my brain likes to throw up here

Spencer has known that she’s a virgin since the first time his hands wandered to her waist during a particularly heated kiss. She blurted it out like she was afraid it would change everything between them. Spencer was a little taken aback, simply because he wasn’t even thinking about doing that at all. They had only been together for a few weeks, and he thought it was entirely too soon for them to be that intimate together. He wanted to take things slow with her, to savor the process of becoming something real.

He wasn’t a virgin anymore. He gave it away hastily to someone who only wanted something casual. Someone who disappeared from his life without even saying goodbye, someone he thought he was at least a friend to. He learned enough from that to know what it felt like when something like this wasn’t handled gently. 

Since then, they’ve navigated through most of her firsts with caution and compassion. She didn’t realize that it was his first time doing these things with someone who reciprocated his feelings until later on.

She had been hesitant and unsure about exploring her sexuality. It was something that she didn’t even feel comfortable doing alone in her room. Feelings of guilt and disgust and discomfort arose in her whenever she tried. She wasn’t even exactly sure why that was.

The thought of him seeing her –all of her– absolutely terrified her. She knows he’s not the kind of man who’d judge her body, but she feared that he might see her differently (the way she sees herself).

He’s showered her with compliments and praises each time they’ve done something new: “You’re so beautiful,” and “I’m so proud of you,” and “Thank you for trusting me with this.”

He’s quieted her insecurities with: “You’re the most beautiful person that I’ve ever seen in my whole life,” and “I wish you saw yourself the way that I see you.”

Sexual pleasure was a foreign concept to her, one that he’s slowly helped her enjoy. He absolutely loves taking care of her like that; he’s honored and privileged to be someone she feels safe enough to traverse into uncharted waters with.

It was uncomfortable at first. She slightly panicked the first time he brought her to the edge of an orgasm. She didn’t know how to let go; her body stayed tense no matter how much she tried to relax. With him came safety and security, that much she knew was true.

Spencer talked her through it, reassuring her that it was okay to relinquish herself to him and that he would take care of her. He reminded her of how grateful he was to be able to do this with her and kept his voice soft. He repeated to her that they could stop if she wanted.

His devoted reassurances calmed her enough to succumb to her desires. The desires that he had explained to her were only natural. She had never felt anything so intense or intimate with anyone else before, as she allowed herself to reach climax with his palm between her legs.

That first time, she was uneasy about him seeing her without anything covering her lower half. She compromised with herself and allowed him to solely remove her jeans. Since then, he’s seen various sections of her body barren. She slowly eased into letting him use his fingers on her without any covering. He was ecstatic for her, knowing that it was a huge step. 

The first time he put his mouth on her, she was apprehensive about letting him see her so up close. He soothed her by rubbing circles into her bare thighs and with tender words and promises. He swore that he’s loved what he’s seen of her thus far and thinks every inch of her is perfect.  

He taught her how to please him, which was liberating for her. It increased her self-confidence, and she was entranced by his reactions. Hearing him gasping and moaning for her minimized her inhibitions.

The night they decided to have sex for the first time wasn’t planned or scheduled. She didn’t want it to be, knowing she would’ve psyched herself out as the date and time approached. It happened naturally, as all of their experiences have.

They were at his apartment after a museum + dinner date. It was a romantic night that felt easy and relaxed. She kissed him in his entryway, and he pulled her in close by the hips. 

“I think I’m ready,” she whispered against his lips.

He pulled back from her just enough to make proper eye contact. “Are you sure?”

She nods wordlessly and a tad apprehensively. The prospect still makes her feel nervous, but she really is ready.

“We don’t have to, baby.” His thumbs brushed lightly over her hips, grounding her.

“I want to… Do you not want to?” The way she looks up at him twists at his heart. She’s doe-eyed and earnestly afraid he doesn’t want her like that.

“I do, sweetheart. I didn’t mean to imply that I don’t.” He watches her expressions intently and continues once some of the tension has left her face, “I want this very much.”

“Promise?” She shyly asks.

He exhales amusedly, “I promise. Can you promise to tell me if you change your mind, or if you need to stop, or even just pause for a minute?”

She smiles with an eager nod, “Pinky promise,” extending her littlest finger towards him.

He loves her so much; she’s so endearing. He wraps his pinkie around hers and leads her toward his bedroom with them still linked.

She’s perched on the edge of his mattress, and he’s leaned down to kiss her, hands on the side of her face, tilting her head up to meet his. As he deepens the kiss, he leans her backward to lie on the bed. 

Anticipation has every beat of her heart pulsing in her ears. Warmth is already starting to grow between her legs. Spencer slides a hand up her dress to her thigh, and she instinctively opens her legs for him.

He pulls back from the kiss, and she loosely grabs his tie. “Where are you going?” she whines.

He kneels at her feet and places both hands on her knees, “Just down here, honey.” She leans up on her elbows to see him undoing her shoes. 

He scatters kisses up her leg, so close to the place that she needs him most, then diverts to hold the hem of her dress. She wordlessly lifts her arms to allow him to pull the garment up and off of her, leaving her in just her bra and panties.

“You’re stunning,” he mutters, fingers grazing down her arms as his gaze scans her body. The tips of his fingernails bloom chills on her skin. It’s like she’s charged, and he’s activating the electricity in her veins.

Her arteries still twinge with nervousness, though. She doesn’t know what to expect, which leads her to ask him, “Wait, what’s the plan?”

He meets her eyes, and his head slightly tilts in question. “The plan?” 

“Can you tell me what you’re going to do?” She pulls at her fingers as they rest in her lap, and heat rises to her cheeks– feeling slightly embarrassed to ask him that.

Spencer nods and sits on the bed next to her, meeting her at eye level. He doesn’t want to tower over her and make her feel small or cornered.

“Well, first, I figured we would both take our clothes off.” His eyes remain locked on hers as he speaks, not wanting to miss any microexpression or emotional leakages. 

“Mhm, ” she hums high in her throat; she obviously knows their night would entail that. 

“Next, we could lie down together and just kiss a bit.”

“Then, I’d touch you the way I know you like...” He places a palm centered on her thigh, non-pressuring.

“...With my fingers and probably also my mouth, make sure you’re all loose and relaxed for me.”

Everything he’s described up to this point is familiar to her, so her nervousness pulls back like an ocean tide. 

“Then, if you still want me to, I’d ease myself –very slowly– inside of you.”

As with a tide, her anxiety comes rushing forward.

“What if it hurts?” She timidly asks.

His thumb draws small circles on top of her thigh, “It might, but we’d go at your pace. You can stop me at any time, you know that.”

He’s referring to her other firsts they’ve tentatively navigated together, where she’s asked him to stop or wait, and he’s completely frozen his movements.

“It’s still okay if you don’t want to, baby.”

“I do! I do want to!” The way she says it makes her feel a little childish. The words fall out of her unfiltered, a little too sincere. 

To prove her point, she reaches for his shirt and clumsily starts undoing the buttons. She’s not making very productive progress, so he gingerly wraps a hand around her wrist and replaces her fingers with his own– unbuttoning his shirt with practiced ease.

She wishes she still had something to do with her hands as she watches him, because now her brain has started worrying again. She knows that she is severely attracted to him and intensely wants to do this with him, but part of her is still stressed about performing the ‘right’ way. Running his plan back through her head, she relaxes, aware that her body knows what to do for the majority of the steps.

Spencer shrugs his shirt off his arms and tosses it to the floor, landing next to her dress. He then rises, sliding off his shoes before working at his belt, the sound of metal-on-metal clinging. She watches intently as he pushes his pants down his legs– the slow reveal of his bulge through boxers has her clenching her thighs together.

“We’re gonna keep these on for a bit, okay?” He gestures to his own underwear and then to hers. She nods.

He guides her up the bed to the pillows, slotting in right next to her. They shift to lie on their sides, facing each other. His fingertips graze her cheek, ever so softly.

“Hi, beautiful.”

Her cheeks were already flushed, his compliment has her tilting into an indisputable blush. He knows exactly how to make butterflies swarm in her stomach.

“Hey,” she bashfully responds.

Leaning his head closer, he brushes his nose against the side of hers– unrushed. She thinks that she could die from anticipation, so she tilts forward and connects their lips. It starts sweet and slow, before his palm holds her more firmly and tips her head to deepen the kiss.

She lightly moans into his mouth with relief. Kissing him is one of her favorite things to do; sometimes she wishes they could do this forever. The body's need for oxygen annoys her– she’s sure she needs this more. 

His other arm tucks under the pillow and into her hair as the kiss gets deeper and deeper– tongues sliding and stroking together. 

Reaching around her body with the hand that had settled on her cheek, he smoothly unclasps her bra. After turning her onto her back, he slides the garment off of her, leaning over her to resume their kiss.

Expectancy vibrates under her skin as he trails kisses down her neck to her collarbone, leaving light marks in his path. His mouth reaches her soft nipple, and she sighs when he wraps his lips around it, flicking it with his tongue. Her heart skips a beat when he looks up at her, wide-eyed and with darkened pupils. He kneeds her other breast gently, before alternating his ministrations.

Once her nipples are pebbled and moist with his spit, the cool air of his apartment sweeps over them, slowly washing away the warmth his mouth left.

“Spence…” She whines as he descends her body, kissing her ribs and stomach, before settling between her legs. 

“Shhh… I’ve got you,” Spencer whispers airily, breath brushing her inner thighs.

Wrapping his arms under her thighs, his thumbs draw soothing circles as he peppers her with kisses. He loves taking his time with her; tonight, he wants to extend her pleasure for as long as possible. Not only will doing so make it easier on her later, but he wants to savor this moment.

Eventually, his lips ghost over her lace-covered cunt. If every nerve in her body wasn’t as overactive as a live wire, she wouldn’t even feel it. He leisurely scatters kisses from her clit to her entrance and back, over and over, until he can feel her dampness through her panties.

The thought of telling him just to take them off crosses her mind, even telling him to just rip them off does too. His relentless teasing is getting to be too much, and she’s desperate for him to make direct contact with her.

After loosening his grip on one of her thighs, he runs his fingertip over the stitching of her underwear. Each brush along her inseam has her pushing her hips toward him. He’s less than an inch away from finally touching her, and her breathing is erratic. 

“Please…” She whispers. 

She never thought she’d be bold enough or self-assured enough to ask for what she needs like this. For a moment, she considers embarrassment, but it’s more out of habit than truth. 

He can’t deny her of anything she asks for, especially not when she’s being so forthcoming about her sexual desires. Spencer is so proud of her for getting to this point with him. 

“I’m sorry, baby, I shouldn’t tease you like this.”

Finally dipping his finger into her panties from the side, he can immediately feel how soaked she is. It’s difficult for him not to feel smug about it; it was his goal after all. 

At the feeling of his fingertip sliding through her folds— finally getting the skin-to-skin she needed —a low moan escapes her. 

His finger glides from her entrance to her clit, repeatedly. She’s so wet he’s easily able to slip through her folds. He dips the pad of his fingertip into her silky hole, a little further each time. The relief of the pressure that had been building there has her thighs relaxingly opening for him and breathy whimpers falling from her lips. 

Spencer considers making her cum just like this, with her panties still on (it wouldn’t have been the first time). But his hand desires less constriction, more freedom to please her properly. 

She gasps when he slides out of the side of her underwear, looking down at him with betrayal in her eyes. That is, until his fingers hook into her panties at her hips, and she’s biting her lip as she cants upward for him to pull them down her thighs. 

“Do you like them? I thought of you when I put them on.” She demurely asks. 

He did notice that she was adorned in purple lace; he notices everything, especially when it’s details that regard her. Hearing that she essentially chose them for him, not even knowing if they would do anything tonight, makes his brain buffer. 

He recovers quickly, remembering that she asked him a question, “I love them, honey, but I think they’d look even better on my floor.”

“Spencer Reid!” she appalls, hand dramatically on her chest for effect. 

His cheeks flush at his own smoothness; she brings out sides of him he barely knew existed. 

Settling back between her legs, with his arms hooked under her thighs again, his hands reach up to her waist to caress her there. “Yes?” He smiles with raised eyebrows. 

She can’t respond with his face this close to her heat; he knows that. Tangling her fingers in his hair, she gently guides him forward. 

He doesn’t need to be told twice, so he eagerly licks a flat stripe up the expanse of her cunt. 

“Yes…” she whines. 

The corners of his lips twist upwards as he continues his ministrations– suckling at her clit, rolling it gently between his lips. With her eyes fluttering shut, her other hand finds his, threading them together against her side. Spencer gently squeezes her as he intently watches her face.

As he shifts down to prod her entrance with his tongue, his nose bumps against her sensitive nerves. Once he feels her abdomen tensing under his hands, he returns to her clit, sucking her with fervor. 

“Spence… I--I’m gonna–” Their eyes briefly meet, and he gives her a quick nod of encouragement. Soon, her thighs tremble against him, and she squirms underneath him as he works her through her climax. Her grip on his hand tightens, and he soothingly strokes her with his thumb. 

When he lifts his head from between her legs, his lips glisten with evidence of her arousal; her breathing is labored. Tingling and gelatinous are her legs. 

Spencer ascends her body until their faces meet again. His hand cups her cheek, and she instinctively nuzzles into him. As he leans in to kiss her, she remembers when she was disturbed by the prospect of tasting herself on him. Now, the flavor of herself mixed with his tastes like devotion.

They softly and tenderly kiss as she comes down from her orgasm. 

“I love you…” She mumbles against his lips.

He pulls back just enough to look her in the eye, “I love you too, baby.”

“I want you.” She bashfully admits, and his heart flutters in his chest. 

It takes a remarkable degree of strength to tell her, “Let’s make you cum one more time like this…” His hand trails down her ribs, and she softly whines.

“But why?”

“I just want this to be as comfortable for you as possible. We don't need to rush.” Spencer nudges at her jawline with his nose as he litters kisses on her neck. His fingertips graze and tweak at her nipples before trailing the rest of the way down to the crease of her inner thighs, prompting her to separate them for him.

His fingertips glide over her clit with ease due to the lubricating moisture of her arousal and his saliva. He takes his time, leisurely stroking the nub before sliding a finger inside her entrance. Once she’s whimpering and rutting her hips into his hand, he adds a second finger and gingerly works her open– ensuring to graze her spongey tissue with each thrust. 

He knows her body extraordinarily well, knows exactly which buttons to press, and in exactly the right sequence. He knows the precise pressure to use and when to speed up or slow down. Her mind fades into blankness, like a chalkboard being slowly erased into clouded dust.

It’s not long before she’s burrowing her head into his neck, moans muffling into his skin. “There you go…” His words invigorate her impending orgasm. Body shuddering against his, a dreamy lightheadedness swirls behind her eyes.

She clings to his body as he shifts to open the drawer of his bedside table, blindly searching for a condom. 

“Honey? How are you feeling?” 

“Mmm… good…” She mumbles, slightly slurred. 

“Hey, I need you to come back.” He slides his hand up and down her side, attempting to ground her.

“I’m right here.” She airily giggles.

“Need you to be a little more awake, baby.” 

She leans up to slot her lips against his, and kisses languidly and measuredly as the veil of pleasure in her mind becomes translucent. Once she’s looking at him, eyes only a little hazy, “Do you still want to?”

She nods diffidently.

“Need you to tell me, baby.”

“Yes… I want you.”

He presses a kiss to her forehead before shifting down her body and kneeling between her thighs. He tears the condom open and is about to roll it on when she stops him, “Wait… Do we have to?” gesturing at the latex.

“That’s up to you, baby. Either way is good with me.”

“I want to feel you.” Her eyes are coated with desire; Spencer’s chest constricts at the sight of her like this.

“Fuck– Are you sure? Where do you want me to…” He rarely curses, but he’s struggling to subdue his own excitement of feeling her properly, as well. His thoughts are flighty with anticipation.

“To…?”

“Sorry–” His cheeks are flushed, and he still has the condom in one hand. He really doesn’t want his own nervous excitement to spill over onto her. He clears his throat and stuffs the condom back into the foil. “Where do you want me to finish?” He rubs his palms on the tops of her thighs, rooting himself in the touch.

“Um…” She didn’t consider this.

“The options are: inside of you, onto your stomach, or here onto the sheet.” He gestures at the area of bedding between her thighs. 

“...inside? Please?” The thumping of her heart increases in pace. She wants the full experience of sex with him.

He nods eagerly, “Okay. Whatever you want, I’ll give you anything.”

She watches as he spits into his hand and loosely jerks himself, spreading the moisture around. Briefly, she wonders how he’s going to fit inside of her. She pondered the same thing the first time she put her mouth on him, which resulted in her overexerting herself to try to fit all of him.

The memory and his resulting kindness to her encourage her to ask, “Can I help?”

“Oh– Yes… Yes, you can do anything you want.” She sits up slightly, and he guides his cock toward her mouth. Wrapping her lips around his tip, she gently massages the underside with her tongue. Spencer breathes out a soft groan, ravished by the feeling of her warm, wet mouth relieving the pressure that started growing once they got home.

She releases his tip with a quiet pop, then drags her tip up the sides of his length, from base to tip. After putting her mouth around him and sinking down a few times, careful not to agitate the rear of her throat too much. He gently pulls her off of him with an “Fu– Okay…” A string of spit connects her lip to him, and he has to close his eyes to collect himself.

“How was that?” She asks, coyly.

“Very good, very thorough.” He chuckles.

Settling back between her legs, he angles her knees upward, with her feet flat on the mattress. Her breathing quickens as he situates them. 

“One more time, are you sure?” 

“Yes, I’m 100% sure.”

“Thank you, honey. Thank you for trusting me with this.” His earnestness melts her.

Her body tenses as his tip glides through her drenched folds– up to her clit, and down to her entrance. 

“Hey, focus on me, okay?” He encourages her to maintain eye contact with him. 

She nods, “What you’re doing does feel nice…” Adding on, “I’m just nervous.”

“Try to relax for me, honey, it’ll be easier for you if you do.”

She takes a few deep breaths and really focuses on unclenching her muscles as his tip presses against her entrance. At first, the pressure is light, and she likes feeling his smooth skin against hers.

As he pushes in further, the pressure transforms into something that is somehow both sharp and dull.

“Wait… it hurts.” She breathlessly admits, her eyes widening in shock.

“I know, baby, I’m sorry, it’ll go away though, okay?”

She whines and grips his upper arms. Reaching down to circle lightly on her clit, he hopes it soothes her.

The stretching pain and satisfying pleasure he’s bringing her blur into each other at the seams.

“Take some big deep breaths for me?” He hates that he’s hurting her and wishes there was a way to take it all away.

As he pushes in a little farther, inch by painstaking inch, she feels dizzy. Her bones feel hot and her skin feels cold.

“Oh, my god.” She whines.

“You’re doing great, sweetheart.” He reassures her, eyebrows creased with concern for his girlfriend.

She moves a hand to the back of his neck, pulling his body down towards hers. The weight of him brings her comfort, like a weighted blanket. He places gentle kisses on her neck as he keeps pushing forward, until his hips finally slot against hers. A soft groan falls from his lips as he bottoms out.

“There you go, that’s all, you did it.” He tells her like he’s not absolutely huge, like he’s not practically splitting her open from the inside out. 

“That’s all?!” She can barely speak, but she hopes he catches her sarcastic drift. The persistent ache in her stomach feels tight.

Spencer laughs lightly, and she can feel each point of contact of his body vibrating, from his chest to his cock now buried deep inside of her. 

He shifts his head to press his forehead on hers, missing her eye contact, “Are you okay?” The minty air of his breath fans her face as he whispers. She finds it comforting and refreshing. 

She attempts a nod, “Can I just… have a second?”

“Of course, baby. You can have as long as you need, you can have anything.”

“Kiss?” She endearingly asks.

His head tilts, and he emits a small smile, “Of course, honey.”

The delicate press of his lips juxtaposes perfectly with the intensity occurring between her legs.

Pulling away from the kiss, she shyly asks, “Does it feel good for you?”

“Yes, sweetheart. You feel amazing.” She’s molded around him like clay, shaping around him as if she were made to do so. As if she were made just for him.

She’s noticed and is grateful for his endearments becoming more frequent; she finds comfort in each and every one. 

Spencer continues using light pressure on her clit and uses his other hand to soothingly stroke her hair. She can feel him sporadically and uncontrollably twitching inside of her.

Eventually, the stretch dissipates and she’s able to focus solely on the pleasure he’s giving her, “I think… I– I’m ready?”

“I’m gonna go really slow, okay?”

She nods, adding to her perpetual state of lightheadedness. Spencer pulls back just a few inches before gently pushing forward again. Her eyebrows furrow together, and her grip on him tightens. Drawing back a little more each time, he repeats his movements– tentative and unhurried.

The pressure still feels bizarre, and the pain slowly dissipates, but her brain can’t seem to fully process the stimulation.

“You’re doing perfectly, you’re so perfect.” The slight rasp and breathlessness in his voice goes straight to her core. She believed him when he said she felt amazing, but hearing the proof of his sentiment in his voice made it feel real. His voice tingles her overwired veins.

She pulls him down to kiss her again, and soon the pain completely fades away, turning into overwhelming pleasure. 

She feels dazed. She is akin to the spinning blue wheel of a loading computer. Her brain is trying to make sense of the foreign pleasure, but it's overriding her senses.

“Spencer…” She tentatively moans.

“Yeah? Is it feeling better now?” His voice is impossibly soft and tender– somehow more so than usual.

“Mhm,” she whines.

He finds a consistent pace, slowly pulling more and more of himself out of her with each thrust. Soon, he’s able to pull out until just his tip remains, and gently thrust all the way to the hilt. Doing so makes him groan low in his throat.

“That’s my girl. You’re taking me so well.”

The pleasure radiates throughout her entire body: centralized at her core and fizzling out into her fingertips and toes. She can feel him everywhere. It’s like he’s contacting every inch and atom within her body and rearranging them. She feels forever changed by this experience with him.

Her gasps and moans come out more and more as he continues. She looks down between their bodies and sees flashes of his cock as he thrusts in and out of her. Suddenly struck with the desire to see more, “Wait,” He immediately freezes. “Can I see?”

A familiar wrinkle forms between his brows, one that she’s seen appear dozens of times throughout their relationship. It’s the one that forms when he’s thinking attentively.

“What do you mean?” He breathes out, voice sounding ruined.

Her flushed cheeks increase in heat; gesturing down to where their bodies are connected, “Us. Can I see?”

Nodding, he gingerly adjusts their position, relocating his hand from between her legs to behind her back to help her slightly sit up. Her muscles tense at the movement, but relax as his fingertips meet her skin. 

He’s almost entirely out of her, just his tip remains notched inside her entrance, “Like this?”

After she bobs her head yes, he slowly pushes back inside of her. Her jaw drops as she watches him disappear into her depths. Being able to match the feeling with an explicit visual elicits her loudest moan yet. She still wonders how he’s able to fit inside of her. Any thoughts about asking are halted when his tip reunites with her cervix– her mind pausing like a stopped video. Gutteral moans escape her body.

“How’s that?” Spencer has a decent hypothesis of what her answer is, but desires to hear her say it.

She can’t speak. She can’t respond. It’s pleasantly entirely too much. The angle shift amplified the sounds of their bodies meeting; the sound of her wetness squishing around him is so lewd.

He’s reached places within her that nobody has ever been before, and she hopes nobody else gets to touch again. She wants him to remain the sole explorer of her body. 

So bewildered by him and the pleasure he’s bringing her, she begins falling backward toward the pillow. His hand quickly cups the back of her head to prevent her from crashing into the headboard. Intuitively, her legs then wrap around his waist, reminding her of when he told her to trust her instincts the first time he fingered her. She was so worried about acting the ‘right’ way, about doing something wrong, and he reassured her that he didn’t want anything specific from her. He’s always just wanted to make her feel good.

Her ankles hook behind his hips, opening her up for him to get impossibly deeper inside of her. She can feel him deep and low in her stomach; he grazes her sensitive tissue with each thrust. He’s reached parts of her that she didn’t know existed, and not just in a sexual manner. Spencer has reached into the depths of her heart and scraped out all of her insecurities, replacing them with certainty that she can be wanted just as she is. 

The sounds they’re making together create the most romantic song she’s ever heard– tangled moans and breaths intersperse with the thwack of their pelvises meeting.

“I love you,” she wails.

“I love you too, baby, so so much.” She can see the truth of his statement in his doting eyes.

“You feel really good,” She moans to him.

Reaching down between them to resume pressured circles on her clit, her back arches up into him, pressing their chests flush together. Her head tilts into the pillow, and she makes her most libertine moans, whines, and whimpers yet. 

Soon, a familiar tautness brews in her stomach; a wave of coldness flows through her blood.

“I–I think–” 

She doesn’t need to finish her sentence; she doesn’t need to say anything at all. He already knows what she was trying to tell him and can feel what she means. Her hands fall from his body and clench into the sheets.

“Let it out, baby. Let me feel you cum around me.” 

Surrounded by her walls pulsing and her thighs trembling, she climaxes with a ragged cry. 

It’s the most intense orgasm she’s ever had in her life. She didn’t know that it was possible to feel something so fierce and powerful. Spencer has completely unraveled her. She can’t form a single thought. Each attempt at coherence dissipated before her brain could reach a conclusion.

“‘m close,” he murmurs as he separates from her clit, tangling their fingers together instead. His other hand meets the side of her neck, and his head falls into her opposite shoulder.

As his thrusts get erratic and messy, his grunts reverberating into the crook of her collarbone do too. Soon, his cum fills the limited space available inside of her– hot and determined.

Constellations form behind her eyes, points scattering through every part of her body. He’s an artist, and she’s the canvas. Their limbs tingle like TV static.

As he comes down, he melts into her body like wax– light shudders breaking through like the wick of a candle.

For a moment, they just lie there together, not wanting the moment to end. Her hand not being held by his caresses his warm back. They intertwine together into a mess of limbs.

She’s completely exhausted, debilitated. Thinking she could fall asleep like this, his head slowly rose, waking her up from her stupor.

His fingertips graze and draw patterns where they had settled against her neck as he stares down at her with pure adoration. “You’re so beautiful.”

Blushing, she hesitates for a moment. She’s never quite known how to accept his compliments, not since they began. It’s not that she disbelieves him; she knows he’s not a liar. Something within her has changed, though. This experience together has rewritten the code of her existence. His eyes are full of unmistakable devotion, and she realizes it’s the way he’s always looked at her.

“Thank you… So are you.” She murmurs.

His eyes flicker with pure joy at her not shying away from his admiration. Leaning forward, he presses his lips to hers, “I love you.”

“I love you too, Spencer.”

“Thank you for being here and letting me see you like this…” His eyes shimmer with brewing tears, and he swallows hard before looking down, “Sorry– I just love you a lot.” 

She pulls him into a silent hug, his nose plunging into her hair. He’s so incredibly sweet, charming, and endearing; her heart aches with love for him. She’s never felt so safe and secure with anyone else before, and it makes it harder to remember why she was ever afraid.

By the time he pulls out of her, he’s completely softened. It makes the removal less jarring, but she still whines softly at the loss. He lies beside her after, and she turns to lie her head on his chest, arm slinging over his waist.

“How are you feeling? Was it okay?” He genuinely inquires, one hand caressing her arm and the other on her spine.

“‘m sleepy…” She admits. She can barely keep her eyes open and she’s molded completely into his side. She almost forgets to answer his second question and amusedly lets out a breath at her obvious answer: “It was incredible… You were incredible. I couldn’t have asked for anything more… It was better than anything I ever imagined.”

“Oh, good,” he exhales in relief, “I didn’t want it to be anything less than that for you.”

“You did–” she yawns, “--a good job…” 

He lightly laughs and lets the moment pass, gratified by her answer. He doesn’t wait too long to tell her, “Don’t fall asleep yet, sweetheart. I need to go get us a washcloth.”

She whines in disapproval and tightens her grip on his waist.

“I know,” he hums in agreement, “but I’ll be right back, and we can go to sleep right after. I promise.” 

Relenting, she loosens her arm and grumbles, “Okay.”

Spencer, always true to his word, does return quickly with a warm, damp washcloth to wipe her with. Tenderly, he cleans her while she lies half-asleep, leaving soothing kisses on her thighs as he does.

He holds her until she falls asleep– bare skin adhered together. Neither of them has ever adored someone so much, and they didn’t know if they’d ever get the opportunity to.

They both now understand the true meaning of making love. Their romantic and emotional connection has increased so much that it’s a wonder it still fits in their bodies. She figures that’s how she’s able to see fondness and passion in his eyes– it has nowhere else to go, but outward.

(i really wanted to go about this delicately in the case that anyone reading it has never had sex before. yes, virginity is widely a social construct, but it’s still incredibly vulnerable and kinda scary to do it for the first time, as it is with doing really anything for the first time. there's no single right way for it to happen: everyone's experience is different. i do think that everyone deserves kindness, patience, and respect when it comes to their first time, though. 

honestly i was very self-indulgent with writing this because it’s kinda how i wish that some of my first experiences went, but that’s just me and my desires! i’m gonna shut up now before i start over-sharing, but if anyone wants to talk to me about this in the replies or dms or even anon asks, i will happily continue yapping lol)

⋆ he’s a cuddlebug in the most extreme and literal sense.

⋆ like he can’t get enough, he’s constantly touching her.

⋆ if they’re holding hands and she needs to pull away to do something, he’s whining and wrapping an arm around her waist to keep her close.

⋆ if he needs to pull his hand out of her grasp, he’ll hold it with the other hand, or wrap her arm around his waist, or place her hand on his arm to maintain the contact.

⋆ she wasn’t sure how he’d be about pda, especially around his coworkers, but he’s completely insatiable with his touches and kisses.

⋆ obviously he loves kissing her on the mouth the most, but he loves kissing her forehead, cheeks, nose, chin, anywhere and everywhere he can reach.

⋆ he’d even ask her to give him a forehead kiss when he’s feeling especially needy (always).

⋆ he loves wrapping his arms around her waist from behind her, fusing his chest to her back. he’ll dip his hands under her shirt or her waistband, just wanting to feel her skin.

⋆ when they’re at home and he’s reading next to her on the couch, he’ll try to keep a hand on her leg, but it’s easiest if he just lies with his head in her lap. this way he can hold his book properly and still be close to her. she’ll play with his hair and his eyes will start drooping and he loooves falling asleep like that. he’ll turn to press his face into her stomach and wrap his arms around her waist in his sleep.

⋆ in his sleep he still tries to get as close to her as possible, enclosing her waist with his arms and nuzzling his head into her neck.

⋆ obviously spooning her is his favorite, but she’ll wake up on her back or stomach with him all over her in any way possible, even if it’s just his legs tangled with hers.

⋆ he encourages her to lay completely on top of him.

⋆ he’ll even wrap his arms around her thigh and hold it to his chest when they’re lying together, just constantly holding her in any way possible.

⋆ he loves cuddling with her on the couch the most because of the forced proximity.

⋆ if she’s across the couch from him, he’ll pull her feet into his lap, wrapping a hand over her ankle and running his hand up and down her shin as they watch tv together.

⋆ they are absolutely that couple that sits on the same side of the table at restaurants.

⋆ god forbid he has to sit across from her for any reason, he’s playing footsie with her under the table: linking their ankles together and holding one of her feet between his.

⋆ and she worries about him when he leaves for cases and he has to sleep all alone, so she sends him with a sweater that smells like her. she jokes about making him a build-a-bear with the voice recording device inside so he can still have a piece of her when he’s away.

he doesn’t realize that she’s kidding and nods excitedly, wide-eyed, because ultimately him being away so often is one of the main reasons he needs to be as close to her as possible when he is home.

⋆ (oh and nothing is better than naked cuddling with her. he neeeeds the skin-to-skin contact.

⋆ he’s absolutely into cockwarming and fingerwarming(?): he’ll keep his fingers inside of her, not moving them, just feeling her, until she’s begging and whining and grinding on him.

⋆ if he finds her lying on her stomach, he’ll lay his head on her ass. she’ll ask him if he needs something, and he’ll say nope. eventually, he’ll start playing with her waistband, needing to get his head between her thighs. you know, just to get even closer to her.

⋆ he loves having her sat between his legs, his chest to her back, as he slowly toys with her breasts and pussy. he’ll wrap his legs around hers to keep her even closer to him and to spread her open for him to play with.)

⋆ he first discovers how much he likes cumming on her by accident, she’s in his lap and grinding on him, and they’re both naked, and he’s so pleasantly overwhelmed at the sight of her like this:

her lips and nipples are red and swollen and glistening with his spit.

she has wet hickies littered all over her neck and chest.

they both have a thin layer of sweat on their bodies.

he is so so insanely turned on.

so when he sees her lick her palm, and she wraps her hand around him to guide him inside of her, he accidentally cums immediately.

some of it splashes up to her stomach, dripping down her pelvis and through her pubes, some even reaches all the way up to the underside of her breasts.

the rest of it coats her hand.

he’s so obsessed with the sight that he can’t even think to apologize for cumming too soon and getting her all messy.

“fuck, baby, look at you.”

and when she starts licking his cum off her hand, he’s already getting hard again.

this sparks a fascination with seeing his cum on various parts of her body.

⋆ he’s fucking her in missionary, and he begs her to let him pull out and cum all over her breasts.

he’s been sucking and licking on them as he fucked her. they’re all shiny with his spit.

“please, let me cum on them, baby. please, can i?” he says to her between kisses.

she whines and nods, his thick cock stretching her and leaking hot beads inside of her has her awestruck.

he watches as it flows around the swell of her tits, and he slowly licks the warm and sticky mess off until she’s clean, thanking her profusely and telling her how hot she is.

“you look so beautiful and so divine like this, baby.”

⋆ when she’s on her knees for him, his dick and her lips a deep red and glistening with her saliva, he gets an idea:

he warns her that he’s about to cum and she maintains her pace, knowing that he loves watching her swallow all of him.

he gently pulls her head off of him, “wanna cum on your beautiful face, baby. can i?”

she just nods, breathless from just having him down her throat.

he starts jerking himself off and she swats his hand away to take over.

he doesn’t last long at the vision of her kneeled in front of him, her fingers and hand looking so small around his thick cock, eyes wide and shiny, expectantly waiting for him to cum all over her.

he’s entranced with each spurt of his cum that paints her face, dripping from her eyelashes, down her cheeks, some on her nose and forehead, some mixing with the spit on and around her mouth, some even reaches up into her hair.

she’s completely covered in his cum.

she even opens her mouth for him as he’s cumming, tongue slightly protruding out, so he gets to watch as it lands on her lips and tongue, as well.

“oh fuck… such a good girl.”

he still gets to watch her swallow some of him and he’s completely enthralled, groaning at the sight of her.

⋆ and when he has her on her hands and knees for him, a thin layer of sweat on her back from pushing backwards into his thrusts:

her head is turned sideways and he can see the proof of their messy kisses on her mouth, lips shining and red and slightly bruised from his teeth catching on them.

her loves this position so he can watch her ass jiggle against his hips with every thrust.

he asks if he can cum on her asscheeks (still so respectful even after drenching her over and over again with his cum).

she says yes, knowing and loving how much he loves it at this point.

he thinks about marriage as he watches his spend spurt all over her gorgeous ass and lower back, wanting to get to do this with her for the rest of his life.

his absolute favorite is watching his cum drip out of her pretty little hole, though.

seeing it mix with her juices and his saliva that’s either there from eating her out or spitting on her in the middle of fucking her.

he’ll get between her legs to spread her pussy lips with his thumbs to get the best view of it flowing out of her.

he can’t stop himself from leaning in to lick her clean once it’s all dripped out.

⋆ he knows it’s respectful to ask her where she wants him to cum, so he does.

and when she responds with, “wherever you want,” his brain short-circuits; he loves her so much.

he’s learned to let himself start cumming inside of her so he can watch it flow out of her, then he pulls out mid-orgasm and paints the rest on any body part he wants.

-

⋆ she tells him that some people like spitting into their partners' mouths off-handedly, thinking he might find it completely disgusting and maybe even laugh at the concept:

until he’s fidgeting in his seat and pulling at the crotch of his pants at the idea.

the next time they’re fucking, he holds her chin with a thumb on her bottom lip.

“open up, baby.”

she does, and he slowly lets a long string of spit fall onto her tongue, and the sight of it has his thrusts faltering.

he then experiments (he’s forever a man of science, after all) with watching his spit drip onto her collarbones, her breasts, her stomach, and, of course, her pretty pussy.

⋆ he encourages her to do it to him when she’s sucking his cock, he’s lying on his back, and she’s between his legs.

he’s entranced by the look of her spit slooowly stretching down to his tip.

⋆ he asks her to spit in his mouth when she’s on top, swallowing it with a smile on his face.

⋆ when he’s lying on top of her, and they’ve been messily making out, and he reaches between her legs to caress her clit and finger her:

she’s absolutely dripping for him, so what he does next is completely unnecessary, but he just can’t help himself.

he pulls his hand up to her mouth and asks her, “can you get ‘em nice and wet for me, baby?”

he watches in awe as she sucks them between her lips, cheeks hollowed.

the feeling of her warm tongue and mouth around his fingers has him grinding against her hip.

when he pulls them out to get back to pleasing her, he can barely handle the way they look: glistening and shining with her saliva.

a string of spit connects his fingers to her lips, and he’s so painfully hard.

⋆ she’s not sure if it’s pushing it when she’s riding him and she puts her fingers on his lips, but she had a feeling he wouldn’t object.

he takes three of her fingers into his mouth with absolutely no hesitation, sucking and licking all over and in between them until they’re completely dripping with his spit.

she reaches down to rub at her clit, and he can still see her fingers shining as she does, making him cum deep inside of her with a groan.

⋆ when she’s sucking him off and a string of saliva connects her lips to his flushed tip, he has to focus on not cumming on the spot.

-

⋆ the first time she cries during sex, he is sooo conflicted:

he immediately stops his thrusts because he’s worried about her first and foremost.

but, he can’t stop the twitching of his dick inside of her.

“shit, are you okay, baby?”

“yeah, spence,” she nods, “feels too good.”

“oh, fuuuck.” he groans as he continues his deep penetrations.

he kisses her cheeks where her tears fall, and licks his lips between each one.

⋆ when she gets teary-eyed while sucking his cock, he can’t stop himself from pushing his hips forward to send himself deeper down her throat.

when he finishes by cumming all over her face, he’s enthralled by the look of it mixing with her tears.

-

⋆ when she’s all sweaty, he loooves licking it off of her:

in the summer months it acts as a part of foreplay.

he loves it most when she’s all sweaty after fucking him, though, and the way he licks it off of her after is so so sensual.

-

⋆ oh and he’s so obsessed with pulling her panties off of her and she’s so obscenely wet that they stick to her folds on the way down.

and when he can see her creamy discharge on them.

he has definitely brought them up to his lips to taste her there, and will suck on her panties until she’s whining and rubbing her thighs together, so so desperate for him.

-

⋆ god help him the first time he makes her squirt, he almost cums completely untouched at the sight.

and don’t even get me started on how he feels about period sex and food play

Certain perfumes, the ones you use specifically use on the back of your ankles too. (Idk if im the only one who does that)

Few words that has him perk up like a dog who heard the words ‘walk’ and ‘treat’ and his version of those words are ‘baby’ in that tone that makes him feel so pitiful like a puppy. And ‘my hero’ because he likes feeling like he is needed and is somehow helpful.

When you do him the simplest of favours, like maybe cleaning his glasses or charging his switch. His mind just switches to something he cant put his finger on.

When you coo at him, acting like he is some baby or a puppy.

When you get teal colored acrylics/manicure he always gets hot for a handjob, same goes for pedicure too.

Thigh high socks that are just tight enough that the plush of your thighs slip from the top.

Kissing him right under his ear where his jaw starts, you can feel him exhale from his nose so harshly from the kiss.

Any time he sees and sort of pineapple flavored thing because in his mind people only eat-drink it for sexual purposes which makes his mind wander to you yet he never ends up getting any because he always says you taste so so sweet already.

You’re complaining about your asshole coworker from the coffee shop, Aaron, the first time Adrian makes the offer. You’d been pacing back and forth in the kitchen, ranting to your boyfriend about the rude way Aaron had spoken to you in front of a customer that day, only pausing to take sips of your much-needed calming chamomile tea after the shift you’ve had.

During one of those pauses, Adrian says it so casually, like it’s not a big deal at all, just another Tuesday for him. For him, you guess it is.

“Do you want me to kill him for you?”

You sputter and almost drop your mug of tea. Adrian reaches out when he sees you start to falter, brings his hand beneath your own to grab the bottom of the mug just as your fingers are losing their grip on the handle. Not one hot drop spills, on the floor or on your skin, as he places it gently on the kitchen counter, then returns to lace his fingers loosely in yours.

“Oh,” you say, dumbfounded. You hadn’t even realized that was an option—killing Aaron, that is—and you’re totally caught off guard. One quick glance at Adrian’s face is enough to tell that he’s not joking in the slightest. He would genuinely murder your annoying coworker if you wanted him to without a second thought. “Um. No, that’s okay. Thanks, baby.”

“Okay,” Adrian says, but he almost sounds disappointed.

“I’ll let you know if anything changes,” you say, and it seems to lift his spirits a bit.

Adrian starts offering to kill people for you all the time after that. At least on a weekly basis, if not more. Every minor inconvenience, the littlest slights, becomes a murder-worthy offense in his eyes, especially when they’re committed against you. It’s endearing, in Adrian’s bizarre way. It’s him showing you he cares, you know that, but—he overreacts. A lot.

One day, a woman grabs the last chocolate bar in line at the corner store when you’re on your period.

“I can kill her for you, babe, and then that chocolate bar is all yours,” he murmurs, and you have to grab at his arm as he starts pulling out a knife from his jacket pocket.

“It’s fine, Adrian. We can just go to another store.” He pouts as he puts the knife away and you shake your head.

“You’re not even in your uniform, babe, people would see you,” you point out as you walk out of the store. “Please don’t get arrested. I am not bailing you out if you stab someone in broad daylight.”

Another time, you’re driving the Sebring, and an old man cuts you off to make his turn in time and nearly causes a car accident. The car swerves as you jerk the wheel to move the vehicle out of the way, your heart pounding.

“Holy shit,” you say. “Jesus, dude, what the fuck!”

“That shit was so fucking illegal!” Adrian rages. “He didn’t even use his blinker! I’ll fucking kill him for you, I swear—follow him!”

“Adrian, I am not following him. You do not have time to kill that guy right now, we’re gonna be late to Chris’s birthday party—”

Adrian relents at the reminder. “Okay, fine. But only because it’s Chris. If it was John, I wouldn’t give a fuck.”

When you tell him one night about a bitchy lady at work who screamed in your face that you got her order wrong when in fact, you made exactly what she ordered, she just didn’t understand the difference between a frappuccino and a cappuccino, he gets really worked up.

“These old ladies have no respect for service workers. I kill Karens who come into Fennel Fields all the time, it’s literally not even a big deal, I can—”

“Adrian. No.”

It’s eventually such a regular occurrence that you are almost immune to the idea, and you start thinking it even when he isn’t there. Someone cuts in front of you in line when you’re out at the bar with your friends, and you muse, Adrian would offer to kill that bitch for me.

“God,” you mutter to yourself. “What is he doing to me?”

The next week, Adrian apologizes profusely when his schedule changes and he won’t be able to pick you up from work.

“I’m so sorry babe, someone is on vacation and they’re making me cover,” he says, genuinely sounding distressed, as if you would ever be mad at him for that.

“It’s okay, Ade. I’ll just take my bike like I used to,” you reassure him. “It’s literally less than a ten minute ride. You have my location in case anything happens, and I’ll text you when I leave and when I get home.”

“I still don’t like it.” He frowns.

“Please stop worrying. There’s no reason for you to stress about this. It’s really not a big deal.”

“I can still drive you in the morning, okay? At least let me do that. Please,” he insists, and you brush his curls back from his face and press a kiss to his forehead.

“Whatever you want, baby.”

He drops you off at work the next morning, takes your bike out of his trunk and locks it to the bike rack for you.

“I’ll see you later. Be safe. Text me when you leave and when you get home,” he says, giving you a quick kiss before he goes. “Don’t forget your helmet! It’s the law! I love you!”

The day passes without too many major incidents. There are only five coffee spills and three order errors all day, so you’re in a pretty decent mood, all things considered, when you finally hop on your bike, text Adrian, and start making your way home.

Then, a few blocks from home, you see a group of strange, leering men smoking together on a street corner. You want to cross to the other side of the street, but there’s construction going on over there, so it’s not safe to ride—you might catch a stray nail and pop a tire. So you keep your head down and hope for the best, gritting your teeth and pedaling faster, ignoring it when one of them whistles after you and shouts something vile. It sends a shudder through you but you don’t react otherwise—you don’t want to add fuel to his fire or escalate the situation.

You text Adrian when you get home safely, and you don’t mention the catcalling.

But it happens again the next night. And the next, and the next. You would take an alternate route, but you’d have to go an extra twenty minutes out of your way. By Friday, you’re dreading the bike ride home, and you can’t tell Adrian about it because you don’t want to worry him or make him feel guilty. You would never ask him to ditch work just because you feel a little uneasy, and you know he’s got plans with Chris later tonight that he’s been looking forward to all week. You are not going to ruin his evening.

So you steel yourself when you clock out and hop on your bike like any other day, and if you pedal a little faster than you usually do, it’s nobody’s business but your own.

You don’t see them in the usual spot, and for a brief moment, you think you’re in the clear. But just as your shoulders start to settle, a rough hand grabs your arm, knocking you off balance, and you go tumbling sideways, hands and knees skidding painfully on the sidewalk. Blood wells up immediately, the wounds stinging, and you blink back tears of pain and fear.

“You’ve been ignoring us all week, sweetheart,” drones the stranger, and you can tell he’s drunk by the way he stumbles toward you. You scramble to your feet, ignoring the stinging in your palms and knees and kicking right at his dick, just like Adrian taught you. He doubles over and stumbles backward, and you take that moment to reach for your bike, heart pounding, as you take off and make it the rest of the way home as fast as you can. 

You feel your pulse in your bleeding knees as you pedal, wincing with every turn of the wheels, hands growing slippery on the handle bars from your scratched-up palms. You tell yourself the tears running down your cheeks are from the wind in your eyes.

Do you want me to kill that guy for you? You hear Adrian’s voice ringing in your ears as you walk upstairs to your apartment and put your bike by the door. As you shower off the man’s rough touch. As you reach for the first aid kit under the sink to clean out and bandage the bleeding scrapes on your hands and knees. For the first time ever, you think the answer to Adrian’s question might be yes.

The next morning, Adrian is sitting on your couch with his Nintendo Switch in his lap while you try and fail to focus on your book. You just keep thinking about it, running last night’s events over and over in your head, staring at your boyfriend, and then the words are coming out of your mouth before you can stop them.

“Hey Ade, you know how you always offer to kill people for me?”

“Yeah,” he says absentmindedly, not even looking up from his game. He’s biting his lip in concentration, brows furrowed with focus.

“Well, do you think you could? Kill a guy for me?”

Adrian’s fingers fumble on the controls and you hear sad video game noises as his avatar dies and he loses the level. But he doesn’t seem to mind at all, because he’s frozen, looking up at you with wide, hopeful eyes.

“Really?” he asks, practically vibrating with excitement. “You mean it? You really want me to kill someone for you?”

“Yep.”

“Oh, hell yes,” he says, tossing the console to the side and jumping to his feet. “I’ll go right now. My Vigilante suit is in the car. Who is it? What did they do? How do you want me to do it? Do you want to watch? We can make a date night out of it!”

Setting your book aside and standing to meet him, you hold up a hand, placing it right on the center of his chest, right in the middle of the teal stripes on his shirt.

“Hold your horses, there, honey.”

He cocks his head, confused. “I don’t have any horses.” 

“I mean—calm down for a sec. That was a lot of questions at once. I know you’re excited.”

Adrian’s eyes sparkle. “‘Excited’ is an understatement. Fucking stoked is more like it. Killing people is like, one of my favorite things to do, and I have always wanted to kill someone for you! I have been waiting ages for this moment, I want to do it just right!”

He says it so earnestly that you almost forget he’s talking about murder.

“I know you want to do it just right,” you say. “And I love you for it.”

“I love you too,” Adrian says, beaming, and he dives down for a sloppy, enthusiastic kiss. 

You reach up to cup his face, but just as you grasp his cheeks, he pulls away, brows furrowing when he feels an unfamiliar scratchy texture on his cheeks instead of the smooth skin of your palms. He grabs your wrists and yanks your hands in front of his face, eyes darkening just a bit when the sleeves of your oversized sweatshirt slide down your arms and he notices the bandages wrapped around your hands. His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows, and he looks—furious. A kind of anger swimming in his eyes that you’ve never seen before.

“You’re hurt,” he says. “What—what happened?”

“I’m okay,” you say softly, soothing.

“The guy you want me to kill, did he do this to you?” Adrian asks, and you can tell that he’s trying to stay calm for your sake, but there’s rage there, bubbling under the surface.

“There’s a group of men who have been catcalling me on my way home from work all week,” you start, and he cuts you off almost immediately.

“All week? Why didn’t you tell me? I could’ve—I would’ve handled it,” Adrian says, and he seems nervous now, like he’s worried, almost devastated that you didn’t come to him. “I can take care of you, baby.”

“I can take care of myself, too,” you remind him, and he takes a deep, settling breath.

“Right, I know that. I’m a feminist. Sorry.”

“It’s okay, honey. I thought I had it handled. But one of them got handsy last night and yanked me off my bike. I’m okay. Just scraped up my hands and knees, and I was a little shaken up in the moment. It could have been a lot worse.”

Adrian’s grip on your wrists tightens just a bit. He steps back, looks you up and down to reassure himself that you’re still in one piece, and then yanks you into a long, fierce hug.

“I’ll kill him.” You can feel him trembling against you. With rage, with relief—you’re not sure. You run your hands up and down his back in soothing motions.

“I want you to,” you say into his shirt.

“I would whether you wanted me to or not,” he says. “Just so you know.”

“I did kick him in the nuts,” you tell him, just to lighten the mood, and he huffs a laugh.

“Good job, baby.”

Now that he’s gotten a request from you, Adrian is a man on a mission. He’s not one to disappoint; he’s going to do this and he’s going to do it right. He brings you over to his mom’s house; though he’s been living with you for a couple months now, his Vigilante headquarters is still housed in her basement. There’s simply not enough room in your apartment for several hundred kilos of cocaine and all of Adrian’s weapons.

“This is gonna be such a good bonding opportunity, babe,” he says as he’s unlocking the door to his secret room. You’re a little nervous about what he means. You know what he does, but you’ve never taken part in it in any capacity, and you honestly weren’t planning to start today. But he’s finally smiling again, channeling some kind of manic energy, so you just go along with it, clinging to his hand and following him inside.

“Stay right here.” Adrian sits you down on the cheap little couch he has in the corner of the room and kisses your forehead.

Then he darts off to his work bench, reaching behind a wall of weapons to roll out a massive whiteboard on squeaky wheels. It’s streaked with red, and you don’t have it in you to ask whether it’s from shitty dry erase markers or dried blood.

“What’s that for?” you ask instead.

“You can help me plan! You’re like my consultant!” He rushes back to his work bench and grabs a thick, worn journal off the desktop.

“Oh. Um, okay?” you say as he hands you the book. “What’s this?”

“This is a journal of all the different ways I’ve killed people before! You can look through it and pick how you want me to kill the guy! I can stab him, shoot him. Those are the two basic choices. I could hit him with a car! I’ve never done that before. Oh my god, I can use a chainsaw! Please babe, can I use a chainsaw, I have always wanted to kill someone with a chainsaw,” he begs.

You flip through the book while he rambles, squinting at Adrian’s cramped handwriting. There are even some diagrams and doodles scattered throughout the pages. It’s like he’s handed you a bizarre, fucked up murder version of the binder you use at Walmart to choose a kids’ birthday cake design and asked you to order what you want.

“Not to crush your lifelong dream, baby, but a chainsaw seems like a lot,” you wince. “Can’t you just, like…break his neck, or something? No blood would be nice.”

“Okay, okay. No blood, I can work with that,” Adrian says, and he writes it on the board in the middle. Then he starts adding spokes to it like a mind map. A murder mind map. The marker he uses is teal, which answers your earlier thought about the suspicious red smudges. 

“That leaves suffocation, strangulation, poison, drowning, electrocution…there are more complicated options too. Extreme temperatures, for example. Could make it look like hypothermia or heat stroke.”

“It’s the middle of fall,” you point out. “It’s like sixty degrees out right now.”

“Good point,” he says, tapping the marker against his cheek. He wipes those options off the board, and you both look at what’s left. “What are you thinking?”

“Um. Strangulation, I think. Then there’s no blood. I know you enjoy killing people, and that’s more drawn out and intimate than something like electrocution, so you’ll still get to have some fun.”

“Excellent choice, baby. You know me so well.”

Adrian has the day off from work, so later that night, you do a drive-by in the Vigilante-mobile past the corner where the stranger grabbed you. You point the guy out among the group of leering men, sinking down in your seat to stay out of view.

“The one with the green hat?” Adrian clarifies, and you nod, noticing his knuckles whiten as his grip tightens on the steering wheel. You know it’s taking every bit of restraint in his body not to just pull over and stab the guy.

“The other guys were making comments all week, too, but he’s the one who knocked me off my bike last night.”

He pauses and looks over at you.

“Can I kill the rest of them too?”

In retrospect, you should have known he would ask that. You look back at the group of men who had been making you feel uncomfortable and unsafe all week and shrug.

“You know what? Yeah, go ahead. You probably should. I’d bet I’m not the first woman who they’ve done this too, and if you…well. At least I would be the last.”

“Fuck yes!” Adrian says, pumping his hand in the air in victory as he drives away. “I might have to change things up a bit. I only have two hands, so I can’t strangle multiple people at once. But I will definitely make sure to save green hat guy for last so I can do it the way you planned with me!”

“Are you going to do it tonight?”

“I was planning to do it tonight. In the next couple hours. Unless you don’t want me to?”

“No. No, you should do it soon, that makes sense. But—can you drop me at home first? I don’t think…I don’t want to watch,” you say. You’re weirdly ashamed to admit it; you can’t even look at Adrian when you say it. You feel like he might think less of you for being squeamish about this whole thing, especially since you literally asked him to do it.

“Okay, baby, no problem.”

A minute later, Adrian pulls into the apartment complex and puts the car in park. You sit in silence for a moment, feeling like you should say something. I’m sorry, maybe?

“Hey,” Adrian says softly. “Look at me.”

You finally meet his eyes. He lifts a hand to cup your cheek.

“I’m not mad at you,” he says. “It’s okay if you don’t want to come murder people with me. It’s kind of a niche hobby, and I’ve got Peacemaker for that. I would be more surprised if you did want to come with me, honestly.”

You laugh, and he smiles.

“I love you,” you tell him, and he smiles even wider, kisses you deeply.

“I love you too,” he says. “I’ll be back soon, and you’ll never have to worry about those guys again, okay? Mostly because they’ll be dead, but also because I am never letting you ride your bike to work again. I mean that in the most respectful feminist way possible.”

True to his word, Adrian walks through the door two hours later in full Vigilante uniform, and the world is free from half a dozen more creeps.

“Oh my god, babe, that was so fun. Please let me kill people for you more often.”

“Lots of women these days prefer a dad-bod, anyway,” Economos says, and Chris rolls his eyes.

“Yeah, keep telling yourself that, Economos,” Chris says.

“He lifted a fucking car with one hand the other day! I saw a video online! Can you do that, Chris? I don’t think so.”

“No, because I’m not some alien freak! Either way, Superman is lame. He goes to the wimpy Batman school of ‘I-don’t-kill-people,’” Chris argues. “He’s a fucking pussy!”

“Not killing people doesn’t make someone a pussy! Is that really what your moral compass is based on?” you ask incredulously. “I’ve never killed anyone! Do you think I’m a pussy, Chris?” You’re in the tech development department, so you’ve never been out in the field before.

“If the shoe fits,” he shrugs. You sigh.

“Everyone in this room needs a metric shit ton of therapy,” Harcourt says. “I think you might be the only one of us who hasn’t killed someone. Whether that makes you a pussy, I don’t know.”

“Ugh…it doesn’t even matter! We’re not talking about whether or not Superman kills people, we’re talking about how hot he is,” you say. “And I’m telling you, he’s one of the hottest people on the planet. Even if he’s not from this planet. He’s got massive biceps, a sharp jawline. He’s really tall, he’s got sexy hair. Real dark and curly, makes you want to run your fingers through it.”

“Anyone looks like they’ve got great hair when they’re standing next to puke freak Guy Gardner, with that fuckass bowl cut,” Chris mutters.

You make a face. “Don’t even talk to me about Green Lantern. He’s got, like, negative sex appeal, and that’s before he even opens his mouth. Jesus, that man gives me the fucking creeps.”

“Exactly! So maybe Superman just looks great in comparison.”

“I can’t believe you’re even arguing with me about this. Superman is like, the most traditionally handsome man that’s ever existed. He’s the blueprint for the guys on the covers of sexy romance books. Not much more a girl can ask for, is all I’m saying. Come on, back me up, here, Em.”

“He’s not really my type,” Harcourt says, and you shoot her a death glare and mouth ‘Traitor.’

“Hey,” Adebayo interjects, coming to your defense. “I get what she means. I’m a lesbian, and even I get the Superman appeal. He’s got, I don’t know, a classic Prince Charming vibe, ya know? I think it’s the cape. It makes him look all majestic.”

You smack the table. “Thank you! It’s nice to know that someone around here has eyeballs that actually work!”

“Okay, but even if the cape adds something to the look, he literally wears his underwear on the outside of his clothes. What’s the deal with that?” Fleury points out. “That’s fucking weird.”

“Okay. I’ll give you that. The trunks are kinda weird. But it makes him, I dunno, approachable? Like, he’s just a normal guy. Like even though he’s a hot, handsome alien, I could still pull that, you know? Because he’s just a weirdo.”

“You think you’d have a shot with Superman?” Economos says, disbelieving.

“You don’t?” You cross your arms, offended. “I resent that, Economos. I am a fucking catch. Superman would be lucky to have me.”

“Apparently everyone has a shot with Superman. He’s got a fucking harem, remember? Real Prince Charming, alright.”

“Oh, come on Chris. You know that Lex Luthor made that shit up—”

Adrian, who has been watching this entire chaotic conversation entirely silently with wide eyes, neck snapping back across the table like he’s viewing a tennis match, suddenly feels a sinking pit of panic in his stomach.

Because this is news to him—important news. Is Superman really your type? 

That would suck, because Adrian has been hoping that he is your type.

He thinks about the features you mentioned. Massive biceps. His biceps could definitely be bigger. Should he be, like, bulking up and eating nothing but protein powder and raw eggs and lifting weights all day? Maybe Chris could help him with that. He probably would, if he asked. A sharp jawline—Adrian’s jawline is not nearly as sharp as it could be, but he’s not sure how to fix that without a cosmetic procedure. That feels like a bit much. 

Superman is tall, you said, most definitely taller than Adrian. There’s not much he can do about that, either, unfortunately. He could try to style his hair a little more like his, maybe. Grow it out a little, put a little more effort into styling it. Invest in a blow dryer. Someone’s probably done a YouTube tutorial on how to do your hair like Superman. He’s good at following instructions like that, that’s how he learned to crush someone’s windpipe—

“He’s also got the most basic superhero name ever! Superman, really?” Chris is saying, and Bordeaux pointedly looks at Adrian. 

“We’ve got a guy on our team who literally calls himself Vigilante.”

—Maybe he could make some adjustments to the Vigilante costume? You said you like Superman’s cape. Could he pull off a cape? It wouldn’t be super practical. He would probably trip over it, or get caught in something. It would give criminals another thing to grab at during fights. He could start wearing his underwear on the outside of his Vigilante suit, but Minecraft boxers wouldn’t exactly strike fear into the hearts of his enemies. It’s not really the vibe he typically goes for. Not a good idea, he decides, and frowns—

Adrian looks up after the third time you say his name and realizes everyone is staring at him.

“Um. What?” he says.

“You okay, Adrian?” you ask, concerned. It’s not like him to zone out like that. He’s usually the first one to join in an argument, always delighting in a friendly conflict, always on Peacemaker’s side, of course.

Adrian shakes his head, feeling hot, all of a sudden, and desperate to get the attention away from him. “Yeah, yeah. I’m good. Just hungry, I think. Can we order some pizza? Let’s order some pizza, I’ll go find the menu—”

He scrambles out of his chair, wincing as it squeaks awkwardly against the wooden floor, and you blink, confused by his sudden departure, but you’re the only one who seems to notice his odd behavior is even odder than normal.

“Only if we don’t order the bullshit toppings you got last time, Adrian,” Economos calls after him. “That shit was disgusting. Never again!”

Adrian sighs with relief as he digs through the drawer with the takeout menus, relieved that he’s avoided the topic. For now.

As the rest of the day passes, the conversation is forgotten—by everyone except Adrian. He’s still thinking about it. Thinking about you, and about Superman. 

And he can’t help but notice little things he never did before. You spend as much time reading the Metropolis news as you do reading articles about events in Evergreen. He tells himself it’s because you’re brilliant and smart and well-read and you just want to be knowledgeable about things that are going on in the world, and it has nothing to do with any particular superheroes who frequent any particular cities.

But then he sees that you’ve got a little red and gold keychain with Superman’s symbol attached to your bag. How come he never noticed it before? Do you have any other Superman merch? Should he make Vigilante merch? Would you wear it, if he had any? He imagines you with a tiny V necklace hanging around your neck and feels something aggressive and possessive roar up inside him. His jaw ticks.

The blue color that you paint your nails is the color of Superman’s suit, he realizes, and he frowns, fist clenching so tight that his knuckles turn white. Is that on purpose, he wonders? He wishes it was a slightly different shade. A little bit greener. More teal than blue. Not for any particular reason, of course. But he spends a beat too long staring at your pretty fingers clicking away at the keys on your keyboard before he swallows roughly and turns back to his work, trying not to think about the things you could do to him with those hands.

He doesn’t even realize he’s more irritable, more out of it than normal until Peacemaker calls him out on it.

“Vig, dude, why are you such a bummer today?” Chris says, smacking Adrian on the shoulder when he catches him scowling at his computer.

“It’s nothing,” Adrian mutters, even though he’s two seconds away from opening up an incognito browser and creating an anonymous Superman hate-tweet account. He only stops himself because cyberbullying is technically a crime. “I’m fine. Everything is fine.”

He tries really hard not to be grumpy after that, but he’s not sure if it’s working. He just keeps watching you, at your desk, right to the left of his. Simmering.

“Okay man, seriously, what is your deal?” Chris asks. He follows Adrian’s gaze to the left, and his eyes widen.

“Ah,” he says, and he claps Adrian on the shoulder. “Dude, you just gotta tell her you like her.”

“Shut up!” Adrian hisses. “God, could you be any louder? You’re as bad as my fucking mom!”

“She’s got headphones on, dude, she can’t hear us.”

“She likes Superman,” Adrian spits. Chris sighs.

“She likes Superman like you like Taylor Swift’s sexy butt. It’s not, like, real.”

“I don’t even like Taylor Swift’s sexy butt anymore. Her butt is so much sexier.”

“Yeah, well, you should tell her that,” Chris says.

Adrian knows the jealousy he’s feeling is irrational. You’ve never even met Superman. He has absolutely no reason to feel this way. Chris is right; it’s like being jealous of someone’s celebrity crush. He knows you think Harry Styles is hot, too, and he’s never felt murderous rage toward the guy before.

Adrian doesn’t have a right to be so possessive of your attention, anyway. It’s not like you’re…his. No matter how much he wants you to be. He doesn’t even know if you like him. Because he still hasn’t worked up the courage to actually say something to you about it. He’s been nothing but a coward, watching silently and wishing. Wanting.

So he tries to let it go. He just listens to you laugh at a meme Adebayo sends in the group chat and revels in the fact that Superman has never gotten to hear that sound before. Superman has never seen you smile, or tried your homemade chocolate chip cookies, or gone bowling with you on a Friday night with friends. And he never will.

The following Monday, Harcourt tells everyone to meet in the conference room for a mission debrief.

“Alright, everyone,” Bordeaux says. “We’re expanding our services a bit here. So this mission will require a bit of travelling. We’ve got three of you on the assignment.” She lists off the names—you, Harcourt, and Chris.

“Wait—me? I get to go on a mission? Travel? Where are we going?” you ask, excited. You’ve never been out on a mission before, always confined to the office, so it’s a new opportunity for you, and you are thrilled. Adrian smiles when he sees how excited you are, though he wishes he was going with you.

“Better be a fucking island vacation,” Chris mutters.

“Metropolis,” Harcourt says as she distributes the files, and Chris grumbles his disappointment. 

Adrian’s smile fades. He sits stock-still and takes in the information with gritted teeth. 

He’s happy for you. He is. He loves seeing that delighted smile on your face, and when you turn to look at him, he forces his smile back on his face, too. But why does it have to be Metropolis?

“This is an opportunity for us to work with the Justice Gang,” Adebayo explains, and Adrian’s already false smile grows even more brittle, because working with the Justice Gang means even closer proximity to goddamn fucking Superman.

“I know they suck ass,” Adebayo continues, wincing, “and they weren’t very nice to you, Chris, but working with them gives Checkmate some legitimacy. It puts us on the map, gets our name out there, which will get us more jobs in the future.”

“Yeah, well. Just don’t expect me to be nice to Guy Gardner,” Chris says. “Dickbag’s got another thing coming.”

“Just don’t punch him in the face. Or shoot him. Actually, maybe we should just…send someone else on this mission,” Bordeaux says. Adrian is opening his mouth to volunteer right as Chris sighs. Harcourt crosses her arms and raises an eyebrow at him.

“No, it’s fine, I can handle it.”

Adrian bites the inside of his cheek so hard it draws blood.

“I’ll keep Chris in check, don’t worry,” you assure everyone, still vibrating with excitement, and Adrian tries, so hard, to be excited for you. “What, exactly, is the mission?”

 “Mr. Terrific has heard about your work,” Harcourt says. “He wants your insight on a project he’s been working on. He’s also got suspicions that LutherCorp has been stealing some of his proprietary technologies. Chris and I are coming along to help facilitate an undercover investigation.”

“Wait—what?” you stutter. “Wha—Mr. Terrific? Knows who I am?”

“You’ve been doing great work, kid,” Fleury compliments. “I’m not surprised.”

“I just can’t believe Mr. Terrific wants to talk to me,” you say, awestruck.

“Of course he does, you’re brilliant,” Adrian blurts out, because he desperately needs you to know in that moment how smart and valuable and great you are. Everyone turns to look at him like he’s grown a second head. You just look touched.

“Thanks, Adrian,” you say, softly, and he feels heat creeping up his neck under all the attention.

“Hey, do you think you guys will meet Superman?” Fleury says, and Adrian watches your eyes light up.

Economos laughs. “You’ll get to tell him how hot you think he is.”

Adrian grips his pen in his fist so tightly that it cracks in half. Blue ink splatters all over the file folder in his lap, startling him. He looks around the room to make sure no one noticed and shuffles the papers around to hide it.

“Your flights leave early tomorrow, so you guys can head home and get packed right after this meeting,” Bordeaux is saying, and everyone starts to filter out of the room to go about their respective work days.

Chris stops next to Adrian on his way out, and says, with all seriousness, “Don’t worry, Vig. I’ll make sure Superman doesn’t steal your girl.”

Adrian shoots him a death glare, picking up his papers and shuffling angrily back to his desk. He takes a moment to calm himself down before he turns to his left and looks toward your desk, because he’d kick himself if he was too busy wallowing in his own misery to wish you luck before you left.

“You’re gonna do awesome,” he says, and you blush.

“I just hope I don’t fuck it up. It’s my first time out in the field.”

“I know. You’ll be great,” he insists. You’re looking at him with such hope in your eyes, and it helps him find a spark of courage. “And…maybe we can grab beers when you get back. To celebrate.” Your eyes widen, and he starts to panic at the last second, and adds, “As a team!”

“Thanks,” you say softly. “That sounds great.” You look like you’re hesitating for a moment, then you throw your arms around him in a tight hug, and his heart threatens to beat out of his chest. Because you’re his friend, but you’ve never touched him like this. He doesn’t normally like it, but with you…with you, it’s nice. 

With you, he would do this all the time, he thinks, as his arms come around your waist and he squeezes back, breathes in the scent of your shampoo, and he wishes he didn’t have to let go.

The mission only lasts a few days. You leave on Tuesday morning and you’re back by Friday night, buzzing with adrenaline and joy, joining the 11th Street Kids for drinks and a casual debrief, because as you said to Adrian when you called him after you landed, “You promised me beer when I got back!”

And Adrian never breaks his promises, especially not to you.

You’ve had several of those promised beers, now, and you’re recounting the events of the week excitedly.

Adrian is sitting right next to you, hanging on your every word, his shoulder pressed against yours in a way that makes him feel all tingly. He can feel it every time you shift in your seat. He watches you gesture in the air with one hand, thinks about snatching it out of the air, just to hold it in his.

“It was crazy,” you’re telling him, eyes wide. “We were in this lab, right, comparing the research that I’ve done with the research that Mr. Terrific’s team has done. And then something fucking exploded in the corner.”

“Wait, what?” Adrian says, alarmed. “Something exploded?”

“Yes! So Mr. Terrific is yelling at his lab techs, trying to figure out if someone like, left something under the fume hood that they shouldn’t have, but then I hear this ticking sound. And I find a shit ton of bombs. Like, one under every single lab table.”

“What?” Adrian yelps, looking over at Chris. “Where the hell were you? You were her protection! You left her alone in a lab with a bunch of bombs?”

“Me and Emilia were undercover at the LutherCorp labs!” Chris says defensively. “Mr. Terrific’s labs were supposed to be fucking safe, dude.”

“Listen, listen, it was fine!” you say excitedly. “Because Mr. Terrific starts defusing them, right? Except they’re like, super close to going off. Two minutes left on the countdown, maybe. The lab techs start evacuating. Mr. Terrific radios in help from the Justice Gang, and fucking Superman showed up!”

“Superman?” Adrian says weakly, heart sinking. “You…you actually met him?”

“I did!” you exclaim. “And I can confirm, by the way,” you say to the table, “that his muscles are fucking real, Chris, because he picked me up right before the bombs exploded and flew me out the window and I absolutely felt up his bicep. For research purposes.”

Adrian feels like he’s going to throw up. The beer bottle in his hand threatens to crack under the pressure of his white-knuckle grip. His stomach churns, the collar of his shirt feels too tight around his neck, and it’s too hot in this bar, all of a sudden, and god, you just look so happy, telling this story, so why does he feel so goddamn sick thinking about Superman holding you in his arms?

Did your heart go all swoopy when the hero literally swept you off your feet? Did he turn his charming smile on you and say something flirty? Did you enjoy being Superman’s damsel in distress for the day?

Did Adrian even stand a chance anymore, now that you’d met him?

“He was actually a pretty nice guy,” Harcourt chimes in, and that makes it so much worse, because Emilia doesn’t like anybody. She certainly doesn’t like Adrian all that much. But of course she likes Superman. Everyone likes Superman, what’s not to like? With his perfect hair and perfect jaw and perfect teeth and pretty eyes and—-

“He’s not a poop freak like I thought he was,” Chris says, sounding almost reluctant to admit it. “We all went and got a beer after a debrief with the Justice Gang. Guy Gardner’s still a dick though.”

That’s the final stab in the back, and it really hurts. If even his best friend likes Superman more than him, why would you ever choose him?

“I need some air,” Adrian says quietly, and he slides out of his chair and heads outside.

There’s not a bench on the sidewalk, so he just sits right on the curb, the crumbling concrete cold through his jeans. He lets the feeling ground him as he closes his eyes and tries to stop his racing mind from spiraling even further out of control.

He hears the door open and close, footsteps behind him, and then someone sits next to him, close enough that he can feel their body heat.

“It’s chilly out here,” you say, and he looks over, surprised, and almost jumps back when he realizes how close your face is to his. He’d been expecting Adebayo. She’s usually the nurturing one that tries to prevent him from, well, having a meltdown.

So why did you follow him out here?

“Hi,” he says, once he recovers, staring at your eyes. They’re so pretty, he thinks, it makes it hard for him to even talk. “Sorry. I just. Needed a minute.”

“You really raced out of there,” you say softly. “Did I say something?”

“No,” he lies. Badly. He swallows it down, watches your eyes flick downward to catch on his Adam’s apple.

“Uh huh,” you say, because he clearly isn’t ready to talk about it. “Listen, I wanted to tell you. I missed you, while I was away.”

Adrian wrinkles his nose. He missed you too, but he doesn’t want to admit it, right now. He already feels uncomfortably vulnerable. So instead he says, “You were only gone for like, two days.”

“I know,” you say. “I still missed you. I was working in Mr. Terrific’s lab, and I wanted to make a dumb joke, and I looked up to my right, and you weren’t there at the desk next to me, and I was sad. You can miss people in little ways too, not just big ones.”

You’re so thoughtful, he thinks. So thoughtful, and so beautiful, and you missed him. You noticed his absence the same way he noticed yours, felt sad when he wasn’t there next to you.

“Oh,” he says, and you make him so, so, weak, because he told himself less than a minute ago wasn’t going to admit it, but you’re looking at him right now in this moment like he matters, and he caves instantly. “Well. In that case, I missed you, too. I know I still have Fleury as my other desk neighbor, but he’s not as nice to look at as you are.”

You laugh, and Adrian smiles, because it’s your laugh that’s just for him, loud and bright and a little bit obnoxious, just like he is. He wants to hear it every day forever.

Over the next few weeks, things start to go back to normal. Well, maybe not quite normal. They feel a little bit different.

Adrian feels different, at least. He lets himself look at you more. He watches you throughout the work day—sees the way the light catches your hair, listens to the sound of you laughing. Passes you sticky notes with dumb little drawings like he’s a middle schooler with a crush. 

Chris told him to grow up and just tell you how he feels, but—he’s not ready, yet. So he just does this, for now, and it’s enough. Even though Chris says it’s creepy how much time he spends looking at you all day.

Plus, he can feel your gaze linger on the back of his neck when he’s trying to focus on his own work. So he feels like a little bit less of a creep for all the time he spends looking at you in return.

Sometimes, you both look up at the same time, and you share a small, private smile. Those moments, when they happen, make his entire day, and he’ll practically vibrate with joy, skipping and fidgeting his way through meetings and trainings and spreadsheets until Harcourt yells at him to chill the fuck out.

Other times, though, when he looks up, you’re not looking at him—you’re looking down at your phone, grinning and typing away. He wonders who you’re texting. You send him stupid memes, sometimes, but not that often. Usually you just roll your office chair over to his desk and show it to him right then and there so you can laugh at it together. So it must be someone who doesn’t work at Checkmate. He has no idea who.

One day, when you’re tapping furiously at your phone screen beside him, he glances over your shoulder to see what you’re doing, and he realizes you’re on social media, defending Superman from some critics online. The ugly jealousy that’s growing oh-so-familiar roars up in his chest.

“You really like that guy, huh?” he says, and he doesn’t mean for it to sound so bitter, but it does. You look up at him, brow furrowed.

“He doesn’t deserve most of the hate that he gets,” you say. “It’s not fair. He’s just trying to make the world a better place. Like us. Don’t you wish we had someone standing up for us, every once in a while?”

“Yeah,” Adrian admits reluctantly. “I guess that would be nice.”

“At least all we have to deal with is ARGUS, for the most part,” you say as you continue to type. “Not the court of public opinion. People can be fucking vicious online.”

“People say shit about Vigilante all the time,” Adrian pouts. “I just can’t say anything about it because it would compromise my secret identity.”

“Do you really care what any of those people think?” you ask. He shakes his head. He really, really doesn’t. He doesn’t even read the news, most days. Sometimes Chris will send him a link if Vigilante makes a headline, but that’s rare these days. Adrian’s gotten pretty good at flying under the radar. Or the cops just stopped giving a shit and let him do his thing, who knows.

“No,” he says, looking at you. “I don’t care what they think. But I care what you think.”

You blink with surprise, fingertips pausing on your keyboard. He’s caught you off-guard with a rare moment of vulnerability, and you spin around in your desk chair to face him fully.

He feels a little bit uncomfortable, the way you’re staring at him. Like you can see all the way inside him to the mushy parts that don’t make sense.

“I think the world of you, Adrian,” you say softly. “I hope you know that. There’s no one else I’d rather have on my team.”

“Even Superman?”

“Even Superman,” you laugh, rolling your eyes.

Adrian grins. Take that, you handsome metahuman dick.

Everything’s going really, really great. Until the team meeting the following Monday. Adrian sits in his usual spot, right next to you at the table where he can whisper stupid little jokes under his breath and try to distract you by playing tic-tac-toe or hangman in the margins of an important document while Harcourt glares at you. You’re hiding a giggle and he’s smirking, proud that he’s elicited a reaction, when Bordeaux asks for everyone’s weekly reports and Judomaster puts a weird metal contraption on the table.

“Found this in the park,” he says, and everyone falls silent.

“What the fuck is that?” asks Fleury, and Judomaster shrugs. 

“I dunno. Some alien shit. I was testing the new tracking tech you guys designed,” he says, nodding at you and Economos. 

“Oh shit, you finished building that?” Economos says, impressed.

“I asked Mr. Terrific for some pointers while I was in Metropolis,” you admit. “I asked Rip to test it out last week. I wasn’t sure it would really work.”

“So…what is it?” Adebayo asks, looking at the hunk of metal with suspicion.

“I have no clue,” you say. “The tracker was built to pinpoint extraterrestrial chemical signatures, not identify them.”

“Why don’t you send a picture to Clark? See if he recognizes it?” Harcourt suggests. Adrian’s brow furrows, because he’s never heard that name before.

“Who is Clark?” he asks, wondering if they’d hired somebody new and he’d just totally missed it. He looks around the table, but there’s no extra people sitting there that he doesn’t recognize. Maybe there’s a new remote guy.

“She means Superman,” Chris clarifies, and Adrian freezes, his gaze shooting back to you. You’re blushing, slouching in your chair like you want to disappear, because everyone is looking at you. 

Normally, Adrian would say something purposefully idiotic and draw all of that attention to himself, just to make you feel more comfortable. But right now his mind is racing, a distracted jumble of thoughts, and he is staring at you too.

Every amazing moment from the last few weeks replays in his mind at once. The smiles he shared with you, the times he made you laugh. The conversation outside the bar.

Now he was second-guessing all of it. Did he misunderstand you? Did he read things wrong? You’d said to him There’s no one else I’d rather have on my team. He’d thought that was pretty romantic, but maybe you just meant that in a professional way? Did he assume something he shouldn’t have?

“Yeah,” Harcourt continues, the entire table oblivious to Adrian’s internal crisis. “Didn’t he give you his number, after the Metropolis mission?”

“You’ve been walking around with Superman’s phone number for the last six weeks?” Adebayo sounds impressed, snapping her fingers. “Damn girl, you really did pull that hot ass man. Good for you. Way to show John.”

Adrian is right back at the bar all over again, feeling like he’s going to be sick, or worse, cry. Is that who you’ve been texting all the time? He’d thought you were just defending him from social media trolls. He had your phone number? When you’ve been looking at your phone and smiling—is it because he messaged you? Why didn’t you tell him?

You blush violently. “Oh my god, it is literally not like that. We are just friends. Clark just gave me his number to share his mom’s apple pie recipe—”

“Wha—Clark?” Adrian finally stutters, flushing red himself, with anger or embarrassment or hysteria, he’s not sure. “You—you’re on a first name basis with Superman? He—he told you his secret identity? You’ve only known him for like three weeks!”

“He’s pretty lax with it,” Harcourt says. “He’s a very trusting person. I personally wouldn’t be, but. To each his own.”

“That is so—irresponsible of him! He’s got a bunch of evil enemies, you could be in so much danger!” Adrian cries, because now he’s not just sick to his stomach with jealousy, but also concern for you.

“I’m not in any danger,” you say softly, reaching for his hand, but Adrian pulls back, out of your reach. You look hurt, confused, but Adrian’s just freaking out inside and he thinks he might implode if you touch him right now. “It’s okay, Ade, nothing bad—”

“You don’t know that!” he insists. “Clark doesn’t know that!”

“Can we get back to the point?” Harcourt says. “Just send him a picture of that thing. See what he says, and we’ll regroup next week.”

“Great. Sounds like a plan,” Adrian says bitterly, and he pushes his chair back, gathers his things, and stalks out of the room, back to his desk.

He avoids you successfully for the rest of the day. He needs time to process whatever the fuck is happening in his brain.

He’s never felt anything this strongly before. He wants you. He wants you so much. He wants to have you, to keep you, to protect you. To love you and be loved by you. But not if you don’t also want those things.

It might break him, if you don’t. If you want those things from Clark instead. Adrian would step back and let you be, obviously. He’s not some possessive alpha male whackjob. But it would be so, so hard.

Adebayo drops by his desk after everyone else has filtered out of the office for the day.

“Do you want to talk about it?” she asks, leaning against his desk. He sits in his chair, stares at his computer at nothing particularly important, jaw clenching.

“Talk about what?” he asks, purposefully obtuse. He’s being avoidant and annoying, he knows that. But if she goes away, then he doesn’t have to deal with it, this terrible, awful feeling that’s crawling around in his lungs, up his throat.

“I know you’re not that emotionally stunted,” Ads says pointedly. “We don’t have an HR department, and I know you don’t have a therapist. I am offering my socio-emotional services as your friend, Adrian.”

He looks up at her. He’s not going to cry. He’s not.

“I’m not good at this.”

“I know you’re not,” Ads sighs. “She knows you’re not. But she’s also not a mind reader, Adrian. You have to tell her how you feel.”

“How am I supposed to compete with Superman?” he asks, and his voice cracks. He hates how desperate he sounds. How desperate he feels. He wishes he could go back to being just Vigilante, when he worked solo. When he didn’t have any friends, he could say that he didn’t have emotions like other people do and it wouldn’t be a lie.

Adebayo smiles, gentle. “You don’t have to compete with Superman, you big dumbo. Just be you.”

Adrian goes to your apartment that night. You’re in your pajamas when you open the door, and you look surprised to see him, even though it’s not the first time he’s shown up unannounced. Sometimes he gets lonely after patrol and he doesn’t want to go home, and he finds himself at your door instead.

“Hi,” you say, and he waves, a little sheepish. Not sure if he’s allowed to be here, after his outburst earlier. He’s still feeling a little raw.

“Uh, hi,” he says.

You both stand there awkwardly for a moment, then start to talk at the same time.

“Can I come—”

“Did you want to—”

“Sorry,” Adrian says quickly, blushing. “I’m…I’m really sorry. About earlier.”

“It’s okay. Did…did you want to come in? And talk?” you ask. You sound hesitant, which makes him nervous. He never wants to be the reason you sound like that, and he feels terrible. But you open the door wider for him, which gives him hope.

“Thanks,” he says, stepping inside and kicking off his shoes at the door the way you always ask him to as you shut and lock the door behind him.

“Are we okay?” you ask him, and he hesitates, looks down at you. Your eyes are wide with concern, flitting over him. “You were—weird, today. You’ve been weird the last couple weeks. And I don’t know what I did, or how to fix it.”

“I—” Adrian starts, but he has trouble. When did it become hard to talk to you? It used to be the easiest thing in the world. He wants it back. The ease, the comfort.

“Sorry,” you say, shaking your head. “I just totally bombarded you there. Not cool of me. Do you want some cocoa? Or tea? We can just—relax, for a minute?”

Adrian is never one to turn down a sweet treat. “Do you have little marshmallows?”

You smile. “Yeah, I have little marshmallows. Cocoa it is. I’ll be right back. Make yourself at home.”

Adrian sits on the couch to wait for you, feeling fidgety with words he doesn’t know how to say. But he turns them over in his mind while he waits, tries to put them in the right order, practices saying them out loud to himself.

“I really like you,” he whispers to himself. “No. That’s stupid. I’m not, like, ten years old.” Fuck. He should have asked Ads what to say. No, she would have just told him to speak from the heart or some crap. He should have asked Chris what to say. No, that wouldn’t have worked either, Chris is too concerned about getting Adrian laid—

Your phone, sitting face down on the couch cushion next to him, starts ringing.

“Could you get that for me, Ade?” you call from the kitchen, and he turns it over.

Incoming call: Clark Kent.

Adrian’s stomach flips over. With shaking hands, he picks up your phone and answers the call.

“Hello?”

“Um, hi,” says an unfamiliar voice. Deep, male. But he’s got the picture in his mind from the news. The perfect hair, the bright blue eyes, the striking jawline. “You’re not—”

“No, she’s in the kitchen,” he says. “I’m Adrian.”

“Oh! She talks about you all the time,” Clark says brightly, and Adrian’s heart stutters, because—you talk about him? To Superman? A flicker of hope, bright and wild, sparks in his chest. “Nice to meet you. Well, kind of. Speak to you, at least.”

“Oh,” Adrian says dumbly. “Um. Yeah. Nice to…speak to you. I’ve heard a lot about you. Obviously.”

“I was just calling her back about that picture she sent me. The alien device? I went through all of the Kryptonian documentation I have, and I came up empty, so I forwarded it along to the rest of the Justice Gang to see if they would turn anything up. Can you just let her know?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I can do that. Um. Thank you?”

“No problem,” Clark says. “I won’t keep you, I’m sure you guys are busy. I’m off for a date night with Lois myself. Enjoy the rest of your night!”

“You too,” Adrian says.

The call ends with a click, and Adrian swallows roughly, looking down at your phone in his trembling hand. He stares at your lock screen photo—you and the 11th Street Kids out at a bar for Chris’s birthday last month. Everyone’s laughing, looking at the camera. But Adrian is looking at you. And you’re looking at him.

“Who was it?” you ask, coming back into the room with two mugs of cocoa in hand. You sit next to him on the couch and place them on the coffee table.

“Clark,” Adrian says, uncertain, like his brain is still processing the fact that he did, in fact, just speak to Superman on the phone.

“Oh! Did he have an update on—-”

“Can I say something important?” Adrian interrupts, because he’s suddenly certain if he doesn’t say what he needs to say right now that he’s not sure he’ll ever say it at all. You fall silent and nod.

“I know you like Superman,” Adrian says quickly, talking fast, because the sooner he gets the words out, the sooner this agony will be over and done with. “I can’t fly or lift cars with one hand or shoot laser beams out of my eyes. But I can run really fast and fight criminals and I know how to use a bunch of weapons and I can do a bunch of push-ups in a row, and don’t tell Peacemaker, but I’m an even better sharpshooter than he is. And really, my healing powers are even cooler than Superman’s, because he needs the Sun, and I can just do it all by myself, I just need to take a nap—”

“Adrian?” you interrupt, cautiously. He falls silent immediately, and the look on your face makes him backpedal, instantly regretting his entire life.

“Sorry. I shouldn’t have said anything,” he says. “Forget I said anything—”

“I do like Superman,” you continue, and his shoulders slump, heart sinking in his chest.

“I know,” he says, “I—”

“But I love you.”

Whatever words he was going to say die on his tongue, and he sits there, gaping at you like a fish out of water.

“Really?” he whispers, wanting so desperately to believe you. “Me?”

“Can I touch you?” you ask, hand hovering, because he flinched away from you earlier, in the conference room, and you don’t want to push if he’s not ready. He grabs you by the wrist, puts your hand on his face, closes his eyes briefly as you trace over his features.

“I’ve been wanting you for—” he chokes on the words. But when he opens his eyes and sees you looking at him with your gentle smile, he takes a deep breath, tries again. “I’ve been wanting you for forever.”

“You can have me,” you say. “You’ve always had me. It was never a contest, honey.”

“So I don’t need to add a cape to the Vigilante suit? Or like, bulk up my biceps? Or—”

“No,” you laugh. “I want you, Adrian. The way you are.”

A Superman-sized weight lifts off of his shoulders in that moment, and he pulls you into him, tucks you into his chest like the precious thing you are, and finally, finally, kisses you, lips moving fervently against yours with an eagerness finally unleashed after weeks of being pushed down and ignored.

You’re dazed when he pulls away from you with a gasp, and you go to chase after his lips, not done with him yet, but then he starts talking at you rapidly, a stream of panicked words.

“Oh my god, I forgot to tell you! I love you too. I’m sorry I didn’t say it back, I was just—really surprised, and I really, really wanted to kiss you,” he rambles. “Don’t think for a second I don’t love you back. I probably love you even more than you love me. Not that it’s a contest! But if it was a contest, I would totally win the contest. I’ve thought about you, like, every waking moment for the last three weeks. It’s been terrible. In a good way! I love thinking about you. But I thought you didn’t love me back, so it was making my stomach hurt a lot. But now I know that you do love me, so—”

It’s like every thought Adrian has had over the last few weeks tries to come out of his mouth at once, all the things he’s been thinking but not able to say. 

“Lots of women these days prefer a dad-bod, anyway,” Economos says, and Chris rolls his eyes.

“Yeah, keep telling yourself that, Economos,” Chris says.

“He lifted a fucking car with one hand the other day! I saw a video online! Can you do that, Chris? I don’t think so.”

“No, because I’m not some alien freak! Either way, Superman is lame. He goes to the wimpy Batman school of ‘I-don’t-kill-people,’” Chris argues. “He’s a fucking pussy!”

“Not killing people doesn’t make someone a pussy! Is that really what your moral compass is based on?” you ask incredulously. “I’ve never killed anyone! Do you think I’m a pussy, Chris?” You’re in the tech development department, so you’ve never been out in the field before.

“If the shoe fits,” he shrugs. You sigh.

“Everyone in this room needs a metric shit ton of therapy,” Harcourt says. “I think you might be the only one of us who hasn’t killed someone. Whether that makes you a pussy, I don’t know.”

“Ugh…it doesn’t even matter! We’re not talking about whether or not Superman kills people, we’re talking about how hot he is,” you say. “And I’m telling you, he’s one of the hottest people on the planet. Even if he’s not from this planet. He’s got massive biceps, a sharp jawline. He’s really tall, he’s got sexy hair. Real dark and curly, makes you want to run your fingers through it.”

“Anyone looks like they’ve got great hair when they’re standing next to puke freak Guy Gardner, with that fuckass bowl cut,” Chris mutters.

You make a face. “Don’t even talk to me about Green Lantern. He’s got, like, negative sex appeal, and that’s before he even opens his mouth. Jesus, that man gives me the fucking creeps.”

“Exactly! So maybe Superman just looks great in comparison.”

“I can’t believe you’re even arguing with me about this. Superman is like, the most traditionally handsome man that’s ever existed. He’s the blueprint for the guys on the covers of sexy romance books. Not much more a girl can ask for, is all I’m saying. Come on, back me up, here, Em.”

“He’s not really my type,” Harcourt says, and you shoot her a death glare and mouth ‘Traitor.’

“Hey,” Adebayo interjects, coming to your defense. “I get what she means. I’m a lesbian, and even I get the Superman appeal. He’s got, I don’t know, a classic Prince Charming vibe, ya know? I think it’s the cape. It makes him look all majestic.”

You smack the table. “Thank you! It’s nice to know that someone around here has eyeballs that actually work!”

“Okay, but even if the cape adds something to the look, he literally wears his underwear on the outside of his clothes. What’s the deal with that?” Fleury points out. “That’s fucking weird.”

“Okay. I’ll give you that. The trunks are kinda weird. But it makes him, I dunno, approachable? Like, he’s just a normal guy. Like even though he’s a hot, handsome alien, I could still pull that, you know? Because he’s just a weirdo.”

“You think you’d have a shot with Superman?” Economos says, disbelieving.

“You don’t?” You cross your arms, offended. “I resent that, Economos. I am a fucking catch. Superman would be lucky to have me.”

“Apparently everyone has a shot with Superman. He’s got a fucking harem, remember? Real Prince Charming, alright.”

“Oh, come on Chris. You know that Lex Luthor made that shit up—”

Adrian, who has been watching this entire chaotic conversation entirely silently with wide eyes, neck snapping back across the table like he’s viewing a tennis match, suddenly feels a sinking pit of panic in his stomach.

Because this is news to him—important news. Is Superman really your type? 

That would suck, because Adrian has been hoping that he is your type.

He thinks about the features you mentioned. Massive biceps. His biceps could definitely be bigger. Should he be, like, bulking up and eating nothing but protein powder and raw eggs and lifting weights all day? Maybe Chris could help him with that. He probably would, if he asked. A sharp jawline—Adrian’s jawline is not nearly as sharp as it could be, but he’s not sure how to fix that without a cosmetic procedure. That feels like a bit much. 

Superman is tall, you said, most definitely taller than Adrian. There’s not much he can do about that, either, unfortunately. He could try to style his hair a little more like his, maybe. Grow it out a little, put a little more effort into styling it. Invest in a blow dryer. Someone’s probably done a YouTube tutorial on how to do your hair like Superman. He’s good at following instructions like that, that’s how he learned to crush someone’s windpipe—

“He’s also got the most basic superhero name ever! Superman, really?” Chris is saying, and Bordeaux pointedly looks at Adrian. 

“We’ve got a guy on our team who literally calls himself Vigilante.”

—Maybe he could make some adjustments to the Vigilante costume? You said you like Superman’s cape. Could he pull off a cape? It wouldn’t be super practical. He would probably trip over it, or get caught in something. It would give criminals another thing to grab at during fights. He could start wearing his underwear on the outside of his Vigilante suit, but Minecraft boxers wouldn’t exactly strike fear into the hearts of his enemies. It’s not really the vibe he typically goes for. Not a good idea, he decides, and frowns—

Adrian looks up after the third time you say his name and realizes everyone is staring at him.

“Um. What?” he says.

“You okay, Adrian?” you ask, concerned. It’s not like him to zone out like that. He’s usually the first one to join in an argument, always delighting in a friendly conflict, always on Peacemaker’s side, of course.

Adrian shakes his head, feeling hot, all of a sudden, and desperate to get the attention away from him. “Yeah, yeah. I’m good. Just hungry, I think. Can we order some pizza? Let’s order some pizza, I’ll go find the menu—”

He scrambles out of his chair, wincing as it squeaks awkwardly against the wooden floor, and you blink, confused by his sudden departure, but you’re the only one who seems to notice his odd behavior is even odder than normal.

“Only if we don’t order the bullshit toppings you got last time, Adrian,” Economos calls after him. “That shit was disgusting. Never again!”

Adrian sighs with relief as he digs through the drawer with the takeout menus, relieved that he’s avoided the topic. For now.

As the rest of the day passes, the conversation is forgotten—by everyone except Adrian. He’s still thinking about it. Thinking about you, and about Superman. 

And he can’t help but notice little things he never did before. You spend as much time reading the Metropolis news as you do reading articles about events in Evergreen. He tells himself it’s because you’re brilliant and smart and well-read and you just want to be knowledgeable about things that are going on in the world, and it has nothing to do with any particular superheroes who frequent any particular cities.

But then he sees that you’ve got a little red and gold keychain with Superman’s symbol attached to your bag. How come he never noticed it before? Do you have any other Superman merch? Should he make Vigilante merch? Would you wear it, if he had any? He imagines you with a tiny V necklace hanging around your neck and feels something aggressive and possessive roar up inside him. His jaw ticks.

The blue color that you paint your nails is the color of Superman’s suit, he realizes, and he frowns, fist clenching so tight that his knuckles turn white. Is that on purpose, he wonders? He wishes it was a slightly different shade. A little bit greener. More teal than blue. Not for any particular reason, of course. But he spends a beat too long staring at your pretty fingers clicking away at the keys on your keyboard before he swallows roughly and turns back to his work, trying not to think about the things you could do to him with those hands.

He doesn’t even realize he’s more irritable, more out of it than normal until Peacemaker calls him out on it.

“Vig, dude, why are you such a bummer today?” Chris says, smacking Adrian on the shoulder when he catches him scowling at his computer.

“It’s nothing,” Adrian mutters, even though he’s two seconds away from opening up an incognito browser and creating an anonymous Superman hate-tweet account. He only stops himself because cyberbullying is technically a crime. “I’m fine. Everything is fine.”

He tries really hard not to be grumpy after that, but he’s not sure if it’s working. He just keeps watching you, at your desk, right to the left of his. Simmering.

“Okay man, seriously, what is your deal?” Chris asks. He follows Adrian’s gaze to the left, and his eyes widen.

“Ah,” he says, and he claps Adrian on the shoulder. “Dude, you just gotta tell her you like her.”

“Shut up!” Adrian hisses. “God, could you be any louder? You’re as bad as my fucking mom!”

“She’s got headphones on, dude, she can’t hear us.”

“She likes Superman,” Adrian spits. Chris sighs.

“She likes Superman like you like Taylor Swift’s sexy butt. It’s not, like, real.”

“I don’t even like Taylor Swift’s sexy butt anymore. Her butt is so much sexier.”

“Yeah, well, you should tell her that,” Chris says.

Adrian knows the jealousy he’s feeling is irrational. You’ve never even met Superman. He has absolutely no reason to feel this way. Chris is right; it’s like being jealous of someone’s celebrity crush. He knows you think Harry Styles is hot, too, and he’s never felt murderous rage toward the guy before.

Adrian doesn’t have a right to be so possessive of your attention, anyway. It’s not like you’re…his. No matter how much he wants you to be. He doesn’t even know if you like him. Because he still hasn’t worked up the courage to actually say something to you about it. He’s been nothing but a coward, watching silently and wishing. Wanting.

So he tries to let it go. He just listens to you laugh at a meme Adebayo sends in the group chat and revels in the fact that Superman has never gotten to hear that sound before. Superman has never seen you smile, or tried your homemade chocolate chip cookies, or gone bowling with you on a Friday night with friends. And he never will.

The following Monday, Harcourt tells everyone to meet in the conference room for a mission debrief.

“Alright, everyone,” Bordeaux says. “We’re expanding our services a bit here. So this mission will require a bit of travelling. We’ve got three of you on the assignment.” She lists off the names—you, Harcourt, and Chris.

“Wait—me? I get to go on a mission? Travel? Where are we going?” you ask, excited. You’ve never been out on a mission before, always confined to the office, so it’s a new opportunity for you, and you are thrilled. Adrian smiles when he sees how excited you are, though he wishes he was going with you.

“Better be a fucking island vacation,” Chris mutters.

“Metropolis,” Harcourt says as she distributes the files, and Chris grumbles his disappointment. 

Adrian’s smile fades. He sits stock-still and takes in the information with gritted teeth. 

He’s happy for you. He is. He loves seeing that delighted smile on your face, and when you turn to look at him, he forces his smile back on his face, too. But why does it have to be Metropolis?

“This is an opportunity for us to work with the Justice Gang,” Adebayo explains, and Adrian’s already false smile grows even more brittle, because working with the Justice Gang means even closer proximity to goddamn fucking Superman.

“I know they suck ass,” Adebayo continues, wincing, “and they weren’t very nice to you, Chris, but working with them gives Checkmate some legitimacy. It puts us on the map, gets our name out there, which will get us more jobs in the future.”

“Yeah, well. Just don’t expect me to be nice to Guy Gardner,” Chris says. “Dickbag’s got another thing coming.”

“Just don’t punch him in the face. Or shoot him. Actually, maybe we should just…send someone else on this mission,” Bordeaux says. Adrian is opening his mouth to volunteer right as Chris sighs. Harcourt crosses her arms and raises an eyebrow at him.

“No, it’s fine, I can handle it.”

Adrian bites the inside of his cheek so hard it draws blood.

“I’ll keep Chris in check, don’t worry,” you assure everyone, still vibrating with excitement, and Adrian tries, so hard, to be excited for you. “What, exactly, is the mission?”

 “Mr. Terrific has heard about your work,” Harcourt says. “He wants your insight on a project he’s been working on. He’s also got suspicions that LutherCorp has been stealing some of his proprietary technologies. Chris and I are coming along to help facilitate an undercover investigation.”

“Wait—what?” you stutter. “Wha—Mr. Terrific? Knows who I am?”

“You’ve been doing great work, kid,” Fleury compliments. “I’m not surprised.”

“I just can’t believe Mr. Terrific wants to talk to me,” you say, awestruck.

“Of course he does, you’re brilliant,” Adrian blurts out, because he desperately needs you to know in that moment how smart and valuable and great you are. Everyone turns to look at him like he’s grown a second head. You just look touched.

“Thanks, Adrian,” you say, softly, and he feels heat creeping up his neck under all the attention.

“Hey, do you think you guys will meet Superman?” Fleury says, and Adrian watches your eyes light up.

Economos laughs. “You’ll get to tell him how hot you think he is.”

Adrian grips his pen in his fist so tightly that it cracks in half. Blue ink splatters all over the file folder in his lap, startling him. He looks around the room to make sure no one noticed and shuffles the papers around to hide it.

“Your flights leave early tomorrow, so you guys can head home and get packed right after this meeting,” Bordeaux is saying, and everyone starts to filter out of the room to go about their respective work days.

Chris stops next to Adrian on his way out, and says, with all seriousness, “Don’t worry, Vig. I’ll make sure Superman doesn’t steal your girl.”

Adrian shoots him a death glare, picking up his papers and shuffling angrily back to his desk. He takes a moment to calm himself down before he turns to his left and looks toward your desk, because he’d kick himself if he was too busy wallowing in his own misery to wish you luck before you left.

“You’re gonna do awesome,” he says, and you blush.

“I just hope I don’t fuck it up. It’s my first time out in the field.”

“I know. You’ll be great,” he insists. You’re looking at him with such hope in your eyes, and it helps him find a spark of courage. “And…maybe we can grab beers when you get back. To celebrate.” Your eyes widen, and he starts to panic at the last second, and adds, “As a team!”

“Thanks,” you say softly. “That sounds great.” You look like you’re hesitating for a moment, then you throw your arms around him in a tight hug, and his heart threatens to beat out of his chest. Because you’re his friend, but you’ve never touched him like this. He doesn’t normally like it, but with you…with you, it’s nice. 

With you, he would do this all the time, he thinks, as his arms come around your waist and he squeezes back, breathes in the scent of your shampoo, and he wishes he didn’t have to let go.

The mission only lasts a few days. You leave on Tuesday morning and you’re back by Friday night, buzzing with adrenaline and joy, joining the 11th Street Kids for drinks and a casual debrief, because as you said to Adrian when you called him after you landed, “You promised me beer when I got back!”

And Adrian never breaks his promises, especially not to you.

You’ve had several of those promised beers, now, and you’re recounting the events of the week excitedly.

Adrian is sitting right next to you, hanging on your every word, his shoulder pressed against yours in a way that makes him feel all tingly. He can feel it every time you shift in your seat. He watches you gesture in the air with one hand, thinks about snatching it out of the air, just to hold it in his.

“It was crazy,” you’re telling him, eyes wide. “We were in this lab, right, comparing the research that I’ve done with the research that Mr. Terrific’s team has done. And then something fucking exploded in the corner.”

“Wait, what?” Adrian says, alarmed. “Something exploded?”

“Yes! So Mr. Terrific is yelling at his lab techs, trying to figure out if someone like, left something under the fume hood that they shouldn’t have, but then I hear this ticking sound. And I find a shit ton of bombs. Like, one under every single lab table.”

“What?” Adrian yelps, looking over at Chris. “Where the hell were you? You were her protection! You left her alone in a lab with a bunch of bombs?”

“Me and Emilia were undercover at the LutherCorp labs!” Chris says defensively. “Mr. Terrific’s labs were supposed to be fucking safe, dude.”

“Listen, listen, it was fine!” you say excitedly. “Because Mr. Terrific starts defusing them, right? Except they’re like, super close to going off. Two minutes left on the countdown, maybe. The lab techs start evacuating. Mr. Terrific radios in help from the Justice Gang, and fucking Superman showed up!”

“Superman?” Adrian says weakly, heart sinking. “You…you actually met him?”

“I did!” you exclaim. “And I can confirm, by the way,” you say to the table, “that his muscles are fucking real, Chris, because he picked me up right before the bombs exploded and flew me out the window and I absolutely felt up his bicep. For research purposes.”

Adrian feels like he’s going to throw up. The beer bottle in his hand threatens to crack under the pressure of his white-knuckle grip. His stomach churns, the collar of his shirt feels too tight around his neck, and it’s too hot in this bar, all of a sudden, and god, you just look so happy, telling this story, so why does he feel so goddamn sick thinking about Superman holding you in his arms?

Did your heart go all swoopy when the hero literally swept you off your feet? Did he turn his charming smile on you and say something flirty? Did you enjoy being Superman’s damsel in distress for the day?

Did Adrian even stand a chance anymore, now that you’d met him?

“He was actually a pretty nice guy,” Harcourt chimes in, and that makes it so much worse, because Emilia doesn’t like anybody. She certainly doesn’t like Adrian all that much. But of course she likes Superman. Everyone likes Superman, what’s not to like? With his perfect hair and perfect jaw and perfect teeth and pretty eyes and—-

“He’s not a poop freak like I thought he was,” Chris says, sounding almost reluctant to admit it. “We all went and got a beer after a debrief with the Justice Gang. Guy Gardner’s still a dick though.”

That’s the final stab in the back, and it really hurts. If even his best friend likes Superman more than him, why would you ever choose him?

“I need some air,” Adrian says quietly, and he slides out of his chair and heads outside.

There’s not a bench on the sidewalk, so he just sits right on the curb, the crumbling concrete cold through his jeans. He lets the feeling ground him as he closes his eyes and tries to stop his racing mind from spiraling even further out of control.

He hears the door open and close, footsteps behind him, and then someone sits next to him, close enough that he can feel their body heat.

“It’s chilly out here,” you say, and he looks over, surprised, and almost jumps back when he realizes how close your face is to his. He’d been expecting Adebayo. She’s usually the nurturing one that tries to prevent him from, well, having a meltdown.

So why did you follow him out here?

“Hi,” he says, once he recovers, staring at your eyes. They’re so pretty, he thinks, it makes it hard for him to even talk. “Sorry. I just. Needed a minute.”

“You really raced out of there,” you say softly. “Did I say something?”

“No,” he lies. Badly. He swallows it down, watches your eyes flick downward to catch on his Adam’s apple.

“Uh huh,” you say, because he clearly isn’t ready to talk about it. “Listen, I wanted to tell you. I missed you, while I was away.”

Adrian wrinkles his nose. He missed you too, but he doesn’t want to admit it, right now. He already feels uncomfortably vulnerable. So instead he says, “You were only gone for like, two days.”

“I know,” you say. “I still missed you. I was working in Mr. Terrific’s lab, and I wanted to make a dumb joke, and I looked up to my right, and you weren’t there at the desk next to me, and I was sad. You can miss people in little ways too, not just big ones.”

You’re so thoughtful, he thinks. So thoughtful, and so beautiful, and you missed him. You noticed his absence the same way he noticed yours, felt sad when he wasn’t there next to you.

“Oh,” he says, and you make him so, so, weak, because he told himself less than a minute ago wasn’t going to admit it, but you’re looking at him right now in this moment like he matters, and he caves instantly. “Well. In that case, I missed you, too. I know I still have Fleury as my other desk neighbor, but he’s not as nice to look at as you are.”

You laugh, and Adrian smiles, because it’s your laugh that’s just for him, loud and bright and a little bit obnoxious, just like he is. He wants to hear it every day forever.

Over the next few weeks, things start to go back to normal. Well, maybe not quite normal. They feel a little bit different.

Adrian feels different, at least. He lets himself look at you more. He watches you throughout the work day—sees the way the light catches your hair, listens to the sound of you laughing. Passes you sticky notes with dumb little drawings like he’s a middle schooler with a crush. 

Chris told him to grow up and just tell you how he feels, but—he’s not ready, yet. So he just does this, for now, and it’s enough. Even though Chris says it’s creepy how much time he spends looking at you all day.

Plus, he can feel your gaze linger on the back of his neck when he’s trying to focus on his own work. So he feels like a little bit less of a creep for all the time he spends looking at you in return.

Sometimes, you both look up at the same time, and you share a small, private smile. Those moments, when they happen, make his entire day, and he’ll practically vibrate with joy, skipping and fidgeting his way through meetings and trainings and spreadsheets until Harcourt yells at him to chill the fuck out.

Other times, though, when he looks up, you’re not looking at him—you’re looking down at your phone, grinning and typing away. He wonders who you’re texting. You send him stupid memes, sometimes, but not that often. Usually you just roll your office chair over to his desk and show it to him right then and there so you can laugh at it together. So it must be someone who doesn’t work at Checkmate. He has no idea who.

One day, when you’re tapping furiously at your phone screen beside him, he glances over your shoulder to see what you’re doing, and he realizes you’re on social media, defending Superman from some critics online. The ugly jealousy that’s growing oh-so-familiar roars up in his chest.

“You really like that guy, huh?” he says, and he doesn’t mean for it to sound so bitter, but it does. You look up at him, brow furrowed.

“He doesn’t deserve most of the hate that he gets,” you say. “It’s not fair. He’s just trying to make the world a better place. Like us. Don’t you wish we had someone standing up for us, every once in a while?”

“Yeah,” Adrian admits reluctantly. “I guess that would be nice.”

“At least all we have to deal with is ARGUS, for the most part,” you say as you continue to type. “Not the court of public opinion. People can be fucking vicious online.”

“People say shit about Vigilante all the time,” Adrian pouts. “I just can’t say anything about it because it would compromise my secret identity.”

“Do you really care what any of those people think?” you ask. He shakes his head. He really, really doesn’t. He doesn’t even read the news, most days. Sometimes Chris will send him a link if Vigilante makes a headline, but that’s rare these days. Adrian’s gotten pretty good at flying under the radar. Or the cops just stopped giving a shit and let him do his thing, who knows.

“No,” he says, looking at you. “I don’t care what they think. But I care what you think.”

You blink with surprise, fingertips pausing on your keyboard. He’s caught you off-guard with a rare moment of vulnerability, and you spin around in your desk chair to face him fully.

He feels a little bit uncomfortable, the way you’re staring at him. Like you can see all the way inside him to the mushy parts that don’t make sense.

“I think the world of you, Adrian,” you say softly. “I hope you know that. There’s no one else I’d rather have on my team.”

“Even Superman?”

“Even Superman,” you laugh, rolling your eyes.

Adrian grins. Take that, you handsome metahuman dick.

Everything’s going really, really great. Until the team meeting the following Monday. Adrian sits in his usual spot, right next to you at the table where he can whisper stupid little jokes under his breath and try to distract you by playing tic-tac-toe or hangman in the margins of an important document while Harcourt glares at you. You’re hiding a giggle and he’s smirking, proud that he’s elicited a reaction, when Bordeaux asks for everyone’s weekly reports and Judomaster puts a weird metal contraption on the table.

“Found this in the park,” he says, and everyone falls silent.

“What the fuck is that?” asks Fleury, and Judomaster shrugs. 

“I dunno. Some alien shit. I was testing the new tracking tech you guys designed,” he says, nodding at you and Economos. 

“Oh shit, you finished building that?” Economos says, impressed.

“I asked Mr. Terrific for some pointers while I was in Metropolis,” you admit. “I asked Rip to test it out last week. I wasn’t sure it would really work.”

“So…what is it?” Adebayo asks, looking at the hunk of metal with suspicion.

“I have no clue,” you say. “The tracker was built to pinpoint extraterrestrial chemical signatures, not identify them.”

“Why don’t you send a picture to Clark? See if he recognizes it?” Harcourt suggests. Adrian’s brow furrows, because he’s never heard that name before.

“Who is Clark?” he asks, wondering if they’d hired somebody new and he’d just totally missed it. He looks around the table, but there’s no extra people sitting there that he doesn’t recognize. Maybe there’s a new remote guy.

“She means Superman,” Chris clarifies, and Adrian freezes, his gaze shooting back to you. You’re blushing, slouching in your chair like you want to disappear, because everyone is looking at you. 

Normally, Adrian would say something purposefully idiotic and draw all of that attention to himself, just to make you feel more comfortable. But right now his mind is racing, a distracted jumble of thoughts, and he is staring at you too.

Every amazing moment from the last few weeks replays in his mind at once. The smiles he shared with you, the times he made you laugh. The conversation outside the bar.

Now he was second-guessing all of it. Did he misunderstand you? Did he read things wrong? You’d said to him There’s no one else I’d rather have on my team. He’d thought that was pretty romantic, but maybe you just meant that in a professional way? Did he assume something he shouldn’t have?

“Yeah,” Harcourt continues, the entire table oblivious to Adrian’s internal crisis. “Didn’t he give you his number, after the Metropolis mission?”

“You’ve been walking around with Superman’s phone number for the last six weeks?” Adebayo sounds impressed, snapping her fingers. “Damn girl, you really did pull that hot ass man. Good for you. Way to show John.”

Adrian is right back at the bar all over again, feeling like he’s going to be sick, or worse, cry. Is that who you’ve been texting all the time? He’d thought you were just defending him from social media trolls. He had your phone number? When you’ve been looking at your phone and smiling—is it because he messaged you? Why didn’t you tell him?

You blush violently. “Oh my god, it is literally not like that. We are just friends. Clark just gave me his number to share his mom’s apple pie recipe—”

“Wha—Clark?” Adrian finally stutters, flushing red himself, with anger or embarrassment or hysteria, he’s not sure. “You—you’re on a first name basis with Superman? He—he told you his secret identity? You’ve only known him for like three weeks!”

“He’s pretty lax with it,” Harcourt says. “He’s a very trusting person. I personally wouldn’t be, but. To each his own.”

“That is so—irresponsible of him! He’s got a bunch of evil enemies, you could be in so much danger!” Adrian cries, because now he’s not just sick to his stomach with jealousy, but also concern for you.

“I’m not in any danger,” you say softly, reaching for his hand, but Adrian pulls back, out of your reach. You look hurt, confused, but Adrian’s just freaking out inside and he thinks he might implode if you touch him right now. “It’s okay, Ade, nothing bad—”

“You don’t know that!” he insists. “Clark doesn’t know that!”

“Can we get back to the point?” Harcourt says. “Just send him a picture of that thing. See what he says, and we’ll regroup next week.”

“Great. Sounds like a plan,” Adrian says bitterly, and he pushes his chair back, gathers his things, and stalks out of the room, back to his desk.

He avoids you successfully for the rest of the day. He needs time to process whatever the fuck is happening in his brain.

He’s never felt anything this strongly before. He wants you. He wants you so much. He wants to have you, to keep you, to protect you. To love you and be loved by you. But not if you don’t also want those things.

It might break him, if you don’t. If you want those things from Clark instead. Adrian would step back and let you be, obviously. He’s not some possessive alpha male whackjob. But it would be so, so hard.

Adebayo drops by his desk after everyone else has filtered out of the office for the day.

“Do you want to talk about it?” she asks, leaning against his desk. He sits in his chair, stares at his computer at nothing particularly important, jaw clenching.

“Talk about what?” he asks, purposefully obtuse. He’s being avoidant and annoying, he knows that. But if she goes away, then he doesn’t have to deal with it, this terrible, awful feeling that’s crawling around in his lungs, up his throat.

“I know you’re not that emotionally stunted,” Ads says pointedly. “We don’t have an HR department, and I know you don’t have a therapist. I am offering my socio-emotional services as your friend, Adrian.”

He looks up at her. He’s not going to cry. He’s not.

“I’m not good at this.”

“I know you’re not,” Ads sighs. “She knows you’re not. But she’s also not a mind reader, Adrian. You have to tell her how you feel.”

“How am I supposed to compete with Superman?” he asks, and his voice cracks. He hates how desperate he sounds. How desperate he feels. He wishes he could go back to being just Vigilante, when he worked solo. When he didn’t have any friends, he could say that he didn’t have emotions like other people do and it wouldn’t be a lie.

Adebayo smiles, gentle. “You don’t have to compete with Superman, you big dumbo. Just be you.”

Adrian goes to your apartment that night. You’re in your pajamas when you open the door, and you look surprised to see him, even though it’s not the first time he’s shown up unannounced. Sometimes he gets lonely after patrol and he doesn’t want to go home, and he finds himself at your door instead.

“Hi,” you say, and he waves, a little sheepish. Not sure if he’s allowed to be here, after his outburst earlier. He’s still feeling a little raw.

“Uh, hi,” he says.

You both stand there awkwardly for a moment, then start to talk at the same time.

“Can I come—”

“Did you want to—”

“Sorry,” Adrian says quickly, blushing. “I’m…I’m really sorry. About earlier.”

“It’s okay. Did…did you want to come in? And talk?” you ask. You sound hesitant, which makes him nervous. He never wants to be the reason you sound like that, and he feels terrible. But you open the door wider for him, which gives him hope.

“Thanks,” he says, stepping inside and kicking off his shoes at the door the way you always ask him to as you shut and lock the door behind him.

“Are we okay?” you ask him, and he hesitates, looks down at you. Your eyes are wide with concern, flitting over him. “You were—weird, today. You’ve been weird the last couple weeks. And I don’t know what I did, or how to fix it.”

“I—” Adrian starts, but he has trouble. When did it become hard to talk to you? It used to be the easiest thing in the world. He wants it back. The ease, the comfort.

“Sorry,” you say, shaking your head. “I just totally bombarded you there. Not cool of me. Do you want some cocoa? Or tea? We can just—relax, for a minute?”

Adrian is never one to turn down a sweet treat. “Do you have little marshmallows?”

You smile. “Yeah, I have little marshmallows. Cocoa it is. I’ll be right back. Make yourself at home.”

Adrian sits on the couch to wait for you, feeling fidgety with words he doesn’t know how to say. But he turns them over in his mind while he waits, tries to put them in the right order, practices saying them out loud to himself.

“I really like you,” he whispers to himself. “No. That’s stupid. I’m not, like, ten years old.” Fuck. He should have asked Ads what to say. No, she would have just told him to speak from the heart or some crap. He should have asked Chris what to say. No, that wouldn’t have worked either, Chris is too concerned about getting Adrian laid—

Your phone, sitting face down on the couch cushion next to him, starts ringing.

“Could you get that for me, Ade?” you call from the kitchen, and he turns it over.

Incoming call: Clark Kent.

Adrian’s stomach flips over. With shaking hands, he picks up your phone and answers the call.

“Hello?”

“Um, hi,” says an unfamiliar voice. Deep, male. But he’s got the picture in his mind from the news. The perfect hair, the bright blue eyes, the striking jawline. “You’re not—”

“No, she’s in the kitchen,” he says. “I’m Adrian.”

“Oh! She talks about you all the time,” Clark says brightly, and Adrian’s heart stutters, because—you talk about him? To Superman? A flicker of hope, bright and wild, sparks in his chest. “Nice to meet you. Well, kind of. Speak to you, at least.”

“Oh,” Adrian says dumbly. “Um. Yeah. Nice to…speak to you. I’ve heard a lot about you. Obviously.”

“I was just calling her back about that picture she sent me. The alien device? I went through all of the Kryptonian documentation I have, and I came up empty, so I forwarded it along to the rest of the Justice Gang to see if they would turn anything up. Can you just let her know?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I can do that. Um. Thank you?”

“No problem,” Clark says. “I won’t keep you, I’m sure you guys are busy. I’m off for a date night with Lois myself. Enjoy the rest of your night!”

“You too,” Adrian says.

The call ends with a click, and Adrian swallows roughly, looking down at your phone in his trembling hand. He stares at your lock screen photo—you and the 11th Street Kids out at a bar for Chris’s birthday last month. Everyone’s laughing, looking at the camera. But Adrian is looking at you. And you’re looking at him.

“Who was it?” you ask, coming back into the room with two mugs of cocoa in hand. You sit next to him on the couch and place them on the coffee table.

“Clark,” Adrian says, uncertain, like his brain is still processing the fact that he did, in fact, just speak to Superman on the phone.

“Oh! Did he have an update on—-”

“Can I say something important?” Adrian interrupts, because he’s suddenly certain if he doesn’t say what he needs to say right now that he’s not sure he’ll ever say it at all. You fall silent and nod.

“I know you like Superman,” Adrian says quickly, talking fast, because the sooner he gets the words out, the sooner this agony will be over and done with. “I can’t fly or lift cars with one hand or shoot laser beams out of my eyes. But I can run really fast and fight criminals and I know how to use a bunch of weapons and I can do a bunch of push-ups in a row, and don’t tell Peacemaker, but I’m an even better sharpshooter than he is. And really, my healing powers are even cooler than Superman’s, because he needs the Sun, and I can just do it all by myself, I just need to take a nap—”

“Adrian?” you interrupt, cautiously. He falls silent immediately, and the look on your face makes him backpedal, instantly regretting his entire life.

“Sorry. I shouldn’t have said anything,” he says. “Forget I said anything—”

“I do like Superman,” you continue, and his shoulders slump, heart sinking in his chest.

“I know,” he says, “I—”

“But I love you.”

Whatever words he was going to say die on his tongue, and he sits there, gaping at you like a fish out of water.

“Really?” he whispers, wanting so desperately to believe you. “Me?”

“Can I touch you?” you ask, hand hovering, because he flinched away from you earlier, in the conference room, and you don’t want to push if he’s not ready. He grabs you by the wrist, puts your hand on his face, closes his eyes briefly as you trace over his features.

“I’ve been wanting you for—” he chokes on the words. But when he opens his eyes and sees you looking at him with your gentle smile, he takes a deep breath, tries again. “I’ve been wanting you for forever.”

“You can have me,” you say. “You’ve always had me. It was never a contest, honey.”

“So I don’t need to add a cape to the Vigilante suit? Or like, bulk up my biceps? Or—”

“No,” you laugh. “I want you, Adrian. The way you are.”

A Superman-sized weight lifts off of his shoulders in that moment, and he pulls you into him, tucks you into his chest like the precious thing you are, and finally, finally, kisses you, lips moving fervently against yours with an eagerness finally unleashed after weeks of being pushed down and ignored.

You’re dazed when he pulls away from you with a gasp, and you go to chase after his lips, not done with him yet, but then he starts talking at you rapidly, a stream of panicked words.

“Oh my god, I forgot to tell you! I love you too. I’m sorry I didn’t say it back, I was just—really surprised, and I really, really wanted to kiss you,” he rambles. “Don’t think for a second I don’t love you back. I probably love you even more than you love me. Not that it’s a contest! But if it was a contest, I would totally win the contest. I’ve thought about you, like, every waking moment for the last three weeks. It’s been terrible. In a good way! I love thinking about you. But I thought you didn’t love me back, so it was making my stomach hurt a lot. But now I know that you do love me, so—”

It’s like every thought Adrian has had over the last few weeks tries to come out of his mouth at once, all the things he’s been thinking but not able to say. 

Adrian is needy and wants to spend every free moment of the day with you. Of course he does, you're his girlfriend, his everything and you're basically perfection.

Adrian also knows about healthy relationship habits and boundaries. Actually, he didn't at first, but Ads had a big talk with him about it and he's trying his best.

That's why now he encourages you to have as many girlie nights as you want because it's good for you to spend time with your friends, gossip and complain about life in general.

Adrian is also the kind of boyfriend who would host your girl's nights at home as a waiter, taking orders from your girlfriends and bartend for the night.

The kind of boyfriend who validates them when they complained about their boyfriends, because he's a feminist and –

"Oh my god, you're so right, Alicia. Jeremy IS the asshole here!" He gasps.

The kind of boyfriend who blushes and tries his best to hide his dimples when you boldly flirt with him, role playing as a bartender and a customer.

"You busy after your shift, pretty boy?" You wink at him, taking another sip of your drink.

The kind of boyfriend who always fucks you good after a girl's night, because not only you want him bad, but also because every girl's night you realise how much of a great boyfriend he is when you hear your girlfriend's complained about their boyfriends.

Adrian is the kind of boyfriend your friends know makes you cum every time, because you brag about it. Of course you did.

The porch sits right on the edge of it, a little island of yellow lantern light with you cross-legged in your chair, enamel bowl in your lap, fingers slick with bean juice. Crickets grind away in the ditch, frogs answer from somewhere near the pond, and the heat that pressed on your skin all day finally lets go a little, turning soft and damp and heavy instead of mean.

Your daddy, Joe, stands out by the road with a cigarette, just that small orange coal drifting up and down whenever he draws on it.

He’s mostly shadow, hat brim pulled low, shoulders a dark cutout against the pale strip of dirt lane. The smoke hangs around him in thin gray strands, catching the lantern glow before the breeze worries it apart.

The wagon makes itself known before you see it.  A tired rattle carrying over the fields long and low, iron and wood complaining in a way that could belong to any old rig on any old night. 

The mule steps out of the dark first, ears flicking, hooves whispering in the dust, harness creaking, then the wagon-bed, then the man riding it, the whole shape of him hunched against the evening like the road’s been sitting on his back.

He climbs down slow, not careless, one boot testing the ground, then the other. He isn’t tall; not one of those long, scarecrow boys you see come through town sometimes. He’s put together closer to the earth than that, thick through the shoulders and arms, weight settled in the meat of him instead of stretched out. 

Shirt pulls across his chest where the fabric has been asked to hold too much too often, sleeves rolled to his forearms, muscle and old work written in the dust and veins there. Suspenders run straight over his torso, holding everything decent, but there’s something loose under the neatness, a restless set to the way he carries himself, like he’s got more energy than his frame knows what to do with.

His hat sits low enough to shade most of his face until he steps up nearer and the porch light reaches for him.

“Evenin’, Sir,” he says, voice a slow scrape, low and worn, like it’s been dragged over gravel and cigarettes for years. 

The vowels don’t belong to your county, not exactly, but he leans into them like he’s been practicing, trying to make them fit the dirt under his boots.

“Evenin’,” Joe, flicks ash toward the ditch without turning. “You Remmick?”

“Yes, sir.”

He takes off his hat then, presses it to his chest in a gesture that seems to be humble, and in that little bow you see the line of him clear. 

Hair dark and close-cropped, stubborn where it’s tried to wave up and been tamed with water and a hand. Jaw rough with stubble that looks more forgotten than stylish. 

There’s a hardness around his mouth, something that could tilt into a grin or a snarl with not much provocation either way.

When he straightens and lifts his eyes, they cut toward the porch, and you feel it right away when they land on you, as sure as if somebody laid a hand on your bare ankle.

A limp green bean hangs between your fingers, ends torn and wet.

His gaze drifts, following your calves where your skirt’s ridden up, running along the slope of your shins and the span of your knees pressed together, sliding up the line of your apron and the thin open V between your collar buttons where the night air pushes in against your skin. 

He looks like he’s reading you, not just seeing you, taking his time over every line.

You go still, sharp-aware of every place your dress touches your body and every place it doesn’t.

The bean pieces drop into the bowl as you lower your eyes to the boards. The porch wood is dark and warped from years of feet, knot-holes winking like little eyes in the dim.

You fix on those, on the small wet snaps and soft taps of beans piling against enamel. Anything that is not the feeling of a stranger’s stare walking up and down you like a man checking fence.

“Baby,” your father says, voice flat, cigarette smoke curling out on the word. “Say evenin’.”

You wipe your hands on your apron and stand, bare feet quiet on the boards. “Evenin’,” you say, polite as sunday, letting the rest of what you feel sink down where it won’t show on your face.

Remmick smiles like he hears it anyway. It isn’t wide or warm. Just a slow tug at one corner of his mouth, a small, crooked tilt that never quite reaches his eyes.

“Evenin’, miss,” he answers, and there’s a drag in that word miss, the s held just long enough to make it catch.

Miss, when he could have asked for your name, when any decent man might have. Your father hasn’t offered it yet, so you keep it closed up in your mouth.

“Girl oughta be in bed this hour,” Joe mutters, eyes on the yard, not on you. “Ain’t no call for her to be sittin’ out like some boy on watch. Night’s for men workin’, not for women gawkin’.”

The words land on your shoulders like an old coat, familiar weight, old smell.  You bite down on what you want to say and feel it burn on the way down.

“I’m finishin’ the beans,” you tell him instead, hands tightening on the bowl till the rim bites into your palms. You don’t bother trying to explain that the dark sits easier on your skin than the hard white noon does, that the night gives you a little space to stretch.

You can feel Remmick watching you still, not with that sloppy hunger you’ve seen from boys in town, all elbows and gawking.

This is like he’s comparing what he sees to something he’s held in his head a long time. 

“Don’t reckon there’s any harm in her gettin’ some air, Sir,” he says after a moment, pitched low, as if he’s offering reason and not meddling. “So long as she stays where you can see her.” He tips his head, and his eyes make another lazy path over you, unashamed. “World’s rough for a girl on her own.”

Your daddy snorts, jaw tightening just enough for you to notice. “You just worry ‘bout them fields, son. I didn’t hire you to advise on my girl.”

The almost-smile on Remmick’s mouth doesn’t quite leave. “Yes, sir,” he says. “I’ll give all my attention to what you’re payin’ me for.”

He keeps his words aimed at your father, but his gaze is not that obedient. It flicks back to you when he says attention, and there’s weight in it, promise, something that makes your skin prickle fine all over. Something in you bristles right back, lifts its head like a barn cat whose tail’s been stepped on.

You draw a breath and set the bowl against your hip. “Where you want him sleepin’?” you ask your father, eyes fixed out over the yard so you don’t have to meet either man’s stare straight on.

“In the old place.” Joe jerks his chin toward the smaller farmhouse slumped beyond the well—a squat little shape where the lamplight doesn’t reach, half-eaten by shadow. “Closer to the barn. Got a bed and a stove. Man don’t need more than that.”

Remmick turns to look at it, and the lantern light catches his eyes in a strange way, making them flash for an instant like there’s something slick behind them.

The little house sits there like it’s been waiting, windows dark, door shut up tight, roofline sagged just enough to look suspicious.

“That’ll do,” he says. “I’m a night sort myself. Easier workin’ when the sun’s gone and the air ain’t tryin’ to boil you clear through. Less trouble all around.”

He says it easy, like it’s about sweat and shade and nothing else, but you hear the way he shapes night in his mouth, the soft way he lets it roll off his tongue, and something in your belly curls up smaller and sharper.

“Heard you don’t care much for daylight,” Joe says, watching him out of the corner of his eye.

Remmick’s jaw shifts, a muscle ticking like it wants to answer on its own. He glances at you, quick and bright, before he looks down at his boots. “Sun don’t care much for me,” he finally drawls. “Burns me to char if I let it. Always been that way. Doctor said I got delicate skin.”

The word sits wrong in your ear as soon as it’s out, delicate, dangling over this stocky man with forearms roped up in tendon and dirt ground into his knuckles, hands that look like they were made to break things, not handle them gentle. 

It slips out of you before you can catch it, quiet and skeptical. “Delicate,” you repeat, eyes finding his without meaning to.

He catches that and settles into it like a cat into a warm spot. “You don’t think so, miss?” he asks, voice a touch softer now, gaze steady and unblinking.

You ought to let it pass. Ought to dip your head and let the men talk over you, let delicate lie between them like some joke you weren’t meant to get. 

Instead you hold his stare in the lantern glow, take your time looking back the same way he did to you, tracing the faint hollows under his eyes, the line of his nose, the mouth that looks used to biting down on words and maybe on other things too.

“No, sir,” you say finally, after a beat that stretches long. “You don’t look delicate at all.”

Something shifts behind his eyes at that, something pleased and sharp that makes your heart knock once, hard, against your ribs. The corner of his mouth tugs just a shade higher.

“Then I suppose I’ll have to live up to what you see,” he murmurs. “Would be a shame to disappoint you.”

Your daddy grinds his cigarette out under his heel, done with this line of talk. “You can unload what you got, then I’ll show you the place,” he says. “Got work waiting for nobody. You ain’t too tired from sittin’ on a wagon all day, are you?”

Remmick rolls one shoulder, hand rubbing the back of his neck. The stretch shifts his shirt over his back, pulls the fabric across solid muscle there.

You feel your breath snag for half a second and hate that it does.

“Wagon ain’t heavy,” he says. “I’ll get settled quick, then you can put me to whatever needs doin’.”

Joe nods and starts toward the dim outline of that little house, his boots crunching through the loose gravel near the well. The lantern light falls behind him with each step until he’s just another moving patch of dark.

Remmick lingers at the foot of the porch. He settles his hat back on his head, brim bringing his eyes into shadow again, but you can still feel them.

“You finish them beans,” he tells you, voice gone softer, aimed up at you like a secret. “Man works better with a full belly.”

There’s nothing in the words you could point to and call wrong, nothing on the surface you could carry to your father and hold up like proof.

Still, the way his gaze drifts down and back up as he says them leaves something slick and uneasy under your ribs. Heat crawls up your neck, hot in a way that has nothing to do with the air.

“I’ll see to what’s mine,” you say, gripping the bowl till your fingers ache. “Same as you should see to yours.”

His laugh is low, a rough little sound that lives in his chest and doesn’t quite make it to his teeth. He dips his head a fraction, like you’ve handed him a dare instead of brushing him off. “Oh, I intend to,” he replies. “You can count on it.”

Then he turns and walks after your father, stride easy, body moving with a loose sort of purpose. His shadow stretches out along the yard behind him, tossed strange and long by the lantern, then swallowed up as he and Joe move past the well. 

The small farmhouse waits ahead, black windows staring, door a darker cut in the wall. It looks, for one breath, like it’s swallowing the two men whole.

You stand there with the lantern hissing softly at your elbow and watch the dark take them. 

When the yard settles again, when their footsteps fade and the crickets creep back up to full volume, the space between the barn and the house does not feel the same. It’s as if something else has stepped into it and sat down, something you cannot see but can sense just the same, like a pressure change before a storm.

You sit again, bowl back in your lap, fingers finding another handful of beans by habit alone. The wet snap of them breaking sounds too loud in the hush, echoing in the hollow boards under your feet. 

Every few seconds, your eyes drag toward that low silhouette out past the well, toward the little house that is not empty anymore.

You tell yourself you’re only minding where your father put a stranger. 

The first night after he arrives, he walks the fence line while you wash dishes.

You hear his boots dragging through the loose gravel near the yard, then the softer sound of steps in the grass. 

The screen door hangs open to let the air move, lantern burning low over the sink. Your arms are wet to the elbow, suds creeping up your forearms as you scrub at a pan that’s older than you are. 

Out past your own reflection in the dark window, you catch a small shape of motion—the swing of a lantern out near the barn, then the shorter, solid outline of him moving along the fence, checking posts, rattling wire. 

He doesn’t look up at the house that you can tell, doesn’t lift the light toward you, just keeps on with that steady pace, head bent. 

Still, your shoulders hunch like you’ve been caught at something you haven’t done. The glass fogs a little with the breath you don’t remember letting out.

You tell yourself it’s good your father found a man willing to walk the property at night. That’s what you tell yourself as you rinse plates and stack them, as the little yellow circle of his lantern slides back and forth along the edge of your sight.

The second night you have to bring him his supper, because your father ‘forgets.’

It’s late by the time the last of the pots are scraped and put away, your back aching from standing, hair pasted to your neck. Joe leans back in his chair, radio humming low on the table, and says without looking up, “That boy eat?”

You still your hands on the dishrag. “Ain’t seen him at the table.”

“Damn it,” He grumbles, more at himself than you. “Told him come in if he heard me holler and I ain’t never thought to holler. Fix him a plate and take it down. Man don’t work right hungry.”

You swallow whatever you were about to say about whose job it is to feed farmhands, scrape together a plate from what’s left—two biscuits gone hard at the edges, a ladle of beans, a piece of ham with more bone than meat—and cover it with a clean cloth. 

The air outside hits your damp skin and feels cooler than it ought to. The night smells like dirt and hay and whatever’s blooming along the ditch. 

The smaller farmhouse sits out near the barn with a faint thread of light leaking around the edges of its curtain, not bright enough to spill onto the yard. You walk out there, skirt brushing your ankles, plate balanced careful in both hands.

You knock, knuckles soft on the wood. For a second there’s nothing, then the faint scrape of a chair, the hush of someone crossing a small room. 

The door opens only halfway. He fills the gap, shoulder and chest just there, heat and sweat.

“Evenin’,” he says, voice a little rough, like he hasn’t used it since sundown. “You lost?”

You hold the plate out, not stepping any closer than you have to. “Daddy forgot to call you in. Told me to bring your supper.”

His eyes go to your hands first, to the way your fingers wrap the rim of the plate, then to the food, then back up. 

He doesn’t reach right away; he lets the moment stretch, his gaze traveling from your wrists up your arms, lingering on the damp on your skin, on the few stray strands that have worked loose at your temple and stuck there. 

“That’s mighty kind,” he says at last, taking the plate so slow his fingers brush yours. 

They’re not as rough as you expected, just warm and solid, the pads of them catching against your knuckles. “Hope he didn’t drag you out here from your bed on account of me.”

“I wasn’t in bed,” you answer, because lying feels worse than telling him anything true. “Kitchen don’t clean itself.”

He makes a small noise at that, somewhere between agreement and amusement. “No, ma’am. World’d fall apart if it weren’t for everything women do men don’t think about. Least he can do is call me in for a plate now and then instead of sending you.”

You don’t like that it sounds almost gentle, that there’s no clear edge you can grab onto and call wrong.

You nod once and start to turn away, wanting the room behind that door to stay his business and not have to wonder what’s in it.

“Miss?” he says, and you stop even though you don’t want to. “You tell your daddy I’m obliged. To him and to you.”

You keep your eyes on the yard. “He’ll hear you tomorrow.”

“Maybe I like the thought of you carryin’ my thanks,” he says, voice dipping lower.

You don’t answer to that. You walk back toward the big house with your empty hands and you feel his eyes between your shoulder blades all the way to the porch steps.

Another night you pass him by accident at the pump.

You come around the corner of the house with a pail in each hand, too focused on not sloshing well water onto your skirt to notice him right off. 

He’s just there suddenly in the lantern’s edge, sleeves rolled high, suspenders hanging loose at his hips, hair damp with sweat or water; you can’t tell which. 

The pump squeaks once as he lets go of the handle. Moonlight catches the wet on his forearms, the curve of muscle there, the scar that runs pale along his left wrist like a rope burn that never faded.

You stop short, pails swinging. “Didn’t know you were usin’ it,” you say. “I’ll wait.”

He tips his head, that same little crooked half-smile thinking about showing up. “You scared I’m gonna dirty the water, standin’ too near?” His accent is thicker tonight, as if he’s tired of smoothing them for everybody’s sake.

“I ain’t scared,” you say. Your voice comes out flatter than you mean it to, which only makes him watch you harder. “Just got taught not to crowd folk when they’re at work.”

“And here I thought you were just bein’ polite,” he murmurs. He steps back from the pump, gives you room to pass. “Go on, then. Wouldn’t do to have Mr. Joe’s girl haulin’ from the ditch ‘cause I hogged the handle.”

You move past him, the damp of his skin ghosting near your elbow, the smell of iron and sweat and something like tobacco clinging to him. You set a pail under the spout and work the handle, arm moving in a practiced rhythm.

The pump groans, then warm water shudders up from below, splashing cold over your fingers when you misjudge the first rush.

His gaze sits on your hands again, on the bare forearms you didn’t bother covering because it’s night and there’s no sun to scold you. “You do all that yourself?” he asks. “Water, cookin’, everything inside?”

“Me and Mama,” you say, though your mother’s cough has been bad enough lately you both know it’s more you than her. “Daddy’s got the fields.”

“And now he’s got me,” Remmick says, watching your arm work. “Guess I’m supposed to make life easier ‘round here.”

“Then do it,” you answer, a little sharper than you meant. The second pail fills and you swing it away, careful not to splash your toes. “Don’t stand around talkin’ about it.”

For a heartbeat there’s quiet. Then he laughs, low and delighted. “There she is,” he says under his breath, as if he’s been waiting on that bite. 

When you glance over, he isn’t offended. He looks satisfied, eyes bright, lean mouth curled up. “You keep snappin’ at me like that, miss, I might start thinkin’ you’re sweet on me.”

“Or you might start thinkin’ wrong,” you shoot back, lifting both buckets. The weight drags at your shoulders, but you’d sooner drop in the yard than ask him to carry them.

He doesn't offer, just watches you walk away, and you can feel that as keenly as the pull of the water on your arms.

There are other little moments like that, small as splinters. Like, when you cross paths in the barn one evening when you go to check on a cow that lowed funny through your window. 

He’s already there when you reach the threshold, one hand on the animal’s neck, murmuring something soft and nonsense in her ear. 

She calms under his touch, sides heaving slow, eyes rolling less. The lantern hangs from a nail overhead, throwing golden light over the dust in the air, over his shoulders, over the cow’s hide. 

He glances up when he senses you, and for a blink his irises flash almost too light, as if the lantern’s in them and not above him. Then they’re ordinary again, a color you could name if you got close enough, and he’s saying, “She just didn’t like the thunder,” even though the sky’s been clear all day.

You lean on the stall rail, arms folded, watching his hand move in slow strokes along the cow’s neck. 

The steadiness of him with animals makes something twist in you, something like reluctant respect and something like fear, because if he can soothe two thousand pounds of nervous flesh with a voice and a touch, what could he do to yours if he ever decided to try.

On another night you fix a tear in one of his work shirts at the kitchen table because your father plops it there and says, “Stupid fool’s gonna walk around with his arm hangin’ out if someone don’t thread a needle.” 

You mutter that Remmick has two hands and surely they can manage a seam, but you fetch your sewing basket anyway. 

The fabric smells faintly of him, sweat and field and that odd metallic thread that’s been nagging at the back of your senses since he arrived. 

You push the needle through worn cotton and wonder how a man gets a rip that clean across the bicep, by snagging it on barbed wire or nail head, without a single bloodstain around the torn edge.

He shows up to collect it before you take it down yourself. Don’t know how he knows it’s ready, but he’s at the door not long after you knot the last stitch, hat in hand like he’s paying a call.

Your father’s gone out back to piss or smoke or both, your mother’s dozing in her chair, so it’s just you in the quiet kitchen with your fingers still sore from the work.

“You didn’t have to,” he says when you hand the folded shirt over. “Could’ve walked around indecent a day or two, see if anyone complained.”

“My father would,” you say. “Don’t like loose things on his land.”

He takes the shirt with his good arm, the other rolling his shoulder like it aches. The lantern throws his eyes into little warm coins. 

Some nights you only see him from a distance.

Through your bedroom window when you should be sleeping, you catch the sway of his lantern again and again, marking his rounds. In the moonlight, his stride is compact, efficient, not showy. 

He moves like someone who’s spent a long time walking alone, someone who knows better than to waste steps. He never seems to stumble, never misjudges a rut or loose stone.

You watch him slip between the barn and the smaller house, in and out of shadow, and you tell yourself you’re just making sure he’s where he should be, that you are only doing what your father would want.

You notice, too, the nights when the light in his window stays on longer than makes sense. Long after your father’s snores have settled and your mama’s breath has evened into sleep, after you’ve lain there staring at the ceiling until your eyes burn, that far-off square of yellow will still be sitting out there at the edge of your sight. 

Sometimes you think you see the shadow of him cross it, head bowed, shoulders hunched, moving back and forth in a tight little path, but when you squint it’s gone.

Once, you step out onto the porch for air and catch him already looking.

You don’t see him at first; you just feel that prickling awareness that has become his signature in your body. 

Then your eyes find him where he’s paused near the barn, one hand on the fence post, the other hanging loose at his side. No lantern this time, just moonlight on his face, flattening all the hard parts, making his eyes look too bright and his mouth too soft. 

He doesn’t look away when you notice him. He doesn’t call out or tip his hat in greeting. He just stands there in the dark, steady as another post, and lets you decide whether to step back inside or stay where the night can see both of you.

You stay a breath longer than you should, chest tight, heartbeat stepping up loud between your ears. Then you reach for the door, fingers curling around splintered wood, and it feels, for a strange second, like you’re the one retreating and he’s the one who lives here.

By the time a week has worked itself around, his presence has braided into the place.

The horse knows him, ears twitching toward his voice before dawn. The dogs have quit barking when his boots scrape the yard at dusk. Your father has stopped watching him like he might bolt and started calling for him when something heavy needs lifting. 

The small farmhouse doesn’t look so empty now; you’ve grown used to the idea of a man’s breath in there, a man’s boots by the door, a man’s shadow on the curtain.

You’re the one still wary, nerves still stretched thin every time you feel his eyes, even if nobody else in the house seems to notice how often that is. 

You catch him in little reflections—a sliver of him in the pump’s metal, in the window glass, in any surface that throws back light—and he’s always looking your way. 

Not always outright, not always rude, but always aware of you. Always clocking where you are in the yard, whether your sleeves are rolled, whether your hem rides high on your calf or hangs proper at your ankle.

You tell yourself it’s just because there’s not much else worth watching out here.

You don’t quite believe it.

Clouds bruise up toward the horizon, swallowing the moon a few bites at a time. You’re at the kitchen table with mending in your lap when you hear it—one sharp, panicked bawl from the barn that cuts straight through the hum of crickets and the low murmur of your father’s radio.

You’re on your feet before you think about it, thimble still shoved on your finger, needle stuck tight in a loop of thread. 

Your father says something about “damned horses spookin’ at their own shadows” but doesn’t move from his chair.

His back’s been bad all day; he’s been walking like every step hurts. Mama’s dozing, her breath a thin whistle. 

So you grab the lantern from its hook, light blooming up in a hot bloom that stings your eyes, and head out barefoot into the yard.

The grass is cool against your soles, damp from the thick air. The little farmhouse where Remmick sleeps has a strip of light at the curtain-bottom, but you don’t see him outside. The barn looms ahead, big and dark, door standing half-open like a mouth. Another low, fretful sound comes from inside, not as sharp as the first but enough to hurry you along.

“Easy now,” you call as you slip in, lantern held high. “Hush yourself, girl, I’m comin’.”

The barn swallows the outside sounds. In here it’s hay and dust and the soft shuffling of hooves, the rustle of wings up in the rafters. 

Your mare stamps once, snorting, eyes rolling white when the lantern light hits her. You cross the packed dirt quick, set the lantern on a hook so you’ve got both hands, and reach for her halter, stroking her long face.

“It’s just the weather actin’ strange,” you murmur, words more for yourself than her. “Ain’t nothin’ gonna hurt you.”

She settles a little under your voice, but her muscles are still tight, skin twitching under your palm.

You’re so focused on her that you don’t hear him until he’s already in the doorway.

“Somethin’ wrong?”

His voice slides through the gloom, low and rough. 

You jerk a little, head snapping toward the barn entrance. He’s just inside the threshold, lantern in his hand turned down low, throwing more shadow than light. Sleeves rolled, suspenders hooked proper tonight, hair damp at the temples like he’s just come in from a hard walk. 

“Lord,” you mutter, heart kicking hard. “You move too quiet. Thought you were a ghost.”

He lets out a short huff of a laugh. “Not yet.” The lantern swings by his knee as he steps inside, setting the hay shadows dancing. “Heard her fussin’. Figured I’d check before she took it into her head to kick through a stall.”

“She just spooked,” you say. “Storm brewin’ somewhere.”

He comes up nearer, close enough that you can see the sheen of sweat along his throat, the bead of something darker at the cuff of his shirt where it brushes his wrist. 

His gaze does a quick, automatic sweep of the stall—manger, bucket, the mare’s flanks, your hand on her halter—and then it hooks on you, like it always does, like there’s a string between his eyes and your skin.

“You shouldn’t come out here by yourself at night,” he says, quiet, not rebuking exactly but not gentle either. “Barn full of spooked stock, any one of ’em could knock you right off your feet. Ain’t proper for a girl to be runnin’ around after dark alone.”

“That girl’s got ears,” you answer, voice tight, stroking the mare’s neck to hide your own nerves. “She can hear you fussin’ without talkin’ over her head.”

His mouth does that little tilt again, amused. “Reckon she can,” he says. “Reckon she don’t listen half as good as she ought, neither.”

You’re just shaping a sharp reply when it happens.

Something cracks outside, a dry, sharp sound—maybe a limb breaking, maybe a board settling wrong, maybe thunder grumbling way off where the clouds are thickest. 

It doesn’t matter what it is. The mare flinches hard, shoulder slamming sideways. The stall rail shudders under the hit, and you’re standing too close, lantern throwing crazy shadows as the world jolts.

Your first instinct is to get out of the way. You jump back, skirts swishing, hand flying off the halter. You pivot toward the stall opening and catch—not air, not clear space, but the edge of an old nail head that’s been working itself loose from the post for years.

The sound of fabric tearing is loud as a gunshot in the barn.

It rips from just below your hip down the side of your thigh, a long, rude run that opens your dress like a mouth. 

Cool air hits bare skin where cotton should be.

You gasp, more from the exposure than pain, and slap your hand down, fingers clutching at the split to keep it from gaping wider.

For a heartbeat you stand frozen, lantern light swinging, breath shallow, your leg half-bared through the torn seam.

You don’t have a slip on under this dress, not a proper one. It’s too hot. You’ve got plain cotton drawers and a whole lot of skin, and you know without looking that the tear has gone high, high enough that if you weren’t grabbing it shut he’d be seeing places no man has any business looking at on you.

“You all right?” Remmick’s closer before you register him moving, his boots whispering over packed dirt. His lantern clanks against a beam as he hangs it up. He reaches for you by pure reflex, hands coming to your arms, steadying you where you’ve stumbled.

“I’m fine,” you snap, too quick, humiliation burning your face, neck, chest. “Let go.”

You twist away from his grip, turning your hip, trying to angle the torn side away from him. 

The dress shifts anyway, hem dragging through straw, and there’s a flash of thigh where your fingers don’t quite cover everything. You feel the rush of blood under your skin like you’ve been slapped.

His eyes drop before you can stop them.

It’s an instinct with him just like yours, hungry and automatic. His gaze hits the split, the glimpse of your leg, and sticks. Time slows down around that look. You see it happen, see the way his pupils widen, see the quick, sharp inhale he tries to hide.

“Jesus,” he breathes, almost soundless.

You yank the torn fabric tighter, the motion making the rip strain up higher, edge brushing the curve where your thigh meets your hip. Your whole body feels like a lantern flame, exposed and flickering. “Don’t you look,” you hiss, low and furious. “Turn around.”

One of his hands lifts, like he might actually offer to cover the tear for you, fingers curling as if they want to fit over the place you’re guarding. He stops himself, hand hovering for an awful second near your hip, close enough that you feel the heat of him even through the thin cotton. 

“Ain’t my fault you went tearin’ yourself open on every nail in the county,” he says, tone trying for light and landing somewhere rougher. 

His eyes drag up slow, from your knuckles clenched in the fabric, up the bare strip of thigh he already saw, up the shape of your waist and the heave of your chest. “Maybe you should let me look and make sure you didn’t cut that pretty skin to ribbons.”

The way he says pretty makes your stomach flip and your teeth set.

“I ain’t cut,” you spit. “And I sure as hell don’t need you inspectin’ me.”

He should look ashamed. Though, he doesn’t. There’s color high in his cheeks now, not from heat, not from work. His mouth’s gone a little slack, like he’s holding back words. His gaze keeps sneaking back to the place your hand guards, greedy, any time you aren’t staring right at him.

“If you say so,” he murmurs finally. “Wouldn’t want to offend your delicate sensibilities.”

You hear the echo of his earlier lie in that word, delicate, and decide if you stay here another minute you might do something you can’t take back, like slap him or cry or both.

You shift your grip to catch more fabric, bunching the torn side up in your fist so nothing shows. It makes walking harder; you’re hobbling, half-skipping, desperate not to let the skirt fall. “You see to the mare,” you manage, chin up, eyes burning. “I’ll fix my dress.”

He steps back enough to let you pass. As you squeeze by him in the narrow space, your shoulder brushes his chest, your bare calf bumps the hard line of his boot. 

“Careful,” he says, voice quiet, right by your ear. “Would be a shame if the rest of that dress gave up and left you standin’ in nothin’ at all.”

You don’t give him the satisfaction of a reply. You duck your head and hurry out, every step measured so the torn seam doesn’t pull, one hand clamped between your thighs, lantern bumping at your knee. 

The night air on your exposed skin feels wrong, every stray breeze finding its way up under the rip.

You keep your eyes fixed on the glow of the house, on the square of the kitchen window, on anything that is not the barn behind you.

You slam the kitchen door with more force than you mean to, startling your mama awake, mumble something about a nail catching you and make straight for your room. You don’t light your own lamp; you don’t want to see what he saw. You stand there in the dark with your back to the door and your dress torn open under your hand, heart hammering, ears roaring, shame and something hotter and uglier twisting up together in your belly.

Down by the south fence, in the smaller farmhouse, Remmick sits on the edge of his narrow bed with the easy, humming satisfaction of a man who’s been saving something up.

He lit the lamp as soon as he stepped in, not out of any real need for light but because he likes the way it throws shadows, likes the way it paints dim gold over bare wood and gives him something soft to look at while his mind runs back over the evening. 

The room is small and warm from his own body heat, close enough that every breath feels shared with the walls. Old wood, dust, a curl of tobacco from the roll-up he finished outside, and under it all the ghost of you clinging to his clothes—soap and starch and sweat—make a thick little stew in the air.

He shrugged out of his shirt as soon as the door shut, tossing it over the chair without bothering to check if the seam you mended had held. 

The rip in the fabric is nothing next to the rip in your dress that he can’t stop savoring. He works the buttons of his trousers loose without hurry, fingers moving with the contented patience of a man about to sit down to a meal he’s been smelling all day.

He doesn’t try not to think of you. That would be a waste of a perfectly good night.

He leans back against the wall, boots kicked off, pants open at the fly, and lets the picture come as easy as breath. 

You in the barn with your hand clapped between your thighs, dress split wide, that slick little strip of thigh flashing when the cloth slipped. The way your eyes flared when you realized he’d seen, outrage and mortification and something bright under both. The sound of your voice when you told him not to look, like you already knew he was going to anyway.

“Hell,” he mutters, half laughing under his breath as his cock swells heavy against the thin barrier of his briefs. “Ain’t nothin’ on this earth I’d rather think on.”

His palm drifts down over his belly, fingers tracing a slow path to the bulge at his groin. Even that light touch makes him suck in air through his teeth. 

He presses his hand over the outline of himself, feeling the hot, solid weight of his cock straining upward, and a low, pleased sound curls up out of his chest. He palms it once, a lazy roll, enjoying the way it kicks against his fingers like it’s eager too, then he slides his hand inside.

Warm cotton gives way to hot skin. He wraps his fist around the thick base of himself and exhales like he’s been holding that breath since the barn, relief and hunger tangled up in it. His cock sits heavy in his grip, veins standing up, the head already wet where precum has gathered from how long he’s been walking around hard on the memory of you.

“Look at that,” he murmurs, voice low and rough, thumb smearing that slickness over the swollen tip. “Worked up over one little tear. You’d laugh yourself sick if you saw me now, wouldn’t you?”

The thought of you seeing him like this, spread out on his narrow bed with his trousers open and his cock standing full in his hand, only makes him harder. 

He drags his fist down slow, savoring the drag from head to base, then back up again, the friction sharp and sweet all at once. The first few strokes are measured, a man settling into a rhythm he plans to enjoy, not something hurried and guilty he has to choke down.

He lets his head tip back against the wall, eyes slipping shut so he can see you better behind his lids. 

Not the church version, not the good girl with the hem tugged just so and the buttons done up high. 

The barn version. Lantern light sliding over your bare thigh, the tremble in your fingers when you clutched at the rip, that split second when your hand wasn’t fast enough and he got the clean, unearned look he’s been replaying ever since.

“Shit,” he breathes, hand tightening, the slide of skin on skin picking up a little speed. 

He drags his fist down again, slower, getting a feel for every inch, for the way his cock swells harder in his grip with each pass. Arousal slicks his thumb, gathers at the crest of the head, and he spreads it with an easy, greedy little twist, working it around until the slide turns wet and smooth. 

His hips lift into his own hand without much prompting, body eager after nights of walking around with you on his tongue and in his teeth and under his nails.

“Bare leg,” he mutters, watching his hand move now, eyes half-lidded, lashes throwing shadows on his cheeks. “Goin’ about your business like you ain’t got that tucked up under your skirt. Like I ain’t seen it now.”

He remembers exactly how the tear opened, how the cotton gave and the seam surrendered, how your thigh flashed in the jumpy lantern light. 

That first raw glimpse lives in his chest like a hot coal. Skin smooth and soft-looking, the curve of muscle under it, the sweet thickness where it met your hip. 

He remembers your drawers too, plain white cotton clinging to you, riding that line between demure and lewd when the fabric shifted wrong.

His hand moves faster at that, instincts catching up with memory. He curls his fingers a little tighter, pulling from the heavy base up to the slick crown, milking a fresh bead of precum up with each stroke. 

“Bet you went home and stitched that dress up neat as a Sunday virtue,” he says, voice roughened by breath. “Head bowed, lips bit, pretendin’ that leg ain’t still there underneath, smooth as cream and just as soft. Bet you can’t stop thinkin’ about me seein’ it neither.”

He can picture you at your little table, lamp burning, needle in hand, fingers trembling just enough to make the thread snag. Your face hot, your mouth set, your thighs pressed together under the cloth as you sew shame into every stitch. He imagines you tugging that seam tight, that same hand that clutched the torn fabric now working the needle, every pull a memory of his eyes on you.

His free hand slides down his belly, fingers pressing over the flexing muscles there, holding them tight as he fucks up into his own fist. The bed creaks under him, wood complaining, but he doesn’t slow. He spreads his legs wider on the mattress, giving himself more room to move, and the extra slack lets his strokes lengthen, his hips roll, everything turning into a slow rhythm.

“You know what I see when I close my eyes?” he asks the ceiling quietly, dragging his thumb across the slit. “Not that pretty little mouth tellin’ me not to look. I see that hand of yours slip. I see that dress fall open just a little more.”

The picture in his mind sharpens: you, back against a stall post, hand too busy clutching at rough wood to hold your skirts closed, light catching on the full line of your thigh as the rip edges skid higher. 

He imagines the flap of cloth falling aside, full view of your leg from knee to hip, drawers pulled tight over the mound between your thighs, a faint darker patch where heat and sweat have gathered.

His cock throbs in his grip at that. He grits his teeth, pushes his palm down hard, and his hips jerk, chasing the pressure.

“Yeah,” he growls softly. “That’s it. Dress up around your waist, showin’ all that sweet flesh. You holdin’ on to that wood like it’s gonna save you, eyes full of righteous fury while your body’s tellin’ on you.”

His fingers slip lower on the stroke, pausing to cup his balls, rolling them in his palm, feeling the tight, heavy pull there. The sensation punches another sound out of him. He goes back to his cock with renewed urgency, arm working harder now, hand pumping.

He lets himself wander further than any real moment has gone. Lets the memory of that tear turn into something else, something he can taste.

He imagines stepping in close before you can bolt, one hand catching your wrist, the other gathering your torn skirt up and out of his way. Imagines your gasp, that little sharp intake he already knows, your bare thigh hitting his hip as he pins you to the stall. Your panties stretched tight over the soft swell of your cunt, his fingers pushing up against the dampening cloth, feeling how hot you are through the barrier.

“Pretend you don’t want it,” he murmurs, throat rasping. “Try to act like you ain’t gettin’ wet for me while you fuss.”

The words sound vulgar and right in his mouth. His cock swells at it, the head aching now, sensitive with every pass. He squeezes at the top, thumb pressing just under the crown, and his whole body shudders, pleasure rushing up his spine.

“Be a good girl,” he hears himself whispering to the woman in his head, the one pressed to barn wood with her dress in tatters. “Spread ’em for me, let me see what you’re hidin’.”

His hand flies now, finding a quick, dirty rhythm. His breath comes rough, each inhale catching, each exhale spilling out in curses and half-formed praises.

“You’d flush right up to your hairline,” he pants, head rolling against the wall. “Act all offended while your thighs tremble and that pretty thing between ’em throbs. Might even cry a little, wouldn’t you? All sweet and scared and soaked.”

The image of you crying—eyes bright, lashes wet, lips bitten—while your body betrays you sends him right to the edge. His balls draw up tight, cock jumping in his fist, veins standing out under his skin. Heat coils at the base of his spine, that familiar pull gathering everything in, ready to snap.

He spits into his hand for more slick, doesn’t even bother wiping his mouth. The added wetness turns his strokes into something obscene, the sound echoing in the small room. His forearm snaps, muscles burning, chasing the crest bearing down on him.

“Come on then,” he grits. “Show me.”

He imagines hooking a finger under the edge of your drawers and pulling the cotton aside. Imagines the first sight of you bare between your thighs, folds swollen, maybe already glistening, all that heat finally out in the lantern light instead of tucked away in shadows and good manners.

“That’s it,” he rasps, voice breaking, hips jerking harder into his fist. “Knew you’d be pretty there. Knew you’d be soft.”

The wave hits with no ceremony; it slams through him like a mule kick. His whole body locks, stomach clenching, heels digging into the thin mattress, head thumping dully against the wall. 

A groan tears out of him, rough and strangled, half-swallowed behind clenched teeth. His cock jerks in his hand, once, twice, then again, spilling hot over his fingers and across his stomach in thick, pulsing ropes.

He rides it out, hand still working, strokes shortening but not stopping, milking every last drop. Cum coats his knuckles, drips over his fist, slicking his grip until his palm slips on the softening length. 

“Fuck,” he breathes when he can breathe again, voice low and wrecked.

His strokes slow, then ease off altogether, fingers loosening their grip. 

For a moment he just sits there, chest rising and falling, wrist slick and heavy, cock giving a few last, half-hearted twitches in his hand. Sweat cools on his forehead, a bead sliding down along his temple.

He looks down at the mess on his belly, streaks shining in the lamplight, dripping off the side of his hand. There’s no disgust in the way he examines it; if anything, there’s pride. A crooked smile tugs at his mouth, lazy and satisfied.

“Look what you pulled out of me, and you weren’t even here,” he murmurs, more pleased than ashamed. 

He wipes his hand across his stomach, smearing instead of cleaning, fingers drawing idle patterns through the stickiness before he drags them off onto a wadded-up shirt at his side. 

The cotton takes the worst of it, darkening where it soaks, but he doesn’t fuss about the rest. Let it dry on his skin. Let it sit there as a reminder.

He tucks himself back into his briefs, though he doesn’t bother fastening his trousers all the way, leaving the fly gaping a little for air. 

His body feels loose and heavy now, bones sunk deep into the thin mattress. The edge is blunted, that sharp hunger dulled to a warm, low thrum, but it’s not gone.

He leans his head back and lets his eyes drift half-closed, the lamp still burning low. 

In the quiet, he can almost hear you tossing under your own quilt up the rise, feel the echo of your indignation, imagine the way your fingers might trace absent circles over the mended seam of your dress while you tell yourself you hate him.

He runs his tongue along the back of his teeth, savoring that thought as much as any touch.

“Gonna see it torn again,” he says softly, not quite a promise, not quite a threat. 

The lamp flickers, a tiny flame fighting sleep. Outside, crickets scream and something small scurries through the grass. 

The little house settles around him with soft creaks and sighs. He closes his eyes fully at last, the picture of your bare thigh and your furious face smoothing together into one sweet, ripe ache he’s already wondering how soon he can taste again.

Most nights Remmick does his rounds like he’s supposed to, lantern swinging at his knee, gate latches checked, fence wire plucked and listened to like strings. 

But once he knows the map of the place in his bones, once he has counted every post and measured every path, his feet start wandering off the straight lines your daddy would like him to walk. 

He learns where the shadows fall thickest under the pecan tree by the side yard, where the dark under the eaves hides a man from anyone glancing out through lamplight. 

He learns just how far back he can stand and still see into the kitchen window when you’re up late, sleeves rolled, forearms wet to the elbow, talking to your mama while you scrub a pan. 

He learns that when you think everybody’s settled, you lean your hip against the counter and tilt your head a little while you dry your hands, and that little shift of weight does things to your dress you’d never let it do in town.

He finds out you like the back porch at night even more than you like it at dusk. That when the work is done and your parents are loud in their sleep, you slip out with a glass or a cup and sit with your legs stretched, ankles crossed, toes tracing idle circles on the board beneath them. 

From the fence line he can see the shine of lamplight on your bare shins when your hem rides up, can see the loose, tired way you soften back into the chair. 

He watches you tilt your face toward the dark yard like you’re asking it questions it hasn’t answered yet, listens to the little sounds you make—half-sighs, half-hums—that never show up when anyone else is awake. 

He leans on a post with a cigarette hanging from his fingers and looks until he’s had his fill, no hurry in him, nothing but a lazy, steady satisfaction in knowing you have no idea.

He learns your bedroom window, too. Where it sits in relation to the oak, how far up the slope he has to stand to see its square of light. 

The first time he notices the curtain isn’t quite shut, it’s by accident; he’s walking back late, boots slow on the path, when a slice of movement catches his eye. 

Curtain gapping, lamp turned low, you moving around your room in that soft circle people make before bed. 

He stops in the shadow of the tree without even thinking, shoulder to rough bark, the leaves above him murmuring in a wind that doesn’t get down into the yard. 

From there he can see you in fragments—an arm as you reach up to unbutton, a brief glimpse of the side of your neck, the line of your shoulder as fabric slips. 

He tells himself he’ll move when you’re done, that he’s only making sure you got in safe. He stays until the lamp goes out.

The night he sees you in the bath, there’s not even that thin excuse.

It’s late enough the frogs have worn down to a sleepy chorus and the crickets sound drunk. A low, warm fog sits over the fields, pressing scents in close: damp earth, animals settled in their pens, soap drifting thin from the open kitchen window where somebody forgot to latch it right. 

He’s finished his rounds early, all the work of the night sitting behind him instead of ahead, and he feels that restless itch under his skin again, that soft, prowling urge that has nothing to do with fences and everything to do with you.

The house is a square of softer dark against the sky, only a couple of windows holding light. 

He knows which is which now without having to think about it. Kitchen, front room, your parents’ room. The little back room off the side where the big galvanized tub sits when somebody’s been lucky enough to haul enough water. 

Tonight it’s that one glowing gentle behind its thin cotton curtain, lantern hanging somewhere just out of sight, making the fabric look like a pale, breathing thing.

He circles wide, slipping along the edge of the yard where the grass meets the packed dirt of the lane, where the shadows from the trees throw him one more thin cloak. 

The bath window is low, glass fogged a little from steam. The curtain is drawn but not all the way, left a thumb’s width open on one side—enough for light to leak out in a narrow spill. Enough, if a man stepped in close and angled himself just right, to see inside.

He comes up under the sill, breath slow, boots quiet, and lays his palm flat against the siding to steady himself. The boards are cool and rough under his fingers. He leans his shoulder into them and tilts his head, lining his eye up with that careless little gap.

Heat hits him first, a wet, sweet breath rolling out into the night. The lantern inside throws shadows high on the wall, flickering over the curve of the tub, over the length of you in it.

You’re sunk down in the water with your knees bent, one leg drawn up just enough for him to see the shape of it under the surface, the other stretched straighter, foot braced on the far side. 

The water glows around you, gone cloudy with soap, clinging in beads to your skin where it’s out of the tub. 

Your shoulders show above the rim, bare and slick, drops running down in slow trails. 

Steam curls off your chest, off the slopes of your breasts where they rise from the water, soft and heavy, nipples pebbled tight from the heat or the air or both. The lamplight loves them, catching on every curve, laying little gold crowns on each peak.

Your head is tipped back against the rolled towel you’ve wedged between neck and tin, eyes closed, lips parted just enough for breath. One arm drifts along the tub’s edge, fingers dragging lazy patterns through the thin scum of soap there, the other resting across your stomach.

He watches your ribs move with each inhale, the slight swell and fall of your belly under your palm.

You're so unaware of him that it feels almost holy.

He drinks it in like it’s what he came here for all along, no flinch in him, no apology. His gaze roams where it will. 

From the line of your throat down to the hollow between your collarbones, where a small puddle has gathered and overflowed in slow rivulets; down over the slick, shining hills of your breasts, the way they shift just a little with every breath, the way the waterline cuts across them. Lower, to where the curve of your stomach disappears under the opaque water, hinting at more, promising everything.

You shift, lifting one arm to drag the washcloth over your shoulder. The washcloth trails over the round of your shoulder, down the outside of your arm, across the swell of your breast, nipple tightening even more when the rough cloth skims past.

You don’t seem to notice the way your own body responds; you’re too busy chasing day-dirt away, lifting your arm to scrub your neck, tilting your head to give yourself better reach.

From his vantage, he sees everything. His hand tightens on the siding, knuckles going white, that buzzing hunger flaring up bright and hot behind his eyes.

He stares, not making a sound.

You work the cloth down your arm and set it aside, then slide both hands into the water, scooping and pouring over yourself. 

You lift your leg a little, knee rising higher, water spilling off in sheets, showing him the smooth length of your thigh all the way to the place where it vanishes back under the cloudy surface. The muscles there flex as you shift, your toes stretching, calf defined a moment before settling again. 

For a brief second, the water thins enough he can see the shadowed shape where your thighs meet, softened by the haze but there, real and mouth-watering.

His eyes go dark on it, pupils swallowing light. He leans in a fraction more, cheek almost touching the glass, breath fogging the edge of the pane where it meets the frame. 

Every small move you make sends little waves across your body, playing light over the parts he can see, hinting at the parts he can’t.

You sigh, the sound faint through the wall but clear. Your head tips a little to the side, cheek turning toward the window without quite facing it. 

One hand skims over your sternum, following the center line of your body until it disappears under the water. 

Your fingers paddle lazily there for a moment, moving along your own stomach, over the soft give of your lower belly. 

He imagines exactly where they’re drifting, what warm, slick places they’re brushing, even if you’re not thinking of it like that. Your face gives nothing away but relief, a tired little slackness, the expression of someone finally easing aches out of their bones.

“You ain’t got a clue,” he breathes, lips ghosting the words against the flaking clapboard. There’s satisfaction in it, not cruelty. “Bathin’ like Eve in a picture book with the curtain open and the devil on the outside lookin’ in.”

His hand, the one not braced on the wall, shifts restlessly by his side, brushing the front of his trousers. 

He doesn’t touch himself proper, not yet; this is looking time. He wants to be empty enough of the last time to fill up on this one entire. 

His fingers flex anyway, his palm pressing for a moment against the growing bulge, acknowledging it. His cock swells quick and eager, remembering the barn, welcoming the new fodder.

You lean forward to reach the soap, and the angle changes. 

For a breathless few seconds he gets the long line of your back, the way it curves from nape to waist, the hollow above your hips, the dimples that show when you move just so. Water slides off you in glittering trails, trickling down along your spine, pooling in the small of your back before spilling lower. 

As you sit back again, that same water slips over the round of your ass where it breaks the surface, catching the light along the curve, then vanishes under the cloudy bath.

He closes his eyes briefly, just to fix it, then opens them again. He doesn’t want to miss a thing.

You lather your hands, work the soap into your skin, fingers massaging into your shoulders, down along your collarbones. 

The more you scrub, the slipperier you become, water beading and running, foam clinging in thin streaks before melting away. 

When you finally slide your hands under the water, scrubbing lower, your elbows move in a rhythm that makes something low and obscene curl in his gut. 

He knows you’re only washing, just doing what needs doing, but to him it looks like a preview, looks like a rehearsal of things you haven’t yet learned to want.

He watches until the waterline creeps lower on the lantern as the bath cools and you sink down, chasing warmth. Watches as you finally let yourself relax fully, shoulders sliding under, just your face above the surface, eyes closed, breaths slow and even.

Only when you sit forward and reach for the towel hanging on the peg beside the tub does he ease back from the window. 

He knows if he lingers another second, if he sees you stand, water sheeting off every inch as you step out, he’ll plant roots under this sill and never leave. 

There will be other nights, he tells himself.

He peels himself off the wall, body humming, and slips back into the darker yard, breath still measured, strides easy. 

By the time he’s at the edge of the light, he has his lantern in hand again, held low, the picture of a man just passing through on his way to some small piece of work.

He doesn’t feel a lick of shame. What would be the use of it, when the memory of you in that tub is already lodged in his body like a polished stone, something he can roll under his tongue whenever he chooses. 

You’ll go to bed clean and soft, thinking maybe about chores and storms and the seam you mended this morning. 

He’ll go back to his little house with your wet skin behind his eyes and no confusion about what he plans to do with it.

The day’s been long, the kind that starts with a rooster and ends with your back feeling twice your age. 

By the time supper’s put away and the kitchen wiped down, your father’s in his chair with his boots off, socks so full of holes you don’t know why he bothers wearing them, radio mumbling low out of the corner. Your mother’s gone to bed early with a headache, door cracked just enough that you can hear her cough now and again.

You’re halfway through folding the dish towels when you remember.

Mama’s good jar of salve.

You can see it plain in your mind’s eye: small tin with the blue lid, the one she guards like treasure. 

She sent you looking for it just after dinner, when she noticed the raw place on your father’s wrist from rope burn and the darkening bruise on your own hip from where the stall rail caught you days ago. 

You’d gone to fetch more wood for the stove first, meaning to get the salve on your way back, and somehow it slipped right out of your head, chased off by smoke and scolding and the rush to get biscuits off the fire before they burned.

Your father’s already grumbled twice about the barn nail and told you if you’d been paying mind you wouldn’t have torn your dress, wouldn’t have bruises, wouldn’t have needed fussing. 

You can hear him in the morning if he finds that wrist still angry and your hip still tender. Can hear that disappointed click of his tongue.

You’d seen him hand the tin to Remmick earlier in the week, mumbling something about “keep this on hand, boy, in case you tear yourself up,” and watched the new hand tuck it into the pocket of his coat before heading down to the little farmhouse.

“That’s where it is,” you murmur, more to the quiet kitchen than to anyone. A little knot between your brows loosens when you place it. “Down there.”

You glance at the clock. It’s late enough the newsman’s gone off the air, early enough the world hasn’t quite tipped into the dead hours where the dark feels thickest. 

Outside the window, the yard is quiet, the barn a heavy shadow, the smaller house beyond it just a darker square against the field.

“Where’s that boy?” Your father mutters around his cigarette, not really expecting an answer. “Ain’t heard him come in for coffee. He out checkin’ fence or sleepin’ on my dime?”

“Out, I reckon,” you say, folding the last towel with a sharp little snap.

Truth is, you haven’t heard his boots either. You haven’t seen his lantern bob by the window. It’s been a soft, blank stretch of night, no sign of him.

You tell yourself that means he’s at the far end of the pasture or walking the ditch line. Exactly where he’s supposed to be.

“I’ll fetch Mama’s salve,” you add, already untying your apron, tucking it over the back of a chair. “She’ll want it first thing in the mornin’.”

Joe nods, smoke curling out of his nose. “Don’t you linger,” he says, not looking up. “Get what you need and bring your tail back in this house. I don’t want you down there visitin’ like it’s social hour.”

You bite back the urge to say you’d sooner visit the pig pen. “Yes, sir,” is what comes out instead.

The night air catches you on the porch, damp and soft, smelling of cooling dirt and a hint of something sweet blooming out by the fence. 

You step down barefoot, skirts whispering around your calves, the boards’ splinters familiar against your soles. The big house’s light spills just to the bottom of the steps, then gives up, letting the yard roll out into dark.

The little farmhouse sits a ways off, past the well, past the worn track where the wagon turns. All its windows are black. No orange seam under the curtain, no silhouette rising and falling against the glass. The barn is quiet too, doors thrown shut, only a thin line of moon-silver along the roof.

You latch onto the sight of that dark little house like proof. He’s not there. He’s out somewhere with a lantern and a bad attitude. 

You’ll be in and out before he knows you’ve even left your room.

You wrap that thought around yourself like a shawl and start across the yard.

The grass is cool and a little slick with dew under your feet, clinging between your toes. Crickets saw at the edges of things, frogs mutter down in the low spots. The well’s stone lip rises out of the ground like something old and patient; you ghost past it, keeping your eyes on the squat shadow of the farmhouse.

Up close, it looks smaller, somehow meaner. The door is shut, the porch bare save for his boots lined up neat off to one side. You take in that detail with a little flick of relief—boots off means man in bed, not loose in the yard—before another thought slides in behind it: or just inside.

You hesitate only a heartbeat.

The want to not get scolded in the morning, the want to have Mama’s salve where she can lay hands on it, outweighs the whisper of sense telling you this is foolish.

You lay your palm on the door and push.

It gives with a small, tired creak, the smell of the place rolling over you in a warm wave: wood, straw, tobacco, sweat, and that faint metallic thread you’ve started to think of as his alone. There’s a lamp turned low on the table just inside, wick pinched till the flame is barely more than a coal in a glass throat, enough to lay out the shapes of things and nothing more.

“Remmick?” you call, voice barely above a whisper, more habit than hope. When nothing answers—not a word, not a shift of boards—you let your breath out slow and step over the threshold.

The door eases halfway shut behind you, not latched. You don’t bother with it; you don’t plan to be here long enough to worry about what’s open and what isn’t. 

The room is small and spare, just like your daddy said it was. Bed against one wall, blanket rumpled from someone sitting, if not lying. Chair with a coat thrown over the back, shirt draped careless on top. Table with the lamp, a chipped cup, a folded knife. A shelf holding a few tin plates, a jar of coffee, the heel of a loaf.

You move quick but careful, eyes trying not to linger on the smaller things that say a man’s been living here—his belt coiled on the chair seat, his hat hanging from the peg, the empty space on the floor where his boots were. 

You head straight for the coat, remembering your father’s hand dropping the salve tin into its pocket.

You pinch the fabric between your fingers, easing it aside, but the weight you expect to tug at the hem isn’t there. The coat hangs light. You pat the pockets; they’re empty, save for a wadded rag and a stray button.

“Damn,” you breathe, annoyed, under your breath.

Maybe he moved it. Maybe he took it out so the tin wouldn’t fall and get lost when he shrugged the coat on.

You cast your eyes around the room, searching high shelves, low boxes, any place someone might set a small, important thing.

The table catches your attention next. You circle it, gaze skimming over the knife, the cup, the lamp. 

There, near the edge, half in shadow—a squat little tin no bigger than your palm, blue lid dulled with age.

You smile in spite of yourself and reach for it. “Got you,” you murmur, closing your fingers around the cool metal.

You pop the lid just enough to see the salve inside, pale and thick, smelling faintly of herbs and camphor, then press it back down with a soft click. The job’s done. Simple as that.

You turn, already thinking about the path back to the house, about slipping this into Mama’s hand and letting yourself be proud she won’t have to wonder where it is in the morning.

You don’t make it two steps.

There he is.

Standing in the doorway that leads to the small back room, shoulder braced against the frame like he’s been leaning there a while, like he grew right up out of the wood.

He’s shirtless, skin slicked faint with sweat, the rise and fall of his chest slow and easy. Suspenders hang loose against his hips, clipped to his trousers but fallen off his shoulders, framing the cut of his torso in dark lines. 

The lamp’s low light paints him in gold and shadow both, dipping into the hollow between his collarbones, skating over the plane of his stomach, catching on the trail of hair that runs down from his navel into the waistband of his pants. 

His arms cross over his chest, veins standing faint along the backs of his hands where they rest against his biceps.

His feet are bare. His eyes are not gentle.

“Find what you was lookin’ for?” he asks, voice soft, too soft, the scrape of it wrapping around the words like a touch.

Your heart gives one wild jump, slamming up against your ribs hard enough to hurt, then starts to run. 

You hadn’t heard him come in. Hadn’t heard the back door, hadn’t heard the floor protest, hadn’t heard anything but your own little fussing search and the tiny pop of the salve lid.

For a foolish second you think about hiding the tin, tucking it behind your back like a child caught in a pantry. You don’t. There’s nowhere to put it he wouldn’t see, and you refuse to give him the pleasure of watching you scramble.

Instead you hold it up just enough that he can see the blue lid glint in the lamplight. “My mama’s salve,” you say, surprised at how even your voice comes out. “Daddy gave it to you. He forgot where he put it. I came to fetch it.”

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t look at the tin for more than a passing glance. His attention stays on you, heavy as a hand between your shoulder blades. He rakes his gaze from your face down to the salve, then lower, slow as a man looking over a field he’s about to plow.

You suddenly know exactly how your dress is sitting—where the fabric pulls across your chest from turning too quick, where the skirt clings to your thighs from the damp in the grass, where your collar gapes just a breath more than it should because you didn’t bother with the top button in the heat. Your skin prickles under each place you picture his eyes touching.

“You always just walk yourself into a man’s house without knockin’?” he asks after a beat, one brow ticking up.

“This ain’t a house,” you reply, chin lifting a shade. “It’s a shack my father stuck you in so you’d be closer to the barn.”

Something like amusement flickers across his mouth. “Still mine for now,” he says. “Door was shut, wasn’t it?”

“You left the lamp on,” you shoot back. “Anybody with decent sense would take that as invitation in case of emergency.”

He uncrosses his arms then, letting them drop to his sides. The motion makes muscles jump in his chest, the lines of his shoulders shifting under skin. “And what’s the emergency, miss?” he asks. “That your mama’s medicine was sittin’ ten yards farther than you like it?”

His tone isn’t mocking. It isn’t kind either. It’s something in between, something testing. Like he’s poking at you with words just to feel where you’re soft.

You swallow, the salve tin suddenly heavy in your hand. “I said why I came,” you answer. “I’ll be goin’ now.”

You move to head toward the front door, the one you came in, but the room is small, and he doesn’t move. One pace brings you close enough to smell him. Another pace would put you near enough to brush him if you misjudged your route.

He shifts his weight to fill the doorway more fully, one hand lifting to rest on the frame to the side of him. It leaves his ribs bare, that patch of hair under his arm catching the lamplight. There’s a faint scar along his flank, pale against the warmth of his skin, old and ugly, like something tore him open once and he lived anyway.

“Seems a shame,” he says, looking at you. “You comin’ all this way just to snatch up a tin and run.”

Your pulse hammers harder. “It ain’t far.”

“For you,” he agrees. “For me it’s a long, lonely walk most nights. I might be grateful for a little company.”

“You got company,” you say, words a little sharper than you intend. “You got every cow, every dog, every fence post on this land. You don’t need me.”

He lets that roll over him like water off a duck’s back. “Maybe I’m tired of talkin’ to things that can’t talk back,” he murmurs. His eyes flick down to the salve again, then to your hand, to your wrist where your pulse beats visible in the hollow. “You tore yourself up any today, or you just borrowin’ this for show?”

“Bruise on my hip,” you admit before you can remind yourself you owe him nothing. The words come out stiff. “Ain’t your concern.”

“Everythin’ that happens on this farm’s my concern when it means workers showin’ up busted in the mornin’,” he says. “You do work, don’t you? Or are you just here to keep the place pretty.”

Heat flashes through you, quick and mean. “You've seen me work,” you say. “You've seen me at that pump, at that stove, out in the yard. Don’t you stand there half-dressed and ask if I do my share.”

His mouth twitches at half-dressed. He doesn’t bother to hide the way his gaze drops, quick, down the front of himself and back up, as if to say he knows exactly how much he’s wearing and how much you’re seeing. It’s deliberate, that small, shameless acknowledgement of his own body.

“Believe me,” he says, voice dropping lower, “I’ve seen you.”

The words land between you, heavy and thick. They mean more than they say. Every peek he’s stolen presses into the space they open up: your bare leg in the barn, your shoulders shining in the bath, your tired posture on the back porch, one strap slipping careless down your arm before you hitched it back up.

You don’t know about most of that. What you do know is enough to make your throat go dry.

“I ain’t supposed to be down here visitin’,” you say, trying to wrestle the conversation back onto some ground that feels steadier. “My father told you that when you got here. Told me too.”

His eyes gleam at the mention of your father, some dark amusement sparking there. “He told me to show you respect,” he says. “And I have. Haven’t laid a hand on you that you didn’t walk too close to yourself.”

Your mind trips over the memory of his fingers catching your arm in the barn, steadying you when your mare spooked. The way his hand hovered near your torn dress, heat just shy of your hip. The way he stood in the yard with his eyes on your mouth and called you miss like it was something he wanted to lick.

You draw yourself up as tall as you can manage in the little room, salve tin tight in your grip, refusing to yield the step he’s trying to take without moving his feet. “Then you’ll move,” you say, voice low but steady. “So I can go on home and keep livin’ my life with all that respect you’re so proud of.”

For a moment, you think he might laugh in your face. His lips part, teeth catching on his bottom lip, eyes glinting.

Instead he just looks at you.

It’s worse than if he’d laughed. He looks like a man deciding how honest he feels like being tonight. Like he’s weighing whether to keep playing at politeness or lay something sharper on the table between you.

The lamplight flickers, shadow jumping along his jaw as he tilts his head. “You walk out that door,” he says finally, nodding toward the porch, “and I’ll let you. I ain’t gonna drag you nowhere you don’t step first.”

Relief and something colder flick through you at the same time. “Good,” you start to say, but he isn’t done.

“But,” he adds, and that one little word lands heavy, “you come walkin’ into my place after dark again, all alone, dressed like that, lookin’ at me like you don’t know whether you wanna slap me or cry on me—well.” His gaze drops to your mouth and back. “That’s you steppin’. And I’ll take it as such.”

Your heart stutters, one hard misstep in its rhythm. “You overestimate yourself,” you snap, even as your fingers twitch on the tin.

He smiles then, slow and wolfish, the expression finally reaching his eyes in a way you haven’t seen yet. 

“We’ll see,” he says.

For a long, tight second, nobody moves. The walls feel closer, the air thicker, the lamplight too intimate. You hear the frogs outside, the creak of the house settling, the little wet sound of your own swallow. His bare chest rises and falls, steady, like he’s got all the time in the world.

Then he steps to the side.

The doorway opens up behind him, a narrow slice of night visible over his bare shoulder. It’s more space than you expected him to yield, less than you’d like.

You duck past, your shoulder nearly brushing his chest, the heat pouring off him making your skin prickle. You feel his eyes on the side of your face, on the line of your throat, on the way you have to hitch your skirt just a little to keep from tripping as you step over the threshold.

“Goodnight, miss,” he says softly, right by your ear, breath warm as it ghosts over your neck. “You be careful now. Dark’s full of things you don’t know about.”

You don’t trust your voice not to shake, so you don’t give him the satisfaction of hearing it. You just walk, bare feet hitting the packed earth hard, fingers biting into the salve tin so tight the metal cuts a little crescent into your palm.

Rough wood presses into your hips, edge digging a little where your nightgown’s ridden up, breath catching in short, shallow pulls because he’s got one big hand flat between your shoulder blades, holding you there, and the other is on your ass, fingers clawed into the thin cotton, bunching it up and away from your thighs. 

The lamp in the corner throws a low, mean light over the kitchen, just enough to show you the knot in the tabletop and the chipped plate someone left on the shelf, just enough to catch the shadow of his arm when it moves.

You came down here hot with it. Anger, mostly. 

At him for looking at you how he does, for crowding doorways and talking low in your ear. At yourself for feeling anything besides disgust when he does it. 

For weeks that feeling has sat under your skin like a burr under a saddle, rubbing everything raw—every brush of his eyes, every sly comment, every late-night glimpse of his lantern out in the yard when you should’ve been sleeping. 

Tonight it tipped over. Tonight you lay in your bed and stared at the ceiling and saw his bare chest in that little house instead, heard his voice saying we’ll see, felt your own body answer in a way that wouldn’t quit.

So you got up after the house went quiet, barefoot on the boards, heart in your throat. 

You didn’t bring a lamp. You told yourself you were just going to tell him off, to say plain that you didn’t want him looking, didn’t want him speaking to you sideways, didn’t want the innuendo and the smirks and the way he made you feel peeled without ever laying a proper hand on you. 

That was the story you wrapped yourself in as you crossed the yard, nightgown clinging to your knees.

He opened the door before you could knock, like he’d been standing right on the other side with his palm on the handle, listening.

You remember the way his eyes moved over you, slow, no shirt, just those loose trousers hanging low on his hips, lamp behind him making his shoulders look broad and his face unreadable. 

You remember his mouth forming your name, quiet and satisfied, like he’d been waiting to say it like this. 

You remember the way all that anger and want surged up together in your chest, wild and tangled, and how you said something too sharp, voice shaking, about him needing to keep his eyes to himself if he wanted to stay on your daddy’s land.

Now here you are with his hand on your back, pressing, holding you down exactly where you came—over his small scarred table in his small farmhouse kitchen—your own fingers gripping the edge in a white-knuckled clutch.

“Thought you weren’t supposed to be down here visitin’,” he drawls above you, breath warm near your ear, words rolling over your spine. “That what you told me?”

You glare at the knot in the wood like it did you personal harm. 

Your face is hot, your body even hotter, a slow, heavy throb deep between your thighs that started halfway across the yard and hasn’t done a thing but grow. 

“I ain’t visitin’,” you say, the words a little muffled by the way he’s got you folded. “I came to talk sense into you.”

His laugh is low and pleased, hand on your back sliding a little, fingers spreading, thumb settling along your spine. He presses down just enough to remind you who’s holding you where you are. 

“Is that what you call it,” he says, “showin’ up in your bed things after dark, sneakin’ through my door with your hands empty and your eyes wide? Talkin’ sense?”

His other hand cups your ass through the thin fabric, palm wide over you, squeezing like he’s testing a piece of fruit at the market. 

The nightgown has twisted up, hem caught high over your hips, leaving the bottom curve of you bare to his touch, only the cotton of your drawers between his fingers and your skin. 

Heat floods that spot, a sharp, shameful pulse that makes your breath catch.

“You been walkin’ around twitchy as a cat for days,” he goes on, hand kneading, thumb digging into the give of your flesh there. “Snappin’ at me, snappin’ at your daddy, gettin’ that look on your face every time you see me like you don’t know whether to spit or spit somethin’ else.”

“Shut up,” you hiss, mortified at how true it feels in your bones. 

You shift your hips, trying to wriggle away from that hand, and all it does is grind you back against his palm, soft cotton dragging over the swell of you, catching on the seam that runs right over the place you’re trying not to think about.

He makes a sound at that, low in his throat, rough and appreciative. “Yeah. There she is,” he says, words coming a little thicker now. “All that fire. You walked your own self down here, girl. Nobody dragged you.”

“I came to tell you to stop,” you manage, though the way your voice climbs at the end takes the bite out of it. His fingers curl, grab a little handful of your ass cheek through the cloth, and you feel the ache spike hotter. “Stop lookin’. Stop talkin’ like that. Stop—stop–”

“Stop makin’ you feel all twisted up?” he supplies, not unkind, just plain. 

His hand on your back softens, spreads, rubbing along your spine like he’s soothing a spooked animal even as the other keeps kneading at you. 

“Stop remindin’ you there’s more to be had in this world than hymns and beans and mendin’?”

You suck a breath in through your teeth. “You ain’t the only man alive,” you snap. “You ain’t special.”

His grip tightens, a hard squeeze that makes you gasp. “No,” he agrees easily. “But I’m the only one you marched down here to cuss out in your bare feet and nightclothes, so I’d say I’m doin’ something right.”

You hate how your body answers that, how something low in you liquefies at the thought of it, at the truth you don’t want to name. You hate the way your thighs press together of their own accord, seeking pressure, seeking relief, even as you hold yourself rigid under his hand.

He feels it. His palm slides down, fingers curling under the heavy curve of you, thumb dragging along the crease where your ass meets the top of your thigh. 

You’re hyper-aware of every inch, every callus on his skin, every place the old wood digs into your hips. When his hand moves inward, fingers bumping close to the center of you, you flinch.

“Don’t—” you start, panic and want knitting together, but the word thins out when his touch presses just a little firmer over the damp cotton there.

“You’re soaked,” he says softly, no mockery in it, just raw, hungry wonder. “Walked through my door mad as sin, all full of pretty speeches, and your cunt’s already cryin’ for somethin’ to hold on to.”

Shame scorches up your neck. “Don’t call it that,” you choke, mortified, the word hitting you deep and low and making everything worse.

He hums, thumb tracing a slow circle over that swell, pressing right where the cloth is clinging. The pressure is perfect, unbearable. 

“What you want me to call it, then?” he asks, voice brushing the shell of your ear now. 

“Your virtue? Your purity? That sweet spot between your legs that ain’t nobody touched?” His thumb moves again, firmer, and your hips jolt against your will. “’Cause I see it all over you, darlin’. You came here wantin’ me to stop, but your body came here wantin’ somethin’ else entirely.”

You shake your head, even as your toes curl, even as your lungs drag in another sharp breath that tastes like him and the lamp smoke and the hot, close air of this little house. 

“You’re—you’re foul,” you say, but it comes out thin, breathy. “You been lookin’ at me, watchin’ me, talkin’ to me like—”

“Like I know what to do with you,” he cuts in, a hint of impatience threading through his heat. “And I do. You think I don’t see what’s eatin’ at you every time you glance down at my hands, or my mouth, or lower?”

His fingers slide along the seam of your drawers, finding the little ridge where cloth meets cloth and pressing right there. 

It sends a jolt through you big enough you can’t muffle the small sound that drops out of your throat. 

His hand on your back pushes down, keeping you bent, letting you grind into that touch without rising off the table.

“Listen here,” he says, voice roughening, patience fraying. “You came. You’re here. You can tell me to stop and I will. I ain’t gonna take what you don’t hand me. But don’t stand there in my house, drippin’ on my floor, and try to lie about what you’re feelin’.”

The room seems to shrink around those words. 

You know he’s right. You also know how far you are from where you were supposed to be, from the girl who said she’d never let a man like him get close, from the girl who swore she’d keep herself intact till some tidy, respectable husband came along with a ring and a house and his hat in his hands.

You think about those men. Faces you’ve seen in church, in town, men who look at you when they think you’re not noticing with a hunger they don’t know what to do with. Men who’d apologize if their fingers brushed your wrist too long.

Then you think about this man, bare-chested behind you, hard and unashamed, his hand pressed between your shoulder blades, the other on you like you’re his to handle. 

You think about his eyes in the barn, on your torn dress. About the words he said in this very room, about stepping. About how you’ve been walking around with your jaw clenched and your thighs pressed together ever since.

“Tell me the truth,” he says, thumb pressing a little harder, his other fingers spread wide over the swell of you. “You want me to let go of you and send you back up that hill with your temper, you say it. I’ll move. You can go pray extra loud come Sunday.”

The lamp crackles softly, a tiny sound in the heavy dark.

“And if I don’t?” you hear yourself ask, voice small but steady. “If I say I don’t want you to move?”

His hand stills on your back for one beat, then both of them tighten—one pressing you down, one grabbing a handful of your ass like he’s staking a claim. A breath leaves him in a long, shuddery exhale that ghosts hot over your neck.

“Then I’m gonna take real good care of what you brought me,” he says, tone gone hoarse and thick, the restraint in it the only thing keeping you from shaking. “Gonna give you somethin’ to think about next time you lay awake in that bed of yours. Gonna fuck you on this table till you don’t remember what you came down here mad about.”

The word fuck lands hard in you, a punch and a promise all at once. 

You grip the edge of the wood like it’s all that’s keeping you upright, though you’re already bent, already braced.

“Say it,” he murmurs, leaning in until his chest brushes your back, bare skin hot where it touches the thin cotton. 

The admission sits in your throat like a hot stone. It feels enormous. It feels like stepping off a ledge.

“I want—” The word catches, but his thumb flicks over you again, sharp and sure, and your hips roll without permission, a little helpless grind that betrays every fight you’ve been waging with yourself. “I want you,” you gasp, shame and relief crashing together. “I want you to—to do somethin’ about it.”

He lets out a sound that’s almost a groan, almost a laugh, almost a curse, his body crowding you tighter, his weight a solid wall of heat at your back. “That’s my girl,” he says, and the possession in it makes your knees wobble, makes that core of you clench hard around nothing.

His hand leaves your back long enough to grab a fistful of your nightgown at the hem, yanking it up in one rough motion that leaves it bunched around your waist. 

Cool air hits your drawers, the bare backs of your thighs, the soft part just under your cheeks, and then his palm is there, skin to skin at last, cupping you hard. 

His fingers dig in, thumbs pressing outward, spreading you slightly, mapping the give.

“You’re shakin’,” he says, sounding pleased. “Ain’t even touched you proper yet.”

“You’re takin’ your time,” you manage, though the words shake too.

He chuckles, low. “First time’s never good when a man rushes,” he answers, matter-of-fact. “And I know you ain’t had nobody in you yet, feelin’ the way you do under my hand.”

Before you can answer, his fingers hook into the waistband of your drawers and tug. The fabric resists for a second, elastic biting into soft flesh, then slides down, dragging over your hips, over the swell of your ass, down the backs of your thighs until they tangle around your knees. 

He leaves them there, trapping your legs just enough you can’t kick or close up, just enough that you’re open and vulnerable and aware of it.

Cool air kisses you everywhere the cloth just left. 

You feel filthy, bare from waist to mid-thigh, bent over his table with your nightgown rucked up, your cunt exposed to the room, to him. It makes your head swim.

Then his hand is back, and there is no room for anything else.

He cups you from behind, fingers sliding through the slick heat of your folds, and you hear a sharp breath hitch out of him. “Oh, hell,” he says, reverent.

You make a broken, helpless sound that doesn’t sound like it belongs to you. 

No one’s ever been there before, not like this, not with fingers spreading you, rubbing through you, middle finger catching on that aching bud you’ve only ever touched in the dark with guilty hands. 

The sensation is lightning-bright, stabbing up your spine.

“Easy,” he murmurs, palm flattening across your low back again, his body curving over yours, caging you. “I got you. Gonna make it good for you before I stretch you around me. Don’t want you too scared to enjoy your first fuck.”

The way he says first fuck, like he’s staking a flag there, like he’s carving his name into it, makes something fierce flicker through you, a strange pride knotting up with the fear. 

You push back against his hand without meaning to, chasing more.

He feels it. “That’s it,” he encourages, fingers pressing deeper between your lips now. “Ask for what you want with that pretty body. Tell me where it hurts.”

“Everywhere,” you pant, honesty ripped out of you on a wave. “It hurts everywhere.”

He laughs, breath hot against your neck, mouth close enough you feel the shape of it. “That ain’t hurt, girl,” he says. “That’s need.” 

His fingers finally find your entrance, slick and hot and clutching, and he presses the pad of one inside, just the tip, testing. Your whole body clenches around that intrusion.

“You relax for me,” he tells you, tone sliding into something commanding. “Breathe.”

You suck in air, lungs burning. 

He slides the finger in a little further, thick and probing, opening you. 

The stretch is sharp, uncomfortable, but there’s an undercurrent of relief in it. He works it in and out slowly, letting you get used to the feel, letting your body learn the shape of him.

“That’s good,” he murmurs when he feels you soften around him, the praise lighting up something small and hungry in your chest. “See? You take my finger just fine. Gonna take my cock too when I’m done with you.”

He adds a second finger before you can brace, and this time the stretch makes you gasp loud, muscles clamping down. It burns, a deep, insistent ache, like you’re being pried open.

“Shh,” he soothes, his index finding that little bundle of nerves again, circling steady, sending sparks to chase the hurt. “I know. I know. We gotta loosen you up some or you’ll split yourself on me.”

The blunt truth of it makes you squeeze your eyes shut, face hot against your forearm. 

You can feel him behind you, solid, his chest glued to your back, his arm moving between your legs. When you manage to breathe past the initial shock, the burn eases, replaced by a full, pressurized feeling that fills your head with nothing but sensation.

He moves his fingers, slow at first, pumping them in and out of you in short strokes, stretching, coaxing. 

Your body starts to answer despite itself, hips rocking back in tiny motions, seeking that deep, sweet drag. 

Every thrust brushes against something inside you that makes your legs tremble, makes your breath hitch. 

“Listen to that,” he says, voice thick, and it takes you a second to realize he means the wet sound loud in the little kitchen as his fingers work in and out of you. “You hear yourself takin’ me in? That’s you wantin’ it.”

It’s filthy and true and you can’t deny it. 

There's a coil tightening low in your belly, every nerve in your body funneling to where his hand is. Your grip on the table edge goes slippery with sweat.

“Remmick,” you gasp, not even sure what you’re asking for, only that you’re strung too tight.

“There you go,” he groans, fingers driving a little deeper, curling just right.

It hits without much warning. One second you’re climbing, the next you’re over the edge, everything snapping. 

Your body seizes around his fingers, clenching so hard it almost hurts, that coil unspooling in a rush of pleasure so intense it blanks your mind.

A breathless moan tears up your throat. Your thighs shake, knees nearly buckling, if it weren’t for his hand on your back and the table under your palms you’d be on the floor.

“That’s it,” he groans, riding you through it, fingers still working, still moving until you’re whimpering, too sensitive, twitching with each little aftershock. 

You sag against the table when it finally lets you go, chest heaving, sweat cooling on your neck. He eases his fingers out of you slow, gentle for the first time since you walked in, his hand sliding up to rest on your hip. You can feel his other hand at your back again, rubbing small circles, keeping you grounded.

“First one’s always a little wild,” he says, sounding almost fond. “You doin’ all right?”

You nod, or try to. Your head feels full of cotton, floaty and heavy all at once. “I—” Your voice comes out hoarse. You clear your throat. “I’m fine.”

“You’re more than fine,” he says, and there’s a smile in it. “You’re perfect.” He shifts behind you, and that’s when you feel it, really feel it—his cock pressed up against the back of your thigh through the fabric of his trousers. 

He’s been hard this whole time, you realize dimly, all that while he was working you open. The blunt head drags over your skin when he adjusts, the thickness of him obvious even through cloth.

Your stomach flips, fear and anticipation knotting together. “You’re really—”

“Oh, I’m really.” He sounds almost amused. “You wanted me to take you on this table, remember?” 

His hand leaves your back and you hear the soft, familiar sound of a belt coming loose, a buckle clinking, the rasp of leather through belt loops. Then buttons, quick and practiced, fabric shifting.

You suck in a breath, every sense straining.

A moment later, something hot and slick—not his fingers this time—nudges against your entrance. He slides the head of his cock through your slick folds slowly, up and down, coating himself in you, bumping your clit on the downstroke, making you twitch.

“Jesus,” he mutters, more to himself than you. “You feel that? How you’re grabbin’ at me already and I ain’t even in?”

You do feel it, and it’s terrifying. Your body recognizes him as something it’s meant to hold, meant to take, even as your mind stumbles over the size of him, over what this means.

“I—wait,” you say, panic flaring for a second, the reality of it looming. “Remmick, I’m—”

“I know,” he says, and for once there’s no teasing in it. “You listen to me. It’s gonna burn at first, then it’s gonna feel like you never should’ve gone without it this long. You trust me?”

You hesitate. He feels it in the way your muscles tense around the head of him. His hand comes up, fingers wrapping loosely around your throat from behind, thumb tipping your chin just a little. The touch sends a different kind of shiver through you, sharp and grounding.

“I ain’t gonna break you,” he says quietly, close to your ear. “I want you comin’ back to this just as bad as I want you right now.” His hips roll just enough that the blunt tip presses hard against your opening. 

The hand at your throat, the tone in his voice, the memory of his fingers and the way your body just came apart on them thirty seconds ago—they all crash together, and you find yourself nodding before you know you’re doing it.

“Go,” you whisper, the word trembling, but there.

He makes a sound then that’s half-growl, half-groan, all man. His grip on your throat tightens just a hair, his other hand clamping down on your hip.

“That’s my girl,” he says again, rough with need. “Hold on.”

The head of him breaches you with more resistance than his fingers ever met. 

Your body tries to clamp down, to keep him out, muscles fighting the stretch. He doesn’t slam in, but he doesn’t baby you either. He works himself in slow, steady pressure, teeth gritted, hips driving forward inch by thick inch.

The burn is real. It’s sharp, like you’re being split open from the inside. You gasp, nails scraping at the wood, whole body bowing. For a second it’s too much.

“Breathe,” he grunts through his own strain, hand at your throat sliding up to your jaw, thumb pressing at your cheek. “Breathe through it. You’re takin’ me. Look at you. You’re takin’ me.”

He isn’t wrong. Beneath the pain, there’s this breathless awe—at the size of him, at the way your own body yields, at the feel of being filled in a way you never have before. 

You force yourself to inhale, exhale, again, again. Your muscles flutter around him, protesting, then slowly easing.

When the broadest part of his head passes the tight ring of your entrance, the rest slides in easier, still stretching, still burning, but less violently. 

He sinks deeper, stopping only when his hips are flush with your ass, his pelvis pressed to your backside, balls snugged up against your cunt. You can feel him everywhere, heavy and solid in your core, pulsing faintly.

“Christ,” he rasps, the words hot against your neck. “I can barely think straight. Sweet girl, you just swallowed every inch of me.”

You exhale shakily, overwhelmed. Full doesn’t begin to cover it. You feel stuffed, stretched to the point of coming apart, and yet under the ache, something else is already starting—a low, thick pleasure that moves like honey, spreading outward from where you’re joined.

He holds still for a long moment, breathing hard into your hair, chest rising and falling against your back. His hand at your hip rubs little circles, the one at your jaw softening its grip.

“You tell me when it stops hurtin’ so sharp,” he says. “I ain’t in no rush, even if my cock’s yellin’ otherwise.”

You try to focus. The worst of the burn ebbs, leaving a throbbing soreness, but the sense of him—deep, impossible, yours—is starting to bloom into something almost good.

“Move,” you whisper, surprising yourself. “Just a little.”

He laughs, breath short. “Greedy already,” he says. “Alright.”

He pulls back, just an inch, maybe two, dragging that thick length along your walls. The friction is intense, raw and tender and electric all at once. Then he pushes in again, slower, watching for any flinch. 

Your fingers dig into the table, but you don’t cry out, don’t tell him to stop. Your body clutches at him on the way out, sucks at him on the way back in.

He does it again. And again. Each shallow thrust smooths the hurt a little more, replaces it with deeper sensation. The initial sting fades into a deep, stretching fullness that makes your knees weak, that makes heat lick up your spine in waves.

“That’s it,” he murmurs, hand sliding from your jaw back down to your throat, wrapping around it more firmly this time, not cutting your air, just pinning you, reminding you where you are and who’s holding you. “Now we’re gettin’ somewhere.”

He lengthens his strokes, pulling back farther, pushing in harder. The wet slap of his hips meeting your ass starts up, quiet at first, then louder, the sound of skin on skin obscene in the still night. 

Every push drives him deeper, nudging at something inside you that makes your breath jump, that sends little shocks through your belly, like he’s bumping the edge of something tender and secret and his.

Your body has learned the shape of him, stretching you from the inside. 

You can feel every ridge, every vein, the way the fat head spears through the tight clutch of you and then disappears into that deep, hot place that was empty your whole life and now is nothing but him.

His hand at your throat tightens, just a little. Not enough to cut your air, but enough to make each breath a thing you have to pull for, chest heaving against the table edge. His palm is broad and warm, thumb resting under your jaw, fingers curved along the side of your neck. 

Every time his hips snap forward, that grip reminds you he’s there; it pins you in your own skin so you can’t float away from what’s happening, can’t pretend it’s anything but what it is: you getting fucked open on a man’s cock in his kitchen like you were meant for it.

Then his hand drops. It slides down the column of your throat, over the dip of your collarbone, fingers spreading wide as they drag lower, rough palm grazing the top swell of your breast through the thin cotton. 

He cups you from behind, big hand wrapping around the weight of it, lifting, squeezing. The nightgown bunches under his fingers as he kneads, thumb rolling over your nipple until it stiffens hard, the fabric rasping just enough to make you whine.

“There,” he mutters, voice gone thick, like he has to taste every part of you. “Knew these’d feel good in my hand.”

He squeezes once more, harder, the pressure sending a sharp line of sensation straight down to where he’s buried in you, your nipple trapped between his thumb and the heat of his palm. 

Your back arches, pushing more of your tit into his grip even as his cock grinds deeper. 

For a second you’re caught between the drag inside and the rough, greedy hold on your breast, pleasure ricocheting between the two.

Then his hand is moving again, leaving your aching nipple peaked under the cotton, skimming back up over your breastbone, returning to your throat like it owns the place. His fingers curl back into their collar around your neck, thumb settling under your jaw, holding you where he wants you while his hips keep driving.

“Listen to you,” he groans, and you realize he doesn’t just mean your voice—wrecked and breaking on every inhale—but the wet, filthy noise your body’s making, the slick drag of his cock pulling out of you, the obscene squelch when he pushes back in, the slap of his balls hitting the curve of your cunt. “You hear that? That’s this pussy lovin’ every inch I’m givin’ her.”

The word makes your stomach flutter and your cunt clench down around him so tight he curses, hips stuttering. 

There’s no room for modesty now; everything between your legs is wide awake and telling on you. 

Every time he pulls back, your inner muscles chase after him, hugging, clinging, like you’re frightened of losing that fullness, like your body’s praying he’ll push right back in—and he does, like he’s answering a call.

He adjusts his stance, feet shifting on the rough floor, and angle changes. The next thrust lands different, deeper, the thick head of him driving up and forward to grind against a spot inside you that makes your vision white out around the edges for a beat. 

You jolt, a strangled noise ripping out of you, fingers scraping along the tabletop as your whole body goes tense.

“There it is,” he pants, catching that reaction, chasing it. 

He does it again on purpose, hips rolling instead of just snapping, driving that same path, making sure he hits that spot with the crown every time. 

“You feel that? Right there? That’s what you been needin’, girl. That ache way up high you ain’t never had a name for.”

He's right on it now, relentless. 

Each stroke is a steady assault, steady enough your body starts to learn the pattern, tension building with every collision. The soreness from taking him the first time smooths into a deep, hot throb that wraps around the pleasure, one feeding the other. 

Your toes curl, your thighs tremble, your stomach ripples around the intrusion like you’re trying to swallow him even deeper.

He slides the hand from your hip back around your front, into the slick heat between your thighs, and finds your clit like he’s been doing it all his life. 

His fingers are slick with your own mess, rough pads moving in tight, ruthless circles over that swollen bud. It sends lightning directly up your spine, straight to the base of your skull. 

You choke on a sound that isn’t quite a word and jerk against his hand; his arm around your throat holds you in place.

“Goddamn, you’re twitchy,” he groans, grinding his hips down so the bone of him presses your ass, so his cock bruises into that soft spot inside while his fingers roll your clit. “You gonna fall apart on me again? You gonna let me feel you squeeze all over my cock proper this time?”

Your answer is a breathless, broken, “Please,” your voice ragged, half sob, half prayer. 

The table shudders under the force of his thrusts now, the legs complaining in small creaks that match the rhythm of his hips. The lamp flame jumps in its glass, throwing wild shadows against the wall—a tangle of your bent body and his frame hunched over you, shoulders rolling as he works inside you like he’s plowing up hard ground.

Spit slicks your lips; you realize at some point your mouth fell open and just forgot how to close, breath dragging in ragged, wet pulls. 

You couldn’t be bothered to care if you tried; everything is narrowed to the hot place his cock is sawing through and the bright, brutal pulses from his fingers on your clit.

He can feel you climbing, feel your body drawing in tight around him, feel your channel starting to flutter. He growls, low and guttural, the sound pressed against the back of your neck. “That’s it. That’s it, squeeze me.”

His hand at your throat tightens a hair more, narrowing the world to his breathing and yours, the rush of blood in your ears, the drag of wood under your palms. 

The smallest bit of pressure makes every sensation hit harder; your body goes light and heavy at the same time, limbs tingling, cock-deep pull inside you the only thing that feels solid.

He pistons into you now with a steadier, punishing rhythm, cock dragging from the fat base at your entrance all the way to that deep end that makes your belly flip, then back again. 

Your ass jiggles from each impact, flesh rippling under his grip. His fingers at your clit don’t falter.

You can hear yourself now, high and ruined, begging without even knowing what for. “Don’t stop—don’t—Remmick, don’t—oh—oh God—”

“Mhm, use my name,” he hisses, hips crashing into yours, the wet slap echoing off the close walls. “You say it when you can’t hold yourself together no more.”

He leans forward, the sweat on his skin slick against the thin cotton of your nightgown bunched at your waist. 

His mouth finds the side of your neck, teeth scraping over the delicate skin there, then biting down just hard enough to make you gasp. He sucks, draws blood closer to the surface in a hot sting that only makes your cunt flutter harder around him.

Between the choke of his hand, the sharp pinch of his teeth, the relentless grind of his cock, and the ruthless attention on your clit, you don’t stand a chance.

The orgasm slams into you hard enough your knees buckle, your body trying to curl in on itself while he holds you stretched over the table. 

Everything constricts at once—your throat around his hand, your belly around the deep ache, your cunt around his cock. You clamp down on him with startling force, walls seizing, milking, clutching like you’re trying to suck him straight out of his skin.

You cry out. There’s no pretty word for it. Sound rips out of you high and raw, your voice cracking on his name. 

Your vision goes fuzzy with white at the edges, the kitchen shrinking to the rough wood under your hands and the thick, unyielding length splitting you and the brutal roll of pleasure ripping through you in waves.

“Fuck—fuck,” he grunts at your ear, the feeling of you spasming around him cutting through every ounce of control he has left. “That’s it, that’s it, girl, grip me—Jesus—”

He doesn’t stop moving, not really; he grinds through it, forcing his cock to keep sliding, short, deep thrusts, using the vice of your orgasm to wring everything he can from you. 

You’re shaking all over, thighs trembling so hard your feet skid a little on the floor, toes digging uselessly for purchase. 

Another rush of slick gushes around him, soaking his cock, dripping down over his balls, sliding warm along the inside of your thighs.

Your body keeps clenching in pulses, the pleasure cresting and breaking over and over until it tips toward something sharp, too much. You whimper, the sound small and shredded. His hand leaves your clit finally, stroking shaking skin instead, but his hips don’t stop.

The rhythm goes ragged, less measured, more frantic. His thrusts turn into short, hard ruts, like his body’s the one begging now. His fingers flex around your throat, then loosen just a little, thumb stroking your jaw instead as his breathing unravels.

“Gonna fill you up,” he groans, voice pitched low and rough. “You want that? You want me shootin’ deep in you, huh? Want to feel me leakin’ out you all the way back up to that house?”

The words, filthy as they are, punch right through your oversensitivity and light up something molten in your gut. 

Your sore, flooded cunt tightens around him involuntarily at the thought of carrying him inside you, his spend rolling down your thighs later when you climb into your own bed. 

You can’t shape the answer into full words; what comes out is some strangled mess that sounds like y-yes and a choke.

“Yeah, you do,” he snarls like he heard it. “You greedy little thing, comin’ down here pretendin’ you just wanna talk when your cunt’s hungry as hell.”

He drives in hard, once, twice, three more times, each thrust bottoming him out, pelvis grinding against the round of your ass. 

The slap of his hips is loud now, sloppy, wetter, your combined mess making the impact slick.

Then his whole body locks.

His stomach clenches tight against your back, jaw clamped against the side of your neck. A sound tears out of him, not quite human, something between a growl and a groan. His cock jerks inside you, swelling even thicker for a heart-stopping second, and then you feel it—hot, heavy spurts of him spilling deep, pounding against your cervix, flooding that space that’s been empty your entire life with a hot, liquid fullness.

He curses low and hoarse on each pulse, hips rocking in tiny, helpless movements as he empties himself, his own climax dragged out by the way your slick, oversensitive walls keep squeezing and fluttering around him. Every time your cunt milks him, another rope of cum kicks out of him, painting you inside.

“God—damn—” he grits, shuddering, one hand sliding from your throat to slap down next to your own on the table, fingers splayed wide, knuckles white on the wood. “You feel that? Feel me givin’ it to you?”

You do. You feel all of it. Every pulse, every twitch, every deep throb of him lodged inside, filling you, staking a claim. Your whole body feels stuffed, weighty, like he’s poured something molten into your bones.

The shakes take him then. You feel them where his chest is plastered to your back, quivers running through him in waves as his orgasm tapers off. 

His cock softens a little inside you but doesn’t slip free; your swollen entrance and the spent thickness of him keep you plugged together. Each small movement sends a slow, slick ache radiating outward.

For a long moment neither of you says anything.

He slumps more of his weight onto you without meaning to, and you sag under it, cheek pressed to the tabletop, breaths coming in harsh, uneven pulls. 

Sweat has glued your nightgown to your ribs where it’s still covering your upper body; where it’s bunched around your waist, the fabric clings damp to your skin with a mixture of your own wetness and his.

Eventually, he finds his voice, though it’s wrecked, scraped raw at the edges. “Jesus,” he mutters, words ghosting hot over the shell of your ear. 

For the first time since he pushed into you, he eases his hips back.

You gasp, a little shocked moan slipping out as his softening cock drags along your raw walls. 

When his head slips past your entrance, your muscles clench on instinct, reluctant to let him go, but gravity wins. He slides free, leaving you empty in a way that feels sharp, unfinished, even with his cum already starting to seep down, warm, from inside you.

Something thick and wet trickles out immediately, a slow, viscous roll that slides over your swollen folds and down the curve of your inner thigh. You feel it clearly, a hot trail in the cooler air of the kitchen. The knowledge of what it is, whose it is, makes your face burn and your belly tighten all over again.

He sees it too.

“Look at that,” he says softly, voice full of rough, satisfied awe. 

His hand leaves yours and slides down, palm cupping the underside of your ass, thumb catching one of those white streaks, spreading it lazily over your sensitive skin. You flinch, a little gasp escaping before you can stop it.

“Too much?” he asks.

“A little,” you admit, breath still stuttering. 

He makes a pleased sound at that, thumb dragging one last lazy stripe through the mess before he rubs his hand off on his own thigh. 

He straightens slowly, the absence of his weight making you sway for a second. His hands, empty now, come to your waist, smoothing down the bunched nightgown. He tugs it back into place over your hips, hiding what he’s done as best cloth can hide it.

Then he crouches a little, fingers catching the waistband of your drawers. They’re still tangled around your knees, sticky with your slick. 

He coaxes them up, guiding the cotton over your tender flesh, covering your cunt, trapping his spend where it is. 

The pull of the fabric against your oversensitive skin makes you hiss and bite your lip, but it also feels lewd and intimate in a different way—his cum pressed up against you, soaked into the cloth that sits right over your entrance.

He knows exactly what he’s doing, sealing you up like that. It shows in the way his thumb lingers a second too long at the gusset, pressing lightly, as if to make sure the material is snug, as if to feel one more time that he’s right there even with clothes between you.

“Gonna be walkin’ home with your panties stickin’ to you and a piece of me tryin’ to leak right back out,” he murmurs, voice a dark purr. “You’ll be thinkin’ of me every step.”

You make a weak noise, somewhere between a protest and something softer. Your legs feel unsteady when he finally helps you pull them fully into place, when he urges you upright with hands at your waist. 

When you stand, it’s like your bones have gone wrong—heavy at the hips, light at the knees, a deep, interior throb that makes you aware of your own body in a way you’ve never been.

He turns you gently, so your hip leans back into the edge of the table instead of your chest, so you’re facing him. His hair is damp and rumpled, a curl fallen low over his forehead, chest and stomach slick with sweat. 

His gaze sweeps over you, taking in the mussed nightgown, the bite marks blossoming at your throat and shoulder where his teeth worried your skin, the slackness of your mouth, the glassy shine to your eyes. 

Confidence sits easy on him; he looks like a man who’s put in a long night’s work and is proud of the job he’s done.

“You’re gonna cuss me tomorrow,” he says, voice low and a little smug. “When you sit down. When you walk. But you ain’t gonna regret it.”

You swallow, throat thick, his words settling warm and heavy between your ribs.

“No,” you admit, even quieter than before, and there’s no sense lying now. “I don’t… regret it.”

His mouth curves. “Good.”

You look away, suddenly aware of the time, of the silence of the big house up the hill, of how your mama and daddy are sleeping through something that’s gone and rearranged their daughter from the inside out.

“I need to go,” you say, voice small but steadying. “Before my father wakes up for water, or Mama starts callin’ and finds my bed empty.”

His hands fall from your waist, though not without one last, slow sweep along the curve of you, like he’s committing it to memory. 

“Go on,” he says. “Before I talk you into layin’ down on that bed in there and not leavin’ till the rooster screams.”

Your body responds to the image with an exhausted throb, a clench around nothing. 

You push off the table and take a careful step. Your thighs rub, slick, the damp cotton of your drawers pulling against you; you feel a fresh little leak of him inside you, a warm ooze that soaks into the fabric and clings. It makes you stutter a little, the soreness set deep in your core.

Remmick watches the way you move, jaw flexing, something like pride and hunger both tightening his face. 

He reaches for his trousers, tucking himself away, but he doesn’t bother with a shirt yet, doesn’t bother pretending he’s anything but what he is: the man who just fucked you on his kitchen table and filled you til you’re walking crooked.

You make it to the door on legs that still shake. Your fingers land on the frame as you pull it open, the cool breath of the night spilling in. 

Before you step out, you glance back. His eyes are on you, unreadable now, dark and steady in the lamplight.

“You come down here again,” he says, voice quiet, sure, “don’t pretend you’re just here for salve or scoldin’. You knock on my door after dark, I know what you’re askin’ for.”

You hold his gaze, the soreness between your thighs, the fullness inside you, the ache in your muscles all speaking louder than any denial you could muster. 

His eyes follow you out into the dark, low and pleased, and as you cross the yard barefoot, nightgown brushing your knees, his cum warm and sticky between your legs, you know he’s standing there in that doorway shirtless, watching you go with no shame at all, already planning just how he’ll take you the next time you come scratching at his door.

He risks pulling you closer to him, and you come willingly with a sleepy sigh that just might be the sweetest sound he’s ever heard. His eyes move across your room, landing on the gun on your nightstand. Not totally safe, especially if it’s loaded, but you’ve been so paranoid lately that he’s not too surprised. Hopefully you won’t change your locks again. It’s a pain in the ass to break the one on your window without actually breaking the window. Besides, you don’t need to be so overly cautious. He’ll take care of you, just like he always does. He’ll keep killing the guys who are creepy towards you. He’ll keep up with his patrols by your house. He almost wants to wake you up to tell you that, but he’s pretty sure you won’t be soothed by it.

You stir again, always so fussy in your sleep when he’s close to you. He likes to think you can sense him, somehow. That maybe something subconscious is alerting you to his presence, rousing you just enough to snuggle up to him but not quite enough for you to wake up all the way. He knows, somewhere in the back of his mind, that your panic is because of him. Because you’re smart and you’ve seen the missing items in your home and obviously noticed the broken locks enough to keep changing them, but you’re safe. You’ll always be safe because he’ll always keep it that way.

His armor has blood on it. He hopes it doesn’t smudge on your face again. You always get so upset when that happens.

“I love you.” He whispers, nose brushing your cheek. Your own nose scrunches again, and he can’t help his grin. Fuck, if he could just kiss you, just once, he’d be the happiest man in the world. But you’d wake up, and probably freak out, and with his mask off and his face exposed that’ll be a whole new mess to deal with. He doesn’t know a whole lot about relationships, but he’s pretty sure this one won’t start too wonderfully if he has to tie you up and keep you locked in your own apartment until you calm down.

“But I gotta go, okay?” You don’t answer, but the feeling of his breath against your cheek and his voice in your ear is beginning to make you rouse. As much as it kills him, he has to leave, “I’ll be back tomorrow. Sleep tight.”

He risks a kiss to your forehead as he untangles himself from you. When you hum, and turn into the pillow, it takes everything he has to not climb back into bed. If he could just take off his armor, and slide beneath the covers with you, and hold you in his arms until the sun comes up with your warm breath against his skin and your body against his own…

No. He can’t. You’re not ready for that.

But when you’re sleeping, so soft and warm and sweet in his arms, he can pretend. So he’ll keep pretending.

But he isn’t a very patient man, even on his best day. Maybe… maybe he doesn’t have to pretend too much longer.

-

You wake fully clothed, on top of your comforter, with your mouth dry and the smell of pine and blood in your bed.

That smell. That familiar, bone-chilling smell, makes you scramble for the gun on your bedside table and bolt upright before your eyes are even fully open. A habit, now, built up since the first time you woke to a broken lock on your front door and bootprints staining your carpet.

Once, when you woke up like this, there was blood on your shirt. Another time, the window was open and you had creases on your cheek like you’d slept on something harder and firmer than your pillow.

You think you might be losing your mind. And, worst of all, you think you might prefer to be losing your mind. The alternative is so much more horrifying.

Your room is empty. The window is closed. The sun is creeping over the horizon, and your phone is dead.

Before, when this first started happening, you would take an extra few minutes to tremble and re-check the apartment. Maybe cry with a mixture of horror and frustration. Now, you know you won’t find anything. You know that sitting frozen in fear won’t help. It never does.

You just go through the motions, trying to remain as numb as possible. You set the gun back down on the bedside table, shuffle out of your clothes, plug your phone in, and do your best to drift off.

Your eyes are on the window, and as you finally start to drift off, you think you might glimpse a smudge of teal in the soft light of dawn.

-

“You look like shit.”

“Thanks, Dave.”

“Are you still not sleeping?”

“Sleeping like a fucking baby, Dave.”

“You’re not going to be able to serve tables if you’re looking like you’re gonna pass out.”

You grit your teeth, and try for a bright smile. Judging by your manager’s reaction, it might not look entirely right.

“I’m fine.” You insist, folding up your jacket and trying not to shove it too hard into your little cubby. “Just…been a rough week.”

“You’ve been having a few rough-“

“And have I been bad at my job?” You finally snap, doing your best not to whirl on him. “Have I had bad reviews or something?” You don’t mean it to sound so much like a challenge, but you’re more than a little cranky.

“No.” He admits, frowning, “you’re fine. I’m just…oh shit, incoming.”

You know what that means. But, unlike Dave and everyone else you work with, the warning doesn’t make you prickle, or brace yourself. In fact, you feel your shoulders relaxing before you even hear his voice.

“Hey! Did you see that National Geographic special last night?” Adrian Chase, in all of his overzealous glory, appears by your side just as you begin to tie your apron around your waist.

And you did. Because you haven’t been sleeping. And the last time you did, you passed out on the couch and woke up in your bed. Tucked in. Fully clothed, and with the faint scent of blood and pine lingering in the air.

You’ve been up for two days, since then.

“The one about penguins, right?” You ask, and move over to the computer to clock in, trying to blink the exhaustion from your mind as your free hand continues to fumble with your apron.

“Right.” Adrian breathes the word, like your confirmation that you watched it is the best thing he’s ever heard, and you know without needing to look that he’s grinning. “Did you know they mate for life?”

“Mhm.” You punch in your number. Grab a pen off the counter. “The pebble thing they do is cute.”

“Hey, c’mere.” His words barely register in your mind through your haze of exhaustion, but suddenly his hands are on your waist. He spins you to him like it’s second nature, and you don’t even realize what he’s doing until you feel your apron cinch around your middle, surprisingly deft fingers tying the strings for you.

He’s close. When you look up, he’s still grinning down at you, white teeth and bright green eyes and fingers still lingering on your waist.

You know he likes you. You’re not an idiot. While he seems to shy away and avoid any and all physical contact with your other coworkers, he also seems to always be looking for a reason to touch you. It’s usually simple gestures - a hand brushing your arm as he walks past you in the dining room, a finger tapping lightly against your nose when he’s rambling about something, or even the way he stands beside you so closely that his shoulder brushes yours when you talk.

But he’s never touched you like…this. 

“Thanks.” You say, entirely unsure of what to do. He’s never been this…bold, before. He’s so close that you can feel the ghost of his breath on your lips.

“Penguins propose to other penguins with pebbles.”

You’re exhausted, and definitely still only half awake, but you can’t be imagining the way his green eyes darken as they move over your face.

“Yeah?” You’re so tired you wonder if you might be imagining this. Sure, Adrian likes you, but he also calls you his best friend all the time, so you’re not totally sure how he feels about you. Besides, the horror movie you’re currently living in isn’t exactly conducive to a new relationship, so you haven’t thought to pry into whatever feelings he might have for you.

If it weren’t for the thick fabric of your apron, you might feel his fingers curl against your waist. Barely there, but possessive.

“And then they mate for life.” His nose is so close to yours that they’re about to touch, if he leans any closer.

“You mentioned-“

“You have table twelve.” You jump back at the sound of the hostess’s voice, shaking off the…whatever that was, and running a hand through your hair with a noise of confirmation.

When you look back at Adrian, he’s still smiling. His eyes are still dark. Still locked right on yours.

And you’ve been convincing yourself that you’re imagining things for weeks, now. But it’s a little more difficult to think you were imagining that.

-

Adrian almost kissed you. He came so, so close.

And you were actually awake, this time. In his arms, right where you belong, talking to him about that nature documentary that you watched because he recommended it and looking up at him with your big sleepy eyes - you look too tired, lately, you should be sleeping more - and for a second he was positive that if he just leaned down a little more he could have kissed you. That he might have been able to slide his arms a little more tightly around your waist, and pull you to him, and feel your body against his and taste your lips in the way he’s been thinking about for so long.

But the first time he kisses you has to be perfect. Not at work, in front of everyone - he’ll kiss you in front of everyone a thousand times when you’re officially together. When you’re officially his and you actually know that you’re his.

So the moment ended. And now he’s watching you smile tensely at table twenty as they say something to you that you clearly don’t like, and he’s trying to see what they look like over the booth but he can’t quite lean over enough to-

“Sir? Sir!”

He blinks, and only then notices that the water glass he’s been refilling has overflowed onto the table to the point that the liquid is spilling over the wooden surface, onto the floor and right into the customer’s laps. But now you’re walking back to the computer, and if he waits too long you’ll go check on your other tables and you seem upset. And tired.

“Whoops.” He says simply, and places the too-full water glass down, eyes never leaving you.

“Whoops? What do you mean by whoops? We’re soaked! Sir, excuse me! Aren’t you going to clean this-” 

But Adrian is already walking away.

-

You look annoyed, and even more tired now. The night air is chilly in the back alley of Fennel Fields, and you didn’t bring your jacket. Maybe he should go in and get you his. Maybe he could wrap his arms around you, and use his body heat to warm you up. He’s pretty sure you won’t let him, but the brief fantasy of you melting into his embrace makes something warm tingle beneath his skin.

“Hi.”

You look up from where you’re sitting on a small pile of crates, and when you smile at him his stomach does a backflip and explodes into a thousand tiny butterflies.

“Hey.” You’re so sleepy. He’ll definitely be able to hold you later. You’re gonna conk out right when you get home. “Table twenty hated their ravioli.”

“Yeah?”

“Mhm.” You sigh, and tilt your head up towards the dark sky. “But they also mentioned that I have a very ‘spankable ass’, so their overreaction to not liking ravioli isn’t so bad in comparison.”

If you were looking at him, you might see Adrian’s eyes darken. See the way his entire body tenses at your words, even as his voice remains light and easy.

“Want me to kill them for you?”

You snort. You think he’s joking. “Yeah, that’d be great, thanks.”

And just like that, you seal their fate. And you’ll never even know.

He opens his mouth to speak again, and the ‘I love you’ is on his lips. It always is. He pushes it back, hides it away to keep you from panicking like he does all the damn time, but he almost kissed you earlier and he might be closer to blurting it out than ever.

“Do you know what kind of owl that is?” You ask, just as he hears a soft hoot in the distance. Oh, he loves you. He loves you so, so much. You’re tired and annoyed and you’re still asking him questions because you want him here. You want him to talk to you. Obviously, you love him too. Even if you don’t fully know it yet.

He smiles, and his heart does another backflip.

“Eastern barn owl.” He says, confidently, and you make a soft noise of acknowledgement. “Because of the long hoots.”

“Huh. Cool.” You look out towards the dark woods, and take a moment to listen. The hoots are not long. You don’t mention it. “Okay, I’ve gotta go back in there.” And yet, your eyes move to his. “Are you good? Anyone been a dick to you tonight?”

“Nope.” Well, they have. People have actually been ruder and shorter with him than usual tonight. But he doesn’t care. It doesn’t actually get to him, like it seems to get to everyone else.

You rise to your feet. Stretch. The movement makes your uniform shirt tighten, and his mouth gets a little dry. “Maybe we should pick up smoking or something. Then we’d get more breaks.”

“Smoking’s bad for you. Plus, too many smokers litter cigarette butts all over the place.” His voice must hold a little more disgust than he means for it to, because your eyebrow is raised when you look back at him.

“That really bothers you, huh?”

“Littering? Of course it does, it’s illegal.” His brow furrows, genuine confusion lacing his tone, but then you smile again and he forgets what he was talking about. God, you’re beautiful. Maybe it would still be a perfect first kiss if he just grabbed you and kissed you right here. Maybe you would let him. Maybe you’d even let him back you up against the wall of the alley and rip off your uniform and-

The door swings shut behind you, and he stares at it for a moment. Since he’s already out here, he should call Economos and tell him about that cute thing you did a minute ago. How you asked about the owl. That way, he can show off how much he knows about owls and brag about his girlfriend.

Instead, he forms a plan. A simple, easy plan. Maybe not the nicest thing he’ll ever do to you, but…

But if it works, you’ll finally be with him. And when you’re with him, he’ll make sure that you’re so unbelievably happy that you’ll forgive him. It’ll be worth it.

Just a little bit longer.

-

Two days later, your sleep deprivation and paranoia have become more debilitating than ever.

When you went home the other night, you tried to sleep, only to wake an hour or so later with another bloodstain on your t-shirt and a draft creeping into your room through the open window. The window you keep closed. And locked. You were warmer than you should be, despite the blankets on you, and you couldn’t fight the overwhelming feeling that someone was just holding you.

When you’d gotten up to close the window, you heard something rattle on your fire escape. Your panicked inspection of the rickety structure had turned up empty. You hadn’t fallen back asleep.

The next night, there was a crash outside as you started drifting off. Your lock was broken. You spent the night with your back against the wall, gun aimed at the door.

Now, you’re leaning a little too heavily against the POS system at Fennel Fields, trying to remember if the guy at your table ordered a vodka soda or a plate of mozzarella sticks, when the sound of your coworkers voice makes you nearly jump out of your fucking skin.

“Ugh. What a waste, right?”

Your head might move a little too slowly as you turn to her. You feel like you’re underwater, even as your gaze follows hers to where Adrian is loading up a bus tub. You can see defined biceps flexing as he lifts the heavy container, and furrow your brow as you look back at the girl beside you.

“Hmm?” If you’re not at a table, words aren’t necessary. Too much thinking involved.

“I mean, he could be so hot, right? All that potential hotness just wasted on a total weirdo. That jawline? Those muscles? And he just talks about spiders and acts like a total freak all the time.”

“I…” your frown deepens a little. Her words dig at you enough that your reaction actually surprises you. “I don’t think he’s that much of a weirdo.” Not in a bad way, at least.

“Well that’s probably good.” She finishes punching in her table’s order at the computer beside you, and adjusts her uniform a little. “I mean, he is like, obsessed with you. If the serial killer glasses don’t turn you off, you should totally go for it.”

“We’re friends.”

She gives you a look that you don’t feel like arguing with. Don’t even feel like fully interpreting. You’re light-headed. Your body aches with exhaustion, and that empty booth across the walkway is looking like it might be really comfortable. If you could just lie down and close your eyes for a minute…

“You don’t look so good.” She says, and when you look up you blink a few times to clear your vision. “Are you still not sleeping?”

“I’m fine.” You feel like you say that all the time, now. The constant tension in your shoulders isn’t helping. You jump at the smallest movements, now. You barely listen when people talk. You would give anything, anything at all, to just close your eyes and sleep. Even five minutes might help. Just five minutes of feeling fucking safe and not worrying about how or where you’ll wake up or if the fucking lock is broken or-

“Take a nap, babe. Try melatonin or something.” She says, so unhelpfully that you feel your jaw clench, and pats your arm as she walks away.

-

The shift goes by in a blur, and you’re fumbling with your keys by your car when Adrian finds you.

God, you’re tired. You are so, so tired it almost hurts. You probably shouldn’t even drive, but the idea of sleeping in your car is more vulnerable than trying to sleep in your own apartment and-

“Hey, you okay?” Adrian’s voice is by your ear, and it’s softer than usual. Despite your constant paranoia, you don’t even have it in you to jump.

His hand comes up to where you’re fumbling with your keys, like he’s about to help you with them, and you suddenly find yourself dropping them into his hands and thunking your head back against his shoulder, way more familiar than is at all appropriate for a coworker, friend or not. If you were any more awake, you might be embarrassed by the gesture.

“I don’t wanna go home.” You mumble, miserably, the honesty feeling like a breath of relief, and you feel him tense all over, if only for a second.

And then his arm sneaks around your waist, holding you up, and his nose turns into your hair. He’s warm, and steady, and his chest is surprisingly firm against your back.

“Okay.” He hums, still so uncharacteristically quiet. “Do you wanna come over?”

You shouldn’t. It probably won’t be safe for him, after all. Whatever is out there, whatever or whoever is following you and breaking your locks and moving things in your home and making you feel like you’re losing your fucking mind, they might hurt him. You might be putting him in danger.

But you’re not thinking straight, and his arm is solid and strong around your middle, and you feel surprisingly safe right now. For the first time in what feels like forever.

You nod. And you think, vaguely, you feel him smile as his arm tightens around you.

“M’kay. C’mere.” He murmurs, and you begin to pull away before he moves to wrap a hand around the backs of your thighs, scooping you up bridal-style against a broad chest.

“I can walk, Ade.” You say, unable to fight back a surprised laugh, and he matches the sound with a wide grin of his own.

“Nah, I gotcha.” He hoists you up a little higher as he carries you over to his car. It’s ridiculous. The whole thing is ridiculous. You’re so tired you can’t think straight. This is definitely a stupid idea - you’ve never even been to Adrian’s place before, and as much as you like talking to him at work he could be a fucking serial killer for all you know.

And yet, the idea of going home alone is…terrifying. The idea of being awake all night again, of seeing things outside your windows and being so exhausted that you can’t tell if it’s some kind of hallucination or the real thing, is so frightening you just might be willing to risk ending up in some Silence of the Lambs situation with Adrian Fucking Chase.

“You don’t have to-“ you start, but Adrian has already opened the passenger door of his car, and is leaning over you to buckle you up. He’s humming. He smells like mozzarella sticks, cheap cologne, and maybe a little bit of bleach. It’s nice. Comforting, even.

“Seriously, I’m fine. You really don’t have to do this.” You try again, and he shushes you with a pat to your cheek as he moves over to the driver’s seat.

“Hey, it’s okay. I’ll take you home tomorrow. Just lemme take care of you.” He says, and you frown.

“Are you-“

“Shush.” He insists, and one large hand pats your thigh as he settles himself behind the wheel. “I’ve gotcha. For reals.”

And, as weird as it is, as ridiculous as this whole thing might be, you smile.

-

You fall asleep within minutes.

You fight it, of course. You’re so adorable, trying to focus long enough to talk to him as he drives, humming along to the music he plays and fighting to keep your eyes open.

But he blasts the heat, and he even stays as quiet as possible, until your eyes finally flutter shut and your breathing evens out.

You’re in his car. You’re so pretty he can barely focus on the road. When he pulls up in front of his place, you stir, but you don’t wake.

He’s waited so long for the day that he gets to hold you when you’re not sleeping. Gets to run his fingers through your soft hair without worrying that he’ll wake you. Even asleep as you are right now, it’s close. Because if you wake up now, you won’t try to run. Probably.

He carries you inside, and you still don’t wake. So cute. So perfect. So soft as he risks leaning down to brush his lips over your forehead. You’ve always been a heavy sleeper, never really waking too much when he first started breaking in. But now, now that you keep trying to stay awake all night all the time, it’s like you can sleep through anything. Through him snuggling you into his chest, or carrying you from the couch into your room…

He’s taking risks. He knows he is. What happens the night you do wake up? When you look up to see him holding you in his armor, and freak out? All of his plans for that day involve…shit, they mostly involve kidnapping you until you stop freaking out. And maybe that wouldn’t be so bad. He could take care of you more easily, without having to follow you around to make sure you’re safe. And he’ll get to see you more often. And maybe you’ll even like it, after a while.

But with that plan, you’ll be mad at him for weeks. Maybe even longer. And you just let him take you home. Just trusted him to take care of you.

No, he needs to wait. He needs to play this smart. He already feels so guilty for spooking you these last couple of nights, just enough to keep you awake until you nearly collapsed into his arms in the parking lot. It’ll be worth it, of course, but it doesn’t make him feel any less like a bad boyfriend.

You wake as he lays you down on top of his comforter, jolting up with surprise and all that familiar paranoia. All he can think is that you’re in his room, in his apartment, and you look like you belong here.

“Hey, sleepyhead.” He greets, fighting the urge to climb atop you and figure out how many ways he might be able to keep you awake, just for a little longer. “Want some pjs?”

You frown, taking in your surroundings, and seem to think through your situation. You’re in your coworker’s apartment, in his bed, without a car and still in your work uniform. You just so much as passed out in his arms, and allowed him to carry you to his car and up a few flights of stairs.

“I can sleep on the couch.” You try, and he shakes his head.

“Hey, it’s not weird. It’s totally fine.” He has to fight tooth and nail to keep the desperation out of his voice, shuffling through his drawers until he finds you a t-shirt and some sweatpants. “Plus, you’re all freaked out about something. That’s why you haven’t been sleeping, right? You can stay in here. I’ll protect you.” Yeah, he sees the irony, but so what? At least he’s not tying you to the bed or something. That would be fucked up. This is chivalrous.

You hesitate. Rub at your eyes. He sees the bags under them. Sees the gears in your mind turning. You might just be exhausted enough to push past all the social norms everyone seems to care so much about. All those annoying little things that tell you that this is weird that he can’t for the life of him figure out.

C’mon. Please, please, please….

“Okay. Yeah, okay.” You nod, making your decision, and gather the clothes in your arms. “Bathroom?”

He points you to it, and manages to keep himself from grinning until the door clicks behind you.

No way. No way he’s this lucky. Good things really do come to those who wait, huh? He should call Chris. Or John. But then again, they think you sleep over here all the time, so they won’t get it. And you’ll probably hear the phone call, and…

He shakes off the thought, changes into his own pajamas, and nearly climbs back into bed to wait for you before he realizes that he should probably hide the pictures of you in his room. The items he’s taken from your home. A pillow, a couple articles of clothing…

He’s just slid back under the covers when you shuffle out of the bathroom, and you look perfect in his clothes.

And you’re looking at him, in his simple white tank top and sweatpants, and your eyes have drifted down to his exposed biceps and he’s totally not flexing. Totally not.

“C’mere, sleepy.” He pats the spot next to him, and you come. You follow his order, and slide beneath the covers of his bed, and he feels like he might start fucking vibrating with joy.

You’re hesitant. Still a little weirded out, maybe. A little awkward with how you’ve found yourself in your coworkers bed, in his clothes, picking nervously at his sheets. The urge to wrap you up in his arms is so strong that he almost surges forward and does it, and barely manages to hold himself back.

“Is your door locked?” You ask, eyes flitting to the windows, to his bedroom door.

“Yup.” What would you do if he kissed you right now? Or leaned closer and inhaled the lingering scent of your perfume? He wonders if you’ll still smell like you in his clothes, or if the scents will mix together and create a new smell that’s uniquely you two. “Windows, too. Do you wanna watch a movie?”

You still look like you’re about to fall asleep sitting up. That’s okay. You might fall asleep on him, and wouldn’t that be perfect? Maybe he can get you to lie down, and slide atop you and trace his lips and tongue and teeth over every inch of your body until you’re-

“Adrian?”

“Hm?” Oops. How long has he been staring at you? Is he drooling?

“…yes? To the movie?”

“Oh, yeah!” He rolls over to the other side of the bed, scrambles for the remote to the little TV on his dresser, and uses the excuse to roll back a little closer to you.

Your shoulders touch. Your eyes are fighting to stay open. He’s too happy that you’re here to risk draping an arm around you, so he opts for focusing all of his energy into the feeling of the barely-there points of contact between your bodies.

All according to plan.

-

He’s not surprised that you only lasted five minutes into the movie before you fell asleep again. After all, you were so exhausted before that you basically passed out in his arms, back in the parking lot.

And now, before the opening credits of the movie were even over, your head fell heavily against his shoulder. He’d grinned, and took extra time to guide you carefully down with him against the pillows, making sure not to wake you. He has the practice, after all.

He brushes your hair back from your face, bolder now that he doesn’t need to be worried about you waking up and panicking. Now that he’s not in full armor, or covered in blood, or…well, in your apartment without your knowledge.

You don’t stir. He leans a little closer, tucks your body into his chest, and inhales. You smell so good. Like you’re his. You look so amazing tucked beneath the blankets of his bed that his mind is already racing with ways he might be able to keep you here forever.

You wake at the movement, just a little. Just enough to puff a breath against his shoulder and blink your eyes open. Just enough that every instinct in him tells him that he should jump out the window. But he doesn’t need to. You’re here, in his bed, warm and safe and in his arms because you chose to be.

“Ade?” You mumble, and the nickname makes him have to fight back a delighted laugh. Look at you, calling him by the nickname you use at work with your soft lips brushing against his shoulder. In his home, in his bed, right where you belong. Finally sleeping after you’ve been so unnecessarily paranoid for so long. You don’t feel safe, but you always have been. You always will be. At least, without the mask and the armor, he can show you just how safe he can keep you.

“Mm?” He hums, feigning sleepiness of his own, and pulls you closer like he might just be too tired to realize that he’s doing so. He knows exactly what he’s doing. He’s wide the fuck awake, and banking on the fact that you aren’t.

You fall right into it, the twitch in your brow smoothing as you seem to come to the realization that he’s only half-awake, too. That moving might stir him, and it’s better to just snuggle closer and drift off again.

It takes a while for Adrian to actually fall asleep, but when he does, the last thing he remembers is tracing featherlight touches over your back, wishing with all of his might that he could just tilt your head back and feel your body relax against his in every other way than falling asleep.

The day you got the callback from Sacred Fir Nursery you were thrilled, to say the least.

Sacred Fir Nursery–who sold nearly every species of fir sans sacred firs, ironically–was your hometown’s local Christmas tree farm: a sprawling plot of land located on the outskirts of town, and home to the precious childhood memories of nearly every town resident.

You have your own cherished memories of your parents taking you as a child, bundled up in your scarf and gloves, the thick scent of fir needles clogging your nose. You recall running on stubby legs through rows of trees, throwing your arms in victory around whichever full-bodied evergreen became your favorite. You always got final say on which tree your family took home that day. They’re memories you’ll never forget.

Needless to say, when you came back home for the holidays and saw that the nursery was hiring for part-time, seasonal work, you put in an application almost immediately.

Your job is straightforward: you’re either processing purchases from behind the front desk of the cozy log cabin, or you’re trekking outside and leading families through the many rows of firs, informing them on each species, pitching all their pros, and encouraging sales. Whatever you find yourself doing, Christmas cheer is abound: the inside of the cabin is beautifully decorated, with garlands wrapped around the exposed wooden beams of the ceiling, fairy lights glittering at the windows, a cheery Christmas station always playing, and a humongous, nine-foot-tall Christmas tree standing proudly in the front corner: the undeniable centerpiece of the building, and one of the nursery’s very own.

Some might find the overwhelming festivity to be too much, but for you it’s a much-needed reprieve from the stress of your semester. And, Christmas cheer aside, you can’t deny that you enjoy the money lining your woefully broke, college student pockets.

It’s perfect.

And then he’s hired.

Your boss, Earl, invites the man inside one evening and introduces him as Remmick–an unusual name in these parts, and the only one given, so you’re unsure if it’s meant to be his first or last. The man is average height, maybe even a little below that, with broad shoulders, big features, and a mess of wavy, dark brown hair. He’s handsome in a way you don’t let yourself entertain. He looks exactly like the kind of man you might find working on a farm.

Remmick inclines his head at you, a small smile curling the corners of his mouth, blue eyes steady as he takes you in. Something about the look on his face sets you on edge.

“Ma’am,” he greets, voice thick with Southern flair. He extends a hand, taking your own before you can react, his palm large and surprisingly cool around yours. He doesn’t shake–just gives your hand a gentle squeeze. “A pleasure.”

You arch an eyebrow and pull your hand back as politely as possible. You keep your tone neutral. “It’s nice to meet you, Remmick.”

Earl goes on for a bit about Remmick’s role–he’ll be taking the overnight shift, coming in about an hour before your own shift ends–right around the time the Sun sets–and then staying overnight as security. Sacred Fir has trouble with vandalism this time of the year: usually nothing more serious than bored teenagers trying to snag a free tree in the dead of night, but it’s enough that it’s not only a nuisance, but costly.

You frown. “What happened to Jerry?”

Jerry was the man whose job this was–you haven’t seen him in about a week, Earl coming in his stead, but you always assumed he’d be back.

Earl huffs irritably. “Bastard up and disappeared on me. Haven’t heard from him in over a week. Just poof. Can’t find any decent help nowadays.”

Remmick hums in agreement, the sound low in his throat. You look over at him, only to find him already staring at you. You know in your gut that he’s been staring this entire time.

“Lucky for me.” he drawls, “I’ve been needing something to keep me busy. I’m just passing through town, but I’ll be here a few more weeks yet.”

He’s responding to Earl–but his eyes never stray from you. You feel a flush creep up your neck and look away.

Earl dismisses you shortly after that, clasping a hand over Remmick’s shoulder as they continue to discuss the job. You make yourself scarce, heading to the breakroom at the back of the cabin while there are no customers to worry about.

You can feel Remmick’s eyes on you the whole way there.

You weren’t sure what to make of Remmick when you first met him, other than that he was strange and a little unnerving and stared too much.

You decide now that you hate him.

Or at least, you want to hate him.

He’s not what you expected: you thought he’d be the kind of strange that stands at a distance, eyes tracking your every move and never looking away in shame, even when caught in the act.

As it happens, Remmick does track your every move, he never looks away, and he seems downright impervious to shame.

But not from a distance.

The man basically lives right under you—you can’t stock the shelves or clean the windows or sneeze without him hovering at your shoulder, asking you what you need or complimenting your hair or, worse, trying to make small talk.

You brush him off more often than not, sometimes gently, other times bluntly. It’s amusing, the way he deflates every time, full lips pouting and wide shoulders slumping. He makes a show of it, silly as can be, and you try not to laugh at his antics. Try being the key word—sometimes you don’t turn your head away quickly enough and he catches the smile that stretches your lips. The way he perks up can be, regrettably, endearing.

The only time he isn’t circling your ankles like a hungry dog looking for food is when a family needs help cutting and loading a tree. Which brings you to your next dilemma: 

Remmick is hot.

You noticed his face when you first met, of course–the handsomely large nose, the full lips, the masculine bone structure–but it isn’t until you see him hauling around a seven foot fir for the first time that you notice his body.

You can’t stop noticing now: the way his strangely formal button-ups strain across his broad shoulders, the large bulge of his biceps beneath the fabric, the thick and veined forearms that he occasionally exposes when he rolls his sleeves up to his elbows. Once, while helping a family load a fir atop their SUV, his shirt rode up, exposing the flat plane of his stomach and the shockingly deep V of his pelvis.

You looked away–not just looked away but turned around, not trusting yourself not to stare otherwise, an embarrassing thrill shooting through you.

You can’t help but watch him after that. You think you’re discreet–you try to be, anyway, your glances surreptitious, eyes flitting to and from his body like a dance. Your determination to limit your glances means that you miss the way he watches you back–often, keenly, his eyes taking in even more of you than you do of him. 

Seeing more than you could ever hope to see.

One day, traffic is much slower than usual–in the past three hours only one family has come through. Remmick takes advantage of the dead air, leaning against the front desk, trying to gain your attention as you type away at your computer and feign disinterest.

“I’ll get you to warm up to me soon, darlin’.”

“Not if you keep calling me darling.”

Remmick pouts, a plaintive whine rising in the back of his throat. You struggle not to find it cute, or amusing, or endearing.

Earl bursts through the cabin doors, disrupting your conversation. He’s dragging a ladder behind him. He perks up at the sight of Remmick.

“Remmick, good! Couldn’t find you anywhere. Come here, boy, and help me with this.”

Earl sets the ladder set up in the middle of the cabin, and explains to Remmick what he wants done–some frivolous adjustment to the garland that decorates the ceiling.

Like this, Earl has his back to you–but Remmick faces you head-on, his eyes occasionally flitting over Earl’s shoulder towards you.

You get a terrible idea.

You reach for the peppermint stick Earl gifted you earlier, discreetly unwrapping one end. It’s a giant, gaudy thing, ten inches long and at least three inches in circumference. Every employee got one, in lieu of a Christmas bonus.

Eyes still on your computer screen, you bring the blunt end to your mouth, the rounded tip resting heavily on the plush of your bottom lip, your tongue peeking out to swirl delicately around the tip. The taste of peppermint bursts on your tongue.

From your peripheral you see Remmick’s eyes zero in on you, and stay. 

You smile sweetly and feed the first several inches of the stick into your mouth, lips closing around the girth. You slowly drag it in and out of your mouth, the red dye of the peppermint smearing on your lips and tongue. Your cheeks hollow as you suck on it, and when you pull it from your mouth the wet pop is audible. A thin string of saliva falls over your bottom lip. You lick it off.

Remmick’s lips are parted now as he watches you, eyes dark and heavy-lidded. You can see the heavy bob of his throat as he swallows.

“Are ya listenin’?”

Remmick snaps out of it, eyes landing back on his employer, who’d been speaking incessantly while Remmick’s attentions were elsewhere.

Remmick smiles, polite. “Yes, sir. Redo the garlands. Won’t be a problem.”

Earl huffs, annoyed. “Good man. Hop on it, then, before anyone else shows up. And close your damn mouth, you’re gonna catch flies.”

Later, Remmick corners you while you’re restocking the shelves.

“That was a mean game you played, darlin’.”

You heft the box you were pulling from into your arms, walking away without looking. He trails after you, of course.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I think you do. Got me in trouble with Earl.”

“You should’ve been listening while the boss was talking to you.”

“Now, darlin’–,”

“Don’t call me that.”

“Sweetheart–,”

“That’s not better.”

You hear Remmick huff, and then suddenly a hand is on your elbow, spinning you around. He crowds you against the shelves, the box in your arms a barrier between your bodies.

“You just don’t want me callin’ you nothin’, do ya?” he asks, teasing. You tilt your chin up, stubborn.

“Call me by my name.”

So he does.

He says your name, his voice pitched low, drawing out the vowels as he rolls each letter over his tongue. Then he says it again, stepping even closer, the hard line of his body pushing against the box in your arms, pushing you even further into the shelves. He’s looking at you, head tilted to the side, lids heavy over his eyes–so dark now that you can’t make out the blue at all–, a wry smile on his face.

Goosebumps erupt over your arms at the way your name drips from his tongue like honey. You stare back at him, breaths deep, neck and face warm. You’ve nearly forgotten what you were arguing about.

He says your name again, and your heart flutters in your throat. He tuts, shaking his head.

“I’ve been saying your name and still nothing. I’m beginning to think you don’t like me at all.” He pouts, pushing his bottom lip out dramatically.

You swallow, mouth dry. “I don’t.”

Remmick presses a hand over his heart, pulling back as if wounded, theatrical. “After that show you put on for me? I don’t believe you, darlin’.” He leans forward, breath ghosting across your face, voice deep. “Don’t need to be shy about it, baby. I like you, too.”

The bell over the door rings, God from the machine. You scurry from between Remmick and the shelves, using the edge of the box to push him away. You hear him chuckle as you briskly walk away.

The back of your neck burns. Whether it’s from embarrassment or his gaze–so heavy it may as well be a touch–you can’t tell.

The next day finds you at the foot of the cabin’s Christmas tree, rearranging ornaments—turns out Earl is very particular about his decorations.

You kneel as you work. Suddenly, a broad shadow falls over you.

“Shouldn’t be on your knees like that, girlie,” a voice says, and you tense, “Might give someone the wrong idea about you. Or the right one!”

Mr. Declan. He comes by the farm at least twice a week, hemming and hawing over the trees but never buying. He always insists that you show him around–even though he should know the paths like the back of his hand by now–and hovers a little closer each time.

You didn’t even know he was in the cabin. You shudder, disgusted, wondering how long he’s been watching you. 

You stand, dusting your knees, ornaments still dangling from your fingers. “I don’t think that’s appropriate, Mr. Declan.”

Declan makes an expression of exaggerated shock. You want to punch him.

“Well, why not?!” he exclaims, hands coming up in a large shrug, “What’s wrong with what I said, exactly?”

You can feel the heat creeping up your neck. You clasp your hands behind your back in an effort to mask their trembling.

“Did you need help with a tree, Mr. Declan?”

“Well, you didn’t answer me,” he sneers, “What’s wrong with what I said?”

The bell over the door dings: it’s Remmick, just arriving for his shift. You beeline for the front desk.

“My shift is over, Mr. Declan,” you call over your shoulder, loud enough for Remmick to hear, “My coworker will have to help you.”

Remmick gives you an inquiring look as he closes the door behind him—then he notices Declan, still standing next to the tree. You swear his expression darkens. You don’t stick around to be sure, slipping into the back.

You’re lying, of course—your shift doesn’t end until an hour from now, and Remmick can’t cover the desk for long—he has other duties to attend to. Still, you slump in relief on the breakroom couch, grateful for any respite from that slimy old man.

You can faintly hear Declan and Remmick talking, though you can’t make out what’s said. It’s not long before you hear the tell-tale jingle of the door bell, and the voices cease entirely.

You step out tentatively—Remmick sits alone behind the desk, Declan nowhere to be found. 

He tilts his head at you. “You okay?”

You really wish he hadn’t asked that: you’re struggling as is to pretend you don’t like him.

You shrug. “Yeah. He’s just such a creep.”

“I noticed.”

This strikes you as odd—Remmick and Declan are rarely at the farm at the same time. You don’t linger on it, though, beat from the workday.

“Why don’t you head on home?”

Your head snaps up. “Huh? Oh, no, I couldn’t—everyone else has already left, what if it gets busy again?”

Remmick shrugs, casual as anything. “I can handle it, darlin’. Less than an hour before I close those gates and I don’t expect we’ll get much traffic between then and now. Go home. You’re tired.”

You feel like you should argue some more—or at least argue his use of the word darling. 

But you are tired.

You grab your bag from the breakroom, slinging it over your shoulder as you head out. You hesitate, then blurt out your next words before you can overthink them.

“Thank you, Remmick. I appreciate it. Have a good night.”

Remmick smiles—a giddier smile than your words warrant, truthfully. You half expect him to start swinging his feet where he sits.

“Thank you, darlin’. You have a good night yerself.”

Later that night finds you in your room, getting ready for bed. There’s no light save for the cheery glow of the miniature tree on your dresser, just dim enough to comfortably fall asleep with. 

You turn to climb into bed and freeze—you could swear you saw something outside your window, a flash of red. You step closer, until your nose is nearly pressed to the glass, looking out—but all you can see is the dark outline of tree branches, and blinking red lights—the reflection of your tree. You brush it off and climb into bed, bone tired.

You fall asleep to the faint sound of the tree branches outside your window rustling, caught in a late-night wind.

The rest of the week goes on as usual, with Remmick annoying and thrilling you in equal measure, your frustration at yourself mounting as you try to stifle your want.

Right now your feelings for him have landed squarely on annoyed.

Your shift ends in five minutes and he’s nowhere to be found: you can’t leave until you pass off the cabin keys to him. You heave a sigh, pushing away from the desk, and go to find him.

You step outside, zipping up your jacket against the chill—it’s nearly dark now, only a sliver of sun left on the horizon. You look at the rows of fir trees, dark and ominous in the twilight.

“Remmick?” you call, hoping he might be near. 

No response, of course. In fact, things seem unnaturally silent on the farm: you strain your ears, but even the crickets have fallen into a hush. You trudge down the long line of Douglas firs, anxiety mounting. You glance between each gap in the trees, hoping each time to see him.

“Remmick?” you try again, voice smaller.

Nothing.

You come to the end of the row, stepping out into the gap between the Douglas firs and the white firs. You glance to either side, but see Remmick nowhere.

“Remmick!”

You continue into the white firs, acutely aware that you’re straying further from the bright, artificial lights set up around the cabin. You make the same nerve-wracking journey down the row, checking the gaps between the trees, occasionally calling Remmick’s name—never receiving any response.

You’re coming to the end of the white firs. There’s a thick smell in the air now, both familiar and foreign. You gasp, unintentionally sucking more of the scent onto your palate, tasting it.

Familiar is the crisp evergreen of the neatly planted, faux-forest around you, the fragrance of their needles sharp and heavy in the air. Balsam.

The foreign scent sits thick and coppery at the back of your throat, and recognition hits you as you round the corner of the long row of white firs. Blood.

You see it at the exact moment you recognize its odor, coating the ground and dripping off the needles of the surrounding firs.

And you see Remmick.

For one awful, stomach-dropping moment you think he’s been hurt—or worse.

But then you really look.

It’s Remmick–but he’s hunched over, his body covering another. He digs his hands deep into the shoulders of the other person, his face buried in their neck. He’s making short, aborted motions, his head jerking back and forth in tiny increments, his small grunts and punctured noises audible from where you stand.

Digging in, you think, suddenly lightheaded.

“Remmick,” you gasp. You don’t even mean to say it, really, but it slips out anyway, disbelief clouding your voice.

Remmick freezes, his shoulders tensing. Then he detaches from the body beneath him with a sickening squelch and looks up at you.

Red. It’s all you can see, covering Remmick’s face from nose to chin, soaking the front of his shirt, reflecting in his eyes.

You gasp, or sob, and stumble back. It’s only the sturdy, prickly support of the fir against your back that prevents you from falling.

Remmick drops the body with a careless thud–you look, and groan in distress at the sight of Mr. Declan’s empty, glassy eyes.

“Aw, darlin’...”

Remmick crawls–actually crawls–towards you, his bloody hands coming to press against your thighs, his knees firm in the dirt beneath him–kneeling at your feet.

“Don’t be mad, darlin’,” he says, that familiar whine in his voice, “Just couldn’t stand the way he was talkin’ to you. He was sniffin’ around here tonight and I just couldn’t–I couldn’t let ‘im near you. You should’ve seen what he had in mind.”

He presses his forehead against your thighs, nuzzling against you like a chided pup seeking a forgiving touch. You look between Declan’s body and the man before you, panic rising in your chest.

He’s changed: the hands that press over your thighs have always been large, but tonight they’re unnaturally so, his fingers extended by several inches, more jointed than should be possible, his fingertips ending in thin, sharp points. His teeth are stained with blood and too big for his mouth, jagged and many-fanged. The eyes that stare beseechingly up at you are dark as the night sky, no blue in sight, and reflect a brilliant, duochrome red.

His fingers convulse over your thighs, the sharp needlepoints of his claws nipping at your skin beneath the denim. You gasp in pain, flinching back, and his fingers immediately relax. A high whine rips out of his throat, and he leans forward, nuzzling against your thighs apologetically.

“Please,” he begs, “Didn’t mean it, darlin’. Didn’t mean to scare you–didn’t mean to hurt you. It won’t happen again, baby, I promise. Don’t be scared. Don’t you believe me?”

So much about him has changed, but his voice–his voice is the same. It’s the same voice that pokes and prods at your nerves every day–the same voice you’ve been pretending you don’t look forward to hearing every sunset. You listen as that voice wafts up at you now, pleading.

Your hands, shaking madly, come to thread through his dark, unruly hair. He nuzzles further into your thighs, whining in relief at your touch.

“Y–yes,” you rasp, “I believe you.”

And it’s true, somehow. You do believe him.

You look back at Declan’s body, briefly meet its nothing stare, and look away.

“R-Remmick,” you stutter, “We have to–we have to get you cleaned up. We can’t stay out here. Come on.”

Remmick, pliant and obedient, lets you pull him to his feet. He lets you lead him by his clawed hand through the rows of firs, into the warmth of the cabin, back to the breakroom. He watches silently as you strip off your jacket and turn on the sink next to the fridge. You tear off half a dozen sheets from the towel dispenser, hands still shaky, and wet them under the warm tap. You take a moment before you turn around, bracing yourself against the edge of the sink, closing your eyes with a deep breath. Then you let it out and turn around.

Remmick is still there–still watching you, still flint-eyed, still dripping blood.

You come forward and begin to methodically wipe his face clean, not saying a word. Remmick watches you all the while, his mouth slightly parted, breaths deep and even, eyes heavy-lidded. His hands stay at his sides.

You shouldn’t be doing this–you should be calling the cops, or running, or screaming, or something. But you know that if you even think about anything besides this simple task, you’ll fall apart.

Once his face is decent, you step back. “Wash your hands. And please get rid of that shirt.”

He obeys, walking up to the sink and scrubbing his hands clean. He even uses soap. His hands aren’t quite normal, fingers still too long, nails still too sharp, but they look more like the hands you’ve seen handling firs these past few weeks. 

He pulls off his shirt and brings it under the water, though you figure the fabric is a lost cause. He ends up clogging the drain and leaving it to soak.

Then he shuts off the tap and turns to face you. He’s on you before you can even blink, handling you like a doll—he lifts you clean off your feet, placing you to sit on the table as delicately as if you were porcelain. He presses his forehead against yours, one hand wrapped possessively around your back, the other coming to cup gently at your face. He’s breathing hard, eyes impossibly dark and fixed on yours. 

He breathes your name, voice tortured, and pulls you flush against him, slotting himself firmly between your thighs and forcing your legs to spread around the bulk of his body. His hips jerk forward, his crotch brushing against yours, and you gasp: he’s hard, the impression of his cock hot and heavy even through the fabric of his jeans. He moans your name this time, head falling to rest on your shoulder.

“Darlin’,” he murmurs, nuzzling against your neck, eyes closed. His breaths are coming heavy again, and you realize suddenly that he’s breathing in you, taking in big, open-mouthed lungfuls of the taut skin at the hollow of your throat. You can smell him, too, a faint trace of blood that’s bone-deep, something your measly wet towels could never wash away.

He brings his hips forward again, and you whine at the feel of his hard dick pressing against your cunt, the layers of clothes between you be damned. He does this again and again, rolling his hips against yours until you’re a moaning mess, your back arching as you press your hips forward in kind, chasing the pressure. Remmick is murmuring against your neck all the while.

“Need you,” he moans, “Need you, baby, need you so bad, please–won’t you let me have you? Been wanting you for so long, for months, I’ll treat you so good. Let me in, baby. Let me in.”

You whine, high and needy, both at his words and the incessant drag of his cock against your cunt. Your mind has gone blissfully blank, pleasure overriding judgement.

“Yes,” you moan, legs tightening around the small of his back, pulling him in closer, “Remmick, yes–have me.”

Remmick doesn’t wait another moment: he pulls back, claws ripping through the front of your shirt and bra, the ruined tatters of your clothing falling to the side and exposing your body. He presses you backwards, until you’re laid flat on your back, and makes quick work of your jeans and underwear, yanking them down your thighs–you help him with this, toeing off your boots and kicking your clothes the rest of the way off.

Then his hands go to his own fly–you watch as he pulls his cock out and moan at the sight of it, thick and red and veiny, the tip already leaking clear fluid.

“Remmick.”

He moans deep in his throat at the way you say his name, fist squeezing around his aching cock. “I’m right here, darlin’.”

Remmick’s hands squeeze at the curve of your hips, then drag up the curve of your waist–and then you find yourself on your stomach, dizzy from the sudden shift in gravity. Remmick has flipped you over, once again handling you as easy as if you weighed nothing. He rubs his thick cockhead up and down your slit–you don’t want to consider what it says about you, that you’re so wet for him despite everything you’ve seen tonight, your slick coating him generously and already creating a litany of loud, sloppy sounds. You whine, clenching around nothing, hips moving searchingly. Remmick laughs.

“Pretending you’re so above it all–pretending you’re so above me–and look at you now, darlin’, wanting to get stuck on this cock so bad. I knew you would warm up to me.”

He doesn’t make you wait any longer: he pushes into you, his thick girth forcing him to go slow as he stretches you open. You moan in a mixture of pleasure and pain, loud and wanton, clenching around him wildly. He’s moaning too, bending over you to rest his head between your shoulder blades. Your toes curl when he bottoms out. 

You’re both still for a moment, you getting used to the way his cock stretches you to your limit, Remmick to the impossibly tight suck of your cunt.

And then Remmick pulls himself up, grabs a steadying fistful of your hair, drags his thick cock out of your clinging walls, and snaps back into you. He fucks you wildly from behind, one of his hands gripping possessively at your waist, the other still fisted in your hair. 

Each thrust punches a high, needy moan out of you, and you can’t hide the way your moans get louder, your breaths whinier, when your body jostles in a way that causes Remmick to involuntarily pull at your hair. 

Remmick notices, of course. He gives your hair an experimental tug, and you moan wildly, clenching almost painfully around him.

Remmick grunts, hips faltering, taken aback. “Damn. Is that okay, baby?”

“Yes.”

Remmick moans, guttural, and pulls your hair hard. He doesn’t let go, holding you in place: it forces you to bend backwards, your back arching, your front rising from the table–you’re half-standing now, Remmick’s hold on your scalp blissful pain, the new angle making him fuck up into you in a way that has you screaming.

Remmick slows down, his free hand wrapping around your neck, pressure light as a feather around the column of your throat, but tighter on the sides. You can feel the faintest hint of his claws, sharp pinpricks on your soft skin.

“Gotta be more quiet than that, darlin’,” he pants, “You’re liable to wake the dead.”

He squeezes at the sides of your neck–not roughly, and not over your airway, but it makes you breathless all the same, your head going fuzzy and light. You quiet down, just as Remmick intended, and he eases his grip. You gasp in a long breath of air, lightheaded, clenching around him. Remmick moans, rolls his thick cock even deeper into your greedy pussy, and clamps his hand around your neck again. He doesn’t stop as he chokes you–this time, he fucks you hard, cock pistoning in and out of you, the wet sounds of your cunt lewd.

The light, fuzzy feeling in your head somehow only amplifies the sensations traveling through your body: the delicious stretch of his cock as it bullies open your cunt, the sharp points of pain at your scalp as he yanks your head back by your hair. Your eyes roll into the back of your head as these sensations build and combine, your cunt clenching as you come hard, a hoarse scream ripping out of your throat.

You go lax in Remmick’s hold, and he lowers you to the table–but he doesn’t stop fucking you. His hips snap against yours, hard and fast as he chases his own pleasure, having not yet come. It’s too much: you’re overstimulated from your orgasm, and his cock feels as if it’s punching against your very cervix. You cry out, this time in clear pain.

Remmick stops immediately. He nuzzles his head against your back, whining guiltily. “M’sorry,” he murmurs, “M’sorry, darlin’. Didn’t mean it.”

He’s like a dog.

The thought comes to you unbidden, but not untrue. He is like a dog: he follows you around like one, whines and begs like one, and now he fucks you like one. A wild dog, maybe–feral and dangerous, but still with some indomitable part of him that needs attention and approval.

This realization gives you clarity.

You shift, gently pushing Remmick away. You wince as his hard cock slips out of you, but then you’re turning onto your back, legs spread, beckoning him forward. He’s over you at once, hands gentle as they cup your face and travel down your body. Your hands reach up to thread through his hair, pulling his head down to rest against yours.

“It’s okay,” you promise, “Try again. Be gentle.”

Remmick makes a small, raw sound and reenters you, still as hard as steel. He fucks you again, this time slower, more controlled, careful of your hypersensitivity. You sigh in pleasure.

Remmick acts just like a dog. Maybe he responds to praise like one. You bring your mouth to the shell of his ear.

“Good,” you breathe, voice low and breathy, “That’s good, you feel so good in me, baby, just like that.”

Remmick moans, hunching further over you, his hips stuttering. “Yeah?” he pants, “I feel good?”

“Yeah,” you sigh, head tilting back, and it’s true—the stretch of him alone divine, the slow drag of his cock sending sparks of pleasure through your spent body.

“Do I fuck you good?” he rasps. He doesn’t ask it in the way men you’ve been with in the past asked: as if they just knew the answer was yes and were waiting on you to stroke their ego. Remmick asks as if he’s truly wondering, as if his life is staked on your approval.

“Yes,” you gasp again, “Yes, yes, yes, you fuck me so good, Remmick, fill me up so good–,”

Remmick moans, hiking your legs up higher around his waist, thrusts speeding up. He’s drooling now, the liquid collecting at the corner of his mouth, and you almost laugh at the sight. 

Instead, you make a low, lustful sound. 

“Come here, baby,” you moan, tilting his head towards you, “Give me some of that.”

It takes Remmick a moment to understand what you mean. Once he does, he laughs. “Dirty bitch. Open your mouth, darlin’–let me see that pretty tongue.” 

You moan at the word bitch–if Remmick is your dog, then you can be his bitch—and open wide, showing him your pink, eager tongue. Remmick spits, and you moan at the dirty feel of it hitting your tongue. 

You hold your mouth open, letting him get a good look at the sight of his saliva coating your tongue—then you close your mouth and swallow, making a show of it. 

Remmick’s responding moan can only be described as destroyed. His head falls against your chest, his hips faltering in their rhythm as the sight sends him closer over the edge.

“Good, baby,” you say, fingers threading through his hair, “So good, you even taste good, fuck.”

This does it: Remmick lets out a low, long moan, claws digging tight into the flesh of your waist, hips stuttering. He gives a few final, hard thrusts, and then he’s slotting into you to the hilt, pressing his body flush against yours as he empties himself into your cunt.

You rub soothing circles over his scalp as he shudders against you, your other hand smoothing up and down his flank. You murmur into his ear as he comes down, nonsense smattered with praise, and you feel an undeniable swell of affection when he looks up at you, bumping his large nose on the underside of your chin.

Your wild dog.

He stays over you, inside of you, until gravity does its work and forces him to slip out. He stands, pulling you up with him, his large hands steadying on your back and side. He’s looking at you with wide, dark eyes, nervous again.

“You okay, darlin’?”

You take stock of your own body–your cunt is sore, but in a way you love. The pain in your scalp is almost faded now. You smile, a bit wry.

“Not my most romantic fuck, but sure. I’m okay.”

Remmick looks downright relieved. He pulls you close, pressing a chaste kiss against your forehead. Then he pulls up his jeans, tucking himself back in, and heads for the closet, where Earl keeps an array of cleaning supplies and yard tools.