LittleHybrid DragonRider

Your Ma had always told you spring showers brought summer flowers, that the cold earth of the winter would melt away into a warm fuzzy wonderland where life blossomed beneath the sun. Each summer, you would wait before your window, rays of moonlight forcing their way through the cracks in the curtains, and you would listen to crickets orchestrate their song, chirping loudly in their vast lifetime. In the morning, you would do the same to the birds, listening to their own songs of summer. The forest beside your Pa’s house was alive, even if it was only for a short time till winter returned harsher than ever.

You had blossomed in your own ways, and once more, winter returned. Yet it did not leave this time. Your Ma and Pa were lowered into the cold, unfeeling ground and the petals you’d prided yourself on had shriveled with their corpses. You were left the estate, a drab wooden house that looked different now that you were older and had seen wonderlands beyond the forest, beyond the Mississippi Delta.

Chasing stardom in New York led to dead ends and debts carved into your spine, leaving you crawling back to the Delta with empty hands and more alone than you ever were. The funeral was held a week later. You’d been told it was cardiac arrest that caused the grim reaper to come knocking on their door, but something sat wrong within your stomach, twisted and vile as you watched those two wooden boxes into heaps of barren earth.

Returning to that cold, empty house felt worse than death itself. You’d turn the corner of the hallway, expecting to see your Ma’s sunken cheeks curved into a smile, or hear your Pa’s banjo strumming outdoors in the spring heat when it grew too stuffy inside of the home. You were met with nothing.

Two months came and passed, spring bleeding into summer like an old festering wound. The house was the same besides the introduction of your luggage shoved into the corner, discarded and untouched. You remained in the house, occasionally wandering the forest looking for the life that had seemed to abandon it in the years you’d been gone. The days were alright, it was the nights that were deceiving, sorrow worming its way into your heart until you choked upon tears.

It wasn’t until you’d finally run out of those soap scraps you’d been harbouring that you finally brushed the tears from your weary eyes and gathered yourself just enough to pay a visit to the Chow’s shop. Walking through town felt like being a moth surrounded by beautiful butterflies, eyes occasionally flickering to you with concern for your… not so pleasant appearance. The past few months had been rough, and it was showing in your skin, your posture, everything.

You picked up the pace a bit till you had actually reached the shop, stepping up onto that creaky wooden platform as your posture sunk inward, eyes drifting the shop for the one and only thing you desired. The shop hadn’t changed at all in the years you’d were gone, the wooden interior all varying shades of brown besides the small pop of color provided by roses that were no doubt Grace’s choice.

Your hand grasped the paper wrapped bar firmly as you walked around, feeling a sense of success as you turned upon your heel quickly to pay and return to your den of sorrows. Keep your head down, make yourself unnoticeable—like a fly on the wall, that was the plan. Yet no matter how much you could attempt to avoid the world, the world wouldn’t ignore you.

“Now, now, it’s been some time. How ya been?” That familiar twang of Bo’s made him recognizable in a crowd of thousands, his arms crossed over his chest as he smiled down at you with thinly veiled sympathy in his eyes. He knew of your Ma and Pa’s funeral, hell, Grace and him had even provided the flowers, but they didn’t come—you didn’t want them there for some stupid reason now looking back. Maybe it was because you wanted your Ma and Pa to have some sort of privacy in their graves, but you knew better—you knew you were too chicken shit to actually ask for help, to reach out, like you’d always been.

“Feel like death’s knockin’ at my own door, but besides that, fine.” You’d expected a small chuckle from Bo—anything, but he remained silent as his faux cheeriness melted into pure sympathy the longer he looked at you. He looked around the shop, eyeing Lisa from across the store—drawing your attention to the girl you’d last seen when she was just a bundle of cloth within her mom’s arms, all chubby cheeks and wishful eyes.

Lisa followed the silent command from her dad, leaving the shop to go grab her mother from the white’s only side of the street. Turning back to Bo, you hadn’t realized how much your face betrayed your shock until he started laughing finally—clear and true as ever. “I remember when she was just a tadpole. Have I been gone that damn long?”

“She’s lookin’ more like her momma everyday, ain’t she? She’s a good kid,” Bo paused for a moment, his posture loosening into something more relaxed. “I like to think we did a pretty good job for the Delta.”

“You did, no one would doubt that.” You sighed out, posture soon matching Bo’s own. “You built your roots here and you raised that lil’ girl with all ya’ could give, Bo.”

“Sometimes I wish I coulda’ just given her somewhere else to live, a kinder world, maybe?—shit, I ain’t even know what I’m sayin’.” Bo spoke in that familiar chuckling voice, a deflection of the deeper meaning beneath.

“He hardly knows what he’s sayin’ half the time, that’s why I handle the hagglin’.” Grace swiped the palms of her hands against her apron, a smirk etched into the corners of her lips. The air in the room lightened instantaneously in a way that caused you to be become brutally aware of the truth that had quietly settled.

Now, you and Grace had practically been school girls together—if that meant getting up to trouble in unholy hours of the night in your early years, before she married Bo. Even though you’d known Bo for less time, you found yourself loving him just as much as you loved Grace. Each time they spoke to one another, even when they were in petty arguments or bickering like they were double their age, there was love, unyielding love.

The hug you’d given Grace was tight, unspoken words bleeding out from the contact as you squeezed—and in turn, she held you just as fiercely. “I’m sorry about your Ma and Pa, sweet pea. How ya’ been?”

“Been alright,” You caught yourself in your lie just as you spoke it, scoffing gently as you corrected. “Well, could be worse. Just been cooped up in that damn house.”

Her eyes traced along your face, taking in your more sunken in state. You hadn’t eaten in some time, ain’t really cared for yourself either. Grace’s brows were suddenly drawn tight as she kept her hands resting gently upon your elbows. “Now that just won’t do, won’t it? You been eatin’? Prolly not, knowin’ you.”

She leaned around you for a moment, catching the attention of Bo as he wiped down glass jars with his rags. “Bo, we still got that catfish ready to be cooked?”

“Now, that ain’t necessary—.”Grace shushed you like she would a child, continuing to talk with her husband, drawing together plans for you right in front of your face and as much as you wanted to hate it, you couldn’t, not when it was practically your best damn friend who was clearly so worried about you. Though, you wouldn’t deny the guilt you felt for taking up Bo and Grace’s time the way you were.

Before you knew it, Bo and Grace had invited you to dinner and you were seated at their table with a plate full of food. You ate it like you were starved, because you were. The evening was loud, not in the way that a juke was, but in the way friends gathered and spoke of the parts of their lives the other had missed. Bo had packed you up a nice bag full of food for you to eat rather than starving, and Grace had already made plans to pay you regular visits and to finally carve those shallow bones of an estate into something you could call home.

The first day of work had been grueling, plows striking against hardened earth as you attempted to make the garden actually resemble itself. The second day was not any better, but soon, they became easier. Each evening and the days when the shop was closed, Grace and Bo would be right beside you, working away at the chipped exterior of that house to find the gold beneath that had once shined so brightly with your Ma and Pa around.

Wallpaper in your favorite shade with flowers splotched across decorated the living room and the couch that had once sat unused was dusted, cleaned, and restored to its original form. After weeks of work, this house—your home, was finally something you could look at without that familiar ache in your chest. You kept the key parts the same, like your Pa’s banjo leaning just against the doorway to the garden, and your Ma’s embroidery mat was delicately draped across the kitchen table, but now it felt like the place was breathing with life after it had been vacant for so long. The walls thrummed with unheard music, the garden seeded with new coming harvest, and the nights stopped being something you’d dread, but instead something you embraced.

Everything was peaceful, the world seemingly in tune for the first in a very long time.

Then, he came.

Spring had bled into summer, and summer into fall. No matter how the seasons changed, the Delta was never truly cold. After a long day of working in the garden, you wanted to spend a bit of time on your porch enjoying the swing you and Bo had just built, a glass of iced tea in your sweaty palm. The sun faded past the horizon, graciously welcoming the moon in its place, and if anyone were to ask you which you’d admired more, you would always find comfort in the quiet solstice that moonlight provided you.

Taking a long swig of your beverage, you hummed to the sound of crickets and fireflies floating through the air. Your legs ached from your days work in the garden, but you ignored their protests just to keep that gentle swinging motion you’d got going. Your eyes had only fluttered shut for a moment in bliss, autumn breeze trancing you until your eyes were forced to open once more. That’s when you first saw him.

A man stood at the front of your gate, white picket fence gleaming in the moonlight. His hands were shoved into his pockets, gaze locked with yours as if he’d been watching us for much longer than you were aware of. You shifted to stand from your seat, a shiver running down your spine as you took a step closer to protection of your home. From the distance, you could see the faint quirk of his lips beneath the surface of his fair skin. Then, he spoke:

“I apologize, I ain’t intend to scare ya’. I was just wonderin’ where that beautiful voice was comin’ from.” He pushed past the gate effortlessly, feet so light against the dried yellow grass that there was barely a noise made with each step of his black shoes. He kept moving forward, kept intruding until he was at the bottom of your porch steps, his head tilted upward to look at you.

You didn’t respond. Your Pa always taught you to be cautious of strangers, double-so for a white man—a white man on his own was the Delta’s version of the devil. Instead, you met his stare with one of your own—cold against those prying eyes of his.

“Name’s Remmick.” He spoke once more, offering his hand up toward you—callouses and bumps on his pale palm catching in the porch light. You took a step back toward that doorway of yours and his expression shifted, something so subtle in the darkness, yet it was there nonetheless—whispering when his voice shouted.

Remmick cleared his throat as his smile transitioned into something more hidden, lips drawn a bit more thin as he shifted onto the ball of his feet, his hands returning to his trouser pockets. “Nice home you got here.”

He leaned a bit, peering past your shoulder, gaze following into the dimly lit living space—fully refurnished with life and comfort, and here you stood just beyond that barrier. Your voice was a whisper as you shifted to block his view a bit, dusty blue eyes locking with your face once more. “Thank you.”

“Nice voice you got when you’s talkin’ too.” That damned grin was back in a flash at the sound of your voice, like he was relishing in just two seconds of dialogue from you.

“Sir,” you cleared your throat. “Now, I ain’t wish to be crass, but it’s awful late and I do believe you got other places to be besides my doorstep.”

You put on that fake, honeyed tone—holding yourself a bit taller just like your Ma had taught you to do when white men passed you on the street. Your eyes finally met Remmick’s for the first time since he’d opened his mouth, both of your gazes matching the other—two people trying to read the stranger in front of them like a book, and failing. Remmick was no longer smiling.

Remmick glanced behind him for a moment, eyes visibly catching on the forest’s edge in the distance. He didn’t breathe as he did so, simply just watched the mossy green earth. Turning back to you, he finally stepped down off your bottom porch step—his smile returning in a more subtle form. “Alright, I can recognize when a missus doesn’t want me ‘round. Can I at least have your name b’fore I leave?”

Your hand on your glass clenched, the air having gone stagnant in that short period of time. Your Pa would’ve cursed you for ever entertaining this man and not shooting him for stepping on your porch in the first place, your Ma would’ve scolded you for being so direct without another man around. Either way, you would’ve lost that battle. Maybe that’s why you told him your name, and he repeated it like it was the sweetest sugar he’d ever tasted on his tongue—like he’d devour your name and you with it.

Remmick’s retreat from your home was slow, pinstripe shirt illuminated by the porch light as he made his way to the perimeters of your fence. The further he walked, the more your shoulders began to release their tension—your body drawn tight like a banjo string and you hadn’t even realized. Your glass clattered onto the porch as condensation made the glass difficult to grip, your concentration on Remmick finally breaking.

“Shit.” Crouching down, you grasped the cup, silently grateful it was already empty. It probably would’ve made your night worse to waste a perfectly good glass of iced tea. When you looked back up from the glass, you had expected to see Remmick retreating back to whatever place he was from—but there was nothing. Your fence swung mindlessly in the breeze, and the longer you stayed there, the more you realized that the crickets had stopped their nightly song and silence seemed to consume everything around.

You cleared your throat as you stood, and you didn’t hum to yourself this time as you moved from the porch into the boundaries of your home. You locked the door and checked it twice, not willing to admit your paranoia but far more interested in staying safe in the end. Hell, you’d even placed your Pa’s old shotgun on the kitchen table, just in case, you told yourself.

You dressed for bed, cleaned up a bit—made sure to close all the curtains and windows and checked the front door lock one last time before finally finding your way to your bedroom. The linens and blankets were warm against your skin, settling you in perfectly, and once you reached across your nightstand to turn off your oil lamp, you had the moon that streamed so prettily through the sheers to guide you to sleep.

Warm light caused you to stir, your voice muffled within your own ears as your eyes refused to open—eyelashes peeling apart hesitantly as your oil lamp flickered. The first thing your eyes caught upon was the moon above, so big and round, staring down at you with its own singular eye.

The next thing you felt was sensation, intense and growing heat between your thighs beneath your nightgown.

Your eyes struggled to break from the moon, but when they had, they immediately found tuffs of brown hair between your legs as two strong hands gripped your thighs—hiking your dress up higher as a hungry mouth latched right onto you. Your mouth parted into a cry, but nothing came out. Your body wasn’t yours to move, you were simply just there—a vessel writhing against a prodding tongue.

Those pale hands gripped your thighs a bit tighter as a deep vibration left the throat of the obscured man’s face, sending a tingle up your spine. You could feel each lick of his tongue along your seeping hot slit, each suck his lips gave to your clit—each sensation building in the pit of your stomach and all you could do was take it. He worked you up so damn good and if you were able to scream, you would’ve been.

Your back arched, heady gasps finally managing to break past your lips. His hands trailed from your thighs, bunching the fabric along them and dragging it upward onto your pelvis. The man’s hands were decorated in veins, skin oddly cool against your own as he continued to devour you. Each flick of his tongue dragged out into a maddening eternity as you were forced to just wait, to give in to that pressure growing between the sweetness of your thighs.

Blistering hot white pleasure began to creep into your vision, legs quivering as your chest heaved as your peak grew closer. The man chuckled, sending sweet vibrations right against where you needed it most. He gave one final suck to your clit and just as your eyes rolled into the back of your head, you jolted awake.

Sunlight was much harsher than moonlight, that was for damn sure. The burning sensation from your dream lasted in the pit of your stomach, and for a moment, you’d questioned if the dream was real. Tugging the linens away from your legs, you found the real cause of that heat—red, hot and angry upon the linens. Shit.

After cleaning and swapping the linens and slipping on your sanitary belt, you’d decided that today would probably be best spent as a day of relaxation rather than in the town. You curled up on your sofa with a book, mind occasionally drifting to the man on your porch step last night, but you were easily distracted by the words on the page.

As the sun leaned toward the horizon, the book was left abandoned on your sofa as your hands found your Pa’s old banjo. The rickety thing hadn’t been played for some time and was certainly in need of tuning, but you tried your best to remember the fingerings of each note—each shift of your fingers producing a new sound and pitch.

You hummed the notes to yourself each time you played a different one, glimpses of your Pa passing through your mind. He loved this banjo, used to play it from dusk to dawn on your little back porch. That man could also sing like hell too, would drag your Ma into his musical antics no matter how much she protested. He taught you everything you knew about music, he was the one who hugged you tightest when you went off to New York.

You thought you were ready for New York, thought you was able to survive the competition and control that came with newfangled stardom. You were wrong, so very wrong. You’d put all your money into your gig, singing late into the night at all-black establishments that could barely stay open on their own terms. The money was shit, but the feeling was amazing.

Then there was one night that changed everything. A white man came into the club you was playing at, called you a star-in-the-making and took you home with him. In exchange for your… services, he set you up with the big man—a man who had power and money in all the right places. You began to play bigger gigs, had your appearance changed from that humble black girl from the Delta into something the white folks in New York could pretend to accept.

It didn’t last long. Turns out, white folk like the sound of a black woman’s voice but don’t like the face it comes from. The big guy who was supposed to be your handler turned his back on you, claiming you’d taken his money and robbed him—utter bullshit spewing from that filthy mouth of his. You were desperate, hungry, and you sure as hell weren’t proud of what you did next.

You took some cash, just enough to buy a one way ticket back to the Delta. That’s when you found out your Ma and Pa had died, as if it couldn’t get any worse. The leftover cash was put into their funeral, and you were back to square one.

Warm, quiet tears fell onto the banjo in your hands, fingers continuing to slowly pluck a tune on that banjo that you could only recognize as your Pa’s song, the one he played for Ma each and every time she would listen. You hummed the lyrics obscurely, unable to fully grasp each word but knowing the meaning deep within your heart where it whispered loudest.

A slow sigh left your lungs as your fingers stilled, the last plucked string reverberating throughout the room, the last note you could remember of the song even if you knew it was incomplete. The silence that followed was careful, floating through the air, delicate as glass.

Then it was shattered. From just beyond your open window, you could hear the gentle strumming of a banjo outside your home—each note confident in a way your rendition hadn’t been. Glancing toward the billowing sheers of the window, you could see that the sun had finally disappeared into an endless black darkness. You brushed off any figment of dust from your dress as you stood, approaching your front door, smooshing your ear up against the wooden structure as you listened carefully.

A man’s voice followed, sweet and smooth as honey: “Love, oh love, oh careless love… night and day, I weep and mourn.”

You don’t know when your hand had grasped the doorknob, all you could recognize was that familiar creek of door hinges as you pulled.

“You brought the wrong man into this life of mine—“

Remmick stood on your porch now, standing tall as his fingers worked the banjo in his hands—its strap slipped across his shoulders diligently. Your hip and shoulder found a comfortable place against the doorframe as you leaned, arms crossing over your chest as you watched him silently—watched the performance he put on just for you.

Those familiar blue eyes of his were locked onto your own, a smirk sprouting onto his face as he sang. He was good, you’d admit that—it ain’t change the fact that he’s on your doorstep in the middle of the damn night.

“For my sins, ‘til judgement I’ll atone.”

There was a beat of silence, then you spoke.

“You’re good,” you eyed Remmick up and down, mentally noting that he was still wearing the same thing as yesterday—still wearing that pinstripe button-up and black slacks. “But that ain’t change the fact that you’re on my porch again, in the middle of the damn night.”

“But you still answered the door for such a late hour, ain’t ya’?” Remmick was almost smug as he spoke, slipping his banjo over his shoulder as his gaze broke from yours to see inside your home once more—the sudden intrusion causing you to clear your throat and straighten up a bit.

“That still don’t give an invitation for you to be playin’ at my doorstep, Remmick.”

His expression suddenly shifted to this look of faux guilt, head dipping as he stared down at his feet. “I’m sorry, missus. I know I shouldn’t keep showin’ up here n’ all, but you’re just so… pretty and your home just seems so welcomin’. Can I just come in for a bit?”

Even though Remmick’s lips were formed into a pout and he did a damn good job at furrowing his brows to look like a child caught stealing a cookie, something in his eyes disconnected from the rest of his face—something sinister hidden beneath that innocent facade.

“That ain’t a good idea, Remmick. You know that.” You were blunt, remaining against the door frame as you stared at him intensely.

Finally, something seemed to crack within that crafted porcelain as he met your eyes once more—a twitch in his lip and a dilation in his pupils giving way to something a bit more animalistic beyond the man. Neither of you spoke for a moment, the eye contact communicating enough on its own. You weren’t budging.

“…you can sit on this porch. I’ll bring you some tea. You like it sweet?” Even if you weren’t willing to let him in, you could indulge in this little fantasy—even just for a few minutes.

“No sugar, please. Thank you.” Remmick was polite as he sat down on your porch, waiting patiently like a puppy dog getting a treat. When you returned, that charming facade was back—his hand brushing against yours as you handed him the cool glass, the coolness of his fingertips contrasting the warmth of your own.

Placing a pillow onto the floor, you sat across from Remmick with your own glass of tea. You both took silent sips of your tea, and for once, you weren’t staring down each other. You were staring off at the woods behind Remmick, watching how the trees swayed and how the crickets had fallen quiet once more. It was odd for the woods to be quiet, especially at this time of night when everything seemed to be so alive beyond the world of humans.

“Did you grow up in these parts?” Remmick finally broke the silence with a question, drawing the glass to his lips.

“I did. I even used to play in those woods back there.” You pointed as you took another swig of your own tea. “Used to run around for hours and get lost, then my Ma’s voice would guide me back home.”

“It’s big in there, too damn easy to get lost and turned around. I wonder how many people have gone in and haven’t come out…” Remmick muttered as he craned his neck in the direction of your finger, clearing his throat and taking another drink as he turned back to you.

“You from here?” There was a thoughtfulness that overcame Remmick at your question, like he had to remember where he was from rather than just say it. Your own brows furrowed, watching as words formed on his tongue yet didn’t leave his lips. “Didn’t realize I was askin’ such a loaded question.”

“I’m from around here. Moved a lot growin’ up, made it easy to forget where I was truly from.” Even though he spoke with conviction, the words didn’t feel right leaving his lips, like half the truth was missing.

You hummed out, taking another long sip of your tea. “Must’ve been hard movin’ all the time.”

“That’s awful sweet of ya’ to think of it like that. The further away I moved, the more I forgot those lands. I miss ‘em, but they’re more of just a memory now… a distant dream.” Remmick drawled, his hand coming down to support his weight as he leaned a bit, bicep flexing beneath those pinstripe sleeves and you ate up the sight greedily.

“If you miss it so much, why ain’t you just visit?” The answer seemed so on the nose to remedy this homesickness.

But Remmick was beginning to show he was anything but simple. “It don’t exist no more.”

A quiet ‘oh’ left you at his words, followed by an apology. He chuckled at that, taking another sip of his tea before placing the empty glass beside him. “You’re a sweet thing, aren’t you? Why ain’t you ever left the Delta before?”

“I did—well, I tried to.” You took a moment to clear your throat, hands smoothing over your dress as your eyes found the fabric, following its simple patterns with the tips of your fingers. “Went to New York for a bit. It ain’t shit but buildings and men lookin’ for their next big star, just to dump them in a week. Then my Ma and Pa died, and I came back home.”

You don’t know why you told Remmick your story, don’t know why it felt so good to either. Maybe you were lonelier than you thought, still seeking for something to fill that aching hole left in your chest. The house had become your comfort, but it still lacked that little pattering of feet, the scent of your Pa’s coffee and the sweet scent of cinnamon while your Ma baked. You found yourself thinking about having someone proper in your home, someone to love and to be loved.

Remmick’s smug and smiley disposition shifted into something more demure, quiet as his brows drew tightly together. “Losin’ your Ma and Pa must be a hurtin’ feelin’. I’m sorry to hear that.”

There was a pause of silence once again.

“I went to New York once,” He watched closely as your face lifted to meet his once again, emotions swirling hidden just within the depths of your eyes. “Bustlin’ city, decent night life… I prefer the Delta. I ain’t meet people like you in New York.”

A giggle bubbled within your chest before you could stop it, distracting you from the ache in your chest as flattery wove its way into your mind. Remmick visibly brightened at the sound of your laughter, egged on by the noise and relishing in it as he took in a deep breath. “You ain’t so bad yourself, Remmick.”

His hand moved to his chest, lips parting dramatically. “Now, I think that’s ’bout the nicest thing you’ve said to me.”

Your giggle soon turned into a chuckle as your posture dropped into something more comfortable, genuine. “I can sweet talk too, banjo boy. I just choose to not use it on strangers.”

Strangers. Remmick’s grin widened at the thought, the potential bond forming between you two, even if it was risky. “Well, I find flattery is the best medicine.”

“Keep flatterin’ me and we’ll see if it works then.” You flirted back, smirking to yourself as your head came to rest against the doorframe.

The trees beyond the fence swayed with the night breeze, owls cooing in the darkness. The porch light perched on the wall flickered every few minutes, catching the misty blue of Remmick’s eyes as he spoke. You found yourself drawn to him, taking in each word he said in that sweet drawl. Remmick watched you speak as if you held the voice of angels above, his eyes crinkling at the edges. Time was the least of your focuses the longer he talked, you were tunnel visioned by the man in front of you, and so was he.

Morning birds began to chirp, their noises a reminder that there was more to the world than two people sitting on a porch. You found yourself caught on those magic words as you considered inviting Remmick in for the day, tongue tasting each syllable yet the longer they sat within your mouth, the more foul they tasted. Remmick rose from his position on the porch, hands brushing dirt from his trousers.

“You’ll be back again tonight, right?” You asked, mentally slapping yourself for sounding so eager. But Remmick wasn’t turned away from the invitation, no, he found himself smiling so sweetly at the desperation hidden so poorly within your voice.

“I’ll be here every night ‘til you let me in, darlin’.” The wording was odd, but Remmick had an odd way about him, and nonetheless the sentiment warmed your heart.

Remmick’s feet were light against the porch as he descended the steps, his form completely weightless as he trudged across the grass and toward that familiar white gate. His movement stalled just as his hand came into contact with the wood, neck craning around to look at you one last time before waving.

Your brows furrowed the longer you looked at him in the darkness, saw the way his form seemed just a bit taller—less man and more animal now that he was farther from you, like a facade slipping away. You brushed away the idea, telling yourself it was just exhaustion weighing on you. Mustering up a small quirk of your lips, you waved back to Remmick before closing your front door—locking it securely.

For those few hours you slept, it was like you had never truly fallen asleep. Your conscious was oddly aware of everything around you, aware of each twitch of muscle and the linens against your legs. Your heart calmed, breath evening as you relaxed deeper into this odd slumber. Then you felt it, two hands—strong and heavy as they held onto your waist, the cushioning of the bed dipping behind you.

The hands gave way to arms, tugging you closer and closer till your head was resting against someone’s chest. A man was whispering into your ear in a language you couldn’t recognize. His arms were deceptively cool against your form, chest rising and falling slowly against your back as he continued to hum and whisper—each syllable twisted and falling into the open space.

The language was old, smooth and effortless leaving the tongue. It sounded like a song being spoken, beckoning you to fall deeper into his embrace the longer he hold on. A shiver ran down your spine as two sharp points trailed down the juncture of your neck, your arms and legs twitching as his grip tightened around you. The sensation tickled, tracing from your neck onto your shoulder and back, teasing—testing to see how long you would last before waking.

The man’s lips locked onto your shoulder, placing open mouthed kisses, leaving behind a trail of cool saliva in his wake. The sensation sent tingles down your spine, light and airy—then suddenly sharp, hot blistering pain took its place, two sharp points piercing the skin.

You screamed as you jolted awake, tearing the sheets from your legs as you looked around your bedroom—looking for anything or anyone. Yet it was empty, devoid of sound beyond your breathing. Your hands found their way toward your neck, swinging your legs over the edge of your bed as you quickly found your Ma’s mirror. Nothing, not even a single scratch, was there. It was just a weird, vivid dream.

It was too late in the day to go back to sleep by the time you’d opened the curtains, sunlight greeting you far too happily for someone who’d gotten three hours of rest. The headache that followed you throughout the day was frustrating, but nothing compared to the concern you’d begun to feel regarding your dreams. You hadn’t had nightmares since your Ma and Pa’s funeral, and those never involved a man—never involved a touch so sweet and sinful it made your skin crawl.

You tried to distract yourself throughout the day with mundane tasks, keeping to yourself as you tended the garden. Grace paid you a visit for a bit, remarking how “You looked like you’d just seen the devil himself”. Maybe you had, maybe he had buried his head between your thighs and tasted you and was now following you in your sleep—god, that sounded fucking ridiculous. Regardless, weird dreams didn’t mean shit for reality where you were still busy fixing up the final touches to your home.

Remmick came by that night, and the night after, and the night after that. It became a routine of yours. You slept in, woke midday, spent some time fixing whatever was broken before waiting for Remmick to show up and spending the whole night with him. Subconsciously, you relished in the company he gave—the way he listened, the way he watched, all predatory hiding beneath a fawn’s gaze. You never invited him in, always considered it but never did. And each night when you laid in bed, you’d dreamt of a man holding you, touching you, devouring you whole.

Grace said she wasn’t concerned, but you could tell by the way she visited more now, the way she looked at you as if you dying right before her eyes, that she wanted to say something neither of you were willing to admit. She helped wherever she could, but there wasn’t much to do admittedly with how long you’d begun to spend cooped up in that damned house again.

“A man came into the store yesterday, a white man.” Grace’s brow quirked upward, asking a silent question as she scrubbed at the dishes in your sink.

You were sitting down at the dining table, sewing up a hole left in one of your Ma’s table covers. The thread within your hands slowed as you lifted your gaze to meet Grace’s, expression soon matching hers. “A white man? What’d he look like?”

“Tall, dark, sleazy. Everything New York ‘bout him. He asked ‘bout you.”

Fuck, that wasn’t good. You thought you’d covered your trail from your star days, left that girl dead and buried to resume life here—but you were so very wrong. “Shit, Grace. What’d you say?”

“Said you’d moved. He had that look in his eye though, like a man willin’ to drag someone through hell for answers. You know him?” Grace placed a clean cup onto the drying rack, turning to face you as she leaned against the counter.

“I do—well, I did. Knew him back in New York, is all.” You were quick to answer, too quick for complete reassurance.

But Grace wasn’t the type to pry, not when it came to things like this. You both continued on working in silence, your mind drifting somewhere else entirely—drifting to those woods, to that pinstriped shirt and banjo you’d grown fond of, far too fond for comfort. Grace left quietly from your home, casting you one final look as she pushed past that picket fence into the setting horizon—and something in your stomach soured at the sight. It was like she sensed something you were unable to see.

The sun dipped beneath the horizon, and once again you waited on your sofa, perched like a bird waiting to hear the crow of its lover. You waited—and waited, and waited. Then, there was a knock on the door.

The sound struck you as odd since Remmick never knocked, always calling out to you in the darkness, but who were you to dictate the right way to visit someone. You’d dressed yourself in your best dress tonight, mentally planning on inviting him in and hopefully having a decent supper together. It felt like being a schoolgirl all over again, rushing around your living room as you brushed away any speck of dust and grime from your dress, if there was any. You lit the candles along the dining table, checking to see if the food was still warm before approaching the door.

Sucking in a tight breath, you gathered all your nerves, grasping that doorknob tightly as a smile etched its way into your cheeks. The hinges creaked as the door swung open, his name beginning to form on your tongue only to die out at the sight that met you. “Remmi—…”

Your old handler stood on your doorstep, cigar between his lips as he looked back the woods near your house. His head whipped back toward you the moment he heard the door hinges swing open, that familiar cruel smile curling on his lips. “Hey, sweet pea. Never thought you’d see me again, huh?”

You began to close the door only for him to block you with his hand, leaning far too close for comfort. The man stunk of cigar smoke and New York sewer, something that never quite washed off no matter how far you got away from the place.

“No, I ain’t.” The words were dry leaving your lips, dragging against your throat as your posture tensed.

He peered past you, his form imposing on you the longer he stood there. A deep chuckle left his mouth, humorless. “Waitin’ on someone? Were you waitin’ on me, sweet pea?”

God, you fucking hated that nickname—hated the way he used it to carve his claim into you even after all these months. That sleazy old bastard still knew how to get under your skin, to dig his fingers into a wound you that had healed and rip it freshly open.

“I was waiting on my husband to come home. He should be here soon.” Lies, all of it, but maybe it would keep him from staying past his already overdue stay.

But that man knew better, took one glance at your hand and knew better. You met his eyes once more before quickly moving to close the door, but he was fast and too damn strong. He forced his way inside quickly, plucking the cigar from his lips and smooshing the ashes against your Ma’s counters. “Nice place you’ve gotten yourself, hope it isn’t all from that money you stole, sweat pea.”

“None of this is your money, ain’t ever been your money. Now, get the fuck out of my home.” You rounded the dining table, trying to put as much distance between you and this bulking figure as possible. Your eyes followed him like a prey being chased by a predator, trying to slip from the jaws of something that would chase you till the end. If he was gonna try and kill you, you were going down with a fucking fight.

He scoffed at your words, glancing around your home before looking at you once again. “There’s that fire I missed so much. Listen here, I got two options for you, sweet pea. You can either pack it all up tonight n’ head back to New York with me, and I’ll work ya’ ‘til you pay back every damn cent you took. Or…”

The man didn’t even need to finish as he reached into his suit jacket, a click resounding as he turned off the safety to his gun.

Returning wasn’t an option—it had never been an option. You knew better than that, knew that going back to New York was a death sentence dressed up in glamour. So, you were left with only one choice.

The dish you’d spent an hour on went flying across the table, shattering into the man’s face as the food came splashing onto the floor. “Shit!”

Your feet pounded against the floor as you rounded the table, heading straight for the doorway as his hands scrambled towards his face, then toward you. Pushing past the threshold of your door frame, the once gentle breeze whipped against your face so intensely—the balls of your feet bouncing against the porch steps.

“You fucking bitch!” The man’s steps weren’t far behind as you ran, stumbling into the forest haphazardly. Your feet slipped and caught upon moss, but the consequence of falling was far less than the consequences of being caught.

Your lungs ached, legs burning with each pounding step as your form weaved between trees and branches. In the past, you’d known this forest like the back of your hand, but in the darkness, it seemed much more sinister, twisted and all-consuming. Rounding a tree, you’d stopped to catch your breath—chest heaving as your once-nice dress was now torn and stained at the hem.

The forest was silent all around, no crickets chirped, no owls hooted. It was agonizing, brittle silence. You prayed this forest would protect you—keep you hidden and tightly wrapped in its mossy arms from the predator that was changing you, but the forest had a funny way of protecting people, of hiding them.

A branch snapped beneath weight just a few feet away, goosebumps riddling your skin as you turned to run—only to feel a hand snap around your arm and pull you back. You opened your mouth to scream, but another hand quickly covered your mouth. Bark dug into your back as Remmick stood in front of you, crowding your body with his own as you stopped struggling—his eyes not on yours, but on your handler who stumbled by a few trees over.

When he finally looked at you, there was something different in his appearance—something distinctly wrong. Frothed drool dribbled down his chin, his eyes no longer than misty shade of blue but blood red. His nails were sharp upon your arm, prickling blood unintentionally—but just the scent alone caused his nose to flare hungrily.

“Get inside.”

There were no questions needed to be asked as Remmick released your arm, your form stumbling back through the woods. As you ran, you glanced back to Remmick one last time—watching as the moonlight streamed through the trees and caught upon his form, and that’s when you truly saw him. That animal hidden in human flesh was no longer pretending, talon-like nails protruded as his tongue dragged across razor teeth.

Tears pricked in the corners of your eyes the longer you ran, bile sloshing in the pit of your stomach and soon exiting through your mouth. You dry heaved as you push past the white gate of your home, now tarnished with blood. A blood curling scream left the trees, your heart leaping and squeezing in your chest—but you didn’t stop moving, never stopped until you past the boundaries of your home, slamming the door shut and locking it.

The waiting had been the worst part—waiting to find a savior or the devil at your doorstep. You swept and scrubbed the floor, the actions so mundane for someone whose mind was far from their body. You scrubbed, and scrubbed—working your hands till they were raw as blood trickled down your arm. Silence consumed your home, consumed you with it.

The sight of the food on your dinner table, the broken promise of a night you were supposed to have, made your stomach sour and clench. Fear gave way to anger as you swept all the food into a trash bin, tossing the plates into the sink and scrubbing at the dishes till they were spotless—lacking any memory of the ordeal, just as you wished you could do.

You scrubbed the counter where he’d smooshed the cigar, wiping bitterly as the ash stained and carved a permanent marking into the wood. Fucking asshole—fuck, fuck, fuck.

Your manic cleaning was broken by the gentle sound of humming beyond your door, a foreign language sitting upon unseen lips—the same lithe tongue spoken in your dream. Remmick was here. Your hand rested upon the doorknob, arms ready to accept the fate beyond the door—but something in your brain made you pause. You didn’t know what Remmick was, but you knew he wasn’t human—knew he a creature of the night, something dangerous, something sinister.

You backed away from the door as Remmick called out your name from the other side, his voice soft, too soft. The shotgun in the closet found its way into your hands, loaded as you swung the door open—taking aim at the man you’d once considered your friend.

Remmick stared down the barrel, a dry laugh leaving his bloodied lips as he stared at you. He looked at you as if you even prettier this way, full of scorn, scared and shaking in front of him, like he wanted to devour you whole right then and there. He was smeared in blood that obviously wasn’t his, shirt ruined as one of his suspenders hung loosely off his shoulder. “Ain’t no need for that, pretty thing.”

“Shut the fuck up.” You raised the gun, feeling hot tears well in the corners of your eyes and escape down your cheeks. “What the fuck are you?”

That facade he’d embraced was long gone now, replaced by this thing—replaced by what he truly was. Remmick didn’t respond, simply lifting his claws into the air almost defensively as he smiled down at you with his fangs poking past his lips.

You cocked the shotgun, a sharp glare crossing over your face.

“I’m your Remmick, darlin’. Always have been.” Your Remmick, how fucking rich. “That man won’t be botherin’ you anymore. Won’t be botherin’ anyone anymore, really.”

Remmick spoke like what he’d done was mundane—like it was an average occurrence through his week.

“Shut the fuck up, Remmick!” You screamed finally, shoving the barrel of the gun toward, aiming toward Remmick’s head with shaky hands. “I thought we was friends, real friends. What the hell are you? Why the hell would you hide this from me? Jesus—fuck!”

Remmick cooed in that familiar drawl of his, but it wasn’t charming this time—far from it. “We’s still friends, darlin’. I’m yours… just like you’re mine. Why don’t you lower than gun and let me come on in?”

His clawed fingers slowly grasped around the barrel of the shotgun, inching it away from his face as he stared down at you—near quite breaking eye contact as his crimson eyes burned into your face. His tongue dragged across his lips at the sight of your tears, drool beginning to slip out at the corner of his mouth again. Fuck, you looked just as pretty when you cried.

You knocked his hand away from the barrel quickly, aiming it once again as your brain continued to try and convince you to hate him—to blow his brains out and move on with your life.

But that ache in your heart was louder.

“…come in.” You whispered out, dropping the shotgun to the floor roughly. Your mind wanted to hate him, wanted to despise what he was—but your heart had known for a long time that Remmick was far from normal and part of you loved him for it.

The first step he took beyond that barrier felt like glass shattering, the world tipping the moment he was fully inside your home—here, with you, covered in blood. The grin he had on his face was almost childish, like he’d just received candy and gotten a pat on the head.

You didn’t speak to him, just gestured for him to take a seat while you turned your back, dipping a towel in a soapy water concoction.

“Pretty home,” Remmick hummed as he looked around, slipping his suspenders down to his waist before claw-like fingers began fiddling with the buttons on his shirt slowly until he had fully peeled away the fabric to sit in his undershirt and slacks. “Ain’t as pretty as you, though.”

For someone who just had a gun held to his face, he still managed to flirt like you were the next hottest thing.

Wringing the towel out, you handed it to Remmick, his fingertips brushing against the softer palm of your hand and there was a slight hitch in his breath at the contact, like he’d been waiting for this moment for a long time—waiting to touch you, to carve himself into your bones and make it his home.

“You’re hurt.” You didn’t like the way the words came out so pitifully, like you were genuinely concerned for him even when you should despise him. He was a murderer, a monster.

Your hands moved before your mind had fully processed, fingertips pushing up the side of his undershirt to reveal a gash left in his side from what appeared to be a bullet. It was weird that Remmick wasn’t reacting to the pain, but honestly there were a lot of weird things that happened tonight so you didn’t even have the mental bandwidth to question.

Instead, you took the towel from Remmick’s hands, fingers finding their place along the plane of his abdomen, cool flesh settling against the warmth of your own as you dragged the towel along the bloodied wound. You could feel the way his flesh expanded and contracted, feel each vibration in his chest as he let out a mix of a scoff and laugh.

“You’re too good for me, darlin’.”

“I know.” Your response was snippy, quick as you wiped one last time before stepping away from Remmick—but his hand caught your wrist before you could reach the water bucket, grasping firmly.

Your head whipped around to look at him, to fully look at him—taking in the blood, the mess, and goop. Admittedly, those red eyes were what hypnotized you the most, the way they watched you—took in each change in your facial expression and yearned for more, begged for more. His claws released your wrist, slowly making their way to your face.

The tingling sharpness on your jaw felt perfectly contrasted by the gentle nature of the touch, so light as if he was scared to draw blood. Your knuckles tightened around the towel, pale bloody water pattering onto the floor going unnoticed. Your breath was hitched, caught within your chest the longer he touched, but fuck, you knew exactly where you wanted him.

One hand found its way to his shoulder, tracing along the fine tuned muscles, tracing each ridge and bump of cool skin beneath your fingertips. The space minimized in seconds, the contact of lips so light it felt like a feather had brushed you. Your stomach clenched at the contact, mind doing backflips while your heart thrummed in a frenzy.

Remmick didn’t wait to go back in for a second taste, opposite hand finding its place on your hip as he gently guided you down into his lap. Your legs parted, making room for Remmick to slot himself perfectly as his lips consumed your own. The second kiss was different, full of hunger and need that lasted centuries.

The rag in your hand was thrown somewhere you couldn’t see, the hand instead finding placement in his hair—fingernails scraping against the nape of his scalp. Remmick’s mouth parted in a mixture of a whimper and a groan, tongue swiping across your own looks in search of acceptance.

The hand on your hip held firm, tilting your pelvis as it began to rock you up and down the curvature of his cock. You broke the kiss in a gasp, giving Remmick his opportunity as his tongue began to explore your mouth greedily. The sensation was suffocating, clouding your brain as your hips began to rock on their own, matching the rhythm Remmick had set.

“You’re so sweet f’me, so precious.” Remmick whispered into your lips, hands dipping into the arch of your back as your pebbled clit languidly dragged right against his slacks. You weren’t the only one aroused either, his cock swelling within its confines with each buck.

You nipped at the his bottom lip, a high-pitched gasp leaving your lungs as Remmick’s fingers tweaked your nipples through the fabric of your gown. “I ain’t sweet all the time.”

Remmick shook his head, dipping his head into the juncture of your neck before licking a wet stripe up the flesh. “No, I bet you ain’t. Neither am I, darlin.”

He punctured his words with a mean nip at your jawline, just enough to make the skin red and puffy. Slick gathered between your legs, dripping through your panties like sacred honey. You rocked your hips faster, feeling that burning sensation beginning to form in the pit of your belly, desperate and hungry. Your hands perched on Remmick’s shoulders, breathless whines leaving your gasping mouth as you chased that precious peak.

Remmick’s eyes were trained on your face, that annoyingly smug smirk plastered across his lips. He watched as your brows furrowed and your legs began to tighten, clit bumping against his hardened tip so beautifully it made you want to cry. He watched as you worked yourself to the crest of that peak, only to rip it away from you.

“Ah, ah, ah…” His arm suddenly wrapped around your torso, lifting you up as you released a strangled pant. Remmick laid you down on the kitchen table, using those perfectly veined hands of his to languidly bunch the fabric of your dress along your thighs, teasing you.

“Remmick—.”You wanted him, needed him to make you feel so good again. Felt like you’d die without it. “Shh… sweet thing, I’ve got you. Let me treat you proper.”

One hand splayed itself across your hip bone, the other resting onto your inner thigh as Remmick used his food to pull a stool up to the table. The wooden thing creaked under his weight, shifting till he was sat with his face hovering between your thighs. Remmick’s eyes were a bright red now, full of hunger as saliva dribbled down his chin and dripped onto the counters.

The hand on your thigh finally moved toward where you needed him most, tracing light circled just below your clit—allowing the slick to build on the tips of his fingers before pulling them away, slotting his middle and index past his lips with a heady hum of approval.

“Fuck, you taste as good as you smell.”

You were quick to lift your hips, removing your panties with a bit of assistance. Remmick pocketed them before returning to your altar, watching sweet dripping wetness leak from your slit all the way down onto the table. A needy moan broke past your lips, hips writhing against the table in search of friction.

“Sh… I got you. Let me pray before my meal.” Remmick propped his elbows on the table, fingers intertwining as he whispered words you couldn’t quite hear. “Amen.”

There was no warning before he lunged into your cunt, tongue darting out to lap at the wetness. You released a startled cry, hands darting out toward his hair. Remmick moaned into your lips, hands grasping your thighs and hiking them onto his back as he devoured you from the inside out. Your hands were tight in his hair, a whine breaking past his throat as he ate you out intensely.

Your hips lifted for a moment but Remmick was quick to push you back down with his hand, wanting you to sit pretty and just take what he was giving you. His lips squelched against your cooze, tongue slipping lower until it was prodding against that first ring of muscle.

“Remmick—oh, fuck!” The sensation was foreign as his tongue exploded your crevices, thrusting and working you so good. His nose rubbed against your clit, pressed just right and you clenched around him. Remmick was a messy eater, sucking loudly, groaning into your cunt like it was the best meal he’d eaten in centuries. Your fingernails scraped against his scalp as you gasped, legs squeezing around his head and threatening to suffocate, but that didn’t stop him. In fact, it only spurred him on as he released your thighs.

One hand planted itself on your pelvis, thumb swiping mean circles across your clit as his mouth pulled away. Remmick slowly brought his middle and ring finger between his lips, tongue swirling around his digits before he removed them, a string of saliva connecting his tongue to his fingers.

“Take a deep breath for me, darlin’. You’s a little tight, and that just won’t do.” He lined his fingers up with your entrance, pushing past that first ring with little resistance. Remmick cooed at the sight, watching his fingers disappear while you writhed against the table, back arching as your mouth parted into a breathless moan at the intrusion. “That’s it, you’re doin’ so good. So good f’me.”

Remmick gave an experimental thrust of his fingers, testing the way you stretched and moaned before starting to curl them in a careful rhythm. He listened to each moan that left you, finding that spongy spot that made you moan loudest in seconds. You released those brown locks, hands finding purchase on the table as you propped yourself up—watching as Remmick dove right back into your cunt.

He suckled your clit, tongue swiping across that precious nub while his fingers rubbed right against your g-spot. The combination of sensation sent your brain into a frenzy, body shuddering as you got worked up fast and hot, your moans and gasps becoming desperate and whiny. Your hips bucked into Remmick’s face and he groaned right back, sucking harder till the dam in the pit of your belly broke. “Wait—let me catch my breath—oh, fuck… fuck!”

Your back arched, hips bucking wildly as Remmick’s free hand came to hold your thigh against his face, stubble rubbing deliciously against the tender flesh. You wailed into your orgasm, vision blurring as you pulsed with life. Remmick sucked on your clit till you sobbed, pussy weakly pulsing around his fingers as everything became all too much.

“That’s my girl.” Lifting his head, he withdrew his fingers from your cunt, covered in your orgasm. Remmick was quick to lick up his fingers, cleaning the mess you’d made with a delighted hum. He patted your thigh, rising from the stool as he began to fiddle with his belt. Your brain was scrambled, frothy from pleasure and one hell of an orgasm—but that still didn’t stop you from trying.

Your hands found Remmick’s shoulders, attempting to push him down onto the table with you. “Let me ride you, least I can do.”

Remmick chuckled, a flicker of something sinister crossing over his face as he pushed your hands away, the belt falling to the floor with a thud. “Maybe next time, darlin’. I’ll be takin’ you nice n’ proper, as proper as fuckin’ you on the table can get.”

With that, he guided your back onto the wooden surface, placing your legs comfortably around his waist as he unzipped his pants. Your eyes greedily took each movement in as Remmick pushed down his boxers just enough for his cock to spring free, bobbing out of its confines. He was thick, a singular vein lining him all the way down to the base where a thick patch of dark brown hair peaked out. Fuck, that’s what you were going to be taking, made your stomach clench and your pussy pulse.

“You’re massive… holy shit.” You whispered out, a gentle scoff leaving Remmick’s lips. Remmick spit into his hand, sliding saliva up and down into a gentle pump on his cock before lining it up with your entrance.

“It’ll feel real good, darlin’. So good you’ll be screamin’ f’me. Just breathe.”

You followed his words, taking in a deep breath only for that air to be punched out of you a moment later. Remmick pushed forward, his tip splitting you open painfully. You tensed, legs squeezing his waist as your face bunched up in a pained groan.

Remmick’s thumb traced tiny circles across your clit, cooing and whispering words of encouragement until you’d adjusted a bit, tension seeping out of your body steadily. He continued this process, inching in until he was fully sheathed, that delicious hairy patch grinding against your clit as his mouth perched itself on your pebbled nipples. Remmick sucked diligently, fangs grazing every few seconds before switching to the next until your chest was coated in his saliva. “Fuck—you’re so damn tight.”

You felt full, unbelievable full. Each breath was full of Remmick, each sound was full of him. You shuddered at the sheer size of him, prodding each spot in you like it was nothing. Your chest heaved, rising and falling as your eyes remained wide as you adjusted to him just a bit more, allowing his cock to imprint itself inside you.

Remmick placed a kiss on your collarbone, followed by one on your cheek. Pulling his face an inch away from yours, he whispered. “You ready, sweet thing?”

The slightest movement caused him to slip deeper into you, a weak groan leaving your lips as you stuttered over the words. “Yes—fuck, yes.”

You didn’t need to repeat yourself as he caught your lips with his own, hips rolling experimentally. You whined into the kiss, his cock pressing into you greedily as your hands grasped the table desperately. Remmick matched your sounds with ones of his own, whining and gasping against your lips with each thrust. The more he moved, the more you were able to adjust—soon finding yourself relaxing into the sensation, pussy contracting and pulsing.

“I’m gonna—haah—gon’ move you a bit.”

Remmick’s hands dipped under your thighs, unlocking them from around his waist before placing ankles onto his shoulders. He leaned forward and the stretch was almost immediate, his cock somehow piercing a completely new part of you. A garbled noise left your lungs, eyes snapping down to where you both met so beautifully.

Remmick gave a singular rough thrust, a snarl forcing out of his mouth, animalistic and raw. His fingers dug into the fat of your hips, dragging you into him as he began to rut into you—fucking you into the table. Your hands left the table quickly, nails scraping crescents into his biceps as they flexed with each thrust.

“Remmick—oh, my… god. I can’t—ngh!”

The stretch was overwhelming, each spot inside you being scraped bare as Remmick pounded into your walls, tits bouncing as your back arched.

“You can—shit—you will.” One hand planted itself on your pelvis, applying just the right amount of pressure so you could feel him dragging against your walls from the inside out.

“Feel that? Feel me fuckin’ that pussy, fillin’ you up? Fuck—haah… you’re squeezin’ the life out of me.”

You clenched tighter, pulsing as your eyes rolled shut—mouth opening in silent moans and broken screams. Remmick leaned forward, a glob of spit forming on his tongue before plopping directly onto your pussy. His thumb caught the saliva, smooshing it against your clit in mean little circles.

Your legs spasmed instantly, tightening and milking around his girth. Remmick released a strangled whine at the sudden tightness, his unoccupied hand grasping your tit tightly.

“You gon’ cum? You gon’ let go all over me, yeah? Fuck—fuckin’ do it. Show me how good I can make you feel.”

Your vision blanked as your body shook, legs spasming on his shoulder as your pussy clenched so tight Remmick swore you’d break his dick. Your lips parted in a scream, breathless and high-pitched. Remmick didn’t stop moving, rutting into you as his whines turned into snarls, hands moving to dig into the fat of your hips in a bruising grip.

“Mmph… oh, fuck—take it, darlin’.” He released one final moan as he ground his hips against yours, balls drawing tight before he burst within you—cum spilling into your pussy and plugging you full. Remmick collapsed on top of you, sweat coating both of your forms.

The room grew silent except for your mutual gasps for breath, your eyes prying open as your hand gently played with the hair at the nape of his neck. Remmick placed mindless kisses along your jaw, hands softening their grip.

Slowly, Remmick pulled out from your spent entrance—his seed and your arousal leaking down your thighs and onto the table beneath. His eyes caught the concoction, a distinctly smug smile crossing over his face. “You did so good for me, darlin’. Let me clean you up.”

You hummed, completely blissed out that you couldn’t even register Remmick’s head between your thighs until he was already tonguing your slit again. He ate you messily and quickly, sucking and prodding as you whined and attempted to push his head away only for him to suck harder. You felt that stinging hot sensation build within your core once again, mumbling pleas leaving your lips as tears brimmed your eyes from overstimulation.

Remmick gave one final suck to your clit, sending you right over the edge of that cliff and into deep waters as you came for the third time. Your body convulsed, legs spasming as you gasped for air like a fish out of water. You were spent by the time the orgasm subsided, and Remmick knew it—wouldn’t let you live it down as he smiled down at you like he hadn’t fucked you into this.

The brown haired man rose from his spot, disappearing from your vision for a moment before returning with blanket. His movements were gentle as he guided you, gently reaffirming how good you were with each touch of his hands on tender skin. Soon, you bundled in the blanket, guided to the sofa and curled into Remmick’s form like a lap cat.

“You can fall asleep with me, darlin’. You did so good, took me so well.” Remmick cooed into your ear, red eyed watching the way your eyes were slowly fluttering shut.

“I don’t wanna fall ‘sleep yet… not yet…” A vibration left Remmick’s chest as he laughed at your sleepy sex-induced delirium.

“That alright. Talk to me then, tell me ‘bout what you want, what you need.” Remmick’s hands stroked down your back and side rhythmically, his words whispered into the top of your head as you lolled against him.

You hummed out tiredly, thinking for a moment as your eyes closed. “I want… a picket fence house on a hill… the sound of a banjo all the time, the fresh scent of cinnamon wafting through the halls… two kids, one that looks like you and one that looks like me… and… and…”

And you were out cold. A smile wedged its way between Remmick’s lips as he listened to you speak, to you dream about a future with him—a domestic life filled with love. He didn’t have the heart to tell you that would never happen, but he was willing to pretend that life was a possibility for now. Just like he was willing to pretend like your handler finding you was a coincidence, and that Remmick hadn’t led him here to you.

Remmick wanted to be your everything, your life, your love, your death. So what if a few people got caught in the middle? If it meant that each night you’d be curled up like this in his arms, he’d do it again and again. Just to keep you here with him.

Forever.

he gets you on the couch before you can even process how fast he moved. one second he’s in front of you with that heat rolling off his body, the next your back sinks into the cushions, your thighs parting instinctively as his weight settles between them.

remmick tears at whatever clothing still blocks his access. his breath hits your jaw in ragged bursts, soaked in heat, shaken by growls slipping past his teeth because he’s already too far gone to swallow them back.

his dick is swollen and heavy, flushed so dark you can see the veins pulsing along the length, the head leaking thick precum that warms your skin as he grinds it against your slit.

he doesn’t line up gently—he ruts, sloppy and frantic, sliding through your slick with wet, obscene noises that echo between your bodies. every drag of his tip along your pussylips makes him grunt, makes his hips stutter, makes the muscles in his back stand out like cords pulled too tight.

there’s no words—just breaths in these rough, ragged bursts like each inhale scrapes through his ribs. his mouth falls open as the head of his cock nudges your entrance, leaking onto your skin, throbbing so hard you can feel the pulse through it. his grip tightens on your thighs and his eyes lower. then he pushes in with no warning.

his hips snap forward and your cunt stretches around him with a filthy, wet choke of a sound that vibrates up your spine. the swollen length forces you to take him inch after inch until your back arches into the cushions, your breath catching in your throat.

your walls clamp around him and he lets out a broken snarl against your throat, his whole body trembling at the way you squeeze him.

his forearms stay hooked under your legs, keeping you bent open as starts thrusting almost immediately—hard, deep, unsteady movements that shove your body up the cushion with every stroke.

the room fills with noises that don’t sound human at all: deep, guttural groans dragging through his chest, sharp panting breaths.

his rhythm is fast and messy, hips slamming into yours, the couch jolting beneath you, wet slaps echoing through the room as your slick splashes against his thighs.

the sound of your cunt squelching around his dick gets louder each time he pulls back and pushes in again, movements driven by instinct rather than thought or restraint.

his cock feels wrong in the best way—too thick, throbbing harder the longer he fucks you, the base swelling slowly, pushing insistently at your entrance every time his hips drive forward.

you feel the pressure building there, that firm mass pulsing against your stretched lips, growing with every frantic thrust he gives you.

he tries to pull back once, maybe out of instinct or struggle or confusion, but your cunt clings so tight around him that he shudders violently.

remmick snarls when the knot strains against your rim, a sharp, desperate sound that sends a shiver down your spine.

he grips the couch with one hand for leverage, the other locked around your thigh like he’s afraid you’ll slip away. his hips slam forward with a brutal, shoving thrust, and the knot forces its way inside you.

it’s a deep, overwhelming stretch that makes your back arch hard, a raw cry ripping out of you while he shoves himself all the way in and stays there, shaking through it.

your body tightens around the sudden stretch as he buries himself to the hilt, his knot wedged deep, sealing him inside.

he moans—loud, trembling, a broken animal sound—forehead dropping to your chest as his body shakes violently. he holds your legs up with one arm, body caged over yours, and pumps thick, hot spurts into your cunt with each deep pulse.

his whole body tightens as he cums, dick throbbing violently, pumping thick heat deep into your pussy.

he whimpers—actually whimpers—as each pulse forces more of it inside you, his forehead pressed to your cheek, his breath hot and broken.

the knot swells even more during it, sealing everything in, stretching you so full your vision flickers. his hips keep twitching, small, involuntary thrusts that drag more sticky noises out of your body.

even after the first wave passes, he doesn’t stop.

his hips give slow, grinding movements—trapped by the knot, unable to thrust fully, but desperate to move inside you anyway.

every grind pushes his cock deeper against your swollen walls, making wet, sloppy noises. he groans into your neck, fangs scrapping lightly, chest rumbling against yours like he’s coming apart all over again.

his hands roam blindly—squeezing your thighs, pressing your back deeper into the couch as if he needs every part of you to stay close and warm and locked around his cock while the rut drags him deeper into instinct.

and when remmick finally lifts his head just enough to look at you, eyes blown wide and glossy, sweat beading at his temples, knot still throbbing inside you… he forces out a single, wrecked sentence, clipped and raw and barely human:

“don’t—move.”

the words are short, bitten off, almost a growl, like he’s using the last of his control to get them out before instinct takes over again.

his hips twitch hard, the knot pulses deeper, and another ragged sound climbs out of his throat as he drags you tighter against him, clearly nowhere near finished.

﹫𝑐𝑜𝑜𝑘𝑖𝑒𝑒𝑏𝑢𝑡𝑡𝑒𝑟

i’m open to requests !