat against heat. The contact sends him into a frenzy, and you can tell by the open, honest moan that escapes his lips. His voice vibrates in your throat, amplified by the nonexistent distance between your bodies.

A toothy, sly smile appears on his lips when you pull back a little, just enough to start moving your hips. His eyes peer at you from under half-closed lashes, languid, lost, as you press into him slowly and precisely. One of your hands slides down his chest, following its curve with determination, as if to remind him who’s in charge.

Then he squeezes you with his legs. He wraps them around your waist like someone who doesn’t want to let you go, someone who needs you to stay inside. It’s almost ironic, almost tender: that hold is the perfect mirror of how you usually find yourself, underneath him. Only now the roles are reversed. And you love him like that.

Every thrust of yours finds him ready, almost dancing. Remmick moves his hips in sync with yours, with that instinctive naturalness that only those who belongs in body and soul have. It's a choreography made of skin, breath and humidity.

But you maintain control. You feel it between your legs: the crazy heartbeat, the need that throbs against you, and your breathing that becomes deeper, warmer. Every muscle is contracted to hold the rhythm, to not be overwhelmed.

A drop of sweat slides from your forehead and falls on his chest. It mixes with his, already there for a while.

Under you, he moves, agitated. Brazen in his impatience. He takes your wrist with one hand and he guides the same hand to his throat, forcing you to squeeze slightly.

“Darlin'… fuck, please. I won’t break. Let me feel it.”

The throbbing between your legs explodes as your clit rubs against the material of the belt. You can’t respond. The words evaporate. All you can do is lean into him and kiss him.

And as you do, a clawed hand circles the back of your head and holds you there, his tongue sliding into your mouth with urgency, almost ferocity. He arches against you, pressing himself against your body, seeking your skin as if he could melt into it. And again, as your body moves into his, you feel his cock pressing desperately against your belly.

“Remmick…”

His lips move. They kiss your neck, then your ear, hot, wet, pleading.

He whispers dirty words, broken, almost prayers: that he wants you. That he needs you. Who wants to be fucked, taken, loved like only you know how.

His words hit the small of your back, burn between your thighs. The fingers still clutched at his throat contract before you push him down, hard, against the bed. Maybe harder than you wanted. But he welcomes it with a blissful breath. Happy.

He tenses, clings to the bed with his nails, the fabric breaking under his claws. Your thrusts get harder, deeper. You leave no more space. With your eyes you follow every thrust of your dildo that sinks heavily, with precision, as if you wanted to leave your name engraved inside him.

And when you look up, you see him.

There is drolls on your fingers. He is drooling, literally, and he smiles.

His head thrown back, his neck exposed, his skin clear, stained with love. You have dominated him in many ways but never like this. You have never seen him reduced to this condition — so dirty and beautiful. Every part of him is tense, open, lost in the pleasure.

He makes a low, irregular sound, almost an animal squeak. You feel his heart going crazy under the palm that still tightens his throat. You see his belly tense, his legs tremble, his cock twitch reflexively at every thrust you make.

“Ma'am… love… I’m so close… nearly there…”

The tension in his muscles is perfect. Unstoppable.

Your fingers slide along his neck, down his chest. Your nails leave red marks. He tenses under the touch like a rope ready to snap. You adore him. You love him.

You reach out between the glued bodies, find his cock—wet, throbbing, almost exploded—and take it hard, with the same ferocious cadence with which you are fucking him. Your hand caresses him with a firm rhythm, while your thrusts make him pant in a perfect crescendo.

You feel yourself burning. In your belly. Between your thighs. Between your teeth.

And Remmick, beneath you, says nothing more. He can’t. Not a line, not a coherent sound.

His breath hitches, his back arches in a violent spasm, his fingers clawing at your arm. And then he comes.

You feel him lunge forward, moaning your name like a dirty prayer. His cock explodes in your hand, a warm, abundant wave that splashes across his chest, his abdomen, between you. His body jolts again, shaken by continuous little spasms.

You don’t stop right away. You make him ride the wave until the last contraction, accompanying him with your hand and your thrusts — gentle, now, but still present, still inside him.

When his body finally collapses, without strength, without defenses, you feel him exhale a long breath that tastes of gratitude and surrender. His arms and legs loosen. His chest moves slowly. Sweat shines on his skin.

You brush his black hair from his forehead and leave him a delicate kiss.

Pulling away from him with extreme sweetness, you still hold his throat with your hand, now only as a caress. His eyelashes tremble, and his eyes search for you, tired but happy.

“Darlin'…” he murmurs with a helpless half-smile, his teeth now retracted, his voice hoarse. “You tore me apart.”

“You deserved it.” you reply, with a soft but confident tone as you use the covers to clean him.

You snuggle back into the pillows, as Remmick rearranges himself against your side like he’s done this a thousand times. One arm around your middle, one leg over yours, chin on your shoulder.

After a while, he mumbles:

“You’re me whole world, so ya are, y'know.”

You glance at him.

His eyes are closed, but he’s awake. Just nestled. Just content.

“I know,” you whisper. “You’re mine too.”

He exhales, satisfied.

#remmick #remmick smut #sinners #remmick x reader

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