senselessviolets

[senselessviolets]

OHHHH. That’s why anon is “moderating” their comments. Not because they blatantly up and stole your incredibly written fanfic and hit copy and paste and called it a day. It’s because it had darker elements!!! Duh!!!!&!1&) /s

(Ill-timed jokes aside, I hope this clown ass gets taken down & banned. So sorry you’re having to deal with this nonsense, @spikedfearn. Wishing you all the best! 🫶🏾🫶🏾🫶🏾)

so apparently someone on Ao3 decided to take my fic Under the Blood Moon and post it word for word under their account here. They just lifted my work, changed the title, slapped their name on it, and called it a day 😐

Let me make this very clear:

I do not currently have an Ao3 account. The one I used to have I terminated ages ago because I wasn’t using it.

Any of my work you see on Ao3 or any other fic adjacent site has been reposted without my permission. I only post my fics here on tumblr under this account only. no where else unless I make an announcement that I will be doing so.

Whoever did this has comment moderation turned on so people can’t even call them out directly, which is just cowardly behavior.

I put a lot of time and energy into my stories. I don’t sit here cranking out fic after fic for someone else to hijack my work and pass it off as their own. Writing isn’t effortless, and it’s disgusting to see my effort stripped of my name so someone else can get the recognition and I've already seen a comment left on it complimenting someone else for my work!!

It’s especially disappointing because fanfiction thrives on community, and plagiarism kills that. I choose to share my work with people because I enjoy connecting with other fans and writers. To have someone take advantage of that generosity is gross and disheartening.

If you have an ao3 account and know how to report fics for plagiarism, I’d greatly appreciate if you could flag this one. At the very least, I want people to know this isn’t me.

And to the person who plagiarized my work—if you happen to see this, grow a spine. If you admire someone’s writing, reblog it, recommend it, or be inspired by it. Don’t steal it.

[senselessviolets]

[ remmick backstory & origins headcanons ]

rating: mature (angst, tragic)

word count: 1k

warnings: mentions of war/death/loss, cultural suppression/erasure, religious persecution, remmick’s wife, infidelity, how remmick got turned into a vampire, brief mention of sexual encounter, kind of dubcon with the fem!vamp bc of her lying to him and then fking him, remmick’s a shitty person SHOCKERRR /s

a/n:

i know i’m defo in the minority here but personally, i do not believe remmick to be thousands of years old. iirc, jack has said in interviews that based off of ryan coogler’s vision for the character/historical context, remmick would be around 600 years old. for my purposes, i interpret him as being around that—550 years in particular, with him having been a young adult during the cromwellian invasion of ireland. the amount of research i have done for this is considerable & i will be linking my sources for everything in a google doc at the end of the textpost. i have scrolled through message boards discussing old irish dating systems until my ass went cross-eyed so if you think this is the only remmick backstory content you’ll be getting from me—YOU ARE MISTAKEN. >:))

❖ Remmick has held many names over the centuries, but his traditional given name was Dubhán (doo-AWN; “dark”, “black”) Ó Ceóin (oh KYOHN; “descendant of the gentle tune”).

❖ He was named on account of his darker head of hair, which made him stand out from his other, more brunette family members.

❖ He was born “an chead la de mhi Lúnasa” or the first of August, in the year 1622. What would have been a time for celebration with the commencement of the harvest season and the birth of another Ó Ceóin son was instead a period of mourning due to the recent loss of their land; land they had tended to and owned for generations.

❖ He was the eldest of five brothers. One would go on to die of the plague, another perished defending his noble wife, unborn child, and homestead from Protestant soldiers. He never knew what came of the others.

❖ His name in the present, "Remmick", was an ode to his late father Réamonn, whose name meant “protector”.

❖ Reámonn, who served as an ollamh or master poet, did everything in his power to teach Remmick and his four younger brothers strict meter.

❖ He got the scar on his lip from a fall he had in his youth, playing in a brook with his brothers.

❖ His mother, Eabha, would sing Remmick and his brothers softly to sleep in Galiege at night. She seldom ever spoke their native tongue during the day.

❖ Throughout his adolescence, he had been primed to eventually wed the daughter of a prominent bardic family named Liadan (LEE-uh-dawn; “grey lady”, “poetess”) Ní Mháille (nee WAHL-yeh; “daughter of O’Malleys”).

❖ He still did not marry until the latter half of his twenties, being so preoccupied with keeping his family and himself alive.

❖ While both the Uí Ceóin and the Uí Mháille lost their higher social status as a result of British rule, they figured they could help one another using what little they still had. Their families also had hope of further preserving their bardic ways and traditions.

❖ Remmick and Liadan very much had a marriage of convenience but also a marriage of survival. They loved and cared for one another, but due to the immense hardship and turmoil they and their people faced during this time—they found themselves at odds with one another often. It was by no means a ‘happy marriage’.

❖ Even though there was dwindling pressure from older kin and parents for them to have children, Remmick and Liadan were never successful.

❖ A desperate and forlorn Réamonn entrusted Remmick with the ability to continue to preserve their traditions and ways of life. Meanwhile, Réamonn pledged himself to the armed resistance, using his skills to help spread the word and uplift others. It was said he became a translator and an informant.

❖ Eventually, the couple had their family’s remaining modest plot of land seized and they were forced to relocate to Connacht. Remmick wanted to fight this, but Liadan begged for him to comply with the British.

❖ The portion of land they were granted was much smaller but still more fertile than most who also had been transplanted to the same area. While serving as tenant farmers, they managed to just barely get by, though they never spoke to or saw either of their families ever again.

❖ After years of breaking their backs as farmers while dodging sickness and enduring famine, Remmick became despondent and went cold on Liadan.

❖ He began to spend nights drifting from alehouse to alehouse, spending the few puint he had on beer. It was here that Remmick would softly recite his family's poems in old verse to himself in the corner. Occasionally, he would receive a nod of appreciation or a toast from a fellow descendant of bardic heritage. Still, these moments were short-lived, with Puritan soldiers always being just around the corner.

❖ One of these nights, though, he caught the eye of a dark-haired, pale-eyed woman. She was called Ánlaith (AWN-luh; “great beauty”, “radiance”) and there was something rather 'other' about her. She felt so out of the ordinary but familiar, like a distant memory. It caused Remmick to lower his defenses after what felt like an eternity of having to be so very guarded.

❖ Despite his ring, she pursued him. And despite his ring, he sought her out.

❖ They ran around the woods in the dead of night together, frolicking, dancing, singing, and eventually becoming intimate in an abandoned cottage.

❖ Remmick awoke in a haze the next morning to a burning sensation on his hand. It was his silver wedding band that now seared his flesh. He realized he was in the same cottage he had been in before with Ánlaith. But the daylight had come and she was nowhere to be found.

❖ He attempted to venture outside of the cottage, but the heat of the sun now scorched his flesh and seared through his clothing. He was terrified and didn’t understand what was happening to him.

❖ Remmick dragged himself back inside but was still severely burned, his skin raw, boiled, and bloody. He swore he could feel himself slipping away.

❖ In what he figured were his final moments, Remmick thought of Liadan now by her lonesome. But as soon as the day faded into dusk, all he saw was a dark-haired, pale-eyed woman, concealed in a ruby red cloak, standing at the threshold of the cottage.

❖ It was as if Ánlaith knew he'd be clinging onto dear life, waiting for her to return and rid him of all his pain. Just as she had the night before and just as he prayed she would do now.

❖ It was all a confused, jumbled mess in his head. Though fortunately for Remmick and little to his knowledge—he had just been gifted an ungodly amount of time to sort it out.

{ I did do a mini write-up about the vampire witch coven Ánlaith is a part of so let me know if any of y'all would be interested in reading it! }

<<< SOURCES GOOGLE DOC LINK >>>

Follow me on twt: @endlessviolets

<3

[senselessviolets]

I don’t see myself becoming a Sir Jimmy Crystal girly but there’s something that really wets my whistle about reader-insert fics where you become the Wendy Darling figure to the rest of the Jimmies and they’re characterized like the Lost Boys. I would like more please & thank you.

[senselessviolets]

This doll had almost been loved to death. You know, love inflicts the most terrible injuries on my small patients.

Bunny Lake is Missing (1965) dir. Otto Preminger || A Brother Named Gethsemane - Natalie Diaz

[senselessviolets]

Dolce & Gabbana f/w 2006 | Ph: Steven Meisel

[senselessviolets]

“sit tight”

switchy!remmick x black!dom!reader

rating: explicit (smut)

word count: 4.5k

ao3 link

warnings: afab black reader, ropeplay, painplay (reader puts a cigarette out on rem), breathplay, reader is married but her husband has a history of being unfaithful, dirty talk, degradation, reader blackmails remmick but he’s into it, panties as gag (m recieiving), edging, teasing, facesitting, ass-eating (f receiving), oral (f and m receiving), sloppy head, spanking, mentions of stretchmarks & reader having a bigger ass, ‘reverse cowgirl’, ‘full nelson’ sex position, switchy!remmick, ‘to breed or not to breed, that is the question’

a/n:

we gonna ignore how i practically made this a choose-your-own-breeding-adventure at the very end AKA ran out of inspo. maybe remmick finishes in you, maybe he doesn’t, maybe he does by accident and as payback, you douse his ass in holy water and force-feed him garlic idk go wild

“Reckon you musta been wantin’ to do me up like this for some time now,” Remmick goes, admiring you as you restrain him, “Also reckon this ain’t yer first time wranglin’ a fella up. You’re a real natural at it.”

Once the night had come and he appeared outside your front door as he so had a habit of doing, you threw any and all caution to the wind. You were no longer thinking of your husband or what he himself was always getting up to this late at night—though you had your suspicions. Suspicions that confirmed themselves in the forms of late-night trips to ‘the feed store’, marks on his neck and chest he went great lengths to hide from you, as well as a distinct, lingering perfume scent that wasn’t your own. 

Your husband’s unfaithful behavior persisted even when word of married couples—black and white—being slaughtered in their homes started making the rounds in your town. How dare he leave you alone, all vulnerable and exposed, to fend for yourself? 

That’s when your new neighbor Remmick’s many salacious offers and advances he made while he was certain your husband was away became mighty tempting. 

“Been told I got a way with words…but I can show you what they really mean when they say I’m ‘some silver-tongued sonuvabitch’,”

“I hear you two shoutin’ damn near every night. Lemme tell ‘ya, the only hollerin’ you’d be doin’ at me would be to ‘not stop’,”

“Got my mama’s eyes and my daddy’s nose. Kids used ‘ta make fun, say it was ‘too big’. Since I became grown, I’ve found me some uses for it. Matter of fact, I’ve been fixin’ to get me a sweetheart who could ride this nose off into the sunset,” he’d say, “Whaddya think? Think you could handle it, baby? Hm? Let me come in an’ we can find out for ourselves, yeah?”

The same hand that would’ve then gone to trace some stray baby hairs behind your ear or caress your shoulder is now instead affixed to your wooden bedpost with no sign of breaking free. Remmick laid with his lower half sprawled out on your mattress. The hem of his blue button-up has crept out of his tight-fitting trousers, the ones hoisted up by his now half-on, half-undone suspenders. 

You didn’t even give him so much as a chance to remove his footwear, his worn-out brogues scuffing up your pristine bedsheets. If it really bothered you, you would’ve scolded him to take them off and then proceeded to drag him to your bedroom by his shirt collar. Maybe even force him to scrub the stains out of your quilt with a wet rag while apologizing profusely. You normally were a stickler for cleanliness, but for the time being, your priorities strayed elsewhere. Now you stood at the foot of your bed, admiring him. He looked at you with those scheming, crystalline eyes, darkened by the evening. The oil lamp at your bedside casts him in a wavering amber glow.

“Aw, what’s the long face for, darlin’? You don’t gotta worry none. Unlike him, I ain’t goin’ nowhere,” Remmick drawls, in a syrupy sweet tone, “You’ve made sure of that, now, ain’t ‘ya?”

His shrill, inhuman smile that follows strikes a match in your very soul—a match you so very wish in this moment was real and that you could flick at him, the smug asshole. To ground yourself and not go ballistic on him, you dig under your slip and tear your underwear down your thighs and calves. Remmick can’t help but dip his eyes down at the glimpse of your bare pussy that he gets from the motion. You roll up the fabric into a ball, striding over to the side of the mattress. Just as Remmick parts his lips to say something awful, you harshly jam your panties into the back of his throat. He gags instantly, the fabric bristling his tongue and making his throat coarse. He coughs loudly around it but any other groans of discomfort or disdain are completely muffled. 

Music to your fucking ears. 

“That’s better,” you sigh, “No more…flappin’ them gums about God knows what. Just some good ol’ fashioned peace and quiet. Now, you gon’ reflect—reflect on what we should do ‘bout that damn mouth of yours,”

His eyes bulge and he inhales and exhales franically from his nose. The red in his cheeks comes out with the effort it takes to fight against the bindings and the lessened amount of air his lungs have been receiving. 

“Imma reflect some too, in fact,” you say, digging your husband’s brass lighter from the drawer of his nightstand, “Don’t mind, do ‘ya?”

Conveniently, a spare pack of Luckies was also in that same drawer. You sneak a cigarette from the box and light it, all the while Remmick’s eyes stay feverishly locked onto you. His chest heaves and his hair has become matted with sweat. You take a steep drag of the cigarette, blowing a plume of smoke directly at him. Squeezing his eyes tightly shut, he whips his head to the side, grunting beneath the gag as the cloud washes over him. 

It makes you laugh, how perturbed he is by it. 

You lean against the bedpost nearest to you, trailing the corner of your slip above the soft, plush skin of your thigh. Defiantly, Remmick stays with his chin tucked the other way. Even then, the hungry animal within him does away with what little remaining willpower he had left. Eventually, he looks at your sensuous display, brows furrowed and need welling in his eyes. 

 A nonchalant hand finds the column of his neck, dragging your index finger along the muscle stretching down to his collarbone. The tip of your nail delicately licks the side of his carotid artery, the same one that once pumped blood throughout his mortal body but now supplies it with poison. Remmick shudders, huffing pants underneath your panties. Your fingers dip under his partially unbuttoned shirt, stroking and groping his chest. His hips jerk when the edge of your nail catches the tip of one of his nipples. His reaction makes you chuckle once more.

Your fingers begin to unclasp his buttons one by one until Remmick’s shirt is entirely undone. A dew coats the skin of his pecs, as does the flushedness you found in his cheeks. With each huff of air, more and more of his happy trail and the folds of skin in his soft, glistening midsection are on show. You realize in that moment your cigarette’s in need of ashing, but also that you never much liked the taste of Luckies.

So you decide to put out your cig on Remmick’s bare chest. 

There is a high-pitched fizz that comes with the singeing of his flesh. He bites down hard on his gag, grimacing and groaning deeply through his jagged canines.

“Guess I’m done with my reflectin’, how ‘bout you?” you smirk.

After pressing it into his skin as deeply as you can, you fling the stubbed-out cigarette butt onto the floor. Remmick is still twisting in pain by the time you attempt to straddle his hips. He bucks wildly and you giggle. It’s not unlike a rancher trying to tame an unruly stallion. After being amused by this for a moment, you seize his jaw and force him to look at you. 

“...what even are you?” you ask with an incredulous laugh, “Y’know, I ain’t never once seen you in the daytime. Been wonderin’ if these beautiful eyes of yours look the same in the sunlight as they do now...maybe they look even better,”

You slip off his other suspender and go straight for his belt, not even fully removing it from its loops. 

“Heaven knows, but for now, I’m wantin’ to see what it is you really been hidin’ from me.”

Dragging his zipper down and shimmying his trousers from his hips, you are faced with a thick bulge burgeoning through a pair of off-white cotton briefs. You grip it firmly, the warm girth feeling weighty and fitting nicely in your hand. Remmick’s eyes flutter at the contact and he breathes deeply.

You sigh in awe of its shape and scent, dragging your cheek along the length. It begins to throb, his member twitching through his underwear. A splotch of precum forms at the tip, which threatens to poke out of the waistband of his briefs. You give it kisses and kitten licks against the material. Remmick is almost tearing up at the sight of your mouth nearly engulfing him. He uses his tongue and cheeks to push out the gag from his throat, spitting it out in a wet, slobbery mess onto his upper chest. 

“P-Please, baby! Pretty please! You gon’ be the death of me, you keep teasin’ it like that,” he cries, “I-I can’t bear it, I jus’ can’t! Please!”

His blubbering breaks you out of the trance his cock had you in. Annoyed, you haul yourself up his body until you’re sitting directly on his ribs. You pinch the soaked garment he coughed up and lift it right in front of his face, glaring at him all the while Remmick looks down in shame, lip trembling.

Roughly, you take your loose panties and hook them around his throat, twisting them tighter and tighter until it makes him choke. Using it like a lead, you yank him forward, lurching him against the ropes. His face is bright red and he’s teeming with tears. You can’t tell if it’s from his impending sobs or the orangey hue of the lamp but you swear his eyes have a glint to them that almost looks crimson.

“You gon’ take…whatever the fuck it is I give to you,” you hiss, “Do you got that, you fuckin’ animal?”

“Y-Yes, yes, yes, I do!”

“Yes, what?”

“Yes, Mrs.—”

“Call me ‘Missus’ and Imma make you see stars,”

“...w-whatchu want me t-to call you, then?”

“I don’t wanna hear you call me nothin’.” 

He gasps for air as you release him, flinging your panties into some unseen corner of the bedroom. But his smothering treatment is far from over as you inch further and further upwards on the bed until you’re practically sitting across his shoulders. You hoist your slip up off of you. The mere essence of your wetness spurs him and he cranes his neck forward, desperate for the smallest taste. You smooth your fingers over your tufts of pubic hair, spreading yourself so he sees all of it. Your pulsating pink opening makes him salivate. The spit his mouth brims with is thick and plentiful, not like normal drool. 

“So pretty,” he says, his mouth warbled with saliva, “Such a pretty lil’ hole…lemme get some…jus’ a little…jus’ get my tongue in there real quick…gotta know how it taste…yeah,”

“Think you deserve to know my taste?”

“W…wha..?”

“I said, do you think you deserve to know my taste?”

“N-no..no, no, I-I don’t,”

“And why is that, Remmick?”

“I-I-I-I—“

“I-I-I believe it’s ‘cause what you are is some good for nothin’ homewrecker. Say it,” you interject, mockingly.

The faintest hint of a smirk begins to curl in the corners of his mouth. As if his painful erection wasn’t evidence enough of him enjoying this all too much.

“…i-it’s ‘cus I-I’m some…g-good for nothin’…h-homewrecker,”

“Waitin’ fo the sun to set and the man of the house to leave his good, decent wife alone at home—just so she’s all yours for the takin’. That’s how you like to do it? Bet you think you gon’ make an example outta me as you’ve done with all them married folk that you butchered ‘round here. Well, you not. And Imma make sure of that,”

“How?”

“Well, Remmick, if that even is your name. You not gonna bleed me or my husband dry, as much as that bastard do deserve it. ‘Cause while he off doing god knows what, who knows where with some whore…you’ll be back here, in this house, on this bed, being my own personal fuckin’ whore,” you threaten, “Must be exhausting drifitin’ from town to town, state to state, all the time. Always havin’ to come up with a new sob story, make the same inroads again and again. I can see it. How tired you are. Consider this your chance at normalcy, just for a little while,”

“W-What’re ‘ya sayin’, baby?”

“I mean that I know your dirty little secret. And as gruesome as it is, I will happily keep it for you, let you keep feedin’ off these townspeople—so long as you let me take all of my…womanly frustrations out on you. All my pent-up stuff. You do what I tell you always, no complaints, and we both leave here satisfied. How ‘bout it, Rem…?”

His ears perk at the nickname while the terms of this arrangement bounce around in his head. Remmick closes his eyes in twisted acceptance. In a swift motion, you swing your leg around so your rear is positioned towards his face. You look back at him as he opens his mouth, licking his lips to give you a smart ass response. Instead, what he is given is a face full of you, as you perch yourself on his chin. 

Remmick drowns in the plush of your asscheeks, tongue lathering and teeth grazing over any inch of flesh it can. You groan when his tongue swipes through your folds and across your crack, briefly dipping into both holes when it does. You’d already been bearing your full weight across his chest, so you don’t hesitate to ease off your haunches and take your rightful seat upon his face.

Feeling the pressure in your core build more and more with each lick, you tangle your fingers into your tight curls to ground you, pulling every so often for some added ache. The faint burn of his stubble and the sharpness of his jawline make for a combination that should leave you feeling discomfort. But all you can focus on—for the life of you—is that fucking mouth and the way it tries to absolutely bore into you. 

Between your wetness, his drool, and the slick combination of both your most intimate places are drenched in, you’re like some finely tuned, well-oiled machine—made to fuck and grind and bounce on his measly little face. 

So caught up in your pleasure, you only just realize Remmick’s been gyrating against the air. His swollen, dribbling cockhead creeps out more and more with each jerk of his hips. You take note of the way the elastic waistband of his briefs is rubbing against his frenulum. You were fine with him fucking up into nothing, but that sets you off. 

That was Remmick giving himself pleasure that you did not grant him. You slam your hands down on his pelvis so hard, the mattress leaps. He stills his grinding, redirecting that energy towards your cunt and ass with a fervor. 

“Mmm, you like the way that pussy taste, boy?”

While your thighs restrict his head from fully nodding ‘yes’, he says the word over and over with a mouthful of your juices instead.

“Think you might like it a lil’ too much. With you squirmin’ ‘round like that,” you say. 

He apologizes repeatedly in the pockets of air your rolling ass and pussy on his lips gives him. Remmick’s wrists have been flailing, his fingers spasming and squeezing around nothing. Now they ball themselves into fists.

“Guess I already punished and toyed with you enough,” you remark, fingertip tracing over the nearly entirely healed burn mark from your cigarette, “Was bein’ a big ol’ meanie-head, wasn’t I?”

Remmick whips his head to the side so he can respond, “B-But I-I like it when y-you’re mean—”

“Yeah, baby? You do?”

“Mmhm,”

“I’ll keep that in mind then. In the meantime, you don’t mind if I just help myself right quick…,” you tease, “...all these house chores ‘n busy work done worked me up an appetite for sum’ wholesome. And you got something I been wantin’ to be full of for a minute now,”

You lean down across his stomach, arching your ass and pulling you away from Remmick. He practically whimpers like a puppy at your weight being eased off his lips. 

“Shh-sh-sh, don’t you worry none,” you hush him, “You’ll get all of it back in a minute. For now, you let me have my fun, understand?”

With a swift tug of his underwear, his cock springs free, its musk drawing you in closer and closer like some freshly baked pie on a windowsill. You tongue the fuzzy line trailing down the faint V-line of his lower torso. The thin line blooms into a thicket of umber-colored hair and you comb your fingers through it gently. Then, encasing his uncut cock fully with your palm, you give it a few strokes before letting a lewd string of spit fall from your lips onto the throbbing head. It doesn’t even fully run down the shaft before you’re throating him, inching more and more as far as you can take him.

Remmick practically howls, twisting against his ropes. You go down to his base, letting him buck once—twice—before pulling off entirely. You run the tip along your full lips as dribbles of precum leave them slick and glossy. 

“This dick…this fuckin’ dick, baby,” you admire, “I’d risk it all for this fuckin’ dick right here,”

You slap his cockhead against your cheek a couple of times, knowing he’d probably die at the view were you facing him, but instead, all he can see is your dripping wet cunt all on display. He practically weeps at the sight of your spread holes clenching down on nothing—cursing the god he used to believe in that it's not his tongue they’re gripping. You’re too preoccupied with the taste of salt and skin and him flooding your mouth and obscuring your other senses. You play with it, swirling your tongue around the tip, slurping up the bubbly mess you leave on it and then spitting it back onto his cock. 

“F-F-fuck, h-honey…you suck on it so good. Mmm, best I e’er had…yeah. Them lips,” he mewls, “Fuck.” 

You go down until your nose brushes against his lower stomach and he lurches forward, hips cramming his girth down your throat as far as it’ll go. An inhuman growl leaves his lips between bared teeth. You get the impression he’d be forcing you down on his dick with his fingers entangled in your hair were he not bound to you and your husband’s bed. 

“Goddammit. You gon’ make me cum, you keep it up like that,” Remmick warns in a low tone. 

Heeding his word, you pull off of him with a wet pop, inching further down his body until both of your hips align. Your knees are positioned on the outside of his thighs. Still facing away from him, you reach back for his dick, lining it up with your cunt. You give it a few swipes across your glistening folds before plunging your heat on his cock until its bumping against your deepest spot. You both let out loud, wanton moans at the sensations—you, being full and him, being snug. 

“Ooh, baby. That pussy got my shit in a fuckin’ vice grip,” Remmick says, sounding pained.

After getting accustomed to his thickness, you begin easing your hips back and forth on it like a rocking horse. With each recoil, your ass claps against him in obscene ripples. The wet sounds of your pussy wringing his cock out like a dish rag have him squeezing his eyes shut and muttering curses under his breath. 

“C-Can I—” he blurts out before stopping himself. 

“What?” you say, doing your best not to break your pace, “What’s wrong?”

“C-Can I—fuck, can I try somethin’?” “I s’pose you been roped up long enough,” you say, rearing to finally free him of his restraints, “Whatcha tryna do, sugar?”

“Mmfff, can I–c-can I smack it, please?” he whines, his lips in a quiver. 

You slow things down to relish in that recoil that comes with each flick of your hips. The delicious billow in your flesh each time your ass repels off of his hips. Remmick loses track of time, his eyes tracing each lacy stretchmark etched into your plump skin. 

As if you needed evidence of how grown you truly were; you rode him like it was your goddamn birthright. 

“Mhmm, this ass so nice ‘n’ fat, you gon’ cry if I don’t let ‘ya spank it?”

“Oh, mama. Imma cry tears if you do,”

“...hmm…alright then. Have at it,”

Suddenly, the sound of something tactile ripping fills your ears. With a reinvigorated desire and a growl, the flat of his palm skips across your skin with a red-hot sting again and again and again. Your jaw hangs open at all of the new, vivid sensations your body is enduring at once. The friction of your clit against his balls and the prodding of your g-spot has you on the edge. Then his nails, which have grown longer and considerably sharper over time, suddenly dig into the fat of your swollen ass. It’s the intense dagger-like feel of Remmick’s talons imbedding themselves into your soft human flesh that push you over. 

With him, it had to be pain.

You spasming around his dick leaves him staving off his own finish, sucking in air through clenched teeth. You fall forward, placing palms on his thighs to ground yourself. Somewhere in your reverie, it dawns upon you. Whatever ancient inhuman strength that grants him the ability to kill so ruthlessly and indiscriminately and tear through rope like tissue hadn’t just now been bestowed upon him. Remmick could have, at any time, bore through his restraints and taken what he wanted for himself. Not that you really would have minded all that much. 

But he didn’t. 

He didn’t because you told him he couldn’t. 

To think even for a second you had the Devil hanging on your every word, bowing to your will.

Suffice it to say, the thought left you dizzy.

Speaking of dizzy, your head was beginning to feel woozy from the strength of your orgasm, the sheer exertion of it all and the sex itself. Resuming your riding, you yelp faintly at each new handprint that becomes emblazoned into your flesh. Remmick sees your knees begin to give out and your pace falter. 

“Aw, need a break, lover?” 

“Oh, I’m jus’ gettin’ started,” you sigh, easing back on his dick once more. 

“That’s good. That’s real good. ‘Cus there’s one more thing I been wantin’ to try, matter ‘a fact,” he drawls, “Why don’t you come and lie on back here f’me?”

He taps your hip decidedly, prompting you to lift up and scoot back on him. You hesitate, unsure of what he’s up to.

“Y’ain’t gonna crush me now. C’mere. Lie on top of me,”

For some ungodly reason, you choose to trust him, laying back so his chest is supporting your back and you’re sat in between his legs. Remmick strokes the sides of your arms and takes deep inhales of the inner corners and back of your neck. Lightly, he nestles his cheek against your curls, savoring the texture. You shiver against him, all the while feeling a wet hardness pressing into your lower back. 

“Think I’d have to kill the man who would even dare to walk out on a woman like you,” he murmurs into your shoulder, giving it a light peck.

Remmick’s strong veined hands fly to the undersides of your knees, lifting them towards your chest and suspending your ass above his cock.

“Like this?” he asks, seeking reassurance.

You nod nervously. You wouldn’t even have to be touching and he could still feel the timid energy radiating off of you. He could practically taste the heightened rate at which your heart was furiously pumping the blood throughout your system. It was a good ‘nervous’, the fun kind who’s throbbing you could feel in your clit. Being exposed like this, emotionally, physically, intimately after so long of being denied the ability to be. Before he motions to guide his dick back into your weeping hole, he toys your slit using his fingers, leaving you mewling. They find the hood of your clit, stroking and massaging the little bundle of nerves.

“Jus’ lemme do the work, ‘kay? You don’t gotta worry no more, I’m here with’cha. I’m gon’ make it all better. You in good hands now,” Remmick hums, “Jus’ rest up, darling.”

He says this as his cock splits you open from below. The stretch from this angle is more intense but he makes you take it anyways. The most shallow little whimper exits your lips impeteously. 

You’d never been fucked like this—you never even knew you could get fucked like this.

 It’s all so much and feels so damn sweet. Desperate, you cling onto his veiny forearms that flex with each thrust up into you. Remmick’s pace starts out easy and mannered but it’s not before long that whatever dwindling self-restraint he had goes flying out the window. 

“Hm? Like that? Yeah? He ever fuck you this good? Hnngh, this deep?” he says with gritted teeth directly into your ear, “Don’t think he has, I don’t think he has, baby. Why else his pretty slut of a wife busy gettin’ her insides all kinds of mixed up? Fuck—by a stranger. A man she hardly knows. She’s some risk-taker, ain’t she? She needs it—ugh—she needs it to be wrong. She like it best when she not s’posed to like it,”

Remmick lets out a breathy, dark chuckle. The heat of his words against the shell of your ear, your combined sweat leaving you both sticky and adhered to one another, the mouth of your cervix getting hammered to oblivion. Each rut of his cockhead against your deepest parts has you seeing stars and a heat pooling in your tummy, just as before. 

“Wanna breed ‘ya so damn bad. Know your old man would be too stupid to notice or care. ‘Till they come out lookin’ a lil too much like…well…like me.” 

With each taunting grin, you can see the length of his fangs in your peripheral vision. The notion of being bred full of his babies is too much for you to even normally comprehend, much less in your loopy, fucked-out state. You’re still lucid enough to detect his thrusts becoming sloppier and less even. Remmick was dangerously close.

“...but maybe you’d love that. Havin’ my spawns ‘stead of his. No tellin’ what they’d be like…guess there’s jus’ one way to find out, now ain’t there…?”

End. 

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[senselessviolets]

Eartha Kitt (1927-2008), photographed by Phillipe Halsman 1955

[senselessviolets]

“no tenderness”

paddy mayne x spy!fem!reader

rating: explicit (slow burn angst/smut)

word count: 5k

ao3 link

warnings: **DUBIOUS CONSENT**, drunk sex, hatefucking, slapping (m/f recieving), first time squirting, “hold the moan”, degradation, spanking, panties as gag, doggystyle, fucking on staircase, slow burn, reader has anger issues like paddy, pet names, description of sexual harrassment, sexism, paddy is an asshole to reader but reader’s an asshole right back, kinda bitter(sweet if you squint) ending

a/n:

Important to note that while the reader’s exact race/physical description is kept vague, she is meant to be of British descent and shares beliefs that could be construed as nationalistic. Paddy, ofc, pushes back on her for this. But they are by no means indicative of my views (literally just an ignorant American over here). I figured that such a characterization would be more in line with how spies devoted to/serving under their country may have felt during this time.

“Evening, Lieutenant,” you greet the unshaven uniformed man leaning at the bar counter.

Briefly startled, he cocks his head over, neither expecting nor wanting to be recognized. It was a rarity to find Lt. Robert Blair “Paddy” Mayne at a stuffy military soiree such as this, but even for the most reclusive beings, the drab dusty Cairo nights on the front could leave much to be desired at times. Some nights, being amongst the living that weren’t your comrades or your enemies—especially when that line between both became obscured more and more—was vital. Maintaining some vague connection to ‘humanity’ could help to ward off any doubts clouding one’s mind, whether or not, after all they’d seen and all they’d done, that they were still, indeed—human. So for this one night only, he’d don his stiff khaki uniform and exchange the briefest of pleasantries, regardless of how overstimulating the environment or aggravating the atmosphere. 

Not to save face but to merely prove to himself that he was still capable of being ‘decent’.

“I take it things must be exceptionally…quiet on the front, what with you showing your face in some awfully ritzy place such as this,” you say.

The Luxor Jewel Hotel was indeed a marvel. Golden everything; chandeliers, light fixtures, ornate detailing etched into the ceiling. Towering palm trees positioned at every doorway and the intricate white and turquoise zellij-style marble flooring made it feel even more decadent.

“Perhaps,” Paddy replies, to your surprise, “Maybe I’ve just half a mind for something on ice after all those weeks roastin’ under that bloody hot sun,” 

“Were that so, you could’ve gone to one of the many dingy pubs this city has to offer. The same ones, I’m sure the boys in your troop are busy getting pissed at. I hear they fancy gettin’ into a bit of a scuffle now and then. That is, during the rare instances they even get a chance to. Working them to the bone, are you? You and Lt. Stirling?”

“Aye. They’re not so bad, though. Dudley Clarke only wanted the ones who showed the ‘utmost potential’—the fuck that means. Must say there are more than a few that I’m surprised…made the cut,”

“Not up to snuff?���

“Not up to my fuckin’ snuff.”

You aren’t offended that he doesn’t seem to remember you, for you went to great lengths to ensure that wouldn’t be the case; dying your hair, wearing dresses you normally wouldn’t ever reach for, and going under a rather unremarkable alias. Still, you had become acquainted with the Lieutenant in passing on base as a nurse, your identity still your own and going by your real name. You looked him over after a drunken brawl he got into with several privates and a few locals one night in the city. You remember him saying something about you ‘having some poor other bastards you could be tending to,’ instead of him. From then on, you got the impression he wasn’t used to or liked being cared for. 

At least, in that regard. 

For the first time in the duration of the conversation, Paddy’s gaze is directed to your own. He was raising his glass of whiskey to his lips when a flicker of recognition skipped across his face. Something in your stomach drops, and your tongue goes dry. For several months now, you had maintained this cover and had carefully interwoven some layered but believable backstory that you had gotten various expats and persons of interest to cozy up to you. To be caught now by a British officer wouldn’t by any means be a death sentence, as it would be if he were on the opposing side. 

Just more of a headache than anything else.

“...say, you wouldn’t happen to be the reporter gal who whalloped the poor private that was tryin’ it on with her?”

Relief washes over you. Your journalist cover had stuck. 

You purse your lips with an eyebrow arched, “Perhaps. What gave it away?”

He nods to your purple, red, and scabbed knuckles. In truth, there was an insistent young private who, after making many, many advances, thought he’d be cheeky and pinch your arse as he walked past you at the embassy. In return, you gave him hell, socking him square in the jaw so hard, you felt his teeth clang shut. It took the private’s two mates, who he was accompanied by, to pull you away from him fully. Even once he was on the ground, you kept nailing him in the sides with your oxfords.

How the SOE signed off on such a hot-head like yourself being recruited as a spy would forever escape you. Desperate times to be sure.

“Can’t fault a woman for defendin’ her ground. Even if it sounds like you were mostly defendin’ your pride. Caught sight of him with the nurses later on. Looked like shite,”

“I saw it merely as a deterrent to ward off any future ‘incidents’. A lad with those sensibilities is not who we want representing our armed forces, now, is he?” 

“Sure, and yet, I can think of thirty lads that’d done worse and either been promoted or awarded a medal. Sad state of affairs, wouldn’t you say?”

“Certainly,”

“Now, what my curiosity is; where in the fuck does a lass learn how to fight dirty like that? Got some mean cunt for a father?” 

“No,”

“Raised with a lot of brothers, then?”

“Also, no. When I was a girl, I liked to chat a lot of shit, and rather than my mouth landing me in trouble with the headmaster, the girls in my year liked to resolve their conflicts at the schoolyard. And of the many, many spats I wound up in, I never quite walked away having learned the right lessons,” you say with a shrug.

“I see. Want some ice for that hand? Even mine don’t ever look as bad as that,”

“No, thanks. I can handle it just fine on my own,”

“Not gonna argue with that,” he surrenders, “Drink, then? Celebrate this wee victory?”

“...A drink would be lovely, Lt. Mayne.”

“Oh, fuck’s sake!” you proclaim loudly as the drink in Paddy’s glass sloshes over onto the hem of your shirtdress and the rayon stockings you wore underneath. 

You slug him harder in the shoulder than you intended, the liquor having finagled its way into interfering with your motor skills. 

In the past several hours, the two of you had begun to build what one may call a ‘rapport’ while slamming shots of whiskey, which worked to hasten the process. He’d done a marvelous job of maintaining his guard up while still allowing you further into his circle than most of his comrades. Paddy had made it abundantly clear that he was dubious of your intentions, given your alleged profession. He knew that even the most vague allusions to the troops and their movements would become front-page news, so he was quick to derail the conversation every time it veered in that direction. You both kept it casual and light, whingeing about the weather or discussing your favorite authors. It only became heated when Auden came up, and naturally, the two of you had differing opinions on his body of work and his politics.

“He’s a bloody fuckin’ coward, is what he is!”

“I’m not sayin’ the man’s a saint or not or whether he was in the right. I just think he was doing what he reckoned he had every right to do!”

“Fuck off with that,” you groan, “You don’t know what the fuck you’re on about,”

“Maybe I don’t. But I don’t think he’s the right cunt you all paint him as, that’s all,”

Paddy’s cheeks are flushed from the insulated dining room as well as the drink in his hand. He smooths back his hair while nodding to the barkeep to ‘keep them coming’. His uniform jacket has become unclasped, and his hand flies to his belt to adjust it every so often. You’ve ditched your stole, having crammed it into the small clutch you brought. Occasionally, you catch Paddy’s eyes ghosting over your shirt-dress, particularly in the places it gripped your curves the nicest. 

“Y-Your dress, i-it’s good. The kind that get worn around here are ‘loose’ or too ‘frilly,' y’know—not really one for the sequins. But that’s alright, that,” he insists, unsurreptitiously. 

“Oh, is it? What exactly is your game, Lieutenant? Are you trying to take the dress off my hands…or are you trying to take it off of me?” you tease. 

His eyes widen, and he begins to stammer when, from across the club, a taller dark-haired man dressed in the same uniform flags him down. 

“Oi, Paddy!” Stirling bids with a shout, “Cheers, mate!”

He was on his way out, clearly more than a couple of drinks in but not as sloshed as you were accustomed to seeing him on nights like these. Stirling was dashing in his own right, despite his reputation. The nurses and other female staff on base certainly seemed to think so. Even you couldn’t help but beam in his direction when he flicked you a quick nod. 

Paddy was immediately privy to this. 

“Fuck’s sake,” he mutters under his breath.

“What?” you say, clueless.

“It’s nothing,”

“No, there’s something. What? You have a problem with Stirling?”

“None,” he lies, “Only problem is how he wittles every woman in his vicinity down ‘till they’re nothin’ but some schoolgirl with a crush, just absolutely gaggin’ for it,”

You set your glass down firmly on the wooden counter, arms folded. You stare unflinchingly into his eyes.

“And you think every grown woman is that deep down? Just a brainless ‘schoolgirl with a crush’?” 

“Wouldn’t go that far myself…but…maybe I oughta fetch the Lieutenant Colonel. Give the two of you some privacy. Then we’d surely see. Wouldn’t be the first time those knickers dropped faster than a fuckin’ salute for a man in uniform—”

In an instant, Paddy sees stars and feels a familiar warm, angry sting of a smack bloom on his left cheek. His shit-eating grin only makes you see red.

“Go to hell, Paddy,”

“Aye. Felt how hot it is, have you, sweetheart?! I’m already fuckin’ there!” 

“Are you? Here, a little something to cool you down, then!” you say. 

The glass of now-melted ice that Paddy did eventually request for your injured hand is hurled at him. Its contents splash onto his khaki jacket, leaving his chest and undershirt damp. It hardly phases him, though you don’t stick around to gauge his true reaction. You don’t care. Storming off as fast as your modest heels will grant you, you haven’t even begun to take into account how much attention your dispute has garnered. Fortunately, only a handful of servers with trays of champagne and decadently dressed guests witness the scene. 

Still, doesn’t detract from the embarrassment of it all. 

He shouts your name several times across the dining hall. You don’t answer, even when he jogs right up to you, matches your pace, and tries to outflank you.

“Please. We were just having a wee laugh, that’s all. Just a bit of fun. No harm done. You wanna come back to the bar…tell me how wrong I am about T.S. Eliot?” he trails off, a boyish, loopy grin painted across his face.

With as firm a grip as you can muster—paying no mind to how hard you jab your nails into his shoulder—you tow him to a nearby, fortunately vacant service corridor, forcing him past the double-acting doors.

“Alright, alright. Pack it in. You’ve made your point, quite…firmly,” Paddy goes, massaging his shoulder.

You roll your eyes at his pained reaction, knowing full well he’d been injured much worse on the front. Eyeing him up and down, you examine the complete and utter piece of work standing before you.

“What?”

“Y’know, I’d always heard you were an unconventional man, Mayne. Maybe even a bit odd. But they never once told me how absolutely fuckin’ unbearable you are,” you spit, “It’s a wonder why you can’t keep company around for long, why no matter what—you always seem to wind up on your ownsome. I’d almost feel bad for you…if you weren’t so much of a measly prick,”

“Yeah?” 

“Yeah,”

His jaw tightens, and his breathing grows unsteady. Paddy’s overcome with some raw need that can’t be verbalized or fully comprehended. It hurts him inside—how bad he wants to make you hurt. And you can see it scrawled all over his face. Paddy’s eyebrows begin to furrow ever so slightly, and his rose-hued lips begin to part in a way that leaves you aching.

“Whaddya keep looking at me like that for…? Huh? Like you want something. That it, sweet pea? Been wantin’ a wee peck on the lips from your lieutenant?” he taunts.

You boldly step forward, fully invading his space. Paddy’s smile returns.

“I don’t want a fucking kiss,” you say, flatly and without missing a beat, “I want you to do your fucking worst.” 

A hint of a frown begins to poke through. He’s visibly confused and doesn’t know what that means. Luckily, he catches your drift quite expeditiously when you strike him across the face once more. This time, it's much harder. You go in for another, but he grasps your flailing wrist with one firm hand and encases your neck with the other in a loose hold. Paddy walks you backwards until you’re roughly pressed against the wall. You wind up dropping your clutch during the struggle, which you’d been holding under your arm. It clatters on the floor and spills open, a tube of lipstick, a compact mirror, a tin of rouge, and a pill box falling out. He dips one of his legs in between your own, his built thigh incidentally rubbing against where you need him most. You struggle against his leg, only adding pressure to your most sensitive area. You don’t know at what point you begin doing it intentionally. Paddy’s hand around your neck grows more and more taut, so you relent, your trapped hand no longer spurning for freedom, and your hips stagnant. 

You appear to accept the position you find yourself in, much to Paddy’s surprise and thrill.

His bearded face is now next to yours, and you feel its coarseness as he brushes along your soft cheek with his scruff like a cat. Your pants are hot and repel off of one another in steady, hasty exchanges. His hand, clasped around your neck, now begins to squeeze the sides of your throat. A high-pitched whiny breath emits from your lips. 

“Y’know…for being so fuckin’ feisty…I wasn’t expectin’ you to give up so easy,” Paddy mocks, behind gritted teeth, “Not complaining, though. Thinkin’ I like you more when you’re peaceful.”

You spit in his face, and he flinches, taking his hand off of your throat to wipe the glob of saliva from his cheek beneath his lower eyelid where it landed. Two approaching service workers beyond the swinging doors can be heard talking in Arabic, the volume of their conversation growing the closer they get. The panicked look in your eyes softens Paddy’s demeanor, and he eases up off of you completely. You stand opposite one another—Paddy leaned on one wall and you on the other. 

Presumably, to give the impression to the incoming servers that there was no physical engagement occurring between the two of you whatsoever and that you and the Lieutenant had been merely ‘chatting’. Anybody with a modicum of intelligence, however, would be able to see your and Paddy’s flushed cheeks, your heaving chests, both of your disheveled attire, and the contents of your handbag—now scattered all along the floor in the gap between you. The servers pause in front of the threshold, the light shifting with each of their footsteps beneath the sliver of the doors’ edge. Wordlessly, you and Paddy eye each other up and down, both of you in no fit state to be seen. 

It becomes rather clear that this was going to happen whether the two of you had even intended to upon first meeting. Whether either of you was spoken for or had someone waiting for you back home. 

And whether or not it’d fucking end the both of you

The exact moment the servers were summoned by some nearby guests and departed from the doors, Paddy was on his knees. He frantically begins to sweep up the spilled belongings back into your clutch, returning the small bag to you. Then, he seizes your wrist, dragging you further and further into the dimly lit corridor. Now you’re the one struggling to keep up, skipping along in your heels. This predictably winds up with you briefly tripping over your own feet and Paddy bracing your fall, midway. 

“You alright?”

You nod, out of breath. Eventually, the corridor opens up and leads to a shadowy back stairwell, leading to the upper floors of the hotel. It was late, and all of the attention was on the party. You still run the risk of being caught, though being on the main staircase or near the two elevators helps. You and Paddy nearly make it to the first landing before you’re removing various articles of clothing. For Paddy, his belt. For you, your briefs. 

If comfort were any constellation, you might go through the pain of unclasping both stockings from the garter belt they stay held up by, and then working the rayon nylons down your legs carefully so as not to rip a hole in them. 

But that was not on the agenda. 

Instead, you sit on the stairs, with your ass hanging off the edge of a step and your legs raised, panties draped off of one heel. You wait for Paddy to unfurl himself out of his trousers. You catch the briefest glimpse of his cock—thick with a drooling pink tip—before it disappears under the hem of your skirt. You’re surprised by his deftness as he both licks his palm, wets the head of his dick, and bores his way into you with one deep, singular thrust. The angle is not ideal. None of this was. But his steady ramming, rutting you again and again against the pristine wooden stairs. Your cunt takes his cock with ease, having worked up a slick from the first slap you gave him. 

“F-Fuck, oh, f-fuck me. Fuck me,” he shudders, beyond your shoulder.

“Y-Yes, y-yes,” you whimper, each sob punctuated by a punishing slam of his hips, “Yes, Paddy.” 

Your legs are already trembling mid-air, and he sees this, taking the underneath of both knees into his hands to better support you. It becomes very apparent that he’s merely doing this for more leverage to piston himself into you. The only way you’re even partially seated upright is by leaning back on both of your elbows, gripping the edge of another step for dear life.

“Fuckin’ talk. Fuckin’ talk to me,” Paddy growls, “Act like the fuckin’ bitch I know you wanna be for me—c’mon, you,”

He suddenly drops a leg of yours in favor of holding your jawline between his fingertips. He pinches your cheeks to purse your lips open, prompting you to speak. He unwittingly aims his hips upwards into your special spot, and your eyes roll and your moans escape your barely opened mouth, coming out like an ‘ooh’ sound instead.

“Hm?” he remarks, fucking you through the stairs, “What’s that? What you tryna say, sweet pea?”

You lurch forward from his grip and take his bottom lip between your teeth, biting down hard. 

“Agh! Fuck me!” Paddy curses, pulling away and inspecting his lip.

His fingertips have dabbings of a sheer crimson—blood and spit. When he smiles, that same mixture is evident on his teeth. 

“I really do hate you, you know that?” you ask, tasting iron on your own lips.

He gifts you a light slap across the cheek. Enough to sting a bit; not nearly enough to bruise. It’s far more controlled and restrained than the full-blown smacks you’d given him earlier. 

“Again,” he beckons.

“I hate you,”

Another slap.

“Again,” 

“Fuck you!” you say, far too loudly.

Your shout echoes faintly in the resonant stairwell. His anticipated slap is swiftly converted into a muzzle as it clamps shut over your mouth. Paddy pauses his thrusts and leans in so his lips just barely graze your earlobe.

“You shut yer fuckin’ mouth now and don’t move a fuckin’ inch, ‘ya understand?” he rasps, his lower teeth grazing the shell of your ear.

You say ‘yes’ underneath his palm. He presses a wet, firm smooch to the back of his hand, the one over your mouth—the closest, you figure, you’ll ever get to a proper kiss from Lt. Paddy Mayne. 

“Aye. That’s what I fuckin’ thought,” he mutters.

Paddy adjusts his position, moving each of his feet to a different step, gaining even more purchase over your body. Before you can even register what he’s doing, your calves are now barely resting on his shoulders, and your ass is suspended in the air, hanging over the steps. Then he resumes fucking into you, and the poet uncovers a beautiful new rhyme scheme before him. 

A new way to make you fall apart. 

Gravity is partly to blame this time; now every thrust is followed up by the sensation of you falling deeper and deeper onto his cock. The noises your sopping wet cunt is making leave you squeezing your eyes shut tightly in embarrassment, mouth, and moans still muffled by his hand. An icy hot burst of pleasure is struck deeper and deeper into your core as he curls his hips upwards, determined to provoke and torture that ‘special spot’ again. In the process, he winds up fucking against your cervix in a way so deliciously intense—your toes begin to curl.

“Fuckin’ Christ,” Paddy moans, “So fuckin’ tight. Squeezing on it like you don’t want me to stop. It’s okay, doll. I amn’t gonna fuckin’ stop, ‘ya hear?”

Your eyes, still wound shut, have tears escape the corners of them. Even an act as tender as him lightly kissing away your tears is followed immediately by him licking them off his lips. As he continues to ravenously fuck up against your G-spot, you start to feel something build within your depths. It’s a sensation you’re not familiar with—mildly uncomfortable and all-consuming. It feels as if whatever is tightening within you is bound to break. 

Or burst. 

“P-Paddy…i-it’s…t-there’s…something’s wr—wait—”

You’re hardly able to finish protesting because all of a sudden, a gush of warmth rushes out of your cunt, coating his cock in fluid that drips onto the stairs beneath you. Paddy looks down at the scene of the crime and smiles, crazed and feral.

“Lookit that, sweetheart,” he laughs in bewilderment, “She’s weepin’ just like you are.” 

He pulls out entirely, and you whine at the sensation. The removal of his cock brings a small gossamer-colored trickle of whatever you just released onto him. It runs down the crack of your ass almost onto the steps when his fingers—those fingers—catch the mess, dragging it back up over your punished hole and your hard clit. He starts to rub you there roughly, almost painfully, when your hand grips his forearm and gets him to stop.

“It’s t-too…it hurts,”

“Does it now?” he asks in a belittling tone. 

You bob your head, still sniffling from his previous roughness. 

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,”

“Good.”

Before you can even register his fingernails digging into the plush of your hips, Paddy has you flipped over, sprawled out on all fours, the wind damn near knocked out of you. He doesn’t move to stop you when you begin to climb to the second landing, crawling rather pitifully like some meek, wounded animal. No—instead he opts to watch your meager attempt at belaying his touch.

Paddy’s eyes don’t know where to look. Your shaky knees, the stockings that have become more and more hiked up throughout the encounter, or your ass, draped in the skirt of your now-wrinkly shirt-dress. You feel the cool air on your bare, slicked cunt and realize your panties are no longer draped on your ankle as they had been. You aren’t able to look behind you and see where they may have fallen because the garment is now being roughly shoved into your mouth from behind. You groan at this, the dry fabric bristling against your tongue. 

“Can’t have ‘ya makin’ a peep and blowin’ our cover, now can we?” he seethes.

Paddy’s hands migrate from your face to your scalp, ensnaring themselves in your hair. 

“Must say though, sweetheart, and I mean this from the bottom of me heart—you really can take a fuckin’ beating.”

One hand stays wrapped in your hair, the other trails down your clothed back, his index finger pressed into the dip of your spine. You feel your dress skirt being flipped up and hiked over your waist. In an instant, you’re a lot more exposed to him than you had been, and it makes you whine. A sharp and mild spank catches your right cheek. Your hips wriggle in response, and your hair gets tugged on, the burn at your roots pairing nicely with the sting of your ass. He gives you two more spanks before plunging back into your sopping wet cunt with no warning. The squelching sound of his dick hollowing you out has dipping your head down in shame. It only causes Paddy to tighten his clutch on your hair, pulling you up and keeping your head straight. Your eyes can’t help but roll back into your skull as he takes you.

Paddy, as a young man, had earned himself the reputation of being rather shy or indifferent around women. It alienated him from his peers, and he loathed their constant bragging of past conquests and their talks of what they’d be doing to their girls upon returning home. And while yes, in his heart, he’d much rather flock to the company of his male compatriots and find solace therein, there were exceptions. 

Especially if he had liquid courage coursing through his veins and to the end of his cock.

His steady thrusts grow sloppier and sloppier the more present the release he’d been staving off becomes. And yet it’s still not enough; not deep enough, not hard enough, not fast enough. It almost starts to irritate him. He lets your hair and the hip he’d been grasping go and begins to instead gather the extra fabric of your skirt and pulls it so it props your rear up. Then, he takes all of that fabric, winds it up, and bunches it so it creates the perfect handgrip. The material of the dress goes stiff against your lower stomach the more he pulls, stoking that familiar sensation you had before you squirted. That sensation grows exponentially as he begins nailing into you, using your own dress to rail you. You swear you hear a few seams rip, but you absolutely could not be bothered. 

How could you be when your soul is also being pried from the inside out by a man you’re not positive you’d ever see again after tonight? 

The reckless abandon of it all, the lack of commitment, the absence of attachment—it swirls all around you and the uniformed man. The old adage was ‘all is fair in love and war,’ but to exist comfortably with the fact that you both hated the other to no end and weren’t exactly the most concerned for their well-being was freeing. It meant less consideration. It meant less confusion.

No heartbreak to be had.

So who was to argue against you drenching the Lieutenant’s formal attire for the second time that night? This time, you spasm around his cock, your cunt intending to suck him dry. In a brisk motion, he swipes the crumpled-up panties from your mouth, and you cough. 

“I’m g’na f-finish, w-where…where do you want i-it?” he says between grunts.

You cling to the stairs ahead of you for dear life while his words take a moment to fully process in your brain. Certainly not inside, as dangerously tempting as that sounds. You reach behind you, holding out a hand by his hips, signaling Paddy to stop his thrusts. Swiftly, the Lieutenant pulls out and strokes his soaked cock with vigor. It squelches and makes obscenely wet noises as he attempts to imitate the pace you two had to no avail, so you take over and stroke him until his thick load splatters all along your dress with a high-pitched, brassy whine. It’s moments of silence until Paddy collapses alongside you, still sitting on the stairs. You look over at him, and he inspects the mess he left on your dress, almost rearing to apologize. 

“...It was a cheap dress, anyway,” you dismiss, “I’ll simply get another,” 

You begin to roll your stockings back up the length of your legs, and Paddy, who was still holding onto your briefs, tosses them back in your direction. He turns away to make himself decent; as decent as possible with much of his clothing amess with water, sweat, and your fluids. Paddy sheds his jacket, opting to hold it instead in front of the guilty wet splotch left behind on the front of his pants. Similarly, you dig your stole out from your clutch and drape it around your arms, the long flowing fabric working to mask some of the Lieutenant's stains. It isn’t long before you’ve gotten your bearings straight and fully collected yourself. Once Paddy sees you’re about to depart, he quickly intervenes. 

“Wait…before you go…,” he says.

You stop at the landing, pivoting to face the man you dread as he speaks below you. Your face is unamused, and weariness hangs around your eyes. 

“...have I ever seen you ‘round…?”

“Around…?”

“On base…like at GHQ? You said you’d just gotten here, but…,”

You attempt to smile absurdly at his suggestion, so as not to give your position away. Something in your chest swells, but you don’t allow yourself to relish it for too long. You couldn’t. Not in times such as these. 

“I think that may very well be the liquor talking, Lt. Mayne,”

“Aye,” he concedes, “Must be.”

{thank you for reading!! now taking requests and ideas for future fics! check my fandom list in my pinned post for more info!}

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SAS: Rogue Heroes | 2.02

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Ewan McGregor and Nicole Kidman rehearsing the Elephant Love Medley for MOULIN ROUGE! in 1999

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Ocean Vuong, The Emperor of Gladness

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LILY-ROSE DEPP as ELLEN HUTTER NOSFERATU (2024) dir. Robert Eggers

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“let’s ride”

kendall roy x fem. reader

rating: explicit (smut)

word count: 1.7k

AO3 Link

warnings:

age gap, rough sex, cowgirl, nipple play (fem receiving), unprotected sex (wrap before you tap), creampie, power imbalance w/ Kendall

a/n:

the smutty follow-up to my first Kendall fic “killing me slowly” that I teased a couple months back. Just something short and nasty, the way I like it. :P

summary:

pre-season 4, you and kendall rendezvous back at his airbnb. smut ensues.

“You cold? You’re shaking a little,” Kendall observes, handing you a bottle of sparkling water. 

You shake your head ‘no’ and take the bottle with a smirk. Kendall goes back to sit on the brutalist-looking loveseat, meanwhile, you stand pacing around his stunning B&B. He watches you with amusement.

“Just a little low on iron, is all,”

“Uh-huh. And here I was thinking I had you that excited,” Kendall jokes, grinning.

“Please,” you protest, “You don’t even know…like…this is probably the lamest thing I could say but being around you, like, you make my chest…feel like a fucking snowglobe,”

“See, there you go with the ‘cold’ thing again. You want a blanket? Thinking about snow in this kind of scorching fuckin’ Gobi Desert heat?” he gestures outside to the balcony, the sun just beginning to make its descent, “You’re something else, you know that?”

It had been a bit warmer today.

“Sure,” you nod skeptically, taking a gulp of your water.

Kendall jumps to his feet, not taking your dismissiveness well. He trails behind you.

“No, no, no. I don’t think you understand…I saw you. From the moment we fuckin’ locked eyes, I saw you. And I knew—I knew—I had to get to know you better. Or else I was gonna…just beat myself up the rest of the night for not saying anything,”

He’s now standing a foot away from you, occasionally breaking your sustained eye contact while fidgeting with the zipper of his jacket. His on-and-off avoidance reads to you as genuine. Normally, he’s able to nail people to a T; dress them up and down without missing a beat. But here he was, this overly-confident, ego-inflated middle-aged billionaire—left mumbling and fumbling like a schoolboy with a crush. 

Why did it make you want him even more?

“Yeah, and…? The verdict? Am I everything you’d hoped and more?” you say, cheekily.

He chuckles, beaming down once more, before his firm hand finds its rightful place at the corner of your jaw. He draws you into a deep and pronounced kiss. Kendall’s lips are smooth and so is his other hand, sleightfully affixing itself to the small of your back. His lone thumb massages the dip in your spine. It’s subtle enough of a move to have you leaning back into the touch, wanting more. A hand traces up behind your back, providing you with some much-needed support. Ever since his tongue took to massaging yours, you had become leery of the stability in your knees.

“Yes, baby,” he murmurs.

He takes your face into both hands, kissing you with a wanton tenderness. Your hands go to his sides, sliding down to the waistband of his jeans. You take him, hastily pulling your sweater off, as a cue to go for his belt. You begin shimmying it out of its loop, before his hand flies to your wrist.

“No. Ah-ah. Bed,” Kendall groans, “I need you on my bed.”

 You nod. You’re not prepared when his same hands that were taking to undressing you hoist you upwards off the ground so you’re partially hanging over his shoulder. Kendall wasn’t the most built, but he had a decent amount of strength. You laugh outrageously, squealing once he starts speed-walking in the direction of the master bedroom. Before you know it, you’re lightly tossed onto a cloudlike mattress, the softest you’d ever felt in your life. You’re still giggling, even when Kendall crawls up the bed to join you, sheepish grin plastered all over his face. He halts at your tummy, taking the hem of your undershirt along in his trajectory upwards. Your tits bounce as he exposes them. 

“Off, off—take it—” he chants in a hushed tone, helping you to hastily pull it over your head, “There.”

The hardness growing in his pants can be felt as he eyes those soft plush tits of yours. You had thought you saw him take a not-so-sneaky glance at them during dinner. Those wandering hazel eyes. So indecent.

He palms your tits together, making your cleavage more pronounced before burying his face in between them, kissing and sucking both your breasts and the sensitive flesh in between them. Once he frees them from the cups of your restrictive bra, he takes another moment to admire them. Your nipple pebbles under the light graze of his middle finger. Kendall takes that same finger into his mouth for a second, wetting it. He returns to the same nipple, which stiffens even more in response to the chill from his spit that he massages around it. You swear you see the faintest smile form from his lips, as if he was rather pleased with your ‘response’. 

“Kendall…?” you mewl. 

“Yeah, baby?” he asks.

“...I need it,”

“Need what, honey?”

“I need you,” you whimper, pathetically, “Please?”

“You’re a lot more subby than I thought you’d be,” he whispers into one of your eyes, “It’s so fuckin’ sexy—can’t get enough of you,”

He kisses your cheek before rolling off of you to free himself from his pants. You make quick work of your own slacks and then your panties. Besides your bra, which you’ve ridden yourself of completely at this point—you are bare. Kendall remains partially clothed, his slacks pulled down to his knees. There was something about the incongruence that drove you mad, made you yearn for his dick even more. You assume your position, lying back onto the mattress as you were before.

“Whaddya think you’re—oh, no, no, no. Sorry, should’ve been clearer. You’re riding me tonight. You’re fucking riding me until those gorgeous fucking legs give out, ‘kay?”

Breathlessly, without so much as a second thought, you climb up on Kendall’s lap, leaning back while bracing yourself on the muscle of his thighs. He lines himself up with your entrance while each of your knees rests evenly by his hips. Kendall cups his hand below your chin, you look to him for direction. 

“Spit,”

He waits expectedly, still holding his hand beneath your mouth. You decide to do things a little differently. You move his hand out of the way, leaning forwards to spit directly onto his cock. It leaves your mouth in the long string, landing on the tip of his dick and sliding languidly from his slick head down the rest of his shaft.

“Filthy fucking girl,” he says under his breath as you sit on it. 

Kendall’s hands stretch up behind your back to grip your shoulders, all the more leverage to ram himself into you repeatedly. Relentlessly. It’s so much so quickly, you nearly tap his shoulder for him to go easy, but it’s too good. There’s a fervor in his darkened eyes and beads of sweat forming just above them. He’s eager and determined to make you gasp in shock—he wants you to be slack-jawed at how good he’s making you feel. Like you didn’t even think it was possible to feel this good. 

That he’s good. 

Fuck, he just really wants to be told that he’s ‘good’. 

And yet, you’re too busy getting your brains fucked out by him, so much in fact that you are hardly capable of speech.

Pity.

He wanted to see every piece of you, every inch of flesh he intended to mark. He remains under you, even now. As if to promote the idea that you were the one holding the reins. Kendall frees one hand to ghost downwards where your bodies happen to meet. His fingers drag in strokes over the fold of your pussy, broadly at first and then more acute once he finds the right motion. The kind that makes your hips buck and your breasts sway. You whine, the bluntness of his cock matched with the deftness of his fingertips being a fatal combination. 

“There you are, baby,” he purrs, “There’s my girl.”  

Out of sheer desperation, you cling onto his hunter green cotton tee he still dons, tugging at it so much, the hem is halfway up his stomach. This makes him laugh, placing his hands over your own as you begin to grind and take the lead.

“Fuck me, honey. C’mon. Fuck me how you want. Fuck me how you need,” he chants, “Use that fuckin’ dick. Use that fuckin’ dick. C’mon,”

Your back arches like a springboard, recoiling with every bounce off his thighs. 

“Uh-huh. God, you take it like a champ, yeah? Like a fuckin’ pro. You were made to take this fucking dick, weren’t you? Huh?”

You babble out a messy plethora of “uh-huhs” and “yeses.” You move in ways you didn’t think you could, that no man had ever been able to coax out of you. Was it him? Was it his station in life? Was it the immense wealth and luxury he surrounded himself with? 

Why was it so good?

The question tortured you, just like those fingertips rubbing at your clit that was keeping you dangerously close to the edge.

“K-Ken, I-I can’t, you’re—” you plead, “You’re going so fast—I’m not g’na, you’re gonna make me—”

“‘S okay, baby. I know. I know, c’mere. I know it’s too good. I know this dick is too good but you gotta take it for me, ‘kay? You gotta take it—every fuckin’ inch—every motherfuckin’ inch, yeah?”

“Yes, yes, fuck!”

“Fuck, this pussy. This tight fucking pussy. Feels so good, best I’ve ever felt,” You scoff at his assertion and between pants say, “You say that to every woman that winds up naked in your bed?”

“No,” he insists, “Just the ones I want to take my load deep inside their cunt. Like you’re gonna? Right? You want it in you?”

You nod rapidly, desperately, feverishly. 

“You sure?”

Rather than verbally answering him, you lock down his hips with your quads clenched hard around his lap, attempting to pry his very soul from his core. You make small, frenzied grinding motions, eager and needing to be filled. You then reach your peak, fluttering around Ken’s soaked cock. His orgasm that he thought was somewhere in the distance instead sneaks up on him, pounding into you once twice as he paints you white from within. You swear you can feel it throb against your walls, but you are positive you can feel the warm trickle that drips down your inner thighs when he draws himself from you. Letting your back fall heavy behind you, the lush mattress cushions your descent. You pant, face warm with flush and glistening with sweat. You’re not expecting Kendall, still bare from the lower half, to slide up next to your position and plant a kiss on your cheek and then run a smooth hand up and down your back until you drift off to sleep but you’re not one to fight it either. 

{ feedback is welcome! }

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Wunmi Mosaku & Michael B. Jordan as Annie and Smoke Moore SINNERS SCREEN TEST

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JACK O'CONNELL as REMMICK SINNERS (2025) Dir. Ryan Coogler