ׂ 𓈒 ⭑ vamps n banshees. iwtv. sinners. hannibal. music. horror. film. superman. lion kaminski’s wife. strawberry shortcake. writing. dystopian. spiderman. december bby. louis lovebot. vanilla cashmere. pink. claudia defender. night owl. baby blue. portal 222. ᝰ.ᐟ
𝐢𝐢. ℒatest. fed by your hand (remmick). winner takes you (l.kaminski). thatorchia (remmick). red tease (remmick). ain’t nothin’ sweet (r.goode) fresh cut (e.love) circle one : limbo (remmick) occupied (j.cook) all of his ghosts gathered at your throat (p.sumner)
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remmick x f.ᐟreader ⨾ ❝ remmick no longer has to hunt because you have learned how to feed him. ❞
you used to fear remmick when he smiled with blood on his teeth. now you bring him men from town and let him kiss you afterward, caught somewhere between desire and the terrible comfort of being wanted by a monster who decided not to kill you. word count : 5k
ִ ࣪𖤐 ˓ . contents. blood play, blood drinking, obsessive behavior, “partners in crime” dynamic, ‘stockholm syndrome’-ish undertones, past threats and coercive fear in the relationship’s beginning, minor character death, murder, violence, possessive language, marking, biting, bruising, unprotected p in v, messy sex, breast play, drool, rough sex, creampie, toxic devotion, religious / sin imagery, power imbalance. mdni 18+
𝜗ৎ . notes ; first fic of the google doc murder spree (finally emptying out my docs).. this was written very late dec - early january, and has been locked up for so long. this, along with a lion blurb, is the oldest of my finished projects and i’m happy to finally throw it into the world… also there’s biting in here, but no vampiric turning !!
The road home runs bright beneath the moon, softened by the day’s rain until every step draws a quiet, sucking sound from the clay, and the man behind you keeps close enough that his breathing seems to belong to the dark itself.
He has been following since the bend past the bar, since the last of the music loosened into the night and the lamps were put out one by one, leaving only moths battering themselves stupid against the glass and a few drunken voices fading toward the fields.
He had laughed too loudly when you let him walk beside you at first, his hat pushed back from his damp forehead, one hand working at his suspenders as though he meant to remind you he was a man with money in his pocket and heat in his blood.
By the time you turned down the narrow lane toward your house, he had stopped trying to hold a proper conversation, and all that remained of him was whiskey, want, and the foolish confidence that made men so easy to lead where they ought not go.
You don't look back often enough to frighten him away. You let him hear the brush of your skirt over wet weeds and see the shape of your hand when you lift it to steady yourself along the fence.
Men like him enjoy believing a woman is almost afraid, just uncertain enough to be coaxed, just lonely enough to be convinced.
He had leaned close to you in the smoke-heavy warmth of the bar and told you your eyes could make a man forget his good sense, and you had smiled into your glass, listening while Remmick’s marks, hidden beneath the high collar of your dress, pulsed under the memory of his mouth.
The man had never noticed the bruises. He had never thought to wonder why you kept your throat covered in June, why you drank so little, why you watched the door whenever the wind shifted from the trees.
The house appears at the end of the lane with one lamp burning low behind the front curtains, yellow light pressed thin against the dark. The porch is painted haint blue along the ceiling, though no old charm has ever kept evil from crossing it, not since you opened the door months ago to a wounded stranger with mud on his boots and murder held tight behind his teeth.
Even now, you can see him in pieces when the house comes into view… Remmick braced against the jamb, one hand clamped to his side, rainwater running from his hair; Remmick watching your hands as you prepared to tend to him, hungry even while half-dead, as though he had found something more interesting than survival.
The memory is mixed with others: with his mouth at your wrist because he had taken it, not because you had offered; with his fingers locked tight around your arm while he drank just shy of too much; with his voice lowered at your ear after he recovered and stayed, still threatening, still amused, though the threats began to sound less like promises of death and more like excuses to keep you close. The first time you understood he had stopped speaking of killing you outright because he had begun thinking of keeping you.
Behind you, the man stumbles and catches himself on a fencepost, laughing under his breath as if the earth has flirted with him. “You live tucked away, don’t you?” he slurs, trying for charm and finding only hunger. “A woman ought not be out here by herself.”
You pause at the foot of the porch steps and turn enough for him to see your face in the moonlight.
The magnolia by the yard has dropped white petals into the mud, bruised brown along the edges, and the sweetness of them hangs heavy with the smell of wet grass and distant river rot. “I’m not by myself,” you say, soft as the night will allow.
He takes it as an invitation because he wants it to be one.
His smile spreads, loose and pleased, and he climbs the first step with his hand dragging along the rail, but the liquor has made his body less certain than his mind.
His boot slips on the damp board, and he goes down hard, shoulder striking the porch with a hollow thud that travels through the house.
He curses, then groans, his hat rolling toward the edge where rainwater still drips from the roof in slow, silver threads.
Then, His hand skids in the mud tracked across the boards, and you watch him from above with your key held between two fingers, letting the small brass teeth bite into your skin.
He's been waiting.
You know it as surely as you know the shape of your own bedroom in the dark, as surely as you know the places on your body his mouth will seek first when he comes in fed and shining.
He doesn't need to hunt the way he used to, not with you wandering into town in your good dress, not with your lashes lowered and your voice sweetened into something men mistake for permission.
At first, you had done it because he frightened you less when full. Then you had done it because he looked at you afterward with a devotion too ruinous to resist. Now you do it because the town is full of men who believe the world has been made for their appetite, and Remmick’s appetite, at least, loves you.
You step inside and close the door before the man can gather enough sense to call after you, and the bolt slides into place with a familiar scrape.
You remove your gloves one finger at a time and set them on the small table beneath the crucifix your mother left you, the one Remmick refuses to touch but enjoys mocking when his mood is bright.
Outside, the man’s voice rises in a confused complaint, thickened by drink and injured pride, and then the porch boards creak beneath another weight.
The first scream breaks open quick and ugly.
It tears across the yard, startling the cicadas into silence, and you stand in the hall with your hand resting against the wall while the sound climbs and twists.
The second scream comes muffled, as though a palm or a mouth has covered it, and then there's only the rough drag of boots against wood, the wet impact of a body pulled closer, the low animal sound Remmick makes when hunger takes him past manners.
A woman with any sense left would pray. A woman with less sin in her blood might shut her eyes and tremble.
You walk to your bedroom instead, loosening the pins from your hair as the house settles around the violence on the porch.
Your room is close and warm, holding the day’s heat in its plaster walls.
The lamp flame leans whenever the wind finds a crack, gilding the washstand, the iron bed, the quilt folded at the foot where Remmick had slept through noon with one arm hooked possessively over your waist.
His presence lingers even when he's outside. In the faint mineral chill along the sheets; in the dark coat thrown over the chair; in the little nick beneath your collarbone where he lost control two nights ago and spent an hour afterward kissing the wound as though apology could be given with a bloody mouth.
You remove your dress slowly, careful with the buttons though your fingers shake, and leave it over the back of the chair before drawing on your nightgown.
The cotton is thin from washing, white enough to make a sacrifice of itself, with lace at the throat that never stays innocent long.
By the time the porch falls quiet, your hair is loose.
You sit at the edge of the bed and listen to the slow dripping outside. Some of it is rainwater. Some of it is not.
Your heart beats in your throat, not with fear alone, though fear is still there, old and faithful, tucked beneath the ribs where he first planted it.
It was fear that that kept you still when he caught your wrist in that cold, merciless grip and drank until the room tilted soft at the edges. It was fear that made you listen when he laughed against your skin, blood-wet and cruel, telling you not to faint.
Somewhere along the way, with his fingers bruising your arm and his breath shuddering like a dying man’s against your pulse, fear became something more shameful than fear alone.
The shame of that should have cured you. It never did.
The knock comes soft enough to be mistaken for courtesy, and you rise and cross the hall, bare feet whispering over the boards.
Remmick doesn't need the invitation anymore, not in any clean sense, since you gave it too many nights ago with trembling lips and never found the courage to take it back, but he knocks when he has fed because he likes the ritual of your hand opening the door. He likes being received. He likes the moment your eyes find his mouth and your body betrays you before your conscience can dress itself.
When you pull the door open, he stands beneath the porch roof with blood slicking his lips, his chin, the pale line of his throat where his shirt hangs open. It's soaked into his collar and speckled one cheek, and a dark strand of hair clings to his forehead.
Behind him, the man lies half in shadow near the steps, ruined into silence, one hand still curled as though grasping after the life that has already left him.
Remmick’s eyes are brighter than the lamp behind you, red-black and drowning deep, and the smile he gives you is not gentle even though his voice is.
“There’s my girl,” he murmurs, stepping through before the door has opened fully, and his arms come around you with such sudden hunger that your back strikes the wall behind you and the breath leaves your chest.
Cold blood smears across the front of your nightgown as he presses himself to you.
His face goes to your neck at once, breathing you in with a broken sound that would be pitiful if it came from anything less dangerous. His mouth drags along your skin, wet and copper-sweet, leaving red across your throat and jaw.
You lift your hands into his hair because there is nowhere else for them to go, and because you want him close enough to stain you past saving.
He kisses you as though he means to crawl inside your mouth and sleep there until dawn.
The taste of him floods you, blood and whiskey stolen from the dead man, grave-cold tongue sliding over yours, fangs catching with enough care to make the danger worse.
He's never so affectionate as he is after feeding, when the stolen life moves through him and leaves him dazed with it, drunk on pulse and heat and the knowledge that you brought it to him.
His hands close around your waist, then slide lower, gripping through the cotton, hauling you against the hard line of him until your thighs part around one of his.
“You made him follow sweet as a lamb,” he says against your mouth, the words damp and rough, broken by another kiss before they can become a sermon. “Had him lookin' at you like he’d found supper, and all the while you were bringin' him home to me.”
You make a sound that might have been his name if his mouth had not taken it from you.
He licks over your lower lip, where his fang has grazed, and the smallest sting blooms there.
The first bead of your blood draws him still. His fingers flex hard into your hips, and his face changes with a hunger that is no longer for the body outside.
He bends to your lip with a reverence that's almost worse than violence, sucking the tiny wound until your knees loosen and your hands tighten in his hair.
The first time he tasted you, he had been shaking with fever on your kitchen floor, too weak to rise and too viscious to beg.
You had reached toward him with the basin, thinking to wash the blood from his side, and he had moved faster than any wounded thing ought to move, catching your wrist and dragging it to his mouth before you could do more than gasp. He latched onto you with a groan so intimate and hateful it haunted your sleep for weeks, drinking while his eyes stayed fixed on yours, daring you to cry out when no one was near enough to save you.
That’s when he had threatened you, with your blood still on his teeth, promising he would kill you once his strength returned if you bored him, if you ran, if you looked at him too long with pity in your face.
Yet he had not let you fall when your knees weakened. He had pulled you down beside him with a rough hand at your waist, mouth hovering near the bite he had made, and for one strange, awful second he had pressed his lips there as though admiring his own cruelty.
Even then, monstrous and half-mad, he had kissed what he hurt, not in apology, but because it belonged to him for the moment.
Now he pulls back from your lip with a shudder and looks at you as if the whole ruined night has been an offering laid at his feet. “Pretty wicked thing,” he whispers, his thumb moving over your blood-slick mouth. “The town would put you in the ground beside me if they knew how well you feed me.”
“They won’t know,” you answer, and the certainty in your voice pleases him enough that his eyes narrow with it.
“No,” he agrees, kissing your cheek, then the corner of your mouth, then the pulse fluttering under the blood he left at your throat. “They’ll look at you tomorrow and see lace, sweetness, maybe a tired smile if you’re careless. They won’t see me between your legs.”
The words go through you hot and low.
He feels the way you soften against him, the way your breath catches, and his smile presses into your skin.
His hand gathers the hem of your nightgown and drags it up over your thigh. The air touches you first, then his fingers, cold and sure as they slide between your legs and find the damp heat there.
He groans before you do. His forehead drops against yours, and for a moment both of you are caught in the narrow space between the blood outside and the bed waiting down the hall.
“All this before I’ve even laid you down,” he says, voice roughened by possession. “You waited for me wet.”
You should deny him the satisfaction, but your body has no loyalty to pride. You rock against his fingers, breath breaking when he strokes through the slickness and circles the aching place above your entrance with a slow cruelty that makes your hips chase him.
He kisses you through it, messy and open, drool slicking your chin as the pressure builds. Blood spreads from his mouth to yours until the kiss turns red.
When his fingers push inside you, two at once and deep enough to make your shoulders press back against the wall, he swallows the sound you make and gives it back with a groan of his own.
The hallway is too narrow for what he wants. He lifts you before you can fully find your balance, one arm under your thigh, the other at your back, carrying you toward the bedroom while his mouth stays fixed to your neck.
Your nightgown rides high around your hips, and your bare legs hook around him by instinct. The candle in the bedroom throws your shadows long across the wall when he pushes through the door, his and yours joined into one dark, shifting shape.
He lays you on the bed with more care than his hunger promises, his hand cradles the back of your head as you meet the pillow.
His thumb brushes your cheek, smearing blood there like rouge, and then he climbs over you half-dressed, shirt open, trousers still fastened, suspenders hanging loose from his shoulders.
You reach for him immediately, pulling at cloth and buttons, needing the cold press of his body beneath your hands. The blood on his shirt darkens your nightgown where his chest meets yours, and the lace at your throat turns red under his chin.
He mouths down your neck, lingering over old marks and making new ones beside them. He doesn't break your skin at first. He kisses, sucks, bites just shy of blood, mapping his claim in bruises that will deepen by morning.
His obsession has always worn itself prettiest on your body. He likes proof. He likes the places where you cannot wash him away.
When he reaches your breasts, he pulls the neckline of your gown down with both hands and bares you to the lamplight, his gaze turning heavy before his mouth follows.
The wet heat of his tongue closes over one nipple, and your back arches from the bed. He sucks hard, teeth grazing the tender skin, while his hand kneads the other breast with possessive impatience. Blood from his lips streaks across you in dark half-moons.
He changes sides, then changes again, unable to settle, drunk on every inch he can reach. His spit wets your skin and the cotton bunched below your breasts, and when you whimper, he lifts his eyes to you from beneath his lashes with such open hunger that you feel your cunt clench around nothing.
“You like me filthy,” he says against your breast, and there is no question in it. “You like me cominm in with blood on my face, crawlinm over you before the body’s gone cold.”
Your fingers twist in his hair. “I like you full,” you whisper, and the confession makes his mouth open wider against your skin.
He bites then, not deep enough to endanger, only enough to bring a small red bloom to the surface above your breast. The pain flashes bright, then melts into pleasure when he laps at it with a low, shaking moan. He drinks from that shallow mark as if it is more precious than the slaughter on the porch, as if your smallest wound matters more than another man’s death.
His hand slips beneath your nightgown again, fingers spreading you open, rubbing slow circles that make your thighs tremble against his sides.
By the time you get his trousers open, his composure is nearly gone.
He hisses when your hand wraps around him, thick and hard and slick at the head, and his hips press forward helplessly into your palm.
You stroke him once, twice, spreading the wetness with your thumb, and his mouth falls open against your chest.
For a creature who has lived longer than any man ought, he can still look undone by the simple fact of your hand on him.
His patience breaks when you tighten your grip and lift your hips beneath him.
He catches your wrist, pins it briefly beside your head, then kisses your palm as though apologizing for the force of it while his other hand drags your drawers down your thighs.
One seam catches, and the fabric tears with a soft, final sound that makes your breath hitch.
He smiles into your mouth when you scold him under your breath, but the smile is gone as soon as he settles between your legs and feels how slick you are against him.
“There now,” he murmurs, sliding the head of his cock through your wetness with slow, obscene pressure. “My sweet accomplice. My little saint with blood under her nails.”
You look up at him through the candlelight, at the streaks of red drying along his throat, at the softness hidden beneath the fever of his eyes, at the monster you once feared would be your death and now welcome into your bed with a dead man cooling outside the door.
“Remmick,” you say, his name leaving you as a plea and a command together.
He pushes inside you with a measured restraint that makes both of you suffer.
The stretch is deep, hot, familiar, and still it steals the air from your lungs as he fills you inch by inch.
His forehead lowers to yours; his breath, unnecessary and shaken, fans across your mouth. When he is fully seated, hips pressed tight to yours, he holds there and trembles, his fingers curling into the quilt beside your head while your body pulses around him.
Blood cools between your breasts. His cock throbs inside you. The house creaks in the damp heat. Somewhere beyond the open bedroom door, water or blood taps the porch in patient drops.
You lift your hands to his face and draw him down, kissing him with your own blood still on his tongue, and that is what unfastens the last of him.
His first thrust is slow enough to feel deliberate, dragging out until your body tries to hold him, then pressing back in with a wet, heavy roll that makes your fingers clutch at his shoulders. And by the third, he drives you into the mattress, his hips snapping into yours while the bed begins to knock against the wall.
His mouth slides from yours to your jaw and back again, smearing blood and spit over your skin, his fangs grazing whenever his control thins.
Your nightgown stays twisted around your waist, your breasts bare, your thighs spread wide around his half-clothed body.
His open shirt brushes your nipples with every thrust, the damp fabric dragging until the sensation turns sharp enough to make you cry out.
He hears it and shifts his weight, catching one nipple in his mouth while he fucks you harder, tongue circling, teeth teasing, the cold heat of him everywhere at once. His hand grips your thigh and pushes it higher against your ribs, opening you deeper for him, and the change makes you sob into the crook of his neck.
“C'mon,” he whispers, though the words shake with his own pleasure. “Let me have you. Let me feel what you saved for me.”
You're too full of him to answer properly. You give him his name again, broken softer this time, and he rewards it by grinding deep, his pelvis pressing hard against your clit until pleasure sparks through you in a bright, spreading ache. He does it again, learning the angle, cruel with how well he knows you.
Every thrust comes wet and filthy, his cock dragging through your slick cunt, his mouth working bruises into your throat, his fingers leaving marks along your thigh. The blood on him has become blood on you, red across white cotton, red in the dip of your collarbone, red at the corner of your mouth where he keeps kissing you open.
He lifts his head enough to watch you. He looks at you as though he can see the first night, the trembling basin in your hands. He looks at you as though he knows every road that led you here and loves the ruin of each one. “You were meant for this,” he says, voice low and fevered, his hips never slowing. “Meant to bring them home and lie beneath me after, sweet with guilt and wanting.”
The shame of it burns, but not enough to cool you.
Your body tightens around him, drawing a ragged groan from his throat.
He laughs once, breathless and dark, then kisses you hard before reaching between you to rub your clit with two slick fingers.
The pressure is exact, the rhythm merciless, and your pleasure gathers too quickly for dignity.
You cling to him while the room blurs at the edges, while his cock fills you and his hand works you open to the breaking point.
Your orgasm rolls through you in a long, shaking wave that leaves you gasping against his mouth
He thrusts through it, groaning when your cunt clenches around him, his forehead pressed to yours, his lips brushing yours between broken words that fall into you one by one, damp and reverent, until you cannot tell whether he is praising you for coming or for sinning so beautifully with him.
You feel the way his rhythm falters in the sudden desperation of his kisses, his hand slipping beneath your back and holding you so tightly there will be bruises shaped like his fingers by morning.
He buries his face against your neck, right over the pulse he could take if he wanted, and his fangs press there without breaking skin.
“Tell me,” he says, the demand ragged enough to sound almost wounded.
The answer is already in the way your legs lock around his hips.
He makes a sound that's closer to a growl than a moan, and his body drives into yours with a final, shuddering force.
His hips press flush as he spills deep, cock pulsing inside you while his mouth opens over your throat. He holds there with his fangs against your skin, trembling violently, restraint and hunger braided so tightly that his whole body seems to suffer for it.
The heat of him fills you in slow, messy throbs, and when he rocks shallowly through the last of it, his spend begins to leak around him, slicking your thighs, making the place where you are joined obscene beneath the lamplight.
He stays inside you after, breathing though he has no need, his body heavy and cold over yours while the blood on your skin dries tacky between you.
Your nightgown is ruined beyond saving, bunched and stained, lace torn where his fingers pulled too hard. His shirt hangs open, marked with the dead and with you. The bed smells of sex, iron, candle smoke, and the damp rot of a southern night pressing itself against the windows.
After a long while, Remmick lifts his head. His eyes have cleared some. He looks down at your mouth, your throat, your bare chest streaked with his feeding, and his expression softens into something that would make you weep if you had not already given him so much of yourself.
He kisses your lips, then the bitten place above your breast, then lower, as if blessing every mark he made.
“You’ll have to help me with the porch,” you whisper, your voice hoarse from pleasure and the weight of the night.
His mouth curves against your skin. “I always do.”
There's affection in it, terrible and domestic.
By dawn, the boards will be scrubbed with lye until no stain remains for the neighbors to puzzle over. The man’s hat will vanish into the creek. His name, whatever it was, will become a question asked in town for a week and then less often after, swallowed by heat, gossip, debt, and the ordinary cruelties of living.
You will wash your hair. Remmick will draw the curtains and hide from the sun. The two of you will lie tangled beneath clean sheets while flies gather somewhere far from the house.
For now, he slips a hand between your thighs and presses his fingers where his cum is leaking out of you, watching the mess with a devotion that makes your stomach tighten all over again.
He gathers some of it and pushes it back inside with slow, possessive care, his eyes lifting to yours as your lips part.
“My girl,” he says, almost softly.
The words should feel like a chain, and, perhaps, they are one. Yet when he kisses you again, you hold him there by the back of the neck and let the night close over the house, let the magnolia rot in the yard, let the porch wait a little longer for its washing.
Morning will come with its white heat and its lies soon enough, and when it does, you will wear a clean dress buttoned high at the throat, with Remmick’s bruises hidden beneath the collar and his sin still warm inside you.
PLEASE RELEASE ALL THE FICS UVE BEEN HOARDING IN UR DOCS I NEED IT like u dont understand stop pretending like ur not the goat ✋🏾 imposter syndrome is not real look at who is in office. u can do anything 🙂↕️ (also everything u put out is nothing short of amazing im so glad i found this blog. also more human remmy please)
THEY’RE COMING 🤭
and thank you so much 😭 imposter syndrome is kicking my ass daily but you’re right (i’m putting faith myself). and i’m so glad u found the blog too 💗 will have some more human!remmick coming soon…
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality
Anya is LIVE right now
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Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
ᰋ ˓ . content. established relationship, unprotected p in v, prone bone, cum inside, rough sex, messy sex, size kink, marking, dirty talk, praise kink. mdni 18+
The motel door barely clicks shut before you have your hands on Lion.
He laughs against your mouth, breathless and surprised, though there’s hardly any room in him for real surprise when you’ve been looking at him like that since the final bell. Since he lifted his bruised fists under those cheap lights with sweat shining down his chest and blood drying at the corner of his mouth.
You kissed him in the hallway before Stan could finish talking, kissed him again by the ice machine, and by the time he gets you inside the room, you’re already tugging at his shirt like you’ll die if there’s one more layer between you.
“Baby,” he murmurs, voice rough from adrenaline, from shouting, from all the pain he swallowed in the ring. “I gotta shower.”
“No,” you breathe, catching his bottom lip between your teeth until he groans low in his chest.
That does something to him.
You feel it in the way his hands tighten on your waist, in the way his eyes go dark and soft all at once, like he can’t decide whether to be gentle with you or ruin you for making him feel wanted while he’s still damp with sweat, still sore and buzzing—still half-wild from the win.
He kisses you—deep, messy—with open-mouthed kisses that taste like salt and blood and victory, his hands roaming beneath your clothes with a clumsy hunger that only makes you need him worse.
He backs you toward the bed until the backs of your knees hit the mattress, then follows you down without breaking the kiss, his body heavy over yours, warm and solid and trembling faintly with leftover fight.
“You were lookin’ at me like you wanted to climb in that ring yourself,” he says, mouthing down your jaw.
“I did.”
Lion huffs a laugh, but it catches when you pull him closer by the waistband, shameless with it, needy enough that his face changes and the teasing slips.
His mouth finds your neck, and he kisses there first, sweet and hot, then harder, teeth grazing until your back arches. He leaves marks because you ask him to without words, because your fingers dig into his shoulders and your breath breaks every time he sucks another bruise into your skin.
By the time he has you turned over beneath him, your cheek pressed to the motel pillow and your body stretched out under his, he’s lost the last of his restraint.
He’s still in his fight-worn skin, still warm with sweat, still breathing like he’s trying to keep himself together, and the thought of it makes you dizzy.
Lion leans over you, one hand braced near your head while the other grips your hip, and bends low enough to kiss the corner of your mouth from behind.
“You sure?” he whispers, rough but careful.
You don’t answer with words. You just reach back, shove your own pants and panties down your thighs in one frantic tug, kicking them off one ankle so they bunch around your knee. Lion’s hand is already at his belt—quick, clumsy, the buckle clinking once before he yanks his jeans open. He doesn’t bother pushing them down past his hips. He just hooks his thumb under the waistband of his boxers, shoves them roughly beneath his balls, and pulls his flushed cock out.
You push your ass back against him in answer, and his composure breaks.
The first blunt press of his thick, heavy cock makes your breath catch into the sheets, your fingers curling tight in the blanket as your body struggles to take all of him at once. The fat, flushed-dark head leaking thick, shiny strings of precum that smear messily between your cheeks and make the stretch wetter.
He sinks in inch-by-inch, forcing you open wider than you thought you could go, the sensitive head twitching hard every time your hole clenches around it.
Lion groans like it hurts him, like the tight heat of you is punching straight through his chest and straight to the needy, desperate cock he never knows what to do with until it’s buried inside someone who wants him this bad.
He kisses your shoulder, your neck, the side of your face, messy and desperate, his mouth dragging over your skin as he eases in slow enough to make you feel every veiny inch, every pulse, every helpless spurt of fresh precum that just keeps dripping out of him the deeper he gets.
“Christ,” he breathes, voice shaking.
He’s trembling above you, trying so hard not to lose it right there, but the way his hips twitch—chasing the wet heat like he can’t help it—tells you he’s already fighting that embarrassed, needy edge that always undoes him.
You can barely answer. You only whimper his name, and that ruins him.
He starts slow because he has to, because even when he’s rough, Lion can’t stop being Lion. He watches the way you tense, listens for the little sounds you try to hide, kisses the back of your shoulder when you tremble beneath him.
But once you start pushing back, once your hips meet his and your voice turns needy, his grip tightens and the rhythm changes into something harder, deeper, less polished.
The bed creaks under you. The cheap headboard taps the wall. His body covers yours completely, hot and solid, his chest brushing your back as he leans down to kiss you again, awkward from the angle but so hungry it makes your stomach twist.
His mouth catches yours over your shoulder, all tongue and breath and broken noises, and every thrust drives the kiss messier until neither of you can keep it clean.
“You like me like this?” he pants against your mouth. “All sweaty after a fight?”
You nod helplessly, and he gives a rough little laugh that turns into a groan when you squeeze around him.
“Yeah,” he murmurs, kissing your cheek, then your jaw, then the marked-up side of your throat. “I know. Couldn’t even let me wash up first.”
“You won,” you manage, breath hitching as he rolls his hips deeper, that sensitive blunt head grinding right against that spot and making his cock twitch hard inside you.
That makes him curse under his breath. His hand slides up your body, fingers spreading over your spine, holding you down with just enough pressure to make your head go light.
He isn’t cruel with it, but he is rough now, needy, his hips snapping harder while his mouth keeps finding places to mark.
Everything turns up. The room full of skin against skin, the filthy wet sound of his cock plunging in and out of your dripping hole, breathless praise, the broken sound of your name in Lion’s mouth.
He keeps kissing you wherever he can reach, like he can’t help himself, like he needs to remind you he’s there even while he’s taking you apart. His tenderness makes the roughness worse somehow, makes every hard thrust feel intimate enough to ache. He’s leaking so much inside you now that it’s squelching obscenely with every snap of his hips, precum and your slick coating his heavy balls and dripping down your thighs in warm trails.
“You feel so good,” he says, voice wrecked. “God, baby, you feel so good.”
You reach back for him blindly, and he catches your hand, lacing his fingers through yours against the sheets.
For a moment, even with his weight over you and his hips moving hard enough to make you sob into the pillow, there’s something soft in it. Something almost shy in the way he presses his forehead to your shoulder and groans your name like he’s grateful.
Then you push back into him again, greedy and trembling, and he loses that softness to hunger.
He pins your joined hands down, kisses the side of your face, and drives into you with a rough, breathless rhythm that has you falling apart beneath him, all heat and sweat and bitten-back cries.
Lion follows you there, shaking against your back, his mouth open against your neck as he spills out praise between ragged breaths, telling you how badly he needed this—his cock pulsing hard as he floods you with warm ropes of cum, the sensitive head twitching with every spurt.
And afterward, when the room finally goes quiet except for the buzz of the old lamp and the sound of both of you trying to breathe, he stays right where he is for a minute, his lips brushing the newest mark he left on your throat.
“Still need that shower,” he mumbles.
You laugh weakly into the pillow.
Lion kisses your shoulder again, softer this time. “You comin’ with me?”
You turn your face enough for him to kiss you properly, slow and sore and sweet, and he smiles against your mouth like winning the fight was nothing compared to this.
Just a lil something about Eric that's been on my mind. Part one of a two shot series!
There is some smut in this, but none between reader and Eric. Part two will be the conjugal visit 🙂↔️
pairing: (aged up) Eric Love x Fem!Reader
summary: You had been dating Eric for a few years now, having been used to just phone visitations and swapped letters. Upon learning that Eric would become eligible for conjugal visits, you take it upon yourself to break the news, in the mean time, you send your boyfriend some gifts.
Part One
Find Part Two here.
unedited.
wc: 7.1k
warnings: a little canon divergence obviously, established relationship, (reader has hair) fluff, coarse language, mentions of prison (obvs), blood, bruises, fighting/violence (none towards reader), desperate Eric!, mutual bullying, sexual tension, nude pictures, male masturbation, mentions of titty-fucking and oral, lingerie, bodily fluids.
let me know what you think!
______
"Baby."
"Love," You reply with a grin, matching his as the wired phone rests in your hand, pressing against your ear. His actions mirror yours, and he shifts on the built in seat of the prison, resting his elbows against the small counter. "You get all dressed up for me?"
He sat as if he had been sitting there longer than usual, comfortable and waiting for your arrival.
Eric rolls his eyes at the same joke you make at every phone session. "Obviously," He still goes along with it, much to your amusement. "Got all dolled up for my lady."
"Mm hm," You nod, looking him over once he settles in his chair. There weren't any obvious cuts or bruises on his skin, and you relaxed just so slightly. "I can tell."
His grey tracksuit hung slightly loose on him, harbouring old stains you had been meaning to ask him about.
Thick glass separates the two of you. A stark and cruel reminder of how close yet so far your boyfriend was.
This was routine for you now.
A grey and dull room. Plastic chairs bolted to the ground. A thick pane of scratched glass filled with little indentations of past inmates names and tags.
It was busier than usual being a weekend - partners subdued with children fidgeting in their laps, guards watching intently for any unusual activity.
There was no place you'd rather be.
Eric's eyes were tired, a reminder that behind those walls he was constantly on guard, constantly on edge. But he never let you worry, never let you see him without a cheeky smile that managed to light up your usual dull booth.
He plays with the wire of his receiver, looking you over this time.
You tuck your chin slightly, bringing your phone a little closer in an attempt to drown out the background noise.
"You alright?" You ask softly, watching as his blue eyes continue gazing over your upper body.
There was nothing remotely sexy about your outfit, seeing as there was a strict dress code in the prison.
But it didn't matter, and Eric lets his eyes linger over your unzipped jumper, raising his eyebrow at the cleavage that peaked out.
He continues to grin, his voice muffled slightly through the plastic phone. "Better now, you know seein' ya makes me whole week yeah?"
You just nod, biting into your lip like a bad habit as you smile, knowing he was being truthful.
"What 'bout you darlin, you been busy?" He continues, nodding towards your hair, seeing it wasn't it's usual style.
You shrugged almost sheepishly, having gone out of your comfort zone and gotten your hair done. "Thought I'd change things up a little," a finger reaches up to adjust a looser strand. "Do you like it?"
He nods eagerly, looking it over. "Looks real pretty, but you'd make a fuckin' bald head look good I reckon."
A playful scoff leaves your lips followed by a small chuckle, and Eric revels in the sound, already considering your limited session a success.
"What about you, everything okay at your end? Eatin' proper?" It was a question you always asked, not wanting to pry too much into the other gruesome and unpleasant woes of prison.
He shrugs, but nods again. "Got everythin' I need, don't ya worry," Eric leans further, both elbows now pressed against his counter as he smiles. "Already told the boys here that I got a woman who tries fattenin' me up."
Your eyebrows raised, once again taking in his slightly loose tracksuit. "Yeah, 'cause you're a real porker aren't you Eric."
"Only when I'm porking you love," he winks, and your eyes widen, reaching out to smack at the glass. "Ouch."
"Keep sayin' shit like that Eric and you'll get calls taken off you," You look around embarrassed, hoping no one heard his stupid attempt at a joke. The man hadn't gotten laid since before he was sentenced. "Bellend."
Your voice dipped as you said his name, and he throws his head back in laughter, his teeth on display as other inmates look at him in annoyance. Eric adjusts the phone once more - switching ears, pressing it further as he straightens up.
"Have you been good at least?" You leaned in just slightly, eyes narrowing as you looked over his now free hand.
Eric shifts, his grin fading just a little to show something softer underneath. "Always, no mix ups, still keeping my head down yeah."
You exhale, tension in your shoulders as you eye his hand again. "What's the bruises on your knuckles from then?"
He pauses at your words, eyebrows furrowing as he looks at his palm, turning the hand over to look at the yellow hues that decorate his pale skin. "Ain't from any fights, don't you worry."
You wanted to believe him, but given his history with the other inmates, the idea of immediately taking his word for it didn't hit you.
As if sensing your hesitation, Eric holds his hand up to the glass, pressing it against the cool surface. "Promise."
He did it every time he wanted you to relax, his own little quirk, and you reluctantly nod, reaching up to press your own hand against his, feeling the cool material between that separated you.
It was the closest you had to feeling his touch, and you'd be lying if you said it was enough.
You missed his warmth, his hands on you - even the innocent touches, his hands on your waist to show his claim. The kisses before bed, the annoying way he'd steal all the blankets. All of it.
“Okay,” you say gently. “I trust you.”
His hand presses even further into the glass, wondering that if he tried hard enough - that he could imagine the softness of your skin once again.
There was a small silence as you just looked at each other. Taking in everything and somehow nothing all the same. It was the same every session, but it was still comforting. You just stared into his eyes, ignoring the distant chatter, the guards, the buzzing lights above.
It was just him. Only Eric.
He did the same, his gaze loving as he sighed.
Eric tilts his head a little, his voice dipping to that low, teasing softness he reserved just for you. "You're so beautiful, ya know that love? I miss you somethin' bad."
He would say the same thing every time. He never wanted you to forget how it sounded to hear his praises, to hear his appreciation and love for you.
You both pull away from the glass as you shrug again, use to rebutting his compliments, to which he'd always tut at you, telling you to accept them.
A buzzing sound goes off, startling you as usual. The rooms cruel way of telling visitors that there was only five minutes left.
Every visit was timed to the second, every goodbye and 'I love you' following sadly too close behind every hello.
Your back straightens as you compose yourself, before you snap your fingers, having nearly forgotten one of the main reasons you had been excited for this weeks session.
"Gift box!" You tap at the glass with your nail, your face lit up as you flashed your boyfriend a toothy grin. "Shit, nearly forgot."
"You what?" He questions, eyes closing in confusion.
"I got a letter that your wards opening' gift exchanges," you continue, now swapping the phone to your other ear as your wrist was getting tired. "I can send you a box of stuff - bunch of rules 'n shit on what I can include, but that's exciting yeah?"
His interest had piked, and he rests his chin on his free hand as he thinks over the revelation.
Eric knew gifting was normal in the prison, many of the other inmates receiving items from their families often, but he had never been eligible due to his poor behaviour.
"What're you thinkin'?" He asks, wondering what he'd be allowed to receive. His mind had honestly gone blank, having already gone so long without pleasantries and little things one would usually take for granted.
"Well, most things on the 'not allowed' part of the list are a given," Your tongue sticks out slightly as you reach down inside your bag beside your foot, wiggling around for the piece of paper you had saved.
Feeling the crumpled letter, Eric watches in amusement as you press the phone between your cheek and shoulder, using both hands to open envelop.
Once it was unravelled, you start listing off the things he can't ask for, nothing he would have considered anyway. "Anything you can think of Eric?"
He shakes his head. "Surprise me love."
"I've already got a box back home half full," you admit, nodding at your mans shocked expression. "Yeah, got some of your favourite books, sweets 'n stuff," you begin to list again, watching as Eric just smiles at your words.
"Even threw in my old iPod, you're not allowed wired headphones so I thought maybe some bluetooth ones, I've already downloaded a bunch of playlists and g-"
"You don't 'ave to buy me anything," he cuts you off, already hating the idea of you spending money on him. "Can listen to music without them."
"I've already bought them," your shoulders just shrug at Eric's expression, but eventually he starts to smile, shaking his head. "Put some teabags in too."
He snorts, but deep down he was more appreciative over something as small as a proper tea. Not that he'd ever admit it.
Eric begins to just stare as you start yapping away at more items you were thinking of including in his gift box, your voice muffling. His chest warmed, his stomach filling with that familiar feeling only you managed to grace him with.
He was utterly and completely in love with you.
It always shocked him how much you truly cared - how much you loved and supported him even when he got himself thrown in this giant concrete shit-hole.
He would never voice it, but there was always a lingering fear that every phone session would be the last - that you would eventually come to your senses and realise you were too good for him and leave forever.
But it never came, and instead you were here, telling him about all the presents you had packed away, how you were already planning the next.
Eric hadn't even realised you had finished speaking, your eyebrow raised at his expression, knowing he hadn't been focusing. "Wanker."
It was a jest, and you both immediately begin to laugh, you at the way his eyes drift when he's not listening, and him at your insult.
Another buzzer goes off, signalling that your time was up, and your shoulders sag.
You reach up again - having already thrown the letter back in your bag, pressing your palm flat against the glass like before. Eric did the same, your fingers just a pane apart.
"I love you," he said quietly, just enough for you to hear. "I'll see you next week yeah?"
"Always," you assured him, ignoring the guard that had come to stand behind you. "I love you too, be good Love."
The phones clicked off just in time for him to hear your words, and he nods, his side of the room now quiet as he hung his phone up.
You didn't move straight away, looking at him one more time, memorising the boyish grin he gave you - the soft crease between his brows, and he nods towards the exit, urging you to go before you got in trouble.
Eventually you stood, pulling your bag along with you as you blew him a small kiss, to which he pursed his own lips with a wink that was undeniable Eric.
With a final nod, you walked away, not looking back.
There was no need too, he always made sure you were gone before he left his own chair. The reassurance that you were safely out of this depressing place just enough to keep him going for the day.
--
It's just gone half ten in the morning when a guard had called Eric's name in his wing. His heart had jumped slightly, as it always did when someone called for him in here.
Making the trek, he reluctantly made his way to the calling guard, Mark, or was it Mike? Eric wasn't sure, nor did he care. But then he saw it: a box. Decently sized. Taped up from the bottom up with his name written on this side in familiar handwriting.
A little heart dotted the 'I' in his name, and he exhaled with a little chuckle.
He tries not to grin too hard as he signs a form handed to him, ignoring the way the guard rolls his eyes, pushing the box towards him - commenting on how there is some weight to it.
Your phone session had only been a few days prior and he hadn't been expecting the delivery so soon - but he couldn't deny the eagerness that filled his chest at what possibly hid inside.
The guard was right, the box was heavy, and he huffed as he lugged the large cardboard box back to his cell, ignoring the jests and comments from his friends in passing.
With the large steel door clunked shut behind him, Eric sits cross-legged on his cot, seeing that his gift had already been opened - no doubt by the guards checking for any contraband.
It felt like Christmas.
He was already beaming, wide and stupid. Chuffed didn't even begin to describe the feeling.
The first thing he was greeted by were books, both worn and new, and he pulls them out one by one, running his hand over the covers before stacking them beside his bed on the built in shelf.
You had even thrown in some comics, remembering he had mentioned in the past about his infatuation with old school stories.
"Oh here we are," He whistles lowly, seeing the black, sleek iPod resting on a box of opened wireless headphones. A sticky note was attached to the back in your handwriting.
"Gotta charge it in the common room, not allowed wires x."
He chuckles, thinking about how you really did go all out. He scrolled through quickly, seeing as it was already on, noticing you had already downloaded a number of playlists.
There were sweets too - loads of them. Haribo, strawberry laces, fizzy cola bottles, even those sour watermelon things he used to throw at you to get your attention when you were busy.
He tosses the numerous bags to the end of his bed. “Fuckin' hell man,” he mutters to himself, grinning. "Gonna get right fat."
At the bottom of the box, lie a bunch of photos in a ziplock bag, an envelop and a travel sized bottle of cologne. Eric reaches for the envelop first, but sees your writing again - just three words.
"Open me last."
Shrugging at the warning, he instead reaches for the ziplock bag, opening and seeing a bunch of printed photos. One of you two on the couch, you snuggling into his neck.
Another of just you, fresh faced and beaming at the camera as you wore one of his shirts, your grin infectious - Eric immediately twisting where he sat on his bed to stick it on the shelf by his head.
There were a couple more, casual pictures of you: some in his hoodie, some of the two of you from various dates, all making him smile as he remembered where they were taken.
He piles them along his shelf, sticking some on the wall when he ran out of room.
Already the space felt more his, more inviting. You would be the first thing he saw when he woke up in the morning and the last thing he'd see when his head hit the pillow.
Taking out the remaining gifts, Eric snorts seeing you had stayed true to your word. Teabags, socks, a beanie, even one of his hoodies he knew you loved to steal, but there was something different about it - this time it smelt of you.
He would recognise your perfume anywhere, and he closed his eyes as he lifted the fabric to his nose, inhaling the familiar scent.
Eric props the box to the ground, hoodie beside him as his eyes dart from item to item, worried he may have missed something.
His pale fingers hover over your iPod again, already picturing his head back on his pillow, headphones in, eyes shut with music he hadn't heard in years singing back to him.
He hides the iPod carefully under his pillow, followed by the headphones. His ward knew better than to fuck around with him or his stuff, but the threat of his stuff being jacked was still there regardless.
Your choice of socks were next.
Most were plain, black and white and navy, but there was one pair that stood out.
Bright red with little frogs all over, the little things smoking cigarettes.
He laughs proper, the sound bouncing off of his cell walls as he throws the socks to his clothing basket in the corner of his cell.
“Bet you pissed yourself throwin' them in," he mutters, grinning from ear to ear at the thought of you buying the pair on a whim. "Idiot."
He'd wear them to bed if anything, knowing he wouldn't be caught dead wearing them out of his four walls. His cologne was last, and he twists the cap, bringing it closer to inhale his past signature scent.
His eyes flutter shut and for a second, he feels like he was back in your shared bedroom in your flat, lights low, your head on his bare chest and his scent lingering in your sheets as you traced his many tattoos.
Finally was your letter, or what he had assumed was a letter, but as he picked up the envelope, he could feel something slightly bulky inside.
He turns the paper upside down, small squares falling out followed by another little sticky note.
"I love you."
His grin hadn't faltered, his finger running underneath your words as he sticks it to his wall beside your pictures.
At first, he thought they were just more selfies, albeit smaller, this time in polaroid form - but Eric's breath hitches in his throat as he starts checking them out one by one.
Eric’s breathing is thick. His grin disappearing and being replaced by a tensed jaw and wide eyes.
The first one could've passed as innocent enough.
You in bed, wearing the hoodie again, your legs bare and thighs on display with a familiar smirk. He already knew what was coming before he flipped to the next.
The second - the hoodie had risen, revealing more of your soft skin and lacy baby blue panties, a white bow in the centre.
His jaw clenches at the sight, seeing it was one of the many favourites that you owned. "Fuckin' hell." He mutters under his breath, exhaling slowly.
The following photo, you're perched on the edge of your bed, eyes soft, his hoodie resting beside your legs, arms pressed in front of you. The bra matched your panties, your breasts pushed up by your arms.
Eric lets out another shaky exhale, running a hand over his face as heat begins to seep into his skin.
His pulse jumps, warmth crawling up his neck as he flips to the next. It was the same angle, this time your bra was gone, your tits half on display, nipples peaking through your hand 'bra' as you were biting your lip.
Eric quickly checks his closed door, worried some nosey sod might see what was for his eyes only.
“Christ,” he says under his breath, swallowing the words as he shakes his head. “There's my girl."
He knew it was coming. Should've stopped whilst he could, but his longing and desire to see what had been hidden from him for so long got the better of him.
The rest of the Polaroids were from different angles, your hands no longer covering your breasts, exposing the skin.
You were posed in all different ways, giving him all the shots of your tits, your ass that looked even more full in your positions - desperate for his hands or his teeth.
One of them, you were on all fours, back arched with your hair flicked over your shoulder. Your clothed pussy just slightly peaking out, and Eric threw his head back against his cell wall, his free hand already reaching down to palm himself through his grey sweats.
He didn't care anymore, his cock had started getting hard from the first photo alone. His erection strained against the confines of his pants, growing by the second as his hand glided over the throbbing shaft.
His hand drifted back to his waistband, his fingers toying with the hem as he contemplated fucking his fist to your pictures.
Eric puts the photos down, his eyebrows furrowing as he realises one had stuck to another, and he pulls them apart gently.
He didn't stand a chance.
His hand already slipping beneath the waistband of his sweatpants to wrap around his aching cock.
The last photo was of you on your knees, looking up to the camera with your beautiful smile on display.
Your hands were on your thighs, breasts free and your nipples pebbled, but god, seeing your eyes looking up at him through your lashes was nearly enough to make him cum in his sweats alone.
His eyebrows quivered, a low groan escaping his lips as he began to stroke himself slowly beneath his pants.
"Fuck sake," he breathed, his voice strained with pleasure. "Fuckin' tease." Eric's words were choppy, his breathing growing heavier as he lost himself in the fantasy of your bare body, wishing nothing more than to be there with you in your room.
A small sigh leaves his lips, whispering your name. His words sound strangled and thick with desire, and he groans a little louder, his cock throbbing in his hand as he drank in the sight of your perfect fucking tits.
"My fuckin' girl," he growled, stroking himself even faster, dragging his hand up and down his uncut dick underneath his boxers. "Yeah…. Yeah - shit, like that, just like that.”
His blue eyes were dark and intense, filled with a drunken lust as he looked over the various photos sprawled out on his bed.
He panted, his hips rocking into his fist as his face winced in pleasure. Precum leaked from his reddened tip, drooling down the sides of his cock, helping to lubricate every stroke.
Eric licks his lips, his gaze locked onto the picture of you on all fours as he continued to work his shaft with desperate need. It was risky, usually jerking off in the showers when he was alone, but he couldn't stop, not when the sight of you set him off.
He hadn't fucked you in so long, not since he got himself arrested, and hell, usually when he fucked his fist - it was to just the thought of you.
Now, he had numerous little reminders of how you looked under your clothes, not that he had ever truly forgotten.
Your name leaves his lips again, almost in a pleading tone. He places the photo down, reaching for your his hoodie beside him, bunching it in his fist and bringing it to his nose for the second time, almost whining into the fabric as he drinks in your smell.
Eric's eyes close again, grunting in longing as his mind drifts to memories of the last time he had you beneath him. His grip tightens, imagining it was the clench of your warm, soaking pussy around him instead of his fingers.
"Fuck..." he drawls out, his voice muffled by the hoodie, his voice strained with effort in an attempt to hold back his impending release.
His thoughts were low and filthy - breathing growing heavier as he lost himself to the memory of every position he had ever put you in, of your lips wrapped around him, of your own smaller fingers as they'd glide up and down his cock and squeeze his balls.
He pumped his thick cock faster, his hips thrusting into his fist as he chased his high. Eric's eyes opened, the hoodie still wedged between his chest and chin as he smelt you all around him.
God, he couldn't pick what picture to finish too. He loved your breasts, remembering how they looked when they bounced above him, but, fuck - he loved your ass just as much, how much it bounced and jiggled when he fucked you rough and hard from behind.
Eric missed fucking your tits, sliding his cock between the soft flesh until he'd paint your neck and face with his hot cum.
Most of all, he missed sinking into your warm and welcoming body, watching the way your mouth would gasp with each inch he gave you, the way your nails would dig into his back and mark him up for weeks.
"Shit, shit," Eric panted, his body tensing as he neared his climax with each squeezing stroke. ""M'gonna fuck you so good," He whispers, picking the photo where he could see your face the best. "M'yeah, c'mon love, fuckin' show me - fuck."
His words ended in a loud groan, and Eric brings the hoodie back to his mouth, biting into the fabric as his orgasm crashes over him, thick ropes of cum shooting from his throbbing tip as his soaks his boxers and the front of his pants.
Eric's body shudders, panting, his lean frame going rigid as he rides out the waves of his release.
He had cum plenty of times since being sent to prison, but none of the times had felt as intense as this. His shaking hands continued gliding up and down, drowning his hands in his spent until he was borderline whimpering.
Eventually, he leaned his head back against his cell wall, his sweatpants now sporting a wet patch as he pulled his hand out, deciding to wipe the cum from his shaking hand onto his pant leg.
He grins sheepishly to himself, chest rising and falling as he makes sure his hand was relatively clean before bunching your polaroids up.
Eric throws his hoodie to his clothing basket with his free hand, away from any mess, and he pulls his new old iPod out from under his pillow, swapping the hiding place with your risky photos.
"Proper tease mate," he shudders again, reaching down to readjust himself in his soaked boxers. "Proper fuckin' tease."
He eyes the stain before lolling his head around with a sigh, already trying to remember if he had a clean pair of sweats in his cell, but Eric couldn't fight the grin on his face as he looks at one of the innocent pictures of you on his shelf.
A stark difference to the other sneaky photos you had snuck in. He looks down one last time to the sticky note saying 'I love you', his eyebrows furrowing as he flips the paper over, seeing more writing.
"Ash helped me take the pictures before you throw a fit x."
His laugh echoes through his cell again, not even realising the thought hadn't crossed his mind. All of your pictures were hands free, and he shook his head, picturing you asking your best friend to take such tasteful photos.
Fuckin' women.
--
London was surprisingly sunny this morning, but it's light was short lived, swapped once again for the buzzing lights of the prison.
The visitation area was quieter than last week, only a few visitors stuck in conversations with their loved ones.
The room was cold despite the welcoming change in weather, a reminder of the giant concrete box your boyfriend lived in.
Eric was already in his booth, elbows on the metal counter, receiver already in one hand. His sleeves were rolled up to his forearms, the hoodie you had sent him was folded in front of him, having clearly been worn before he started to sweat beneath his clothes.
Your heart was beating a little harder than you'd like to admit. You had seen him just a week ago, but time dragged on here - and now you knew he had received your gifts.
The box changed everything.
The sweets were lasting, much to his surprise. The hoodie with your perfume still on it was never too far away from him - even going as far as to sleep with it tucked under his head.
The books - he had already started reading one, having let a friend borrow another.
The photos though.
The photos wrecked him.
Eric had spent nearly everyday since receiving the photos just fucking his fist to the sight of them. Every night he had spent lying in his bed, the sheet over his lap with his jaw clenched, spent and breathless.
He sits up straighter as he sees you being guided in, bag slung over your shoulder as you walk with your head held high. The hand not holding the receiver was tapping at the counter, waiting for you to sit.
You beam at him, and he mouths, "Baby," as you get comfortable, quickly lifting your phone to your ear.
"Hi Love," You grin, watching as Eric's eyes narrow playfully. "You like the socks?"
"Socks?" He repeats with a huff, his voice low, warm and intimate. "Oh baby," His eyes trail over you like a memory being refreshed. He leans forward, eyes narrowing even more, his voice lowering. "You're a right tease y'know that? Real cruel."
The phone felt cold in your hand, but you'd be lying if there wasn't warmth in your cheeks at his words. Eric watches you like a man starved, like he was hungry for something only you could give.
You take a breath and smile softly, shrugging at him. "I take it you liked your presents?"
Eric scoffs at you, but there was no malice behind it.
"Liked?" he repeats again, turning his neck to look on both sides, thankful there weren't any other inmates sitting beside him. "You 'ave any idea how many times I've wanked? I'm runnin' out of clean boxers babe."
Your skin turned hotter at his revelation, and you looked around you too, afraid someone had overhead his crude words. A guard just stands by the door, his eyes barely open as he leans against the wall.
"Sorry," you whisper, but the grin that grew on your lips was a clear indicator that you were anything but apologetic. "Thought you'd need a pick me up."
He exhales sharply, shaking his head at you with a deep smile, crooked, wicked but loving, his eyes crinkling at the action.
"Fuckin' love you, you've got no idea," He pauses, looking at you again for a long second - longer than normal, memorising you again. "Thank you love."
You shrug again, just delighted that he enjoyed your presents, but he tuts at you, tapping at the glass to scold at you.
"Nah nah don't do that, I mean it - thank you for all of it, not just the gifts," he says firmly, hoping you feel him pouring his heart out. "For still showing up for me yeah? For bein' mine."
He groans softly, running a hand down his face before he rests his head in his chin, staring at you adoringly.
"I love you too ya softy," your voice was gentle, reaching up to press your hand up to the glass. "Everything okay at your end? Ruined clothes aside ‘course."
He nods quickly, lips quirking at your quip, his own hand coming up to rest against yours, ignoring the glass between.
The fluorescent light buzzes overhead, almost cartoonishly loud, but you tuned it out, starring at your other half like the world was fading away around you.
"I'm doin' good, real good," he says, happy to admit that he had been on good behaviour still. "Gettin' a gut though, think you packed a whole shop in that box," He looks down to his covered stomach for added affect, and you laughed, knowing that beneath his uniform - he was still the same.
“But nah - I'm good love, already half way through that book on mythology you threw in, good shit that."
You laugh even more, and he perks up at his favourite sound.
The two of you pass conversation for a little more, Eric informing you of what's happening at his end of the glass, and you telling him about how work was going, how you had asked your best friends to help you with taking those pictures after a night of wine and movies.
It was mundane, it was boring to most, but to you - it was your favourite thing in the world.
Wanting to have saved the good news for last, you change hands, swapping the phone over. "I've got something to tell you," you say softly after a quiet beat, tucking in your chin as the phone feels fragile in your hand. "Something good."
Eric perks up even more, his curiosity spiked and lips parting just a little as he utters a little 'yeah?' - urging you to continue.
"I spoke to someone on the board yesterday and well, uh- they've noticed your good behaviour these last few months, said you've been staying clean 'n all," You pause, making sure he was listening intently. He nods, eyebrows twitching unknowingly at your comments.
Eric had a bad history of fighting and having intense brawls with other prisoners and guards in his last ward, having spent a lot of time in solitary at his worst.
"And well, if you stay clean and have no write-ups for another two weeks," He still hadn't caught on, and so you say it with a gentle clarity. "I can apply for conjugal visits."
You watch as the weight of your news hits him. For a second, Eric just stares, blinking - stunned, shock running through him.
Was it his birthday and he didn't know?
Was it fucking Christmas?
Christ, was he dead?
He exhales eventually, like he had been punched in the stomach. He speaks, his voice barely a whisper as it comes out muffled through the phone. "You serious?"
"Mm hm," You nod, smiling as he exhales again. "Serious, you just gotta keep behaving yeah? They said they'll send you a consent form in a fortnight, I've already filled out mine."
"Fuckin' hell," he feels breathless now, his freehand in his hair as a cheshire like smile spreads across his face. "So that means we'll see each other innit, no glass, no phone, none of that shit."
"No phone, no glass," You bite your lip, giving him a knowing look. It was soft, a hint of wickedness. "Just us Eric, isn't that great? You just have to keep your head down, be a good boy."
He swallows hard, and any other time he would've rolled his eyes at the 'good boy' schtick, but he didn't bother.
He wanted to be good, he wanted to be good for you and you only. The better he acted, the closer he got to a reduced sentence, the closer he got to you.
"Yeah," he says breathlessly. "I'll be good, so fuckin' good love."
You believed him wholeheartedly. He was trying so hard to better himself, having put his self destructive tendencies behind him.
It was easier now, not being in that prison, away from his noxious family.
You both fell into a comforting silence once more, not heavy, not suffocating, but warm and inviting.
The buzzer had gone off, alerting you like clockwork that you had five minutes left, and you sighed, already counting down the days in your head until you could see him again.
"We're gonna see each other again," his smile was infectious, boyish and bright. "M'gonna hold you again, like proper hold you, none of this glass bullshit."
"I can't believe it either," his excitement was palpable at your words, looking proper chuffed as Eric begins to bounce his legs, ignoring the looks from those nearby. "I can’t believe how long it’s been too, way too long."
The final call buzzes, sharp and loud, causing you both to flinch out of your little bubble of bliss. He doesn't speak right away, his eyes just holding yours, still in disbelief that in just a few weeks, he'll have you in his arms again.
The receiver is still glued to his ear, but his words are caught behind his teeth, afraid he'll stutter and say something inappropriate.
Sensing his hesitation, you smile reassuringly. "I've already started packing your next gift box, any requests?"
He chuckles, knowing you weren't lying. "Pack of boxers, get Ash to take some more pics and," he draws it out as he pretends to list off of his free hand. "Some johnny's, might save my pants."
You snorted at his request, knowing his request for condoms was far from a joke. Regardless, you nod along. "Can do, what size again? Small?"
He laughs again, tutting at you with a throw of his middle finger. "My poor lady, already forgotten my dick yeah? Shame that, send that polaroid camera in too then, I'll remind ya."
A guard clears his throat from behind you, and a light by the phones flash. You both quickly throw in another 'I love you', just in time for the receivers both to shut off, much to your disappointment.
You mouth a 'Be good Love.'
Just like you always did, and he gives you a mock salute, pursing his lips in a stupid way of blowing a kiss.
You return the gesture, standing and throwing your bag over your shoulder as you blow him another kiss.
Like always, he watches you leave, throwing you a wave as you turn around, giving him a meek one as the guard ushers you out roughly, much to his dismay.
Two weeks was so close and somehow so far, and Eric didn't know how he was gonna wait.
Patience was never his virtue, but for you, he would try.
He would try anything and everything.
Until then, he would let your pictures keep him going, knowing that very soon he'd be seeing and feeling the real thing once more.
He'd be feeling you again.
And he was gonna make sure you'd remember the feel of him forever.
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heads up y’all… my inbox is acting stupid again so i can’t see any messages 😭 i updated tumblr but it’s still acting stupid, so i’m giving it a few hours before i go banging on support’s door
