RainnDrop

You moan and kiss him back. He pushes you back against the lab table, sending vials clattering to the floor. His hands slide up your sides possessively, lips never leaving yours as he deepens the kiss with a desperation that speaks of years of repressed desire and obsession. The scent of chemicals and formaldehyde hangs heavy in the air. "Mine," he growls possessively. "You're mine."

"god I fucking hate you." You say in-between kisses. He chuckles darkly, his hands moving to your waist and lifting you onto the table. He steps between your legs, pressing his body against yours as he continues to kiss you brutally. "And I hate you too," he pants against your mouth. "I hate how you challenge me..."

"I despise you Herbert West." You say undoing his pants. "The feeling is mutual," he breathes, his own hands already working at your clothes. "I despise your insolence, your inability to stay in your place..." He pushes his pants down just enough, his arousal pressing urgently against you. "But right now, I think we both know what we really want." His voice drops to a dangerous whisper. "To destroy each other."

You pull your pants and panties down "your a pompous asshole.... Fucking overbearing brat of a man..." "And you're a reckless, insolent child who can't keep her hands to herself," he counters, positioning himself at your entrance. "your a selfish, mean, irritating.... Fuck...." Without warning, he thrusts forward, burying himself deep inside you with a single violent motion. "There's nothing pompous about knowing one's superiority." He begins to move, each stroke punishing and deep. "You exist to serve my work..."

"Fucking asshole..." You gasp. "Keep talking," he grunts, driving into you harder, the lab table shaking beneath you. "Every insult you throw at me just proves how much you need me to shut you up." He leans down, capturing your lips again in a brutal kiss. "You're so tight when you're angry... it's quite intoxicating." His thrusts grow more erratic, less controlled.

"I... Fuck... Hate you..." You moan. "And I loathe you," he growls back, his pace relentless. "Your stubbornness is infuriating." He breaks the kiss to bite down hard on your neck, marking you. "But goddamn, you take this cock like a queen."

"you still irritate me...." "Good," he snarls, his movements becoming purely primal now. "I want to irritate you. I want to be the thorn in your side, the itch you can never scratch, the man who fucks you raw while you curse his name." He wraps a hand in your hair, yanking your head back. "Tell me you hate me again. Scream it."

"I fucking hate you Herbert West." You spit in his face again. He doesn't even flinch, his thrusts barely faltering. Instead, he wipes his cheek and smirks down at you, the wet smear glistening on his skin. "Do it again." He demands, pounding into you relentlessly. "Spit on me again. Hate me more." His grip tightens in your hair, his hips snapping forward with brutal force.

You spit on him again. "You fucking sick fuck." His smile widens manically at the fresh spit on his face. He leans down, pressing his forehead against yours, his breath ragged and hot against your lips. "Fucking bitch," he whispers venomously before crashing his lips back onto yours in a fierce, dominating kiss.

You moan you nails scratching his back "fuck... I'm close..." You pant. "Come for me," he commands, his voice hoarse with lust. "Come while you hate me. Scream my name like you fucking despise it." He reaches between your bodies, his fingers finding your clit and rubbing it mercilessly in time with his thrusts. "Do it."

"Herbert!" You moan as you cum you nails digging deeper. He groans deeply at the sound of his name on your lips, his body tensing as he continues to ride you through your orgasm. With a few final, brutal thrusts, he reaches his own release, filling you with his hot cum.

Ah, Tuesday night. 

In Gotham City, every night is a good night for an Italian restaurant. Especially one that’s been in business since 1964 and acquired a hefty lot of aging locals that know the food is good, and a possibly even longer list of trendy, younger foodies that have heard that food is good because of the aging locals. 

There’s also the… criminal side of the patrons. Have a place with delicious food and wine, and Gotham’s elite underground is sure to follow. You’ve seen your fair share of men who look like they’re here to discuss a deal over a good meal, and a number of elected officials with them. You know better than to meddle, though. You just do your job, and hope for a good tip. Usually, you get one. 

Tonight, it’s raining. Heavily. Surprise, surprise. People flock in from the street as an escape from the deluge outside and the restaurant is filling up quickly. Your section is about three quarters of the way full, and you’re busy. You hear the door open again, followed by the momentary rush of the sound of tires on wet pavement outside. You straighten up, throwing your glance in the way of the entrance. 

There he is. A warm smile spreads across your face as you watch him amble in, shaking the rain from his leather coat. Though his appearances aren’t regular, his habits are. He always sits at the same table in your section, towards the back and next to the corner window. Once he figured out it was in an area you attended to, he never sat anywhere else. 

You only know him as Oz, the big sweetheart of a man who comes in and always orders the chicken parmigiana. Says it’s the best in town. After seeing him a few times, and sneakily taking note of his last name, you took it upon yourself to do a little digging and found out that he’s known for running with Falcone’s gang and that he’s also the owner of the elite Iceberg Lounge. You never bring those things up to him in fear of starting a conversation he doesn’t want to finish. It’s really none of your business, anyway. You give him a moment to settle into the booth, but once he does – you’re immediately headed that way. 

“There she is,” he starts with a smile, watching you as you make your way over to the table, pulling your order notebook from your apron pocket. “There’s my girl.” 

A blush hits your cheek – it does every time. From day one, he flirted with you, harmlessly and has continued it ever since. You’re used to patrons being a little flirtatious, but something about the way Oz does it makes your stomach tighten. 

“Buonasera, Oz…” you say, your lips curling into a warm smile. In the year you’ve worked here, you’ve picked up a little Italian, but the appropriate greetings are mandated by management. “How you doin’?” 

“Better now.” 

You smile again and dip your chin to your chest shyly. He’s always so affectionate, so warm. For being a guy who meddles in Gotham’s seedy underbelly, he’s one of the nicest guys you’ve ever met.

“The usual?” 

He nods. “The usual, sweetheart. But gimme’ a side of fettuccine tonight, huh?” 

You scribble the order down, and snap your book shut. “You got it.”

“What time you off tonight, doll?” 

“Same as every night, Oz. In about an hour.”

“They keepin’ you late every night, huh?” 

“Yeah, but a girl’s gotta’ eat.” 

He scoffs, shaking his head and shifts in the booth before looking up at you. “I keep tellin’ ya, I could take care uh ya, baby.”

The running joke, but sometimes you wonder if he’s serious. He always tips you generously, alarmingly so, and it’s always put directly in your hand, as though he doesn’t want anyone else knowing that he takes care of your groceries for the week.

“And I keep sayin’ I couldn’t do that to you.” 

“Ahh–!” He jerks his head to the side, dismissing those words. 

You reach forward to touch his broad shoulder, giving it a little squeeze. “Let me put your order in, honey. I’ll be right back with your wine.” 

With that, you walk proudly off towards the back, swaying your hips. You can feel Oz’s eyes on you as you go and maybe the way you move is intentional, because you know he’s watching. So, what if it was? Can you really blame a girl for liking the attention?

As you round the corner to the kitchen, you clear your throat and call out to the cooks. Angelo is working tonight, and he’s one of the few guys who knows about your little affinity for Oz. As soon as you pin the ticket, Angelo spins the wheel around, looking at the order. He recognizes it, and gives you a knowing smile. 

“Oh, look who’s back, eh?” 

“Quiet,” you hush, looking back towards the table. You can’t see it from this angle, but you know he’s there, sitting, probably on his phone, or tapping his big knuckles on the wood of the table. 

He looks at the sheet again, noticing the addition, and raises an eyebrow. “Boyfriend’s hungry tonight.” 

“Angelo, will you quit it? He’s not my boyfriend.” 

“Sugar daddy then, eh?” 

You scoff, giving him the finger before reaching for one of the bottles of wine – Oz’s favorite.

You return to his table with a skip in your step. It’s been about a week since you’ve seen him, and you can’t help the giddiness in your gait. As you bump your plush hip into the corner of the table, Oz grins crookedly at you, his gold teeth glinting in the low lighting of the restaurant. You reach into your apron, pulling out a corkscrew. 

“So, whatcha’ been up to, Oz?” You say, as you twist the prong into the cork. “Haven’t seen you in a while.” 

“Ah, y’know… business as usual.”

He usually gives you an answer like that – something that doesn’t reveal too much about what he does. You wonder if he knows that you’ve looked into him. You suddenly furrow your brow at the cork – it’s being stubborn – and quickly situate the bottle between your legs, squeezing it tight between your thighs. This action isn’t lost on Oz, who watches you with a deeply interested grin, watching how your skirt rides up just slightly at the front, not enough to reveal anything aside from some of your creamy soft thigh flesh. Everything you do is done with such innocence, but there’s no way you don’t know what you’re doing to him, he thinks. After a moment of yanking, the cork finally gives way with a hollow POP and you grip the bottle, bringing it up to the table. You mutter a quiet apology and fill the glass, pulling the bottle back to wipe the edge on your apron.

“Well, it’s good to see you. Always is.” 

Someone calls your name from behind you, and it’s one of the other tables, looking for refills. You offer Oz an apologetic smile, and head in that direction. Sadly, you don’t return until his food is ready.  He’s extra present tonight; your eyes meet every time you look in his direction, giving him a timid smile and going about your tasks, but your heart flutters with an adoration for the older man. You’re attentive too, and go over to his table a million and a half times to ask how the food is, if he needs anything else. 

“Only you, doll.” 

You swat playfully at his shoulder, though the little quip has heat pooling in your core. You’d be lying if you hadn’t thought about him taking you over the table a handful of times; lustfully imagining what his hips would feel like rutting against your ass as he sunk himself inside of you. You constantly wondered what his cock looked like. He was a big man, and you assumed that rang true for all parts of him – but the hunger to find out was terrible.  

He’s one of the last ones to leave, lingering as long as he can before it’s considered rude. Tonight, something’s different about him, like something is on his mind, something he wants to say. Each time you’re at his table, he looks like he’s about to ask, but never does. Finally, as you return to clear his table, reaching for the empty plates on his table, he downs the rest of his wine and clears his throat. 

“Listen, sweetheart,” he says, pivoting slightly in the booth with some effort. “You uh, you busy after work?” 

“N-no.” Your heart is pounding in your chest. You straighten up, holding the stacked plates with one flattened palm.

“Why don’t you come down to the Iceberg Lounge? Unwind a little.”

“Oh, Oz, I’m not much of a clubbing girl.” 

There’s a glimmer of disappointment in those dark eyes of his, but he sets his jaw, and gets to his feet. This puts him in your proximity, and you can feel the heat rolling off his large body. Your stomach aches to lean into him, press yourself into his gut, and lace your arms around his neck.

“Just think ‘bout it.” He reaches in his pocket. 

The tip he gives you tonight almost makes your knees give way. It feels thicker than usual in your left hand and when your fingers close around the bills, you swallow down the protests. You don’t dare count it, not in front of him or anyone else. You’ve stopped telling him no, or that he doesn’t have to, because it’s almost like it offends him. He always hushes you, and acts like it’s the most normal thing in the world. You tuck it in the pocket of your apron, and swallow hard again. 

He smiles and steps around you. Your eyes are glued to the visual of him leaving, watching him through the windows as he limps down the sidewalk. God, you want him. It’s a lethal hunger, something that claws and rips at your insides. 

Once the restaurant is empty, you and the rest of the crew make quick work of cleaning up and closing up shop. It’s about forty-five minutes later when you’re slipping your arms into the sleeves of your black, wool overcoat and heading through the door. The rain hasn’t stopped. If anything, it’s gotten worse. You heave a sigh. You’ve got a walk ahead of you, but it’s something you’re used to. 

“Doll!” 

You stop walking, poised just at the end of the sidewalk. You hoist your bag up on your shoulder and pull your jacket right around your neck, squinting into the rain. 

“Oz? That you?” You take a step in that direction, knowing full well it is. Your casual act is embarrassing to you, but you persist, pretending you’re surprised to see him getting out of his car. It’s a nice one, too… a Maserati. Was he… waiting for you?

“Yeah,” he grumbles. “You ain’t walkin’ home in this, are ya?”

“Just to the station,” You defend. 

“Nah. C’mon.” He limps around the front of his car, rain splattering against his leather coat. “Lemme’ give ya’ a ride.” 

He doesn’t have to ask you twice. What’s the worst thing that could happen? Really. The rain is brutal and you’re cold, a chill settling into your bones. You hurry towards the plum-coloured car, your high heels clacking against the wet pavement as you do. Oz opens and holds the door for you, waiting patiently for you to make your way over. You get in the car gracefully, making sure not to flash him, though, you doubt he’d mind if you did. It’s warm inside, the heat is on, and the leather interior has absorbed some of that heat. You snuggle into the seat, watching in the rearview as Oz makes his way back around the car, and for a moment you’re surrounded by nothing but the sound of rain on the roof and the shlick of the wiper blades as they whisk the droplets off the windshield. The driver’s side door opens, and he tucks himself in. Droplets of rain decorate his shoulders, and he smears his hand over his hair. 

“Where to, sweetheart?” He asks, a familiarity in his voice. He’s used to driving people around, but he’d drive you around the whole city if you asked. 

“The complex on the corner of 7th and Onyx…” you say, almost sheepishly. Sure, it’s not the best part of town, but your little apartment is cozy, overlooking the city. You imagine he’s used to much nicer, and is probably silently judging the location. 

“Oz,” you start, looking at the girth of his fingers as they wrap around the steering wheel. Your mind starts to wander, but you quickly reign it in with a hard blink and an inhalation of breath. “Can I ask you something?” 

“Sure, doll. Anything you want.” 

“Were you waiting for me to get off work?”

 “Gotta’ look out for my favorite girl, y’know?” 

It’s an indirect answer, but an answer all the same. You smile to yourself as he eases his foot into the gas pedal, the car moving forward. His right hand departs from the steering wheel to turn on the radio. Frank Sinatra’s crooning voice fills the inside, and for the rest of the drive, you’re silent, occasionally stealing looks at Oz as he drives. He handles the car beautifully, and you wonder if he handles a woman as well. 

Oz is sweet. You know this. Despite his constant heavy flirting at the restaurant, he’s sweet, charming and at times, awkward. Endearingly so. But you aren’t taking pity on him. Your interest in him is purely selfish, driven by your lust for older, dangerous men. You inhale a deep breath and turn your attention to the road. You’re close to home. A few minutes later, he pulls up next to your building and puts the car in park. 

You reposition yourself to face him, shifting your feet underneath you. He’s watching you, those smoldering, dark eyes following your every move. Carefully, you lean over the center console, enough to close in the distance between you two and press your lips against his warm, scarred cheek. His aftershave wafts into your nose, and you take a deep breath of it, remembering it. You think you hear his breath hitching. 

“That’s for the ride, Oz.” 

“Shit, I oughta’ drive you ‘round more often if that’s what it gets me, huh?” 

You hesitate a moment, looking into his eyes. There’s that look again –  like he wants to ask something. You fill the void with another question. 

“Is our chicken parm really the best, or do you just come for me?” 

Oz’s thick brows flick up on his forehead and he lets out a throaty chuckle. “Sweetheart...” 

“Do you come for me?” 

Now he’s really looking at you, squinting at you. Hearing that question repeated has him twitching in his goddamn slacks. He looks out to the rain, then back to you and you’re still staring at him, waiting for an answer. 

“If you only fuckin’ knew,” he chokes out.

“Well.. what if I wanna’ know?” 

“Doll,” he grins and laughs, almost nervously. It’s loveable and you can’t help but smile, your gaze fixated on his scarred mouth as he speaks. You aren’t staring negatively, quite the contrary. Like everything else unusual about him, you find his scars sexy. 

“You don’t gotta’... y’know, do that.”

You smile again, letting your lids close slightly. He thinks you’re doing this because you’re what? Paying him back for all the tips? Treating him like a charity case? Hysterical. If he only knew.

“Answer my question, Oz. What if I wanna’ know?”

He shifts in his seat. Uncomfortable? You can’t tell. 

“Then uh… I ain’t gonna’ deny you that. Find out.”

You lean back over, and instead of kissing his cheek, you tilt your head and go for his mouth, your soft, plush lips pressing against his. He doesn’t respond… not right away, at least. He’s stunned, but also trying not to devour you like some goddamned hungry animal. Finally, his lips twitch to life, pressing back against yours. 

He ain’t used to this. But, fuck, it feels good. 

As his mouth opens, his large hand comes up to the side of your face, holding you where you’re at. The cool chill of the band of his ring is a stark contrast against the warmth of his digits. His fingertips graze the edge of your hairline, massaging gently. The taste of his tongue in your mouth is intoxicating, the wine lingering on his breath mingles with his own personal notes. You let an open-mouthed moan fall from your throat, into his, and he reciprocates, moving his body slightly towards you. Your tongue slips along his bottom lip, pausing to nibble at it softly. He groans deep, his eyes rolling back in his head. You’re getting him stiff, worked up and all you’re fuckin’ doin’ is kissin’ him.   

This is getting heavy. You feel your own arousal burning between your legs, a fiery, throbbing heartbeat that gets more incessant the longer his tongue is in your mouth, tasting you. Oz is practically taking you in mouthfuls, and your hand crawls over the center console, just far enough that your fingernails scrape against the fabric of his slacks, over his thigh. A desperate attempt to get closer to him without just straddling him in his front seat. 

A deep rumble of thunder and a crack of lightning pulls you two from each other. You lurch away, panting, and look out through the front windshield. The rain comes down harder, and you can hardly make out the outlines of the buildings in front of you. 

“I should… probably go inside before this gets any worse.”

You aren’t sure if you’re talking about the rain or the mutual arousal. Maybe both. He clears his throat in response; he wants to tell you that you’re a cruel woman, leaving him like this, but with the taste of you still on his tongue, he ain’t about to push his luck and get greedy. He unlocks the doors from the panel on his left. You open the door and get out, dragging your bag with you. You lean back inside, looking at him with dreamy, half-lidded eyes. 

“I’ll see you, Oz. Thanks for the ride.” 

But not the kiss? You cringe at your words. There’s that look again – but this time, you know he wants to ask you if you’re coming down to the Lounge later. You know it, and you’ve already made up your mind. 

Instead, he shrugs with both of his shoulders. “Sure, sweetheart. Any time. I mean that.” 

With butterflies in your stomach, you exit the car, and shut the door, careful not to slam it. You hold your purse above your head as you run to the front door and you hear the roar of Oz’s engine as he speeds off. The second you’re inside, you kick off your heels at the door and hurry to the back of the apartment. You flip the lightswitch, illuminating the modest bedroom. You pull the dress from the back of your closet, half expecting a cloud of dust to come with it.  

Thank god it still fits. 

You catch a cab downtown, which is much less luxurious than your previous ride. It drops you off in front, and the line to get in stretches down the length of the building. You knew it was a popular place, but you hadn’t expected this. The rain, nor the fact that it’s a Tuesday evening, deters these patrons – whatever’s inside must really be something. You pull your dress down your thighs, and walk carefully up onto the sidewalk. Deciding to try your luck with the bouncers, you bypass the line, trying not to look at anyone to your right. If you stand in line, you won’t be inside for hours. 

Two men – identical twins – stand in front of the door.

“Can we help you?” One of them asks, sternly. You don’t take offense, they’re only doing their job. 

“Um…” You blurt out your name, adding, “Oz asked me to come.” 

One of the men speaks into a small mic attached to the lapel of his jacket, covering it with his hand. It’s only a moment before one of them opens the door and the music goes from muffled to booming, vibrating your bones. You mutter a quick thanks, and step inside, feeling like you’ve just cheated the system. The visual that meets you truly overwhelms you at first, and you hesitate. 

It’s a staggeringly massive venue, filled with undulating bodies. The building itself is industrial in nature, all steel and flashing red lights. The dance floor stretches as far as your eyes can see, a literal sea of human beings, all grinding against each other, feeling the music in their veins. You stand, stunned at the start of the crowd, unsure of where to go.

After a moment, you lift your gaze and your eyes meet for the hundredth time that night. Oz stands on the second floor, on almost a catwalk above the crowds. He looks like he did at the restaurant, save for the leather jacket which was replaced by a white suit jacket; he’s wearing the same purple shirt and black slacks. Your shoulders relax, knowing that whatever happens next will be something you remember for the rest of your life.

He doesn’t make it a secret of how he’s checking you out, a devilish sneer on his face. He’s only ever seen you in your waitress outfit, which let it be known, is sexy enough on its own, but this plunging number that gives him a peek at your cleavage, and hugs your hips in ways he could only dream of… He deepens his grin and jerks his head to the side, urging you up. You follow his gaze and clock the staircase to your left. You make a beeline for it, holding the chain of your purse in a fist and climb the steel staircase carefully, until you get to the platform that Oz is standing on. 

“Hi!” You shout over the pulsing music. You’re giddy, like a schoolgirl. It’s embarrassing, really. 

“I gotta’ be honest, doll, I didn’t think I’d see you.” he confesses, leaning into your ear. His voice is rough, but enticing. He pulls back, gauging your reaction. You stare at him for a moment, saying nothing, prolonging the moment and torturing him. His tongue darts out to wet his lips, and your eyes flick down to watch. Something he does a lot, you notice. 

“What?” you ask, leaning into him. “After what happened in the car?” 

When you pull back to look at him, there’s a bemused smile on your face. Confident. Cocky. Like there was an unspoken contest of who would mention it first and you won. He shrugs lightly, huffing out a laugh. You reach for his cheek, palming it softly. Oz keeps his composure, even though inside, he wants to lean into it and whimper like a dog. He’s glad he doesn’t though. 

“I’m the one who kissed you, remember? It’s not like you did anything to offend me, Oz.” you coo.

“I ‘spose not, huh?” 

You nod, slowly, coyly. 

“The chicken parm,” he says suddenly, shrugging with his hands. “It ain’t bad. But I guess you’ve figured out the real reason why I come there, huh?”  

You laugh brightly, looking over the railing at the throngs of people below you, neon red lights washing over them in time with the music. You smile softly, feeling special. It’s not every day that you get private access to an elite club in Gotham City and get to schmooze with the owner. 

“Come upstairs with me.” Feeling like your attention is drifting from him, Oz takes your hand, guiding you in the direction of yet another flight of stairs. Your eyes trail up the steps; they lead to a loft, glass windows on every side. 

You’re stone cold sober, so you can’t blame the alcohol, but the second you’re in his office, above the crowds, above it all, you’re on him like a bear on honey. Your hands smear over his chest, fingers grazing through the hair that peeks out from his open shirt. He smells like cigars and an expensive cologne that you take lungfuls of. 

“You're an eager girl, aren’t ya?” 

“Yeah, Oz… I am.” You reply breathlessly, kissing a path along his bottom lip and chin. 

“How long have you felt this way, huh?” 

You finally pull back, and lick your lips, watching him intently. You knew he was a talker from the restaurant, always chatting. But right now, you wanted nothing more than to kiss him. “Uhm…” Your chest heaves visibly, and Oz has to fight to keep his eyes on yours. “The first or second time you came into Bellini…” 

“Ah, c’moooon!” he says, incredulously. 

“No, I’m serious!” You laugh a little, moving your head to try and keep Oz’s gaze. He looks off behind you for a moment, and when he returns his attention to you, his expression is serious.

“Chicks like you don’t go after guys like me –”

You bristle and take his face in your hands. “Chicks like me? What do you know about chicks like me, Oz? You think you’ve got it all figured out, huh?” 

He sidesteps that with another question. “What, you like older guys or somethin’?” 

“They’re better…” You say in between tiny kisses. “They know better. They’re more experienced. Guys my age…” You pause to run a finger along his lip. “They don’t know how to take care of women.”

Oz smiles. It’s a dirty, devious smile, and it sends a pulse to your core. There’s a mischievous glimmer in his eyes, and he brings his hand up to the curve of your shoulder. “You want me to take care of ya, baby? Is that what you’re sayin’?” 

You nod. A little too enthusiastically, maybe. 

“It’s a busy club, sweetheart.” He says, almost nonchalantly, as though his slacks aren’t tenting in between both of you. 

But… he has a point. You hum quietly. 

“Later, then? Give me a tour of the club and – “ Your voice trails off because Oz looks like he’s just gotten an idea. He smirks, and his hand grips your hip, pulling you close to his gut. “What?” 

“How’s about you sit on it, huh?” 

Your head turns, gaze heavily resting on the room across the way. You assume it’s for the dancers of the club. Whatever it is – it’s right there. You glance at it nervously, and your expression reads strong, apparently, because Oz chuckles next to you, and brings his hand to your jaw, forcing it back in his direction. 

“Hey, hey, hey. Look at me. It’s okay. They ain’t gonna’ know a thing.” 

His hand drops from your jaw to your waist, where his thumb swipes circles over your dress. His hand sweeps around to the back, where your skin is exposed, and begins stroking patterns over the skin, igniting tiny fires wherever he touches. You lean forward, pressing your mouth against his again, hungry for his taste again. After a few minutes, Oz pulls away, ending the foreplay. He turns and ambles to the leather sofa angled in front of the window and you follow, taking slow, careful steps. One foot in front of the other. 

Once he’s seated, you lift your dress just enough to grip the delicately stretchy lace of your panties on either side, and carefully pull them down the curve of your ass. Oz is watching, his brown eyes locked on the tantalizing visual in front of him. You discard them on the sofa cushion, not thinking about where they land. Oz watches though, and his large hand snakes out, fisting them and discreetly tucking them into the pocket of his slacks. If you asked, he would’ve told you that he didn’t want anyone fuckin’ seein’ ‘em. The reality was that his perversions were too loud, and he was going to take a token of this dream he was experiencing.  

Oz reaches down, unlatching his slacks, and pulling the zip down just enough to reach in and pull his aching cock free. As you lower yourself, he lines it up, watching intently. You whimper his name, feeling the cockhead nudge your entrance. 

“Easy, sweetheart, easy. That’s it, nice n’ slow.” He licks his lips. 

At first, you nestle yourself down onto his thick cock gradually. The fat, leaking head pops in first, sending a shockwave through your core. Your breath hitches in your throat, and instead of sliding yourself down his shaft slowly, with a huff, you slam your ass down hard. You’re sitting all the way down on Oz’s wide lap, stuffing the rest of him in. He’s thicker than he is long, but god, it’s everything you thought it would be. He vocalizes, surprised at your determination. You still, letting your walls accommodate the girth of the man beneath you. 

“Hoo, baby...” 

The tiniest little movements have him clenching his jaw, hissing through his teeth. And then… with his hand casually holding onto your hip, Oz starts to rut his hips up into you. It’s just enough to rock your body up and down and move his cock inside you. 

He grunts underneath you, his grasp tightening on the satin of your dress. He craves skin, and his hand slides into the space between your dress and your back. You can’t help but let out the tiniest of whimpers at the feeling of being so full – you don’t remember the last time you were stretched like that. Your dress pools, hanging heavy between your legs and concealing your leaking core. 

Abruptly, the collective sound of high heels approaches, and your eyes snap up to the glass windows. A group of girls crowds the room parallel, and the second one of them spots you two, they’re heading your way. Oz stops moving. 

“Alright… quiet, doll.” He slaps your hip a few times. It’s a warning, and one you immediately heed, straightening up, tucking your hips into a more natural sitting position. His cock twitches inside you, and you swallow back the noise that bubbles up your throat. 

“Ozzy,” the girls coo in unison. One of them has a martini in her hand and asks who you are. God, they’re all so beautiful, you think. Insecurity threatens, but the stretching between your legs calms it.

Leaning to the side to meet their gaze, he tells them your name, proudly – the bastard – and you wave, sheepishly, trying not to allude to the fact that Oz’s girthy cock is buried inside you. Maybe they know. Maybe he’s done this before. You swallow hard, reaching up to tuck a stray strand of hair behind your ear. 

“We was just havin’ a meeting. She’s thinkin’ of workin’ here.” A bold faced lie, but it distracts the women from looking too hard at the scene in front of them. They all titter excitedly, delighted by the prospect of having another friend to play with.  

“Oz takes real good care of us,” one of them chimes in, earnestly. “You’d love it here.” 

You clench around his cock as hard as you can, your internal muscles squeezing him in a vice. You smile as naturally as you can at the girls as Oz continues speaking casually. The man’s poker face must be insane because he doesn’t flinch, doesn’t give away a single thing. 

“Alright, alright. Girls, what am I payin’ ya for, huh? Get down there.” 

In a flurry of nods and apologies, the women disperse, heading back down to the throbbing club below them. The sound of their high heels clicking down the stairs fades away, replaced by the dull, muffled thrumming of the music below. As soon as you two are alone again, Oz bucks his hips up into you hard, almost painfully, pulling a low groan from your throat.

“Tell me how good that feels, sweetheart. Tell me.” The roughness of his voice, the harshness of his accent makes everything sound intense, but the desperation in which he asks that isn’t lost on you. He’s practically begging you to tell him, revealing a deep-rooted hunger for praise. You wet your throat, and lean your head back onto his shoulder, bringing your hand up around to the back of his wide neck; the flesh is warm and damp with sweat.

“It feels so good.” 

“Yeah?” 

“Y-yeah…” You close your eyes, wincing slightly at the way his cock bullies you and stretches you open. “So good, Oz. I’ve thought about this… so many times.”

His hips rut up into you, finding a hungry, incessant rhythm and your slick walls clench around him. The action brings a choking grunt from his mouth, and your ego swells with the control. An idea blossoms. You straighten up; setting your hips and grinding them back and forth on his lap. Beneath you, Oz moans, his grip on you tightening. You feel his large body shudder, and a cocky smile curls its way around your lips. 

“You like that, Oz? You like me fucking you like that?” 

He nods, breathlessly, reaching up to palm the sweat that drips into his brow. 

“Tell me,” you whisper, arching your body against his. 

“I l-like the way you’re fuckin’ me. It feels real fuckin’ good… ” He grumbles, pleased. “Feelin’ that tight pussy uh yours… like heaven, doll.” 

You whine at that, loving the way it sounds coming from his mouth. Your hips gyrate, continuing their ruthless pattern on his cock. His hand strays from your hip and juts between your legs, finding your cunt. His thick fingers slip between your folds, stroking you just enough to drive your orgasm closer to the edge. You whimper, tossing your head back. 

Oz’s gaze drops from your back to your ass, watching as the flesh swells when you push back against him. God damn. It’s a perfect fuckin’ view, and he sucks in a deep breath. Every muscle in his body tightens, even if he ain’t ready for that.  

“Aw, fuck–” he grunts, low. Deep in his stomach, his muscles clench, trying hard to stave off the oncoming orgasm. His eyes open, focusing on the ceiling, the sound of the music, anything except for the way you’re ridin’ him. It ain’t workin’, because he feels his whole body tense up. Fuck. 

His hand goes slack between your legs and you grit your teeth, bringing your brows together in a pained expression. The dual stimulation was nice, but the way his cock massages your walls, stretching them out and filling you in a way that has you gasping is enough to drive you mad. You’re thankful that the music is so loud beneath you, because your desperate mewls and whines are getting higher and higher in pitch. Oz mutters something, something filthy about filling you and you drive your hips back against him. And with that, he loses it. He thrusts his hips up into you a few times, with a frenzied sort of desperation. You feel the heat painting your insides, coating your walls in his ecstasy. Underneath you, Oz’s thrusts have turned languid and lazy. He’s silently justifying the too-quick orgasm with the fact that he had to; anyone could’ve walked in at any time. It had nothing to do with the fact that he’s been like a slobbering dog for you for months. 

Chest heaving, your hips continue rutting back and forth, and Oz shifts underneath you, still panting heavily. It’s tender, but he doesn’t complain. His thrusts continue to slow and you desperately reach between your legs, tapping his hand back to life. “D-don’t stop Oz, please… don’t stop…” 

Behind you, Oz chuckles under his breath and straightens up, having sunk back into the sofa a little too far when he lost it. His thick index finger strokes your clit upwards, and a shiver rips through your body. The coil in your stomach winds tighter as you settle into the oncoming feeling. Still full of him, your slick walls shudder around his cock as the first wave hits. The coil snaps, your thighs clamp shut around his hand, and you look down, sighing loud as he continues flicking between your folds. One of your hands is situated on his thigh, and the other comes to grip his wrist, feeling the cuban link chain beneath your palm.

“That’s it, sweetheart… that’s it…” As you ride it out, bucking your hips against his groin, he coaxes you through your orgasm, both vocally and with the way he massages your clit, the pad of his index finger pressing into it. You can hear the pride in his voice, it’s absolutely dripping with it. “Atta’ girl. Feels fuckin’ good, don’t it?”

You try to speak, but nothing comes out. You furiously nod your head as your legs begin to tremble. He doesn’t stop, and your immediate reaction is to dig your nails into the flesh of his hand, silently begging. 

“You good, doll?” 

“Y-yeah. I’m… wow.” 

Oz removes his hand from between your legs, and strokes the side of your thigh, gently. Tenderly. For a moment, you stay like that, just enjoying all of the post-coital sensations. Eventually, you get to your feet, curious about how the patrons downstairs are faring. Speaking of dripping… You swallow hard, and press your thighs together. 

While still in front of Oz, you straighten yourself out, pulling your dress back down over your hips. Now, you’re suddenly aware of the throbbing beat beneath your feet and make your way over to the window. 

“How about that tour?” You ask, running a nail along the glass that overlooks the dancefloor below you. After a few moments, you feel Oz’s presence behind you, his stomach pressing into the curve of your back. 

“I thought you weren’t a clubbin’ girl…” he murmurs throatily, in between kisses to your neck. You tilt your head, allowing more space for him to smother. 

“Well,” you confess, honesty tinging your voice. “I’m not. But it’s not every day you get invited to the most elite nightclub in Gotham City.” You shrug. “Might as well.”

⭑

“Oz…”

No more words needed to be said, your tone saying it all, and your boyfriend turned to you with that look he knew you hated. He shrugged his shoulders at you, brows furrowed in a way as if to ask what he did, and you couldn’t hold back your sigh. There was a brief stretch of silence between you as you both were surrounded by the noise that was Gotham’s nightlife.

“You said you just needed to drop something off with the twins,” you reminded him, crossing your arms over your chest.

Your boyfriend let out a sigh of his own at the look on your face, and you stood your ground. It was his first night off in almost two months, the restaurant reservations were only going to hold for so long, and you weren’t exactly dressed for the likes of the Iceberg Lounge. You watched the heavyset man move towards you, reaching for an arm but you jerked away from his touch. He didn’t need to say what you knew he was going to say; you could see it all over his face.

“We’ll just be ten minutes, alright?”

“Oz!”

“You know I can’t just swing by without showing my face to Carmine. I’ll pop in, update him on a few things, drop off the stuff and we’ll be on our way.”

He made it sound so simple, but you knew better.

Carmine Falcone was not a simple man. What little you knew of him came from Oz and whispers on the street, but you knew enough. When he wasn’t treating your boyfriend like some lap dog, the kingpin was making money from mysterious sources and running the kind of club you never had the taste for. Funnily enough, the one night you decided to go to said club, you met Oz.

It was simultaneously the best and worst thing to happen to you.

“...and what am I supposed to do while you’re rubbing elbows with your asshole of a boss?”

The question was barely past your lips when Oz was harshly shushing you, frowning at you like you’d lost your mind, but you didn’t care. Carmine Falcone—and anyone listening for him—didn’t scare you. You recognized how stupid that probably was, but it was the truth. He was just another big man with money who threw it at people to feel important.

“What are you? Crazy?” Oz wondered, leaning in and lowering his voice. “You can talk like that around me, but we’re not in my apartment, sweetheart. You show the proper respect around here.”

You bit your tongue at that, narrowing your eyes at the man before you and thinking to yourself that of all the reasons to dislike Mr. Falcone, this was at the top of your list.

You really cared about Oz for a whole lot of reasons independent of his money. You’d always had a thing for the underdogs, and Oz was certainly that, but he was also driven. In this city that chewed people up and spat them out for fun, Oz was always determined to make something out of nothing and refused to let this city break him. It was admirable, really, and it made you have so much respect for him.

…but when he got around Mr. Falcone…

You really resisted the urge to roll your eyes, hating how much of a bitch he became in the presence of the other man. You got it to an extent. The man was his boss and he needed to be listened to, you understood that perfectly well, but your boyfriend’s entire demeanor seemed to change in his presence. He always turned into someone you hardly recognized—a pathetic ass-kissing excuse of a man just yearning for Mr. Falcone’s approval—and if you didn’t love him so much, you would’ve left a long time ago by how much it disgusted you.

“I’ll sit you in my office,” he finally answered with a shrug. “You can hang out for a while and overlook the club in my absence.”

There was a hint of amusement in his voice, but it didn’t latch itself onto you, and Oz waved you off.

“Lighten up,” he added, tone much softer now as he pressed a kiss to your forehead before guiding you both towards the door.

Only one of the twins was at the door tonight, and you threw him a tight smile as he greeted you both. Since that night you’d met Oz, you’d only been inside of the club two other times and both times had you sitting in Oz’s space while he discussed whatever with Mr. Falcone and Kenzie. There were worse spaces to be, you supposed—Oz’s office being all windows with a bar that allowed you to watch the dancers below—but he knew how much you detested this entire scene.

Tonight was no different.

He gave countless apologies and fixed you up a drink before disappearing with a kiss. You sipped on it while looking down at the club goers below you, once again having the same mental conversation with yourself that you had every other month. Oz was determined to secure better for himself, sure, but he didn’t seem keen on securing it outside of this lifestyle. He loved this lifestyle, and you were once again seriously contemplating if this was how you saw the rest of your life playing out.

As you waited for your boyfriend, ten minutes turned into twenty which then turned into thirty. You shouldn’t have been surprised when an entire hour passed, and by then, you were too upset to even produce frustrated tears. You’d long finished your first drink and was currently on number whatever when Oz finally showed his face. A scathing remark was on your tongue when he opened his mouth before you could.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart,” he apologized, the rushed words making his accent pop. “...but I gotta reschedule.”

You blinked with a shake of your head, hand tightening on the glass in your hand.

“What?”

That was the last thing you’d been expecting.

Oz placed a hand on your arm just as you stood.

“I gotta do something for Carmine and–.”

“Are you kidding me? Oz!”

“It’s important–!”

“It’s always important! This is the first night off you’ve had in weeks. This night was supposed to be about us, and you let me get all dressed up just to sit up here for an hour and now you tell me–.”

“Look,” Oz harshly cut you off, nostrils flaring as he stared you down. “I don’t like it, but I got no choice, alright?”

You looked away from him, finally feeling like you could cry.

“Something came up, and I gotta do this for him…”

You finished your drink, slamming it down and searching for your purse.

“It shouldn’t take too long, but I gotta leave, now, so Carmine’s driver is going to take you home…”

“Excuse me?” you quietly said, slowly turning to face him. “Carmine’s driver is going to take me home–y-you can’t even take me home?” 

You wildly gestured to him, and Oz dismissed you.

“I don’t got time for this. Grab your things and let me walk you outside. He’s waiting…”

Oz’s words died in the air as you hurried past him, not sticking around to hear anymore excuses or reasons as to why he couldn’t take you on your date or at the very least drive you home. You were sure your boyfriend had a few choice words for you, but the loud music drowned him out and it’s not like you were sticking by him to actually hear what he had to say. Your heels stomped against the floor as you hurried to the door, and a bitter taste filled your mouth as you remembered that this was the first time you’d worn them.

You had imagined Oz taking them off at the end of the night.

Now the thought made you laugh.

“I’m sorry, alright? I’ll make it up to you, I promise…”

The words that reached your ears were familiar—and empty—and you only nodded and evenly hummed at every one.

“Yeah…sure, yeah…no I get it, I understand…”

You did understand, but that didn’t mean you had to like it. Your boyfriend apologized a few more times before telling you to give him a kiss. You didn’t deny him, but if he noticed how robotic it was, he didn’t comment on it. You’d met Mr. Falcone’s driver a handful of times, and you gave the familiar man a tight smile as he opened the backseat door for you. Oz was peeling out of the parking lot before you could even get in, and as you stared after his car, you had the strangest urge to look up.

You did.

The windows of the Shoreline Lofts above the club were lit up, and you could see a couple of men moving around inside. You briefly wondered if that was where Oz always had to go when he needed to see Mr. Falcone. The moving figures didn’t hold your interest but instead the still figure standing just on the other side of one of the windows did. It wasn’t hard to guess that he was staring down into the parking lot, and something in you told you that the seemingly tall man was the very same who ruined your night.

With a huff, you slid into the expensive car, taking off your painful heels the moment the door was shut.

Things between you and Oz were a little icy.

Both of you held some blame but you stood by the opinion that Oz held most of it. More apologies came in the form of flowers and jewelry, but you were learning in real time that the allure and grandeur of those things start to lose their luster after a while. You loved him, but every day you wondered if it was enough. There was no telling when Oz’s next day off would be to properly make it up to you, but if the way things were going was any indication, you surmised that it was going to be a while.

Mr. Falcone had Oz running up and down the streets of Gotham like your boyfriend was the one actually running the city. On the days where you even saw him—which were becoming far and few in between—the interactions felt like they lasted only minutes. He always needed to go, always had something to drop off or pick up, or something to handle.

“Just come with me tonight,” he said to you one day. “We barely see each other, and I know you think I haven’t noticed or don’t care, but I promise you I do.”

“I don’t know…”

He knew how you felt about that place, and it’s not like he was asking you to sit in his office this time—Oz was talking about the 44 Below. You’d heard whispers of a club within the club that was the Iceberg Lounge, but you had never given the validity of it much thought. After all, it wasn’t your crowd nor something you concerned yourself with. One of your friends had referred to it as a mob hangout, and you’d laughed in her face then.

Since meeting Oz though, the idea became less funny to you.

While you may not have known what Mr. Falcone did exactly, the last few years certainly made you less naive about how Gotham really worked and how men like him really stayed above water. There were days when you struggled not to linger on Oz’s part in that food chain. 

The man in question sat beside you on his bed, taking your hand.

“You’re still pissed about the other week, I ain’t stupid, but until I can really make it up to you, let me do what I can,” he offered, and you sighed. “I miss you, and you miss me…yeah?”

You reluctantly nodded, and Oz bent his head, trying to catch your eye.

“Whadaya say?”

You threw your hands up with a slow smile, and Oz let out that haughty laugh of his you’d grown to love. He was doing what he could to spend more time with you, and even if you didn’t completely agree with the way he was going about it, it mattered to you that he was trying. Besides, it wasn’t like you were opposed to the idea of becoming more familiar with exactly what Oz did for a living.

That was how you found yourself in the 44 Below for the first time, lips pressed together and eyes taking it all in as you observed the kind of men you never expected to find in a place like this. Oz’s talk with you on the way here was helpful, yes, but it still hadn’t fully prepared you for the full scale of corruption in this city.

“People do what they gotta do to make a living here. You understand?” he’d said, glancing at you. “Don’t stare too long or make a big deal about whoever you might see down there.”

That was what he’d said to you, but it was still quite the shock. Police officers were one thing, but the politicians that ran this city were something else entirely. Your hand was tight in your boyfriend’s as he led you through the dimly lit club, this atmosphere much quieter and more intimate than what was going on upstairs. 

Oz got you a drink and sat you down in a corner and told you he’d be right back.

You were used to being seen as “Oz’s girl”, and if you were being completely honest with yourself, you didn’t hate it, but the weight it seemed to hold in the 44 Below was different from the Iceberg Lounge. Most of the people upstairs were casual party goers who just knew Oz as someone managing the club and you as his girlfriend. Down here though…

You were the girlfriend of the man next to Carmine Falcone, and it was the first time that it felt like it carried a significant amount of weight. Most people didn’t even make eye contact with you, and if they did, it either didn’t last for long or was accompanied with a nervous smile...as if they didn’t want to get on your bad side. Strangely enough, it didn’t make you feel powerful or anything of the sort but instead…lonely—isolated. You didn’t think you liked it, but before you could linger on that feeling for a few moments more, your isolation was breached.

“What was Oz thinking sticking you in this corner by yourself?”

The familiar voice made your skin grow cold.

Carmine Falcone was a face you hadn’t stared directly into for a few months, now, and truthfully, you could’ve gone a few more. He didn’t scare you, but that didn’t change the fact that something about him was not only intimidating but constantly reminded you that he wasn’t some warm and fuzzy kind of guy. When you tore your eyes away from the bar, you weren’t surprised to find those dark shades covering his eyes even in this lighting.

You were sure you’d never seen him without them.

He towered over you as he stood at your table, and you almost wanted to stand too just to make this interaction feel more equal. The few times you’d been in Mr. Falcone’s presence, you’d never felt quite equal, and you didn’t know if it was the huge gap in income or authority or just the way he coolly stared at you from behind those shades. In this moment, you reminded yourself to stop being so hard on Oz. You didn’t even work for the man, and he could easily make you feel so small, so you didn’t like to imagine the headspace he put Oz in when his money was on the line.

Reminding yourself that he spoke to you, you cleared your throat.

“He said he’d be right back,” you replied.

You swore that Mr. Falcone wore the hint of a smile on his lips, and you liked it less than the stony expression that was almost always on his face. For a few seconds, it felt like he was privy to some joke you weren’t in on, and you glanced around, feeling more isolated than ever as everyone in the club absolutely refused to look in your direction now.

“He’s upstairs handling something for me,” he told you. “You shouldn’t be waiting for him down here.”

When Mr. Falcone gestured to someone, you shouldn’t have been surprised when Kenzie seemingly appeared out of nowhere.

“Get her up to the loft,” the other man told him, a frown on his face behind those shades. “She doesn’t need to be down here with the rest of these people.”

The way he said those last two words made you feel like he looked down on the very men and women working for him and supplying him with business, and that made you frown too. However, once you realized what he’d said to Kenzie before that, it clicked for you that you weren’t going to the club upstairs but instead the Shoreline Lofts, a place you figured was always off limits for you.

You felt it was best not to question it as Kenzie gestured for you to join him, and as you neared him with your drink in hand, you didn’t miss the way Mr. Falcone refused to move, forcing your shoulder to brush against his chest.

“Don’t be a stranger,” your boyfriend’s boss said from behind your back.

You couldn’t even find it in yourself to throw him a fake smile in response.

You stared out over Gotham as your boyfriend hit another billiard ball, the sound drowning out the low conversation he and Mr. Falcone were having. You didn’t particularly care to know what they were talking about, but you had to admit that your curiosity had long been piqued along with your frustration at how long this conversation seemed to last. 

One errand turned into an entirely separate dropoff which then turned into a conversation about the details of said dropoff that had long shifted into something else entirely. You reminded yourself that you were here because Oz wanted to try and be around you more, and you accepted that you would much rather be here than at his place wondering where he was at three o’clock in the morning and if he was safe.

He was trying, and that’s what mattered.

When you glanced over, you saw that Oz had his back to you while his boss stood on the other side of the pool table. Like always, those dark shades hid his eyes from view, and while he was engaged in a conversation with Oz, you couldn’t shake the feeling that his gaze was on you. It was a strange thought to have—at least, it was a strange thought to have.

You’d never been around Mr. Falcone as much as you had lately, and you’d found yourself questioning if he’d always been so inquisitive and hovering. Maybe those words were too strong because it wasn’t as if the other man was grilling you every time you were in his presence, but every now and then a question about your relationship with Oz was thrown at you or he’d ask about your job and how you liked it there. You and Mr. Falcone were only a step away from strangers, and he didn’t strike you as the type of man to engage in friendly chats.

“He don’t mean nothing by it, sweetheart,” Oz told you one night. “You’re around a lot more, and he’s just trying to feel you out, you know.”

You had hummed, not quite understanding that, and that was what you’d told him.

“I mean we’ve been together for what? A few years now? I’ve been to his home, I’ve had casual chats with his daughter, you don’t think it’s a little late to start wondering if I can be trusted?”

“It’s different now,” was all your boyfriend said. “You’re around the business more. It’s not the same.”

His words had silenced you that night, your mind instead going to what ‘the business’ entailed and why your sudden presence around it would change things. It once again sparked questions about your relationship with Oz, and what you wanted for your future. You liked the perks that came with his line of work just fine, but you knew better than anyone that the novelty wouldn’t last. A day would come where you’d question if it was truly worth it, and you didn’t want to be in too deep when you finally had that conversation.

Your name was already associated with Oz in certain circles, and your frequent appearances at the 44 Below these days didn’t help. When you came and left with Oz, it was fine. You loved him and always felt safe with him, so you learned to remain unbothered by the way people looked at you when you were next to him. Mr. Falcone was a whole other story…

You detested the nights when Oz got held up, Kenzie being the one to greet you and escort you out or in. Kenzie you didn’t mind all that much, but sometimes it was your boyfriend’s boss instead, and you couldn’t ignore the way you were treated when you were next to him even if you wanted to. You didn’t like the way people eyed you whenever Mr. Falcone guided you to that elevator, his footsteps mirroring your own in a way that made you feel like you were being stalked.

They looked like they didn’t know whether to suck up to you or avoid you at all costs, your proximity to the kingpin bringing out conflicting feelings of fear and possible opportunities.

“You’ll get used to it.”

That was what Mr. Falcone had said to you one night in that elevator, and you hadn’t known what he meant at first, but it clicked somehow with one look at his face. You remembered how unnerved you’d felt that he’d been able to read your thoughts on your face so clearly that night. You hadn’t liked it, at all, looking ahead just as he spoke again.

“The nice jewelry and fancy purses…” you’d tightened your hold on your handbag at that. “...aren’t the only perks that come with this line of work.”

You’d kept your gaze on the elevator doors.

“People start to fear you, respect you, and while you don’t seem like the kind of woman who’d be into that, you’d be surprised at what people will do for you solely for some proximity to you in some way. Anything to get ahead…”

He’d moved closer to you while he said this, and you couldn’t step away fast enough as the elevator stopped, Mr. Falcone’s arm reaching out to make sure the doors stayed open. Fighting to settle your mind, you quietly thanked him, thinking to yourself that you couldn’t get to Oz’s side fast enough. 

You’d never cared for Mr. Falcone before, but getting to be around him more had the opposite effect one would think it’d have. The more you got to know him, the less you wanted to be around him, and you told yourself that it was for the obvious reasons. His business was shady and he treated Oz like crap and there was probably even a small element of danger in his presence, but no matter how much you tried to ignore it, he didn’t feel dangerous like Oz was dangerous. 

Whenever you were alone with him, it felt painfully obvious that you were a woman and he was a man, and you knew deep down that it stood out to him too.

“Carmine says hello.”

You barely glanced up from the magazine in your lap as Oz’s words reached you, your boyfriend hanging up the phone. You only swallowed, flipping the page and listening as Oz limped towards the kitchen. You tried not to linger on what he said, but pretty soon the words and pictures before you began to go out of focus and you closed the flimsy book.

Oz’s attempts to spend more time with you by whatever means necessary unfortunately resulted in you spending more time with his boss. Granted, it wasn’t like you were around the man for hours, but you were seeing him more often than you ever had before. If he wasn’t there in the loft with Oz then he was greeting you in the 44 Below before making Kenzie escort you upstairs while he and Oz discussed business. You shuddered to think of his attempts at small talk and pleasantries, thinking to yourself how Oz couldn’t see how strange it was that Carmine Falcone was sending his regards to you through Oz.

Your gaze traveled to the vase of flowers on the dining room table, a gift of apology from Oz’s boss to you for keeping your boyfriend so late one night. You’d eyed it for what felt like hours when it was delivered to your door, and Oz’s answer to your question that night hadn’t satisfied you.

“His driver took you home, sweetheart, and you’re with me. Why wouldn’t he know where you live?”

The man may not have scared you, but that didn’t mean you relished the thought of being so comfortable and casual with him. Had you known that tagging along with Oz more would birth whatever this new development was, you would’ve never agreed to it, but as it were, you felt like it was too late to do anything about it. You feared that seeing Oz less wouldn’t change this new trajectory.

Of course, had you known how things would eventually end up, you would’ve long resigned yourself to never seeing Oz again, at all.

You should’ve known that something was off when Oz came by completely quiet one day. He never hesitated to jump right into whatever happened at the club that you just had to hear about. The change was noticeable, and when you’d asked him if he was alright, he’d given you a solid ‘yeah’. You’d tried to ignore the look on his face and his strange demeanor, but you knew the truth.

Oz was lying.

“Sweetheart…”

His voice was softer than normal from over your shoulder as you cleaned off your bed, and when you looked at him, he didn’t look like his normal cocky self. He looked almost…defeated. It was a strange thing to witness because Oz was never defeated even when he ‘lost’. You loved that about him, but at the moment, he seemed so unrecognizable. 

“We gotta talk.”

He jerked his head, and although a little unsure and nervous, you sat down on the edge of your bed. Your boyfriend stood in the doorway for what felt like too long before eventually limping towards you, hesitating a bit and then sitting down too. The length of the silence made you more uneasy, and although you and Oz had been having a few problems lately, you were suddenly hit with the possibility of him breaking up with you.

You swallowed, voicing your thoughts.

“Are you breaking up with me?”

Oz frowned almost as soon as you said it, and that relieved you.

“No, no, doll, never that,” he hurried to reassure you, and you let out a sigh of relief.

However, you wondered if that was premature because nothing about Oz’s demeanor was comforting.

“Look…Carmine is offering me a chance to move up…”

His words made you blink, and you eventually nodded.

“...okay. That’s good, right? That’s what you want…?”

Oz let out a sharp laugh.

“Hell, yeah, it’s what I want,” he told you. “More money, more authority, and I’ll officially be his right hand man. Hell, the way he’s painting it, there’s a chance I might take over things eventually instead of that lazy son of his…”

You wanted to give Oz a small and encouraging smile, but a heavy ‘but’ lingered in the air. This sounded like everything Oz ever wanted, and you wanted to be happy for him, but at the moment, he didn’t even seem happy for himself. You reached for his arm, gently squeezing it.

“Do you think I don’t approve or…?”

Your boyfriend shook his head, and you only grew more confused.

“I don’t got the position yet.”

You stared at him, and you watched as Oz rubbed his forehead, and you were sure you could never recall a time you’d seen him so…antsy. You felt safe around Oz because he was always so sure, so confident, and now he was none of those things, and it was a strange place to be in for you.

“...but that’s where you come in.”

“Me?”

Those words threw you all the way off, and a feeling of dread settled in your stomach as Oz took your hand.

“Carmine…”

You studied Oz’s face, trying to decipher what he was going to say before he said it.

“He likes you, sweetheart.”

You stared at him and he stared at you.

“I…don’t follow. What does that have to do with–?”

“Do you want me to get this job?”

You sighed, choosing to be truthful while being careful with your words.

“I want what you want, and I know you really want this, so…yeah,” you honestly told him.

Your boyfriend slowly nodded at your answer, and you watched him swipe his tongue between his lips.

“Look, I’m not saying how far you have to go, but…Carmine likes you, and if you just make yourself available to–.”

Oz cut himself off as you jumped to your feet, your eyes comically wide and lips parted as you stared at him in shock. Understanding finally dawned on you, and you looked at Oz as if he’d lost his mind. That dreaded feeling in your stomach had morphed into full blown nausea, and you were positive you were going to be sick.

When he said that Carmine liked you, you didn’t think… You’d thought it was his way of saying the man was no longer suspicious of you, that you were trusted now and he’d stop asking so many questions and paying so much attention to you. Not once had it ever been a possibility to you that he meant…

You opened and closed your mouth.

“Is this a joke? Oz, tell me you’re not serious,” you whispered. 

Your boyfriend’s face twisted into a deep frown, that scary frown that you hated.

“You think this is easy for me? Huh?” he threw at you, joining you and standing too.

“Oh my God, you’re serious,” you breathed, feeling like you’d gotten the wind knocked out of you as you looked away.

“This is a big deal for me,” Oz told you. “Do you know how much this could change things? I’m not asking you to…sleep with the guy…”

You faced him again, expression twisted into disbelief at what you were hearing.

“Just get dolled up like you do and let ‘em treat you. Make him feel real special, you know,” he waved his hands, and you blinked back tears.

“Oz,” you hissed, disgusted. “I am your girlfriend. Not some girl at the club who charges half a grand per person to get passed around. I am your girlfriend!”

“You don’t think I know that? Huh? Wh-what you wanted me to tell Carmine no? Huh?”

You couldn’t believe what you were hearing, and you tearfully looked away.

“I told him I’d think about it…”

“I can’t believe this,” you choked out, rushing out of your bedroom.

You could hear your boyfriend’s footsteps behind you.

“Carmine Falcone is not the kind of guy you just say no to, sweetheart. You think this is something I’d ask you to do all willy nilly?”

You paced around your apartment, actually feeling like you were going to be sick as Oz continued to talk, as he continued to plead his case for why you should basically whore yourself out to his boss.

“...and Carmine could have any girl he wants. If he wanted some easy piece of ass, there’s girls at the club for that,” you heard him say, his voice sounding muffled by the loud ringing in your ear. “...but he expressed interest in you.”

“...because he’s sick! How do you not see that, Oz?”

Your boyfriend shook his head at you, a sneer on his lips and a scathing remark on his tongue no doubt when you beat him to it.

“He’s dangling this position in front of your face and telling you it can be yours so long as you let him humiliate you and treat me like I'm not even human!”

“Doll–.”

“It doesn’t matter what I agree to because he already won,” you choked out, shaking your head at him. “He tells you that he wants your girlfriend, and you didn’t tell him no.”

You stared at Oz with tears in your eyes, unable to believe this was happening.

“You didn’t tell him no, Oz, he…” you scoffed. “You’ve shown him that you would do anything for his approval, anything to be where he is.”

Your chest and throat were so tight, and you wondered if this was what heartbreak felt like. The silence in your apartment was loud, and you could barely stand to look at Oz, in shock that he would even come to you with this. You sniffed, and when Oz stepped towards you, you moved back, wrapping your arms around yourself.

“...and what happens if I refuse? You can kiss this promotion goodbye?”

His silence was deafening, and you let out a humorless chuckle.

Your eyes passed over the dying flowers on your table, and you felt goosebumps rise on your skin. You stared at them for what felt like the longest time, reminding yourself that Mr. Falcone never seemed the type for small talk and genuine pleasantries. There was always something ulterior with him, and you felt sick to your stomach as you thought about every time you were alone with him.

“Get out,” you whispered to Oz.

It seemed like he didn’t hear you at first, but with a quickness, you stomped towards your table and almost immediately after, the vase of flowers was airborne. Oz ducked just in time, and you only screamed for him to get out two more times before he finally accepted that you were serious. You were right behind him as he left your apartment, taking off every piece of jewelry he’d given you that you were currently wearing.

“In case it needs to be said… We’re done,” you spat. “Find some other way to get your promotion.”

You slammed your door shut behind him, unconcerned with how it may have disturbed your neighbors.

Your breakup with Oz hit you much harder than you thought it would. After all, he did a shitty thing, and in that moment, you were positive that you hated him. However, once the dust cleared and everything had settled, you realized that hate and love did indeed require the same level of passion, and you’d cried yourself to sleep two weeks in a row.

Oz was so far from perfect, but you loved him, and while he was capable of so many things, you’d never considered he’d be capable of even the things you didn’t want him to be capable of. You thought that he loved you too, and maybe on some level he did—choosing to give him some credit—but it was plain as day that he would never love you more than he loved the future where he wasn’t the underdog anymore.

You’d foolishly thought that you took priority over power.

Every phone call of his went ignored, and the only time you texted him was with a date and time when he could come get the rest of his things. You, on the other hand, didn’t want anything you’d left behind at his place. You wanted his shit gone, and nothing returned to you that would make you think of him in his absence. In the span of a month, your life as you knew it had turned completely upside down.

You’d been on edge all day when that knock finally sounded at your door. You weren’t concerned with falling into old habits, but just how painful it’d be to face Oz again after that night. Some days you still found it hard to believe that he’d been so willing to sell you out so easily. You’d never forget the way he’d talked to you, like it was just assumed you’d go along with it because you wanted better for him.

It ate you up inside to think that he didn’t know you, at all.

You’d rehearsed how this would go probably a million times since he’d agreed on the date and time, but everything—every word—you’d practiced was in vain because it wasn’t your ex-boyfriend standing on the other side of the door once you’d opened it. If you’d been holding something, you would’ve for sure dropped it as you stared at the face of Carmine Falcone.

Funnily enough, you hadn’t given the man much thought since the breakup. After all, Oz was the one who’d betrayed you, hurt you so deeply. Mr. Falcone hadn’t done anything surprising, only being the man you knew him to be—a man who always wanted more and used his money and power to get it. You’d never pegged him as a man with morals—with a code—so as much as it disgusted you to realize what he’d been plotting this whole time, you weren’t blindsided by the knowledge that he wanted to fuck his subordinate’s girlfriend and was willing to play dirty to make it happen.

“Where is Oz?” you finally breathed.

“May I come in?” he responded, completely ignoring your question.

Your lips parted, an immediate no on your lips when you only just noticed the figures behind him. You narrowed your eyes at the sight of Kenzie and some other man you didn’t recognize in the hall, and the nausea you felt that night with Oz was almost nothing in comparison to how you felt at the sight before you. Oz was supposed to get his things, but instead his boss showed up at your door—the same boss who was the catalyst for your disastrous breakup in the first place.

You licked your lips.

“I feel like if I say no…you’re going to do what you want, anyway.”

Mr. Falcone didn’t respond to that, but the corner of his lips curved upwards so subtly that if you weren’t so used to his stony countenance, you would’ve missed it. His only response was to move towards you, and against what you wanted, you moved out of his way. You stood at the door as he brushed by you, and your gaze darted between Kenzie and the other man. You were sure there was an almost pleading look in your eyes as you gazed at the familiar man, but Kenzie stared right through you.

“You can close the door.”

Pulling your lip between your teeth, you did just that, staring at the wood for a while before turning around.

“Oz…?” you repeated.

“He’s handling something for me.”

“Of course, he is,” you sighed. “I take it you came all this way just to get his things for him?”

When you looked at him, his back was to you, and you didn’t like the way he was taking in the layout of your apartment. Your eyes darted towards the kitchen, weighing your options if you actually managed to kill this man. Of course, that was assuming you even made it to the kitchen. When you looked at Mr. Falcone again, his gaze was on you, now, and you knew you’d been caught.

He chuckled to himself, so low that it barely reached your ears.

“Let’s talk…”

You frowned when he gestured for you to sit down, and his lips twitched again when you refused to move. He made the decision to sit down first, and you reluctantly followed his lead. That feeling that you always felt whenever you were alone with him washed over you, and you couldn’t stop yourself from fidgeting.

“I know that Oz hurt you.”

You gave him a look at how he chose to start this conversation, the elephant in the room just casually lingering between you.

“...he didn’t do it by himself,” you replied.

Mr. Falcone seemed to weigh that in his mind, tilting his head from side to side.

“That’s debatable.”

“How do you figure that?”

“He could’ve told me no.”

Your heart skipped a beat as he acknowledged it outloud, and you chuckled.

“We both know that’s not true,” you whispered. “No one denies Carmine Falcone.”

You said the words mockingly, and you didn’t miss the way all humor drained from his face.

“You know how badly Oz wants to make a name for himself. An actual legitimate name for himself where he’s respected and revered and not seen as some joke, and you took advantage of that,” you spat. “You saw an opportunity to kill several birds with one stone, and you took it.”

The man before you didn’t respond right away, and you watched him stand, making you nervous. You only started to relax when he made his way towards the bar Oz had given you as a gift one year, the damned thing installed into the wall so you couldn’t even give it back. You said nothing as Mr. Falcone fixed himself a drink in your apartment with your stuff.

“Would you like one?”

“No,” you immediately answered, somehow still shocked at his audacity.

He ignored the malice in your tone and took his time, and the whole time you just kept wondering why he was here. You watched him take a sip of his creation, and it wasn’t lost on you that he was standing while you were sitting, and he was making you feel small once again.

“You said I saw an opportunity to kill several birds with one stone…”

You rolled your eyes.

“You own this city, everyone knows it, and you saw an opportunity to get what you want just because you wanted it all the while humiliating both Oz and myself and making him prove his loyalty to you,” you slowly told him. “I’m sure the breakup that gave him more time to devote himself to your business was just a bonus.”

Mr. Falcone responded by taking a sip of the drink he’d made, humming.

“You didn’t consider any other motives…?”

You watched him make his way across the room to sit back down in the seat across from you, eyeing you behind those dark shades as you frowned at his question. No. You hadn’t, and truthfully why would you? You couldn’t think of any other reason for why he did what he did. Part of you even considered that he didn’t even really want you so much as he wanted something Oz had.

“Hmm?” he wondered at your silence, and you only shook your head.

You watched him finish his drink.

“I didn’t expect Oz to say yes–.”

“I don’t believe that,” you cut him off, and the look he fixed you with didn’t scare you one bit.

You stared at each other for a few moments before he continued.

“I do want you, that much is true,” he told you, making you uncomfortable under his unwavering stare. “You’re beautiful and you take no shit and I see why Oz pursued you so hard.”

You didn’t like that he knew the details of how you and Oz began.

“I can have anything I want, you’re right, but even still…I didn’t expect Oz to say yes.”

Oddly enough, you were sure you believed him now, and you didn’t know how to feel about the fact that Mr. Falcone had been testing him…and Oz hadn’t passed.

“...but now we both know what you mean to him.”

His words forced tears to your eyes, but his next words made them spill over altogether.

“If I were in Oz’s position, I would’ve told me to go to hell.”

Your blood ran cold as you stared at him, your brows pulling together at his interesting choice of words. Mr. Falcone wasn’t in Oz’s position and never would be, but the more you stared at him and the longer the silence dragged on…you realized that he wanted to be. You looked away from him, standing on shaky legs.

“Whatever Oz gifted you, whatever he did for you, I can make it all look like child’s play,” he offered, and you felt your stomach churn.

There was no telling what Mr. Falcone would’ve done had Oz just said no, but because Oz was Oz, he hadn’t said no, and that had produced a lose-lose situation for him. Oz said yes, and that meant that either Mr. Falcone would get what he wanted—even if only for a night—or you would leave Oz, and  an opportunity would present itself for him to still get what he wanted.

“I wasn’t with Oz for his money,” you sneered, tears kissing your eyes as you glared at the other man.

“...but I’m sure it didn’t hurt.”

You actually laughed at that, the sound lacking humor and filled with so much bitterness and frustration. Of all the things to take from this situation, what stood out the most was how absolutely misunderstood you were. Oz actually thought you were the kind of woman who would sacrifice her dignity and morals just to help him get ahead, and Mr. Falcone actually thought you were the kind of woman who could be bought. 

It was an upsetting mix of maddening and frustrating.

“Get out,” you heard yourself whispering, feeling a sense of deja vu. “Take Oz’s things, and get out of my house.”

You watched Mr. Falcone straighten in his seat, reaching up to undo the buttons of his suit jacket.

“No.”

You blinked at him, not expecting that but also not surprised by his response either.

“Fine,” you breathed, making your way towards the hook on the wall where your purse hung.

You didn’t care if he had a hundred men outside of your door, you weren’t staying in this apartment with a man who basically offered to buy access to you for a night. As if that wasn’t bad enough, he used your breakup as an opportunity to buy permanent access to you. You were reminded that Mr. Falcone felt dangerous to you in a way Oz didn’t, and just when your hand landed on the doorknob, he showed you why.

You didn’t even have a chance to scream, a choked gasp getting caught in your throat at the feel of silk material pulling against your neck. He tightened it the more you pulled on it, and the soles of your feet kicked against the door, the shoes you’d just slid in falling off. Every attempt to dig your feet into the floor was in vain, and when your legs started to fail you, only then did Mr. Falcone let you go.

It all happened so fast that when you finally registered the dangerous position you found yourself in, it was too late.

“You’re really going to make me do this, huh,” he casually mused, his deep voice reaching your ears as he caged you in his arms between him and the floor.

Your vision was blurry, but you took note of the way he’d slipped out of his suit jacket, the first few buttons of his shirt undone and his tie…missing. The tips of your fingers grazed against that silk material that was still around your neck, and you tried so hard not to linger on how seamlessly he’d done that, like it was second nature to him.

His warm body was on top of yours, nestled between your legs, and you mustered up enough strength to dig your nails into his face. The scream he let out satisfied you, and when your knee came up between you both, it allowed for you to slide out from under him. Your throat felt sore as you crawled away, struggling to get to your feet when the tie still around your neck was yanked on once again. He tightened it around his hand, pulling you against him, and a winded squeak left your lips as he forced you to bend over the bar.

You pulled and clawed at the silk material, fighting to breathe, all the while he fumbled between you both with his free hand.

One of your hands let the tie go to drag your nails along the wood of the bar when Carmine Falcone forced his cock into you. His hips slammed against your backside as he fucked you, and you were caught between trying to loosen the material around your neck, and fighting to find something to hang onto and ground yourself with.

You could feel his face pressed into your hair, breathing you in with every thrust. The bar beneath you trembled from the force of his movements, and your vision started to blur again from the lack of oxygen. You clawed at your throat with one hand and at the bar with the other. The man behind you seemed to be in his own world, lost in the feel of you wrapped around him.

When dark spots started to appear in your vision—almost as if he knew that—Carmine loosened his hold on the tie around your neck. The rush of air into your lungs had you gasping, and to your horror, he replaced the tie with his arm. His arm hooked around your neck and forced you back against him as he leaned back a bit.

The only sound in the apartment was heavy breathing—yours from trying to suck in as much oxygen as possible and him from pushing himself into you over and over again.

“Oz felt like such a big man with you on his arm,” he said against your skin. “It almost made me feel sorry for you.”

You hit your hand against the bar.

“I don’t need you on my arm to feel like a big man. That’s the difference between us…”

He pushed you back down against the bar again, a hand harshly pressing into the small of your back to keep you in place. You couldn’t stop crying no matter how much you tried to, distraught at the harsh lesson on why you should fear Carmine Falcone. It’s just that this never occurred to you…or maybe it did on some level, and you were too afraid to acknowledge what it was.

Oz would never do this. There was a softness to him that Carmine lacked, and maybe that was what you’d sensed all this time, that Carmine was the kind of man without any limits. That he was the type to hurt anyone—man or woman—but just in whatever way he knew would hurt the most…no matter how depraved.

When he came inside of you, you didn’t even try to hold back the disgusted sob that left your lips. You almost collapsed to the floor when he pulled away from you, your shirt—one that Oz had left behind, you realized—fell back into place as you heard him righting himself. Your heart was still beating wildly in your chest, and you almost didn’t want to believe what’d just happened.

Funnily enough, Carmine was gentle in sliding his tie from around your neck, the fabric whispering against your skin as he did so, and you shuddered when his fingers grazed your throat in the process. You didn’t doubt that a nasty ring would color your skin in the morning. When his lips found your hair again, you shrunk away from him, still trembling from his assault.

His parting words finally made you throw up what you’d been pushing down for weeks.

You had plenty of time to nap after Dr. Victor Gideon’s morning visit. But you couldn’t relax with your brain and body running 100 mph. Each sultry thought sent a wave of electric buzz straight to your core.

What could he be planning? What could we possibly need to measure…..especially after he felt me up? Why did he of all people, feel so good?

You glanced down at the emergency button still grasped in your right hand, it sliding in your palm’s pool of sweat. There wasn’t a second of that assessment where you felt the need to press the button. The thought never even crossed your mind. But you still felt shaken. Your heightened senses had to be a temporary side effect of Vitamin T, right?

But nobody has ever made you feel this good. Side effect or not, you weren’t sure if you wanted it to wear off.

———

After taking a break to shower in between assessments, you returned to the examination room. A cold shower couldn’t shake the heat that Victor stirred in you, but it was worth a shot. Nevertheless, in some way you couldn’t make sense of, you wanted to make yourself presentable for the doctor. Hopefully regaining some dignity after the scene you stirred this morning.

Creaking open the door, the still dim lights casted warm shapes onto the awaiting doctor. He lounged in a rolly chair aside the patient bed, as if he didn’t have you writhing under his touch earlier. His arms were draped over the backrest and legs spread far enough to see the inseam on his pants. Your sudden entrance didn’t startle him. He just flashed you a smile.

“Do come in, darling. I hope I didn’t scare you off during our assessment this morning. I expect that you had a decent shower?” He nods to your still damp hair. Or at least, you hope that’s how he made his deduction.

A metal cart sits on the side opposite of him, displaying a careful arrangement of wires, ropes, and silicone instruments. They catch your eye as you make your way to the examination bed. You bump into a bulky arm that blocks you from sitting down, and you meet the eyes of your sitting doctor.

“Rest assured, darling, I don’t intend to hurt you.” His fingers trill on your hip, gently pulling you closer to him. “I can see your pulse quicken in those dark veins of yours. I promise, I only intend to keep you comfortable.” Victor pats your hip, signaling for you to sit in his lap. His legs still spread wide.

“I can walk you through each procedure, if you’d like. It does take a special little mouse to get me to open up about my….passions.” You feel stiff sitting on his leg. Even with both of you sitting down, his towering height forces him to look down at you.

Victor’s hand trails up from your hip, briefly rubbing the small of your back, and traces up your spine to fiddle with the straps on your hospital gown.

Feeling your weight pressed against his leg….his hand hovering over your back…..your clothes pulling from his tugs? Your body is on FIRE. He’s barely anywhere and yet, your mind is ricocheting EVERYWHERE.

It doesn’t help that his goggles are pushed back again. Those midnight eyes glimmering at you like you’ve hung the stars. You make eye contact when you can, but you can’t help visually tracing the inseam of his pantleg up, up, up….

“Tell you what, darling.” You snap out of your trance. One ribbon falls out of its bow. “I’ll have you undress for me, then we can get started, hm?” His cracked palm rests on the skin he uncovered by untying the ribbon. He’s so warm, but even his slightest shift scratches you with the scaly edges of his fingers. Delicate like paper cuts, but it burns so good.

The doctor offers his alternate hand to help you off his lap, pivoting to collect his clipboard before leaving you the room.

Hope he has good peripherals.

Your gown is ripped off before Victor even reaches the medical tray. The fabric now draped over your crossed arms at waist height, bare chest on display.

He freezes, taking a slow, shuddered inhale to keep himself from staring. He won’t even grant you a side eye.

“My, my. I haven’t even told you what to change into yet? Or where you must be?” He pulls his pen out of his breast pocket to set back down on the tray.

You give him a shrug. Honestly, the less friction on your skin the better. Even though the gown was oversized, the swishing of your sleeves along your arm was enough to bring back that annoying buzzing sensation. The cool air felt pleasantly sterile, your nipples already flushing purple and taught.

God, why won’t he just look at how perky you are? You vulnerable and ready for him?

Dr. Gideon rests an arm on the medical cart, leaning his weight into it as he drinks up your figure. You were too easy. His eyes flicker as he clicks his tongue in disbelief.

“You’re being such a good patient for me, y’know that?” He shakes his head and pulls his goggles down over his eyes. You don’t mind his masked look. If anything, it just emphasizes how expressive his mouth gets.

“Sit back on the table for me, darling. We’ll start slow, don’t worry.” He takes your gown to hang on the wall and slides the emergency button into your right palm, patting your hand closed.

You’re too busy hoisting your bare body onto the examination bed, that you nearly miss watching Victor removing his coat. His tight slacks and leather vest remain, his broad shoulders bursting out of the armholes. The dim lights dance around his muscles, emphasizing his bulky arms. He’s a big guy, but not in a bodybuilder type of way. Almost as if his skeleton was built broadly, born with muscle and heavy weight solely for an intimidating look. Even the veins in his forearms bulge as he reaches to unhook the latches on his vest. Thick fingers moving so delicately so he doesn’t damage his expensive vest. He leaves the vest on, but your eyes can help but trail down the scar stretched down his sternum. It must’ve been hell to endure the injury that left such a lasting wound. But? Oh, would it feel nice to lick a thick stripe down it just to hear him grunt.

You’ve been staring for too long. You snap out of your trance, and he’s staring right at you.

“Little mouse, do you need something to drink before we get started? Your mouth is hanging open and you look like you need something.” He’s entirely messing with you. He knows exactly why you’re staring with your mouth agape. Maybe this is part of the experiment……or maybe he just wants to toy with you for fun……

“It will get hot in here after all. I can’t have my sweat ruining my expensive clothes.” He tauntingly makes his way over to you, reaching out a hand to grace your chin. “I just hate to see my pretty things get ruined…” like a wolf, he flashes his teeth with a sneer.

Now standing at your side, Victor’s hand trails down the side of your neck to feel your blemished veins. You already know that he felt your heart rate pick up. You’re surprised it hasn’t burst out of your chest yet.

“It’s best if you lay down, sweetheart. Things are going to get vigorous, and I don’t want you to fall and hurt yourself.” He moves his hand round the back of your neck to support your head, touching the other to your sternum to push your upper body down against the bed. For such a burly, intimidating man, he moves you as if you were a porcelain doll.

“Thaaaaat’s it, stay right there for me while I record your starting heart rate.” The hand on your neck circles around the front of your throat. There’s no hard pressure, just stability and pressed fingers against the pulsing veins on the side of your neck.

He gently nods his head in rhythm with your heartbeat, vision spaced out in thought. A smile spreads back across his face right before jotting down notes on his clipboard. “Good girl, such a good girl. I know we checked your heart this morning, but it’s nice to see that you’re still doing well.”

You struggle to hold back a smirk. “T-thank you, sir.” You squeak out, knowing he’d love some attention in return. He scoffs in admiration, removing his hand to reach for his tray of instruments. It could be that his touch distracts you from your full-body aches, but it almost feels harder to breathe without him holding you down.

He turns back to face you with a silicone wand in hand. “Now, as you recall, we already tested your…marvelous torso this morning” Victor brushes across your nipples with his spare hand, cupping your right breast and rubbing soothing circles into its side. “So now we can pivot to examine the reflexes and sensitivity in your lower half.”

His gaze is so fixated on your pussy, the reflection in his goggles show nothing but wetness oozing out of your folds. Dr. Gideon darts his tongue across his lower lip, moving to speak but still locking his gaze down below.

“Since your gorgeous veins are so reactive, I won’t need to hook you up to machinery for now. I’ll keep a spare hand to feel your pulse, instead.” His thick fingers wrap back around your throat with minimal pressure. “I know you have your emergency button, but are you ready to get started?” The wand clicks and you hear a faint buzzing fill the room. The hand on your throat is so wide that it locks your head in place, restricting your gaze to the ceiling.

“Yep. do whatever you need, sir.” Your head is a bit too stuck to nod. Nevertheless, you use your words to stay on the doctor’s good side. You hear the buzzing noise begin to lower towards your ankles.

Dr. Gideon can barely contain his excitement as he bumps the wand against your ankle. Although you can’t see behind the lenses, his eyes continuously flicker between your thighs, cunt, face, and occasionally your swollen tits. He’s not planning on touching your chest again, but he just can’t help but admire you.

“Little mouse, I need you to tell me what this sensation feels like.” He starts circling the wand around your ankle bone.

“Umm, no different than I’d imagine it would before the vitamin shot?” He nods to each sentence you speak. “I still kind of ache all over….maybe a little less in my pecks after this morning…” He removes the hand from your neck to scribble down some quick notes. “Veeeery good, darling. So insightful for me.” Heat flashes across your face as his hand engulfs your neck again.

“I’m going to move this wand around your leg, and I need you to tell me if the sensation changes. understand?” The wand returns to your ankle bone. It still vibrates on a low setting, but the restlessness in your legs intensifies in anticipation.

“Mmh-hmm….of course, sir.” Your nerves already fighting you to maintain focus.

Victor slowly trails the wand up along your shin bone, drawing circles around your calf muscles as he continues upward. Moving a centimeter at a time, he reaches the back of your knee. Your legs spread a little further for him, hoping to give him better access. His hand tightens around your throat. Your cunt still glistening in the reflection of his goggles.

“I don’t want you moving an inch for me, little mouse. I just need you to stay still for me while I feel you. I will position you how I need you.” You can’t help but squirm at his words, feeling some slick slide down your vulva. Victor scoffs, cracking another grin.

After jotting down a quick note, he rotates the wand around the circumference of your thigh. It only moves upwards to dig into sensitive areas that makes you tremble.

“Sweetheart…..I need you to tell me how I make you feel….” His hushed voice barely reaches your ears as you’re overwhelmed by the sound of blood shooting through your body.

“I-it’s umm-m-m….” You stutter through an inhale. “Tin-gly b-but…..it f-feels g-good.” God, you wish you could see how his facial expressions shift from your whining.

The vibrating wand reaches your upper thigh, and you feel your wetness seep through the sheets under your butt.

“Good, good. But tell me this, little mouse. If that’s all it was…why are you shaking and stuttering?” He lets go of your throat to make notes, and you lean up to lock eyes with him.

Those slacks fit him sooooo tight.

“Even now, your cunt clenched around thin air. I’m dying to know, my records depend on your insight.” His mouth scrunches as if struggling to keep up an act. Gently, he presses your neck backwards, a whimper escaping your lips as your head touches the bed.

“V-v-very w-w-warm….i j-just n-n-n-need-“ Victor runs the vibrating wand up to your hip crease, beginning to trace your bikini line. “Aghh- need n-n-need you t-t-there. So……turned….o-o-on.”

Borderline begging to the man at this point, tears start to swell in your eyes. “There’s my good girl, giving me just want I want to hear.” He scribbles more notes, the vibe now drawing a line to your clit. Not before he lets go of your neck to wipe away your tears.

“Shhhhh, sh sh sh sh. Atta girl, I know. I know. I’ll give you some love, I just need you to finish this test for me. Can you do that for me, babygirl?”

Your cunt grips the air again, making a squelching noise from the abnormal amount of slick you’ve been producing.

Frantically bobbing your head in small movements, you whimper out a scattered ‘yes sir’.

You’re practically whimpering as he hovers the wand right above your clit, legs shaking uncontrollably and heat stirring in your stomach. When he finally grants your clit the attention you’ve been craving, you’re crashing into an orgasm immediately. And Victor is shocked at how fast you came. Mouth agape in a smile, he only takes two seconds to write notes so he can put his hand back on you.

Losing breath like you’ve run a marathon, and riding the last few pleasurable waves, you manage to prop up your torso on your elbows to take in the sight. Hopefully no other patients are arriving today, because they’d hear your moans through the walls for SURE.

Victor glances at your right hand, pushing the emergency button back into your palm before making a rash decision.

“I absolutely HAVE to feel your insides.” Before you can take a deep breath and prepare, he’s stuffed your hole to the hilt with his bulky middle finger that’s twice the size of yours. Your eyes roll back at the stretch he gifts you. If, that is, your cunt stops spasming from the vibe long enough to open up for him.

Body covered in sweat, you feel nothing but ecstasy as you’re panting out his name. And Dr. Gideon could not give less of a fuck.

You’re fighting for your LIFE in his hands. And his reaction? Mumbling measurements to himself of the strength, grip, and depth of your pussy. Still casually rolling the wand around your clit to gage how your hole reacts. Gently, he hooks his finger against your g spot, dying to see how far he can push you. Not that you can see it beneath his goggles, but he is absolutely enamored by watching your face twist and contort.

“Such a good girl, giving me exactly what I’m looking for.” Your open mouth stretches into a smile as you keep panting, head rolled back against your shoulders.

“Ah, ah, ah” he tuts. “Eyes on me, pretty girl. I need to see how those pupils blown wide just for me.” Are we sure that he’s running an experiment anymore? His hands are so overwhelmingly pleasurable that you don’t even notice one’s removal to take more notes.

Your vision starts to white as you feel your stomach twist into another knot. You’re locking eyes with him, ever so often glancing at the sweat dripping down his chunky biceps. You’d do anything to bite down on them, running your tongue across his scaly shoulder as you come for the second time today. Padding up his arm, and accidentally thrusting his finger deeper into you, you’re losing balance. fast.

“What do you need, little mouse, tell me what you need.” “I-I-I want to f-f-feel y-y-your-“ white clouds your peripherals and you can’t sit still any longer. You yank his hand out of your cunt to grab on his forearm as you crash into your high.

The vibe ups in power and Victor chuckles.

Your back is arching and concaving, stomach clenching with all you’ve got. The doctor moves to stand, but you can barely keep your eyes open.

He needs to see you squirm under him for a few seconds. His notes are long forgotten.

The vibe switches off and you gasp for fresh air.

“My, my, little mouse. Your reactions are absolutely incredible. I’ve never seen anything like you before. I’m so proud of what you’re turning into.” He pushes the goggles onto his forehead. You squint through your tears to lock in and focus.

“While this was not the intended side effect of Vitamin T, I absolutely am dying to see exactly how sensitive you are.” He centers the finger he fucked you with between his split tongue, skin pruned from how long it was kept inside you. Slick coating the corner of his mouth, his eyes roll back in ecstasy. You swear his throat bulges from how far he shoves his finger into his mouth. He writes some notes while mumbling about your taste.

“Remind me to get a sample of that for the labs later.” He winks at you.

“As informative as it is that you can’t keep your hands off me, I’m afraid we can’t have you influencing my….mmmm…calculated movements.” He starts a new tangent, almost teasing you. “What happened to my good little mouse? You’ve been so obedient for me up until now. Following my instructions, speaking loud and clear, putting on such a beautiful, messy scene.”He shifts to pick up some ropes and arm bands from the tray.

Victor’s face drops as he locks eyes with you, dead serious, as if he suddenly dropped a mask.

It was spring, and the sun carried through the clinic, which always made the place feel a little more alive. It was a stark contrast to how dark and grey the sanatorium was in winter, though you never had to fear being cold when the snow piled up outside. Your boss, Dr. Victor Gideon, personally made sure that the whole building was throughouly heated every day.

It amused you. You knew Gideon had an obsession with snakes, but sometimes he even reminded you of one from the way he acted.

But even with spring lifting your persistent winter depression, work didn't let you catch a break. Most patients came in for seasonal allergies, parents brought their little kids who got sick in daycare, or because they ate the early blooming flowers on a field, which caused the children to get some bad tummy aches and nausea.

Yes, it wasn't pleasent to have a child puke over your scrubs, but you rather worked like this instead of dealing with the monsters that lurked deep within the restricted parts of the sanatorium- you liked to just check vitals, draw blood, sooth frightened kids before their talk with a doctor. Because, unfortunately, you weren't one. Not yet, at least.

You were dreaming of the day you would finally trade the title 'Nurse' on your nametag to 'Doctor', which is why you applied for a position at the Rhodes Hill Chronic Care Center to further your education and highten your chances of reaching your goal. You had only heard good things about this establishment, and that it's owner was a very intelligent and brilliant virologist. Maybe a bit...scary looking, but that was the least of your concerns.

You had been working here for nearly a full year now, under Gideons wing. You learned from the best, and from the most charming practicioner you had ever come across.

You feared it wouldn't take long for him to completely wrap you around his finger to the point you were helplessly in love with him, damned to suffer from your unrequited feelings towards him for all eternity. Sigh..., who were you kidding? You had fallen for him long ago, his sophisticated and soft way of speaking, the way his snake coat stretched over his broad shoulders, how you could see the soft skin of his stomach through his leather vest that wasn't closed all the way and led down to the bulge in his pants...

You snapped out of your daydreaming as a loud bang echoed outside in the hall, almost making you drop the vial of blood you were supposed to test.

A flash of snake skin brushed past your door in a hurry. You swallowed, your neck hairs standing up in fear. You peeked around the corner out of the laboratory, watching him pace. "Dr. Gideon? Is everything okay?" you asked and he jumped, making you frown. That was odd, he never jumped at anything, and much less did he stride around the clinic like this. His steps were always slow and calculated, calm, not skittish.

He grunted. You couldn't see his eyes through his visors, but you knew he was looking at you. His tongue darted out between his cracked lips and he hissed, as if the action hurt him, his nose pulled into a snarl.

"Has Marie...gotten out again?" you whispered the last part, looking behind you into the dimly lit corridor, your hands growing clamy. Victor shook his head.

"No, she is safely contained. Do not worry about a thing" he assured you, his gentle voice returning for a split moment, his hand coming up to brush your hair behind your ear. The touch sent a shiver down your spine, both of you sharing a heated and desperate look. He almost seemed to pant as your skin bloomed warm under his fingertips, but he pulled away as if it had burned him, quickly stepping aside to bolt down the hallway. "I want the detailed records of all 35 blood samples on my desk at the end of the week" was the last thing you heard from him before he vanished around a corner.

It took a while for you to regain your composure. Victor had never touched you like that. He'd have his hand on your back sometimes when guiding you around the halls, and while it always made butterflies churn in your stomach, that was the most physical contact you had with him. It always remained professional, even when you wished it wouldn't, but whatever happened right now- that was anything but professional.

Something was wrong with him, or with the clinic. Or maybe the man who was a dressed in white and frequently visiting the centre was stressing him out.

The next days weren't much different, and his uncanny behavior was making you worry even more. Gideon seemed agitated, more active. It was rare to see him just sit and loom quitely somewhere. He was hunting through the building as if searching for something without even knowing what it was.

Another thing you noticed was that he had stopped eating. Usually, you would bring either take-out, meals from the canteen or food you cooked at home to share with him in his office.

These moments were your favourite thing every day, even when you only sat in silence. Most of the time he would read reports out loud to you while you lounged on his leather couch, chewing happily on your food, giggling when he would make a critical remark on how badly it was written.

Now he straight up refused it, every time, even going as far as to send you out of his office. He craved your presence, not that you would know, but at the same time he couldn't handle having you near for more than a few minutes. Your scent was just so strong he couldn't grasp a single thought!

His tongue desperately wanted to dart out and smell you properly, gather informations as to wether you were fertile and ready to have a mate, or if you maybe even had one already. The last thought made his chest ache, and his control was freying at the edges every time he saw you around the sanatorium.

God, he hated mating season. His work was his number one priority, but he couldn't even focus on that with you around. All he could think about was sinking into your warm, tight and fertile pussy, your body plush in all the right places to nuture a baby- your baby. He shook his head, taking off his goggles to pinch the bridge of his nose in frustration. It would pass. He just had to hold out until spring ended. He would manage, barely.

While he worried he wouldn't be able to keep himself from bending you over the nearest table, you feared you were annoying him. What if you were the reason he seemed to be so stressed? You were, but not because of what you thought- maybe you had messed up a task and this was his way of trying to make you realise your mistake? Would he fire you if you didn't figure it out fast enough?

That thought kept you awake the whole night and you almost didn't want to return the next day, too scared to come home with your termination papers Victor himself had signed.

You decided to work extra hard, you just couldn’t lose your job, couldn't lose the progress you had made, and you couldn't bear to lose the moments you had with Victor that were so dear to you.

You started by stocking up the supply room, something no one liked to do, and judging by the way dust and cowebs had gathered in the empty drawers, it was about time someone did this. You made your way all the way down to the delivery point for the clinic, where supplies, food, bedding, equipment and something even donated organs were brought by large trucks.

You gathered four boxes filled with gauze, band aids, sterile needles, latex gloves and disinfectant, and you hauled them up the stairs all on your own. You caught weird stares from your colleagues when you did, though no one offered their help.

When you reached the top of the stairs, your knees were already starting to buckle, but you pulled through until you could throw the boxes onto a table in the supply room.

You straightened up with a painful pop in your back, wiping the sweat from your brow and trying to catch your breath. With how rich Gideon was, one might think the hospital would have more elevators except the one in the east wing that was so ancient it broke down most of the time.

Then you went to stand on a small stool to stock up the highest shelves, neatly organizing everything so it had it's own designated section in the shelf.

It wasn't long until something, no, someone loomed behind you in the doorway. Soon you felt Gideons presence behind you, but you tried not to let his cologne and the fact he was standing so close the heat he radiated soaked into your back distract you from your assigned task, which you had ultimately given yourself to prove you weren't a failure.

His breath was fanning over your neck, it made you weak in the knees. Now that you stood on that little stool, you were pretty much as tall as his 8 foot self, and it was the perfect opportunity to do what the primal side of him had craved for the whole week.

You expected him to comment on you filling up the supplies, or that he needed you elsewhere- or that you were fired, but none of that ever came. Instead, you heard him shuffle closer, then he was rubbing his chin on you.

You froze up immediately, your breath stuck in your throat while he rubbed his chin along your neck, a little down your back and up to your shoulder. Your cheeks burned- what was he doing? But by the time the question even came up in your head and your brain pushed it's function to ask him just that, he was gone as if he never had been there in the first place.

It only escalated more from there, to the point you couldn't possibly ignore it anymore. Gideon would practically growl at any male doctor that came too close to you while taking reports or documents out of your hands.

One new male nurse had asked you for a patients file, Dr. Richardson had requested him to deliver it somewhere, but the poor boy got snapped at by Victor rather harshly, almost pissing his pants to put it frankly.

Gideon muttered brutal threats to any male-presenting living being in the entire sanatorium, going even so far as to reduce the amount of pain medication some patients recieved just because to him, they looked ar you a little too lustfully when you drew their blood.

You saw Gideon lurking at the end of the hall, arms crossed over his broad chest. He was guarding you, you realized with unease. It was your last straw, so at the end of the week, when you had to bring him the blood sample reports anyway, you decided you would finally confront him about his behavior.

That evening, you went to his office as the end of your shift approached, knocking on the heavy wooden doors that seemed to loom over you. "Come in" came his voice muffled from the other side. He sounded on edge.

You pushed the door open with your ellbow as you carried in the pile of reports. The smell of aged leather, whiskey and Victors musk hit your nose instantly, the combination making your legs feel like jelly. "I bring the blood sample reports you requested, sir" you said, your voice strained from the weight in your hands, and you let the papers land on his desk with a thud.

He wasn't wearing his mask, he usually didn't in his office, which meant you could see his beautiful yellow eyes, though he wasn't looking at you. He was fidgeting with a letter opener knife, his jaw set tightly. His tongue darted out briefly before he dismissed you with the flick of a hand "Thank you. You may go now" he merely rumbled, brushing a hand through his hair, still not looking at you.

At first you stepped away, but you stopped yourself from following his order like you usually did. You stood in front of his desk and pulled on your fingers in a nervous manner. "Dr. Gideon..." you started the question, your chest aching as he sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose "Yes...?" he asked you then, though you couldn't place the tone of his voice. Annoyance? Tiredness? Barely contained restraint?

"...am I fired?"

That made him stop twisting the letter opener between his fingers, the sharp tip scratching across his desk. "What? Where did you get that impression from?" he questioned, wondering if Zeno had mouthed off sometime, even though he held no power in this establishment.

Well, from you!" you blurted out, stepping closer to his desk "You've been acting weird lately. You seem restless and agitated, you snap at people more than usual and I can't help but think I'm the one stressing you out because I don't meet your standards" you explained desperately, waving your hands around to get your point across. "Please, Dr. Gideon, I need this job. If my work isn't to your satisfaction, I promise I will work harder. I just need to know what I'm doing wrong"

You practically pleaded, your eyes wide and he knew if he told you, you'd drop to your knees to beg. You looked genuinely scared, and that made even him feel bad.

He shook his head and something in you lightened, though that tight feeling in your chest remained. "No, I am not firing you. I never...I never thought of you as a failure." Victor admitted, gnawing at his cracked bottom lip ever so slightly "You are a brilliant nurse, and you would make an even better doctor. All in good time"

He just wanted you to leave as soon as possible. Your scent, especially when you were this emotional, was stinging in his nose unbearably. He was fighting the urge to pace through his office like he did the last few days, but if he were to stand up right now, you would see the raging hard-on pressing against his pants.

But it seemed like you weren't happy with his explaination, so you stayed, much to his suffering. "Then why are you acting this way? Is something bothering you? Do you feel sick-" you were always so caring to others, so sweet, it threatened to make his teeth rot. He held his hand up to silence you "This is none of your concern" he assured you calmly.

"But it is concerning me!" you raised your voice slightly, you had never shouted at him like this, and that turned Gideon on even more. "If you're sick, I can help you. I want to help you"

He leaned back, a low hiss escaping him as you got too close. His gaze dropped to your body, your curves filling out your uniform in all the right places, hips wide and soft and full...something darkened in his serpent like eyes. "Help" he echoed, sounding a bit amused, as if you didn't know what that implied. Victor stood slowly, unfolding to his full height, making you feel ten times smaller. "You have no idea what you are offering, darling" The tone of his voice made a shiver run down your spine, and the fact that he had called you darling made your thighs clench together helplessly.

"Tell me" you pressed, craning your neck up to meet his eyes with your heart pounding in your chest. "I can handle it, whatever it is. I just want you to feel better" you promised almost too eagerly. A bitter chuckle rumbled from his chest. He circled his desk, closing the distance until his whole body drowned yours in shadows. For a moment, he only stared down at you without saying a word, a frown etching onto his face. "What's wrong, Victor?" you let yourself whisper, his name on your tongue enough to bring him to his knees.

He huffed, he never planned on telling you this. Ever. But your gaze was so unraveling. Well, he had already acted so out of line you grew suspicious and approached him about it- he might as well just say it.

"It's spring" he said simply, as if this was the explaination to everything. "You do realise what that means for most animals, correct?"

The heat between your legs exploded, filling every inch of your body, your cheeks starting to glow bright red. "Spring is, uhm, m-mating season" you spoke carefully and hoped you understood what he was implying. Otherwise you just made a total fool out of yourself.

His answering nod put your mind at ease but shocked you just as much. Was he...? Oh my god, your boss was affected by the mating season!"I

t makes me...restless. It drives me crazy every year. I'm driven by the primal urge to find a suited mate" Gideon admitted, stepping even closer to you, his hand ghosting over your arm- not yet touching you as he leaned down to your face " I tracked your scent especially" he whispered into your ear, his forked tongue darting out again to taste the air near your neck. He groaned deeply at that, trying not to sink his teeth into your shoulder "And you smell...so fertile, delectable. Perfect."

You almost whined in disappointment when he straightened back up and you almost followed him by falling forward into his chest. But you stayed put, even when your knees felt like jelly.

Your lips parted gently as the hand hovering over your arm brushed your hair from your face, his touch so light you barely even felt it. "I've been craving you. Only you. I do not wish for anyone to have you except for me" Victor confessed and you leaned into his cool touch that sizzled against your warm cheek.

"The way you handle those children, patient and gentle. Forgive me, but seeing you like that makes me lust so shamelessly over you." His hand wandered from your face to your waist, softly squeezing the flesh in revelation. "Your body is just made for carrying life. So beautiful" he muttered to himself, eyes dipping lower, his large thumb pressing into the plush of your stomach.

Then, he was gone, stepping away from you until the back of his thighs hit his desk, bracing himself on the wood with his head hanging low "I understand if this is... disturbing to you, disgusting even. I would never lay my hand on you if you voiced your discomfort. It'll pass on it's own when spring ends." But you could tell how much this killed him to say. And it killed you that he hadn't bent you over already.

You had touched yourself countless nights to thoughts of him- his massive frame pinning you into the mattress, that forked tongue exploring your pussy until he knew it like the back of his hand, his cum flooding you until you swelled with it. And now you didn't know if this was real or if you were experiencing a very convincing wet dream.

Your legs shook as you approached him with desperate steps, practically throwing yourself around his neck and pulling him into a needy kiss. His eyes widened before they closed in hunger, wrapping his arms around you to press you close against him. He picked you up to spin you around, placing you on top of his desk, documents and papers flying to the floor in his haste.

"I want your baby, Victor" you breathed against his cracked lips, successfully making him groan out a curse, his mouth crashing back onto yours, demanding entrance you gladly gave him, his tongue slipping past the seam of your lips to tease your own, the split ends flicking against the roof of your mouth as he tasted you.

You moaned into the kiss, your hands clutching his coat, the snake skin texture rough under your palms.

"Say you're mine" he murmured against your lips, nipping the bottom one with his golden teeth. "Please, I need to hear it from you" his hands roamed your body, large palms cupping your breasts through your uniform. You arched into him, gasping as he unbuttoned your top with deft fingers, exposing your bra that held your beautiful tits which would soon fill with milk and ripping it off your body easily.

"Fuck" you whined as you suddenly felt so bare, your fingers fumbling with his thick belt, the snake buckle cold and confusing in your hands as your arousal clouded your mind "Yes, I'm yours. All yours. Want your cock inside me" you whimpered, eager to get his pants off.

He chuckled, shrugging off his coat before he ripped apart your pants next. And you didn’t even care, the scrubs were provided by the hospital anyway. He could tear them up as often as he wanted. "Spread your legs for me, sweet girl" he ordered and you did so quickly, revealing your panties that were damp against your plush pussy. His eyes locked onto the wet spot, tongue flicking out. "So this is what I've been smelling the whole time. Utterly soaked, gorgeous" he whispered and lowered himself onto his knees, his broad shoulders pushing your thighs apart.

Gideons breath ghosted over your clothed cunt, then he hooked his fingers into the waistband of your panties and yanked them down, the fabric tearing slightly.

"Oh god!" you shrieked as his split tongue lapped at your folds, the forked tip hooking under your clit to flick it, the sensation was nothing you had ever felt before and you moaned in surprise. He dipped to your entrance, licking and sucking.

Slick sounds filled the office, wet and obscene as he ate you out like a starved man. His tongue dove as deeply as he could, curling inside you, tasting your arousal while his nose bumped your clit. You gripped his hair, thick salt and pepper strands slipping through your fingers, your hips desperately bucking against his face hips 'Victor- fuck, your tongue! feels so good...m'so close" you almost cried "Wanna cum on your cock, please" you begged him, but you couldn't bear to push him away.

He hummed, vibrations shooting through you, one thick finger joining his tongue suddenly. Allthough he pushed in slow, you yelped, your thighs squeezing his shoulders at the stretch "Patience, my dear" he rasped, pulling back to watch his digit disappear inside you, coated in your juices "I need to open you up for my cock first, mama. It's big, and I don't want to hurt my precious girl" he didn't sound smug, just genuine, and it was so, so hot.

He added a second finger, scissoring them, his thumb rubbing your clit in firm circles. Sweat beaded on your skin, the room growing stuffy and your breaths coming in pants as you clawed at his forearm to ground yourself.

Tears pricked your eyes from the building pressure. "O-oh, I'm- fuck, I'm cumming" you gasped and his thumb pressed on your clit just right, fingers curling to hit that spot inside and you shattered, your first orgasm of the evening crashing over you, slick gushing onto his hand, down his forearm and making the dark wood of his desk shine like it had been freshly waxed.

"Good girl" he praised, rising to his full height again and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. His pants strained against his thick bulge and you instantly went to reach for it, unzipping him with trembling hands. His cock sprang free, heavy and veined red like the rest of his body, the head flushed and leaking pre cum. It was huge, matching his size, easily as thick as your wrist and your mouth watered at the sight.

You stroked him softly, your pussy clenching in anticipation. He threw you a look as if to ask if you were still okay with this, but you just yanked him forward by his leather vest, your legs falling open and wrapping around his hips, the head of his cock slapping lewdly against your clit.

His thumb circled your entrance, nudging his cock between your folds to coat it in your wetness before lining himself up with your pussy. He thrusted in slowly, his cock quickly breaching the tight ring of muscle, making you hiss in discomfort. 'Shh...Just breathe" he murmured, gently stroking your neck and shoulder as the stretch burned in your core, your walls yielding to his thickness. "You're so big" you mewled, gasping as he finally bottomed out, the sting fading instantly as he was nestled right where he was supposed to be.

Gideons head fell to your shoulder with a moan, one that came from the very depths of his soul, like your warm pussy had been the cure for all the pain he was experiencing- and my god it was. It was salvation, utterly blissful.

Your arms snaked around his neck to pull him closer, your lips latching onto his neck, kissing and sucking the scarred skin there. A rumble formed in his chest and he pulled out to push back in, both of you keening at the sensation. It wasn't long before his thrusts became rough and desperate, the desk scraping across the floor from the force. You cried out, nails digging into his shoulders and adding new red lines across his back.

Your body jolted with every thrust, your skin slicking with sweat that made you slide back and forth on the smooth surface of the desk, though Victor kept you caged safely and securely in his arms.

Your pussy squelched and drooled around the size of his cock, hot and messy, your walls snugly dragging over his whole length.

"Harder! you begged, your voice breaking. 'Fuck me- oh god, you want to breed this pussy, don't you?" you mewled, your eyesbrows scrunched up in pleasure. Your words made him lift his head from your neck, and the expression on his face was the most neediest, most desperate you had ever seen on any person before.

He nodde urgently, the gesture accompanied by- was that a whimper? Fuck, you almost creamped all over him at the sound. You grasped his face with shaking hands "Y'wanna knock me up?" you slurred and that made him buck his hips faster, the curve of his cock perfectly hitting your sweet spot and making you throw your head back.

"Yeah, you wan' it?" you whined, trying to look into his eyes. His were glazed over, his mouth opened in a pant while he watched your tits jiggle, the coil in his groin twisting. "I want it, I want it" he rasped, his brow furrowing. He looked like he was about to cry while he pressed open mouth kisses to your face, his harsh pounding faltering as he approached his climax. Your words emptied his head, all function reduced to the desire to watch you swell with the child he'd plant into your womb.

He craddled your head between his big arms, mindlessly drooling onto your face, slamming home against your cervix again and again- all while you whispered the most perfect things into his ear. Even if he tried to hold off his orgasm, it would have been futile with the filthly words you squealed. "Tell me you're gonna fill me up, say it" you pleaded, his cock dragging against your walls, hitting as deeply as he could, subconciously carving out a space for a baby with his cock.

He moaned, the sound almost throwing you over the edge "Yes, yes, I will. I'm going to...pump you so full" his words ended with a small whine, so needy. You knew if he kept going like this, just a few more thrusts would throw you over.

Just the thought of his thick, creamy cum forcing itself into your awaiting eggs had you crossing your ankles behind his back, arching into him while hugging his face close to your shoulder. "Get me pregnant, Victor" you whispered into his ear, and that did it.

Your orgasm ripped through you, your pussy fluttering and tightening around him. The sensation made him choke on a groan, grabbing your hips to push you down to the base of his cock when he errupted. You could feel the force and the amount of his release exploding against your cervix, a pathetic sob leaving your lips.

You milked him for all he was worth, your pussy so tight he could barely pull out- not that he wanted to. He kept rocking his hips, opening you up, ensuring your body welcomed every single drop.

When your climax faded, you fell boneless against the table, your legs slipping from his hips to dangle over the edge of the desk, trying to catch your breath somehow. You were done, fucked out, your body buzzing with warmth and exhaustion. Victor on the other hand seemed far from done. He pulled out with a hiss, letting you rest for a quarter of a second before your world tilted and you were hauled up by him and being moved over to his leather couch.

He dropped down into the soft cushions, his cock, which was shining with slick, still stood hard and proud between you. "Ride me, darling" he panted, shrugging off his vest that was stuck to him from the sweat, finally letting you see him bare.

His soft pecs and stomach made your mouth water, making you push aside the fact how tired you were. You straddled him, parting your thighs, a bit of his cum leaking from your gaping hole back onto his cock. His dick gave a throb at that and you sunk down slowly, his hands on your hips guiding.

It was deeper this way, his cock spearing you, his soft belly pressing against your plush one. You mewled at the stretch, though it wasn't nearly as bad as before.

Like it was the only thing your body knew how to do, you started rocking on him, your trembling legs lifting you in a soft bouncing movement, your tits jiggling from the effort. "Look at you- bouncing on me like you were made for it. Gorgeous" Gideon praised you breathlessly, leaning down to capture a stiff nipple in his mouth, sucking hard. You moaned as he bit it, riding him faster, sweat dripping between you.

It felt like he was splitting you in two as he grasped a handful of the fat on your thigh to buck up into your sopping cunt, you wondered how you even fit everything of him inside you. But did it really matter when it felt this good, when you were just about to cum again? Your second orgasm crashed over you, squirting heavily over his thighs with a yell, the force of it making his cock slip out of you. You fell forward against his chest, shaking helplessy.

He shushed your cries with a firm hand on your back as he slipped back inside you, nudging you to keep moving. But you only shook your head against his neck "I-I can't...my legs" you sniffled, clinging to his broad frame. Indeed your legs were trembling like leaves, so weak and aching, you'd probably collaps if you tried to stand.

Victor cooed, kissing your temple as you tried to apologize, you just couldn’t keep up with him. "Do not worry, darling. Let me do all the work, you just have to focus on feeling good. Can you do that for me?" he whispered in your ear to which you nodded.

He lifted you then, his cock still nestled inside and you shrieked with every step that drove him deeper into you. He pressed you up against the wall, the wallpaper scratchy against your back, but you forgot the uncomfortable sensation the second he pulled back to thrust back in, pounding you against his office wall to find his release.

He had hooked his arms under your thighs, nearly folding you in half, your legs squishing your breasts to your chest, making it hard for you to breathe. You yelped his name, your arms hanging losely around his neck as he fucked you like a doll, as if you didn't even weigh more than one.

The door wasn't locked, anyone could just walk in now, especially because of an emergency, and they'd see you get brutally pouned by your boss. You had overheard that the man dressed in crisp white sometimes liked to show up annanounced when he felt like it. And somehow the thought of him bursting through that door any second was turning you on so much.

It wasn't just the feeling of being owned, but for others to see it, too. To make the world know how desirable you were through Victors eyes, who would move mountains to grant you any wish.

Love swelled up in your chest and you tried to hug him tighter to you, but you felt so lighthearted that you could only lean your head on his shoulders, tears streaming down your face "Fill me up, I want your babies" you sobbed with your voice fading, nuzzling closer to his neck in search of comfort, your shared arousal dripping from your pussy onto the hardwood floor.

He turned his head to kiss you softly, a stark contrast to his fast pace. "I have to make you cum before I do, my dear. I will not allow myself release before then" he panted against your lips, his hand disappearing between you to rub your clit. The pressure made you lose it quickly, and you bit into his neck with a pathetic yell. Only then did you feel him swell inside you, spraying his load, his hot cum completely flooding you. It was so much that it bubbled out around him, wetly squelching as he tried to shove it back in where it belonged.

You felt like dead weight in his arms, sweating, hair a mess- you weren't even sure if the lower part of your body was still attatched to you.

He gently slid you down the wall, but he hadn't gone soft yet. He was still throbbing against his stomach when he pulled out with a lewd pop, his hot cum leaking out of you and making you cringe. Victor carefully placed you on his plush rug on all fours and you whined in protest. You didn't even try to hold yourself up on your arms, just folding them beneath your head to lay on them. "V-victor, I can't...too much" you sniffled, your knees burning from the texture of the carpet.

He shushed you lovingly, his large hand rubbing up and down your back, smoothing over the rolls and dipping into the curve of your spine to try and comfort you "I know, sweet girl. I know" he cooed, grasping one of your ass cheeks, giving the tender flesh a squeeze. "But I need to assure proper insemination, I need to make sure it takes" he reasoned with a hint of desperation in his voice. Even now, he couldn't lay off the medical terms, and it annoyed you as much as it turned you on. That was just how Victor was, and you loved it. You loved him.

After a few minutes of him just running his hands along your body, softly massaging, mapping and memorizing, you nodded for him to continue.

You couldn't see him, but you knew he was smiling crookedly. What you didn't expect was his hand, which had been gentle moments ago, coming down on one of your ass cheeks with a loud crack, pain blooming underneath his palm. You yelped out in surpise, arching your back, presenting your pussy to him- just like he wanted you to.

Your lips parted wetly, sticking from his loads, your hole gaping and just perfectly shaped for his cock. He smacked you a few more times to make you open up. When he deemed you ready, he slid back home with a groan, the sound mixing with a pitiful whine from you.

Gideon started thrusting again, his balls slapping against your clit from behind. Every time they did, you twitched from the overstimulation of it all.

Everything was aching, but in a good way. Your body felt warm, hot even, as if someone had wrapped you up in a soft blanket. Your head was in a place far, far away, only pleasure and satisfaction seeping through the cracks of your mindless haze, turning you into complete putty under his ministration.

Never had sex felt this good, so meaningful and right, like your body and soul were cherished in every sense. Yes, you were exhausted, more than you ever had been in your life, but you never wanted to miss his touch after this again.

His stomach was molding perfectly into the arch of your back while he pounded into you relentlessly, his hair sticking to the back of his neck from how much he was sweating. He loved humid weather, but even he felt like overheating. "You are...outstanding." he breathed out in awe, making you turn your head over your shoulder, tears streaming down your face.

"I have never...seen such a brilliant mind alike my own. So intelligent and sharp" he continued to praise your intellect, his hand snaking around to rest over the jiggling pouch of your stomach "I am aware my behavior might not have...t-translated my thoughts about you very well" he rasped, faltering for a moment as your pussy squeezed him tightly when he pressed on your abdomen.

"But oh, you are truly unique. I cannot let you go now, my heart wouldn't take it" then he leaned down over you, his weight pressing you into the carpet. You mewled as his breath ghosted over your neck, his fingers slipping from your tummy to your clit. When he found it, you writhered beneath him, biting into your arm before you came apart at the seams.

"But my cum is gonna take in that beautiful warm womb of yours, isn't that right? Until you're carrying our baby" his voice was sickly sweet in your ear, making you shudder even harder through your orgasm. He didn't say my baby, didn't say a baby- no, he said our baby, and that damn near brought you to tears all over again. You spread your legs as far apart as you could, making him slip impossibly deeper "Yes victor" you whimpered quietly, craving his cum. He brushed your hair away and bit right into your neck, his teeth sinking into your salty skin. Not enough to break, but to keep you in place when he emptied himself one last time into you. You could feel his groan vibrate into your head, releasing you after his cock had stopped throbbing inside you.

He helped you turn on your back. He slipped out and elevated your hips by pulling your legs up around his waist. You whined at that, your eyes closed as your body drowned in bliss, and deep exhaustion. He rubbed your thighs with a smile "I know my sweet girl doesn't want to move, but I can't let anything go to waste"

You laid there for minutes, maybe even an hour. There really wasn't any strength in you left after this, though you wouldn’t change a thing.

You didn't even register that he scooped you up into his arms after he had noticed you shivering, the sweat on your body cooling you down a bit too much. Gideon wrapped you up in a blanket that was slung over the back of the leather couch, but not before cleaning you up with a napkin. He made sure to cover you up all the way so you didn't feel exposed once your brain regained it's focus on where you were and what you had just done.

Before he even thought about dressing himself, he poured you a refreshing glass of water, making sure you drank it half way before he left you to change.

He seemed to have a wardrobe in his office you didn't know about, because when he came back, he was dressed in a plain black shirt that was just a bit too tight over his stomach and arms, paired with dark checkered pyjama pants. Fuck, if you hadn't been so tired, you would have jumped him again that second.

Victor provided you with some snacks he had laying around just for when you would visit his office for a rant. He knew you liked to munch on some chips or fruits when you shittalked some of your incompetent colleagues or mouthed off about rude patients.

A TV was revealed in the wall across from you as he pressed a button. Huh, you didn't know about that either. There had been a lot of surpises for you today.

He put on your favourite show, one you had talked to him about ages ago even though you thought he hadn't listened to you at all. Truth be told, the listened to and remembered every word you said to him. Ever.

The lights were dimmed, the windows closed to keep out the wind, soft rain tapping against the glass. It was perfect.

You were warm, hydrated and so tired that you knew tonight you would get the best and deepest sleep. The only thing missing was Victor himself, who sat away from you on his desk, mindlessly scribbling his signature over documents that were probably important enough to actually read, though he wasn't going to.

You played with the glass in your hand as you watched him, chewing on your bottom lip. You set it down next to the bowl of grapes on the coffee table before turning to him "Victor?" you asked into the quietness of his office.

His head snapped up, his yellow eyes glowing in the darkness. You didn't say anything else, just held both arms out to him in a silent plea. And oh, how could he say no to that? He ditched the papers and went back over to you with calm steps, just like the Victor you knew, before plopping down beside you on the sofa and pulling you into his arms.

"Are you okay?" he murmured finally, voice soft, thumb stroking through your hair. You nodded against his chest, sighing "More than okay" you whispered, nuzzling against him even more, wrapping your blanket around him too, your naked form molding to his dressed one.

He kissed your forehead then, not paying attention to what played on TV, only paying attention to the way you breathed in his scent "I wasn't too rough with you, was I?" he asked after a moment, delighted to feel you shake your head "No...no, you were perfect" you reassured him, kissing his neck before settling again.

It wasn't long until you sagged away in his hold, completely out cold in his arms and clinging to him like he was the safest place on earth, even when he was anything but.

And as he looked down at your sleeping form in that moment, he realised one very important thing- He would do anything for you.

He would kill for you, he would die for you.

Either way, what bliss.

☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆

Yes, I googled how male snakes act during mating season😭

So everything Victor does here- being agitated and active, not eating, fighting off other males, tracking scents, rubbing his chin along your back, biting your neck to keep you in place and spanking you to make you open up- male snakes do that in the wild too!

The more you know ig💔

You try to keep your breathing steady despite the rapid hammering of your heart; it's so strong that it pulses behind your ears and up your throat. The figure in front seems to be scanning the ground for something, likely the other wires, when you spot a tug at the metal chain he appears to be holding.

"Whoa, steady. What is it, hm?" It isn't clear who the man is speaking to until you see another figure creep out from the shadows. You swallow thickly as it stands, inhuman in the way it hunches over as it sniffs the air. It's difficult to make out much, even with your eyes settling to the low light, but you think you spy the glint of metal around their head, and a collar attached to the chain.

Suddenly, their head snaps over to your direction, and there are two pinpricks of red where the eyes should be.

The sight of it makes you gasp, and almost immediately, they rush towards you. Automatically, you grab your bag as you burst into a sprint. There isn't a thought in your mind that could scream louder than the instinct powering muscle and bone.

You can barely hear the snap of chains and a voice sounding out a command from behind you as you run. "Go fetch." The confidence through that word makes your heart leap, and the back of your knees go damp with sweat. You know that beyond the clearing at the bottom of the hill, the treeline gets thicker and harder to navigate. It's the only thing that could give you a chance of safety. When you actually break free of the woods and make it down to the clearing, you think you can do it.

The air is cold enough to tear at your lungs, and your legs bark in agony from travelling all day, but you don't stop. You can't afford to. The pounding of footsteps from behind is virtually silent; the occasional snap of twigs is the only clue that you're being chased. Panic floods you as the sounds get closer, until ultimately, you feel the graze of something sharp on your shoulder as you get knocked to the ground. The denser edge of the forest is ripped away from your sight in moments, your only means of escape dashed from mere feet apart.

The collision into the ground is hard enough to knock the air from you, rattling your teeth as you taste the rot in the earth underneath. Whatever is straddling you isn't letting up, shoving your face down even as you thrash around under them. A sick laugh bursts out from above, much too close, as something wet drips onto your neck.

Dirt cakes your fingernails from where you scrape and claw the earth below, struggling to get your breathing under control. Your attacker's hand grips both of your wrists tightly, pinning them as you shiver, but you refuse to beg for them to stop, not wanting to give any satisfaction. The fierce sight of their hands makes your brows furrow in confusion, eyes widening when it becomes clear that the fingers are much longer than they should be. The tips of them resemble talons more than they do any nail you have ever seen.

There's a low, gritty growl, and you freeze up when you can hear what sounds like a bloodhound sniffing close to your ear. The cold press of metal against your skin makes you flinch away, but it only follows you again, along with a soft panting that curls around the side of your face. The heat of it is thick with the scent of iron, enough to make your stomach turn.

Though you try not to make a sound, a faint cry leaves you as the panic replaces your control. No matter how much you fight their grip or kick your legs, nothing gives, and pretty soon, you're too tired to keep up the effort. When your struggle lessens, you're shoved onto your back as if it takes no effort, and your arms are restrained against the ground again. That's when you stare up, expecting either man or some bizarre strain of infected, but you find neither.

Instead, above you is full of gnashing fangs that drip with something viscous and cold between the bars of a muzzle. Male in appearance, completely stripped bare with deep-set eyes that glow red like the end of a poker or coals through the snow. There is no chain attached anywhere, as you saw before, though you do see a worn collar around his thick neck, unsuccessfully covering the thin, black-looking veins blooming across the skin underneath. As he settles on top of you, you want to scream. It sticks in your throat until the only noise you're making is the small, shocked hiccups where your body refuses to function properly.

When you try weakly to struggle again, it's only brief, and you can only squirm underneath him to no avail. A gnarled sigh drips from his parted mouth, those red eyes widening a fraction before relaxing. To your horror, his hips give a slow, firm drag over yours in response to your movements, and you feel something give a twitch against you. Your breath hitches as he does it again, the movement stuttering as his eyes remain fixed on yours.

No.

Something scared slips out of your throat, wavering and small as you tremble underneath him. That twitch against your clothed sex has you shake your head desperately. His stare, seemingly not fully present, is locked onto your face as you feel his length hardening against you. There's a disgust lurching inside of you when his hips force the seam of your jeans to rub against your clit, and you hear a pleased sigh from above.

"That setup was pretty clever, with the bells an' all. But he can smell the smoke of your fire miles away." The voice you had only briefly heard returns to you, tearing your attention away. "I assume..." Black trainers enter your field of vision first, then the purple velour of his tracksuit as he approaches the two of you. His words seem to distract whoever is on top of you, enough that they lean back a little and settle their stiff cock against you.

Your breath stills as the new man crouches beside you, and you see his face for the first time. His mouth twists into a cocky smile, and under the moonlight, it's enough to know that his teeth don't flash white; they're almost the same shade of yellow as his hair.

"Who do we have here then, eh?" His brows lift in question, expecting an answer. Your lips tightly press together, trembling as you stay silent. There's a sharp exhale through his nose as he huffs, then places his hand on his chest, just above the several gold chains hanging there. "Ah. Rude of me, I am Sir, Jimmy Crystal." His hand gestures to the other man or beast above you. "I see you've already met Jimmy Fangs." You're too scared to be confused over the details. There's another heavy jerk of his cock against you, followed by a lusty sound as he grinds against you.

When you don't answer, Jimmy laughs as though one of you had made a joke. "I'm only teasin', he's not a Finger, so he doesn't get a title." There's a dismissive wave of his hand as he stifles a laugh at his own joke, though it's completely lost on you. "No, Remmick here is more of a uh.. Well, a hellhound, I suppose." His eyes drift to Remmick's groin, the movement of another drag of his hips catching Jimmy's attention. An excited giggle bubbles out of him with a 'Oho!' as he looks back at you.

Jimmy's hand reaches out to take your jaw, and the thick rings he wears are cold against your skin. He forces you to face him, appearing to have lost interest in a name. If he ever had one anyway. "…and it seems, he's taken a bit of a shine t'ye."

The thought of this… You hesitate to think of 'Remmick' as a thing, but realistically, what other word could you use? It must be some new strain of the virus, and the concept of having to keep the strain muzzled is beyond frightening. "H-He's infected." You manage to stammer out, barely audible even to your own ears.

A thoughtful grin spreads across his features, something calculating underneath that makes your stomach drop. "Well now, that's a pretty voice-" Jimmy's thumb strokes the skin under your bottom lip before pulling away. "-And no, a different kind of demon. Still got a nasty bite, mind." Jimmy gives the muzzle a tap, earning a quick jolt away from Remmick.

Jimmy inhales as he sits back on the grass, looking over the two of you with a playful shrug. "Ordinarily, I'd feel more… charitable, per se. But my pet needs a new toy."

New toy.

It's said so casually, as though you were clothes hung up in a store, being browsed to see how you might fit. The question of what he means doesn't come out; you can only shake your head, scared because you already know the answer. "No…" That makes Jimmy's lips curl into a sly smile, and you try to pull your wrists away from Remmick, but it hurts where the claws pinch.

"Aye." Jimmy scoffs at you, and you see him produce something sharp from his pocket. "I'll tell ye exactly what's gonna happen, so it's no surprise." Another smirk, but you can't tell if he's being genuine or if there's sarcasm lining the words. "I'm just that kind."

You decide that Jimmy is holding a blade, and it makes you stop moving when he leans forward to bring the pointed end to the buttons on your jacket. "I'll get rid of these clothes-" With a flick of the steel, the buttons are gone in an instant, and the material goes loose. It makes you cry out in protest as the reality finally sets in. You're already taking rapid breaths when the knife slides under the hem of your shirt, making a short tear up. "-And we're gonna see if my pet wants to keep ye once he's fucked ye." Your breath hitches at the same time as Jimmy's hands take the bottom of your shirt, either side of the cut in the fabric. The tears building up in your eyes blur your vision, and you're unable to stop.

With a vicious tug, the flimsy material is torn in a straight line all the way up to the neckline, and your tears finally break over to stream down your face. Before Jimmy can slice through your bra, the blurred shape of Remmick gets closer until the cold muzzle is pressed against your skin. You shiver at the feeling and clamp your mouth shut, scared as you feel his tongue slide over the wet streaks through the bars.

"S-Stop-" Your voice is strained, then cut off with another drag of Remmick's hips against yours. He takes up almost your entire vision, unwelcome to all of your other senses and before he's even pulled away from your face,

"Toys don't need clothes. Remmick, take 'em off." Jimmy nods to Remmick, who, with a grunt, sits back to rip your jeans and underwear off of you in one. The moment he lets go of your wrists to do it, you attempt to wriggle away. His claws are too quick to pin you by your throat, and there's a low bellow rumbling in his chest that leaves no room for interpretation. It's a direct warning to stay.

It's so cold with you completely exposed. You can't even press your thighs together to stop Remmick with the way he slots himself between them, and in the moonlight, you only panic more when you get a glimpse of him.

He's big.

Unnaturally so. Thick and dripping from the flushed head of his cock as he starts to rub himself against your bare folds. The unwelcome sensation makes you flinch away from him, and you hear the slide of fabric from the side of you.

When you look over, your stomach drops. Jimmy's hand is lazily stroking his own cock as he watches both of you, mostly playing with the head and metal piercing that's nestled at the tip.

"Play with her tits, get her all wet." Jimmy's lips remain parted after he speaks, and he slowly wets his top lip as he stares at your chest. Remmick gathers your wrists with one of his hands, his other slides down to grope your breast through the fabric of your sports bra. He hooks the claw of his index underneath, and just like Jimmy's blade, there's little resistance as he shreds up in one fluid motion.

The second your breasts fall free, you hear a groan from Jimmy that curdles in your ear. Then Remmick is palming you roughly enough that if your nipples weren't already drawn tight from the cold breeze, his long fingers certainly would have done the trick. Your eyes slip shut when he roughly pinches one between his knuckles, and in addition to the shivering it causes, you end up writhing underneath him without meaning to. Your face burns from being forced to endure it, but more than that, Remmick actually manages to force strained noises out of you that have you ashamed. The humiliation of it all is too much to bear, the undeniable feeling of your slick leaking out against Remmick's cock has your face heating up so much you know it would burn to the touch.

There's a small moan from Remmick, and you catch him looking down between you, as though he might have also just felt it. He ruts against you, slow and drawn out, head dragging through the wet folds enough to bump against your clit in a way that has you breath hitch. You could sob at how wet you sound; it's obvious that Remmick can hear it too.

When the blunt head of his cock catches at your entrance, you both flinch, then drool is dripping onto your bare torso as you shake your head in disbelief at it all. Every drop makes your heart pulse louder in your ears, until he leans back to let it slide down the bars of his muzzle and onto his cock. When he finally pushes into your entrance, everything else is drowned out by the ringing in your ears.

Desperation and disgust claw under your skin as he rocks into you. Remmick is too thick for you to comfortably ease around him, and you're not nearly relaxed enough to take it easily. A series of throaty grunts punches out of Remmick, bullying his way inside of you until he bottoms out with a carnal growl. You're completely frozen, your presence cut off as you feel the head of Remmick's cock nudge against your cervix.

To the side of you is the noise of shuffling; you don't spot the way Jimmy's hand reaches out to catch Remmick's drool in his palm. Or the way he sits back to let his wet hand glide over his cock. Jimmy seems to have found a rock close by, big enough to lean back against with his free hand resting behind his head as he soaks in the sight of you.

When Remmick moves back, you move with him as he pulls out halfway, then your entire body is shoved onto the ground with every brutal thrust he takes. Whatever string of fate leading you to this point doesn't take pity on you, as the pain of the stretch doesn't let up, no matter how slick your cunt is against him. Your eyes begin to glaze over as Remmick's nose flares under the muzzle. In the background of your mind, you know it isn't only slick, and the torn pain shooting through you is enough to make you whimper.

Remmick mistakes the noise for something else entirely, and his grunt gives way to thin moans as he sets a rhythm into you.

"How's that feel? She… nice and tight fer ye?" You stare at the sky as Jimmy half keens over to Remmick.

The stars are so pretty tonight, dancing with light even though they're trapped in the sky's inky grip.

Remmick's strained voice is rough as it answers Jimmy. Desperation clings to each sound, and you distantly register that it's the first words that you've heard from Remmick. "S'good… So good." He just keeps repeating himself over and over again. In any other situation, you might have felt stunned to learn that he can talk.

Jimmy's voice sounds more excited, and the glide of his hand over his cock matches Remmick's pace. A revulsion courses through you for being able to notice it. "Harder, m-make her tits bounce fer me." Remmick's hips speed up; every harsher thrust has new tears forming, and your breath is fighting. Worse than any other outcome right now, the assault on your walls is beginning to feel good. You could scream if there were any way to get air into your lungs without choking on it.

Your brows pinch as you try to fight the heat that flickers inside of you. The only thing left for you to do is focus on the sky, even as you feel Remmick force your hips to grind back against his; you hope that's the case, anyway. You refuse to acknowledge how his hands aren't touching your hips, how you would never move your hips to match his movements.

You could vomit.

The noise to your side doesn't consciously translate as Jimmy as he moves closer. It isn't until his hand reaches for one of your breasts that you realise you were completely dazed. You grimace at the way he kneads your flesh, rough in a way that has his rings pinch the skin between them.

The movement earns a low growl from Remmick, and you feel Jimmy's fingers almost go. Jimmy flashes a huffed smile to Remmick, sneering with a command. "Share yer things. Can't use that mouth anyway, can ye, lad?" Jimmy raises a challenging brow to Remmick, making it sound as if he's doing Remmick a favour by lowering his mouth to your nipple.

Jimmy traces the tip of his tongue around the stiff peak, shifting his gaze from Remmick directly to you as he takes it into his mouth. Your skin muffles his groan, though you feel it reverberate through your chest all the same. When he suckles, it's harsh and rhythmic, all the while Remmick is still fucking up into you relentlessly, enough that he's rocking your body as he ruts.

By the time you even realise that Remmick let go of your wrists to hold both of your thighs apart, it's too late. You don't have the energy to move them, or do anything but take each full drag of his cock, and between him and Jimmy, you're too weak to fight the pleasured whines that melt out of you.

Jimmy's grin darkens around you, giving a quick nip as he just barely pulls away, cock pulsing in his hand as he doesn't let up his strokes. "Use his name, let him know whose ye are."

The demand makes you shake your head. You can't bring yourself to willingly do that.

Jimmy's voice drips with venom, and you hear the sharp sound of a blade being unfolded. Then it's pressed to your collarbone, and you give him as much of your attention as you can manage. "Do it, or you'll get a nasty cut."

The threat of the blade makes you swallow thickly, and the promise of more pain you hadn't considered forces your lips to move. "Re… Rem-mick." The taste of his name is acrid between his thrusts. "Remmick."

Calling out to him carves a possessive sound from his chest, and his hips snap up into you harsher than before. Enough so that it forces genuine moans from you, and you could cry, disgusted with yourself at how good it feels. Even more so when the thick drag of his cock hits your G-spot enough that even the disassociation isn't taking root.

Jimmy seems to catch it through the expression on your features, and his eyes don't leave your face as he leans back with a grin. "Stop." A broken whine slips out of Remmick, unwilling to stop at the command until Jimmy sticks the blade into Remmick's forearm. There's a snarl and a flash of the fangs enclosed by the metal bars, but you hear the threat in the way his chest rumbles with a guttural noise. The only sign Jimmy might be spooked by it is the quick movement away he takes to dodge a claw. He swallows, "Turn her over."

Remmick glares at Jimmy, brows knitted together in their stand-off until you feel Remmick slowly pull out of you. Every inch without him has your gut twist with the loss you didn't want in the first place. The sensation only confuses you, not that you have time to think about it. You're suddenly staring at the ground, unaware that they had moved you onto your hands and knees until the tickle of grass brushes your face. It's the only sense of anything soft you can fathom. Before you can even begin to think about it, an intrusion hooks into your mouth, dragging your head up by the upward force on the roof of your mouth.

Jimmy's fingers. You gag on the way they drag you up enough that you already know what's going to happen. No matter how you try to hold back fresh tears or hiccups around the grubby digits, you can already see his cock level with your face.

"If I feel so much as a nibble, he'll be the last of your worries… Howsat?" His head tilts in question, but you don't have the words to answer. You only nod to show that you understand; it was this or it was your life.

Jimmy's eyes narrow at you, displeased with your response, or rather, a lack of. Something hateful flashes over his expression, and in an instant, you feel the hard slap of his cock to your face. It makes you wince, and Jimmy only chuckles at the reaction. "When I ask something, I expect an answer."

Your face burns as it forces you to answer. "…Yes."

"Yes…?" Jimmy's head tilts to the side unexpectedly as his hand wraps around his length.

Your lips tremble as your voice shrinks. "Yes, Sir."

There's a much happier sound that hums from him, and he slowly pushes the head of his cock to your lips. "There we go, good lass. Open wide." You're hesitant, but manage to open up just enough for him to push past your lips. The taste of him makes you cringe, dirty on your tongue and cold where the metal piercing is.

When you wrap your lips around him, there's a slow groan that leaks out of him. You almost forgot about Remmick until he's finally grinding up against your slick again. The reminder makes your eyes widen as he lines himself up with your entrance.

The way Remmick slowly sinks back into you with a groan has your walls clenching around him, gripping him tight without permission. This time, you know for a fact that his hands find your hips, and as he begins to thrust into you, it rips a quiet moan from Jimmy as the motion forces you to stuff more of his cock into your mouth. "Good lad, Remmick." You swear you hear a whimper from behind you, and Jimmy's the back of fingers find your cheek to stroke it in a mock display of affection. "Maybe you'll give us some new pups, hm?"

Any time Remmick pulls out, you try your best to move away from Jimmy, to breathe, to do anything so that you don't completely shut down. But with the way Remmick's hitting into your sensitive walls with the new angle, it's deep enough that you're both moaning into the night air.

Jimmy's fingers grab at your hair as he fucks deeper into your mouth, choking you as his eyes slip shut. "S-So warm… Lucky we- Oh hell- Lucky we found ye…" You can only swallow his cock as it pulses against your tongue and reaches the back of your throat. The metal stabs into your palette with each movement, somehow making you more violated than anything previously. Through the tears, it isn't clear to you what his expression looks like, only that there are thin whines that are beginning to seep out of him. A horrid mixture of hope and revulsion takes root inside you, wanting it to be over as soon as possible and yet not wanting him to finish anywhere near you.

Revulsion wins, you knew it would by the taste of Jimmy's pre-cum leaking onto your tongue as he whines. His eyes scrunch as you can only get forced onto him faster with how Remmick possessively sinks into you. You hate it, and as your eyes scrunch up to prepare for Jimmy's release, to your surprise, he pulls out of you completely. It isn't clear what's happening until his cock keeps bumping against your face, and you see him stroking himself. He's slack-jawed with ragged breaths until finally, Jimmy's release is dripping down your face. You feel it cool against your face, mingling with your tears as your gaze drops to the floor in shame.

From the sound of panting behind you, Remmick isn't far behind. His movements are becoming more erratic, and despite how much you try to force it away, a heat curls awkwardly inside you until it snaps. A choked sound is ripped from Remmick as your walls reflexively convulse around him, and it doesn't matter about your efforts; your mouth hangs open as you cry out with the pleasure-pain of it all.

"Mine.. Mine…. Mine..." Remmick's words are punctuated with thick grunts in your ear as he hunches over you. You can hear the need in his huffs and quick breaths, then you feel an odd sensation at your entrance. The feeling has your mind grow dizzy as the base of Remmick's cock begins to swell, and he slams forward one final time to lock himself in with you by the knot that has formed. The pain is too much for you. It makes you yelp, and Remmick is only capable of drooling over your shoulder as his hips stutter against yours.

"Oh shit, he really likes ye, doesn't he?" You can't even address Jimmy's amused question as spurts of heat suddenly flood your core in waves. The growls in your ear eventually taper off into whimpers, and the metal of his muzzle is pressed against your neck. You can't help but whine quietly in response to the gentle swell of your stomach, filled with Remmick more than should be possible.

You wish you would die already.

Remmick mistakes your frantic hiccups and gasps for something else unknown to you again, and you can only cry harder at the arm that snakes its way underneath you. As if it were a cruel trick on the universe's part, his claws pull you closer to him the way a partner would after making love. What's worse is that he doesn't seem to be trying to leave you at all.

"Best get comfy, that knot's gonna keep us here a while." Jimmy's voice floats down to you with a twisted sound, something comical layered throughout the lilt.

You hadn't spotted a bag on the ground before now; it's to the side, and Jimmy is already riffling through the backpack when you notice. He's crouched over, then whatever he pulls out, he taps it at one end.

It looks like a syringe.

Dread courses through you, and you go stock still as you brace yourself for the worst, until he completely walks past you to go to Remmick instead. Whatever dark fluid is inside the needle forces a barked cry from Remmick as you feel him flinch. Though you don't witness the black veins in Remmick's neck bulge in response, you feel the reaction almost immediately; Remmick's arm goes slack under you, and the rest of him seems to relax above you.

Jimmy steps back into view as he wipes off something from the end of the syringe. Then he pauses for a moment, looking to you with a considering grin. "Keeps him settled.. Well-behaved. This'll be your job now, lass."

The porch sits right on the edge of it, a little island of yellow lantern light with you cross-legged in your chair, enamel bowl in your lap, fingers slick with bean juice. Crickets grind away in the ditch, frogs answer from somewhere near the pond, and the heat that pressed on your skin all day finally lets go a little, turning soft and damp and heavy instead of mean.

Your daddy, Joe, stands out by the road with a cigarette, just that small orange coal drifting up and down whenever he draws on it.

He’s mostly shadow, hat brim pulled low, shoulders a dark cutout against the pale strip of dirt lane. The smoke hangs around him in thin gray strands, catching the lantern glow before the breeze worries it apart.

The wagon makes itself known before you see it.  A tired rattle carrying over the fields long and low, iron and wood complaining in a way that could belong to any old rig on any old night. 

The mule steps out of the dark first, ears flicking, hooves whispering in the dust, harness creaking, then the wagon-bed, then the man riding it, the whole shape of him hunched against the evening like the road’s been sitting on his back.

He climbs down slow, not careless, one boot testing the ground, then the other. He isn’t tall; not one of those long, scarecrow boys you see come through town sometimes. He’s put together closer to the earth than that, thick through the shoulders and arms, weight settled in the meat of him instead of stretched out. 

Shirt pulls across his chest where the fabric has been asked to hold too much too often, sleeves rolled to his forearms, muscle and old work written in the dust and veins there. Suspenders run straight over his torso, holding everything decent, but there’s something loose under the neatness, a restless set to the way he carries himself, like he’s got more energy than his frame knows what to do with.

His hat sits low enough to shade most of his face until he steps up nearer and the porch light reaches for him.

“Evenin’, Sir,” he says, voice a slow scrape, low and worn, like it’s been dragged over gravel and cigarettes for years. 

The vowels don’t belong to your county, not exactly, but he leans into them like he’s been practicing, trying to make them fit the dirt under his boots.

“Evenin’,” Joe, flicks ash toward the ditch without turning. “You Remmick?”

“Yes, sir.”

He takes off his hat then, presses it to his chest in a gesture that seems to be humble, and in that little bow you see the line of him clear. 

Hair dark and close-cropped, stubborn where it’s tried to wave up and been tamed with water and a hand. Jaw rough with stubble that looks more forgotten than stylish. 

There’s a hardness around his mouth, something that could tilt into a grin or a snarl with not much provocation either way.

When he straightens and lifts his eyes, they cut toward the porch, and you feel it right away when they land on you, as sure as if somebody laid a hand on your bare ankle.

A limp green bean hangs between your fingers, ends torn and wet.

His gaze drifts, following your calves where your skirt’s ridden up, running along the slope of your shins and the span of your knees pressed together, sliding up the line of your apron and the thin open V between your collar buttons where the night air pushes in against your skin. 

He looks like he’s reading you, not just seeing you, taking his time over every line.

You go still, sharp-aware of every place your dress touches your body and every place it doesn’t.

The bean pieces drop into the bowl as you lower your eyes to the boards. The porch wood is dark and warped from years of feet, knot-holes winking like little eyes in the dim.

You fix on those, on the small wet snaps and soft taps of beans piling against enamel. Anything that is not the feeling of a stranger’s stare walking up and down you like a man checking fence.

“Baby,” your father says, voice flat, cigarette smoke curling out on the word. “Say evenin’.”

You wipe your hands on your apron and stand, bare feet quiet on the boards. “Evenin’,” you say, polite as sunday, letting the rest of what you feel sink down where it won’t show on your face.

Remmick smiles like he hears it anyway. It isn’t wide or warm. Just a slow tug at one corner of his mouth, a small, crooked tilt that never quite reaches his eyes.

“Evenin’, miss,” he answers, and there’s a drag in that word miss, the s held just long enough to make it catch.

Miss, when he could have asked for your name, when any decent man might have. Your father hasn’t offered it yet, so you keep it closed up in your mouth.

“Girl oughta be in bed this hour,” Joe mutters, eyes on the yard, not on you. “Ain’t no call for her to be sittin’ out like some boy on watch. Night’s for men workin’, not for women gawkin’.”

The words land on your shoulders like an old coat, familiar weight, old smell.  You bite down on what you want to say and feel it burn on the way down.

“I’m finishin’ the beans,” you tell him instead, hands tightening on the bowl till the rim bites into your palms. You don’t bother trying to explain that the dark sits easier on your skin than the hard white noon does, that the night gives you a little space to stretch.

You can feel Remmick watching you still, not with that sloppy hunger you’ve seen from boys in town, all elbows and gawking.

This is like he’s comparing what he sees to something he’s held in his head a long time. 

“Don’t reckon there’s any harm in her gettin’ some air, Sir,” he says after a moment, pitched low, as if he’s offering reason and not meddling. “So long as she stays where you can see her.” He tips his head, and his eyes make another lazy path over you, unashamed. “World’s rough for a girl on her own.”

Your daddy snorts, jaw tightening just enough for you to notice. “You just worry ‘bout them fields, son. I didn’t hire you to advise on my girl.”

The almost-smile on Remmick’s mouth doesn’t quite leave. “Yes, sir,” he says. “I’ll give all my attention to what you’re payin’ me for.”

He keeps his words aimed at your father, but his gaze is not that obedient. It flicks back to you when he says attention, and there’s weight in it, promise, something that makes your skin prickle fine all over. Something in you bristles right back, lifts its head like a barn cat whose tail’s been stepped on.

You draw a breath and set the bowl against your hip. “Where you want him sleepin’?” you ask your father, eyes fixed out over the yard so you don’t have to meet either man’s stare straight on.

“In the old place.” Joe jerks his chin toward the smaller farmhouse slumped beyond the well—a squat little shape where the lamplight doesn’t reach, half-eaten by shadow. “Closer to the barn. Got a bed and a stove. Man don’t need more than that.”

Remmick turns to look at it, and the lantern light catches his eyes in a strange way, making them flash for an instant like there’s something slick behind them.

The little house sits there like it’s been waiting, windows dark, door shut up tight, roofline sagged just enough to look suspicious.

“That’ll do,” he says. “I’m a night sort myself. Easier workin’ when the sun’s gone and the air ain’t tryin’ to boil you clear through. Less trouble all around.”

He says it easy, like it’s about sweat and shade and nothing else, but you hear the way he shapes night in his mouth, the soft way he lets it roll off his tongue, and something in your belly curls up smaller and sharper.

“Heard you don’t care much for daylight,” Joe says, watching him out of the corner of his eye.

Remmick’s jaw shifts, a muscle ticking like it wants to answer on its own. He glances at you, quick and bright, before he looks down at his boots. “Sun don’t care much for me,” he finally drawls. “Burns me to char if I let it. Always been that way. Doctor said I got delicate skin.”

The word sits wrong in your ear as soon as it’s out, delicate, dangling over this stocky man with forearms roped up in tendon and dirt ground into his knuckles, hands that look like they were made to break things, not handle them gentle. 

It slips out of you before you can catch it, quiet and skeptical. “Delicate,” you repeat, eyes finding his without meaning to.

He catches that and settles into it like a cat into a warm spot. “You don’t think so, miss?” he asks, voice a touch softer now, gaze steady and unblinking.

You ought to let it pass. Ought to dip your head and let the men talk over you, let delicate lie between them like some joke you weren’t meant to get. 

Instead you hold his stare in the lantern glow, take your time looking back the same way he did to you, tracing the faint hollows under his eyes, the line of his nose, the mouth that looks used to biting down on words and maybe on other things too.

“No, sir,” you say finally, after a beat that stretches long. “You don’t look delicate at all.”

Something shifts behind his eyes at that, something pleased and sharp that makes your heart knock once, hard, against your ribs. The corner of his mouth tugs just a shade higher.

“Then I suppose I’ll have to live up to what you see,” he murmurs. “Would be a shame to disappoint you.”

Your daddy grinds his cigarette out under his heel, done with this line of talk. “You can unload what you got, then I’ll show you the place,” he says. “Got work waiting for nobody. You ain’t too tired from sittin’ on a wagon all day, are you?”

Remmick rolls one shoulder, hand rubbing the back of his neck. The stretch shifts his shirt over his back, pulls the fabric across solid muscle there.

You feel your breath snag for half a second and hate that it does.

“Wagon ain’t heavy,” he says. “I’ll get settled quick, then you can put me to whatever needs doin’.”

Joe nods and starts toward the dim outline of that little house, his boots crunching through the loose gravel near the well. The lantern light falls behind him with each step until he’s just another moving patch of dark.

Remmick lingers at the foot of the porch. He settles his hat back on his head, brim bringing his eyes into shadow again, but you can still feel them.

“You finish them beans,” he tells you, voice gone softer, aimed up at you like a secret. “Man works better with a full belly.”

There’s nothing in the words you could point to and call wrong, nothing on the surface you could carry to your father and hold up like proof.

Still, the way his gaze drifts down and back up as he says them leaves something slick and uneasy under your ribs. Heat crawls up your neck, hot in a way that has nothing to do with the air.

“I’ll see to what’s mine,” you say, gripping the bowl till your fingers ache. “Same as you should see to yours.”

His laugh is low, a rough little sound that lives in his chest and doesn’t quite make it to his teeth. He dips his head a fraction, like you’ve handed him a dare instead of brushing him off. “Oh, I intend to,” he replies. “You can count on it.”

Then he turns and walks after your father, stride easy, body moving with a loose sort of purpose. His shadow stretches out along the yard behind him, tossed strange and long by the lantern, then swallowed up as he and Joe move past the well. 

The small farmhouse waits ahead, black windows staring, door a darker cut in the wall. It looks, for one breath, like it’s swallowing the two men whole.

You stand there with the lantern hissing softly at your elbow and watch the dark take them. 

When the yard settles again, when their footsteps fade and the crickets creep back up to full volume, the space between the barn and the house does not feel the same. It’s as if something else has stepped into it and sat down, something you cannot see but can sense just the same, like a pressure change before a storm.

You sit again, bowl back in your lap, fingers finding another handful of beans by habit alone. The wet snap of them breaking sounds too loud in the hush, echoing in the hollow boards under your feet. 

Every few seconds, your eyes drag toward that low silhouette out past the well, toward the little house that is not empty anymore.

You tell yourself you’re only minding where your father put a stranger. 

The first night after he arrives, he walks the fence line while you wash dishes.

You hear his boots dragging through the loose gravel near the yard, then the softer sound of steps in the grass. 

The screen door hangs open to let the air move, lantern burning low over the sink. Your arms are wet to the elbow, suds creeping up your forearms as you scrub at a pan that’s older than you are. 

Out past your own reflection in the dark window, you catch a small shape of motion—the swing of a lantern out near the barn, then the shorter, solid outline of him moving along the fence, checking posts, rattling wire. 

He doesn’t look up at the house that you can tell, doesn’t lift the light toward you, just keeps on with that steady pace, head bent. 

Still, your shoulders hunch like you’ve been caught at something you haven’t done. The glass fogs a little with the breath you don’t remember letting out.

You tell yourself it’s good your father found a man willing to walk the property at night. That’s what you tell yourself as you rinse plates and stack them, as the little yellow circle of his lantern slides back and forth along the edge of your sight.

The second night you have to bring him his supper, because your father ‘forgets.’

It’s late by the time the last of the pots are scraped and put away, your back aching from standing, hair pasted to your neck. Joe leans back in his chair, radio humming low on the table, and says without looking up, “That boy eat?”

You still your hands on the dishrag. “Ain’t seen him at the table.”

“Damn it,” He grumbles, more at himself than you. “Told him come in if he heard me holler and I ain’t never thought to holler. Fix him a plate and take it down. Man don’t work right hungry.”

You swallow whatever you were about to say about whose job it is to feed farmhands, scrape together a plate from what’s left—two biscuits gone hard at the edges, a ladle of beans, a piece of ham with more bone than meat—and cover it with a clean cloth. 

The air outside hits your damp skin and feels cooler than it ought to. The night smells like dirt and hay and whatever’s blooming along the ditch. 

The smaller farmhouse sits out near the barn with a faint thread of light leaking around the edges of its curtain, not bright enough to spill onto the yard. You walk out there, skirt brushing your ankles, plate balanced careful in both hands.

You knock, knuckles soft on the wood. For a second there’s nothing, then the faint scrape of a chair, the hush of someone crossing a small room. 

The door opens only halfway. He fills the gap, shoulder and chest just there, heat and sweat.

“Evenin’,” he says, voice a little rough, like he hasn’t used it since sundown. “You lost?”

You hold the plate out, not stepping any closer than you have to. “Daddy forgot to call you in. Told me to bring your supper.”

His eyes go to your hands first, to the way your fingers wrap the rim of the plate, then to the food, then back up. 

He doesn’t reach right away; he lets the moment stretch, his gaze traveling from your wrists up your arms, lingering on the damp on your skin, on the few stray strands that have worked loose at your temple and stuck there. 

“That’s mighty kind,” he says at last, taking the plate so slow his fingers brush yours. 

They’re not as rough as you expected, just warm and solid, the pads of them catching against your knuckles. “Hope he didn’t drag you out here from your bed on account of me.”

“I wasn’t in bed,” you answer, because lying feels worse than telling him anything true. “Kitchen don’t clean itself.”

He makes a small noise at that, somewhere between agreement and amusement. “No, ma’am. World’d fall apart if it weren’t for everything women do men don’t think about. Least he can do is call me in for a plate now and then instead of sending you.”

You don’t like that it sounds almost gentle, that there’s no clear edge you can grab onto and call wrong.

You nod once and start to turn away, wanting the room behind that door to stay his business and not have to wonder what’s in it.

“Miss?” he says, and you stop even though you don’t want to. “You tell your daddy I’m obliged. To him and to you.”

You keep your eyes on the yard. “He’ll hear you tomorrow.”

“Maybe I like the thought of you carryin’ my thanks,” he says, voice dipping lower.

You don’t answer to that. You walk back toward the big house with your empty hands and you feel his eyes between your shoulder blades all the way to the porch steps.

Another night you pass him by accident at the pump.

You come around the corner of the house with a pail in each hand, too focused on not sloshing well water onto your skirt to notice him right off. 

He’s just there suddenly in the lantern’s edge, sleeves rolled high, suspenders hanging loose at his hips, hair damp with sweat or water; you can’t tell which. 

The pump squeaks once as he lets go of the handle. Moonlight catches the wet on his forearms, the curve of muscle there, the scar that runs pale along his left wrist like a rope burn that never faded.

You stop short, pails swinging. “Didn’t know you were usin’ it,” you say. “I’ll wait.”

He tips his head, that same little crooked half-smile thinking about showing up. “You scared I’m gonna dirty the water, standin’ too near?” His accent is thicker tonight, as if he’s tired of smoothing them for everybody’s sake.

“I ain’t scared,” you say. Your voice comes out flatter than you mean it to, which only makes him watch you harder. “Just got taught not to crowd folk when they’re at work.”

“And here I thought you were just bein’ polite,” he murmurs. He steps back from the pump, gives you room to pass. “Go on, then. Wouldn’t do to have Mr. Joe’s girl haulin’ from the ditch ‘cause I hogged the handle.”

You move past him, the damp of his skin ghosting near your elbow, the smell of iron and sweat and something like tobacco clinging to him. You set a pail under the spout and work the handle, arm moving in a practiced rhythm.

The pump groans, then warm water shudders up from below, splashing cold over your fingers when you misjudge the first rush.

His gaze sits on your hands again, on the bare forearms you didn’t bother covering because it’s night and there’s no sun to scold you. “You do all that yourself?” he asks. “Water, cookin’, everything inside?”

“Me and Mama,” you say, though your mother’s cough has been bad enough lately you both know it’s more you than her. “Daddy’s got the fields.”

“And now he’s got me,” Remmick says, watching your arm work. “Guess I’m supposed to make life easier ‘round here.”

“Then do it,” you answer, a little sharper than you meant. The second pail fills and you swing it away, careful not to splash your toes. “Don’t stand around talkin’ about it.”

For a heartbeat there’s quiet. Then he laughs, low and delighted. “There she is,” he says under his breath, as if he’s been waiting on that bite. 

When you glance over, he isn’t offended. He looks satisfied, eyes bright, lean mouth curled up. “You keep snappin’ at me like that, miss, I might start thinkin’ you’re sweet on me.”

“Or you might start thinkin’ wrong,” you shoot back, lifting both buckets. The weight drags at your shoulders, but you’d sooner drop in the yard than ask him to carry them.

He doesn't offer, just watches you walk away, and you can feel that as keenly as the pull of the water on your arms.

There are other little moments like that, small as splinters. Like, when you cross paths in the barn one evening when you go to check on a cow that lowed funny through your window. 

He’s already there when you reach the threshold, one hand on the animal’s neck, murmuring something soft and nonsense in her ear. 

She calms under his touch, sides heaving slow, eyes rolling less. The lantern hangs from a nail overhead, throwing golden light over the dust in the air, over his shoulders, over the cow’s hide. 

He glances up when he senses you, and for a blink his irises flash almost too light, as if the lantern’s in them and not above him. Then they’re ordinary again, a color you could name if you got close enough, and he’s saying, “She just didn’t like the thunder,” even though the sky’s been clear all day.

You lean on the stall rail, arms folded, watching his hand move in slow strokes along the cow’s neck. 

The steadiness of him with animals makes something twist in you, something like reluctant respect and something like fear, because if he can soothe two thousand pounds of nervous flesh with a voice and a touch, what could he do to yours if he ever decided to try.

On another night you fix a tear in one of his work shirts at the kitchen table because your father plops it there and says, “Stupid fool’s gonna walk around with his arm hangin’ out if someone don’t thread a needle.” 

You mutter that Remmick has two hands and surely they can manage a seam, but you fetch your sewing basket anyway. 

The fabric smells faintly of him, sweat and field and that odd metallic thread that’s been nagging at the back of your senses since he arrived. 

You push the needle through worn cotton and wonder how a man gets a rip that clean across the bicep, by snagging it on barbed wire or nail head, without a single bloodstain around the torn edge.

He shows up to collect it before you take it down yourself. Don’t know how he knows it’s ready, but he’s at the door not long after you knot the last stitch, hat in hand like he’s paying a call.

Your father’s gone out back to piss or smoke or both, your mother’s dozing in her chair, so it’s just you in the quiet kitchen with your fingers still sore from the work.

“You didn’t have to,” he says when you hand the folded shirt over. “Could’ve walked around indecent a day or two, see if anyone complained.”

“My father would,” you say. “Don’t like loose things on his land.”

He takes the shirt with his good arm, the other rolling his shoulder like it aches. The lantern throws his eyes into little warm coins. 

Some nights you only see him from a distance.

Through your bedroom window when you should be sleeping, you catch the sway of his lantern again and again, marking his rounds. In the moonlight, his stride is compact, efficient, not showy. 

He moves like someone who’s spent a long time walking alone, someone who knows better than to waste steps. He never seems to stumble, never misjudges a rut or loose stone.

You watch him slip between the barn and the smaller house, in and out of shadow, and you tell yourself you’re just making sure he’s where he should be, that you are only doing what your father would want.

You notice, too, the nights when the light in his window stays on longer than makes sense. Long after your father’s snores have settled and your mama’s breath has evened into sleep, after you’ve lain there staring at the ceiling until your eyes burn, that far-off square of yellow will still be sitting out there at the edge of your sight. 

Sometimes you think you see the shadow of him cross it, head bowed, shoulders hunched, moving back and forth in a tight little path, but when you squint it’s gone.

Once, you step out onto the porch for air and catch him already looking.

You don’t see him at first; you just feel that prickling awareness that has become his signature in your body. 

Then your eyes find him where he’s paused near the barn, one hand on the fence post, the other hanging loose at his side. No lantern this time, just moonlight on his face, flattening all the hard parts, making his eyes look too bright and his mouth too soft. 

He doesn’t look away when you notice him. He doesn’t call out or tip his hat in greeting. He just stands there in the dark, steady as another post, and lets you decide whether to step back inside or stay where the night can see both of you.

You stay a breath longer than you should, chest tight, heartbeat stepping up loud between your ears. Then you reach for the door, fingers curling around splintered wood, and it feels, for a strange second, like you’re the one retreating and he’s the one who lives here.

By the time a week has worked itself around, his presence has braided into the place.

The horse knows him, ears twitching toward his voice before dawn. The dogs have quit barking when his boots scrape the yard at dusk. Your father has stopped watching him like he might bolt and started calling for him when something heavy needs lifting. 

The small farmhouse doesn’t look so empty now; you’ve grown used to the idea of a man’s breath in there, a man’s boots by the door, a man’s shadow on the curtain.

You’re the one still wary, nerves still stretched thin every time you feel his eyes, even if nobody else in the house seems to notice how often that is. 

You catch him in little reflections—a sliver of him in the pump’s metal, in the window glass, in any surface that throws back light—and he’s always looking your way. 

Not always outright, not always rude, but always aware of you. Always clocking where you are in the yard, whether your sleeves are rolled, whether your hem rides high on your calf or hangs proper at your ankle.

You tell yourself it’s just because there’s not much else worth watching out here.

You don’t quite believe it.

Clouds bruise up toward the horizon, swallowing the moon a few bites at a time. You’re at the kitchen table with mending in your lap when you hear it—one sharp, panicked bawl from the barn that cuts straight through the hum of crickets and the low murmur of your father’s radio.

You’re on your feet before you think about it, thimble still shoved on your finger, needle stuck tight in a loop of thread. 

Your father says something about “damned horses spookin’ at their own shadows” but doesn’t move from his chair.

His back’s been bad all day; he’s been walking like every step hurts. Mama’s dozing, her breath a thin whistle. 

So you grab the lantern from its hook, light blooming up in a hot bloom that stings your eyes, and head out barefoot into the yard.

The grass is cool against your soles, damp from the thick air. The little farmhouse where Remmick sleeps has a strip of light at the curtain-bottom, but you don’t see him outside. The barn looms ahead, big and dark, door standing half-open like a mouth. Another low, fretful sound comes from inside, not as sharp as the first but enough to hurry you along.

“Easy now,” you call as you slip in, lantern held high. “Hush yourself, girl, I’m comin’.”

The barn swallows the outside sounds. In here it’s hay and dust and the soft shuffling of hooves, the rustle of wings up in the rafters. 

Your mare stamps once, snorting, eyes rolling white when the lantern light hits her. You cross the packed dirt quick, set the lantern on a hook so you’ve got both hands, and reach for her halter, stroking her long face.

“It’s just the weather actin’ strange,” you murmur, words more for yourself than her. “Ain’t nothin’ gonna hurt you.”

She settles a little under your voice, but her muscles are still tight, skin twitching under your palm.

You’re so focused on her that you don’t hear him until he’s already in the doorway.

“Somethin’ wrong?”

His voice slides through the gloom, low and rough. 

You jerk a little, head snapping toward the barn entrance. He’s just inside the threshold, lantern in his hand turned down low, throwing more shadow than light. Sleeves rolled, suspenders hooked proper tonight, hair damp at the temples like he’s just come in from a hard walk. 

“Lord,” you mutter, heart kicking hard. “You move too quiet. Thought you were a ghost.”

He lets out a short huff of a laugh. “Not yet.” The lantern swings by his knee as he steps inside, setting the hay shadows dancing. “Heard her fussin’. Figured I’d check before she took it into her head to kick through a stall.”

“She just spooked,” you say. “Storm brewin’ somewhere.”

He comes up nearer, close enough that you can see the sheen of sweat along his throat, the bead of something darker at the cuff of his shirt where it brushes his wrist. 

His gaze does a quick, automatic sweep of the stall—manger, bucket, the mare’s flanks, your hand on her halter—and then it hooks on you, like it always does, like there’s a string between his eyes and your skin.

“You shouldn’t come out here by yourself at night,” he says, quiet, not rebuking exactly but not gentle either. “Barn full of spooked stock, any one of ’em could knock you right off your feet. Ain’t proper for a girl to be runnin’ around after dark alone.”

“That girl’s got ears,” you answer, voice tight, stroking the mare’s neck to hide your own nerves. “She can hear you fussin’ without talkin’ over her head.”

His mouth does that little tilt again, amused. “Reckon she can,” he says. “Reckon she don’t listen half as good as she ought, neither.”

You’re just shaping a sharp reply when it happens.

Something cracks outside, a dry, sharp sound—maybe a limb breaking, maybe a board settling wrong, maybe thunder grumbling way off where the clouds are thickest. 

It doesn’t matter what it is. The mare flinches hard, shoulder slamming sideways. The stall rail shudders under the hit, and you’re standing too close, lantern throwing crazy shadows as the world jolts.

Your first instinct is to get out of the way. You jump back, skirts swishing, hand flying off the halter. You pivot toward the stall opening and catch—not air, not clear space, but the edge of an old nail head that’s been working itself loose from the post for years.

The sound of fabric tearing is loud as a gunshot in the barn.

It rips from just below your hip down the side of your thigh, a long, rude run that opens your dress like a mouth. 

Cool air hits bare skin where cotton should be.

You gasp, more from the exposure than pain, and slap your hand down, fingers clutching at the split to keep it from gaping wider.

For a heartbeat you stand frozen, lantern light swinging, breath shallow, your leg half-bared through the torn seam.

You don’t have a slip on under this dress, not a proper one. It’s too hot. You’ve got plain cotton drawers and a whole lot of skin, and you know without looking that the tear has gone high, high enough that if you weren’t grabbing it shut he’d be seeing places no man has any business looking at on you.

“You all right?” Remmick’s closer before you register him moving, his boots whispering over packed dirt. His lantern clanks against a beam as he hangs it up. He reaches for you by pure reflex, hands coming to your arms, steadying you where you’ve stumbled.

“I’m fine,” you snap, too quick, humiliation burning your face, neck, chest. “Let go.”

You twist away from his grip, turning your hip, trying to angle the torn side away from him. 

The dress shifts anyway, hem dragging through straw, and there’s a flash of thigh where your fingers don’t quite cover everything. You feel the rush of blood under your skin like you’ve been slapped.

His eyes drop before you can stop them.

It’s an instinct with him just like yours, hungry and automatic. His gaze hits the split, the glimpse of your leg, and sticks. Time slows down around that look. You see it happen, see the way his pupils widen, see the quick, sharp inhale he tries to hide.

“Jesus,” he breathes, almost soundless.

You yank the torn fabric tighter, the motion making the rip strain up higher, edge brushing the curve where your thigh meets your hip. Your whole body feels like a lantern flame, exposed and flickering. “Don’t you look,” you hiss, low and furious. “Turn around.”

One of his hands lifts, like he might actually offer to cover the tear for you, fingers curling as if they want to fit over the place you’re guarding. He stops himself, hand hovering for an awful second near your hip, close enough that you feel the heat of him even through the thin cotton. 

“Ain’t my fault you went tearin’ yourself open on every nail in the county,” he says, tone trying for light and landing somewhere rougher. 

His eyes drag up slow, from your knuckles clenched in the fabric, up the bare strip of thigh he already saw, up the shape of your waist and the heave of your chest. “Maybe you should let me look and make sure you didn’t cut that pretty skin to ribbons.”

The way he says pretty makes your stomach flip and your teeth set.

“I ain’t cut,” you spit. “And I sure as hell don’t need you inspectin’ me.”

He should look ashamed. Though, he doesn’t. There’s color high in his cheeks now, not from heat, not from work. His mouth’s gone a little slack, like he’s holding back words. His gaze keeps sneaking back to the place your hand guards, greedy, any time you aren’t staring right at him.

“If you say so,” he murmurs finally. “Wouldn’t want to offend your delicate sensibilities.”

You hear the echo of his earlier lie in that word, delicate, and decide if you stay here another minute you might do something you can’t take back, like slap him or cry or both.

You shift your grip to catch more fabric, bunching the torn side up in your fist so nothing shows. It makes walking harder; you’re hobbling, half-skipping, desperate not to let the skirt fall. “You see to the mare,” you manage, chin up, eyes burning. “I’ll fix my dress.”

He steps back enough to let you pass. As you squeeze by him in the narrow space, your shoulder brushes his chest, your bare calf bumps the hard line of his boot. 

“Careful,” he says, voice quiet, right by your ear. “Would be a shame if the rest of that dress gave up and left you standin’ in nothin’ at all.”

You don’t give him the satisfaction of a reply. You duck your head and hurry out, every step measured so the torn seam doesn’t pull, one hand clamped between your thighs, lantern bumping at your knee. 

The night air on your exposed skin feels wrong, every stray breeze finding its way up under the rip.

You keep your eyes fixed on the glow of the house, on the square of the kitchen window, on anything that is not the barn behind you.

You slam the kitchen door with more force than you mean to, startling your mama awake, mumble something about a nail catching you and make straight for your room. You don’t light your own lamp; you don’t want to see what he saw. You stand there in the dark with your back to the door and your dress torn open under your hand, heart hammering, ears roaring, shame and something hotter and uglier twisting up together in your belly.

Down by the south fence, in the smaller farmhouse, Remmick sits on the edge of his narrow bed with the easy, humming satisfaction of a man who’s been saving something up.

He lit the lamp as soon as he stepped in, not out of any real need for light but because he likes the way it throws shadows, likes the way it paints dim gold over bare wood and gives him something soft to look at while his mind runs back over the evening. 

The room is small and warm from his own body heat, close enough that every breath feels shared with the walls. Old wood, dust, a curl of tobacco from the roll-up he finished outside, and under it all the ghost of you clinging to his clothes—soap and starch and sweat—make a thick little stew in the air.

He shrugged out of his shirt as soon as the door shut, tossing it over the chair without bothering to check if the seam you mended had held. 

The rip in the fabric is nothing next to the rip in your dress that he can’t stop savoring. He works the buttons of his trousers loose without hurry, fingers moving with the contented patience of a man about to sit down to a meal he’s been smelling all day.

He doesn’t try not to think of you. That would be a waste of a perfectly good night.

He leans back against the wall, boots kicked off, pants open at the fly, and lets the picture come as easy as breath. 

You in the barn with your hand clapped between your thighs, dress split wide, that slick little strip of thigh flashing when the cloth slipped. The way your eyes flared when you realized he’d seen, outrage and mortification and something bright under both. The sound of your voice when you told him not to look, like you already knew he was going to anyway.

“Hell,” he mutters, half laughing under his breath as his cock swells heavy against the thin barrier of his briefs. “Ain’t nothin’ on this earth I’d rather think on.”

His palm drifts down over his belly, fingers tracing a slow path to the bulge at his groin. Even that light touch makes him suck in air through his teeth. 

He presses his hand over the outline of himself, feeling the hot, solid weight of his cock straining upward, and a low, pleased sound curls up out of his chest. He palms it once, a lazy roll, enjoying the way it kicks against his fingers like it’s eager too, then he slides his hand inside.

Warm cotton gives way to hot skin. He wraps his fist around the thick base of himself and exhales like he’s been holding that breath since the barn, relief and hunger tangled up in it. His cock sits heavy in his grip, veins standing up, the head already wet where precum has gathered from how long he’s been walking around hard on the memory of you.

“Look at that,” he murmurs, voice low and rough, thumb smearing that slickness over the swollen tip. “Worked up over one little tear. You’d laugh yourself sick if you saw me now, wouldn’t you?”

The thought of you seeing him like this, spread out on his narrow bed with his trousers open and his cock standing full in his hand, only makes him harder. 

He drags his fist down slow, savoring the drag from head to base, then back up again, the friction sharp and sweet all at once. The first few strokes are measured, a man settling into a rhythm he plans to enjoy, not something hurried and guilty he has to choke down.

He lets his head tip back against the wall, eyes slipping shut so he can see you better behind his lids. 

Not the church version, not the good girl with the hem tugged just so and the buttons done up high. 

The barn version. Lantern light sliding over your bare thigh, the tremble in your fingers when you clutched at the rip, that split second when your hand wasn’t fast enough and he got the clean, unearned look he’s been replaying ever since.

“Shit,” he breathes, hand tightening, the slide of skin on skin picking up a little speed. 

He drags his fist down again, slower, getting a feel for every inch, for the way his cock swells harder in his grip with each pass. Arousal slicks his thumb, gathers at the crest of the head, and he spreads it with an easy, greedy little twist, working it around until the slide turns wet and smooth. 

His hips lift into his own hand without much prompting, body eager after nights of walking around with you on his tongue and in his teeth and under his nails.

“Bare leg,” he mutters, watching his hand move now, eyes half-lidded, lashes throwing shadows on his cheeks. “Goin’ about your business like you ain’t got that tucked up under your skirt. Like I ain’t seen it now.”

He remembers exactly how the tear opened, how the cotton gave and the seam surrendered, how your thigh flashed in the jumpy lantern light. 

That first raw glimpse lives in his chest like a hot coal. Skin smooth and soft-looking, the curve of muscle under it, the sweet thickness where it met your hip. 

He remembers your drawers too, plain white cotton clinging to you, riding that line between demure and lewd when the fabric shifted wrong.

His hand moves faster at that, instincts catching up with memory. He curls his fingers a little tighter, pulling from the heavy base up to the slick crown, milking a fresh bead of precum up with each stroke. 

“Bet you went home and stitched that dress up neat as a Sunday virtue,” he says, voice roughened by breath. “Head bowed, lips bit, pretendin’ that leg ain’t still there underneath, smooth as cream and just as soft. Bet you can’t stop thinkin’ about me seein’ it neither.”

He can picture you at your little table, lamp burning, needle in hand, fingers trembling just enough to make the thread snag. Your face hot, your mouth set, your thighs pressed together under the cloth as you sew shame into every stitch. He imagines you tugging that seam tight, that same hand that clutched the torn fabric now working the needle, every pull a memory of his eyes on you.

His free hand slides down his belly, fingers pressing over the flexing muscles there, holding them tight as he fucks up into his own fist. The bed creaks under him, wood complaining, but he doesn’t slow. He spreads his legs wider on the mattress, giving himself more room to move, and the extra slack lets his strokes lengthen, his hips roll, everything turning into a slow rhythm.

“You know what I see when I close my eyes?” he asks the ceiling quietly, dragging his thumb across the slit. “Not that pretty little mouth tellin’ me not to look. I see that hand of yours slip. I see that dress fall open just a little more.”

The picture in his mind sharpens: you, back against a stall post, hand too busy clutching at rough wood to hold your skirts closed, light catching on the full line of your thigh as the rip edges skid higher. 

He imagines the flap of cloth falling aside, full view of your leg from knee to hip, drawers pulled tight over the mound between your thighs, a faint darker patch where heat and sweat have gathered.

His cock throbs in his grip at that. He grits his teeth, pushes his palm down hard, and his hips jerk, chasing the pressure.

“Yeah,” he growls softly. “That’s it. Dress up around your waist, showin’ all that sweet flesh. You holdin’ on to that wood like it’s gonna save you, eyes full of righteous fury while your body’s tellin’ on you.”

His fingers slip lower on the stroke, pausing to cup his balls, rolling them in his palm, feeling the tight, heavy pull there. The sensation punches another sound out of him. He goes back to his cock with renewed urgency, arm working harder now, hand pumping.

He lets himself wander further than any real moment has gone. Lets the memory of that tear turn into something else, something he can taste.

He imagines stepping in close before you can bolt, one hand catching your wrist, the other gathering your torn skirt up and out of his way. Imagines your gasp, that little sharp intake he already knows, your bare thigh hitting his hip as he pins you to the stall. Your panties stretched tight over the soft swell of your cunt, his fingers pushing up against the dampening cloth, feeling how hot you are through the barrier.

“Pretend you don’t want it,” he murmurs, throat rasping. “Try to act like you ain’t gettin’ wet for me while you fuss.”

The words sound vulgar and right in his mouth. His cock swells at it, the head aching now, sensitive with every pass. He squeezes at the top, thumb pressing just under the crown, and his whole body shudders, pleasure rushing up his spine.

“Be a good girl,” he hears himself whispering to the woman in his head, the one pressed to barn wood with her dress in tatters. “Spread ’em for me, let me see what you’re hidin’.”

His hand flies now, finding a quick, dirty rhythm. His breath comes rough, each inhale catching, each exhale spilling out in curses and half-formed praises.

“You’d flush right up to your hairline,” he pants, head rolling against the wall. “Act all offended while your thighs tremble and that pretty thing between ’em throbs. Might even cry a little, wouldn’t you? All sweet and scared and soaked.”

The image of you crying—eyes bright, lashes wet, lips bitten—while your body betrays you sends him right to the edge. His balls draw up tight, cock jumping in his fist, veins standing out under his skin. Heat coils at the base of his spine, that familiar pull gathering everything in, ready to snap.

He spits into his hand for more slick, doesn’t even bother wiping his mouth. The added wetness turns his strokes into something obscene, the sound echoing in the small room. His forearm snaps, muscles burning, chasing the crest bearing down on him.

“Come on then,” he grits. “Show me.”

He imagines hooking a finger under the edge of your drawers and pulling the cotton aside. Imagines the first sight of you bare between your thighs, folds swollen, maybe already glistening, all that heat finally out in the lantern light instead of tucked away in shadows and good manners.

“That’s it,” he rasps, voice breaking, hips jerking harder into his fist. “Knew you’d be pretty there. Knew you’d be soft.”

The wave hits with no ceremony; it slams through him like a mule kick. His whole body locks, stomach clenching, heels digging into the thin mattress, head thumping dully against the wall. 

A groan tears out of him, rough and strangled, half-swallowed behind clenched teeth. His cock jerks in his hand, once, twice, then again, spilling hot over his fingers and across his stomach in thick, pulsing ropes.

He rides it out, hand still working, strokes shortening but not stopping, milking every last drop. Cum coats his knuckles, drips over his fist, slicking his grip until his palm slips on the softening length. 

“Fuck,” he breathes when he can breathe again, voice low and wrecked.

His strokes slow, then ease off altogether, fingers loosening their grip. 

For a moment he just sits there, chest rising and falling, wrist slick and heavy, cock giving a few last, half-hearted twitches in his hand. Sweat cools on his forehead, a bead sliding down along his temple.

He looks down at the mess on his belly, streaks shining in the lamplight, dripping off the side of his hand. There’s no disgust in the way he examines it; if anything, there’s pride. A crooked smile tugs at his mouth, lazy and satisfied.

“Look what you pulled out of me, and you weren’t even here,” he murmurs, more pleased than ashamed. 

He wipes his hand across his stomach, smearing instead of cleaning, fingers drawing idle patterns through the stickiness before he drags them off onto a wadded-up shirt at his side. 

The cotton takes the worst of it, darkening where it soaks, but he doesn’t fuss about the rest. Let it dry on his skin. Let it sit there as a reminder.

He tucks himself back into his briefs, though he doesn’t bother fastening his trousers all the way, leaving the fly gaping a little for air. 

His body feels loose and heavy now, bones sunk deep into the thin mattress. The edge is blunted, that sharp hunger dulled to a warm, low thrum, but it’s not gone.

He leans his head back and lets his eyes drift half-closed, the lamp still burning low. 

In the quiet, he can almost hear you tossing under your own quilt up the rise, feel the echo of your indignation, imagine the way your fingers might trace absent circles over the mended seam of your dress while you tell yourself you hate him.

He runs his tongue along the back of his teeth, savoring that thought as much as any touch.

“Gonna see it torn again,” he says softly, not quite a promise, not quite a threat. 

The lamp flickers, a tiny flame fighting sleep. Outside, crickets scream and something small scurries through the grass. 

The little house settles around him with soft creaks and sighs. He closes his eyes fully at last, the picture of your bare thigh and your furious face smoothing together into one sweet, ripe ache he’s already wondering how soon he can taste again.

Most nights Remmick does his rounds like he’s supposed to, lantern swinging at his knee, gate latches checked, fence wire plucked and listened to like strings. 

But once he knows the map of the place in his bones, once he has counted every post and measured every path, his feet start wandering off the straight lines your daddy would like him to walk. 

He learns where the shadows fall thickest under the pecan tree by the side yard, where the dark under the eaves hides a man from anyone glancing out through lamplight. 

He learns just how far back he can stand and still see into the kitchen window when you’re up late, sleeves rolled, forearms wet to the elbow, talking to your mama while you scrub a pan. 

He learns that when you think everybody’s settled, you lean your hip against the counter and tilt your head a little while you dry your hands, and that little shift of weight does things to your dress you’d never let it do in town.

He finds out you like the back porch at night even more than you like it at dusk. That when the work is done and your parents are loud in their sleep, you slip out with a glass or a cup and sit with your legs stretched, ankles crossed, toes tracing idle circles on the board beneath them. 

From the fence line he can see the shine of lamplight on your bare shins when your hem rides up, can see the loose, tired way you soften back into the chair. 

He watches you tilt your face toward the dark yard like you’re asking it questions it hasn’t answered yet, listens to the little sounds you make—half-sighs, half-hums—that never show up when anyone else is awake. 

He leans on a post with a cigarette hanging from his fingers and looks until he’s had his fill, no hurry in him, nothing but a lazy, steady satisfaction in knowing you have no idea.

He learns your bedroom window, too. Where it sits in relation to the oak, how far up the slope he has to stand to see its square of light. 

The first time he notices the curtain isn’t quite shut, it’s by accident; he’s walking back late, boots slow on the path, when a slice of movement catches his eye. 

Curtain gapping, lamp turned low, you moving around your room in that soft circle people make before bed. 

He stops in the shadow of the tree without even thinking, shoulder to rough bark, the leaves above him murmuring in a wind that doesn’t get down into the yard. 

From there he can see you in fragments—an arm as you reach up to unbutton, a brief glimpse of the side of your neck, the line of your shoulder as fabric slips. 

He tells himself he’ll move when you’re done, that he’s only making sure you got in safe. He stays until the lamp goes out.

The night he sees you in the bath, there’s not even that thin excuse.

It’s late enough the frogs have worn down to a sleepy chorus and the crickets sound drunk. A low, warm fog sits over the fields, pressing scents in close: damp earth, animals settled in their pens, soap drifting thin from the open kitchen window where somebody forgot to latch it right. 

He’s finished his rounds early, all the work of the night sitting behind him instead of ahead, and he feels that restless itch under his skin again, that soft, prowling urge that has nothing to do with fences and everything to do with you.

The house is a square of softer dark against the sky, only a couple of windows holding light. 

He knows which is which now without having to think about it. Kitchen, front room, your parents’ room. The little back room off the side where the big galvanized tub sits when somebody’s been lucky enough to haul enough water. 

Tonight it’s that one glowing gentle behind its thin cotton curtain, lantern hanging somewhere just out of sight, making the fabric look like a pale, breathing thing.

He circles wide, slipping along the edge of the yard where the grass meets the packed dirt of the lane, where the shadows from the trees throw him one more thin cloak. 

The bath window is low, glass fogged a little from steam. The curtain is drawn but not all the way, left a thumb’s width open on one side—enough for light to leak out in a narrow spill. Enough, if a man stepped in close and angled himself just right, to see inside.

He comes up under the sill, breath slow, boots quiet, and lays his palm flat against the siding to steady himself. The boards are cool and rough under his fingers. He leans his shoulder into them and tilts his head, lining his eye up with that careless little gap.

Heat hits him first, a wet, sweet breath rolling out into the night. The lantern inside throws shadows high on the wall, flickering over the curve of the tub, over the length of you in it.

You’re sunk down in the water with your knees bent, one leg drawn up just enough for him to see the shape of it under the surface, the other stretched straighter, foot braced on the far side. 

The water glows around you, gone cloudy with soap, clinging in beads to your skin where it’s out of the tub. 

Your shoulders show above the rim, bare and slick, drops running down in slow trails. 

Steam curls off your chest, off the slopes of your breasts where they rise from the water, soft and heavy, nipples pebbled tight from the heat or the air or both. The lamplight loves them, catching on every curve, laying little gold crowns on each peak.

Your head is tipped back against the rolled towel you’ve wedged between neck and tin, eyes closed, lips parted just enough for breath. One arm drifts along the tub’s edge, fingers dragging lazy patterns through the thin scum of soap there, the other resting across your stomach.

He watches your ribs move with each inhale, the slight swell and fall of your belly under your palm.

You're so unaware of him that it feels almost holy.

He drinks it in like it’s what he came here for all along, no flinch in him, no apology. His gaze roams where it will. 

From the line of your throat down to the hollow between your collarbones, where a small puddle has gathered and overflowed in slow rivulets; down over the slick, shining hills of your breasts, the way they shift just a little with every breath, the way the waterline cuts across them. Lower, to where the curve of your stomach disappears under the opaque water, hinting at more, promising everything.

You shift, lifting one arm to drag the washcloth over your shoulder. The washcloth trails over the round of your shoulder, down the outside of your arm, across the swell of your breast, nipple tightening even more when the rough cloth skims past.

You don’t seem to notice the way your own body responds; you’re too busy chasing day-dirt away, lifting your arm to scrub your neck, tilting your head to give yourself better reach.

From his vantage, he sees everything. His hand tightens on the siding, knuckles going white, that buzzing hunger flaring up bright and hot behind his eyes.

He stares, not making a sound.

You work the cloth down your arm and set it aside, then slide both hands into the water, scooping and pouring over yourself. 

You lift your leg a little, knee rising higher, water spilling off in sheets, showing him the smooth length of your thigh all the way to the place where it vanishes back under the cloudy surface. The muscles there flex as you shift, your toes stretching, calf defined a moment before settling again. 

For a brief second, the water thins enough he can see the shadowed shape where your thighs meet, softened by the haze but there, real and mouth-watering.

His eyes go dark on it, pupils swallowing light. He leans in a fraction more, cheek almost touching the glass, breath fogging the edge of the pane where it meets the frame. 

Every small move you make sends little waves across your body, playing light over the parts he can see, hinting at the parts he can’t.

You sigh, the sound faint through the wall but clear. Your head tips a little to the side, cheek turning toward the window without quite facing it. 

One hand skims over your sternum, following the center line of your body until it disappears under the water. 

Your fingers paddle lazily there for a moment, moving along your own stomach, over the soft give of your lower belly. 

He imagines exactly where they’re drifting, what warm, slick places they’re brushing, even if you’re not thinking of it like that. Your face gives nothing away but relief, a tired little slackness, the expression of someone finally easing aches out of their bones.

“You ain’t got a clue,” he breathes, lips ghosting the words against the flaking clapboard. There’s satisfaction in it, not cruelty. “Bathin’ like Eve in a picture book with the curtain open and the devil on the outside lookin’ in.”

His hand, the one not braced on the wall, shifts restlessly by his side, brushing the front of his trousers. 

He doesn’t touch himself proper, not yet; this is looking time. He wants to be empty enough of the last time to fill up on this one entire. 

His fingers flex anyway, his palm pressing for a moment against the growing bulge, acknowledging it. His cock swells quick and eager, remembering the barn, welcoming the new fodder.

You lean forward to reach the soap, and the angle changes. 

For a breathless few seconds he gets the long line of your back, the way it curves from nape to waist, the hollow above your hips, the dimples that show when you move just so. Water slides off you in glittering trails, trickling down along your spine, pooling in the small of your back before spilling lower. 

As you sit back again, that same water slips over the round of your ass where it breaks the surface, catching the light along the curve, then vanishes under the cloudy bath.

He closes his eyes briefly, just to fix it, then opens them again. He doesn’t want to miss a thing.

You lather your hands, work the soap into your skin, fingers massaging into your shoulders, down along your collarbones. 

The more you scrub, the slipperier you become, water beading and running, foam clinging in thin streaks before melting away. 

When you finally slide your hands under the water, scrubbing lower, your elbows move in a rhythm that makes something low and obscene curl in his gut. 

He knows you’re only washing, just doing what needs doing, but to him it looks like a preview, looks like a rehearsal of things you haven’t yet learned to want.

He watches until the waterline creeps lower on the lantern as the bath cools and you sink down, chasing warmth. Watches as you finally let yourself relax fully, shoulders sliding under, just your face above the surface, eyes closed, breaths slow and even.

Only when you sit forward and reach for the towel hanging on the peg beside the tub does he ease back from the window. 

He knows if he lingers another second, if he sees you stand, water sheeting off every inch as you step out, he’ll plant roots under this sill and never leave. 

There will be other nights, he tells himself.

He peels himself off the wall, body humming, and slips back into the darker yard, breath still measured, strides easy. 

By the time he’s at the edge of the light, he has his lantern in hand again, held low, the picture of a man just passing through on his way to some small piece of work.

He doesn’t feel a lick of shame. What would be the use of it, when the memory of you in that tub is already lodged in his body like a polished stone, something he can roll under his tongue whenever he chooses. 

You’ll go to bed clean and soft, thinking maybe about chores and storms and the seam you mended this morning. 

He’ll go back to his little house with your wet skin behind his eyes and no confusion about what he plans to do with it.

The day’s been long, the kind that starts with a rooster and ends with your back feeling twice your age. 

By the time supper’s put away and the kitchen wiped down, your father’s in his chair with his boots off, socks so full of holes you don’t know why he bothers wearing them, radio mumbling low out of the corner. Your mother’s gone to bed early with a headache, door cracked just enough that you can hear her cough now and again.

You’re halfway through folding the dish towels when you remember.

Mama’s good jar of salve.

You can see it plain in your mind’s eye: small tin with the blue lid, the one she guards like treasure. 

She sent you looking for it just after dinner, when she noticed the raw place on your father’s wrist from rope burn and the darkening bruise on your own hip from where the stall rail caught you days ago. 

You’d gone to fetch more wood for the stove first, meaning to get the salve on your way back, and somehow it slipped right out of your head, chased off by smoke and scolding and the rush to get biscuits off the fire before they burned.

Your father’s already grumbled twice about the barn nail and told you if you’d been paying mind you wouldn’t have torn your dress, wouldn’t have bruises, wouldn’t have needed fussing. 

You can hear him in the morning if he finds that wrist still angry and your hip still tender. Can hear that disappointed click of his tongue.

You’d seen him hand the tin to Remmick earlier in the week, mumbling something about “keep this on hand, boy, in case you tear yourself up,” and watched the new hand tuck it into the pocket of his coat before heading down to the little farmhouse.

“That’s where it is,” you murmur, more to the quiet kitchen than to anyone. A little knot between your brows loosens when you place it. “Down there.”

You glance at the clock. It’s late enough the newsman’s gone off the air, early enough the world hasn’t quite tipped into the dead hours where the dark feels thickest. 

Outside the window, the yard is quiet, the barn a heavy shadow, the smaller house beyond it just a darker square against the field.

“Where’s that boy?” Your father mutters around his cigarette, not really expecting an answer. “Ain’t heard him come in for coffee. He out checkin’ fence or sleepin’ on my dime?”

“Out, I reckon,” you say, folding the last towel with a sharp little snap.

Truth is, you haven’t heard his boots either. You haven’t seen his lantern bob by the window. It’s been a soft, blank stretch of night, no sign of him.

You tell yourself that means he’s at the far end of the pasture or walking the ditch line. Exactly where he’s supposed to be.

“I’ll fetch Mama’s salve,” you add, already untying your apron, tucking it over the back of a chair. “She’ll want it first thing in the mornin’.”

Joe nods, smoke curling out of his nose. “Don’t you linger,” he says, not looking up. “Get what you need and bring your tail back in this house. I don’t want you down there visitin’ like it’s social hour.”

You bite back the urge to say you’d sooner visit the pig pen. “Yes, sir,” is what comes out instead.

The night air catches you on the porch, damp and soft, smelling of cooling dirt and a hint of something sweet blooming out by the fence. 

You step down barefoot, skirts whispering around your calves, the boards’ splinters familiar against your soles. The big house’s light spills just to the bottom of the steps, then gives up, letting the yard roll out into dark.

The little farmhouse sits a ways off, past the well, past the worn track where the wagon turns. All its windows are black. No orange seam under the curtain, no silhouette rising and falling against the glass. The barn is quiet too, doors thrown shut, only a thin line of moon-silver along the roof.

You latch onto the sight of that dark little house like proof. He’s not there. He’s out somewhere with a lantern and a bad attitude. 

You’ll be in and out before he knows you’ve even left your room.

You wrap that thought around yourself like a shawl and start across the yard.

The grass is cool and a little slick with dew under your feet, clinging between your toes. Crickets saw at the edges of things, frogs mutter down in the low spots. The well’s stone lip rises out of the ground like something old and patient; you ghost past it, keeping your eyes on the squat shadow of the farmhouse.

Up close, it looks smaller, somehow meaner. The door is shut, the porch bare save for his boots lined up neat off to one side. You take in that detail with a little flick of relief—boots off means man in bed, not loose in the yard—before another thought slides in behind it: or just inside.

You hesitate only a heartbeat.

The want to not get scolded in the morning, the want to have Mama’s salve where she can lay hands on it, outweighs the whisper of sense telling you this is foolish.

You lay your palm on the door and push.

It gives with a small, tired creak, the smell of the place rolling over you in a warm wave: wood, straw, tobacco, sweat, and that faint metallic thread you’ve started to think of as his alone. There’s a lamp turned low on the table just inside, wick pinched till the flame is barely more than a coal in a glass throat, enough to lay out the shapes of things and nothing more.

“Remmick?” you call, voice barely above a whisper, more habit than hope. When nothing answers—not a word, not a shift of boards—you let your breath out slow and step over the threshold.

The door eases halfway shut behind you, not latched. You don’t bother with it; you don’t plan to be here long enough to worry about what’s open and what isn’t. 

The room is small and spare, just like your daddy said it was. Bed against one wall, blanket rumpled from someone sitting, if not lying. Chair with a coat thrown over the back, shirt draped careless on top. Table with the lamp, a chipped cup, a folded knife. A shelf holding a few tin plates, a jar of coffee, the heel of a loaf.

You move quick but careful, eyes trying not to linger on the smaller things that say a man’s been living here—his belt coiled on the chair seat, his hat hanging from the peg, the empty space on the floor where his boots were. 

You head straight for the coat, remembering your father’s hand dropping the salve tin into its pocket.

You pinch the fabric between your fingers, easing it aside, but the weight you expect to tug at the hem isn’t there. The coat hangs light. You pat the pockets; they’re empty, save for a wadded rag and a stray button.

“Damn,” you breathe, annoyed, under your breath.

Maybe he moved it. Maybe he took it out so the tin wouldn’t fall and get lost when he shrugged the coat on.

You cast your eyes around the room, searching high shelves, low boxes, any place someone might set a small, important thing.

The table catches your attention next. You circle it, gaze skimming over the knife, the cup, the lamp. 

There, near the edge, half in shadow—a squat little tin no bigger than your palm, blue lid dulled with age.

You smile in spite of yourself and reach for it. “Got you,” you murmur, closing your fingers around the cool metal.

You pop the lid just enough to see the salve inside, pale and thick, smelling faintly of herbs and camphor, then press it back down with a soft click. The job’s done. Simple as that.

You turn, already thinking about the path back to the house, about slipping this into Mama’s hand and letting yourself be proud she won’t have to wonder where it is in the morning.

You don’t make it two steps.

There he is.

Standing in the doorway that leads to the small back room, shoulder braced against the frame like he’s been leaning there a while, like he grew right up out of the wood.

He’s shirtless, skin slicked faint with sweat, the rise and fall of his chest slow and easy. Suspenders hang loose against his hips, clipped to his trousers but fallen off his shoulders, framing the cut of his torso in dark lines. 

The lamp’s low light paints him in gold and shadow both, dipping into the hollow between his collarbones, skating over the plane of his stomach, catching on the trail of hair that runs down from his navel into the waistband of his pants. 

His arms cross over his chest, veins standing faint along the backs of his hands where they rest against his biceps.

His feet are bare. His eyes are not gentle.

“Find what you was lookin’ for?” he asks, voice soft, too soft, the scrape of it wrapping around the words like a touch.

Your heart gives one wild jump, slamming up against your ribs hard enough to hurt, then starts to run. 

You hadn’t heard him come in. Hadn’t heard the back door, hadn’t heard the floor protest, hadn’t heard anything but your own little fussing search and the tiny pop of the salve lid.

For a foolish second you think about hiding the tin, tucking it behind your back like a child caught in a pantry. You don’t. There’s nowhere to put it he wouldn’t see, and you refuse to give him the pleasure of watching you scramble.

Instead you hold it up just enough that he can see the blue lid glint in the lamplight. “My mama’s salve,” you say, surprised at how even your voice comes out. “Daddy gave it to you. He forgot where he put it. I came to fetch it.”

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t look at the tin for more than a passing glance. His attention stays on you, heavy as a hand between your shoulder blades. He rakes his gaze from your face down to the salve, then lower, slow as a man looking over a field he’s about to plow.

You suddenly know exactly how your dress is sitting—where the fabric pulls across your chest from turning too quick, where the skirt clings to your thighs from the damp in the grass, where your collar gapes just a breath more than it should because you didn’t bother with the top button in the heat. Your skin prickles under each place you picture his eyes touching.

“You always just walk yourself into a man’s house without knockin’?” he asks after a beat, one brow ticking up.

“This ain’t a house,” you reply, chin lifting a shade. “It’s a shack my father stuck you in so you’d be closer to the barn.”

Something like amusement flickers across his mouth. “Still mine for now,” he says. “Door was shut, wasn’t it?”

“You left the lamp on,” you shoot back. “Anybody with decent sense would take that as invitation in case of emergency.”

He uncrosses his arms then, letting them drop to his sides. The motion makes muscles jump in his chest, the lines of his shoulders shifting under skin. “And what’s the emergency, miss?” he asks. “That your mama’s medicine was sittin’ ten yards farther than you like it?”

His tone isn’t mocking. It isn’t kind either. It’s something in between, something testing. Like he’s poking at you with words just to feel where you’re soft.

You swallow, the salve tin suddenly heavy in your hand. “I said why I came,” you answer. “I’ll be goin’ now.”

You move to head toward the front door, the one you came in, but the room is small, and he doesn’t move. One pace brings you close enough to smell him. Another pace would put you near enough to brush him if you misjudged your route.

He shifts his weight to fill the doorway more fully, one hand lifting to rest on the frame to the side of him. It leaves his ribs bare, that patch of hair under his arm catching the lamplight. There’s a faint scar along his flank, pale against the warmth of his skin, old and ugly, like something tore him open once and he lived anyway.

“Seems a shame,” he says, looking at you. “You comin’ all this way just to snatch up a tin and run.”

Your pulse hammers harder. “It ain’t far.”

“For you,” he agrees. “For me it’s a long, lonely walk most nights. I might be grateful for a little company.”

“You got company,” you say, words a little sharper than you intend. “You got every cow, every dog, every fence post on this land. You don’t need me.”

He lets that roll over him like water off a duck’s back. “Maybe I’m tired of talkin’ to things that can’t talk back,” he murmurs. His eyes flick down to the salve again, then to your hand, to your wrist where your pulse beats visible in the hollow. “You tore yourself up any today, or you just borrowin’ this for show?”

“Bruise on my hip,” you admit before you can remind yourself you owe him nothing. The words come out stiff. “Ain’t your concern.”

“Everythin’ that happens on this farm’s my concern when it means workers showin’ up busted in the mornin’,” he says. “You do work, don’t you? Or are you just here to keep the place pretty.”

Heat flashes through you, quick and mean. “You've seen me work,” you say. “You've seen me at that pump, at that stove, out in the yard. Don’t you stand there half-dressed and ask if I do my share.”

His mouth twitches at half-dressed. He doesn’t bother to hide the way his gaze drops, quick, down the front of himself and back up, as if to say he knows exactly how much he’s wearing and how much you’re seeing. It’s deliberate, that small, shameless acknowledgement of his own body.

“Believe me,” he says, voice dropping lower, “I’ve seen you.”

The words land between you, heavy and thick. They mean more than they say. Every peek he’s stolen presses into the space they open up: your bare leg in the barn, your shoulders shining in the bath, your tired posture on the back porch, one strap slipping careless down your arm before you hitched it back up.

You don’t know about most of that. What you do know is enough to make your throat go dry.

“I ain’t supposed to be down here visitin’,” you say, trying to wrestle the conversation back onto some ground that feels steadier. “My father told you that when you got here. Told me too.”

His eyes gleam at the mention of your father, some dark amusement sparking there. “He told me to show you respect,” he says. “And I have. Haven’t laid a hand on you that you didn’t walk too close to yourself.”

Your mind trips over the memory of his fingers catching your arm in the barn, steadying you when your mare spooked. The way his hand hovered near your torn dress, heat just shy of your hip. The way he stood in the yard with his eyes on your mouth and called you miss like it was something he wanted to lick.

You draw yourself up as tall as you can manage in the little room, salve tin tight in your grip, refusing to yield the step he’s trying to take without moving his feet. “Then you’ll move,” you say, voice low but steady. “So I can go on home and keep livin’ my life with all that respect you’re so proud of.”

For a moment, you think he might laugh in your face. His lips part, teeth catching on his bottom lip, eyes glinting.

Instead he just looks at you.

It’s worse than if he’d laughed. He looks like a man deciding how honest he feels like being tonight. Like he’s weighing whether to keep playing at politeness or lay something sharper on the table between you.

The lamplight flickers, shadow jumping along his jaw as he tilts his head. “You walk out that door,” he says finally, nodding toward the porch, “and I’ll let you. I ain’t gonna drag you nowhere you don’t step first.”

Relief and something colder flick through you at the same time. “Good,” you start to say, but he isn’t done.

“But,” he adds, and that one little word lands heavy, “you come walkin’ into my place after dark again, all alone, dressed like that, lookin’ at me like you don’t know whether you wanna slap me or cry on me—well.” His gaze drops to your mouth and back. “That’s you steppin’. And I’ll take it as such.”

Your heart stutters, one hard misstep in its rhythm. “You overestimate yourself,” you snap, even as your fingers twitch on the tin.

He smiles then, slow and wolfish, the expression finally reaching his eyes in a way you haven’t seen yet. 

“We’ll see,” he says.

For a long, tight second, nobody moves. The walls feel closer, the air thicker, the lamplight too intimate. You hear the frogs outside, the creak of the house settling, the little wet sound of your own swallow. His bare chest rises and falls, steady, like he’s got all the time in the world.

Then he steps to the side.

The doorway opens up behind him, a narrow slice of night visible over his bare shoulder. It’s more space than you expected him to yield, less than you’d like.

You duck past, your shoulder nearly brushing his chest, the heat pouring off him making your skin prickle. You feel his eyes on the side of your face, on the line of your throat, on the way you have to hitch your skirt just a little to keep from tripping as you step over the threshold.

“Goodnight, miss,” he says softly, right by your ear, breath warm as it ghosts over your neck. “You be careful now. Dark’s full of things you don’t know about.”

You don’t trust your voice not to shake, so you don’t give him the satisfaction of hearing it. You just walk, bare feet hitting the packed earth hard, fingers biting into the salve tin so tight the metal cuts a little crescent into your palm.

Rough wood presses into your hips, edge digging a little where your nightgown’s ridden up, breath catching in short, shallow pulls because he’s got one big hand flat between your shoulder blades, holding you there, and the other is on your ass, fingers clawed into the thin cotton, bunching it up and away from your thighs. 

The lamp in the corner throws a low, mean light over the kitchen, just enough to show you the knot in the tabletop and the chipped plate someone left on the shelf, just enough to catch the shadow of his arm when it moves.

You came down here hot with it. Anger, mostly. 

At him for looking at you how he does, for crowding doorways and talking low in your ear. At yourself for feeling anything besides disgust when he does it. 

For weeks that feeling has sat under your skin like a burr under a saddle, rubbing everything raw—every brush of his eyes, every sly comment, every late-night glimpse of his lantern out in the yard when you should’ve been sleeping. 

Tonight it tipped over. Tonight you lay in your bed and stared at the ceiling and saw his bare chest in that little house instead, heard his voice saying we’ll see, felt your own body answer in a way that wouldn’t quit.

So you got up after the house went quiet, barefoot on the boards, heart in your throat. 

You didn’t bring a lamp. You told yourself you were just going to tell him off, to say plain that you didn’t want him looking, didn’t want him speaking to you sideways, didn’t want the innuendo and the smirks and the way he made you feel peeled without ever laying a proper hand on you. 

That was the story you wrapped yourself in as you crossed the yard, nightgown clinging to your knees.

He opened the door before you could knock, like he’d been standing right on the other side with his palm on the handle, listening.

You remember the way his eyes moved over you, slow, no shirt, just those loose trousers hanging low on his hips, lamp behind him making his shoulders look broad and his face unreadable. 

You remember his mouth forming your name, quiet and satisfied, like he’d been waiting to say it like this. 

You remember the way all that anger and want surged up together in your chest, wild and tangled, and how you said something too sharp, voice shaking, about him needing to keep his eyes to himself if he wanted to stay on your daddy’s land.

Now here you are with his hand on your back, pressing, holding you down exactly where you came—over his small scarred table in his small farmhouse kitchen—your own fingers gripping the edge in a white-knuckled clutch.

“Thought you weren’t supposed to be down here visitin’,” he drawls above you, breath warm near your ear, words rolling over your spine. “That what you told me?”

You glare at the knot in the wood like it did you personal harm. 

Your face is hot, your body even hotter, a slow, heavy throb deep between your thighs that started halfway across the yard and hasn’t done a thing but grow. 

“I ain’t visitin’,” you say, the words a little muffled by the way he’s got you folded. “I came to talk sense into you.”

His laugh is low and pleased, hand on your back sliding a little, fingers spreading, thumb settling along your spine. He presses down just enough to remind you who’s holding you where you are. 

“Is that what you call it,” he says, “showin’ up in your bed things after dark, sneakin’ through my door with your hands empty and your eyes wide? Talkin’ sense?”

His other hand cups your ass through the thin fabric, palm wide over you, squeezing like he’s testing a piece of fruit at the market. 

The nightgown has twisted up, hem caught high over your hips, leaving the bottom curve of you bare to his touch, only the cotton of your drawers between his fingers and your skin. 

Heat floods that spot, a sharp, shameful pulse that makes your breath catch.

“You been walkin’ around twitchy as a cat for days,” he goes on, hand kneading, thumb digging into the give of your flesh there. “Snappin’ at me, snappin’ at your daddy, gettin’ that look on your face every time you see me like you don’t know whether to spit or spit somethin’ else.”

“Shut up,” you hiss, mortified at how true it feels in your bones. 

You shift your hips, trying to wriggle away from that hand, and all it does is grind you back against his palm, soft cotton dragging over the swell of you, catching on the seam that runs right over the place you’re trying not to think about.

He makes a sound at that, low in his throat, rough and appreciative. “Yeah. There she is,” he says, words coming a little thicker now. “All that fire. You walked your own self down here, girl. Nobody dragged you.”

“I came to tell you to stop,” you manage, though the way your voice climbs at the end takes the bite out of it. His fingers curl, grab a little handful of your ass cheek through the cloth, and you feel the ache spike hotter. “Stop lookin’. Stop talkin’ like that. Stop—stop–”

“Stop makin’ you feel all twisted up?” he supplies, not unkind, just plain. 

His hand on your back softens, spreads, rubbing along your spine like he’s soothing a spooked animal even as the other keeps kneading at you. 

“Stop remindin’ you there’s more to be had in this world than hymns and beans and mendin’?”

You suck a breath in through your teeth. “You ain’t the only man alive,” you snap. “You ain’t special.”

His grip tightens, a hard squeeze that makes you gasp. “No,” he agrees easily. “But I’m the only one you marched down here to cuss out in your bare feet and nightclothes, so I’d say I’m doin’ something right.”

You hate how your body answers that, how something low in you liquefies at the thought of it, at the truth you don’t want to name. You hate the way your thighs press together of their own accord, seeking pressure, seeking relief, even as you hold yourself rigid under his hand.

He feels it. His palm slides down, fingers curling under the heavy curve of you, thumb dragging along the crease where your ass meets the top of your thigh. 

You’re hyper-aware of every inch, every callus on his skin, every place the old wood digs into your hips. When his hand moves inward, fingers bumping close to the center of you, you flinch.

“Don’t—” you start, panic and want knitting together, but the word thins out when his touch presses just a little firmer over the damp cotton there.

“You’re soaked,” he says softly, no mockery in it, just raw, hungry wonder. “Walked through my door mad as sin, all full of pretty speeches, and your cunt’s already cryin’ for somethin’ to hold on to.”

Shame scorches up your neck. “Don’t call it that,” you choke, mortified, the word hitting you deep and low and making everything worse.

He hums, thumb tracing a slow circle over that swell, pressing right where the cloth is clinging. The pressure is perfect, unbearable. 

“What you want me to call it, then?” he asks, voice brushing the shell of your ear now. 

“Your virtue? Your purity? That sweet spot between your legs that ain’t nobody touched?” His thumb moves again, firmer, and your hips jolt against your will. “’Cause I see it all over you, darlin’. You came here wantin’ me to stop, but your body came here wantin’ somethin’ else entirely.”

You shake your head, even as your toes curl, even as your lungs drag in another sharp breath that tastes like him and the lamp smoke and the hot, close air of this little house. 

“You’re—you’re foul,” you say, but it comes out thin, breathy. “You been lookin’ at me, watchin’ me, talkin’ to me like—”

“Like I know what to do with you,” he cuts in, a hint of impatience threading through his heat. “And I do. You think I don’t see what’s eatin’ at you every time you glance down at my hands, or my mouth, or lower?”

His fingers slide along the seam of your drawers, finding the little ridge where cloth meets cloth and pressing right there. 

It sends a jolt through you big enough you can’t muffle the small sound that drops out of your throat. 

His hand on your back pushes down, keeping you bent, letting you grind into that touch without rising off the table.

“Listen here,” he says, voice roughening, patience fraying. “You came. You’re here. You can tell me to stop and I will. I ain’t gonna take what you don’t hand me. But don’t stand there in my house, drippin’ on my floor, and try to lie about what you’re feelin’.”

The room seems to shrink around those words. 

You know he’s right. You also know how far you are from where you were supposed to be, from the girl who said she’d never let a man like him get close, from the girl who swore she’d keep herself intact till some tidy, respectable husband came along with a ring and a house and his hat in his hands.

You think about those men. Faces you’ve seen in church, in town, men who look at you when they think you’re not noticing with a hunger they don’t know what to do with. Men who’d apologize if their fingers brushed your wrist too long.

Then you think about this man, bare-chested behind you, hard and unashamed, his hand pressed between your shoulder blades, the other on you like you’re his to handle. 

You think about his eyes in the barn, on your torn dress. About the words he said in this very room, about stepping. About how you’ve been walking around with your jaw clenched and your thighs pressed together ever since.

“Tell me the truth,” he says, thumb pressing a little harder, his other fingers spread wide over the swell of you. “You want me to let go of you and send you back up that hill with your temper, you say it. I’ll move. You can go pray extra loud come Sunday.”

The lamp crackles softly, a tiny sound in the heavy dark.

“And if I don’t?” you hear yourself ask, voice small but steady. “If I say I don’t want you to move?”

His hand stills on your back for one beat, then both of them tighten—one pressing you down, one grabbing a handful of your ass like he’s staking a claim. A breath leaves him in a long, shuddery exhale that ghosts hot over your neck.

“Then I’m gonna take real good care of what you brought me,” he says, tone gone hoarse and thick, the restraint in it the only thing keeping you from shaking. “Gonna give you somethin’ to think about next time you lay awake in that bed of yours. Gonna fuck you on this table till you don’t remember what you came down here mad about.”

The word fuck lands hard in you, a punch and a promise all at once. 

You grip the edge of the wood like it’s all that’s keeping you upright, though you’re already bent, already braced.

“Say it,” he murmurs, leaning in until his chest brushes your back, bare skin hot where it touches the thin cotton. 

The admission sits in your throat like a hot stone. It feels enormous. It feels like stepping off a ledge.

“I want—” The word catches, but his thumb flicks over you again, sharp and sure, and your hips roll without permission, a little helpless grind that betrays every fight you’ve been waging with yourself. “I want you,” you gasp, shame and relief crashing together. “I want you to—to do somethin’ about it.”

He lets out a sound that’s almost a groan, almost a laugh, almost a curse, his body crowding you tighter, his weight a solid wall of heat at your back. “That’s my girl,” he says, and the possession in it makes your knees wobble, makes that core of you clench hard around nothing.

His hand leaves your back long enough to grab a fistful of your nightgown at the hem, yanking it up in one rough motion that leaves it bunched around your waist. 

Cool air hits your drawers, the bare backs of your thighs, the soft part just under your cheeks, and then his palm is there, skin to skin at last, cupping you hard. 

His fingers dig in, thumbs pressing outward, spreading you slightly, mapping the give.

“You’re shakin’,” he says, sounding pleased. “Ain’t even touched you proper yet.”

“You’re takin’ your time,” you manage, though the words shake too.

He chuckles, low. “First time’s never good when a man rushes,” he answers, matter-of-fact. “And I know you ain’t had nobody in you yet, feelin’ the way you do under my hand.”

Before you can answer, his fingers hook into the waistband of your drawers and tug. The fabric resists for a second, elastic biting into soft flesh, then slides down, dragging over your hips, over the swell of your ass, down the backs of your thighs until they tangle around your knees. 

He leaves them there, trapping your legs just enough you can’t kick or close up, just enough that you’re open and vulnerable and aware of it.

Cool air kisses you everywhere the cloth just left. 

You feel filthy, bare from waist to mid-thigh, bent over his table with your nightgown rucked up, your cunt exposed to the room, to him. It makes your head swim.

Then his hand is back, and there is no room for anything else.

He cups you from behind, fingers sliding through the slick heat of your folds, and you hear a sharp breath hitch out of him. “Oh, hell,” he says, reverent.

You make a broken, helpless sound that doesn’t sound like it belongs to you. 

No one’s ever been there before, not like this, not with fingers spreading you, rubbing through you, middle finger catching on that aching bud you’ve only ever touched in the dark with guilty hands. 

The sensation is lightning-bright, stabbing up your spine.

“Easy,” he murmurs, palm flattening across your low back again, his body curving over yours, caging you. “I got you. Gonna make it good for you before I stretch you around me. Don’t want you too scared to enjoy your first fuck.”

The way he says first fuck, like he’s staking a flag there, like he’s carving his name into it, makes something fierce flicker through you, a strange pride knotting up with the fear. 

You push back against his hand without meaning to, chasing more.

He feels it. “That’s it,” he encourages, fingers pressing deeper between your lips now. “Ask for what you want with that pretty body. Tell me where it hurts.”

“Everywhere,” you pant, honesty ripped out of you on a wave. “It hurts everywhere.”

He laughs, breath hot against your neck, mouth close enough you feel the shape of it. “That ain’t hurt, girl,” he says. “That’s need.” 

His fingers finally find your entrance, slick and hot and clutching, and he presses the pad of one inside, just the tip, testing. Your whole body clenches around that intrusion.

“You relax for me,” he tells you, tone sliding into something commanding. “Breathe.”

You suck in air, lungs burning. 

He slides the finger in a little further, thick and probing, opening you. 

The stretch is sharp, uncomfortable, but there’s an undercurrent of relief in it. He works it in and out slowly, letting you get used to the feel, letting your body learn the shape of him.

“That’s good,” he murmurs when he feels you soften around him, the praise lighting up something small and hungry in your chest. “See? You take my finger just fine. Gonna take my cock too when I’m done with you.”

He adds a second finger before you can brace, and this time the stretch makes you gasp loud, muscles clamping down. It burns, a deep, insistent ache, like you’re being pried open.

“Shh,” he soothes, his index finding that little bundle of nerves again, circling steady, sending sparks to chase the hurt. “I know. I know. We gotta loosen you up some or you’ll split yourself on me.”

The blunt truth of it makes you squeeze your eyes shut, face hot against your forearm. 

You can feel him behind you, solid, his chest glued to your back, his arm moving between your legs. When you manage to breathe past the initial shock, the burn eases, replaced by a full, pressurized feeling that fills your head with nothing but sensation.

He moves his fingers, slow at first, pumping them in and out of you in short strokes, stretching, coaxing. 

Your body starts to answer despite itself, hips rocking back in tiny motions, seeking that deep, sweet drag. 

Every thrust brushes against something inside you that makes your legs tremble, makes your breath hitch. 

“Listen to that,” he says, voice thick, and it takes you a second to realize he means the wet sound loud in the little kitchen as his fingers work in and out of you. “You hear yourself takin’ me in? That’s you wantin’ it.”

It’s filthy and true and you can’t deny it. 

There's a coil tightening low in your belly, every nerve in your body funneling to where his hand is. Your grip on the table edge goes slippery with sweat.

“Remmick,” you gasp, not even sure what you’re asking for, only that you’re strung too tight.

“There you go,” he groans, fingers driving a little deeper, curling just right.

It hits without much warning. One second you’re climbing, the next you’re over the edge, everything snapping. 

Your body seizes around his fingers, clenching so hard it almost hurts, that coil unspooling in a rush of pleasure so intense it blanks your mind.

A breathless moan tears up your throat. Your thighs shake, knees nearly buckling, if it weren’t for his hand on your back and the table under your palms you’d be on the floor.

“That’s it,” he groans, riding you through it, fingers still working, still moving until you’re whimpering, too sensitive, twitching with each little aftershock. 

You sag against the table when it finally lets you go, chest heaving, sweat cooling on your neck. He eases his fingers out of you slow, gentle for the first time since you walked in, his hand sliding up to rest on your hip. You can feel his other hand at your back again, rubbing small circles, keeping you grounded.

“First one’s always a little wild,” he says, sounding almost fond. “You doin’ all right?”

You nod, or try to. Your head feels full of cotton, floaty and heavy all at once. “I—” Your voice comes out hoarse. You clear your throat. “I’m fine.”

“You’re more than fine,” he says, and there’s a smile in it. “You’re perfect.” He shifts behind you, and that’s when you feel it, really feel it—his cock pressed up against the back of your thigh through the fabric of his trousers. 

He’s been hard this whole time, you realize dimly, all that while he was working you open. The blunt head drags over your skin when he adjusts, the thickness of him obvious even through cloth.

Your stomach flips, fear and anticipation knotting together. “You’re really—”

“Oh, I’m really.” He sounds almost amused. “You wanted me to take you on this table, remember?” 

His hand leaves your back and you hear the soft, familiar sound of a belt coming loose, a buckle clinking, the rasp of leather through belt loops. Then buttons, quick and practiced, fabric shifting.

You suck in a breath, every sense straining.

A moment later, something hot and slick—not his fingers this time—nudges against your entrance. He slides the head of his cock through your slick folds slowly, up and down, coating himself in you, bumping your clit on the downstroke, making you twitch.

“Jesus,” he mutters, more to himself than you. “You feel that? How you’re grabbin’ at me already and I ain’t even in?”

You do feel it, and it’s terrifying. Your body recognizes him as something it’s meant to hold, meant to take, even as your mind stumbles over the size of him, over what this means.

“I—wait,” you say, panic flaring for a second, the reality of it looming. “Remmick, I’m—”

“I know,” he says, and for once there’s no teasing in it. “You listen to me. It’s gonna burn at first, then it’s gonna feel like you never should’ve gone without it this long. You trust me?”

You hesitate. He feels it in the way your muscles tense around the head of him. His hand comes up, fingers wrapping loosely around your throat from behind, thumb tipping your chin just a little. The touch sends a different kind of shiver through you, sharp and grounding.

“I ain’t gonna break you,” he says quietly, close to your ear. “I want you comin’ back to this just as bad as I want you right now.” His hips roll just enough that the blunt tip presses hard against your opening. 

The hand at your throat, the tone in his voice, the memory of his fingers and the way your body just came apart on them thirty seconds ago—they all crash together, and you find yourself nodding before you know you’re doing it.

“Go,” you whisper, the word trembling, but there.

He makes a sound then that’s half-growl, half-groan, all man. His grip on your throat tightens just a hair, his other hand clamping down on your hip.

“That’s my girl,” he says again, rough with need. “Hold on.”

The head of him breaches you with more resistance than his fingers ever met. 

Your body tries to clamp down, to keep him out, muscles fighting the stretch. He doesn’t slam in, but he doesn’t baby you either. He works himself in slow, steady pressure, teeth gritted, hips driving forward inch by thick inch.

The burn is real. It’s sharp, like you’re being split open from the inside. You gasp, nails scraping at the wood, whole body bowing. For a second it’s too much.

“Breathe,” he grunts through his own strain, hand at your throat sliding up to your jaw, thumb pressing at your cheek. “Breathe through it. You’re takin’ me. Look at you. You’re takin’ me.”

He isn’t wrong. Beneath the pain, there’s this breathless awe—at the size of him, at the way your own body yields, at the feel of being filled in a way you never have before. 

You force yourself to inhale, exhale, again, again. Your muscles flutter around him, protesting, then slowly easing.

When the broadest part of his head passes the tight ring of your entrance, the rest slides in easier, still stretching, still burning, but less violently. 

He sinks deeper, stopping only when his hips are flush with your ass, his pelvis pressed to your backside, balls snugged up against your cunt. You can feel him everywhere, heavy and solid in your core, pulsing faintly.

“Christ,” he rasps, the words hot against your neck. “I can barely think straight. Sweet girl, you just swallowed every inch of me.”

You exhale shakily, overwhelmed. Full doesn’t begin to cover it. You feel stuffed, stretched to the point of coming apart, and yet under the ache, something else is already starting—a low, thick pleasure that moves like honey, spreading outward from where you’re joined.

He holds still for a long moment, breathing hard into your hair, chest rising and falling against your back. His hand at your hip rubs little circles, the one at your jaw softening its grip.

“You tell me when it stops hurtin’ so sharp,” he says. “I ain’t in no rush, even if my cock’s yellin’ otherwise.”

You try to focus. The worst of the burn ebbs, leaving a throbbing soreness, but the sense of him—deep, impossible, yours—is starting to bloom into something almost good.

“Move,” you whisper, surprising yourself. “Just a little.”

He laughs, breath short. “Greedy already,” he says. “Alright.”

He pulls back, just an inch, maybe two, dragging that thick length along your walls. The friction is intense, raw and tender and electric all at once. Then he pushes in again, slower, watching for any flinch. 

Your fingers dig into the table, but you don’t cry out, don’t tell him to stop. Your body clutches at him on the way out, sucks at him on the way back in.

He does it again. And again. Each shallow thrust smooths the hurt a little more, replaces it with deeper sensation. The initial sting fades into a deep, stretching fullness that makes your knees weak, that makes heat lick up your spine in waves.

“That’s it,” he murmurs, hand sliding from your jaw back down to your throat, wrapping around it more firmly this time, not cutting your air, just pinning you, reminding you where you are and who’s holding you. “Now we’re gettin’ somewhere.”

He lengthens his strokes, pulling back farther, pushing in harder. The wet slap of his hips meeting your ass starts up, quiet at first, then louder, the sound of skin on skin obscene in the still night. 

Every push drives him deeper, nudging at something inside you that makes your breath jump, that sends little shocks through your belly, like he’s bumping the edge of something tender and secret and his.

Your body has learned the shape of him, stretching you from the inside. 

You can feel every ridge, every vein, the way the fat head spears through the tight clutch of you and then disappears into that deep, hot place that was empty your whole life and now is nothing but him.

His hand at your throat tightens, just a little. Not enough to cut your air, but enough to make each breath a thing you have to pull for, chest heaving against the table edge. His palm is broad and warm, thumb resting under your jaw, fingers curved along the side of your neck. 

Every time his hips snap forward, that grip reminds you he’s there; it pins you in your own skin so you can’t float away from what’s happening, can’t pretend it’s anything but what it is: you getting fucked open on a man’s cock in his kitchen like you were meant for it.

Then his hand drops. It slides down the column of your throat, over the dip of your collarbone, fingers spreading wide as they drag lower, rough palm grazing the top swell of your breast through the thin cotton. 

He cups you from behind, big hand wrapping around the weight of it, lifting, squeezing. The nightgown bunches under his fingers as he kneads, thumb rolling over your nipple until it stiffens hard, the fabric rasping just enough to make you whine.

“There,” he mutters, voice gone thick, like he has to taste every part of you. “Knew these’d feel good in my hand.”

He squeezes once more, harder, the pressure sending a sharp line of sensation straight down to where he’s buried in you, your nipple trapped between his thumb and the heat of his palm. 

Your back arches, pushing more of your tit into his grip even as his cock grinds deeper. 

For a second you’re caught between the drag inside and the rough, greedy hold on your breast, pleasure ricocheting between the two.

Then his hand is moving again, leaving your aching nipple peaked under the cotton, skimming back up over your breastbone, returning to your throat like it owns the place. His fingers curl back into their collar around your neck, thumb settling under your jaw, holding you where he wants you while his hips keep driving.

“Listen to you,” he groans, and you realize he doesn’t just mean your voice—wrecked and breaking on every inhale—but the wet, filthy noise your body’s making, the slick drag of his cock pulling out of you, the obscene squelch when he pushes back in, the slap of his balls hitting the curve of your cunt. “You hear that? That’s this pussy lovin’ every inch I’m givin’ her.”

The word makes your stomach flutter and your cunt clench down around him so tight he curses, hips stuttering. 

There’s no room for modesty now; everything between your legs is wide awake and telling on you. 

Every time he pulls back, your inner muscles chase after him, hugging, clinging, like you’re frightened of losing that fullness, like your body’s praying he’ll push right back in—and he does, like he’s answering a call.

He adjusts his stance, feet shifting on the rough floor, and angle changes. The next thrust lands different, deeper, the thick head of him driving up and forward to grind against a spot inside you that makes your vision white out around the edges for a beat. 

You jolt, a strangled noise ripping out of you, fingers scraping along the tabletop as your whole body goes tense.

“There it is,” he pants, catching that reaction, chasing it. 

He does it again on purpose, hips rolling instead of just snapping, driving that same path, making sure he hits that spot with the crown every time. 

“You feel that? Right there? That’s what you been needin’, girl. That ache way up high you ain’t never had a name for.”

He's right on it now, relentless. 

Each stroke is a steady assault, steady enough your body starts to learn the pattern, tension building with every collision. The soreness from taking him the first time smooths into a deep, hot throb that wraps around the pleasure, one feeding the other. 

Your toes curl, your thighs tremble, your stomach ripples around the intrusion like you’re trying to swallow him even deeper.

He slides the hand from your hip back around your front, into the slick heat between your thighs, and finds your clit like he’s been doing it all his life. 

His fingers are slick with your own mess, rough pads moving in tight, ruthless circles over that swollen bud. It sends lightning directly up your spine, straight to the base of your skull. 

You choke on a sound that isn’t quite a word and jerk against his hand; his arm around your throat holds you in place.

“Goddamn, you’re twitchy,” he groans, grinding his hips down so the bone of him presses your ass, so his cock bruises into that soft spot inside while his fingers roll your clit. “You gonna fall apart on me again? You gonna let me feel you squeeze all over my cock proper this time?”

Your answer is a breathless, broken, “Please,” your voice ragged, half sob, half prayer. 

The table shudders under the force of his thrusts now, the legs complaining in small creaks that match the rhythm of his hips. The lamp flame jumps in its glass, throwing wild shadows against the wall—a tangle of your bent body and his frame hunched over you, shoulders rolling as he works inside you like he’s plowing up hard ground.

Spit slicks your lips; you realize at some point your mouth fell open and just forgot how to close, breath dragging in ragged, wet pulls. 

You couldn’t be bothered to care if you tried; everything is narrowed to the hot place his cock is sawing through and the bright, brutal pulses from his fingers on your clit.

He can feel you climbing, feel your body drawing in tight around him, feel your channel starting to flutter. He growls, low and guttural, the sound pressed against the back of your neck. “That’s it. That’s it, squeeze me.”

His hand at your throat tightens a hair more, narrowing the world to his breathing and yours, the rush of blood in your ears, the drag of wood under your palms. 

The smallest bit of pressure makes every sensation hit harder; your body goes light and heavy at the same time, limbs tingling, cock-deep pull inside you the only thing that feels solid.

He pistons into you now with a steadier, punishing rhythm, cock dragging from the fat base at your entrance all the way to that deep end that makes your belly flip, then back again. 

Your ass jiggles from each impact, flesh rippling under his grip. His fingers at your clit don’t falter.

You can hear yourself now, high and ruined, begging without even knowing what for. “Don’t stop—don’t—Remmick, don’t—oh—oh God—”

“Mhm, use my name,” he hisses, hips crashing into yours, the wet slap echoing off the close walls. “You say it when you can’t hold yourself together no more.”

He leans forward, the sweat on his skin slick against the thin cotton of your nightgown bunched at your waist. 

His mouth finds the side of your neck, teeth scraping over the delicate skin there, then biting down just hard enough to make you gasp. He sucks, draws blood closer to the surface in a hot sting that only makes your cunt flutter harder around him.

Between the choke of his hand, the sharp pinch of his teeth, the relentless grind of his cock, and the ruthless attention on your clit, you don’t stand a chance.

The orgasm slams into you hard enough your knees buckle, your body trying to curl in on itself while he holds you stretched over the table. 

Everything constricts at once—your throat around his hand, your belly around the deep ache, your cunt around his cock. You clamp down on him with startling force, walls seizing, milking, clutching like you’re trying to suck him straight out of his skin.

You cry out. There’s no pretty word for it. Sound rips out of you high and raw, your voice cracking on his name. 

Your vision goes fuzzy with white at the edges, the kitchen shrinking to the rough wood under your hands and the thick, unyielding length splitting you and the brutal roll of pleasure ripping through you in waves.

“Fuck—fuck,” he grunts at your ear, the feeling of you spasming around him cutting through every ounce of control he has left. “That’s it, that’s it, girl, grip me—Jesus—”

He doesn’t stop moving, not really; he grinds through it, forcing his cock to keep sliding, short, deep thrusts, using the vice of your orgasm to wring everything he can from you. 

You’re shaking all over, thighs trembling so hard your feet skid a little on the floor, toes digging uselessly for purchase. 

Another rush of slick gushes around him, soaking his cock, dripping down over his balls, sliding warm along the inside of your thighs.

Your body keeps clenching in pulses, the pleasure cresting and breaking over and over until it tips toward something sharp, too much. You whimper, the sound small and shredded. His hand leaves your clit finally, stroking shaking skin instead, but his hips don’t stop.

The rhythm goes ragged, less measured, more frantic. His thrusts turn into short, hard ruts, like his body’s the one begging now. His fingers flex around your throat, then loosen just a little, thumb stroking your jaw instead as his breathing unravels.

“Gonna fill you up,” he groans, voice pitched low and rough. “You want that? You want me shootin’ deep in you, huh? Want to feel me leakin’ out you all the way back up to that house?”

The words, filthy as they are, punch right through your oversensitivity and light up something molten in your gut. 

Your sore, flooded cunt tightens around him involuntarily at the thought of carrying him inside you, his spend rolling down your thighs later when you climb into your own bed. 

You can’t shape the answer into full words; what comes out is some strangled mess that sounds like y-yes and a choke.

“Yeah, you do,” he snarls like he heard it. “You greedy little thing, comin’ down here pretendin’ you just wanna talk when your cunt’s hungry as hell.”

He drives in hard, once, twice, three more times, each thrust bottoming him out, pelvis grinding against the round of your ass. 

The slap of his hips is loud now, sloppy, wetter, your combined mess making the impact slick.

Then his whole body locks.

His stomach clenches tight against your back, jaw clamped against the side of your neck. A sound tears out of him, not quite human, something between a growl and a groan. His cock jerks inside you, swelling even thicker for a heart-stopping second, and then you feel it—hot, heavy spurts of him spilling deep, pounding against your cervix, flooding that space that’s been empty your entire life with a hot, liquid fullness.

He curses low and hoarse on each pulse, hips rocking in tiny, helpless movements as he empties himself, his own climax dragged out by the way your slick, oversensitive walls keep squeezing and fluttering around him. Every time your cunt milks him, another rope of cum kicks out of him, painting you inside.

“God—damn—” he grits, shuddering, one hand sliding from your throat to slap down next to your own on the table, fingers splayed wide, knuckles white on the wood. “You feel that? Feel me givin’ it to you?”

You do. You feel all of it. Every pulse, every twitch, every deep throb of him lodged inside, filling you, staking a claim. Your whole body feels stuffed, weighty, like he’s poured something molten into your bones.

The shakes take him then. You feel them where his chest is plastered to your back, quivers running through him in waves as his orgasm tapers off. 

His cock softens a little inside you but doesn’t slip free; your swollen entrance and the spent thickness of him keep you plugged together. Each small movement sends a slow, slick ache radiating outward.

For a long moment neither of you says anything.

He slumps more of his weight onto you without meaning to, and you sag under it, cheek pressed to the tabletop, breaths coming in harsh, uneven pulls. 

Sweat has glued your nightgown to your ribs where it’s still covering your upper body; where it’s bunched around your waist, the fabric clings damp to your skin with a mixture of your own wetness and his.

Eventually, he finds his voice, though it’s wrecked, scraped raw at the edges. “Jesus,” he mutters, words ghosting hot over the shell of your ear. 

For the first time since he pushed into you, he eases his hips back.

You gasp, a little shocked moan slipping out as his softening cock drags along your raw walls. 

When his head slips past your entrance, your muscles clench on instinct, reluctant to let him go, but gravity wins. He slides free, leaving you empty in a way that feels sharp, unfinished, even with his cum already starting to seep down, warm, from inside you.

Something thick and wet trickles out immediately, a slow, viscous roll that slides over your swollen folds and down the curve of your inner thigh. You feel it clearly, a hot trail in the cooler air of the kitchen. The knowledge of what it is, whose it is, makes your face burn and your belly tighten all over again.

He sees it too.

“Look at that,” he says softly, voice full of rough, satisfied awe. 

His hand leaves yours and slides down, palm cupping the underside of your ass, thumb catching one of those white streaks, spreading it lazily over your sensitive skin. You flinch, a little gasp escaping before you can stop it.

“Too much?” he asks.

“A little,” you admit, breath still stuttering. 

He makes a pleased sound at that, thumb dragging one last lazy stripe through the mess before he rubs his hand off on his own thigh. 

He straightens slowly, the absence of his weight making you sway for a second. His hands, empty now, come to your waist, smoothing down the bunched nightgown. He tugs it back into place over your hips, hiding what he’s done as best cloth can hide it.

Then he crouches a little, fingers catching the waistband of your drawers. They’re still tangled around your knees, sticky with your slick. 

He coaxes them up, guiding the cotton over your tender flesh, covering your cunt, trapping his spend where it is. 

The pull of the fabric against your oversensitive skin makes you hiss and bite your lip, but it also feels lewd and intimate in a different way—his cum pressed up against you, soaked into the cloth that sits right over your entrance.

He knows exactly what he’s doing, sealing you up like that. It shows in the way his thumb lingers a second too long at the gusset, pressing lightly, as if to make sure the material is snug, as if to feel one more time that he’s right there even with clothes between you.

“Gonna be walkin’ home with your panties stickin’ to you and a piece of me tryin’ to leak right back out,” he murmurs, voice a dark purr. “You’ll be thinkin’ of me every step.”

You make a weak noise, somewhere between a protest and something softer. Your legs feel unsteady when he finally helps you pull them fully into place, when he urges you upright with hands at your waist. 

When you stand, it’s like your bones have gone wrong—heavy at the hips, light at the knees, a deep, interior throb that makes you aware of your own body in a way you’ve never been.

He turns you gently, so your hip leans back into the edge of the table instead of your chest, so you’re facing him. His hair is damp and rumpled, a curl fallen low over his forehead, chest and stomach slick with sweat. 

His gaze sweeps over you, taking in the mussed nightgown, the bite marks blossoming at your throat and shoulder where his teeth worried your skin, the slackness of your mouth, the glassy shine to your eyes. 

Confidence sits easy on him; he looks like a man who’s put in a long night’s work and is proud of the job he’s done.

“You’re gonna cuss me tomorrow,” he says, voice low and a little smug. “When you sit down. When you walk. But you ain’t gonna regret it.”

You swallow, throat thick, his words settling warm and heavy between your ribs.

“No,” you admit, even quieter than before, and there’s no sense lying now. “I don’t… regret it.”

His mouth curves. “Good.”

You look away, suddenly aware of the time, of the silence of the big house up the hill, of how your mama and daddy are sleeping through something that’s gone and rearranged their daughter from the inside out.

“I need to go,” you say, voice small but steadying. “Before my father wakes up for water, or Mama starts callin’ and finds my bed empty.”

His hands fall from your waist, though not without one last, slow sweep along the curve of you, like he’s committing it to memory. 

“Go on,” he says. “Before I talk you into layin’ down on that bed in there and not leavin’ till the rooster screams.”

Your body responds to the image with an exhausted throb, a clench around nothing. 

You push off the table and take a careful step. Your thighs rub, slick, the damp cotton of your drawers pulling against you; you feel a fresh little leak of him inside you, a warm ooze that soaks into the fabric and clings. It makes you stutter a little, the soreness set deep in your core.

Remmick watches the way you move, jaw flexing, something like pride and hunger both tightening his face. 

He reaches for his trousers, tucking himself away, but he doesn’t bother with a shirt yet, doesn’t bother pretending he’s anything but what he is: the man who just fucked you on his kitchen table and filled you til you’re walking crooked.

You make it to the door on legs that still shake. Your fingers land on the frame as you pull it open, the cool breath of the night spilling in. 

Before you step out, you glance back. His eyes are on you, unreadable now, dark and steady in the lamplight.

“You come down here again,” he says, voice quiet, sure, “don’t pretend you’re just here for salve or scoldin’. You knock on my door after dark, I know what you’re askin’ for.”

You hold his gaze, the soreness between your thighs, the fullness inside you, the ache in your muscles all speaking louder than any denial you could muster. 

His eyes follow you out into the dark, low and pleased, and as you cross the yard barefoot, nightgown brushing your knees, his cum warm and sticky between your legs, you know he’s standing there in that doorway shirtless, watching you go with no shame at all, already planning just how he’ll take you the next time you come scratching at his door.

The sun made a rare appearance from beyond the thick winter clouds above the small town of Patience. Birds fluttered about in the trees outside your bedroom window, their joyful chirps stirring you from your already restless sleep. You lifted a hand to your face and harshly rubbed your tired eyes. Yawning as you blinked awake, your gaze hit the ceiling fan that quietly spun above your bed. The blades were coated with a thin layer of dust. You hadn’t exactly been up to menial tasks in the past few weeks.

Not since Sam died.

Taking a deep breath, you blindly reached for your phone amongst the thick blankets. It felt like you had been tossing and turning for days. You finally grabbed your phone and mentally braced yourself for the ungodly hour.

7:16. AM.

Good god… I’m gonna die of old age before I manage to sleep again…

You threw your phone back into the bed and let out a frustrated groan. Grabbing the blanket, you rolled over and forcefully squeezed your eyes shut.

Come on, come onnn… What is wrong with you? Sam is gone and you not sleeping isn’t going to help. And you know Asta and Harry would never let anything happen to you. Everything is fine.

You let out a deep breath, your muscles relaxing and your mind starting to settle. The warmth of your blankets paired with the space heater on your nightstand finally began to lull you to sleep.

Until a series of loud bangs rattled your front door.

Your eyes shot open as you sat up. Another series of loud bangs shook your small cabin, your heart starting to race and your chest tightening with fear. What the hell? Your eyes stayed trained on your bedroom door as you blindly searched for your phone yet again. Just as your thumb found the power button, ready to click it rapidly to initiate a call for the police, a faint yell from outside made you freeze.

“(Y/n)..! Are you home, I need you to be home..!”

Was that… Harry? You sat still for a long moment before finally willing yourself to stand. Grabbing your robe from the floor, you hastily threw it on and rushed to the front door. Harry began pounding at it once again, and you had to wait for him to stop to finally open the door. You squinted as the bright light of the morning sun engulfed you. Harry looked panicked, almost frightened, as he stole a quick glance behind him.

“Oh (y/n) thank goodness you are home, I… am in some trouble.”

You rubbed your eyes in an attempt to adjust them to the light, confusion replacing the fear that had been so heavy in your chest.

“Trouble..? What do you mean trouble? Harry, it’s seven in the morning, I-“

“Please! We are running out of time, they will be here soon…”

He looked at you earnestly, something about his expression making you realize this may be more serious than it seemed.

“I need to hide. They only followed me here, they are unaware that you are my friend.”

Your heart fluttered as you mindlessly stepped aside to let him in, a sweet smile pulling at your lips. Harry rushed past you without a second glance. You simply watched him go.

We’re friends..?

Harry began to wander around your cabin, lifting random things and opening random drawers and cabinets. You silently followed him for a moment before the cold floors on your bare feet began to sting.

“Um… Harry?”

The man paused, holding one of your couch cushions. He simply stared at you expectantly. It made you oddly nervous.

“Do I… Uh… Do you got this? Like, do I need to be awake for this?”

He seemed to ponder your question before putting your couch cushion back into place.

“I suppose not. I am simply hiding from the government. You do not need to be involved.”

You opened your mouth to respond, though you were left speechless. Deciding it would take far too much energy to ask questions, you simply nodded and returned to your bedroom. You climbed back into bed, pulling the blankets up to your chin and tucking them around you. Your eyes fell shut, though your thoughts raced faster than ever.

What the hell is going on? Why would the government be after Harry? Is he a criminal? No, there’s no way. He would never. Also, it doesn’t matter. Friends don’t question friends. And Harry is my friend.

A shiver ran the length of your spine.

Harry is my… friend… Oh my god was Asta right? Do I like Harry?!

You gasped and jumped up as your bedroom door burst open. Harry rushed inside and slammed it behind him, momentarily struggling with the lock. He was rambling before you could compose yourself enough to speak.

“They are here, the government is here! They will try anything to get me. I can no longer hide. I must…”

He looked at where you were sitting in your bed. You could practically see the gears in his mind turning.

“Blend in… Yes! I am the husband and…”

Your eyes widened as he began to unbuckle his belt.

“Harry..?”

He practically ripped his shoes and jeans off, pulling his jacket and shirt off along with them as he climbed into the bed. You squealed as his hands found the tie to your robe.

“And you are the wife! And we…”

Your skin burned like hellfire as his large hands skimmed your sides. Something about him had you paralyzed. You could merely stutter as Harry pulled off your top, exposing your chest to the cold morning air. He was momentarily mesmerized at how quickly your nipples hardened and how your face flushed. However, there was no time. He subdued his urge to grope at your tender flesh and instead pushed you flat onto your back. Your eyes were the size of dinner plates as you watched him pull down your sleep shorts. You were completely exposed.

“H-Harry..?”

Your trembling whisper fell on deaf ears as he pulled the blanket over his back and moved to climb on top of you. Your heart stopped at the feeling of his unexpectedly hard cock pressing against your thigh. Harry simply offered you a proud smirk.

“We will have sex. It is the perfect way to blend in! They will never see it coming, they will be like ‘wow that is just a husband and a wife having sex and they are-‘“

The feeling of Harry’s fingers tracing down your thighs seemed to jolt you back to reality.

“No, no, no Harry wait!!”

He immediately froze at your refusal, almost seeming confused. You gripped his wrists with shaking hands, attempting to choose your words carefully as you searched his blue eyes.

“What if… Instead w-we… Maybe just… cuddle? Naked? Then they might think we were… you know… Before they got here..?”

Harry contemplated your idea for a long moment. Your grip on his wrists loosened as he chuckled awkwardly and moved to lay beside you.

“Ha ha! You are so smart and they are so stupid (y/n)!”

He outstretched his arms and gestured for you to come closer. You relaxed and let out a breathy laugh.

“Thanks Harry.”

Hesitating for the slightest second, you crawled into Harry’s arms and let him pull you against him. His skin was hot, almost concerningly so, but it practically beckoned you to get closer. Your limbs entangled together, your head resting against Harry’s chest. His heart thumped erratically against your cheek.

“That is why you are my friend.”

You laid still for a long moment before lifting your head. Harry met your gaze curiously.

“I… I like being your friend, Harry…”

He simply smiled, his lack of response or reaction making you grab his chin sternly.

“No, Harry. I mean I… really like being your friend…”

His eyes widened as your gaze fell to his lips. Your thumb grazed his cheek lazily, and Harry found himself compelled to pull you into a feverish kiss. His hands fell to your waist, making you squeak as he moved to pull you on top of him. Pulling away for just a moment, he rested his forehead against yours and took a ragged breath.

“I… really like being your friend as well, (y/n)…”

You smiled, biting your lip as you glanced towards your bedroom window.

“Ya know…”

You turned back to Harry with a devious smirk, your hands falling to his chest.

“I would really hate for you to… not blend in…”

He shared your glance towards the window before nodding promptly.

“That is a good idea. You are a very smart and loyal human.”

You simply blinked at him.

Human? Is this some weird god complex type thing?

Harry pulled you closer and captured your lips with his once again. This kiss felt slower and more passionate. You found yourself melting into his touch.

Ah what the hell, I can be into it…

~

Lisa sighed as she tossed away the binoculars she was using. David frantically tapped away at his laptop from across the van.

“I’m telling you, this has to be it! That signal is supposed to lead us right to him!”

Lisa shook her head. Her annoyance was about to get the best of her.

“I’m telling you that can’t be him.”

David looked up at her, confused. She scoffed and got up to situate herself back in the driver’s seat of the RV.

Fucks you in front of a mirror because he wants you to see what he sees

How beautiful and sexy you are when you're turned on out of your mind

Doesn't let you touch your clit

Simply because he wants this to last longer, he wants to edge you like he's been edged while he was away

But also because your poor clit must have been so abused by you when you touched it every night, wishing he was doing it instead

Grabs your hands and holds them by the wrists because they keep moving towards your pussy

You had fun with it long enough, now it's his turn to make it come

Kisses your neck to feel how your pulse spikes every time he thrusts into your wet hole

The sounds of it alone are enough to be his jerk off material for weeks

Which he rarely does of he was honest, he prefers unloading his cum in your pussy

Cleans up the mess he makes, very slowly, and finally gives your clit some attention, licking the cum up and over it and then sucking it off