#farmer!remmick

The first thing he saw was your tired eyes, barely open. The slip of your nightgown hanging off your shoulders, and your hair frizzed to the side. You looked like you just stumbled out of bed— probably right on that part.

You opened the door slightly, eyes squinting from the sun peeking past his shoulders, and then gradually opened them— realization crossing through your face.

"…Remmick?" You yawned, pulling the door open wider.

He cleared his throat, tipping his hat down. “Mornin'," he said with a nervous smile on his face.

"You're early." You said softly, turning your head to look at the clock on the wall. "I thought you said you'll be here in the afternoon?"

"I-I know— sorry." He shifts his weight from one leg to the other. "I just thought if I came early—" he faltered, embarrassed. "You know what? I could come back—"

"No, No— it's fine." You assured him, covering your mouth to yawn again. “Come on in." You walked back, pulling the door open to let him in.

 He stepped inside, removing his hat immediately. It was dimly lit inside, the curtains drawn closed. There was a hint of cinnamon apple that graced his nostrils, and the smell of Pine-Sol somewhere else. 

"I hope you don't mind the mess— I've been rearranging." You sighed.

"I-It's not a problem—" A flush slowly creeps up his face when he notices your nightgown. It's short, stopping just above your knees. He can see how sheer the fabric is, the shape of your breast outlined, your nipples hard against the material.

He gulped, averting his gaze to the pictures on the walls instead.

"W-Where's the um—"

"Kitchen." You pointed, already moving. 

You led him towards the back of the house and he followed right behind you, keeping his eyes up.

There were different family portraits on the wall: Family vacation, horseback riding, and a high school graduation portrait. He couldn't help but admire how pretty you looked in all of them— Especially the one you took during your last birthday party.

You were dolled up, wearing this tight-fitted dress that he could remember in perfect detail. You had the sweetest perfume on, heels that made you taller, and hair pinned up. He remembered he could barely talk to you without feeling embarrassed. 

"I'm glad you came— regardless if it was early as fuck. I wasn't sure who else to ask." You said softly.

"Y-Yeah…" Besides that, he wasn't going to mention the way he can see the pattern of your panties from the back of the gown either. Pink with white flowers scattered around, lacy trimmings that outlined your curves. How it hugged against the fat of your ass— Shit, he just mentioned it.

“Remmick.”

“What— yeah?” he blinked. Stopping abruptly.

“I said thank you for coming,” you repeated, stepping into the kitchen. “You're the only one who probably won't charge me a ridiculous amount of money.”

"It's not a problem.” he smiled wryly, “I um— I wasn't doing anything today anyway." he continued, stepping into the kitchen as well.

"Clearly,” You noted, leaning against the counter while he strode off towards the sink.

He placed his toolbox on the counter and stood in front of the sink. He checked the faucet by turning the handles back and forth. A low hum alerted him but no water came out. Then, he pulled a flashlight out from his back pocket and leaned over to look inside the drain. When he didn't see anything he quickly got down on one knee.

You continued talking, dragging your eyes over his form. “—Why else would you be here so early if you did?" You teased, watching as he worked.

Remmick glanced at you while he opened the cabinets, pushing a few things to the side. "T-That's not true… I'm always early.”

You raised a brow. "You? Early?"

"Yeah?" his voice wavered, averting his eyes back to the items in the cabinet. He took out dish soap and cleaning products from under the sink, placing them off to the side.

“I have things to do later— stuff,” he said, hoping it doesn't come off cheap.

“Like what?” you pushed. 

 You weren't buying it, but you were amused by how long he could try.

He paused, “I've got other things to fix…like my…like my bed.”

“Your bed?" He was a terrible liar. "What's wrong with it?"

“It's been…um…creaking— like, a lot.”

You quirked a brow. “Wouldn't be creaking if you're not doing things on it,” you said offhandedly but it made Remmick pause, his ears turning red immediately.

“T-Things?” He stuttered, almost knocking over a can of Ajax. "I'm… I'm not... w-what are you implying?"

“Suspicious activities— cardio?" You said out loud, like you were naming things off a checklist.

Remmick reached around to feel the pipes, ducking his head underneath.

"—A lot of movement? Active stuff?" You continued, "You're a man aren't you? I'm sure you don't just sleep on it.”

He almost banged his head against the ceiling of the sink.

"G-Goodness— Darlin' I think ya have me for somebody else." He pulled his head back from underneath the sink and turned to look at you.

"Yeah? Really?"

"I don't—" he stopped, trailing his eyes off to the side. "I don't…um…do those things."

"Things?" You pressed, a small smirk forming over your lips. "Now, what are you implying?"

He gulped. Feeling self-conscious suddenly.

"I-I didn't—"

"You know, I can tell when you're lying."

The kitchen felt smaller— like the walls were moving in on him. 

In the presence of someone like you, always so aware of things—especially him, it made it harder to compose himself. You looked at him like you already knew the next words that were going to come out of his mouth— probably the correct tone of wording as well.

"…How—"

“You do this thing where you look away, like people won't be able to tell what you're thinking if they're not looking straight at you.” You tilted your head, gaze sharp. “…Or maybe you're just that obvious.”

"Obvious?" He scoffed, "ain't nothing about me 'obvious'."

"Yeah?" You questioned.

"Yeah."

Remmick doesn't have anything left to say to that, but he knows you caught him when your eyes shift and the next words out of your mouth sent him into a spiral:

"Why are your ears red then?"

He cleared his throat, trying to calm the growing heat elsewhere. He goes back under the sink, hoping it could hide him away— or at least try to.

"J-Just hot in here— that's all."

You hummed, tapping your finger against the counter.

“I'm gonna go freshen up— I'll be back,” you announced and left without waiting for his response.

He couldn't help the need to glance back and watch you leave. He noticed how the fabric of the gown brushed the back of your knees and swayed with each step you took. You turned to walk up the stairs, stretching your arms, and once you disappeared— he quickly went back to working.

"Your ears are red." Echoed in his head. 

He wasn't that obvious…Well…maybe a little— but that's beside the point.

He opened his toolbox and pulled out a handful of tools, sorting through them with a furrowed brow— trying to remember which one might do the trick. With a heavy sigh, he lowered himself to the floor, twisting to lie on his back and scooting halfway into the cramped space beneath the sink.

The cabinet’s edges pressed into his shoulders as he reached up, entirely too small to fit a grown ass man, and he felt around blindly. The texture felt scratchy against the pad of his thumb, the smell told him that something was wrong.

A few twists here, a turn there— rusted knobs resisting him at every angle.

It doesn't take long to spot the issue: clogged pipes and the wear of an old, neglected house.

He doesn't know when the house was first built but the rusted pipes tell him it's probably no more than 40 years old— maybe more.

No wonder the sink had stopped working.

He tightens his grip on a wrench he pulled from his box, and gives another valve a turn—too far, too fast. A deep rumble shudders through the pipes, and a moment later, a sudden spray of cold water blasts him in the face— drenching the top portion of his body.

Coughing and blinking through the mess, he wrestles the pipe shut, the valves screeching as he cranks it tight. The spray cuts off. A second later, he hears the satisfying gurgle of water flowing properly—this time into the sink above.

He shimmies down, pulling himself back from under the cabinets, and wipes the water away from his face. He stood up slowly, feeling the way his shirt clung to his skin— dripping down onto the floor leaving a wet puddle at his feet.

So much for picking out an outfit today.

He shook his head, like a dog— hair ruffled every which way. He threaded his fingers through his strands, moving some that were stuck to his forehead.

He hears you a few minutes later, trailing down the stairs, humming a soft tune that abruptly stops when you notice that he looks disheveled.

“Remmick?!" You quickly jump the last steps, moving towards him in record time. You could see water dripping from his hair, the wide puddle at his feet.

“What—” your voice goes quiet when he slowly starts to unbutton his long-sleeve shirt, pulling it off his skin.

He was wearing a t-shirt underneath but it left little to the imagination. You swallowed— hard — eyeing the way his biceps bulged through the fabric. His chest was large, his nipples prominent through white. 

The fabric clung to his skin like a glove.

“Loose pipes, old house. The usual when you fix a sink,” he said simply, turning around to ring his shirt.

Your eyes trailed over his back, the muscles working every time he twisted his shirt,  squeezing the water out.

"I did what I could, but you'll have to replace the pipes soon. Maybe in a few months." He turned back around, holding his shirt out. "I don't suppose you have a dryer?"

You smiled sheepishly at him, "Nope, broken." You pause, and then: "But I have a towel?"

"Sounds good to me."

You walked around, opening a few drawers. Rummaging through the contents.

"So, how much will that be?"

"Will what be?" he questioned, watching you intently.

"New pipes? Someone to come fix it?" Suddenly, you remembered where you kept the towels stored.

"Well…Joe's Supplies could probably sell them to you for cheap, but—" Remmick's eyes almost pop out when he sees you bend down, opening a cabinet. 

The sheer nightgown was enough but shorts were overkill. It hugged you tightly, riding up enough to give him a peek at your underwear from the bottom—

"—So what you're really saying, is that I'm fucked?"

He gulped, quickly fixing his posture. His jeans suddenly felt too small. "Y-Yeah."

"What do I do now?" You stood up, towel in hand, and turned to face him.

He cleared his throat— something he's been doing a lot since he's been here. "If you, um, buy the pipes— I could, you know? Probably…replace it for you."

He could see your face light up.

 "You will?"

He nodded when you stepped closer, reaching up to pat the towel against his neck.

"Thank you, Rem." You smiled, patting the towel down his chest. "How much do I owe you?"

Something as innocent as this shouldn't be working him up— but it was.

"F-For?"

"Fixing my sink, duh."

"O-Oh, it's nothing." He smiled softly, leaning back against the counter. "F-For you, it's on the house."

You dabbed the towel over his forehead next, making sure to soak as much water as you could. "Oh? Am I that special—"

"Yes." He said a little too quickly.

When you quirked a brow, he coughed slightly.

"Yes," he tried again, keeping his voice steady. "Just let me know when."

You ruffled the towel through his hair, laughing to yourself when you moved it to see his hair mussed.

"Thank you, I don't know what I would do without you." You grinned, dropping the towel around his neck.

He gave you a face. "R-Really?"

You hummed, nodding to yourself. "What other person I know fixes things as good as you?"

"I-I don't know…"

"You're supposed to say 'nobody' ." You laughed, pulling the towel away.

Remmick gulped, "Sorry—"

"Maybe the right word isn't obvious, but, oblivious." You scanned his face, "Are you always this fidgety?"

He shifted on his feet, "I don't…um…know what you mean."

"You're the only guy I know who struggles so badly when it comes to the signs."

"The signs?"

"You know? When someone takes interest? Like that girl in fifth grade."

Remmick frowned, rolling his eyes like a kid. "Who? Suzie?"

"Mhm, you couldn't tell how much she liked you?"

"She used to bully me— called me a vampire cause she made me spill my mama's famous tomato soup down my face!"

You made a face. "'Famous' is an understatement."

"Understatement?! How— you know what? I'm not even gonna talk about it." He folded his arms, visibly seething in front of you— scrunching his face, biting the inside of his cheek.

He looked adorable.

You couldn't help the loud snort that slipped out.

"I'm just teasing ya, Rem."

Silence.

"Rem?"

His nose twitched.

"Rem~" You sang, "come on, Remmy, I was just joking. You really mad at me?"

You placed your hands on his shoulders, smoothing them over his wet sleeves. "Want me to apologize?"

"…Yeah."

"I'm sorry. How's that?"

"You don't…sound sorry."

You pressed closer.

His eyes immediately dropped to your lips.

Obvious.

"I'm sorry, Remmick." You said, hands moving to grab his narrow waist.

His eyes quickly snapped to the side.

Oblivious. 

“Look at me Rem— I'm sorry. Okay?"

The way you were looking at him, eyes soft and lips puckered. Face mere inches away and God— your hands. They were rolling delicate little circles in his side— playful and full of hidden meanings that he was afraid to understand. 

Afraid that it was what he was thinking. 

Could it be? 

It can't…can it? 

"Rem?" You asked, tilting your head. 

If you kept calling him that— he doesn't know what he'll do. 

"Rem, I'm sorry, okay? Can you talk to me—" 

It happened so quickly you barely had time to react. Your eyes widened, mind blank when he pressed his lips to yours. They were slightly cold but it wasn’t unpleasant. 

He doesn't know what came over him, doesn't know why he did it— but it felt right. He leaned forward, his lips on yours— kissing with that sort of clumsiness that made it known that it was real. 

He had to shut his eyes to keep from staring into yours.

His hand snaked behind your back, holding you close like you might vanish— like all those times in his dreams where it played out exactly like this. You, him, alone. Different scenarios but it all ended in Remmick kissing you. Whatever happened after he woke up instantly. 

You dropped the towel and quickly cupped his face in your hands. Just like his lips, his skin was cold but it warmed the minute you pressed your hand against it. 

You tilted your head, deepening the kiss, and the moment your tongue pressed against his—  the faint taste of you invading his mouth— he pulled back abruptly, sucking in air like a fish out of water. His hands dropped away like he was just burnt, eyes darting around your face.

His mouth moved before it could stop, "I-I'm s-sorry." He apologized, trembling like a baby deer. "I-I don't know what came over me— Oh m-my — I just couldn't help myself, and you were so close— and you smelled so good— a-and I thought that it was—"

"Rem, slow down." You laughed, shaking your head at the display of nervousness rolling off of him. "Do you see me complaining?"

He blinked. "…N-No?"

"Do you see me getting mad and yelling at you?"

"…No?"

"So, then, it's fine."

"B-But, it's not right for a man to come onto a woman like that— especially someone like you. I-I'm supposed to ask first, make sure you're okay with it, and then—"

"Remmick, if it wasn't okay, you would have been kicked in the balls by now."

He froze. "O-Oh."

A smirk played along your lips, "I'm not so delicate, you know?" You moved into his space again, wrapping your arms around his neck.

"A-All women are—"

"Not me." You said softly, threading your fingers through the back of his head,  fingers twirling the short locks of hair on the back of his neck.

He sucked in a breath.

"There you go again, acting all shy." You quipped. "Obvious, oblivious— maybe you're somewhere in between."

"B-But—"

"Remmick, I like you."

He opened his mouth but no words came out. He was permanently in shock, unsure if he was dreaming or if he was dead in his sleep right now. 

"I asked you to fix my sink— yeah, but also because I think you're cute."

"W-Wait— You do?"

You nodded. "I think you're so hot when you work.” You pressed your chest against his, the wet fabric staining the front of your clothes. “Especially when you get this look on your face when you're trying to figure out how to do something."

He looked like a tomato at this point. 

He slowly wrapped his hand around your waist, still careful and shy. "I think you're also…c-cute."

"I know, it's so easy to tell from you."

"Am I…really that obvious?"

"Yup."

“I-I’m sorry. I just…you make me so… I—“

You chuckled, “You don’t have to apologize.” 

“I-I’m sorry—“ he clicked his tongue. “I mean, I didn’t know you liked me. I just assumed that you thought of me as a friend…only.”

“Want me to show you?”

“Show me what?”

“That I don’t think of you as just a friend?”

“H-How?”

"Easy. All you have to do is keep your eyes on me, Rem.” Slowly, you got down on your knees, the water wetting your skin, and you peered up at him through your lashes. Your fingers hooked through his belt buckle, working them open.

Remmick gulped— his eyes averting off somewhere. But then they snapped back when you tugged his hips forward. 

“What did I just say?” You teased, finally pulling his belt apart.

“I-I’m sorry—“ he took a breath, “ o-okay.”

This can't be real.

He covered his face with one hand, peeking through the gaps of his fingers. His other hand was holding the edge of the counter, squeezing, trying to hold on as you worked him open. 

You pulled his pants down, smiling at how small Remmick was trying to make himself. “You're always so shy, I’ve never seen a man—“ your eyes widened when you pulled his briefs down after. 

He was leaking already, the head of his cock flushed red. Swollen and hard against his naval. He had a vein running along the side of his skin, twisting like a vine. He was big— bigger than you've ever seen. 

Probably the biggest you're ever going to get. 

"I-I know," he said, sighing through his hands. Flustered. "Y-You've probably seen better— something more of your style. I-I'm not normal— probably disgusting—"

"N-No." You quickly said, using the pad of your thumb to run soothing circles against his thighs. "Baby, look at me."

Remmick slid his hand down his face, chest rising and falling with desperation. He looked so scared, afraid that you wouldn’t like it— wouldn’t like him. 

"You're perfect." You smiled up at him.  

He felt warmth slide across his chest. "R-Really?"

"Mhmm, of course. Just look at ya,” you wrapped your hand around him and he jumped. “already weeping for me just from kissing." 

“I-I’ve never—“

"Kissed anybody? So that makes me your first?”

He nodded, shamelessly. 

“It’s okay.”

“Y-You sure?” 

"I wouldn't be on my knees in front of you if I wasn't sure."

“S-Sorry—” and then he huffed when he caught himself apologizing again. “Okay...” 

“I just want you to keep your eyes on me— that means you can’t cover your face and look away.”

“O-Okay, I can do that.” 

“Yeah?”

“Y-Yeah.”

You pumped him once, getting a feel— watching the way his stomach tensed. He was staring at you with such intense eyes, like he couldn’t believe that you were here— on your knees with his cock in your hand. 

"You're so cute, Remmick." You pumped him again and he swallowed. "You're always so shy, so nice— Unlike any man I've known before."

He sucked in a breath when you leaned forward to kiss the vein pulsing on his skin. 

"Am I the first one to see you like this too?"

"Y-Yes." He answered breathlessly. Honestly.

"A farm boy, nice, his first time— you're just wrapped in a pretty pink bow for someone, huh?” 

“W-What does that—“

You delved forward, sucking him into your mouth and he shuddered. Your tongue lay flat under the weight of his cock, but that didn’t stop you from rolling it underneath. You watched as his face contorted, his eyes darting from your mouth to everywhere else.

You could tell that this was hard for him. 

He gasped when you pulled back just enough to suck the tip of his cock, your hand pumping the base of him. 

He clenched the edge of the sink tighter, "D-Darlin'—" he choked, jolting when you pushed forward to swallow him whole again.

“G-Goodness.” He moaned, “I-I…you're doing so— o-oh.”

You pulled back, his cock slipping out and you grinned at him. “Keep your eyes on me, okay?” 

“O-Okay.”

You made a show of licking the tip, precum beading against your tongue and he couldn’t help the high-pitched whine that escaped. 

“Darlin’— p-please.” He doesn’t know what he was begging for but the thought of you, the way your tongue kept rolling off of him felt so good— he had to feel more. 

Sensing that, you spit into your hand and grasped him in your hand again— moving your hand back and forth with an antagonizing slow pace. 

“What’cha beggin’ for, Rem? Don’t tell me you thought about this before?” 

“N-No—“

“Liar.” You chuckled. “Your face is already red. I think we’re far past embarrassment.” 

“P-Please— can…can you go faster?”

“Faster?”

He nodded, “Y-Yes.” 

You rolled the pad of your thumb against the slit of his cock and he groaned. “Ask me the right way then.” 

“I-I want your mouth on me—“ he gasped when you cupped his balls with your other hand, rolling them in the palm of your hand. He visibly shuddered when you squeezed, playing with them like stress balls. 

“Keep going. You got it, Rem.” 

“Y-Your mouth— felt so good on me.” He sighed, “A-and your tongue.” 

“Want me to taste you again?”

“Y-Yes please.”

You laughed, going back to pumping him and he moaned out loud. 

“You're so polite, Rem. But I’m afraid you have to tell me exactly what you want.” 

“I-I can’t.” 

“You can. Lemme help you.”

You kissed the tip of his cock, moving to lick the underside of him with messy trails of spit and precum. He felt his stomach tighten, the image of you like this was almost too much to bear. 

“G-Golly—“ his breath hitched when you licked lower, swirling your tongue over his balls, his cock resting on your face. The size of him was so obvious like this. 

You slipped him from your mouth, moving to kiss him once more. “Say it, say you wanna fuck my mouth.” 

He felt his heart skip a beat. “D-Darlin’—“

“Say it,” you demanded.

“I c-can’t—“

“If you don’t, I’ll stop. Leave you here just like this.” You gave him a devilish smirk, clutching the base of his cock without mercy. “Want me to leave?”

“N-No, I don’t want you to—“

“Then say it.” 

He sucked in a breath, trying to find the confidence to repeat your words back. But his hands shot out, fingers interlocking into your hair when you tilted your head back— tongue lulling out to rapidly slap the length of his cock against the flat of your tongue.

It was loud, wet, and obscene. The type you only saw in pornos. He broke eye contact, shutting them closed. Whimpering shamelessly. 

He was putty in your hands. 

"O-Oh— P-Please—" he groaned, rutting his hips forward without meaning to. 

“Please what?” You questioned. 

"C-Can you— can you do that again?" You felt his leg tense. 

You peered up at him, “Watch me then.” 

The moment he finally opened his eyes to look at you, you squeezed him in your hand and slapped his cock against your tongue once more. He let out a low groan, pulling your hair tightly without meaning to. 

“I wanna—“ He curled his hand against your scalp, threading his fingers through your hair. “Wanna f-fuck your mouth.”

“Say it again, baby.” You pushed, watching as he opened and shut his mouth like a fish. 

“P-Please— I wanna— f-fuck your mouth—” 

You barely gave him time to finish before your mouth was on him finally. Pumping what you couldn’t fit into your mouth while swirling your tongue over the tip. 

He rocked his hips forward, watching intently as his cock disappeared and reappeared from your mouth— wet streaks of saliva and cum coating him in a messy show of display. You looked so pretty like this, on your knees, working him over. Face flushed, eyes teary.

 "Darlin— mhm, n-not gonna last—" he moaned, rutting his hips forward. "F-Feels so good— so warm, tight— suckin' me in whole—"

You felt heat pool into your stomach, your cunt clenching around nothing. The sounds he was making were slowly starting to get to you.  

“O-Oh, that’s it,” he groaned. Desperate and needy, holding your head tighter when you pushed forward, making sure that the tip of his cock kissed the back of your throat. 

“R-Right there—“ he moaned, loud and high-pitched. 

Your hand guided back to cup his ass, squeezing him in your hand— pulling him forwards to help him fuck into your mouth more. You wanted to feel him, pull him in deeper. Your moans vibrated against his cock, sending an electric shock through his body. 

"G-God—" he rasped, both hands placed on your head to hold. “ Y-Your so perfect— dreamed about this.” 

You moaned, shutting your eyes, listening while your throat worked around him. 

"Baby— c-can't believe your doin' so well— so perfect—" he thrust into your mouth— once. Pulling your hair gently.

You could feel your cunt leaking, dripping into your panties with no shame. 

"I-I dreamed about this— you." He thrusted up again, kissing your throat with clumsiness. "T-Thought you would be scared of me—mhm, thought you might run away— " another thrust into your throat has your toes curling, stomach lurching forward. 

You clutched the globe of his ass, teetering on the edge of sliding a finger past. 

He locked his hands around your head— a warning not to stop, a silent plea to keep going— on the verge of breaking. 

"I was s-scared— T-Turns out, I should have been scared of you—Oh! K-Keep going." He begged, tipping his head back, jaw slacked. Moaning in broken whimpers of pleasure. "G-Gosh— feel so good— you— feel so good. Takin' me in like this."

You pulled back to pop him out of your mouth, catching your breath,  drool pooling from the corner of your mouth. You kissed the underside of his cock, and then dragged your tongue across the length of him. Coating him once more. 

He rolled his hips forward, his cock gliding over your tongue in one swift motion. "You're gonna— darlin' if you keep— mhm, keep working' me— gonna make me—"

"Y-Yeah?” You breathed, throat slightly sore. “Gonna come?"

He nodded profusely, petting his fingers in your scalp. “A-Almost—“

"Now?" You kissed the slit of his cock, cum coating your lips. 

"C-Close— so close."

“You know what to do.” 

You slipped him back into your mouth and he broke. Holding your hair tight into his hand, jutting his hips once, twice, three times— until he found a rhythm that made him dizzy. 

"I-I'm, darlin' I'm gonna— g-gonna come—"

You moaned around him, digging your nails into the fat of his ass to keep him close. Maneuvering his hips, helping him thrust into your mouth.

"B-Baby— s-soon." He gasped, throwing his head back. "I-I'm sorry for doing this— just, ohh— j-just hold on f'me."

You weren't sure what he meant but you quickly understood when he took a deep inhale and he used both hands that were tight on your head and pulled you forward— shoving himself all the way into the back of your throat, leaving no room for you to breathe. 

The size of him was too much for you to handle— so fucking big, suffocating you— leaving you to gag around him. Tears slipping past and down your cheek. 

A loud, whiny moan slipped from his open mouth. His fingers curled more into your head when your throat clenched around him and he saw white cross his vision. 

He spilled just like that, on your tongue, stuttering his hips— burying himself as deep as he could go. Your throat contracted around him while he rutted forward, trying to keep you in place. Your nose was buried against thick, coarse, hair that tickled. 

“T-That’s it— y-your draining me dry, baby.” He moaned, drenching the back of your throat with everything he had. 

You shut your eyes tightly, gag reflex screaming at you to pull him out— but you refused to. You felt warmth flood your taste buds— too much and still not enough. He groaned out loud, frozen in place, still cumming into your mouth, like you were milking him dry. 

Not once did you move until he was done— his cock spurting its last with his thighs shaking, and loud, breathless moans from his mouth.

He crashed back against the edge of the sink, letting go of your hair, his cock slipping out to lie flaccid against his thigh. 

You opened your mouth, tongue lolling out to show him streaks of white lying on your tongue like a work of art. 

"G-Gosh." He breathed.

He watched as you closed your mouth and visibly swallowed, smiling up at him— face a mess and tears dried against your cheek. 

You stood up, abruptly, dragging his pants up with you, and lazily zipped him back up— belt buckle still hung open, his body twitching every so often from shock. 

You wrapped your hand around the back of his neck, pulling him in close to press his lips against yours. He could still taste the faint traces of himself on your tongue— salty and sweet. 

You placed a kiss on the corner of his mouth, resting your hands on his shoulder. He looked so cute, face still red, ears burning— his chest still heaving.

You opened your mouth to speak, "How was that—"

"Incredible." He beat you to it.

"Was I?"

"Y-Yes…"

"Did you like it?"

"A-A lot… like, more than I can describe."

"Yeah?"

He nodded slowly, biting his lower lip.

”I have another sink for you to fix.” you smirked at him, pulling him by the hand. He followed along with you on wobbly legs while you directed him towards the stairs.

“A-Another one?” he questioned.

“Yeah, it's in my bedroom.” You took a step, Remmick trailing behind you.

“Bedroom…?"

You hummed, "This one might be tricky, but I trust you.” You looked back, taking another step. “And lose the shirt, you won’t need it.” 

It’s a warm evening on the farm and Remmick is sat, resting after a full day of work, in a rocking chair on the front porch of his family’s farm. He’s lightly rocking back and forth, watching you lazily in the patch of grass just out-front, picking colorful flowers. Soft smile on his face. You eventually trot up the porch and come over to him.

“Havin’ fun?” He asks you with a chuckle.

All you do is smile and begin to sit in his lap facing him, knees bending, as you straddle him. His hands move to wrap around your hips, holding you with a light touch. You hum, beginning to arrange the flowers into his hair, one by one, however they would stick out of his wavy hair. He just smiles at you letting you do whatever, just appreciating the closeness. His hands slightly rub against your hips.

“There, perfect.” With a smile of your own you lean forward, quickly pecking him on the lips.

Remmick smiles more as you pull back from the kiss. As his hands rub, he realizes that he doesn’t feel that familiar line of your underwear. His eyes go wide as he tries to hide his panic, then they go back to normal. His sudden reaction doesn’t go unnoticed by you, and you can’t help but grin mischievously. You lift his chin up to look at you.

“Something the matter baby?”

 He swallows, “no…” as says clearing his throat. “Not at all.”

You giggle and roll your hips down. He bites his lip feeling you rub yourself against the seam of his jeans. “You wanna try something?” You whisper to him, just below his ear.

A nod and he gulps, unsure what you had in store for the night. After glancing around the empty space, the farm seems to have not a soul in sight, all the confirmation you need. You unbutton his jeans. Once he realizes what you might be up to his face flushes and the tips of his ears go bright red.

You take your time, pulling the zipper down, reaching past the waistband and tugging his cock free. It doesn’t take much until he’s rock hard, all from a little pumping of your hand around his shaft. Soon you rub his tip through your already wet folds.

He swallows hard. Not believing that this is happening, especially not out in the open.

Your entrance sucks his cock in, sliding through your folds. He stifles a moan feeling his cock sink into you. Quickly you ruffle your dress down, smoothing the crinkles to cover you both up, in case some passersby notice you. They would just see two lovers enjoying a light evening on the porch.

You gently take his chin again; he’s already giving a whine. “I need you to be a good boy for me, Rem. Can you do that?” Voice low as you give him instructions. Whispering at the base of his ear, you tell him he’s not allowed to move. Not a hip roll, not a thrust, nothing. You on the other hand could do what you pleased.

Remmick nods, agreeing. You feel his hands tighten on your hips.

When you kiss him, his hips jerk involuntarily. You tsk at him and he apologies. You are also cruel in the fact that you tell him he as to keep his noises down. To stay quiet. Even though no one was around for miles.  The goal was to watch him fall apart.

Your words sank into that beautiful skull, his cock twitching already. His fingers dig into your hips, when the warmth of your walls clench. He tells himself not to grip you to hard, never wanting to accidentally bruise your skin.

There’s a soft creak from the chair, swaying beneath you. The farmhouse looms behind him, a silent watcher. The soft lamplight casts a soft glow on your features and creates a halo of light behind his head. It’s just you, him, and the night critters to keep you company.

With the fabric of your dress layered perfectly, thighs press tight against his, sinking deeper, his cock settling fully now. His thick shaft is buried all the way to the hilt, tip leaking pre thanks to the warmth. You can feel the way it pulses alongside his heartbeat, every shift you make, no matter how slight, has the vein throbbing.

Remmick looks so innocent under you. He’s looking up at you, wide blue eyes wet and pleading, the tiny flowers sticking out of his wavy hair. Your heart flutters with how cute he looks.

“You’re being such a good boy,” you murmur, lips brushing the bottom of his. Except for the occasional shift, you have sat completely still. It was a torment; the sensitivity hits him hard. You know he’s desperate for friction, his cock is a dead give away with how its twitching and straining inside you.

Remmick briefly clamps his eyes shut, steading his breath, while his chest rises and falls in shallow pants. When your walls squeeze, its shoots shivers up his spine. He’s forced to swallow a whimper. And you watch the struggle unfold when his Adam’s apple bobs.

Nuzzling your nose against his, the tension coils, he swears you’ve been here for hours, speared on his cock, but It’s only been a few minutes. He staggers a breath as you lean in, “just sit there and feel me.” You instruct, suddenly, deliberately, you roll your hips. It’s instant. He bites his lip, eyes fluttering shut, a whine escapes his throat, slipping past without meaning to. His cock drags through your drenched folds, squeezing his whole length.

“You’re doing great, Rem. Just gotta stay quiet.” Hand cupping his jaw, gently forcing him to look at you.

His pale blue eyes are already watery from tears. His lips parted when a soft moan slips out when his cock jerks. “Feels….please…it’s too much.” Clutching your hips, he locks his in place, as his voice cracks.

He’s unraveling so easily and your grinning, loving to get to watch this happen in real time. Purposefully you shift again a bigger motion, lifting so his cock slides out about an inch before lowering, plunging it back in. the sound it makes, soft squelch, your slick coating him, easing the glide. He bites his lip again, fighting back a gasping moan that filters out anyway. Tears streaking down his cheeks, the bite so hard it almost breaks the skin on his lip.

“Shhh…. no.” Your tone is affectionate, yet firm, as you cut him off. To add to his torment, you grind down, clit rubbing against his pelvis, hard this time. His cock throbs helplessly. His chest heaves, a whine turning into quiet sobs, gripping at clumps of your skirt for comfort. Cock pulsing again, head nudging that sweet spot, mixing your slick with his leaking pre-cum. He wants to beg for relief.

“You feel that?” you throw the question into the night air. The stars come out to play now, as you continue tormenting him. The chair rocks with each grind, a whisper meant to taunt and tease. “The way you fill me up, is just right.”

Tears come out of the corner of his eyes more freely, moans growing louder despite his efforts. All he can manage is tiny whiny pleas, body shaking, as you deny him any release.

You capture his mouth in a slow kiss, silencing another arising moan, tongue intruding deeply. His own tongue, in frantic urgency, twists and chases yours, desperate for anything to bring relief. Your mouth muffles the desperate cries.

Pulling off to breathe, just for a second, then you’re diving back, recapturing his lips before he can think. Arms wrapped snuggly around his neck, you press your body into his, so that he can feel your perked nipples through the fabric of his shirt.

When you go completely still, his cock is sucked into a vice grip that your pussy has on it. There’s no more teasing, no more shifts or rolls. The shaft of his cock throbs wildly, his thickened length stretching you with that full feeling. Core fluttering with quiet pleasure.

This time he’s the one to break free from the kiss. Letting out a jagged whine. You don’t allow him. Your mouth is currently nipping at his jaw, at the soft stubble there, in soothing kisses.

“Shhhhhh….” You gently remind him and it has him in more tears. Whimpering quietly, your breath warm on his skin, slick flowing over his jeans.

Remmick’s cock fills you just right, it throbs and twitches desperate for any movement. A broken needy whine vibrates from his chest. He’s not sure how much more he can take and you barely started.

“Mmmm….baby,” you hum, sucking on his neck, leaving little red spots. What you are doing is just plain cruel. Pussy clenching, clamping again, an involuntary response. More broken cries slip out of him, tears coming down faster. Heart thumping against his ribs. Your pussy squeezes more pre-cum from his tip, the head barely kissing your cervix.

You moan this time, he’s so deep, the sensation sending sparks behind your eyes.

The grip he had on you waivers, losing his grasps on your dress, hands slipping, he wasn’t meaning to let go. Hell, he needed contact to ground him. His thighs tense, body shuddering, a slew of sobs escaping him. The overwhelming pressure is too much; he can’t help as his legs spread wider causing the chair to rock. Your thighs trip his, another denial, prolonging the ‘torture’ you’ve held him hostage with.

You tease him, kissing his neck softly, whispering. “Feels good. Doesn’t it?” your words crash into him, straight to his core, cock jumping, vein pulsing, tears pouring out alongside his pathetic whimpers.

“Lord….y-yes…you’re so…so warm… please.”

It almost breaks your heart the way his voice cracks. The way he’s begging for release. He catches himself just as his hips try to thrust.

“Please… c-can’t… take much more.”

It doesn’t help that each breath you take makes him feel the tiniest movements. He’s sweaty, drenched in your slick from the waist down, darkening his jeans. Buried so deep, he lets out a frustrated groan.

Lips meet his once more, you lift his dipped head. Soft pathetic wails fill your mouth, muffled of course. You have him so close to the edge, just like a balloon popping from the smallest needle. The chair creaks, rocking backwards. Muffled moans and the wet squish are the only sounds. His body was so frantic.

As you lock eyes with Remmick, he’s a total broken mess. Tear filled hazy eyes, unfocused, look towards yours. Tear lines wet his cheeks as they continue to trickle out. Gently you use your thumb to wipe them away. The least you could do for him. As much as you love him like this, obedient, vulnerable, your heart swells with affection.

He trusts you so completely, even when you bring him to ruin like this. You can feel him tremble under your hands. He’s so sweet. You are starting to feel bad.

He inhales, it sounds difficult for him, breaths ragged and stuttered as he fights to keep still. Just as you told him to. Remmick’s lips are quivering, jaw clenching, and those soft whimpers he’s producing is a show of control. Restraint. Following the instructions you put in place.

More time passes, you are unsure how long. Sat there unmoving. When you look at him again, he’s barely held together. His eyes are heavy lidded, part way closed, desire mixed with exhaustion.

You press a tender loving kiss to his jaw. “You’ve been so good for me, Rem.” There’s warmth in your voice. Praise. He’s done so well to this point. The only response he’s able to muster is a quiet whine. You fear you may have pushed him too far and broken your sweet caring man. It worries you, so you roll your hips, just a fraction. His cock responds with a twitch. Proof that he’s still with you. at least his body is. Whatever focus he had, had been shattered.

When you cup his cheek, he hums. When you pet his face, in a slow soothing motion, he leans instinctively into it. And when your fingers find his hair, massaging his head, he purrs.

Kissing his forehead, you ask him. “Would you like me to move now?”

You wait for a response. It takes his mind a few moments to process that you spoke to him. Then a slow nod of his head, then an almost inaudible plea.

“Please…” A high begging whine comes out.

“There’s my good boy.” You praise, worry washing away as you kiss him deeply. As a reward you start to roll your hips. Your pace stays that way too. Lifting up making his cock drag along your walls. Then you sink, pussy swallowing every delicious inch. It rips a guttural groan out of his throat.

“Do your best to stay quiet love.” Words barely holding together yourself as you grind your hips. It’s a challenge for him.

Remmick tries. He really does. Biting on his already sore lip, but noises leak out of him regardless. By now he’s panting, breathy and low. It doesn’t take long, each bounce, each slide, and your walls squeeze. He doesn’t have any control left. Another sink down his cock and it only takes one buck of his hips, through no fault of his own, the action involuntary. It dawns on you, that he’s cumming, releasing the pent up load in hot spurts, painting your pussy white with his seed. His dick convulses wildly inside you.

Releasing everything he had, he is spent. His head slumps forward against your open collarbone. Face buried, panting so hard it has his whole body shaking in your arms. With each one of his breaths there’s a heart breaking whimper.

“Hush now. I’ve got you.” You say soothingly, slowing your movements. You feel his cock soften within your soaked warmth, slick and cum trickling out as you sit still again.

Both hands gently cup his face, tilting it just enough to kiss his damp forehead. Then his nose. Then his lips.

“You did so well. Staying still, so perfect. And cumming….just like that for me.” You purr.

standing missionary . back against the wall, legs wrapped around his waist

remmick's got you hoisted like you weigh nothing, hands locked under your thighs, your back slammed flat to the wall while your legs cinch tight around his waist. every thrust rocks your whole body, makes the plaster shudder behind you, his hips snapping forward like he’s trying to fuck you through it.

his shirt’s half off, sleeves bunched at his elbows, chest slick with sweat and heaving with every breath. curls plastered to his forehead, jaw clenched so hard it trembles, lips parted and shaking as he pants through his teeth.

your arms are looped tight around his neck, nails digging in while you moan straight into his ear, breath hot and messy.

he’s got you split open, cock stuffed to the hilt, fat and thick and dragging through your cunt like it owns the place. the head keeps smushing against your cervix every time he rolls his hips forward, making your body jolt and your pussy gush around him.

every time you clench, your cunt fluttering tight around him, he lets out this pathetic little whine, like the sound is ripped straight out of his chest. his cock twitches hard inside you, pulsing like it’s begging to blow.

“you feel—you feel too damn good,” he stammers, breath hitching, forehead knocking against yours. his whole body’s shaking now.

you lock your legs tighter around him and he shudders hard, cockhead slamming even deeper into your guts, a strained, broken gasp tearing out of him as his voice pitches high and desperate.

“ohh—lord—don’t—don’t squeeze me like that—”

but he doesn’t stop. he keeps fucking you harder, faster, hips smacking into yours, sweat dripping down both of you, thighs trembling from the effort of holding you up while he fucks you.

you drag your mouth along his jaw, whisper his name all sweet and ruined, and that does him in.

he moans straight into your neck, loud and breathy and gone, cock throbbing inside you while your whole body clenches around him like you’re trying to milk him dry.

pronebone. face in the sheets, ass arched

you’re face‑down in his bed, cheek mashed into the pillow, spit soaking the fabric while your whole body goes slack under him.

the only thing moving is your ass—jerking forward over and over from how deep he’s fucking you.

your thighs are pressed together, cunt drooling slick, back bowed just enough for him to stay buried at that brutal angle that knocks the breath straight out of your lungs every time he slams home.

he’s over you, hands locked on your hips, thumbs digging into your lower back like he’s anchoring you in place. his cock is drilling into your soaked, swollen pussy, slow and heavy, grinding in deep enough that you can feel the length of him dragging along that spot that sends stars bursting behind your eyes.

“m’gonna lose it,” he pants, voice wrecked, breath shaking.

his chest is heaving above you, pecs bouncing hard with every thrust, sweat dripping off him and onto your back.

your cunt is a mess. cum from earlier keeps leaking out around the base of his cock and he just fucks it back in, grinding harder like he’s trying to get deeper.

“you hear that?” he gasps, hips snapping harder now. “hear how wet you got me, sugar?”

you can barely answer—just a choked whimper into the pillow—and he groans like it hits him right in the gut.

his cock twitches violently inside you, thrusts turning sloppy. one hand leaves your hip and grabs a fistful of your ass, spreading you open wide so he can see it—see your cunt stretch and swallow his cock.

“look at this,” he pants, eyes blown wide. “god—i’m soaked.”

and he is. balls sticky and slapping your ass, cock dripping, thighs smeared with slick. the whole room reeks of sex and sweat and your body’s twitching underneath him, shaking so hard you don’t know if you’re about to come again or black out.

laying sideways. your back to his chest, his hand between your legs

you’re tangled together on your sides, sheets damp and wrinkled beneath you, your back pressed flush to remmick’s chest while his cock sits buried inside you. one of your legs is hooked over his thick thigh, keeping you open, keeping him deep, and every slow roll of his hips makes your cunt squelch around him.

his arm is heavy around your waist, pulling you back into him, and his other hand stays between your legs—fingers already slick, dragging slow, messy circles over your clit like he knows exactly how long he can keep you right on the edge.

you whine—can’t help it—body going soft and pliant while he pants into your neck, mouth open against your skin as he moans every time you twitch around him.

“so wet f’me,” he whispers, voice shaking, wrecked.

his cock feels huge like this—thick and dragging, stretching you slow with every inch as he pulls back just enough to slide forward again.

you feel every ridge, every vein, the way his length pulses when you squeeze. and when you do—when your cunt clenches tight around him—he lets out a broken moan. face buried in your hair as his cock twitches hard inside you.

he starts moving faster then, still deep, still slow enough to feel it, but with more need.

his hand never leaves your clit. fingers keep working you until your hips start jerking back into him, until you’re crying into the sheets and your cunt starts spasming around his cock.

remmick moans when he feels it.

“that’s it,” he gasps. “there you go… milk it outta me, baby…”

and then he’s gone.

after, his mouth brushes your shoulder, breath warm and spent, voice rough but sweet as he whispers,

“gimme a minute… then i’ll give you another.”

lotus position. legs wrapped around his waist as he sits

you’re straddled in his lap, knees bent, ankles locked tight at his lower back, chest pressed flush to his. your arms are loosely looped around his neck, holding him there as he rocks his hips up into you.

your bodies sticking together, skin slick with sweat and sex.

his arms are locked tight around your waist, fingers digging in firmly. his face is buried in your neck, as he lets out these ragged, breathy moans every time your pussy clenches around him. and it does—over and over—fluttering tight around his cock like it knows exactly how close he is.

you feel him throb there—feel how hard he’s fighting it, how badly he wants to spill.

“you’re squeezin’ me, sweetheart,” he pants, voice barely holding together. “gonna make me finish too soon—i swear—”

you grind down harder, rolling your hips so he sinks even deeper. your arms tug him closer, mouth brushing his temple, your breath hot in his ear—and a moan tears out of him as his hips jerk up into you harder.

your clit drags against the coarse hair at the base of him with every grind, and the sensation makes you shake—makes you cry out right into his ear.

his body jolts beneath you, cock twitching violently inside your cunt as he fucks up into you like he’s chasing the edge and falling over it at the same time. his grip tightens, thighs shaking, mouth open against your neck as he groans your name like it’s the only thing keeping him upright.

bridal-style lay. your back against his chest, while he lifts you

you’re laying on your side across remmick’s chest like a warm, panting gift—head tipped back on his shoulder, legs draped over his thick arm as he holds you up, lets your ass hover just above his hips. one of his hands is hooked beneath your thigh, the other gripping your ass to keep you open.

it’s a lazy kind of rhythm. he rocks up into you from below with slow, thick thrusts that make your whole body jolt, hips lifting off the bed just to meet the drag of his cock.

he moans against your temple, breath shaky and hot, sweat dripping from his hairline down onto your shoulder as he murmurs something unintelligible. 

you try to say something back, but all that comes out is a moan when he tilts his hips and drives up harder.

“that’s it,” he pants, thrusting up slow, then fast, then slow again, deep like he’s trying to ruin the shape of you from the inside. “grip me like that—yeah, jus’ like that, i can feel it—”

he shifts his grip, one hand sliding lower under your ass to lift you higher, and you cry out when the angle changes and he slams up so much deeper.

you’re drooling, shaking, slick dripping off both of you and down his balls. he’s losing it, chest heaving, hips pistoning up like he’s possessed, chasing your orgasm and his at the same time.

and when your body clamps down and you come around him, he follows with a cry, burying his cock to the hilt and spilling everything into you in hot, thick waves. your body jerks with each pulse, filled to the brim, held wide and open and still in his arms.

he keeps fucking into you—pushing it deeper, like he can’t stand the thought of pulling out just yet.

“gonna keep you right here, baby,” he murmurs, voice rough, lips pressed behind your ear. “jus’ like this. plugged up and full ‘til you feel me all night…”

From the kitchen, your aunt’s voice carries down the hallway. “Don’t forget your water bottle today.”

A muffled groan disappears into your pillow. “I didn’t even forget it yesterday. I chose not to bring it.”

“That ain’t the same thing,” she calls back, already halfway into her morning routine.

By the time you’re back on the dirt road, your mood is already trailing behind you like a storm cloud.

Another pair of cute shorts, another top that has no business anywhere near livestock, hair pinned back and frizzing at the edges before you’ve even made it a quarter mile. Your sandals kick up dust with every step, and the deeper you go into the countryside, the more the silence presses in around you.

The farm comes into view gradually, the faded red of the barn bleeding into the pale sky, fences stretching outward in uneven lines.

He’s already there when you spot him, bent over a gate near the fence line, sleeves rolled up, shirt darkened with sweat as though yesterday never ended for him.

There’s a fleeting urge to turn around, just to prove a point. Instead, you clear your throat loudly enough to announce yourself without actually saying hello.

Remmick straightens, surprise flickering across his face before he reins it in. His gaze travels from your shoes to your face like he’s trying to decide if you’re real or just another heat mirage.

“Mornin’,” he says, quiet and polite as ever.

“Morning,” you reply, flatly.

The pause that follows is thick, awkward, full of everything neither of you says. He shifts his weight, eyes flicking down the road behind you, perhaps half-expecting your aunt to appear and drag you back herself.

“I thought you weren’t comin’ back,” he admits, voice low.

“Well, I did,” you answer, folding your arms across your chest. “Because apparently leaving when I feel like it is now a crime.”

A faint wince crosses his face as his hand drifts to the back of his neck. “Wasn’t tryin’ to get you in trouble.”

“You called my aunt.”

“Just wanted to make sure you got home safe.” His gaze drops to the dirt near his boots, ears faintly pink. “Didn’t mean nothin’ by it.”

The explanation only irritates you further, even though part of you understands it. “I’m not a toddler,” you mutter.

He stays quiet for a beat before replying, careful. “Didn’t say you were. Just… worried.”

“Well, you can relax,” you reply, sweeping a hand toward the fields. “I’m here now.”

He nods once, reserved, then reaches for his tools as though the conversation has been properly closed. “We’ll start with the easier stuff today.”

“Because yesterday traumatized me,” you mutter under your breath.

He pretends not to hear it, but the slight tightening of his jaw gives him away. Without looking back, he starts toward the chicken coop. “They’re calmer in the mornin’.”

“They are not calm. They’re aggressive.”

“They’re birds.”

“So are seagulls, and those are evil too.”

A reluctant hint of a smile threatens before he smooths it away. He pauses briefly, just long enough that you nearly run into him, then steps aside to let you pass. His eyes flick toward you, quick and unreadable, before he looks back to the path.

“If you’re gonna stay,” he says quietly, “you might as well learn somethin’.”

You roll your eyes at his back. “Inspirational.”

Neither of you apologizes. Neither of you brings up yesterday again. The petty tension hums between you louder than the cicadas in the trees, making the walk toward the coop feel heavier than it has any right to.

The rest of the day passes in fragments, stitched together by heat and irritation and moments neither of you quite knows what to do with.

You spill grain again before noon, shrieking when it dusts your legs, hopping around like it’s lava while Remmick silently crouches to fix it.

He doesn’t tease you, doesn’t scold you, just keeps working with that quiet patience that makes you want to either apologize or push him harder.

You choose the second option, complaining loudly about how farm dirt is “stickier than regular dirt” until he clears his throat and asks if you want gloves.

You say no because gloves are “ugly,” then immediately regret it when splinters bite into your palms.

He notices without pointing it out and leaves a pair folded on the fence post where you’ll find them five minutes later.

Later, you wander off in the middle of him explaining how to latch a gate, distracted by a calf wobbling toward you on unsteady legs.

He has to jog after you, hat slipping crooked, asking gently but firmly that you please not get trampled on your second day.

You pout, claiming the cow “looked friendly,” and he rubs his face like he’s trying very hard not to laugh.

At lunchtime, you sit in the shade with your legs sprawled dramatically in the dust while he eats in silence a few feet away.

You announce that sweet tea should legally be considered medicine, and that your phone battery is at seventeen percent and therefore so are you.

He listens to all of it, nodding in small, polite intervals, offering you the last of his water when you forget yours back at the house.

By mid-afternoon, the tension shifts into something quieter. He shows you how to brush down one of the horses, guiding your hand along its flank when you hesitate. You chatter nervously about being bitten, about lawsuits, about how horses are “basically really tall dogs,” while he murmurs reassurances under his breath, voice low and steady, eyes never quite meeting yours.

There are moments you almost like him—like when he brings you a cold apple from the farmhouse fridge without making a big deal out of it, or when he waits for you to catch up without pointing out that you’ve fallen behind again.

There are moments he almost looks like he likes you too, until you complain that the barn smells weird and he stiffens just slightly, shoulders drawing in before he smooths it away.

The sun sinks slow and heavy toward the treeline, turning everything copper and soft.

You’re exhausted in a way you’ve never been before, limbs aching, gloss long gone.

He watches you sway on your feet while pretending to fix a loose hinge, and when you finally announce that your body is “shutting down forever,” he only nods and says it’s probably time to call it a day.

You walk back down the dirt road later with sore legs and dust on your ankles, not turning around when he tells you to be careful.

He stays where he is, leaning against the fence, eyes following you longer than he means to, already bracing himself for tomorrow.

The farmhouse is quiet in the evenings, a deep, settled quiet that feels older than electricity. By the time Remmick finishes locking up the barn, the sky has gone dark-blue and heavy, stars beginning to poke through like pinholes. Crickets scream from the tall grass, and the cicadas finally give up their racket as the air cools just enough to breathe.

He washes up at the old sink by the mudroom, scrubbing his hands until the dirt stains fade to pink. The water runs brown at first, then clear. He keeps scrubbing anyway, like he can rinse the day off him entirely if he tries hard enough.

Up in his room, he changes slow, methodical. Boots by the door. Hat on the hook. Shirt folded instead of tossed. It’s the same routine he’s had since he was a boy, the sort of habits that don’t leave you even when everything else does.

Still, his mind won’t quiet down the way it usually does.

You drift into his thoughts uninvited—your voice carrying across the fields, complaining about bugs and heat and dirt like the farm personally wronged you.

The way you stare at things that don’t matter, then miss the things that do. How you call him “cowboy” just to see if he’ll react. How you left early yesterday without a backward glance.

He exhales slowly, sitting on the edge of the bed to tug off his socks. Annoying is the first word that comes to mind. Annoying in your wandering attention, in your endless questions, in the way you look like you belong nowhere near a place like this.

And yet.

He remembers the way you tried to lift the feed bucket like you were determined to prove something, the way you flinched at the chickens and then glared at them like they’d done it on purpose. The way you kept coming back anyway, even when you clearly didn’t want to.

Remmick lies back against the pillows, staring at the ceiling fan as it turns slow circles overhead. He tells himself he only thinks about you because you make the days louder than usual, harder to ignore.

Because patience is easier when you aren’t constantly tested by someone who doesn’t know the rules and doesn’t care to learn them.

Still, he plans tomorrow in his head—simpler chores, nothing too heavy, maybe show you the orchard instead of the coop. He tells himself it’s just practical, just easier that way.

His eyes finally drift closed, the hum of night wrapping around the farmhouse, and the last thing he thinks before sleep is that politeness shouldn’t feel like effort.

With you, it does.

The days start stacking on top of each other in a way that makes time feel thick, like syrup left out in the sun.

Mornings begin with you dragging yourself down the dirt road, hair in some new variation of chaos, sandals dusted before you even reach the fence.

Remmick always spots you first. He never waves, never calls out, just straightens a little and pretends he wasn’t watching for you at all.

You spend one afternoon complaining about how the cows stare too much, insisting they’re judging your outfit.

He answers with quiet hums and the occasional polite “Yes, ma’am,” even though his mouth tightens each time you say something particularly ridiculous.

You catch the tiny signs now—the way he presses his lips together, the way his hand rubs the back of his neck when he’s trying not to react.

Another day, you wander off mid-task again, trying to get photos of a cloud shaped like a heart.

He has to jog halfway across the pasture to bring you back, breath slightly heavier than usual.

When you thank him, all sugar-sweet and absentminded, he stares at the ground and mutters that it’s no trouble even though his ears are burning red.

By the third morning, the farm almost feels familiar.

You still don’t like the dirt, still hate the heat, but you know where the shade falls in the afternoon and which fence posts wobble. He notices. You don’t notice that he notices.

Then comes the day it finally slips.

It’s mid-afternoon, the air heavy enough to press against your lungs.

Remmick is showing you how to latch the gate properly—how to make sure the chain catches just right so the cattle don’t push it open.

He explains it carefully, slow, patient, repeating himself when you interrupt with questions that have nothing to do with the gate.

“So if I don’t do this, they just… escape?” you ask, leaning your weight against the fence.

“Yes, ma’am,” he says. “They’ll get out and wander the road.”

You glance down the long dirt stretch behind you. “That sounds like not my problem.”

The words fall out easy, careless.

He stops moving.

At first you don’t notice, too busy brushing dust from your shorts. Then the silence stretches, heavier than it’s ever been. When you look back, he’s standing perfectly still, hands resting on the top rail, jaw tight.

“That is your problem,” he says, voice low but not soft anymore.

You blink at him. “I was joking.”

“It don’t sound like a joke.” He finally turns to face you fully, eyes steady, something firmer sitting behind them than you’ve seen before. “This isn’t a game. If that gate’s not latched right, someone gets hurt. Could be one of the animals. Could be a person.”

The sharpness in his tone surprises you so badly that you don’t have a clever answer ready. You open your mouth, then close it again.

He exhales slowly, the anger already fading, leaving behind something that looks like regret. “I’m sorry,” he adds after a moment. “Didn’t mean to raise my voice.”

But the damage is already done. The air feels different now—charged, unsettled. You stare at the chain in your hands, suddenly aware of its weight.

“I’ll… do it right,” you say, quieter than you mean to.

He nods once, stepping back to give you space. The politeness is back in place, but it doesn’t sit as smoothly as it did before.

For the rest of the afternoon, neither of you jokes.

You latch every gate carefully, checking it twice, and he doesn’t say anything about it. Still, every now and then, you catch him watching you from the corner of his eye, as if he’s trying to decide whether he went too far—or not far enough.

The next morning starts like all the others, heat already clinging to your skin by the time you reach the barn.

You expect him to send you off toward something simple—sorting tools, rinsing buckets, waiting in the shade while he handles anything sharp or heavy.

Instead, he doesn’t.

Remmick is working near the tractor, sleeves rolled up, hands dark with grease as he adjusts something under the hood.

When you wander over, he glances up once, hesitates, then nods toward the open toolbox at his feet.

“Hand me that wrench,” he says.

You blink. “Which one?”

He pauses, clearly reconsidering the request, then points. “The long one. On the left.”

You crouch beside him, knees bending carefully, and pass it over with a little flourish. “I feel very important right now.”

A faint huff of amusement escapes him before he can stop it. He doesn’t comment, just goes back to work, letting you stay where you are instead of shooing you away.

The space between you is closer than it’s ever been. Close enough that you can hear his breathing, steady and slow. Close enough to notice the way his shoulders tense when the wrench slips, how he mutters apologies to the machine under his breath like it can hear him.

You start asking questions—different ones than before.

“What happens if you don’t fix it now?”

“Does it break a lot?”

“Is that why you always check it twice?”

He answers all of them. Not rushed. Not annoyed. Just careful, choosing his words like he wants you to actually understand.

Later, when you move on to mending a section of fence, he doesn’t stand back with his arms crossed. He stays beside you, close enough that his elbow brushes yours now and then. When you fumble with the wire, he reaches in without thinking, guiding your hands, then freezes as if realizing how close he is.

He pulls back slowly. Doesn’t apologize. Doesn’t move away.

“You’re gettin’ better at this,” he says instead.

You look at him, surprised. “Really?”

He nods once. “Yeah. You’re payin’ attention now.”

The words settle heavier than you expect. You try to brush them off with a joke, but it comes out softer. “Guess I’m a fast learner.”

He doesn’t argue.

By the time the sun reaches its highest point, you’re still there—still beside him, still working through things together.

He hands you tools without explanation now, trusting you to know which ones he means. When you get it right, he doesn’t smile, but his shoulders ease like something has unclenched.

At one point, you wander toward the shade out of habit, then stop when you realize he hasn’t suggested it. You hover there a second, then drift back to his side instead.

He notices, but says nothing.

It’s only later, when you’re both quiet, sweat-damp and tired, that it hits you: he hasn’t tried to put distance between you once all day.

That night, the house settles into its usual hush—the low hum of the fan in the hallway, crickets starting up outside the open window, your aunt’s television murmuring somewhere down the hall.

Your room smells faintly of body wash and the lemon cleaner your aunt swears by. Skin still warm from the shower, you sit cross-legged on the bed with your phone propped against a stack of folded clothes.

The screen flickers to life with your friend’s face, perfectly lit by some neon lamp you recognize instantly.

“Oh my God,” she says, already laughing. “Why does your room look like a grandma’s airbnb?”

“It’s vintage,” you reply, pouting into the camera. “I hate it here.”

She snorts. “You said that last time, too. You still alive?”

Barely.

You launch into a long, dramatic recap—how the sun feels like it’s out to get you personally, how your aunt is a dictator in floral aprons.

She listens with wide eyes, interrupting only to gasp at the mention of dirt under your nails or the absence of decent coffee.

“So,” she says after a while, propping her chin on her hand. “Any hot country boys yet?”

You scoff. “No. There’s just this farmer guy who doesn’t talk and stares at the ground like it personally offended him.”

Her eyes light up. “Oh my God. You like him.”

“I absolutely do not,” you insist, twisting a lock of hair around your finger. “He’s annoying. And quiet. And he says ‘ma’am’ like I’m his teacher.”

She grins knowingly. “That’s how it starts.”

The call stretches on, drifting through old gossip and mutual friends you haven’t thought about in weeks. Midnight sneaks up on you, the air cooling just enough to make the curtains flutter.

Then she straightens suddenly, excitement flashing across her face. “Wait—speaking of us… I talked to Toni and Lila today.”

Your heart sinks a little. “Why?”

“Because we’re bored, and you’re in the middle of nowhere,” she says like it’s obvious. “We’re coming to visit you.”

You blink. “Like… to say hi?”

“No, like visit. Weekend trip. Bring wine. Catch up like old times.” Her grin widens. “We’ll survive the chickens.”

Your stomach flips, part dread, part something else you can’t quite name. “You can’t. My aunt will kill me.”

“She’ll love us,” your friend says breezily. “We’re charming.”

You look around the tiny room, the quilt, the sagging dresser, the fan rattling overhead. Then, without meaning to, your thoughts drift to the farm—to quiet mornings, to the way Remmick’s shoulders ease when he’s focused, to the way he lets you stay close now.

“Yeah,” you say slowly. “This place… isn’t really your vibe.”

“That’s why it’ll be fun,” she replies. “We’ll text you dates tomorrow. Miss you.”

The call ends before you can argue, the screen going dark in your hand.

You lie back on the bed, staring at the ceiling fan as it clicks and spins, heart beating a little faster than it should. The thought of the city crashing into this quiet place feels wrong somehow—too loud, too bright.

And, for reasons you don’t want to unpack yet, you already know exactly who’s going to hate it the most.

The second morning after your friends arrive, the world feels louder somehow, like the quiet has been dented.

Yesterday was a blur of shrieking hugs in the hotel lobby, perfume clouds and iced coffee sweating onto your hands while you all talked over each other.

They had found a mall not far from you—big, shiny, full of glass and air-conditioning—and by the time you finally escaped back to your aunt’s house, your phone was buzzing with plans for today.

Come after you’re done with whatever farm thing you have to do, one of them texted.

We’re not leaving without you.

So here you are again, standing in the soft churned dirt of the farm, heat already climbing even though it isn’t yet noon.

The chickens scatter as you pass, dust clinging to your calves, your mood caught somewhere between giddy and distracted.

Remmick is by the shed when you find him, coiling a hose with the same careful precision he brings to everything else.

He glances up when you approach, giving you that small, reserved nod that has quietly replaced the distant politeness of the first days.

“You’re early,” he says.

“My friends are in town,” you reply, leaning against the doorframe like the farm is just another errand on a very full schedule. “They wanna go to the mall today.”

He hums, not quite a question, not quite an answer. You trail after him as he heads toward the orchard, helping where you can, passing him tools when he asks, catching your phone before it slides out of your pocket for the third time.

For a while you chatter about the hotel, about how the beds are “heavenly,” about the bar downstairs that has lights built into the bottles. He listens the way he always does—quiet, patient, filing the information away without comment.

The question slips out when you’re walking between the rows of trees, the shade breaking up the sun.

“Do you wanna come?” you ask.

He stops so abruptly that you almost walk into him. His brows knit together, confusion plain across his face. “Come where?”

“To the mall,” you clarify, swinging your bag higher on your shoulder. “Meet my friends. Hang out.”

There’s a beat of silence where he just looks at you like he’s waiting for the rest of the sentence. “Why’d you invite me?” he finally asks.

The words catch you off guard, not because they’re rude but because they’re honest in a way you’re not used to. You shift your weight, toeing at the dirt.

“Because I want all of my friends to know each other,” you say, simple as that. Then, softer, “And because, even though you kinda get on my nerves sometimes, I’ve kinda… grown to like your company.”

The orchard hums around you—bees, leaves whispering, the faint creak of branches in the breeze.

Remmick stares at the ground, rubbing the back of his neck like he does when he doesn’t know what to say.

“I don’t really belong in a place like that,” he murmurs.

“You don’t know that,” you reply quickly. “There’s stores. Food. Air-conditioning. You’ll survive.”

A corner of his mouth lifts despite himself. “That’s your sales pitch?”

“It’s a strong one.”

He thinks about it longer than you expect, eyes drifting over the rows of trees like he’s measuring the distance between this world and the one you’re offering. At last, he exhales.

“I’ll… consider it,” he says.

It isn’t a yes, but it isn’t a no either, and somehow that’s enough to make your afternoon feel lighter as you get back to work.

A little later in the afternoon, the heat finally loosens its grip enough for Remmick to call it a day.

He disappears into the farmhouse to clean up while you wait on the porch, phone in hand, already fielding excited texts from your friends about what stores they’ve hit first.

When he comes back out, it takes you a second to recognize him.

The grease-streaked jeans have been swapped for a cleaner pair, the faded shirt replaced with something softer that still fits his broad shoulders just right. His hair is damp, combed back with more care than usual, and he holds his keys like they might bite him.

“My grandpa’s truck still runs,” he says, almost apologetically. “Ain’t pretty, but it’ll get us there.”

The truck is parked under the oak tree like it’s always been there, paint dulled by years of sun, the hood nicked and dented in places that look earned.

When he opens the door for you, it creaks in protest. You climb in anyway, perching on the worn bench seat like it’s a throne.

The drive into the city feels like crossing a border. The dirt road smooths into asphalt, trees thinning out until storefronts and traffic lights start taking over.

Remmick drives with both hands on the wheel, posture stiff, eyes tracking everything like he’s bracing for something to go wrong.

The mall parking lot is already packed when you arrive, glittering glass doors reflecting the late-day sun.

Your friends spot you immediately, shrieking your name and rushing over in a flurry of designer bags and manicured hands.

“You look alive!” Toni laughs, squeezing you tight.

“I am alive,” you reply, spinning them around. “Barely.”

Their eyes slide past you, landing on Remmick where he lingers a step behind, hands tucked into his pockets like he’s not sure where they’re supposed to go. The chatter stumbles, just for a second.

“This is…?” Bri prompts, gaze skimming him the way people glance at store windows they don’t plan to enter.

“This is Remmick,” you say brightly. “He works on the farm with me.”

“Oh,” she says, the word polite but thin. “Nice to meet you.”

He nods, shy as ever. “Nice to meet you too.”

They exchange looks—quick, subtle, unmistakable. Your friends don’t say anything outright, but you can feel the shift, the way their smiles tighten, the way they look at him like he’s part of the scenery instead of the group.

You don’t miss the way Remmick’s shoulders draw in, just a little, as if he’s already shrinking himself to fit into a space that doesn’t feel made for him.

The mall swallows you whole the second you step inside—air-conditioning rushing over your skin, lights gleaming off glass storefronts, music thumping faintly from somewhere overhead.

It feels like coming up for air after weeks underwater, and you soak it in with a grin so wide it almost hurts.

Your friends scatter in all directions, dragging you from store to store in a blur of mirrors and perfume clouds. Bags pile up on your arms until you can barely see over them, and every time you glance back, Remmick is still there, walking carefully, eyes darting from display to display like he’s afraid he might knock something over just by standing too close.

At one point, you spin on your heel in the middle of a men’s clothing store. “You need new shirts.”

He blinks. “I just bought one.”

“That was probably, like, two years ago,” you say, already rifling through hangers. You shove a soft flannel at his chest, then another. “Try these.”

“I don’t need—”

“You absolutely do.” You steer him toward the fitting rooms before he can protest.

When he steps out again, sleeves rolled a little too far up his forearms, you clap your hands together. “Oh my God. You look… normal. In a good way.”

His ears turn pink instantly. “They’re expensive.”

“So am I,” you reply, swiping your card before he can argue.

By the time you’ve hit the third store, he’s carrying half your bags, insisting quietly that he doesn’t mind while you keep piling things on his arms anyway.

Your friends watch with raised brows and little smiles that don’t quite reach their eyes, whispering to each other when they think you’re distracted by a shoe display.

Eventually the weight of it all drives you toward the food court, your stomach growling loud enough to make one of them laugh.

You slide into a booth with relief, kicking your feet out in front of you while Remmick sets the bags down carefully like they’re fragile.

Toni eyes him across the table, straw tapping against her lip. “So,” she says, tone sugary, “what do you even do out there all day? Milk cows or something?”

He hesitates. “I, uh… help run the farm.”

She hums. “Must be nice. So simple.”

Something in her voice makes your head snap up. You don’t fully register why it bothers you, only that it does.

“It’s not simple,” you say, a little too fast. “It’s, like, hard. There’s tools and animals and… dangerous stuff. You wouldn’t last five minutes.”

Toni blinks. “I was joking.”

“Well, it wasn’t funny,” you reply, frowning at your fries. “Also, he drove me here in his grandpa’s truck and it didn’t even break down, so that’s already impressive.”

The table goes quiet for a second, all eyes on you. Remmick stares at his napkin like it’s suddenly fascinating.

You huff, not entirely sure what you just defended, only that it felt necessary. “He’s just… not a mall person. That doesn’t mean he’s weird.”

His fingers curl slightly around the edge of the table. He doesn’t look up, but you catch the faintest hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth anyway.

By the time the lights of the mall start dimming into evening mode, your arms are aching from the weight of shopping bags and your voice is hoarse from laughing too hard.

The group lingers near the entrance, everyone half-talking over each other, already planning what store to hit first tomorrow.

“You better text us when you get back,” one of your friends says, hugging you tight. “We’re not done with you yet.”

“I will,” you promise easily. “We’ll figure something out in the morning.”

They wave as you and Remmick head toward the parking lot, the glass doors sliding shut behind you with a soft hiss.

The sun has dipped low enough that the heat finally loosens, the sky streaked pink and gold as you cross the asphalt to the old truck waiting patiently at the far edge.

He unlocks it and you climb in, already digging through one of your bags. The engine coughs to life, steady and stubborn, and he eases out of the lot with more caution than the ride in.

Silence settles over the cab, but it isn’t the uncomfortable kind. It hums softly, filled by the radio crackling to life and the sound of tires on pavement.

Remmick keeps his eyes on the road, hands relaxed on the wheel, thoughts circling back to the food court and the way your voice cut through the table when your friend crossed a line.

It hadn’t been eloquent. It hadn’t even made complete sense. But you’d meant it.

He swallows, glancing briefly at your reflection in the windshield, then back to the road.

Maybe you weren’t as careless as you pretended to be. Maybe, underneath all the chatter and gloss and noise, there was something solid after all.

Beside him, you’re completely unaware of any of this, already testing lip glosses in the side mirror, pouting at your reflection.

You slide one ring off and replace it with another, admiring how it catches the fading light, then hold your hand up toward him.

“Which one’s cuter?” you ask.

He glances over, startled out of his thoughts. “Uh… the left one,” he says, uncertain but honest.

You beam, swapping them immediately. “Knew it.”

The truck rolls on toward the darkening countryside, the city lights shrinking in the rearview, and for the first time since meeting you, Remmick finds himself almost looking forward to tomorrow.

The next few days blur into a strange split life, half city gloss and half red dirt.

Mornings still belong to the farm.

You show up with your hair half-done and yesterday’s bracelets still clinking on your wrist, asking Remmick questions that actually make sense now—where to put things back, how to tell when a gate is really latched, why the orchard needs checking before the animals.

He answers each one carefully, sometimes glancing at you like he’s surprised you’re asking at all, and you pretend not to notice the way his shoulders relax a little more every time you don’t wander off mid-task.

Afternoons pull you back toward your friends.

You meet them at the hotel or the mall, drifting through bright stores and cafés, trading the smell of hay for perfume clouds and air-conditioning.

Your phone fills with selfies and plans, with reminders that this—this shiny, loud world—is supposed to be where you belong.

One afternoon you’re all sprawled across a row of couches in the hotel lobby, shopping bags at your feet. Bri kicks her heels up onto the armrest and tilts her head at you.

“So when are you actually coming back home?” she asks.

You shrug, twisting a ring around your finger. “Daddy said I’m staying out here until stuff blows over.”

Toni wrinkles her nose. “That sucks.”

You nod, like it’s nothing. “Yeah. Wouldn’t have even happened if Carter didn’t get that dumb idea in the first place.”

They all groan at the name, launching into their own versions of the story while you zone out, watching people drift past the front doors.

Somewhere between their laughter and the soft hotel music, your mind slides back to the farm—to the quiet, to the way he waits when you lag behind instead of pretending he doesn’t notice.

By evening you’re back on the dirt road again, bags in one hand, sandals dusty before you’ve even made it halfway home.

The worlds keep colliding in small ways, and you’re starting to realize you don’t rush to switch between them quite as fast as you used to.

The heat sits heavier now that your friends are gone.

There’s no more split between two worlds—no mall plans waiting in the afternoon, no bright hotel lobby to retreat to. Just the stretch of open sky, the hum of cicadas, and the creak of the porch swing when you sit out too long after sundown.

You’ve been back on the farm every day since, the work coming easier now, less awkward in your hands.

You don’t whine as much, or if you do, Remmick’s learned to just shake his head and hand you the right tool without saying a word.

Late morning finds you perched on a stump near the chicken coop, arms wrapped loosely around your knees, eyes half-lidded in the sun.

The chickens peck lazily at the dirt nearby, unbothered now by your presence. You watch one scratch aimlessly at a patch of grass and mumble under your breath, “Don’t you ever get bored?”

The bird doesn’t answer. You blink slowly, sweat beading along your shoulders beneath the thin straps of your tank top, the summer air thick and syrupy. The chickens don’t seem to care that you're wilting. They just keep pecking and scratching, unbothered by everything.

Then footsteps crunch through the dry grass behind you—familiar, even-tempoed.

You look up just in time to see Remmick walking past the coop, headed toward the barn with a shovel over one shoulder and his eyes squinting into the sun.

And that’s when it hits you.

The shirt he’s wearing is one of his old ones, thinner than the others, damp with sweat and clinging in all the wrong ways. Or maybe all the right ones, depending on how long you’ve been staring.

Faded cotton, tighter in places it normally doesn’t, made clingier by the sweat that’s started to soak through.

It hugs his torso tighter than usual, pulled across the curve of his back, the subtle flex of muscle in his biceps, the dip just beneath his ribs. It’s darker around the collar and down his chest where it’s stuck to his skin, outlining everything—broad shoulders, narrow waist, the faintest line of hair trailing down from his navel before disappearing beneath his belt.

You blink slowly.

Okay.

You might be drooling a little.

Not literally, but spiritually. You shift where you’re sitting, adjusting your legs as if that’ll help cool the warmth that’s started to bloom low in your belly.

You don’t mean to look that hard.

But the line of his collarbone is there, dusted with sun, and his neck is slick and red where the heat’s been clinging to him. There’s a curve to his shoulders when he walks that you suddenly can’t stop watching. Like every part of him is built to carry things, made to hold more than he says out loud.

He doesn’t even notice. Just walks past you like it’s nothing, like he isn’t accidentally staging a scene out of your newly unlocked fantasy life.

You smile, maybe a beat too slow. “You look hot,” you blurt, and instantly regret it.

He pauses mid-step, turns toward you with that cautious, unreadable expression. “I—uh. Yeah. Sun’s rough today.”

You nod quickly, eyes darting anywhere but back at him. “Totally. That’s what I meant. Like... the sun. Not—you. The sun is hot.”

He shifts his grip on the shovel, brow faintly furrowed, like he’s not sure if he should be confused or embarrassed.

“I’m gonna check the shed,” he says after a second, voice a little quieter than usual.

“Okay,” you murmur.

As he walks away, your gaze drops straight back to his back—his very broad back—and the way his jeans cling just enough to make your face burn.

You take a slow breath, fanning yourself with your hand.

The chickens blink at you, completely unimpressed.

You glance back at the animals, who seem equally unbothered. “You guys saw that too, right?” you whisper.

One of them squawks and pecks the dirt.

The shift between you begins quietly, so subtle it folds into the routine without drawing too much attention to itself.

Remmick starts noticing the way your perfume clings to the air when you pass him—sweet and soft, like something expensive and unnecessary that somehow doesn’t feel out of place anymore.

He watches how your hands move when you talk, all glittery rings and expressive little gestures that make even nonsense sound convincing.

When you laugh, full and unfiltered, it rings out over the fields and lingers longer than it should.

There’s a morning he catches you tying your hair up with a red ribbon, fingers fumbling at the nape of your neck.

You mumble that the heat’s driving you crazy.

He says nothing at the time, but later, when he’s alone, the image floats back to him—your bare shoulders, the fine sheen of sweat on your skin, the ribbon falling crooked against your spine.

You start noticing how rough his hands are when they pass you tools—scraped at the knuckles, strong and sun-worn.

He doesn’t flinch when they brush yours anymore, doesn’t pull back like he used to. The curve of his mouth stays with you after he smiles, rare and real, tugging more to one side than the other.

There’s a moment when he’s fixing something above the barn door and his shirt lifts, just barely, revealing the slope of his waist and the slight dip at his lower back.

You look away too fast and drop the screwdriver you were holding. He doesn’t ask why.

He notices how you hum to yourself when you think no one’s listening, the little half-tunes drifting across the fields while you work. You notice how his voice softens when he calls the animals by name.

Before long he’s pressing your gloves into your palm before you even think to ask, and you’re leaving cold drinks on the fence rail for him without ever explaining why.

From there it slides naturally into something closer.

The distance between you shrinks in increments—barely-there brushes of fingers, offhand comments delivered with that glossy smile and bright, airy voice that never quite sounds serious even when it is.

One morning you show up in shorts that are definitely shorter than usual, cinched with a little bow at the waist, insisting it’s because it’s “boiling out here” and that your aunt “said it’s fine,” which may or may not be true.

Remmick keeps his mouth shut, but his ears go pink all the same when you stretch overhead and fake a yawn that shows just enough skin to make him look away a beat too late.

When he’s crouched beside the feed bin, focused on something rusted and stubborn, you linger behind him, pretending to look at the sky.

“Is your back always that broad,” you ask casually, “or is it just today?”

He startles, just slightly. His head turns like he’s trying to figure out if you’re teasing him or not. You smile, all innocent lips and glinting sunglasses.

Later, when he’s showing you how to tie a rope knot—something with your hands close to his, fingers fumbling—you lean in too far.

He steps back out of reflex, not abruptly, just enough for your hands to miss the mark.

“Oh,” you say softly, pouting just enough to notice. “You don’t like being close to me?”

“It’s not that,” he says quickly, voice caught somewhere between nervous and uncertain. “i just—wasn’t expectin’ it.”

You hum, unconvinced. “You should expect me more often.”

He doesn’t answer. His hands are fidgeting with the rope longer than necessary.

Over the next few days, it becomes a pattern.

You start wearing gloss again, even though the heat melts it off within the hour. You bend lower to pick things up. You make vague, strange comments that don’t land the way they should—but they make him blink, or clear his throat, or adjust his hat like it’s suddenly too tight.

“Would you say you’re strong enough to carry me?” you ask once, swinging your legs idly from a fence rail.

He glances at you, caught somewhere between confused and amused. “That somethin’ you need often?”

“Not yet,” you murmur, biting down on a smile. “But you never know.”

He turns back to his work without replying, but his cheeks are red again, the flush rising down his neck.

There’s a growing awareness now—mutual, unspoken, steady as the heat rolling through the fields.

He keeps his distance, polite and quiet, but he doesn’t avoid you. He stays close when he doesn’t have to, watching you longer than he means to.

And every now and then, when you lean in too close or laugh too loud, his gaze lingers just a beat too long before flicking away.

You’re still all airhead sweetness and flirt-slick charm. But something underneath it is sharper now—something hungry and playful.

The evening settles slow over the farmhouse, blue and gold fading into the hush of night. The windows are open, letting in the chirr of crickets and the cool whisper of wind through the trees. The dishes are done—Remmick always washes them now, even though it’s just him and his grandma left in the house.

Tonight, it was her favorite floral-edged plate from the cabinet, the one she never uses anymore but asked for anyway. He’d washed it gently, like it meant something.

He dries his hands on a clean towel, folds it neatly, and pads barefoot down the hall to his room.

The light on his nightstand glows soft and amber. The little journal he keeps tucked under the bed frame waits for him, worn at the edges, pages rippled from the humidity.

He pulls it out, sits back against the pillows, and flips to a clean page.

The pen fits awkwardly in his hand at first. He doesn’t write often, not unless something sticks in his chest too long.

August 9. Warm again today. Chickens are fussy. Fence behind the well’s leaning in bad.

She wore something short again. Not complaining. Just noticing.

He pauses, scratches at the side of his neck, then keeps going.

I think she does it on purpose now. The bending. The way she leans close and pretends like she don’t know she’s touching me. Smiles like it’s all nothing. Keeps askin’ if I’m blushing. I probably am.

His hand slows, the pen hovering.

She’s loud. Airy. Like she don’t got a thought in her head sometimes. But then she asks questions. Good ones. Remembers what I told her last week about the feed line. Said she likes my company. Thought about that all night.

The words stretch out like an exhale.

She’s got this way about her. Laughs at things that aren’t funny. Drops stuff on purpose, maybe. Gloss all over her mouth and still talks like she’s surprised I look at her. I try not to. But she knows what she’s doing. I know she knows. That’s what makes it worse. Or Better? I don’t know.

His handwriting’s gone sloppier, slower.

I like it.

His hand hesitates again. The page stays open in his lap. His chest feels tight, like he’s trying to breathe around something warm and unspoken.

By the time he sets the pen down, it’s quiet except for the creak of the ceiling fan.

The light buzzes soft beside him, and he stays still for a while, eyes on the page. His hand drifts down before he even thinks about it—slow, tentative, pausing over his sweats like he’s not sure if it’s allowed, or if this is about you, or just the way he’s been feeling lately.

It’s probably both.

He shifts against the mattress, breath catching when he presses down lightly.

His cock’s already thickening beneath his pants, heavy with the weight of too many afternoons spent pretending not to notice the way you stretch, the way you say his name, the way your thighs look in those shorts.

He stays like that a while—hand hovering, the page still open, your laugh echoing somewhere in his memory as he nurses the ache you’ve left him with, too proud to touch himself and too wound up to sleep.

Sunday comes soft and slow, the sky brushed in pale blue and gold, the heat not yet settled heavy on the earth. The air feels quieter than usual, like it’s holding its breath.

His grandma leaves early for church, dressed in one of her soft-pressed floral dresses, the same one she wears every Sunday unless it’s raining.

Remmick walks her to the car, watches her pull out of the gravel drive with a wave, then heads back toward the shed to double-check the hinges he’s been meaning to fix.

You show up not long after, hair pinned back, earrings glittering in the sun like you forgot it was a workday.

You say something about the heat as you kick at the dirt with one sandal, and he grunts in agreement, though his voice comes out lower than he means it to.

The chores move slower than usual. There’s not much to do—it’s Sunday after all—and by midday, the both of you are slick with sweat and barely pretending to be productive.

You lean against the fence and swipe at your forehead, your lip gloss already worn thin.

Remmick watches you pause, fingers curling around the rail, eyes half-lidded like the heat’s weighing on you.

“You want somethin’ to drink?” he hears himself say.

You look up. “Like… from your house?”

He nods, a little hesitant. “Yeah. Cold tea, I think. Lemonade too.”

You brighten immediately. “I thought you’d never ask.”

He leads the way up the porch steps and holds the screen door open for you.

The house smells like old wood and lemon cleaner, cool and dim after the brightness outside.

You follow him in slowly, eyes drifting to the framed photos on the hallway wall, the crocheted blanket folded neatly on the arm of a chair, the soft tick of a clock somewhere down the hall.

He pours the drinks in the kitchen without saying much, and you trail your fingers along the edge of the table while you wait.

When he hands you a glass, your pinky brushes his, light and quick. He pretends not to notice, though his shoulders twitch just slightly.

The two of you drift into the living room without deciding to. You settle on the edge of the couch with your knees tucked up, sipping slowly. He sits beside you, careful to leave space, glass balanced on his knee.

For a while, there’s only the sound of the fan overhead, its gentle whir filling the silence. Sunlight filters through the curtains in soft lines, catching the dust in the air, making everything look a little slower.

You don’t speak. Neither does he.

It’s not awkward, but it’s not easy either.

He takes a sip of his drink and doesn’t look at you.

You twist your ring around your finger.

The fan hums overhead, pushing warm air across your skin, and the sweat from earlier has started to dry in sticky patches along your neck and lower back.

You take another sip of your drink and glance at Remmick from the corner of your eye.

He’s still staring ahead, one hand resting lightly on his thigh, the other loosely around the glass sweating in his lap.

His shirt clings in places from the heat and work, and there’s a single bead of moisture tracking down the curve of his neck, disappearing under the collar. His lashes are thick. His bottom lip looks soft. You wonder, in a sudden intrusive flash, what it’d feel like to bite it.

You turn toward him a little, your socked foot brushing his knee. “Do you think cows know when they’re naked?”

His head turns, slow. His expression shifts from distant to confused, then lands somewhere between amusement and disbelief.

“What?” he asks.

You shrug, serious for no reason. “I just think they’d be really embarrassed if they, like… realized they don’t wear clothes. Don’t you think?”

He stares at you, not answering, just blinking like maybe he didn’t hear you right.

You take another sip of lemonade and bat your lashes, playing innocent even though your brain is not innocent, not even a little.

Then something shifts in his expression.

Something subtle.

The disbelief softens into something warm. That shy reserve you’ve gotten used to watching him hide behind cracks, just a little. His eyes drift lower—to your lips, to your hand wrapped around the glass, to the bare skin of your thighs as you sit half-curled on his grandma’s floral couch.

He exhales through his nose.

“You always say things like that?” he asks, voice low, quiet but rougher than before.

You grin. “Like what?”

“Stuff that don’t make sense.”

“Mm, sometimes. Why?”

He studies you for a moment longer, mouth parted like he might say something else.

“Can I kiss you?” he asks.

The question lands heavier than it should—thicker, quieter, more serious than the moment had any right to be.

You blink slowly, heartbeat stalling just slightly.

Then you set your glass down and smile at him, all sugar and sweat and something softer curling underneath it.

“Took you long enough to ask.”

He doesn’t move at first, just looks at you like he’s still trying to decide if this is real or something he’ll wake up from later.

His hand twitches against his thigh like he’s resisting the instinct to reach for you too quickly.

You’re the one who shifts forward—closing the small, buzzing space between you, one slow breath at a time.

And when you lean in, pressing your lips to his, it’s softer than you expected. Like he’s still afraid of breaking something that hasn’t even begun yet.

But you kiss him again, and again, and by the third time, he exhales through his nose like he’s been holding his breath since you walked in the door.

The hesitation breaks.

His hand comes to your hip first, fingers curling tight like he doesn’t trust himself to let go. Then the other cups the side of your face, rough palm warm against your cheek as he kisses you deeper—open-mouthed and breathless, with a sort of focused hunger that makes your head spin.

You climb into his lap without thinking, thighs straddling his denim-covered ones, the heat of your body pressed close to his chest.

His breath stutters against your lips when your hands slide into his hair, nails skimming lightly along his scalp. He groans, soft but low in his throat, as his hands grip tighter—one splayed at your waist, the other pressing low against your back, keeping you close like you might slip away.

He tastes like lemonade and heat, and kisses like someone who’s spent weeks trying not to imagine this exact moment. There’s something unpolished about it—no slick choreography, no practiced moves. Just need, and instinct, and the soft, wet sound of mouths moving fast, open, messy.

Your hips shift slightly in his lap, more from instinct than purpose, but the effect is immediate.

He stiffens beneath you—breath hitching sharply—and you feel the pressure growing beneath your thighs.

His cock, thick and hard, presses up through his jeans where it’s caught between your bodies. He doesn’t say anything about it, but you can feel it—how tense he’s gone, how his grip flinches for just a second before tightening again.

You pull back slightly, lips swollen, eyes gleaming. “Is that for me?” you whisper, teasing just enough to watch him flush.

Remmick’s throat works as he swallows hard. He looks like he’s on the verge of apology, or retreat, or something else self-contained—but then his eyes flick back to your lips and he leans in again, kissing you like maybe he doesn’t want to answer out loud.

You roll your hips against him once, and he lets out a choked breath into your mouth, the sound caught somewhere between a gasp and a groan.

Your mouth leaves his just long enough to breathe, but you don’t pull back far.

Instead, your lips skim over the edge of his cheekbone, soft and slow. His breath hitches. The stubble there catches faintly on your skin, rough in a way that makes you want more of it.

He stays perfectly still beneath you, only his chest rising and falling faster now, hands still gripping your waist like he’s unsure where to go next.

You press a kiss just under his eye, then another to the line of his jaw. He tilts his head slightly as if by instinct, baring more of his neck, offering it without asking.

You take your time with it. Lips parting against the skin there, warm and salt-slick from the heat of the day, tasting the sweat gathered along the pulse point beneath your mouth. You drag your lips over it, then nip—soft, experimental—and he jerks beneath you.

“Sorry,” he murmurs, voice cracked and low.

You smile, lips brushing the edge of his collarbone. “For what?”

He doesn’t answer.

You kiss lower.

The collar of his shirt is damp, sticking slightly to his skin, and you push it aside as your mouth trails down, each press slower, hotter. His grip on you tightens when you press your tongue to the hollow of his throat. He tries to bite back a sound and fails.

It makes you bold.

Your fingers trail down his chest as you shift lower, slow and smooth between his thighs until you’re kneeling in front of him.

The living room is quiet around you, the fan still whirring above, but his breathing is sharp now—noisy in a way it wasn’t before.

You glance up as you settle between his legs, and he’s already looking down at you like he doesn’t know whether to speak or just watch.

And then something clicks.

His hands go to his belt—not clumsy, but urgent. He fumbles with the button, then the zipper, not because he’s unsure, but because he suddenly understands what’s about to happen and he’s terrified if he doesn’t move fast enough, you’ll change your mind.

He gets it undone in a few quick motions, hips lifting just enough to free the pressure there. The fabric falls open, denim parting, and he exhales like he’s been holding his breath since you first kissed him.

You place your hands on his thighs, firm and warm, and smile up at him—gloss smeared, eyes bright, lips already parted just enough.

“You good?” you murmur, voice soft but glittering with something far more dangerous.

He nods once, shallow and shaky, then again—more certain this time. “Yeah,” he breathes, voice rough. “Yeah.”

And he means it. Even if his hands are trembling. Even if his heart’s pounding. Even if you’ve undone him with nothing more than a kiss to the neck and that look in your eyes.

You hook your fingers into the waistband of his briefs, dragging them down with a slow, teasing tug.

The fabric peels away from his skin, damp with sweat and heat, catching slightly at the base before slipping over the thick weight of his cock.

It springs free heavy and flushed, resting against his stomach for a moment, the head swollen and glossy with arousal, a bead of precum already gathered at the tip. Your breath catches low in your throat.

He’s fat—thick enough that your fingers would barely touch wrapped around the shaft, the skin flushed a deep, aching red that fades into the paler, veined underside. The base is dark with hair, and the head is blushed and leaking, twitching slightly under the sudden rush of air.

You stare a second too long, lips parted, mascara a little smudged. “Jesus,” you breathe. “This… doesn’t match your whole shy-and-sweet thing.”

Remmick lets out a ragged breath, fists clenching in the cushion beneath him. “Don’t say stuff like that,” he mutters, voice rough and frayed.

You hum softly, one hand curling around the base, testing the weight of him.

He groans—low and hoarse, hips twitching toward your palm as you slowly stroke him once, then again, thumb sweeping along the underside. The skin is hot to the touch, silky-soft over the thick, pulsing muscle beneath.

“You’re hard as a rock,” you murmur, half teasing, voice syrupy and light.

He swallows hard, his voice a rasp. “You think I wasn’t gonna be?”

You lean in slow, lips parted, breath warm against the slick head. Your tongue flicks out, barely grazing the bead of arousal gathered there, and the taste hits your tongue—salty, thick.

His whole body jerks beneath you.

You press a kiss to the tip.

Not deep. Not fast. Just a kiss—soft and wet, lips parted around the crown as your tongue teases just beneath it. His thighs tense under your hands, stomach jumping as he grips the couch cushion harder, breath punching out of him in a gasp.

“God—” he hisses, voice cracking.

Your lips part a little more, letting the head slip between them again as your tongue licks slow and deliberate along the ridge. The length twitches in your hand, heavy and pulsing against your palm. A wet noise fills the room when you suckle lightly on the head, spit already beginning to slick your lips.

Remmick’s head falls back against the couch, eyes screwed shut, mouth open. His chest rises and falls in sharp, uneven bursts as you keep going—one slow pass of your mouth at a time, filthy and unhurried.

And beneath it all, his cock stays rock-hard and twitching, so thick your jaw already aches just from the first taste.

He’s quiet, but the noises he does make—guttural, broken sounds deep in his chest—tell you everything you need to know.

You lift your eyes to him while your tongue circles the tip, just lazy enough to tease. His head’s still tipped back, throat taut, but you can tell he’s trying not to look—trying to keep his composure like it’ll save him.

“Remmick,” you say softly, lips brushing the head as you speak. Your hand gives a slow squeeze near the base. “Why’re you looking at the ceiling when I’m being all cute down here?”

His head turns toward you with effort, eyes glassy. “You ain’t bein’—you know what you’re doin’.”

A sweet smile curls your lips as you drag your tongue flat along the underside again. He watches, jaw clenched, lips parted.

“Mm,” you hum, deliberately letting spit pool on your tongue before letting it drip down, sliding thick and warm over the head. “You’re just so big… I’m trying to be nice and get you all wet first.”

Remmick lets out a harsh breath through his nose, hips tensing. “That ain’t… you don’t gotta—”

“I want to,” you say, batting your lashes just once as you kiss down the side of his shaft, tongue trailing wet stripes over the veiny length. “And you taste so good.”

He groans.

A real sound, pulled from deep in his chest—frustrated and turned-on and so completely undone by the sight of you licking and mouthing all over his cock like you’ve been thinking about this for weeks.

Your hand strokes the base, slowly twisting, thumb catching under the ridge while your mouth opens again, wider this time, guiding the thick head past your lips and sinking down.

His stomach twitches when you take more of him. You can feel the stretch in your jaw, how he fills your mouth fully, how the weight of him presses heavy against your tongue.

You suck, soft and slow at first.

The drag of your lips, the wet sound of spit gathering, the quiet suction that grows stronger with each bob of your head. It’s messy already—strings of drool coating his cock, spit clinging to your lips and chin—but you don’t care.

You like it messy.

He does too. Even if he won’t say it out loud, his hips twitch every time you moan around him—those high, wet noises muffled by the thickness of his cock in your mouth. His fingers twitch against the cushion like he doesn’t know what to do with them.

When you glance up again, his eyes are locked to yours.

It nearly makes your pussy throb—seeing the way he looks at you, flushed and desperate, like he can’t believe you’re actually doing this.

You draw back, slowly, letting the head slip from your lips with a wet pop. A string of spit connects your bottom lip to the tip of his cock.

Then you murmur, voice syrupy and breathy, “You ever had anyone do this before, Remmick?”

He swallows hard, eyes flicking down to where your hand’s still stroking him, lips shiny and chin damp.

He hesitates.

“… No.”

You blink slowly, grinning. “Aw. Well, guess I gotta make it real special, huh?”

And with that, you take him deeper.

Your lips stretch wide, hand working what your throat can’t take yet, tongue dragging along the underside with each pass.

You build a rhythm—slow at first, then faster, wetter, sloppier, until you’re choking softly every third stroke, throat fluttering around him while tears prick the corners of your eyes.

He’s moaning now—quiet, but it’s there. Little helpless sounds slipping past his teeth as he watches your mouth glide over him like it’s your favorite thing in the world.

He stammers your name, voice cracking, “I ain’t gonna last—I can’t—please…”

You don’t stop.

Not when he’s squirming, not when his thighs are trembling under your palms, not when your tongue keeps teasing that sensitive spot under the head and his cock jumps in your mouth.

You just look up at him, pretty and fucked-out and a little teary, and moan around him again.

It’s too much. He gasps, his whole body going rigid, and you feel it the second he tips—cock pulsing, thick spurts filling your mouth as he shudders and grabs at the cushion like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded.

He tastes hot and salty, heavy on your tongue.

You swallow around it, messy and eager, and pull back only when he’s twitching from overstimulation, a broken noise slipping out of his throat.

Your lips are puffy, wet with spit and cum. You smile up at him, sweet and smug.

“You did so good, Remmick.”

He’s still panting, wide-eyed, looking at you like he’s seeing a ghost.

“… Sweet Lord above.”

The silence after is full of breathing. His chest rising, yours falling, the thick air between you gone still.

You’re kneeling prettily between his legs again, hands in your lap now, and your lips are still shiny, pink and a little swollen. There’s a smudge of spit across your chin, a faint glisten of cum on your bottom lip you haven’t even bothered to wipe.

Remmick’s staring.

He tries not to, shifting on the couch like he can tuck himself away from the weight of what just happened, but he can’t stop his eyes from flicking up and down, from your face to your knees to your hands, back to your mouth.

You lick your lips with a tiny hum. “You good?”

He swallows hard. “Y-yeah. Yes.. I’m—good, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

“Mean to what?” you ask, head tilting.

His hand rubs the back of his neck. He’s flushed again, lips parted like he’s fighting off the urge to apologize for something he hasn’t done.

“I ain’t ever… had someone do that before,” he mumbles, “and you just… you look real pretty right now, that’s all.”

Your lips twitch. “You’re sweet.”

His gaze dips again—down, not to your face, but between your legs this time. Where your thighs are clenched together a little tighter than before. Where your shorts are snug against the shape of your cunt now.

He notices.

You can tell.

His throat bobs.

“… Can I do that to you?” he blurts.

It comes out raw and hoarse, like he tried to stop it but it slipped anyway.

You blink, lips parting. “What?”

He clears his throat. Tries to say it again, slower. “I mean—only if you want—but I’ve always wondered what it’d be like, doin’ that for a girl, and you—you looked so good for me just now, I was thinkin’, maybe…”

He trails off flustered, eyelashes lowered.

And something burns hot between your legs.

“… You sure?” you ask, voice airy, head cocked.

His ears go red. “Y-yes.”

You smile, slow and sugary. “You got a bed, don’t you?”

Dust rolls off the tires like smoke. 

Somewhere behind you, the city feels a million years away—the traffic, the sound of glass heels on marble floors, the easy whine of luxury and noise.

The little white house at the end of the dirt road looks like it’s been there forever. The paint is sun-worn and flaking, the porch steps sag just enough to make you hesitate before climbing them. 

Your aunt’s truck is parked out front, old and square and stubborn, the kind that still smells like motor oil no matter how many times it’s been scrubbed.

She meets you at the door with a hug that smells like laundry soap and the sharp bite of lemon cleaner. “You look thin,” she says before she says anything else, then, “Your daddy told me everything. Said you needed some grounding.” Her eyes narrow—not unkindly, but in that way people look when they’re already exhausted by you before the day’s even begun.

You step inside and the air is thick, warm, slow. No air conditioning, just the hum of a fan in the corner and the faint murmur of cicadas through the screen door. The floorboards creak beneath your heels, and you can’t help but glance down, wondering if they’ll hold your weight.

Your “room” is the first door on the right. A twin bed with a quilt, a wooden dresser that’s missing a knob, and curtains that look like they were made from a tablecloth. No mirror, no vanity, not even a decent place to hang your clothes. The pink suitcase you brought looks out of place here—shiny, new, and embarrassingly loud against the plain, beige walls.

You drop it onto the bed, the springs squealing in protest, and cross your arms. The smell of pine cleaner and dust is everywhere. You can already see the plan forming in your head: a few soft touches, a new paint color, maybe some fairy lights strung along the wall. Something livable.

From the kitchen, your aunt calls, “You’ll start workin’ with the O’Connor’s this week. They need help, and you need somethin’ to do other than stare at your phone.”

You roll your eyes even though she can’t see it. “Working?”

She appears in the doorway, one eyebrow raised. “Don’t say it like it’s a curse word. It’s good for you. They’re good people. You’ll like Remmick.”

Dinner is ready before you’ve even unpacked. Your aunt doesn’t ask if you’re hungry; she just sets two plates on the table and tells you to sit. The food smells strong—something fried, something green, and something you can’t quite identify.

You lower yourself into the chair gingerly, eyeing the spread. “Is that… kale?”

Your aunt blinks. “That’s okra, sweetheart.”

“Oh.” You stab at it with your fork like it might move on its own. “It’s kinda… slimy.”

She hums. “That’s how you know it’s cooked right.”

You take a polite bite, chew twice, and reach for your phone under the table. “Do y’all not have, like, Uber Eats around here?”

The look she gives you makes you put the phone right back down.

By the time you finish dinner—mostly pushing things around your plate—your aunt has started listing rules: no late nights, no calls past midnight, no friends coming down to “visit.” You nod along absently, already picturing how fast you can get back to civilization once this “grounding” period is over.

The next hour is spent trying to make your new room bearable. You unpack halfway, smoothing a satin top across the dresser before realizing the humidity makes everything feel sticky. The outlet by the bed doesn’t work, and when you plug in your curling iron across the room, the lights flicker. You sigh dramatically.

“Everything here’s… vintage,” you mumble to yourself, tugging at the hem of your tiny pink shorts.

Your aunt calls from down the hall, “You’ll live. And don’t think about painting those walls—this house’s been the same color since your granddaddy built it.”

You roll your eyes, lying back on the bed. The ceiling fan turns lazily, rattling every few seconds like it’s about to fall. “It’s giving Dust Bowl chic,” you mutter, opening your compact mirror to check your lip gloss.

When you try to text your friends, there’s no signal. You wave your phone near the window, squinting. “Ugh, seriously? How do people survive out here?”

“By talkin’ to each other,” your aunt calls again, as if she has supersonic hearing.

You groan. “That’s so depressing.”

Later that night, you try calling your father. He doesn’t pick up. You leave a message anyway—soft, drawn-out, dripping with practiced guilt. “Daddy, it’s me. I’m here. It’s… cute. Really rustic. I’ll try to make the best of it. I miss you.” You pause, glance around the dark room, and add, “And I swear that whole thing in the city wasn’t my fault. You know how people talk.”

When you hang up, you catch your reflection in the window: pink silk sleep set, mascara still perfect, hair a little too polished for the heat. You sigh, fluff your pillow, and try to imagine what kind of “farm work” your aunt thinks you’re capable of.

Probably something cute—like feeding baby animals. Maybe picking flowers. Something that doesn’t involve dirt.

The sun wakes you before the alarm does—bright, insistent, and merciless through the thin curtains. Your body feels heavy, and the first sound you hear is your aunt knocking on the door like she’s got a vendetta against it.

“Up and at it!” she calls. “Daylight’s wastin’.”

You groan, pulling the pillow over your face. “Daylight’s been wasting my whole life,” you mumble into the cotton.

The door creaks open. “Don’t start with me this early, sugar. You’re meetin’ Remmick down at the farm. Best to get there before it gets too hot.”

You peek one eye out from under the pillow. “What time is it?”

“Little past nine.”

You let out a noise of pure disbelief. “Nine? Like, a.m.? That’s illegal.”

Your aunt just laughs, patting the doorframe before heading down the hall. “Coffee’s on the table. You got ten minutes.”

You lie there another five just to make a point. When you finally drag yourself into the kitchen, she’s already halfway through a plate of eggs. The smell alone makes you frown—it’s too… hearty. There’s no oat milk, no fruit bowl, no smoothie waiting. Just eggs, toast, and something that looks suspiciously like sausage grease.

You flop into the chair across from her. “Can’t I go after lunch? Like… ease into it?”

“Farm don’t wait for lunchtime,” she says simply, sipping her coffee. “And neither does Remmick.”

The name again. You squint at her. “Is he, like, old? Please tell me he’s not old.”

“‘Bout your age,” she replies, but the twinkle in her eye suggests she’s enjoying your distress.

You sigh dramatically, dragging the mug of coffee toward you. It’s black—no sugar, no cream. You take one sip and instantly gag. “This tastes like dirt.”

“Good,” your aunt says, standing to rinse her plate. “You’ll fit right in.”

By the time you go back to your room, the sun is higher, burning through the morning haze. You throw open your suitcase, eyeing your clothes with deep concentration. “Work clothes,” you murmur to yourself, tugging out a pair of denim shorts that look more designer than durable. A white tank top follows, thin enough to be almost see-through, and you knot it at the waist just because it looks cute.

You consider sneakers but decide on platform sandals—less practical, more aesthetic. A little mascara, a little gloss. A spritz of perfume that smells like vanilla and city air. When you check the mirror, you smile faintly. “Perfect,” you tell your reflection.

Your aunt meets you by the porch with a basket of folded linens for the truck. Her eyes trail from your hair to your shoes, and she just sighs. “You’re gonna last five minutes.”

“Please,” you say, winking. “I’m very adaptable.”

“Mm-hm.” She hands you a bottle of water. “The O’Connor’s live two miles down County Road Seven. Don’t get lost.”

The dirt road stretches out like a test of willpower—wide, dusty, and shimmering in the heat. Cicadas hum somewhere in the trees, and every now and then, a pickup rumbles past, kicking up clouds that stick to your gloss. The further you walk, the smaller the houses get until the world opens into nothing but fields and sky.

And there, in the distance, you see it: the O’Connor farm. Rows of weathered fencing, a faded red barn, a patchwork of tractors and tools scattered like bones.

Somewhere among them, you’ll meet the man your aunt swears will “teach you a little discipline.”

The gravel crunches under your sandals with every step, sharp little pebbles slipping underfoot. The air is thick—too hot for the hour—and your perfume doesn’t stand a chance against the smell of earth, hay, and something faintly animal. There’s no sound of cars here, only the hum of cicadas and the soft, rhythmic creak of something metal swaying in the distance.

You stop near the fence line, squinting toward the barn. A few chickens scatter near your feet when you get too close, and you let out a startled squeak, clutching your bag against your chest like it’ll help.

“Rude,” you mutter under your breath.

The main barn door is half open, revealing a dim interior that smells like sunbaked wood and oil. You peek inside cautiously, expecting maybe a person—someone older, maybe your aunt’s age—but find only tools hanging from nails and a half-taken-apart tractor in the corner.

“Hello?” you call out, voice pitching high. “I’m looking for… Remmick?”

Nothing. Just the echo of your own voice and the faint buzz of a fly.

You wander further in, your sandals slipping a little on the uneven floor. It’s cooler inside, but the quiet is unsettling. You trail a finger along a workbench, frowning when it comes away dusty. “Do they even clean in here?” you whisper, half to yourself.

The silence stretches, heavy and strange. For the first time, you start to wonder if maybe you shouldn’t have come alone.

Then, a sound—boots on dirt. You turn toward the light spilling through the open barn door.

He appears from the glare like something out of a painting—broad-shouldered, sun-flushed, carrying a set of heavy tools balanced against one arm. The first thing you notice is how solid he looks. The second is that he’s staring at you like he’s not sure you’re real.

You blink, suddenly very aware of how glossy you must look standing there in your tied-up top and platform sandals.

He stops just inside the doorway, adjusting his grip on the tools. “Can I help you?” His voice is soft, cautious, like someone unused to raising it.

“I’m, um—” You gesture vaguely toward yourself. “The help.”

His brows pull together. “The help?”

“My auntie said I should come down here and… you know.” You trail off, making a vague scooping motion with your hand. “Help.”

He stares another second, like he’s waiting for a punchline. “With… what, exactly?”

You blink. “Farm stuff?”

He sets the tools down slowly, wiping his palms on his jeans. They’re worn, stained at the knees, the kind of fabric that’s seen years of work. His shirt’s loose but clings where it’s damp with sweat, and when he finally speaks again, it’s with a hint of uncertainty.

“Miss, you sure you’re in the right place?”

“Positive.” You lift your chin, even though you’re not totally sure anymore. “You’re Remmick, right?”

“I am.”

“Then I’m right.”

He just looks at you—really looks at you. Eyes flicking from your painted nails to your shoes to the faint shimmer of lip gloss catching the light. There’s no malice in it, just plain confusion.

Finally, he says, “You ain’t dressed for work.”

You look down at yourself like the thought hadn’t occurred to you. “What’s wrong with it?”

He opens his mouth, then closes it again, like he’s not sure how to explain where to start. The quiet stretches between you, thick as the heat.

After a long pause, he clears his throat. “Well… suppose we can start small. You ever fed chickens before?”

You wrinkle your nose. “Do I look like I’ve ever fed chickens before?”

That earns you the faintest ghost of a smile. “I… didn’t think so.”

He moves slower than most men you’ve met—careful, like he’s measuring every motion before he makes it. There’s no rush in him, no city impatience, no restless need to fill the silence. Just quiet ease. The kind that makes you want to fidget just to hear something happen.

When he gestures for you to follow, the motion is simple—a small tilt of his chin, the tools in his hand catching the light as he turns toward the open fields. He doesn’t look back to see if you’re coming, just assumes you will.

You trail behind, trying not to step in anything suspicious. The air smells stronger out here, too alive. Rows of fencing stretch into the distance, everything tinged in that early heat-haze shimmer that makes the world look half-unreal.

You shouldn’t be staring. But you are.

The first thing you really notice is his hands. Big, square-palmed, veins raised faintly along the forearms. They’re tanned and rough—one holding the handle of a metal bucket, the other hooked through a loop of his belt—and you can tell without needing to be told that he’s used to lifting things heavier than you’d ever attempt.

He wears his shirt like he doesn’t think about it. It’s just something functional—thin cotton gone soft at the seams, the color washed from blue to pale sky. Sweat clings to the fabric across his back, dampening it where the shoulder blades shift. He smells faintly like sun and soil and something sharp you can’t name.

When he finally speaks, his voice breaks the hum of the cicadas. “Chickens are this way,” he says, glancing over his shoulder. His accent is thicker than you expected, vowels drawn out and easy. You wonder if he’s doing it on purpose—trying to sound polite—or if that’s just how he talks.

You catch yourself watching the way his mouth moves when he speaks. The words come soft, but steady. You’ve met men who fill every silence with noise just to prove they’re confident, but he doesn’t. He leaves quiet where quiet belongs.

You can’t decide if that makes him strange or kind of… something else.

He points toward a low wooden fence where a cluster of chickens wander aimlessly. “They’ll take feed right out your hand if you’re patient. Peck a little, but they don’t mean nothin’ by it.”

You blink, already imagining yourself covered in feathers and regret. “They… peck?”

He nods, deadpan. “You’ll live.”

He kneels by a feed bag, muscles shifting under the light fabric of his shirt as he scoops a handful into the bucket. For a moment, the sun hits just right, catching in his hair and the curve of his neck, and you forget to be annoyed about the dirt or the heat.

You clear your throat softly, mostly to break the silence before it swallows you whole. “So, uh… is this, like, your job?”

He glances up, a faint smile ghosting across his lips. “You could say that.”

“I mean—like, full-time?”

“That’s what farmin’ is, ma’am. Full-time.”

You frown. “Right. I just didn’t think people still did that.”

That earns a laugh—not loud, but real. It surprises you. He looks down, shaking his head a little, and says quietly, “You—you’re somethin’ else.”

You don’t know if it’s an insult or not, but the sound of it lingers.

He tips the bucket toward you and offers it out, the metal handle cool against his rough palm. “Here,” he says. “Go on, just grab a handful.”

You eye the bucket like it might bite. “It smells weird.”

“That’s corn and feed, not perfume,” he says lightly, though there’s a trace of amusement in his tone.

With a small grimace, you reach in, scooping up a handful of the gritty mixture. It sticks faintly to your lotion-slick skin, little pieces catching under your manicured nails. You hold it up awkwardly, wrist bent, as though afraid it might stain.

“Now what?”

He steps closer—close enough that the heat of him grazes your shoulder. “Hold it out low,” he says. “Palms open. They’ll come to you.”

You crouch, doing your best to balance without actually letting your knees touch the dirt. The chickens, at first, look uninterested. Then one—a bold little white one with a crooked comb—starts making its way over.

“Oh my God, it’s looking at me.”

“That’s what they do.”

“It’s plotting something,” you hiss.

Remmick presses his lips together like he’s trying very hard not to laugh. “Just stay still.”

The chicken comes closer, head bobbing with that strange, jerky rhythm that makes your skin crawl. It pecks once—hard—right in the center of your palm. You yelp and fling the entire handful of feed straight into the air.

The bird squawks, the others scatter, and for a moment, it’s absolute chaos. Feathers everywhere.

Remmick’s laugh finally slips through—a quick, surprised sound, quiet but genuine. He ducks his head like he’s embarrassed by it.

You turn toward him, eyes wide, mouth open. “Did it bite me?”

He shakes his head, still smiling. “Didn’t even break skin. You just startled easy.”

“I do not startle easy.” You glare at him, brushing your palms against your shorts. “I just didn’t expect poultry assault.”

That makes his shoulders shake a little, the kind of laugh he tries to swallow but can’t quite manage. When you narrow your eyes, he lifts a hand in mock surrender. “Alright, alright. No more laughin’. You did fine.”

You huff, turning your attention to the retreating chickens. “They’re mean.”

“They’re chickens,” he says simply.

You cross your arms. “Same thing.”

He grins at that—small, almost shy. It flickers across his face before he looks away again, clearing his throat. “Suppose we’ll have to ease you into the rest of it.”

“Is the rest of it more violent?”

“No, ma’am,” he says, still half smiling. “Not usually.”

There’s something soft in his voice when he says it, and for a fleeting second, the heat feels thicker, heavier. You catch yourself looking at him again—at the way the sunlight glints off the sweat at his temple, at the curve of his mouth still hovering near a laugh.

You look away first.

The morning drags slow and golden, sunlight pouring through the trees like syrup. Dust rises off the ground in little swirls with every step you take, clinging to your perfume and lip gloss until you smell faintly like sugar and dirt.

Remmick walks a few paces ahead, carrying a bucket like it’s nothing. You’re trying to follow but keep getting distracted by everything—the way the grass catches the light, the weird chirping sound that might be a bird or a frog, and the fact that your sandal strap keeps slipping loose.

“This place is so… nature-y,” you say, tugging at it again.

He glances back, brow furrowing slightly. “Yes, ma’am. It’s a farm.”

“Right, I know that,” you reply, tone a little defensive. “Just—like, wow. There’s bugs and everything.”

He doesn’t answer, but his mouth presses into a faint line as he keeps walking.

When you finally reach the trough, he sets the bucket down and gestures for you to help. “You can pour this while I get the next one. Don’t let it spill.”

You nod, dead serious, and pick up the bucket. It’s heavier than you expect. “Oh my God, this is like… gym weights. You should’ve told me it was this heavy.”

“It’s twenty pounds,” he says softly.

“That’s illegal,” you mutter, wobbling as you lift.

You try to pour, but half of it sloshes over the edge and onto your shoes. You squeal, hopping back. “Ew, it touched me! What even is that?”

He crouches beside the trough, quiet as he refills it properly. The corners of his ears go pink, though whether it’s from heat or you, you can’t tell.

“I did it wrong, didn’t I?” you ask, twisting your lip gloss tube open and closed.

He hesitates. “Maybe a little.”

“You could’ve warned me.”

“I did.”

“You didn’t warn me enough.”

He looks up at you then, one brow faintly raised, but says nothing. Just stands, wipes his hands on his jeans, and nods toward the next chore.

When you reach the chicken coop again, you stop short, eyes wide. “They remember me,” you whisper. “I can feel it.”

“They don’t remember you,” he says gently.

“They do. That one’s glaring.”

He presses his lips together, clearly fighting a smile. “You can wait over there if you like.”

“Thank you,” you say with relief, wandering toward a fence post instead. Then, after a beat, “Do they ever bite people’s ankles?”

He glances over his shoulder, half amused, half resigned. “Not usually.”

You hum, unconvinced.

He goes about his work, quiet and steady, checking the fences. You stand nearby, narrating everything like a running commentary: how the sky is “so big it’s kind of rude,” how the cows look “judgmental,” how your hair “wasn’t meant for humidity.”

Every few minutes, his shoulders twitch, just slightly. Not enough to call it frustration—just that quiet, inward sigh of a man trying his best to stay polite.

When he hands you a hammer to fix a board, you stare at it like it’s a weapon. “Isn’t this dangerous?”

“Not if you use it right.”

You nod, grip it awkwardly, and miss the nail completely. The clang echoes, sharp and loud.

He winces. “Almost.”

“Almost?” you echo, indignant. “I nailed it.”

His mouth twitches. “Didn’t hit the nail, though.”

“Semantics.”

He bites his lip to keep from smiling, adjusting his hat to hide it. “You sure talk a lot,” he murmurs, almost under his breath.

“What was that?”

“Nothin’.” He clears his throat, eyes on the fence. “Just… you got energy, that’s all.”

“Thank you,” you say brightly, assuming it’s a compliment.

“Mm.”

When he shows you how to hold the hammer properly, he steps close—too close—and his hand settles over yours to correct your grip. His palm is warm and rough, the skin calloused but careful. For a second, your mind goes completely blank.

He lets go fast, clearing his throat. “There. That’s better.”

You grin. “You could’ve just said you wanted to hold hands.”

He stumbles slightly over his next word. “Didn’t—wasn’t—just tryin’ to help.”

You hum thoughtfully. “You blush easy, huh?”

His ears turn redder. “Sun’s out.”

“Sure it is.”

By late morning, you’re both sticky with heat and mild annoyance—him from your chatter, you from his silence. Every time he says “yes, ma’am,” you roll your eyes; every time you call him “farm-boy” just to tease, his jaw tightens before he looks away.

Still, neither of you says what you’re thinking. The air between you hums with something unspoken: half irritation, half curiosity.

When he finally says, “We’ll stop for a bit,” you flop dramatically onto a hay bale, legs crossed, sweat shining on your skin. “Finally. I think I’m dying.”

He stands nearby, rubbing at the back of his neck, eyes flicking anywhere but at you. “You’ll toughen up.”

You pout. “Don’t want to toughen up.”

He smiles faintly, shy but amused. “Didn’t think so.”

For a moment, neither of you speaks. Cicadas sing from the trees, the sun painting everything in slow gold. He busies himself with a coil of rope that doesn’t need fixing, and you just watch him—half annoyed, half something else entirely.

It’s the first time you realize how easily quiet can stretch between two people—how it can feel irritating and safe all at once.

By three o’clock, the sun feels cruel.

It presses on everything—the earth, the air, your skin—until the world turns slow and dizzy. Sweat slips down your spine, and you swear the ground itself is radiating heat back at you.

Remmick doesn’t seem to notice. He’s kneeling by a fence post again, fixing something invisible, shoulders steady and easy. You watch him from the shade of a tree, chewing on the end of your straw and wondering if he’s secretly built of something other than flesh.

“How are you still alive?” you ask finally.

He glances up, wiping his forehead with the back of his wrist. “Ain’t that hot.”

“It’s literally boiling,” you argue. “If I die, my aunt’s gonna sue you.”

He huffs a soft laugh, head ducking. “She wouldn’t.”

“She might. She loves me.”

He doesn’t answer, just keeps working. The quiet stretches again, broken only by the sounds of the animals and your sighs of exaggerated suffering.

Eventually, you push yourself up from the tree trunk, brushing grass off your thighs. “Okay, I’m done. My skin’s melting. I’m leaving.”

He looks over, brows drawing together. “It’s just after three.”

“Exactly,” you say, slinging your bag over your shoulder. “Work day’s over.”

“Not on a farm.”

“Well, it is for me.”

He stands slowly, setting the hammer aside. “Your aunt said you’d stay through the afternoon.”

You glance toward the dirt road, already picturing the blessed hum of a fan and a cold shower. “My aunt isn’t here, though, is she?”

He shifts his weight, uneasy but trying to sound firm. “You were doin’ alright. Could still learn somethin’ if you stay a while longer.”

You squint at him, shading your eyes with one hand. “What, like how to sweat more?”

His jaw tightens a little. “Like how to finish what you start.”

That earns him a small, incredulous laugh. “Okay, Dad. I’ll pass.”

He opens his mouth, then closes it again, looking down. There’s something in his expression—quiet, careful irritation—but he doesn’t let it out. He just nods once, curt and polite. “Suit yourself, ma’am.”

You pause, half expecting him to stop you again. When he doesn’t, it weirdly throws you off. He just stands there, thumb hooked into his belt loop, eyes on the dirt near his boots instead of on you.

The silence feels heavier now.

You shift your bag higher, toss your hair back, and start walking down the road toward your aunt’s. The cicadas follow you the whole way, shrill and unrelenting.

Behind you, Remmick doesn’t move until you’re almost out of sight. Then he drags a hand down his face, exhales slow, and mutters something that sounds like a prayer—or a curse he’s too polite to say out loud.

By the time you get back to your aunt’s, the house smells like cornbread and something frying in oil. The sky outside has gone soft and hazy, the last of the sunlight bleeding orange through the trees. You drop your bag by the door with a groan loud enough to shake the windows.

“Lord, I’m never walking again,” you announce to no one in particular. “My legs are, like, broken.”

Your aunt looks up from the stove, spatula in hand. “You’re home early.”

You pause mid-sigh. “It’s, like, almost dinner.”

“It’s four-thirty.”

“Same thing.”

She gives you a look—the kind that could cut through steel—and sets the spatula down. “Remmick called.”

That makes you blink. “He what?”

“Called. Said you left before the day was done.”

You gasp, hand flying to your chest. “He snitched on me?”

“Snitched,” she repeats flatly.

“Yes! That’s, like, tattletale behavior.”

Your aunt raises an eyebrow. “He said you looked dizzy, and he wanted to make sure you got home alright.”

“Oh.” You twirl a curl around your finger, pretending that’s what you thought all along. “Well… that’s still tattling. In spirit.”

“He’s just bein’ polite,” she says, turning back to the skillet. “And you’re goin’ back tomorrow.”

You flop into a chair at the table, dramatic as a dying star. “Do I have to?”

“Yes, you do.”

You whine softly, slumping lower. “But it’s hot, and the chickens hate me, and the dirt gets under my nails, and that man—he doesn’t even talk that much. It’s creepy.”

“He’s shy,” she says simply. “And patient. Which is more than I can say for you.”

You frown at your manicure, pouting. “I am patient. I just… get bored.”

“Then you’ll learn not to.”

You let out a long, theatrical groan, sliding halfway off the chair until you’re nearly on the floor. “You’re ruining my life.”

Your aunt smirks without looking up. “If that’s all it takes, your life wasn’t that sturdy to begin with.”

You gasp, clutching your chest again. “That’s so mean!”

She laughs—short, sharp, affectionate. “You’ll thank me when you’re not scared of sweat anymore.”

“Gross,” you mutter, curling your legs under you. “I’m delicate.”

“That’s what we’re fixin’,” she says, flipping the cornbread.

You sulk in silence for a while, then finally ask, “Do I at least get a lunch break tomorrow?”

“Depends on if you last past noon.”

You sigh again, long and heavy, like a tragic heroine in a play no one asked for. “If I die out there, you tell Remmick it’s his fault.”

“He’ll probably be the one to carry you back,” she says dryly.

You make a face. “He’s too… broad. I’ll look weird.”

Your aunt snorts, pouring sweet tea into two glasses. “You’re impossible.”

“Thank you,” you say sweetly, taking the glass and sipping it like it’s champagne.

The kitchen settles into its usual evening rhythm—the hum of the fan, the faint pop of oil, crickets starting up outside. Somewhere in the distance, a tractor hums low, slow, steady. You imagine Remmick still out there, working, probably not even thinking about you.

It’s a little annoying, actually.

You take another sip, eyes narrowing. “Still a tattletale.”

Your aunt just shakes her head, hiding a smile.

divider credits ♡

he’s fucking you deep. real deep. thick cock splitting you open with every thrust, dragging obscene slick from your cunt that’s coating his thighs, soaking the base of him, dripping down your legs like he just made you come five times in a row—and he probably has.

“lord, help me,” he gasps, voice wrecked. “i can’t stop… i can’t—she’s squeezin’ me so—”

his hand’s flat on your back, pressing you down like he’s scared you’ll get away. the other’s wrapped around your middle, thumb rubbing your clit in tight, messy circles that make you cry out, toes curling in your boots. his rhythm is frantic now—hips slapping your ass so fast and so wet it sounds like you’re getting wrecked in the middle of a rainstorm.

“i’m sorry,” he breathes into the back of your neck, actually apologizing as he fucks you harder. “feels so good, i cain’t help it. y’feel like heaven, darlin’, i swear—”

you’re drooling. crying. begging. and all he can do is hold your hips and stay buried in that sloppy mess of cum and slick, moaning your name like a prayer.

he comes deep. stutters, groans, twitches, and fills you up so warm you feel it gush out around him. but he doesn’t pull out. doesn’t even slow down. just ruts through it, cock still hard, leaking, breath hitching every time your ass bounces back and squelches around him.

“gonna give you another,” he pants, forehead pressed to your spine. “jus’… jus’ let me stay in. lemme make a mess.”

and he does. over and over. slow, filthy strokes that never stop.

missionary — in his narrow farmhouse bed, sheets ruined, legs pushed up, his chest pressed to yours

he’s on top of you, knees sinking into the mattress, body hot and heavy, breath trembling against your lips. the room smells like sweat and sex, the sheets already damp underneath you both, and remmick’s cock is buried so deep inside you it feels like he’s splitting something sacred.

he’s shaking—you can feel it in his arms, in his thighs, in the way his chest trembles against yours. he’s holding himself up on one arm, the other hand cupping the back of your thigh to keep you pinned open for him. polite boy, respectful boy, but right now? he’s gone. flushed red to the ears, curls stuck to his forehead, mouth hovering over yours like he’s begging for a kiss even as he keeps grinding himself into your guts.

his thrusts aren’t fast—they’re deep. thick, slow rolls of his hips, sliding all the way out until just the tip clings to your entrance before pushing back in so full and so heavy you can feel him in your belly. every time he sinks in, you choke on a breath and his face crumples like he’s trying not to fall apart too soon.

“i—i’m tryin’ not to rush,” he pants quietly, voice all broken, “but you’re—lord, you’re squeezin’ me so hard—”

your legs wrap around his waist, pulling him deeper, and he whimpers. an actual whimper. his face drops to your neck, and he thrusts harder, hips meeting yours with wet, sticky sounds, slick from both of you smearing across his pelvis and down your ass.

he nuzzles your throat like he’s overwhelmed by you—breathing you in, clutching at your waist, grunting under his breath with every push, those big pecs brushing your chest, jiggling from the force of his hips snapping forward, nipples rubbing against your skin, both of you sweaty and shaking and lost.

you moan, nails digging into his shoulders, and he makes a sound you’ve never heard—half sob, half groan—his cock throbbing inside you like it’s trying to pulse its way deeper. your nails drag again, harder this time, and he almost folds, hips stuttering like you just hit his weak spot.

he kisses you sloppily, gasping between each kiss, whispers all shaky and reverent against your lips:

“don’t let go… don’t stop holdin’ me…”

and then he breaks—thrusts turning frantic, sloppy, desperate, sweat dripping from his hairline to your collarbone as he comes deep inside you, hips pressed flush, cock pulsing in thick, hot spurts that spill out around him when he tries to keep fucking it in.

he doesn’t pull out.

just keeps pushing, slow and sticky, like he’s trying to keep himself inside you.

his voice is barely a breath, lips pressed to your cheek, chest heaving against yours:

“still got more in me. ain’t done yet.”

and you feel him—still hard, still throbbing—refusing to go soft, cock leaking inside you, grinding gentle and filthy as his breath shakes and he tries to catch control he doesn’t have anymore.

cowgirl — in his bed, shirt still on, cock so deep he’s about to cry

you’re straddling him slow, dragging your hips in thick, wet rolls that leave his cock glistening and twitching inside you. remmick’s got both hands trembling on your thighs, trying to be good, trying not to grip too tight—but every time you grind down, his fingers squeeze harder, and his head falls back with a whine caught in his throat.

he’s flushed deep, sweat beading at his hairline, his chest rising fast beneath his worn henley—buttons popped, nipples pressed against the fabric.

“i don’t know what—” he pants, eyes glassy, voice pitched soft and panicked. “i can’t—i don’t know what t’do with m’self when you—”

you cut him off with another drop of your hips, thighs slapping his. his cock jerks inside you, fat and swollen and so deep. the wet sounds between your bodies are filthy—your slick smeared all down his balls, dripping to the sheets, frothy and loud with every bounce.

he groans through his teeth when your hands drag up his chest, shirt clinging to him like a second skin. you pinch his nipples through the fabric—just a little—and he bucks, hips thrusting up hard enough to punch a gasp out of you.

you grin. he looks wrecked. sweat running into his lashes, lips parted, moaning your name like a prayer that keeps getting cut off by how good you feel around him.

“ain’t never—never been touched like this,” he stammers, holding your hips tighter now, grinding up into you like he’s trying to fuck you back. “y’gon’ ruin me, darlin’…”

and you do. you ride him until his thighs are shaking, until he’s moaning without shame, chest heaving, cock twitching in your cunt with every bounce. he comes with a cry, half lifting you off the bed with the force of it, thick release spilling out around the base of his cock.

but he doesn’t tell you to stop. not once. just grips your ass and keeps moving, messy and slow, cum leaking out of you and down his balls while his cock stays hard inside, twitching, overstimulated and needy.

you lean in close, mouth against his cheek, and his breath hitches like he’s about to cry from how good it feels.

“still got more for me,” you murmur. “don’t you?”

and he nods—fast, frantic, already lifting his hips up into you again.

“’course i do,” he breathes, voice wrecked and eager. “jus’—jus’ don’t stop ridin’ me yet.”

and you don’t.

you ride him until he’s wet with sweat and drool and cum and begging for mercy he doesn’t want.