#remmick.fic

The day you got the callback from Sacred Fir Nursery you were thrilled, to say the least.

Sacred Fir Nursery–who sold nearly every species of fir sans sacred firs, ironically–was your hometown’s local Christmas tree farm: a sprawling plot of land located on the outskirts of town, and home to the precious childhood memories of nearly every town resident.

You have your own cherished memories of your parents taking you as a child, bundled up in your scarf and gloves, the thick scent of fir needles clogging your nose. You recall running on stubby legs through rows of trees, throwing your arms in victory around whichever full-bodied evergreen became your favorite. You always got final say on which tree your family took home that day. They’re memories you’ll never forget.

Needless to say, when you came back home for the holidays and saw that the nursery was hiring for part-time, seasonal work, you put in an application almost immediately.

Your job is straightforward: you’re either processing purchases from behind the front desk of the cozy log cabin, or you’re trekking outside and leading families through the many rows of firs, informing them on each species, pitching all their pros, and encouraging sales. Whatever you find yourself doing, Christmas cheer is abound: the inside of the cabin is beautifully decorated, with garlands wrapped around the exposed wooden beams of the ceiling, fairy lights glittering at the windows, a cheery Christmas station always playing, and a humongous, nine-foot-tall Christmas tree standing proudly in the front corner: the undeniable centerpiece of the building, and one of the nursery’s very own.

Some might find the overwhelming festivity to be too much, but for you it’s a much-needed reprieve from the stress of your semester. And, Christmas cheer aside, you can’t deny that you enjoy the money lining your woefully broke, college student pockets.

It’s perfect.

And then he’s hired.

Your boss, Earl, invites the man inside one evening and introduces him as Remmick–an unusual name in these parts, and the only one given, so you’re unsure if it’s meant to be his first or last. The man is average height, maybe even a little below that, with broad shoulders, big features, and a mess of wavy, dark brown hair. He’s handsome in a way you don’t let yourself entertain. He looks exactly like the kind of man you might find working on a farm.

Remmick inclines his head at you, a small smile curling the corners of his mouth, blue eyes steady as he takes you in. Something about the look on his face sets you on edge.

“Ma’am,” he greets, voice thick with Southern flair. He extends a hand, taking your own before you can react, his palm large and surprisingly cool around yours. He doesn’t shake–just gives your hand a gentle squeeze. “A pleasure.”

You arch an eyebrow and pull your hand back as politely as possible. You keep your tone neutral. “It’s nice to meet you, Remmick.”

Earl goes on for a bit about Remmick’s role–he’ll be taking the overnight shift, coming in about an hour before your own shift ends–right around the time the Sun sets–and then staying overnight as security. Sacred Fir has trouble with vandalism this time of the year: usually nothing more serious than bored teenagers trying to snag a free tree in the dead of night, but it’s enough that it’s not only a nuisance, but costly.

You frown. “What happened to Jerry?”

Jerry was the man whose job this was–you haven’t seen him in about a week, Earl coming in his stead, but you always assumed he’d be back.

Earl huffs irritably. “Bastard up and disappeared on me. Haven’t heard from him in over a week. Just poof. Can’t find any decent help nowadays.”

Remmick hums in agreement, the sound low in his throat. You look over at him, only to find him already staring at you. You know in your gut that he’s been staring this entire time.

“Lucky for me.” he drawls, “I’ve been needing something to keep me busy. I’m just passing through town, but I’ll be here a few more weeks yet.”

He’s responding to Earl–but his eyes never stray from you. You feel a flush creep up your neck and look away.

Earl dismisses you shortly after that, clasping a hand over Remmick’s shoulder as they continue to discuss the job. You make yourself scarce, heading to the breakroom at the back of the cabin while there are no customers to worry about.

You can feel Remmick’s eyes on you the whole way there.

You weren’t sure what to make of Remmick when you first met him, other than that he was strange and a little unnerving and stared too much.

You decide now that you hate him.

Or at least, you want to hate him.

He’s not what you expected: you thought he’d be the kind of strange that stands at a distance, eyes tracking your every move and never looking away in shame, even when caught in the act.

As it happens, Remmick does track your every move, he never looks away, and he seems downright impervious to shame.

But not from a distance.

The man basically lives right under you—you can’t stock the shelves or clean the windows or sneeze without him hovering at your shoulder, asking you what you need or complimenting your hair or, worse, trying to make small talk.

You brush him off more often than not, sometimes gently, other times bluntly. It’s amusing, the way he deflates every time, full lips pouting and wide shoulders slumping. He makes a show of it, silly as can be, and you try not to laugh at his antics. Try being the key word—sometimes you don’t turn your head away quickly enough and he catches the smile that stretches your lips. The way he perks up can be, regrettably, endearing.

The only time he isn’t circling your ankles like a hungry dog looking for food is when a family needs help cutting and loading a tree. Which brings you to your next dilemma: 

Remmick is hot.

You noticed his face when you first met, of course–the handsomely large nose, the full lips, the masculine bone structure–but it isn’t until you see him hauling around a seven foot fir for the first time that you notice his body.

You can’t stop noticing now: the way his strangely formal button-ups strain across his broad shoulders, the large bulge of his biceps beneath the fabric, the thick and veined forearms that he occasionally exposes when he rolls his sleeves up to his elbows. Once, while helping a family load a fir atop their SUV, his shirt rode up, exposing the flat plane of his stomach and the shockingly deep V of his pelvis.

You looked away–not just looked away but turned around, not trusting yourself not to stare otherwise, an embarrassing thrill shooting through you.

You can’t help but watch him after that. You think you’re discreet–you try to be, anyway, your glances surreptitious, eyes flitting to and from his body like a dance. Your determination to limit your glances means that you miss the way he watches you back–often, keenly, his eyes taking in even more of you than you do of him. 

Seeing more than you could ever hope to see.

One day, traffic is much slower than usual–in the past three hours only one family has come through. Remmick takes advantage of the dead air, leaning against the front desk, trying to gain your attention as you type away at your computer and feign disinterest.

“I’ll get you to warm up to me soon, darlin’.”

“Not if you keep calling me darling.”

Remmick pouts, a plaintive whine rising in the back of his throat. You struggle not to find it cute, or amusing, or endearing.

Earl bursts through the cabin doors, disrupting your conversation. He’s dragging a ladder behind him. He perks up at the sight of Remmick.

“Remmick, good! Couldn’t find you anywhere. Come here, boy, and help me with this.”

Earl sets the ladder set up in the middle of the cabin, and explains to Remmick what he wants done–some frivolous adjustment to the garland that decorates the ceiling.

Like this, Earl has his back to you–but Remmick faces you head-on, his eyes occasionally flitting over Earl’s shoulder towards you.

You get a terrible idea.

You reach for the peppermint stick Earl gifted you earlier, discreetly unwrapping one end. It’s a giant, gaudy thing, ten inches long and at least three inches in circumference. Every employee got one, in lieu of a Christmas bonus.

Eyes still on your computer screen, you bring the blunt end to your mouth, the rounded tip resting heavily on the plush of your bottom lip, your tongue peeking out to swirl delicately around the tip. The taste of peppermint bursts on your tongue.

From your peripheral you see Remmick’s eyes zero in on you, and stay. 

You smile sweetly and feed the first several inches of the stick into your mouth, lips closing around the girth. You slowly drag it in and out of your mouth, the red dye of the peppermint smearing on your lips and tongue. Your cheeks hollow as you suck on it, and when you pull it from your mouth the wet pop is audible. A thin string of saliva falls over your bottom lip. You lick it off.

Remmick’s lips are parted now as he watches you, eyes dark and heavy-lidded. You can see the heavy bob of his throat as he swallows.

“Are ya listenin’?”

Remmick snaps out of it, eyes landing back on his employer, who’d been speaking incessantly while Remmick’s attentions were elsewhere.

Remmick smiles, polite. “Yes, sir. Redo the garlands. Won’t be a problem.”

Earl huffs, annoyed. “Good man. Hop on it, then, before anyone else shows up. And close your damn mouth, you’re gonna catch flies.”

Later, Remmick corners you while you’re restocking the shelves.

“That was a mean game you played, darlin’.”

You heft the box you were pulling from into your arms, walking away without looking. He trails after you, of course.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I think you do. Got me in trouble with Earl.”

“You should’ve been listening while the boss was talking to you.”

“Now, darlin’–,”

“Don’t call me that.”

“Sweetheart–,”

“That’s not better.”

You hear Remmick huff, and then suddenly a hand is on your elbow, spinning you around. He crowds you against the shelves, the box in your arms a barrier between your bodies.

“You just don’t want me callin’ you nothin’, do ya?” he asks, teasing. You tilt your chin up, stubborn.

“Call me by my name.”

So he does.

He says your name, his voice pitched low, drawing out the vowels as he rolls each letter over his tongue. Then he says it again, stepping even closer, the hard line of his body pushing against the box in your arms, pushing you even further into the shelves. He’s looking at you, head tilted to the side, lids heavy over his eyes–so dark now that you can’t make out the blue at all–, a wry smile on his face.

Goosebumps erupt over your arms at the way your name drips from his tongue like honey. You stare back at him, breaths deep, neck and face warm. You’ve nearly forgotten what you were arguing about.

He says your name again, and your heart flutters in your throat. He tuts, shaking his head.

“I’ve been saying your name and still nothing. I’m beginning to think you don’t like me at all.” He pouts, pushing his bottom lip out dramatically.

You swallow, mouth dry. “I don’t.”

Remmick presses a hand over his heart, pulling back as if wounded, theatrical. “After that show you put on for me? I don’t believe you, darlin’.” He leans forward, breath ghosting across your face, voice deep. “Don’t need to be shy about it, baby. I like you, too.”

The bell over the door rings, God from the machine. You scurry from between Remmick and the shelves, using the edge of the box to push him away. You hear him chuckle as you briskly walk away.

The back of your neck burns. Whether it’s from embarrassment or his gaze–so heavy it may as well be a touch–you can’t tell.

The next day finds you at the foot of the cabin’s Christmas tree, rearranging ornaments—turns out Earl is very particular about his decorations.

You kneel as you work. Suddenly, a broad shadow falls over you.

“Shouldn’t be on your knees like that, girlie,” a voice says, and you tense, “Might give someone the wrong idea about you. Or the right one!”

Mr. Declan. He comes by the farm at least twice a week, hemming and hawing over the trees but never buying. He always insists that you show him around–even though he should know the paths like the back of his hand by now–and hovers a little closer each time.

You didn’t even know he was in the cabin. You shudder, disgusted, wondering how long he’s been watching you. 

You stand, dusting your knees, ornaments still dangling from your fingers. “I don’t think that’s appropriate, Mr. Declan.”

Declan makes an expression of exaggerated shock. You want to punch him.

“Well, why not?!” he exclaims, hands coming up in a large shrug, “What’s wrong with what I said, exactly?”

You can feel the heat creeping up your neck. You clasp your hands behind your back in an effort to mask their trembling.

“Did you need help with a tree, Mr. Declan?”

“Well, you didn’t answer me,” he sneers, “What’s wrong with what I said?”

The bell over the door dings: it’s Remmick, just arriving for his shift. You beeline for the front desk.

“My shift is over, Mr. Declan,” you call over your shoulder, loud enough for Remmick to hear, “My coworker will have to help you.”

Remmick gives you an inquiring look as he closes the door behind him—then he notices Declan, still standing next to the tree. You swear his expression darkens. You don’t stick around to be sure, slipping into the back.

You’re lying, of course—your shift doesn’t end until an hour from now, and Remmick can’t cover the desk for long—he has other duties to attend to. Still, you slump in relief on the breakroom couch, grateful for any respite from that slimy old man.

You can faintly hear Declan and Remmick talking, though you can’t make out what’s said. It’s not long before you hear the tell-tale jingle of the door bell, and the voices cease entirely.

You step out tentatively—Remmick sits alone behind the desk, Declan nowhere to be found. 

He tilts his head at you. “You okay?”

You really wish he hadn’t asked that: you’re struggling as is to pretend you don’t like him.

You shrug. “Yeah. He’s just such a creep.”

“I noticed.”

This strikes you as odd—Remmick and Declan are rarely at the farm at the same time. You don’t linger on it, though, beat from the workday.

“Why don’t you head on home?”

Your head snaps up. “Huh? Oh, no, I couldn’t—everyone else has already left, what if it gets busy again?”

Remmick shrugs, casual as anything. “I can handle it, darlin’. Less than an hour before I close those gates and I don’t expect we’ll get much traffic between then and now. Go home. You’re tired.”

You feel like you should argue some more—or at least argue his use of the word darling. 

But you are tired.

You grab your bag from the breakroom, slinging it over your shoulder as you head out. You hesitate, then blurt out your next words before you can overthink them.

“Thank you, Remmick. I appreciate it. Have a good night.”

Remmick smiles—a giddier smile than your words warrant, truthfully. You half expect him to start swinging his feet where he sits.

“Thank you, darlin’. You have a good night yerself.”

Later that night finds you in your room, getting ready for bed. There’s no light save for the cheery glow of the miniature tree on your dresser, just dim enough to comfortably fall asleep with. 

You turn to climb into bed and freeze—you could swear you saw something outside your window, a flash of red. You step closer, until your nose is nearly pressed to the glass, looking out—but all you can see is the dark outline of tree branches, and blinking red lights—the reflection of your tree. You brush it off and climb into bed, bone tired.

You fall asleep to the faint sound of the tree branches outside your window rustling, caught in a late-night wind.

The rest of the week goes on as usual, with Remmick annoying and thrilling you in equal measure, your frustration at yourself mounting as you try to stifle your want.

Right now your feelings for him have landed squarely on annoyed.

Your shift ends in five minutes and he’s nowhere to be found: you can’t leave until you pass off the cabin keys to him. You heave a sigh, pushing away from the desk, and go to find him.

You step outside, zipping up your jacket against the chill—it’s nearly dark now, only a sliver of sun left on the horizon. You look at the rows of fir trees, dark and ominous in the twilight.

“Remmick?” you call, hoping he might be near. 

No response, of course. In fact, things seem unnaturally silent on the farm: you strain your ears, but even the crickets have fallen into a hush. You trudge down the long line of Douglas firs, anxiety mounting. You glance between each gap in the trees, hoping each time to see him.

“Remmick?” you try again, voice smaller.

Nothing.

You come to the end of the row, stepping out into the gap between the Douglas firs and the white firs. You glance to either side, but see Remmick nowhere.

“Remmick!”

You continue into the white firs, acutely aware that you’re straying further from the bright, artificial lights set up around the cabin. You make the same nerve-wracking journey down the row, checking the gaps between the trees, occasionally calling Remmick’s name—never receiving any response.

You’re coming to the end of the white firs. There’s a thick smell in the air now, both familiar and foreign. You gasp, unintentionally sucking more of the scent onto your palate, tasting it.

Familiar is the crisp evergreen of the neatly planted, faux-forest around you, the fragrance of their needles sharp and heavy in the air. Balsam.

The foreign scent sits thick and coppery at the back of your throat, and recognition hits you as you round the corner of the long row of white firs. Blood.

You see it at the exact moment you recognize its odor, coating the ground and dripping off the needles of the surrounding firs.

And you see Remmick.

For one awful, stomach-dropping moment you think he’s been hurt—or worse.

But then you really look.

It’s Remmick–but he’s hunched over, his body covering another. He digs his hands deep into the shoulders of the other person, his face buried in their neck. He’s making short, aborted motions, his head jerking back and forth in tiny increments, his small grunts and punctured noises audible from where you stand.

Digging in, you think, suddenly lightheaded.

“Remmick,” you gasp. You don’t even mean to say it, really, but it slips out anyway, disbelief clouding your voice.

Remmick freezes, his shoulders tensing. Then he detaches from the body beneath him with a sickening squelch and looks up at you.

Red. It’s all you can see, covering Remmick’s face from nose to chin, soaking the front of his shirt, reflecting in his eyes.

You gasp, or sob, and stumble back. It’s only the sturdy, prickly support of the fir against your back that prevents you from falling.

Remmick drops the body with a careless thud–you look, and groan in distress at the sight of Mr. Declan’s empty, glassy eyes.

“Aw, darlin’...”

Remmick crawls–actually crawls–towards you, his bloody hands coming to press against your thighs, his knees firm in the dirt beneath him–kneeling at your feet.

“Don’t be mad, darlin’,” he says, that familiar whine in his voice, “Just couldn’t stand the way he was talkin’ to you. He was sniffin’ around here tonight and I just couldn’t–I couldn’t let ‘im near you. You should’ve seen what he had in mind.”

He presses his forehead against your thighs, nuzzling against you like a chided pup seeking a forgiving touch. You look between Declan’s body and the man before you, panic rising in your chest.

He’s changed: the hands that press over your thighs have always been large, but tonight they’re unnaturally so, his fingers extended by several inches, more jointed than should be possible, his fingertips ending in thin, sharp points. His teeth are stained with blood and too big for his mouth, jagged and many-fanged. The eyes that stare beseechingly up at you are dark as the night sky, no blue in sight, and reflect a brilliant, duochrome red.

His fingers convulse over your thighs, the sharp needlepoints of his claws nipping at your skin beneath the denim. You gasp in pain, flinching back, and his fingers immediately relax. A high whine rips out of his throat, and he leans forward, nuzzling against your thighs apologetically.

“Please,” he begs, “Didn’t mean it, darlin’. Didn’t mean to scare you–didn’t mean to hurt you. It won’t happen again, baby, I promise. Don’t be scared. Don’t you believe me?”

So much about him has changed, but his voice–his voice is the same. It’s the same voice that pokes and prods at your nerves every day–the same voice you’ve been pretending you don’t look forward to hearing every sunset. You listen as that voice wafts up at you now, pleading.

Your hands, shaking madly, come to thread through his dark, unruly hair. He nuzzles further into your thighs, whining in relief at your touch.

“Y–yes,” you rasp, “I believe you.”

And it’s true, somehow. You do believe him.

You look back at Declan’s body, briefly meet its nothing stare, and look away.

“R-Remmick,” you stutter, “We have to–we have to get you cleaned up. We can’t stay out here. Come on.”

Remmick, pliant and obedient, lets you pull him to his feet. He lets you lead him by his clawed hand through the rows of firs, into the warmth of the cabin, back to the breakroom. He watches silently as you strip off your jacket and turn on the sink next to the fridge. You tear off half a dozen sheets from the towel dispenser, hands still shaky, and wet them under the warm tap. You take a moment before you turn around, bracing yourself against the edge of the sink, closing your eyes with a deep breath. Then you let it out and turn around.

Remmick is still there–still watching you, still flint-eyed, still dripping blood.

You come forward and begin to methodically wipe his face clean, not saying a word. Remmick watches you all the while, his mouth slightly parted, breaths deep and even, eyes heavy-lidded. His hands stay at his sides.

You shouldn’t be doing this–you should be calling the cops, or running, or screaming, or something. But you know that if you even think about anything besides this simple task, you’ll fall apart.

Once his face is decent, you step back. “Wash your hands. And please get rid of that shirt.”

He obeys, walking up to the sink and scrubbing his hands clean. He even uses soap. His hands aren’t quite normal, fingers still too long, nails still too sharp, but they look more like the hands you’ve seen handling firs these past few weeks. 

He pulls off his shirt and brings it under the water, though you figure the fabric is a lost cause. He ends up clogging the drain and leaving it to soak.

Then he shuts off the tap and turns to face you. He’s on you before you can even blink, handling you like a doll—he lifts you clean off your feet, placing you to sit on the table as delicately as if you were porcelain. He presses his forehead against yours, one hand wrapped possessively around your back, the other coming to cup gently at your face. He’s breathing hard, eyes impossibly dark and fixed on yours. 

He breathes your name, voice tortured, and pulls you flush against him, slotting himself firmly between your thighs and forcing your legs to spread around the bulk of his body. His hips jerk forward, his crotch brushing against yours, and you gasp: he’s hard, the impression of his cock hot and heavy even through the fabric of his jeans. He moans your name this time, head falling to rest on your shoulder.

“Darlin’,” he murmurs, nuzzling against your neck, eyes closed. His breaths are coming heavy again, and you realize suddenly that he’s breathing in you, taking in big, open-mouthed lungfuls of the taut skin at the hollow of your throat. You can smell him, too, a faint trace of blood that’s bone-deep, something your measly wet towels could never wash away.

He brings his hips forward again, and you whine at the feel of his hard dick pressing against your cunt, the layers of clothes between you be damned. He does this again and again, rolling his hips against yours until you’re a moaning mess, your back arching as you press your hips forward in kind, chasing the pressure. Remmick is murmuring against your neck all the while.

“Need you,” he moans, “Need you, baby, need you so bad, please–won’t you let me have you? Been wanting you for so long, for months, I’ll treat you so good. Let me in, baby. Let me in.”

You whine, high and needy, both at his words and the incessant drag of his cock against your cunt. Your mind has gone blissfully blank, pleasure overriding judgement.

“Yes,” you moan, legs tightening around the small of his back, pulling him in closer, “Remmick, yes–have me.”

Remmick doesn’t wait another moment: he pulls back, claws ripping through the front of your shirt and bra, the ruined tatters of your clothing falling to the side and exposing your body. He presses you backwards, until you’re laid flat on your back, and makes quick work of your jeans and underwear, yanking them down your thighs–you help him with this, toeing off your boots and kicking your clothes the rest of the way off.

Then his hands go to his own fly–you watch as he pulls his cock out and moan at the sight of it, thick and red and veiny, the tip already leaking clear fluid.

“Remmick.”

He moans deep in his throat at the way you say his name, fist squeezing around his aching cock. “I’m right here, darlin’.”

Remmick’s hands squeeze at the curve of your hips, then drag up the curve of your waist–and then you find yourself on your stomach, dizzy from the sudden shift in gravity. Remmick has flipped you over, once again handling you as easy as if you weighed nothing. He rubs his thick cockhead up and down your slit–you don’t want to consider what it says about you, that you’re so wet for him despite everything you’ve seen tonight, your slick coating him generously and already creating a litany of loud, sloppy sounds. You whine, clenching around nothing, hips moving searchingly. Remmick laughs.

“Pretending you’re so above it all–pretending you’re so above me–and look at you now, darlin’, wanting to get stuck on this cock so bad. I knew you would warm up to me.”

He doesn’t make you wait any longer: he pushes into you, his thick girth forcing him to go slow as he stretches you open. You moan in a mixture of pleasure and pain, loud and wanton, clenching around him wildly. He’s moaning too, bending over you to rest his head between your shoulder blades. Your toes curl when he bottoms out. 

You’re both still for a moment, you getting used to the way his cock stretches you to your limit, Remmick to the impossibly tight suck of your cunt.

And then Remmick pulls himself up, grabs a steadying fistful of your hair, drags his thick cock out of your clinging walls, and snaps back into you. He fucks you wildly from behind, one of his hands gripping possessively at your waist, the other still fisted in your hair. 

Each thrust punches a high, needy moan out of you, and you can’t hide the way your moans get louder, your breaths whinier, when your body jostles in a way that causes Remmick to involuntarily pull at your hair. 

Remmick notices, of course. He gives your hair an experimental tug, and you moan wildly, clenching almost painfully around him.

Remmick grunts, hips faltering, taken aback. “Damn. Is that okay, baby?”

“Yes.”

Remmick moans, guttural, and pulls your hair hard. He doesn’t let go, holding you in place: it forces you to bend backwards, your back arching, your front rising from the table–you’re half-standing now, Remmick’s hold on your scalp blissful pain, the new angle making him fuck up into you in a way that has you screaming.

Remmick slows down, his free hand wrapping around your neck, pressure light as a feather around the column of your throat, but tighter on the sides. You can feel the faintest hint of his claws, sharp pinpricks on your soft skin.

“Gotta be more quiet than that, darlin’,” he pants, “You’re liable to wake the dead.”

He squeezes at the sides of your neck–not roughly, and not over your airway, but it makes you breathless all the same, your head going fuzzy and light. You quiet down, just as Remmick intended, and he eases his grip. You gasp in a long breath of air, lightheaded, clenching around him. Remmick moans, rolls his thick cock even deeper into your greedy pussy, and clamps his hand around your neck again. He doesn’t stop as he chokes you–this time, he fucks you hard, cock pistoning in and out of you, the wet sounds of your cunt lewd.

The light, fuzzy feeling in your head somehow only amplifies the sensations traveling through your body: the delicious stretch of his cock as it bullies open your cunt, the sharp points of pain at your scalp as he yanks your head back by your hair. Your eyes roll into the back of your head as these sensations build and combine, your cunt clenching as you come hard, a hoarse scream ripping out of your throat.

You go lax in Remmick’s hold, and he lowers you to the table–but he doesn’t stop fucking you. His hips snap against yours, hard and fast as he chases his own pleasure, having not yet come. It’s too much: you’re overstimulated from your orgasm, and his cock feels as if it’s punching against your very cervix. You cry out, this time in clear pain.

Remmick stops immediately. He nuzzles his head against your back, whining guiltily. “M’sorry,” he murmurs, “M’sorry, darlin’. Didn’t mean it.”

He’s like a dog.

The thought comes to you unbidden, but not untrue. He is like a dog: he follows you around like one, whines and begs like one, and now he fucks you like one. A wild dog, maybe–feral and dangerous, but still with some indomitable part of him that needs attention and approval.

This realization gives you clarity.

You shift, gently pushing Remmick away. You wince as his hard cock slips out of you, but then you’re turning onto your back, legs spread, beckoning him forward. He’s over you at once, hands gentle as they cup your face and travel down your body. Your hands reach up to thread through his hair, pulling his head down to rest against yours.

“It’s okay,” you promise, “Try again. Be gentle.”

Remmick makes a small, raw sound and reenters you, still as hard as steel. He fucks you again, this time slower, more controlled, careful of your hypersensitivity. You sigh in pleasure.

Remmick acts just like a dog. Maybe he responds to praise like one. You bring your mouth to the shell of his ear.

“Good,” you breathe, voice low and breathy, “That’s good, you feel so good in me, baby, just like that.”

Remmick moans, hunching further over you, his hips stuttering. “Yeah?” he pants, “I feel good?”

“Yeah,” you sigh, head tilting back, and it’s true—the stretch of him alone divine, the slow drag of his cock sending sparks of pleasure through your spent body.

“Do I fuck you good?” he rasps. He doesn’t ask it in the way men you’ve been with in the past asked: as if they just knew the answer was yes and were waiting on you to stroke their ego. Remmick asks as if he’s truly wondering, as if his life is staked on your approval.

“Yes,” you gasp again, “Yes, yes, yes, you fuck me so good, Remmick, fill me up so good–,”

Remmick moans, hiking your legs up higher around his waist, thrusts speeding up. He’s drooling now, the liquid collecting at the corner of his mouth, and you almost laugh at the sight. 

Instead, you make a low, lustful sound. 

“Come here, baby,” you moan, tilting his head towards you, “Give me some of that.”

It takes Remmick a moment to understand what you mean. Once he does, he laughs. “Dirty bitch. Open your mouth, darlin’–let me see that pretty tongue.” 

You moan at the word bitch–if Remmick is your dog, then you can be his bitch—and open wide, showing him your pink, eager tongue. Remmick spits, and you moan at the dirty feel of it hitting your tongue. 

You hold your mouth open, letting him get a good look at the sight of his saliva coating your tongue—then you close your mouth and swallow, making a show of it. 

Remmick’s responding moan can only be described as destroyed. His head falls against your chest, his hips faltering in their rhythm as the sight sends him closer over the edge.

“Good, baby,” you say, fingers threading through his hair, “So good, you even taste good, fuck.”

This does it: Remmick lets out a low, long moan, claws digging tight into the flesh of your waist, hips stuttering. He gives a few final, hard thrusts, and then he’s slotting into you to the hilt, pressing his body flush against yours as he empties himself into your cunt.

You rub soothing circles over his scalp as he shudders against you, your other hand smoothing up and down his flank. You murmur into his ear as he comes down, nonsense smattered with praise, and you feel an undeniable swell of affection when he looks up at you, bumping his large nose on the underside of your chin.

Your wild dog.

He stays over you, inside of you, until gravity does its work and forces him to slip out. He stands, pulling you up with him, his large hands steadying on your back and side. He’s looking at you with wide, dark eyes, nervous again.

“You okay, darlin’?”

You take stock of your own body–your cunt is sore, but in a way you love. The pain in your scalp is almost faded now. You smile, a bit wry.

“Not my most romantic fuck, but sure. I’m okay.”

Remmick looks downright relieved. He pulls you close, pressing a chaste kiss against your forehead. Then he pulls up his jeans, tucking himself back in, and heads for the closet, where Earl keeps an array of cleaning supplies and yard tools.