#sinners au

You've never let him in. Not once.

And still, every night without fail, he shows up like clockwork—barefoot and bloodstained, wife beater stained and torn, revealing a sliver of lean muscle beneath, reeking of smoke and obsession.

Slouched on your porch like a dying dog, scratching at the threshold with dirt-caked nails, mouth open and drooling thick, almost foamy, like hunger’s rotted him from the inside out. His voice is raw from begging. But tonight? Tonight he’s feral.

You've got one leg draped over the door frame, robe hitched up just enough to taunt, a cool glass of iced tea sweating in your hand while he writhes just inches from your feet.

“You cruel little thing,” he rasps, drawl dragging slow and syrupy, his tongue catching on the words like they hurt.

“Y’gon’ make me crawl again, huh? ‘Cause I will. I’ll fuckin’—I’ll get on my belly like a damn animal, just for a taste. Just for a breath of you, sugar.”

His jaw’s slack, saliva roping down his chin, staining the porch dark beneath him as he grips the floorboards hard enough they creak.

“Let me in,” he whimpers, voice cracked and desperate, eyes blown wide.

“Please, I—I cain’t stand it no more. I cain’t fuckin’ breathe without you. Let me in. I’ll behave. I’ll worship you. I’ll—I’ll starve if you don’t.”

Your just watch him, tilt your glass.

“You've lived thirteen centuries, and you're on your knees for a girl in a nightgown?”

He nods, drooling harder, trembling.

“Yes ma’am. I’d beg for thirteen more if it meant you’d finally say the word.”

You don’t answer him at first.

Just lift your drink—slow, lazy, like the heat has made you sun-warmed and lethargic—and watch the ice swirl against the cylindrical sides. Your lips part only enough for a sip, sharp and cold on your tongue, as his voice frays at the threshold like an unraveling thread.

The porch groans under his weight when he shifts, mouth still hanging open, chin wet with the thick rope of saliva that’s already puddled beneath him. He doesn’t even wipe it away anymore. Doesn’t flinch at the indignity. If anything, he leans into it. As if the sloppier he gets, the more beastly and broken, the closer he’ll be to what you want.

Not human. Not civilized. Just yours.

Your bare toes flex against the doorframe—propped up, exposed, painted peach—and his breath stutters when he sees them. His jaw works open wider like he might sink his teeth into the wood instead, like he’s fighting the animal thing in him that wants to bite something until it bleeds.

“You gone quiet, sugar,” he drawls, voice like gravel scraped against wood. “You plannin’ to kill me out here?”

You hum. Just a little. Low in your throat.

Then finally, finally, you lean forward just a bit, letting the hem of your robe fall loose from your thigh, letting him see the curve of it where the porchlight catches golden on your skin. You know what you’re doing. You always know.

“You look like shit, Remmick.”

He moans—moans—like the insult made him hard.

“I—I know, baby. I know,” he gasps, crawling an inch closer on his knees, voice choked with some terrible, trembling reverence. “I’d tear out my fuckin’ ribs if it meant you’d give me one more breath. Just one. I’m—I’m so close to bein’ bones out here.”

His hands drag slow across the floorboards, smearing blood and spit as he chases your shadow like it might feed him. His claws are cracked and dirty, black at the edges, clacking like dull knives as he reaches for you.

But he won’t cross the threshold. Can’t.

Not unless you say the word.

You drag one foot down, let it press lightly against his chest, the ball of it nestling into the place where his heart doesn’t beat. You feel the way he flinches at the touch like it hurts him, like your skin is too holy for his body to bear. He makes a sound deep in his chest—part growl, part sob—and his head drops forward.

He presses his forehead to your ankle. Worships it.

“You’re a goddamn sickness,” you whisper, soft and cruel.

“I am, baby,” he breathes. “You made me sick. Ruined me good, didn’t you?”

And oh, how he sounds ruined.

You tilt your glass again, watch the last ice cube swirl and crack, watch his tongue dart out as if he could taste it from the air. His pupils are blown, wide and dark and endless, and his mouth keeps trying to form the word please like it’s the only one he remembers anymore.

A breeze rolls over the porch, stirring the trees, carrying the scent of you—hibiscus lotion, clean skin, cool linen and blood beneath it all—and Remmick shudders like a dying thing. His hips roll into the floor like he’s fucking the air, like scent alone could push him to the edge.

“Let me in,” he begs again, softer now. “Let me in before I do somethin’ wicked.”

You lean closer, dragging your foot up his chest and under his chin, tilting his face up toward you like a command.

“You already are wicked.”

He smiles, wild and ruined.

“Yes ma’am. And I’d be worse for you.”

You let the silence stretch just long enough for his breath to hitch.

Then you pull your foot away and stand, letting the robe slip an inch lower on your hips as you do. He tracks the movement like an animal locked on prey, hands gripping the wood, teeth bared like he might bite the air between you.

But you say nothing.

You turn, walk back into the house, and the door swings shut with a slow, echoing click.

And Remmick?

He stays there on the porch, slack-jawed, drooling, whispering your name like a prayer he wasn’t meant to know, his muscles flexing as his arms come up over his head in desperation, thick and defined, his face pinched in pain, fractals of dying light dancing off the worn gold of his chain, off the sweaty creases highlighting his biceps.

| six months ago |

You didn’t move here expecting silence.

You expected a little mold, sure. Some creaky floorboards, maybe a wasp’s nest under the porch or a possum in the crawlspace. You expected the gnats. You expected the heat. You expected the isolation.

But not the silence.

Not this bone-deep, split-the-world-open kind of silence. The kind that settles between your ribs and listens to your heartbeat like it’s trying to time its own.

The house—your house now, left to you by some long-dead aunt you don’t remember—is old and sagging at the edges. It leans a little to the right. The paint is peeled and sun-faded, the porch boards bow like a tired back, and the front screen door barely stays shut unless you wedge a rock into it.

But the bones are good. The land is wild and wide and humming with secrets.

And the silence? You’ve started to like it.

Until one night, it breaks.

It’s not thunder. Not a tree branch. Not the slam of a car door or the high bark of a neighbor’s dog. It’s slower than that. Heavier. Like footsteps made of velvet and grave dirt, deliberate and soft, but too certain to be harmless.

You hear it just past dusk, when the sky is soaked in pinks and bruised purples, and the porch light buzzes weakly behind you. You’re sitting on the front step, knees up, the sweat from your lemonade collecting in droplets between your thighs. Your robe’s open at the chest. The heat has stuck it to the small of your back. You haven’t seen a soul all week.

And then—

“Evenin’, darlin’.”

You look up.

There’s a man standing just past the gate. Barefoot. Broad-shouldered. Dressed like a memory from somewhere you’ve never lived—boots slung over one shoulder, sleeves rolled to the elbow, and a face that looks like it’s been carved from heartbreak.

You can smell weathered leather. Wet pennies. Something faintly intoxicating.

You don’t move. Neither does he.

He’s handsome, you think, in a way that feels off. Like he walked out of a photograph too old to be yours. His hair is a mess, dark and sweat-matted at the temples. There’s a thin scar along his throat. He looks...starved. But not in the way that makes you pity him.

In the way that makes you want to keep your distance.

Still, you don’t get up. You don’t speak. The air between you thickens, trembles.

He tips his head slightly, a crooked smile cutting across his face.

“You look like you could use some company.”

You don’t invite him in.

You don’t say much at all.

Just glance toward the horizon, murmur something about supper, and let the screen door slam behind you before he can take a step forward. You watch through the curtains as he lingers at the gate, hands tucked into his pockets like he’s trying to look harmless.

But you saw the way his eyes followed your legs. You saw how he noticed the sweat beading at your neck. How he inhaled when you passed him.

You lock the door that night. And the next. But he keeps coming.

First, it’s flowers.

Not from a store. Not anything wrapped in plastic or tied with ribbon. Just a bundle of wildflowers laid gently on your porch, still dusted with dew. You find them in the morning, no note, no explanation.

Then it’s peaches. Sun-warm and soft, their fuzz still clinging with bits of leaf and dirt. You bite into one and taste sweet nectar.

Then it’s a knife. Clean. Sharp. Ornate.

Then a book of poetry. Tattered, spine cracked, pages dog-eared with a name you don’t recognize scribbled inside the cover.

Then the sound of humming—just past the treeline. Low. Gentle. Almost...worshipful.

You don’t see him again for a week.

And when he returns, he stands on the bottom step like he’s been summoned.

You sit in the doorway this time, robe slipping off one shoulder. You’re not afraid. Not curious, either. Just...ready.

Ripe.

He keeps his eyes low. His voice is softer.

“You ain’t said my name yet.”

“I don’t know it,” you say.

He smiles like that hurts him.

“You don’t need it,” he says. “You already own me without it.”

It’s hot enough to peel the paint from the porch railing.

The air hums with crickets, thick as syrup, the kind of Southern heat that presses down on you like hands. Nothing moves. Not the trees. Not the wind. Not even the birds. The silence is alive—dense and waiting, like the breath before a confession.

And there he is. Again.

You hear him before you see him: the soft scrape of skin on wood, the faintest creak of a loose board under bare feet, the hitch in his breath when your scent hits him like perfume and punishment all at once. You left the door open tonight—not all the way, just ajar—and the porch light off. A single candle burns on the windowsill.

He doesn’t knock.

He never does anymore.

Just leans his weight into the frame, like even that much closeness is enough to tide him over for another day. But it’s not. You know it’s not. You can feel it in the way his fingers twitch. In the way he shifts his hips. In the way the wood creaks beneath his knees when he starts to lower himself.

You don’t speak.

You just watch.

The hem of your robe rides high on your thighs, your legs bare and smooth against the old floorboards, one knee bent, one foot outstretched. You could shut the door. You don’t. You could invite him in—but that’s not the game.

You’ve seen how he suffers.

And you love the way he suffers.

He’s filthy tonight. Shirtless and sweaty, streaked with soot and dry blood that canaled in the defined avenues of his abs, a bruise blooming along one side of his ribcage. His hair’s a mess. His eyes look hollow. His lips are parted, pink and trembling, like he’s been mouthing your name into the dirt all night long.

When he drops to his knees, it’s not a performance. Not anymore. There’s no seduction in it. Just ache. Just need.

He whispers something you don’t quite catch—your name, maybe, or the shape of a prayer that lost its way. You hear him drag his nails against the porch, slow and rhythmic, like he’s trying to carve your initials into the floor.

“I dreamed of you again,” he rasps.

His voice is shredded. Used up.

“You were wearin’ that white thing. The one with the lace at the top. You smelled like vanilla and thunder. You called me darlin’ and I almost cried.”

You breathe through your nose, slow and even, but your thighs shift. You don’t think he notices, but he does.

His eyes flick to the motion and he moans—soft and low, broken at the edges. He presses his forehead to the floor like it’s consecrated ground. Like maybe if he can just touch it long enough, you’ll take pity.

“Please.”

The word is wet in his mouth. He says it again.

“Please, I—I don’t care what you do to me. Don’t even have to let me in. Just talk to me, sugar. Just say somethin’. Let me hear your voice. Let me see you.”

You shift in the doorway.

Then you speak—finally—voice quiet and even, your glass catching the candlelight as you raise it to your lips.

“Why do you keep coming here?”

He whimpers.

“‘Cause I cain’t not. ‘Cause you’ve got me chained up in here—” He presses a palm to his chest, hard enough you can hear the bones creak. “—and I like it. I fuckin’ like it, baby. Ain’t that sick?”

You don’t respond.

Instead, you lean forward just enough to let your fingers curl over the frame of the door, letting your robe fall slightly open at the neck. His mouth opens wider. His pupils blow black like a hungry shark.

“You want to come in?” you murmur.

His breath catches.

Then he nods. Frantic. Wild.

“Yes. Yes ma’am. Please.”

You tilt your head.

“Why?”

He blinks. He’s confused by the question. Then hurt. Then desperate.

“Because I—I need you. Need what’s inside. I cain’t smell nothin’ else but you. You’re in my fuckin’ blood, sweetheart, and I ain’t never tasted you but it’s killin’ me just knowin’ you’re behind that door.”

He leans forward, mouth brushing the frame. His tongue darts out—not quite licking it, but close—and you see the briefest flick of the forked tip, glistening and trembling with restraint. He pulls it back like he’s ashamed of it, like he wasn’t supposed to let you see that part of him.

Your stomach flips.

You almost say it. Almost.

But then you pull back.

And he breaks.

He wasn’t always like this.

You remember that. You remind yourself of it often—because it makes this part better. Sweeter. Sicker.

Because once upon a time, he tried to play it cool. Casual. Almost charming. Leaned against your gate with that low, lopsided smile, said things like ma’am and pleasure to meet you and you sure keep to yourself, don’t you, sugar?

Now?

He’s a wreck.

On all fours.

Spit roping from his lips in long, trembling strands as he drags himself toward your feet like a dog that’s been kicked too many times but still comes running. His pupils bleed red, eclipsing the black. His shirt is gone. His nails are cracked and black at the edges, scrabbling over the porch boards in slow, shivering motions that match the tremble in his voice.

His mouth hangs open. Tongue wet. Forked.

You can see the way it splits when he pants—like he can’t decide whether to speak or taste or crawl inside you and live there forever.

He looks up at you through his lashes, and it’s not seductive.

It’s pleading.

Pathetic.

Eyes wide and glossy, like something half-feral and half-forgotten, a kicked-puppy expression clinging to him even as he drools down his chin. He’s shaking. His knees have long since gone raw from dragging over your porch, and he presses his forehead to the step just beneath you.

You tilt your glass. Take a sip.

He moans. Loud. Unfiltered. Buckling at the sound.

“God, please,” he breathes, his voice hoarse and slurred like he’s drunk on the smell of you. “Please, I can’t—I can’t take it no more, baby. You’re killin’ me. Killin’ me soft and slow and I fuckin’ love it.”

You shift, just enough for your robe to slide up one thigh.

His hands curl into fists. He bites down on a sob.

“I’ll be so good to you,” he whimpers, dragging himself another inch forward. “You don’t—you don’t know what I could give you. What I wanna give you. What I think about every night with my hand on my cock, prayin’ for a dream of your fuckin’ voice.”

You raise an eyebrow. But you don’t stop him. And that’s all the permission he needs.

“I’d eat it for hours,” he blurts, voice breaking. “I’d keep my tongue on you till you forgot your own name. I’d fuckin’ cry for the chance, darlin’. You don’t know what I’d do just to smell you on my face. Let me clean you up with my mouth. Let me keep you sweet.”

He pants like a sinner, sweating through the knees of his jeans, forked tongue slipping past his lips as he mouths at the space near your ankle. Never quite touching. Never daring.

“I’d make it good for you,” he groans. “Better than anyone. I’d hold you down or let you ride. Whatever you wanted. However you wanted. I’d tear my fuckin’ throat out if it made you wet.”

You stay silent.

Let him spiral.

Let him beg.

Let him drown in everything you’ll never give him.

His jaw hangs slack again, saliva pouring freely now, staining the porch with slick, twitching need. He doesn’t even seem to notice. His hips rock forward once—pathetically—like he’s rutting against the air just from being this close.

Then—

“Say it,” he croaks, wrecked and delirious. “Say the word. Just the once. Just once and I’ll die happy. I’ll let you ruin me every night. Let you bleed me dry, fuck me dumb, use me up ‘til I’m nothing but bones and thank you for it. I’ll be your thing. Your pet. Your meal. Just say it. Say it and let me in.”

You watch him twitch.

You don’t speak.

And that silence?

It undoes him.

He presses his face into the porch and sobs—one sharp, cracked sound that makes your thighs clench—and you think, maybe next time.

Maybe.

But not tonight.

It’s late.

Later than you usually sit up for him.

The air outside smells like wet bark and heat lightning. You’ve just bathed—skin still damp, robe clean, lips glossy with something sweet and sticky you let melt over your tongue before you opened the door.

The floorboards are still slick from the storm earlier, and the moon’s a thin thing, half-ash and half-bone. Somewhere in the trees, something howls.

But he’s louder.

He’s already there when you pull the door open, sprawled out like roadkill—on his side, one cheek pressed against the porch wood, arms limp at his sides, knees bent in. Like he dragged himself here and died at the edge of your mercy.

But when he hears the door creak, he moves.

Head jerks. Eyes flash. His nostrils flare, and he moans—low and open-mouthed, like he’s just caught your scent for the first time all over again.

“Sweetheart,” he gasps, trying to sit up and immediately wobbling, weak from hunger or lust or both. “Sweetheart, I—I dreamed you were gonna open it tonight.”

You say nothing.

He drags himself upright, kneeling again, hands in his lap like a penitent priest waiting for permission to sin. His thighs are slick with drool and sweat and something darker—something old. You don’t ask. He’s trembling.

You step forward.

And he growls.

Low. Feral. Possessive. His shoulders hunch, his nails dig into the wood, his tongue flashes out—forked, twitching—and he presses his forehead to the threshold like it burns him.

“You smell like soap,” he whimpers. “Like you’re clean and warm and wantin’. You did it on purpose, didn’t you? You always do.”

You kneel in front of him, robe gaping where the sash has gone loose.

He chokes.

You brush a knuckle down his cheek. He shudders so violently you think he might break apart at the seams.

And then you whisper it.

Soft. Small.

The word.

“Come in.”

He doesn’t believe you at first.

His body goes very still. Breath caught. Eyes searching your face for the trick. His mouth parts around a sob so sharp it cuts his throat on the way out.

“Wh-what?” he croaks.

“You heard me,” you say, voice low. “You can come in.”

And that’s all it takes.

He lunges.

Not with violence. Not with fury. But with such pure, starved need it knocks the breath out of your lungs. He collapses forward into the doorway like a beast finally slipping its leash, dragging himself across the threshold like it hurts—but in a way he wants.

He weeps.

On his knees again. Hands clutching your thighs. Mouth open and dripping against your bare skin as he repeats your name over and over, shaking, whispering thanks like a dying man kissing dirt.

“Thank you,” he gasps. “Thank you, thank you, thank you, fuck—thank you—”

His tongue presses to your thigh.

You twitch.

And he wails—the sound muffled against your flesh, trembling like a man who’s tasted Heaven and is terrified he’ll be dragged back to Hell. His arms wrap around your hips, pulling you down with him, until your knees hit the floor and you’re seated right there in the doorway with him cradled between your legs like a body in prayer.

“I’ll be so gentle,” he babbles, licking a stripe up your inner thigh. “I’ll be good. I’ll be sweet, sugar, I swear it—I won’t bite unless you ask. I’ll eat and eat ‘til you shake and sob and soak my chin and then I’ll fuckin’ beg for seconds.”

You let your head fall back, lips parted, robe slipping.

He sees it.

And loses what’s left of his composure.

He goes slow at first—painfully, reverently slow.

Tongue pressed flat to your cunt, hands gripping your thighs like lifelines, the tip of that sinful, split tongue tracing soft, teasing figure-eights just to feel you tremble.

And you do.

Every flick, every moan, every whimper he pulls from your throat drives him deeper into madness. He cries as he eats you. Cries. Big, open-mouthed sobs against your pussy as he whispers nonsense:

“So sweet—so sweet, fuck—never tasted anything like you—please, let me die here—let me drown—let me be your floorboard, your shadow, your fuckin’ leash, baby, I’ll be anything—”

You come on his tongue once, and he doesn’t stop.

Doesn’t even pause.

Just whimpers like your pleasure is sustenance, like your slick is water and he’s been crawling the desert for years.

You tangle your fingers in his hair. Tug. He moans into you. Grinds his hips to the floor.

“Can I fuck you?” he begs against your cunt. “Please, can I? I’ll go slow. I’ll go soft. I’ll make you feel worshipped. You want it rough? I’ll give you rough. Want it sweet? I’ll make you sob. I’ll bite your throat open and make you scream my name ‘til the walls crack.”

He looks up at you, face wet, chin slick, forked tongue flicking out like a serpent sensing the heat of your body. His eyes are glassy. Wild.

“Tell me I can fuck you.”

You nod.

He breaks again.

And then—

He crawls forward, palms flat on the floor, reverent and quiet. His cock is hard, flushed and weeping, twitching against his stomach. You see the way his hands shake as he guides himself to you. The way he groans—choked and low and obscene—when the head of it brushes against your entrance.

He looks up at you, panting. Lips parted.

“You sure?” he whispers. Like he’s asking permission to live.

You nod again.

“Then hold on to me, sugar,” he says, voice raw and trembling. “I ain't never comin’ back from this.”

And he pushes in—

Slow. So slow. Like he’s scared you’ll vanish beneath him. Like your heat is swallowing him whole. Like the walls of your body were carved centuries ago to hold only him.

He moans into your neck, hips stilling halfway through.

“Fuck,” he whimpers, voice shattered. “You feel like—like you were made for me. I’m—I’m not gonna last. I ain’t—please don’t let go of me.”

You clutch his shoulders.

He bottoms out with a sob, every inch of him buried in you, shaking like a man who’s finally come home. His forehead presses to yours. His hips roll once, reverent, like worship.

He doesn’t move at first.

Just stays buried to the hilt, mouth slack against your throat, breathing like a dying animal in your ear. You feel him twitch inside you—thick, hot, leaking—and for a moment you think he might cry again.

Then he growls.

Low. Deep. Possessive.

And moves.

One slow pull out—almost all the way—followed by a brutal thrust that slams your back against the floorboards hard enough to rattle the doorframe. You gasp. He moans. Loud. Open-mouthed. Obscene.

“Fuck,” he chokes, already shaking. “Oh, sugar. Oh, baby, you—you don’t know what you’ve done. What you let loose.”

He doesn’t wait for permission anymore. Doesn’t need it. You gave it the second you said come in.

Now he’s fucking like it’s all he knows how to do.

His hips snap forward over and over, wet slaps echoing through the open doorway, sweat dripping from his brow, tongue lolling out as he pants like a rabid thing. He braces one hand beside your head and the other beneath your thigh, holding you open, dragging you into every thrust like he wants to feel himself hit the back of you.

You’re soaked. Wrecked. Clawing at his back and gasping his name over and over like it’s the only prayer you’ve got.

“You wanted me like this, didn’t you?” he snarls, his drawl thick and guttural now. “Wanted to see me come undone. Wanted to see the monster in me. Well, here he is, sugar. Here I fuckin’ am.”

He grinds down. Deep. You cry out.

He smirks, wild and broken and high off the sound.

“You feel that?” he whispers against your mouth. “That’s me in you. Deep as I can go. You’ll feel me for days. I’ll make sure of it.”

And he does.

He fucks you until your legs tremble, until your voice is raw, until the only sounds are slick, messy, filthy. He presses his chest to yours, forehead to your jaw, panting through clenched teeth as he drives into you like he can’t stop. Like if he slows down, he’ll die.

You feel the sharp tips of his fangs graze your throat. His voice is wrecked.

“Let me taste you,” he begs. “Let me drink while I’m inside you. Let me be full, sugar. Let me be whole.”

You nod.

He doesn’t even hesitate.

His mouth opens wide and you feel the bite—sharp, electric, perfect—right where your neck meets your shoulder, and suddenly his hips are slamming into you harder, messier, feral, rutting through your orgasm as he drinks, drinks, drinks.

It hits you all at once. Heat. Pain. Pleasure so sharp it blinds you.

You come hard, clenching around him, and he sobs into your throat like it’s sacred, like he’s breaking apart inside your body.

You feel him twitch. His breath goes ragged.

“Gonna come,” he warns, voice slurred, tongue lapping at your skin between frantic, messy thrusts. “Gonna—fuck, sugar, I’m gonna fill you—gonna mark you—make you mine—mine—mine—”

And he does.

Hot and thick and endless.

He spills inside you with a guttural cry, hips stuttering, teeth still buried in your skin. You feel it pulse into you—claiming you, over and over, like his body doesn’t know how to stop. Like his need has no end.

He finally stills, trembling.

Still buried inside you. Still panting. Still moaning your name into the crook of your neck like he’s worshipping it.

And then—

He kisses the bite.

Soft.

Gentle.

His hands cradle your face like you’re glass, and for the first time all night, his voice goes quiet.

“You saved me,” he breathes.

And for once, you don’t correct him.

You don’t know how long you lie there.

Could be minutes. Could be hours. The air has gone still, heavy with sweat and sex and iron and him. The storm’s long gone, but you can still smell the rain—sweet and earthy, mixing with the blood drying at your throat.

You feel it when he finally starts to move.

Just a shift.

The slow drag of his hand up your thigh, fingertips curling into the dip of your waist like he’s reminding himself you’re real. His body is still flush against yours, cock soft now but still inside you, holding you open. Keeping you full. Like he’s afraid pulling out will make the whole night unravel.

You reach up, bury a hand in his tangled hair.

He makes a sound—small, shattered—and curls tighter against you.

“Don’t go,” he whispers, voice hoarse and full of something too heavy to name. “Don’t make me leave. Not after that. I’ll—I’ll be good. I’ll be so good.”

You don’t answer. You don’t need to.

Your fingers stay in his hair, stroking gently. His body softens against yours.

There’s blood smeared across your neck, your chest, down your ribs. His bite still stings, the skin pulsing, raw—but it doesn’t hurt. Not really. It burns. Like a seal. Like a signature.

You glance down.

He’s watching you.

Eyes half-lidded. Glazed. Glowing, almost—faint and strange, like he’s lit from within. There’s a little blood on his mouth. More on his chin. But he doesn’t wipe it away.

You wonder if he’s ever looked more peaceful.

“You taste like sunlight,” he murmurs, dream-drunk. “Like nectar. Like the end of the world.”

You huff a laugh, quiet and breathless.

“Don’t get poetic on me now.”

“I ain’t,” he slurs, eyes fluttering. “Just honest.”

He nuzzles into your collarbone, forked tongue flicking lazily against your skin like he’s still trying to memorize it. His hands roam—slow, aimless, like he doesn’t know how to stop touching. One settles on your hip. The other slides beneath your spine and pulls you closer.

“I ain’t lettin’ you go,” he mumbles. “Not after this. You said it. You let me in.”

You nod. You did.

And you meant it.

He presses his nose to your pulse point, breath fogging across your skin. His lips ghost over the bite. He presses a kiss there, reverent.

“I’ll be good,” he repeats, softer now. “You just tell me what to do, and I’ll do it. You want a house? I’ll build it. You want blood? I’ll bring you the whole fuckin’ town. You want me to rot on the floor again? I will. Long as I’m yours.”

“You’re mine,” you whisper.

And he moans.

Like the words filled him with something he’s never had in thirteen centuries.

You feel him soften completely then, sinking into your body like sleep. One leg slung over yours, one arm anchoring you to his chest, his cock slipping free with a wet noise that makes him groan as you shudder. Your body aches, raw and sore and claimed, but you don’t move.

Neither does he.

Eventually, he sleeps.

You know because the grip he has on you loosens—but only a little. He still breathes you in. Still holds you like something holy and fragile and violently his.

And you?

You stay awake a while longer, staring at the door still cracked open, the threshold now crossed, the air inside heavy with what you both became tonight.

The blood on your neck has dried.

The slick between your thighs has cooled.

But his body stays warm against you.

And outside, the sky hasn’t yet begun to lighten.

No birds. No blue.

Just that inky pre-dawn blackness pressing soft against the windows, holding the night still around you like a secret.

Because he can’t survive the sun.

That night, and for many nights onward, you dreamt of Father Remmick.

The church was empty, save for you and him. His clerical collar glowed against the black of his button-up shirt, the sleeves rolled up to reveal veiny forearms and slender fingers following it. Fingers that reach for your rosary beads, let them clatter to the floor. He spoke in a language you didn’t know, touching you in a way you’d never felt. A way that felt too good to be holy.

When you woke, you prayed. You prayed for hours into the early morning until the skin on your knees was raw and your eyes were sore from being squeezed tight. The rosary left a red and stinging imprint on your hand that would be there for days. 

But what frightened you most was the throb between your legs, pounding rhythmically and making you yearn for… fullness. After every hour of prayer it seemed only to get worse. 

At church, you couldn’t listen to the sermon. You couldn’t even look up at Father Remmick. Not without images flashing behind your eyes, sounds so vile and loud in your ear that you couldn’t even hear the words he was saying.

Throaty moans. A hot, wet tongue between your legs. The feeling of rhythmic thrusts, something pressing into a spot inside of you that made you feel more euphoric than God himself ever could. You felt weak every time you looked at him, your fragile body giving in with every glance. 

“My child-” His voice echoed through the rickety church, but you knew he was speaking to you.

“You look distracted.”

Your throat ran dry as you stared at the scabbed-over skin of your knees, just below your dress. You could feel your father's demanding elbow digging into yours. Be respectful.

A flash of something else when you looked up at him again. Something softer, something tender. Lips pressed to your skin, dragging against the top of your breasts. 

“What could be more important to you?” He was smiling. Smiling like he knew what you’d seen, and the devilish things you’d heard. “Than worshipping and praising God with your community… with me?”

His tongue ran over his bottom lip as he raised his arms to grip the sides of the lectern. The muscles under his shirt tensed, and your eyes lingered. By the way his smile widened, he noticed.

“Be sober-minded and alert, Miss.” He nodded his head toward you, like some kind of twisted teacher. “Your adversary, the Devil, prowls around like a roaring lion…” His eyes, gleaming again like something inhuman. “Looking for something to devour, like a lamb wandering from the flock.”

Remmick paused, smiling to himself. “Be glad that I arrived here at the right time, to lead you down the path of righteousness.” 

Your skin had grown cold, like spiders were running up your arms and the back of your neck. But it wasn’t just what he’d said that made you rigid, a dripping of cold sweat rolling down your spine. It was the agreeing hums of the congregation, like they knew what you’d been thinking.

You couldn’t sleep that night. The pillow's satin fabric was coated in sweat, which clung to the back of your neck and made your butter-yellow nightdress stick to your back. You stood from your bed, bare feet pressed against the hardwood of your bedroom floor. As you left your room, you knew every creaky spot to avoid, opening the door with close precision to keep it from making a sound.

You could hear your father snoring from the cracked door of his bedroom as you slipped through the hallway like a ghost. You blindly slipped your feet into slippers in the dark, your hand wrapping around the gold door knob of your front door. 

The cool breeze of a late July night kissed your skin, making your hair prickle against the fabric of your nightdress. The sky was black, stars spilled across it like bleached sugar against molasses. 

The walk to the church was by memory, your feet crunching above the gravel road in the cool dark of your village. No light was lit in anyone’s homes; the only sound was the cicadas whining in the trees surrounding you. As you passed Monsignor Quinn’s home, the foundation seemed to creak before you, the sound almost like a weeping in the air. You didn’t cross the street and kept your head forward to pass by it. It was just another house. Just another death. 

The church was dark but buzzed with an energy that made the air feel electric. You could see its indent in the darkness. It was made of white siding sun bleached from hundreds of years under the sun of the South. The smokey-colored brick spires reached out into the dark sky, pointing to the stars. Their elegance had entranced you as a child. Now it just made you feel sick. 

A rectory with a gabled roof and dead bushes surrounding it stood next to the church, just a few yards away. There was no light to be seen, no sign of life. Father Remmick would be asleep in there, sleeping soundly despite his completely taking over your mind and your body. 

As you entered the church, you didn’t make a sound, creaking the door open just wide enough to slide your body through.

You moved blindly down the pews, hands running across the cool wood, hoping it would comfort you. It didn’t. You fumbled around until you found a box of matches and lit the candlesticks at the table behind the altar. It didn’t provide much light, but you could at least see the flickering expression of Jesus on the crucifix before you, He who had died for your wretched, terrible sins.

Knees hit wood, your hands gripping the fabric of your nightdress as you prepared to grovel. But you wouldn’t get the chance to. Not to God, at least.

“Couldn’t sleep, sugar?”

A voice that echoed through the dark like it- he owned it. You stood, turning around and searching the dimly lit dark for him. 

Father Remmick was sitting in the pew furthest from you, legs crossed and arms stretched long behind him. He was smiling; crooked,pointy teeth nearly glowing in the dim light. Your eyes roamed over the clerical that remained against his neck.

Your throat had gone dry. You swallowed hard, one hand reaching out to steady yourself on the altar rail. 

“You could say that, yeah.” 

Remmick’s legs uncrossed, spreading out in a way that felt like it couldn’t be anything but disrespectful. His eyes didn’t look blue in this light. They seemed almost amber, gleaming and ever-changing in the flickering candlelight. 

“In peace, I will lie down and sleep,” Remmick said quietly, a teasing little smirk on his face. “For you alone, Lord, make me dwell in safety.”

Your knuckles had turned white against the altar railing, and the sudden realization that you stood before him in nothing but a nightdress made you freeze. You should have felt empowered by his words, but instead, you felt like prey under that violent gaze. You kept your expression blank. 

“Yes, I will perhaps follow those words when I know peace.”

Remmick’s head cocked to the side, like a dog sniffing out a treat. His eyes rolled down your body, stopping at your bruised knees. 

“You troubled, darlin’?”

He didn’t sound concerned, not really. He sounded starved the question dripping off his tongue like drool rolling down a chin. He looked at you with mock-concern, eyebrows just a little too furrowed, his lips just a little too downturned. 

“Have somethin’ you’d like to confess?”

His eyes flickered to the confession booth. Two purple, velvet curtains opened to a small wooden box—one side for the priest, the other for the sinner. 

You didn’t know what it was. Maybe it was the throb between your legs, or the puppy-dog shine of his eyes in the candlelight that made them look almost like melted caramel. Or perhaps the way his voice lingered in the room like steam after a hot bath. But you nodded, quicker than you’d meant to. 

Remmick stood on long legs, the sleeves of his black shirt rolled up to reveal curling veins that traveled along his forearms. He gestured toward the booth, lips curling deviously like he’d won something. Like he was collecting a prize he’d been patiently vying for.

“Ladies first.”

The confession booth was dark, except for the little light that flickered through the intricate carvings on the wood door. The worn leather cushion sank beneath you, full of cracks and creases from years of use. You could hear Remmick shuffling on the other side as you closed yourself in. You could hardly see him through the lattice-patterned window separating him from your booth, just the shadows cast over his face and the bright white of the clerical covering his throat. 

Your hands were tangled in your lap, your leg bobbing up and down under your nightdress. You listened to Remmick’s calm breath as he settled into his seat, closed your eyes for a moment, and envisioned his hands running over his pants, his head bowing in silent prayer. The thought of it made more heat travel down your body, your heartbeat loud in your skull.

“Sign of the Cross, yes?” 

His voice seemed even deeper, even more irresistible in the dark—something as velvet as the curtain before you. Your hands trembled as you made the Sign of the Cross over your face. 

“Bless me, Father,” you paused, licking your dry lips. “For I have sinned. It has been… far too long since my last confession. These are my sins.”

Remmick was smiling. Hands clasped in his lap, burning eyes staring into the wood of the booth. He could hear every shift you made, every breath coming from your heaving chest and out of your beautiful throat. The throat that pulsed with your heartbeat. The heartbeat that hadn’t left his mind since he’d laid eyes on you. He thought of your blood pooling in the dip of your collarbone and shifted in his seat.

Your chest was heaving, your nails digging into the seat's leather. You pressed your legs together, glanced at what you could see of Remmick’s face.

“Father, I have impure thoughts. I fear that the Devil has his hold on me, making me yearn for…improper things.”

Remmick’s smile curled, teeth sharp against his lip. You were right where he wanted you. Hot, pulsing, panting. His hands unclasped, his palm pressing into the seam of his pants. His head fell back, eyes slipping closed at the pressure against him.

“Improper things?” he asked you, his voice leveled as much as possible, but you caught the hitch. “Do you think the Lord would accept this confession… if you can’t even say what sin you’re thinking of?”

Your throat bobbed as you realized he was right. You were a sinning coward, unable to tell God what He needed to forgive you for. Your hands left sweat marks on the seat, palms raised to grip the rosary around your neck. The marks on your knees from groveling for God had started to sting, as if the Devil himself scratched down your legs. Reminding you of who you thought of and who you wanted to be on your knees for.

“I think of someone… touching me. Their hands against my skin, defiling me in a way that-”

A sound, guttural and desperate, left Remmick’s throat. His hand had continued to press against him, thick tendons and veins straining under his skin. His eyes opened, pupils nearly flooding his entire iris. All that was left was a ring of red on the outside, the color of blood stained on satin white sheets. He was silent, marinating in how you gasped at the sound he’d released. You were so deliciously untouched.

“And who is that you think of?”

The question lingered in the air, heavy and charged with something dangerous. It felt as if the rosary in between your hands were being tugged from your grasp, until you looked down and realized that it was just you releasing it, letting it clatter onto the floor.

The point of no return. Letting the Devil take you by the hand and dance you into Hell. You’d called to God so many times and He’d never answered, but Remmick was here. Real, tangible, beautiful. You dug your nails into your palms, prayed for your soul one last time before diving into the deep end.

“...I think you know, Father.”

Silence, at first. Something that made the air hot, that made your breath catch in your throat. 

The wood groaned as Remmick shifted, his feet scuffing against the floor. You could hear the screech of metal rings against a rod, Remmick pushing the curtain open. 

He didn’t ask for permission. He pushed your curtain open slowly, filling it with his broad frame and slender fingers. His fingers gripped the velvet, and a brass ring around his finger caught the light. He was a wolf in wolf's clothing, teeth sharp and bright in the dim light. 

One hand left the curtain, reaching out to touch the lines of your collarbone. He ran his nail up your neck to rest the pad of his finger against your pulse. 

“I do know,” he hummed, applying pressure to the pulse, just enough for you to feel him there. “And I always knew you’d come.”

His other hand flew from the curtain with a speed that didn’t seem human, fingers gripping your hair and tugging your head back to expose your throat. 

“God.” You moaned low in your throat, breath ragged as Remmick lowered himself enough to be straddling your lap, thighs warm and solid on top of yours. He leaned forward, his mouth finding your ear. You felt his tongue run over the shell of it, something long and cold like a serpent.

“Not sure your God is here, sugar.” His voice was low and sweet, rattling the inside of your body. “He woulda saved you by now, right?”

Remmick looked down into your nightdress, lip caught between his teeth. He was quiet as he raised his hands to the fabric, gripping it tightly before tugging. The nightdress split apart as easily as tearing paper, your skin prickling with goosebumps as the cold air hit your naked chest. He looked at you like a sinner did the cross, eyes nearly glowing. He waited; waited for your invitation to touch you, thick drool rolling down his chin like a rabid dog. It dripped onto your chest as you nodded, your hand shaking when you wrapped your fingers around the white clerical collar at his throat. You tugged it off, letting it fall to the floor beside your rosary. 

“Touch me, Father.”

Remmick was on his knees in a second, tearing away the rest of the ruined nightdress from your body as he nestled his shoulders between your thighs. The only thing that remained between you and him was a thin pair of underwear, lacy trim at the edges that he ran his fingertip over with a twitching smile. 

The pad of his rough fingertip pressed over the fabric of your underwear, firm against your clit. Your body jolted forward, legs falling open for him as the pleasure traveled up your spine. 

Remmick laughed, his head thrown back and mouth open wide.

“So wet for having never been touched, little lamb.” Remmick’s fingers hooked into the waistband of your underwear, tugging it down your smooth legs. “Do you want to be worshipped, as your God is…” He tucked your underwear into the back pocket of his black pants. “Or ruined, like the Devil would do to you?”

“I want…” Your words cut off with a whimper as he pulled his finger from you, only to open your legs wider. “I want what you want, Father…”

Remmick hummed, weighing his options. “Lil’ bit of both then, I reckon.”

His head dove in between your legs like he’d been starved of water for years, and you were the first drop of salvation he’d found. He groaned, deep and low in his throat, that sent a vibration through you that had your hands flying to the dark waves on top of his head, pulling him against you.

His hands gripped your thighs hard enough to bruise as he licked against your cunt, long tongue rolling around your clit like he’d been made to worship it.

“So sweet,” Remmick smiled against you, warm and wet for him. “Like the Lord made you just for me.”

Remmick’s hands left your thighs, palms searching the floor as he continued to suck on your clit, pushing his tongue into you, curling it up in a way that didn’t seem possible. When he found what he needed, he pulled away, looking up at you through half-lidded eyes and your wetness dripping from his lips.

His hand raised, your rosary beads tangled between his fingers. With careful precision, he lowered the necklace against your cunt, the coolness of the beads making you shiver and scratch marks into the leather seat beneath you. As the beads pressed on either side of your clit, your head fell back against the wall, heat traveling up your neck as if the flames of Hell were already licking against your skin. 

“Thy two breasts are like two young roes that are twins, which feed among the lilies.” He cocked his head to the side, eyes penetrating and sharp on your face. He could sense your impending release, the way your heartbeat quickened, your back arching off the seat.

“Don’t.” 

Once low and ragged in the dark, his voice had become clear. He closed your legs with one large hand and dropped the rosary beads back to the floor so he could lean forward, pressing his other hand against the wall next to your head. His face was inches from yours, and his breath was hot on your neck. 

“Not yet, darlin’. Not ‘til I say.” His lips found the pulse point on your neck, nipping before kissing tenderly. “The Lord teaches patience, lamb.” 

Remmick’s hand left the wall to grip your hair again, tugging your head back. It made your scalp sting in a way that made you want more, your mouth parting to whimper against him.

“That bein’ said,” A crooked smile - lips baptized in your essence. “I’m bettin’ you sound real pretty beggin’.”

His tongue was long and rough against your cheek as he tasted your sweating skin, a deep rumble in his throat as if he was tasting the sweetest nectar. He stopped at your temple, placing a gentle kiss there. His lips remained there, teeth grazing skin.

“So go on, darlin’. Pray for me to fuck you.”

Your breath caught, your entire body going hot from his words. He laughed against your skin, like he could feel the very chemistry in your body change, the way you grew slicker from his twisted request. The way you knew that you would do it for him. You’d pray to be spread open by him, explored in a way not even God could do.

“Oh, you will do it, won’t you…” 

It wasn’t a question. Remmick knew you’d beg; he knew how far gone you were. He laughed against your skin.

“Doesn’t matter how good of a girl you are… how much you love Him. You’ll give it all up just to get off, won’t you?” 

Remmick pulled back, hands sliding down to hold firm on the flesh of your hips. He lifted you from the seat like you weighed nothing, turned both your bodies around until you were straddling him. Your naked core rested against the rough material of his pants and made your body shiver. He smiled.

“Go on… hands together in contrition. Do it right…” His rough hands grabbed your wrists, pulling your hands flat together between your bodies. When they were pressed together to pray, he let his fingers linger on the bare skin of your thighs, fingers just too long and nails just too sharp against your skin. 

Your lips were dry, and Remmick’s eyes drifted to them like he wanted to lick across them, make them wet again. 

“Heavenly…”

 Remmick hummed in glee already, just from a single word. His head bowed, as if to join you in prayer, his eyes slipping shut.

“Heavenly Father… forgive me for what I am about to ask of you. I know I do not deserve such a blessing as being touched…” Your words faltered as one of Remmick’s hands slid up your thigh, gathering the slick in between your legs. His finger pressed against your clit, and you gasped, hands pressing together tighter. “As being touched by someone so good, so…”

Remmick’s finger pushed inside of you, pressing up to a spot that made your throat close up, the only sound coming out a pathetic squeak of a whine.

“Aww, darlin’, that’s so sweet of you. But you don’t have to lie.” His body leaned forward, his wet mouth pressing against your ear. “Tell your Heavenly Father what I am. What you know I am.”

“I’m…” You continued the prayer, voice deep and rasping. “I’m going to fuck the Devil… and Lord, I beg you to have mercy on my wicked soul.” 

Remmick laughed against the skin of your neck, drawing thin beads of blood with the sharp points of his teeth.

“Are you now? Going to fuck the Devil?”

All you could do was whine at the pleasurable pain in your neck, your hands shaking with the desire to pull them apart, to grab at his skin and his hair. 

Remmick hummed to himself, pulling his finger out of you with a slowness that made you bite the inside of your cheek. His cold hands slid up your arms, pulling your hands apart from their prayer. 

“Get up.” He said quietly, with that same thick, gooey voice he’d had when you’d shaken his hand for the first time. You did as he asked, spreading your legs and backing off his lap. His eyes traveled up your bare body as he stood, towering over you inside the booth. With a firm hand on your hip, he nudged you toward the curtain.

“To the altar.” 

Remmick’s breathing was heavy behind you, his gaze burning holes into the bare skin of your back as you slowly walked to the altar. You looked to the cross just above, and you felt no remorse, not anymore. Whatever God could do to punish you, you were sure Remmick could do worse. Maybe you wanted him to. 

You ceased walking once you had reached the altar, your belly just close enough to feel the cool wood against your skin. Remmick was behind you, his breath hot and wet on your neck. His eyes ran over your skin, from the top of your head to the balls of your feet. The expanse of a human body that he was now free to ruin. That he’d be begged to ruin. 

With one swift movement, he grabbed your wrists, raising them and placing them flat on the altar. Your fingers brushed the closed Bible there as your breath hitched. Remmick made no effort to remove it. He only slid one hand down your body, as soft and languid as a serpent, and pressed down on the arch of your back. 

“Look at you…” Remmick murmured, fingers sliding into your folds, finding you warm and wanting there. Your legs quivered at his simple touch, so his other arm found its spot under your belly, assisting in holding you upright. “So nervous… shaking. You must honor God with your body, little lamb.”

Two fingers entered you, pushing in and out with a torturous speed. Your legs spread wider, your nails scratching into the leather-bound fabric covering the Bible before you. 

“Please..” Your voice quivered as you tried to keep it level. Your head fell against the Bible, leaving sweat marks. “I need you inside me, I need it more than I need God.”

Remmick’s fingers pulled out of you, and you heard the faint sound of his lips licking his fingers clean. He moaned at the taste of you, his other hand pulling the clasp of his belt buckle apart. “Aw, sweetheart, that’s so kind of you.”

By the press of him against you, hot and pulsing, you could tell that Remmick was big. But nothing could have prepared you for the way it felt when the head of his cock began to press inside you, hardly able to breach your entrance. He pulled back, body lowering to press lips against your sweat-slick spine.

“Gotta open up for me, baby.” He said against your skin, running the length of himself against your folds. His tongue was cold and barbed as it ran up the expanse of your back and to the shell of your ear. “Take me all at once, and maybe I’ll make you see Him. Denying yourself would be the true sin…” Remmick tried once again, his cock slowly able to start stretching you, inch by torturous inch. Only babbles came out as your mouth fell open, tears beading at the corner of your eyes from the sheer size of him.

“Haven’t even fucked you good yet,” He groaned as he pushed in. “And you’re already speaking in tongues.”

When he’d bottomed out inside you, pressing deep on a spot inside you that only made a guttural sound escape your throat, his large hand pressed against your belly. 

“Feel all that pain, lamb. You’re just getting used to me… your body will learn quick.” He slid back slowly and pushed back in with just as much resolve. Your legs nearly gave out, hands scrambling for purchase on the lectern as he fucked into you. “Soon, all you’ll feel is me.”

Remmick was right. 

Soon, the only feeling that remained was deep, wicked pleasure. Every thrust of him inside of you felt like another ring lower into Hell, the souls eternally damned there shaking their heads at you as you made the same mistakes they did. But the problem was - you didn’t fucking care.

A whine escaped your throat as Remmick picked up the pace, just a little bit. One hand on your belly, the other gripping your hip so hard you were sure you felt the cold prick of blood on your skin. Every thrust was hitting something inside you that somehow made you wetter, something that had you dripping onto him like some kind of deranged baptism.

Remmick was grunting, getting louder with each thrust into you. He tried to hide with honeyed words, but you felt too good around him.

“So easy, aren’t you?” Remmick was grabbing one of your arms, pulling your hand into his to press onto your own belly. You felt the bulge of him with each thrust in, and the pressure on your stomach made your cunt flutter around him. He groaned, words faltering as you squeezed around his cock. “You…” He nearly whined, hand gripping yours on top of your belly. “Just a few words about your corrupt God and you... you spread your legs for me?”

He laughed, hand leaving your stomach to grab at your hair, tugging until your head reeled back just enough to see him. He was beautiful like this, pupils blown out, and the first few buttons of his clean shirt popped open. Blood streaked down the corner of his mouth from the wound on your neck, and his tongue was unnaturally long as it unraveled out to wet his lips.

“Do you know something, sweetheart?” He asked, dark eyes meeting yours. “Your God isn’t here.”

A whine broke through your mouth as he rolled his hips in a particularly torturous way, hitting the spot in you that he’d found with his fingers in the confession booth. There wasn’t anything you could do but let your body go slack against him, head kept in place only by his grip on your hair. 

“What would your God say, hm?” Remmick asked, pressing into that spot again, making your vision go white. “If He saw you split open for me?”

Remmick released you, and your head fell forward to the altar. He leaned forward, and you felt the cold press of something against your neck, a chain or something of the like.

“Do you still believe in Him?” He asked against the nape of your neck, pressing deep into you. He nipped at you again and lapped the blood up with his tongue with a soft moan. 

“Maybe you should apologize to Him, hm? How does that one go again?” Remmick pulled out, almost entirely. You felt the cold air hit the wetness of your cunt, and you whined at the loss of contact from him.

“Forgive me my sins, Oh Lord,” Remmick spoke, moved both of his hands to your hips, and thrust in with one swift move that made you cry out in shock, in pleasure, in shame. “The sins of my youth.” Another deep thrust, and back out again. “The sins of my soul,” Another. “And the sins of my body-” 

The last push inside of you made you see streaks of color in your vision, your mouth hanging open, and your lips wet with drool. You felt something like a spool form in your stomach, desperate to unravel. It was an odd feeling that you’d never felt before, akin to the feeling of nearly wetting yourself, and it made your face burn with embarrassment.

“Father,” Your voice was gone, raspy and unrecognizable. “Father, I feel…” You whined as the feeling grew, doing everything in your power not to let the spool unravel. “I think I‘m gonna pee… it feels like-” Remmick chuckled, increasing the speed of his thrusts. 

“Oh, my poor baby.” 

You could hear the smile in his voice. He was the Devil himself.

“You don’t even know what your sweet little body can do, do you?”

 And with that, Remmick was reaching around your body, pressing two of his fingers against your clit and rubbing, coaxing something out of you. The more he coaxed, the tighter the spool wound.

And then it snapped.

You didn’t recognize your voice as you came, nails scratching into the altar so hard that the wood began to splinter, piercing the tips of your fingers. Remmick was laughing as wetness coated him, the front of his pants and the fingertips at your clit. You’d provided an entire baptism for him, and he wouldn’t let it go to waste.

He pulled out of you, gripping your hips tightly and whipping you around so your back hit the altar. Remmick’s knees hitting the floor and his tongue diving inside of you happened in one action, in one second. He licked up everything you gave him, your essence leaking onto his face and dripping down his chin. 

His cock remained hard, long, and red below you as he sucked on your clit. You wet your lips, a shaking hand lifting from the altar to grip at his auburn waves.

“Touch yourself,” You whimpered, voice coated in overstimulation. “Please… let me see the image He created you in…” 

Remmick’s eyes slid open, peering up at you needily. His nose brushed your clit as his tongue pushed up inside you, and he grabbed at his cock with a strong, blood-covered hand. Immediately, he was moaning, the vibrations in his throat traveling through your entire body and making your head feel airy. His hand was so beautiful pleasuring himself, pulling up and down the length of his cock and making himself leak. His hips thrusted up into his fist, and you found yourself longing to see the muscles that flexed beneath his shirt. 

Your trembling hand scratched at his scalp, and Remmick sighed happily underneath your touch. He wasn’t even eating you out, not anymore, just nuzzling his face into your skin and breathing you in as he touched himself.

“Beautiful…” You whispered to him. “Like an angel.”

Remmick growled, hand tugging on your thigh and yanking you to the floor. Your back slid against the altar as he pressed the head of himself against your cunt. His forehead pressed against yours as he came with a groan. The warmth of him spilled against your clit and downward, and Remmick’s fingers gently pressed into you, making sure it stayed tucked away inside you.

Your body trembled as Remmick pulled his forehead from yours. His thumb came up to brush against your lips, and for a brief moment, he pushed it inside, humming as the pad of it pressed against your warm tongue. He leaned forward, replacing his thumb with his mouth. A small squeak sounded in your throat at the feeling of his tongue pressing against the roof of your mouth, licking away the last of the prayers that stuck there.

Remmick’s lips remained connected to yours as he helped you stand on shaking legs, his hands pulling you up effortlessly by your waist. His hand reached behind him, grabbing the underwear he’d tucked in his back pocket as he’d prepared to stick his tongue between your legs. 

He leaned down, untangling the delicate material and holding it out.

“Step in, sweet thing.” He peered up at you through half-lidded eyes. “Gotta keep everything I gave you inside… keep you close to me.”

Your hand gripped his strong shoulder as you stepped into the holes of your underwear. Remmick pulled them up slowly, leaving soft kisses on your skin as he went. When they were fully up, getting soaked with the mix of Remmick’s and your release, he straightened. His lips pressed against your forehead for a brief, sweet moment.

“I’ll see you at Sunday service.” He said as he pulled back, his voice just as fucked out as yours had been. 

“Front pews. Don’t think you can hide from me in the back.” 

His hand grazed your arm, almost innocently.

 “Or anywhere, for that matter.”

Your moans come out as small whisper as your fingers plunge in and out of your dripping cunt that is covered by a mere cotton sheet.

The cross that hangs around your neck sways with each desperate swirl, each attempting to chase a high you can feel down to your toes.

Your Bible by your side, serving as a vessel of guilt that you swallow as you feel warmth blooming in your lower stomach.

You know that eyes are watching you, not just the picture frames that hold the judging gazes of your kin, including your father, the town pastor down here in Tuscaloosa.

These are different, peering at you just beyond your window.

These were much more carnivorous.

Sinful.

They had lost their humanity, a trapped soul caught between Hell and Earth.

“Remmick…I beg of you to come in,” you beg, fingers plunging into your soaked cunt, fingers grasping at the thin sheet beneath you.

You could feel the unholy presence wash over the divinity of your room. The creaking of your wooden floor makes your eyes snap up to see him, with maroon eyes and a hung smile.

“Making a mess of yourself, aren’t ya?” he comments, eyes closing momentarily, taking in your scent. Your sweet arousal is rushing his system, sending his brain into overdrive.

“It feels incredible,” you whisper, trying to hush your enjoyment. Even with guilt clawing up your throat, your fingers coax around your clit, unwilling to stop. “I cannot stop.”

“Greed is liberating,” he adds, paying no real attention to his words. Drool leaks from the corner of his lips down his chin, watching you pleasure yourself. “Your greed is…a sweet temptation.”

Your eyes are hazy, hanging lazily as you stare at him. He is baring his teeth, sharp fangs gleaming. His tongue drags across the edges before licking away the spit on his lips.

You come with a small whimper, your arousal now leaking onto your sheets where you lie. Your body shakes with relief, chest heaving, attempting to collect more oxygen.

His eyes shut roughly, nostrils flaring as he takes in your scent, before they snap open, glowing red. “I need to taste ya,” he says, moving over to where you lay, still coming down from your high before ripping off your thin sheet and sinking to his knees to swipe his tongue across your glistening cunt.

“Dear, God…” you murmur, body twitching from sensitivity as your fingers grip the sheets tightly.

He lifts his head slightly, his glowing eyes boring into yours as his lips gleam with your arousal. “There ain't no God here, babydoll,” his lip quips. “Just me.”

Your body heaves forward, as his tongue swirls around your clit. “It’s too much,” you choke out, your hypersensitivity catching up with you.

He brings his head up. “It’s never too much, dear,” he says. Though, he does maneuver away from your cunt. His hand reaches out for your ankle, pulling it towards him.

You let out a yelp, body sitting upright, before he stands. He hovers over you ominously before his hand brushes against your cheek. “Sweet girl, you will learn to take what is given to ya,” he rasps as you nuzzle your cheek into his palm.

He beckons you to stand before he bends down, his nose moving against your neck to smell your skin. His lips press a kiss to your flesh, eliciting a breathy moan from your lips.

Without warning, his curious fingers find your cunt, easing in and out of it with ease. You grip your thigh for stability, as his lips suck on the skin of your neck.

“What would your savior have to say about this?” he mutters into your neck, fingers moving fervently. “Me suckin’ on the same very flesh he created?” he tacks on, as his other hand moves to grip the fat of your hips. “Fingers swirlin’ in this drippin’ pussy that your dear ole’ daddy has condemned,” he spits with agitation.

You grip your thigh tighter, your nails digging into the flesh. You’re rocking yourself against his fingers, mind whirling. “God…will take you…he’ll—he’ll heal you,” you mumble.

He laughs into the crook of his neck where his teeth are bared, mere inches from skimming your skin. “I’m not God’s to take.”

Your toes curl against the cold floor, and you can feel yourself edging closer to another sweet release.

His fangs hover over your neck. “Life could better for ya…for us,” he reasons softly, fingertips looming across your aching clit. “Let me take ya, sweet girl. I will let ya be whomever ya want,” he promises, his teeth prodding against your flesh.

Your teeth press into your bottom lip. “I cannot be—ah—led into temptation,” you say with a moan, though he can see the break in your resolve.

“Ya already have,” his tongue comes out to lick a stripe up your neck. “Ya ain’t like the others. I could smell your hunger through these very walls,” his finger gives your clit a slight pinch. “You’re sin wrapped up in one of them pretty bows, but I see right through ya, babydoll. No one will understand you. Not like I do,” he growls into your neck. “You’re all mine.”

“Take me! Please, take me with you!” you plead, feeling your climax overtake you.

You feel his fangs pierce your flesh, only adding to the erotic sensation. His hands move to grab and hold up your body as it slumps from exhaustion, and he feeds on your blood.

He pulls away, your blood staining his teeth, lips, and chin. “You will find this life is…simpler,” he whispers, easing you onto the bed.

You suddenly fall onto the sheets, unconscious for only a moment before you rise, feeling rejuvenated. Your eyes wander to Remmick, whose tongue darts across his lower lip to collect more of your blood, before you feel an urge to look at the framed picture frames.

You softly close your eyes, grasping the cross around your neck before whispering a silent prayer. “I am sorry, Father, for I have fallen into temptation,” you pray.

Remmick's hand reaches out, beckoning for yours. You grab his hand and walk out of the sanctity of your home to wander through the night, not bothering to bid your father goodbye.

And, although yes, your father may have lost his obedient sheep, a subservient follower, the night roared with delight, for it had captured a creature overflowing with unfulfilled desires and unpacified greed.

Malik threw his head back and cackled.

Smoke looked up just for a second, brown eyes meeting yours, warm and curious. You smiled at him, and he nodded once and went back to his clipboard.

Lord, give me strength, you thought as you walked over, boots echoing softly against concrete.

“Report ready?” you asked.

He handed it to you without looking. “Updated. Capone wants Dock Five cleared before two.”

“Of course he does,” you sighed. “Man hates sleep.”

“He Italian,” Smoke muttered. “Sleep optional for them.”

You snorted before you could stop yourself. He glanced up again; one corner of his mouth twitched. It was not quite a smile, but it was close. You caught it, and your heart did a stupid little dance.

You leaned against the desk beside him, scanning the paperwork, close enough that your arm brushed his.

He stiffened slightly, and you pretended not to notice.

“Seventy-six inbound units,” you whistled. “They tryna kill us.”

“We built for it,” he replied, voice low.

No matter what he was saying, it always affected you.

You flipped a page. “Bernadette on shift tonight?”

His jaw tightened. “Unfortunately.”

You grinned. “She still asking about you?”

“Every week.”

“And you still dodging her?”

“Yes.”

“Why though?” you teased. “She thick. Got a nice-ass pension.”

He finally looked at you fully now. “My brother already hit.”

You froze. “…Excuse me?”

“And she used to be a lot lizard.”

You blinked at him before you lost it. You let out a full-body, hand-over-mouth, wheezing laugh.

“Oh my God—Smoke—no, you did not just—”

Heads turned and forklifts paused.

Malik’s lazy ass stared, and Bernadette glared from across the floor.

You were doubled over, trying to whisper, but it was too funny. “I’m—sorry—retired—LOT LIZARD?!”

Smoke watched you quietly for a few seconds, and then he smiled. His smile was genuine and private, reserved only for you. It felt as though he had forgotten the existence of anyone else. Like it was just you and him and that goofy-ass laugh of yours.

You caught the look he gave you mid-snicker and forgot how to breathe.

Oh. So that’s what Smoke looks like when he finally lets go.

You straightened, suddenly shy and muttered. “…You wrong for that.”

“Just tellin’ the truth,” he shrugged, still smiling.

He inhaled slowly as the scent of your hair drifted between you. He never failed to notice when you conditioned with the rosemary mint instead of the avocado. It always flooded his senses in the best way possible.

His gaze lingered a second too long. On your lips, down to your waist, and back up to your eyes.

He cleared his throat and turned when he saw you were watching him check you out.

“Come on,” he beckoned over his shoulder. “Let’s get to work.”

You followed him down the aisle, heart thumping.

Two years.

Two years of stolen glances, shared coffees, late-night talks, comfortable silences, and unspoken feelings.

Something felt different about tonight. Yeah, it was Valentine’s Day, and you both were still single, but it felt like the air was holding its breath. The late night seemed to have its own plans.

By midnight, the warehouse had settled into its usual rhythm. The warehouse was filled with the quiet hum of forklifts and the whispering of conveyor belts. Overhead radio was playing somebody's dusty R&B playlist in the background, and every now and then the fluorescent lights buzzed, like they were tired of the music selection too.

It was an inventory night. Your favorite. Not because it was easy but because you two had a routine that was yours. It got the job done in a timely and efficient manner.

You stood beside Smoke at Dock Five, tablet in hand, hair pulled into a low puff at your nape. Hoodie sleeves pushed up, gold bracelet clinking softly every time you moved.

Smoke was already in position. He had a clipboard tucked under his arm, a pen behind his ear, and his jacket was fully unzipped with the sleeves rolled up to his forearms.

His veins were distracting. You tried hard not to pay them any attention, but you failed every single time.

“Alright,” you hummed, tapping your screen. “Row A through F first. Then we loop back.”

“Mm-hm,” he nodded. “I’ll scan. You log.”

“Like always.”

Like always.

Two years of muscle memory.

You didn’t even have to look at him when you worked. You already knew where he’d be, when he’d pause, and when he’d double-check to catch a mistake before it happened.

He knew you too. He was aware of your preference for rows in order, your dislike for skipping pallets, your habit of color-coding everything, and your tendency to mutter under your breath when numbers didn't match.

“You missed 487-B,” he pointed out.

You blinked. “I did not.”

He tilted his clipboard toward you.

You squinted. "Okay. You right.”

A small smile ghosted his lips. “I’m always right.”

“Don’t get cocky now, Smoke,” you warned.

“Too late.”

You bumped his shoulder lightly as you walked past. He didn’t move or flinch. He just watched you go to the next pallet.

Across the floor, Malik was leaning on a pallet, scrolling his phone, Jason sat on a crate eating Funyuns, and Bernadette was painting her nails plum.

All on company time.

Capone walked out of his office, coffee in hand, surveying the scene. His eyes lingered on you and Smoke. You were already three rows ahead, locked in. Then he looked at the others. Lazy and behind on their inventory.

“Malik,” Capone called. “Why you not scanning?”

“Uh—break,” Malik said quickly.

“You been on break for forty minutes.”

Jason choked on a chip, and Bernadette didn’t even look up.

Capone sighed like a man reconsidering all his life choices. He walked over to you and Smoke.

“My stars,” he complimented. “Only two people in this place who work like they get paid.”

You grinned. “We do get paid.”

“Exactly,” he said, pointing at you. “You understand.”

Malik jumped up. “Boss, listen—me, Jason, Bernie—we was thinking…”

Bernadette perked up. “Yeah, it’s Valentine’s Day.”

Jason nodded. “You should let us go home. Be with family.”

Malik added, “Smoke and her got this anyway. They the best crew.”

You slowly turned. “…Excuse me?”

Smoke raised an eyebrow.

Capone looked suspicious.

“They don’t need us,” Malik continued. “They like a machine.”

“A machine,” Jason agreed.

“Plus,” Bernadette said, waving her hand. “I got plans.”

With who, nobody knew.

Capone studied you and Smoke for several seconds, then he looked at the time.

12:43 a.m.

He rubbed his temples.

“You know what?” he exhaled sharply. “Fine. Go. All three of you. Before I change my mind.”

They froze.

“For real?” Malik asked.

“Go,” Capone snapped. “Before I fire somebody.”

They scattered—grabbed their phones and pulled on their jackets. Jason left his half bag of Funyuns on one of the pallets.

Within two minutes, they were gone.

Silence fell. It was just you, Smoke, Capone and 12,000 units of inventory.

“My two MVPs,” Capone grinned as he rubbed his hands together. “I owe you dinner.”

“You owe us raises,” you blurted sweetly.

He laughed. “Maybe.” Then he grabbed his coat. “I’ll be in my office. Call if anything explodes.”

“Always,” Smoke replied.

And just like that…you and Smoke were alone. Really alone. No distractions or witnesses. Just you and him.

Midnight crept closer.

“…So,” you glanced around. “Guess it’s just us.”

“Guess so,” he replied. His voice sounded different now, quieter.

You walked back to your station.

“Alright then, Mr. Manager,” you quipped. “Let’s show ‘em why we’re elite.”

He stepped close enough that you could smell his cologne again, close enough to brush your shoulder as he reached for the scanner.

“After you, Y/N,” he murmured.

You shook your head and resumed working, but something had definitely shifted. He handed you boxes before you asked. You called numbers before he finished scanning. Your movements synced like a dance.

At one point, you reached for the same pallet. Your hands touched, and neither of you pulled away this time.

You looked up, and Smoke was already looking down at you. His eyes were unreadable but heavy with something you didn’t recognize.

“Sorry,” you whispered.

“Don’t be,” he replied, still not pulling away, so neither did you.

A beat or two passed before he stepped back, professional and controlled.

You exhaled slowly.

Lord. If inventory was doing this to you…what was the rest of the night about to do?

By 1:38 a.m., most of Dock Five was finished. Clipboards were updated, numbers were balanced and pallets were stacked neatly. Too neat, which only meant—

“Section G,” you realized, checking your tablet. “Back storage.”

Smoke sucked his teeth. "Hate that section.”

You snickered. “Why? It’s peaceful back there.”

“It’s creepy.”

“You scared of the dark, Elijah?”

The name slipped out, soft and private.

He stopped walking, and you froze.

“Sorry,” you said quickly. “I—”

“It’s fine, Y/N,” he assured, but his voice sounded…different. Rougher.

You walked on, pretending you didn’t notice the change in his tone.

Section G sat at the far end of the warehouse, past the main docks and behind rows of old shelving. Fewer lights, narrower aisles, dust on the beams, and boxes that hadn’t moved in months.

The quiet section….where sound went to disappear.

Your boots echoed as you walked in. The air felt cooler back here. You rolled the sleeves of your hoodie back down.

“Creepy as hell,” you admitted softly.

“Told you,” Smoke taunted.

He flicked on his flashlight, its soft beam cutting through the darkness.

You worked side by side, moving slower now. Scanning, logging, stacking. Your shoulders brushed more often in the narrow aisle. Neither of you mentioned it.

At one point, you reached up for a pallet, and it was higher than you thought.

You stretched your toes, lifted your hoodie, and arched your back slightly, but you still couldn’t get a steady grip.

“Got it,” Smoke offered.

Before you could respond, he stepped right behind you, chest brushing your back as he reached up. He was warm and solid, and your hormones were raging. This proximity didn’t help in the slightest.

He grabbed the box with little effort, but he didn’t move right away.

You both stilled as his breath grazed your ear. Your skin lit up like someone flipped a switch.

“Thank you, Elijah.”

“You know I got you.”

He stepped back slowly.

You cleared your throat, focusing on your tablet like it suddenly held all the secrets of the universe.

A few minutes passed in silence, with the occasional soft beep of the scanner.

Smoke was the one to break the silence.

“Why you only say my name back here?”

You looked up. “What you mean?”

“Elijah,” he added. “You only call me that when it’s just us.”

Your heart stumbled. “I—um,” You shrugged lightly. “It feels…personal. Nobody really calls you that, I guess.”

He nodded, staring at a stack of boxes that definitely wasn’t even intriguing.

“I like it.”

You blinked. “I—what?”

He finally looked over at you.

“I like when you say it,” he admitted. “When you say my real name.”

Your breath caught. “Oh.”

Silence rushed in, settling thick and heavy in the room.

“You don’t gotta,” he stammered. “I mean—it ain’t—”

“Elijah,” you whispered.

He froze.

You took a step closer. “Is that better?”

His jaw tightened. “Mmhmm.”

Your pulse raced. “Why?”

“Because it feels like…” He hesitated. “Like you see me. Not just Smoke, the manager. Just…me. Elijah.”

Your chest warmed.

“Of course I see you,” you said quietly. “I always have.”

His gaze dropped to your lips.

“You don’t know how hard it is,” he whispered.

“What is?”

“To act like I don’t notice you.” “To act like I don’t want you.” “To act like I’m not thinkin’ about you every damn night.”

The words continued to spill out, uncontrolled but truthful.

He went still as if he’d said too much.

“My fault,” he apologized. “I shouldn’t—”

You reached for his hand, stopping him. “Don’t apologize.”

He looked down at you, hope flickering behind his brown eyes.

“Why not?”

“Because I’ve been feeling the same way for two years.”

The warehouse was silent, mirroring Smoke's tension.

“Wait—you serious?”

“Deadass.”

His thumb brushed your knuckles once, reverently. “Damn.”

And in that quiet aisle, surrounded by boxes and fluorescent shadows, something finally cracked open. Two years of restraint and longing seemed to cease.

The silence after your confession was so loud it felt unreal. Two years of almosts finally spoken. Smoke—Elijah—was still holding your hand. It was as if he feared that if he moved too quickly, you might disappear.

His thumb brushed your skin again. “You don’t know how long I been waiting to hear that.”

“Well,” you smiled softly as your heart thumped harder, “you could’ve—”

A sharp crackle cut through the air.

—KSSHHHT—

Both of you jumped.

The radio clipped to his belt crackled again with Capone’s voice. “Smoke. You copy?”

He sighed quietly before answering, “Yeah. I’m here.”

“Where you at?”

“Section G.”

“Of course you are,” Capone muttered. “Listen. Channel Five just put out an alert. Snowstorm moving in fast. Strong winds in the next hour or so.”

Your eyes widened. “Already?"

“Bad?” he asked.

“Bad,” Capone confirmed. “Roads finna be trash. I don’t want nobody stranded. You two gotta wrap inventory and prep shutdown.”

“Understood,” Smoke replied.

“Good. And uh…” Capone hesitated. “…Y’all alright back there?”

You held your breath as Smoke glanced at you. Something soft passed between you.

“Yeah,” he answered. “We good.”

“Alright. Call me when you clear.”

The radio clicked off and silence rushed back in.

You both stood there, staring at each other.

“Well,” you sighed deeply. “That was rude.”

He huffed a quiet laugh.

“I was right in the middle of—”

“Confessing more feelings?” you teased gently.

He smiled fully this time, pearly whites shining in the dimmed room.

“Nah,” he admitted. “Workin’ up the nerve to kiss you.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah, oh,” he stepped closer.

Snow began tapping faintly against the high windows above. Tiny whispers of white.

“You still want me to?” he asked honestly. No ego or assumption.

“Yes,” you replied instantly. “Very much.”

He leaned in, and as soon as you tilted your head, another loud clang echoed down the aisle. A pallet settling. Interrupting the moment AGAIN.

He exhaled sharply and then laughed under his breath. “Warehouse got beef with me tonight.”

You giggled. “Apparently.”

He rested his forehead against yours, and you held on to his shoulders.

“I promise,” he whispered, “I ain’t letting this go. Storm or no storm.”

You smiled, brushing his beard lightly with your thumb. “I’ll hold you to that, Elijah.”

He closed his eyes briefly at his name. “Keep sayin’ my name like that and see what happens.”

You couldn’t contain your laugh.

Outside, the snow thickened. Inside, something even stronger was building, and neither of you was going anywhere. By 2:17 a.m., the storm had stopped playing. Snow slammed against the windows like handfuls of salt, wind howled through the loading docks, and the parking lot lights were halos in white fog.

“Okay,” you grimaced, staring out. “That escalated.”

Smoke stood beside you, phone in hand, refreshing the weather app for the fifth time.

“Roads closing,” he said quietly. “Highway already backed up.”

You turned to him. “You serious?”

He nodded. “City plows can’t keep up.”

The warehouse felt smaller now as you walked side by side to the main deck.

Capone stormed out of his office, phone pressed to his ear.

“No, Maria, I cannot teleport!” he snapped at his wife. “Yes, I know it’s Valentine’s Day!” “I DO love you!” “I am trapped in my own damn building!”

You bit your lip to keep from laughing, and Smoke covered his mouth with his fist.

Capone paced back and forth, voice booming throughout the warehouse.

“These roads are ice! ICE! You want me dead?!” “Yes, I’ll bring flowers tomorrow!” “…Yes, real ones!”

He ended the call and exhaled like a man who had just survived war.

“You two,” he said, pointing. “Congratulations. We stuck.”

Your stomach flipped, and you asked. “For how long?”

“Until plows clear,” he shrugged. “Maybe two or three hours.”

Smoke frowned. “We still got Section J.”

Capone waved him off. “Forget it. Storm too bad. Find somewhere to relax.”

He trudged back to his office and slammed his door, muttering stuff about his wife being inconsiderate.

You wrapped your arms around yourself.

“It’s freezing,” you shivered.

“Come here,” Smoke said without thinking. Then he froze once he realized how that may have landed. “I mean—”

“It’s okay,” you said softly, stepping closer.

He shrugged off his jacket and draped it over your shoulders. It was warm and smelled like him. You inhaled before you could stop yourself. He noticed, eyes warming in amusement.

“Better?” he asked.

“Much,” you replied.

Outside, thunderous wind beat against the windows.

“Follow me,” he said suddenly.

“Where?”

“Somewhere warmer.” He explained as he took your hand and led you toward the back.

Your pulse raced as he led you past stacked pallets, down a narrow corridor, toward the old supervisor’s office near Section J. He unlocked it with his keycard and pulled you inside with him. The door clicked shut behind you.

The room was small, but it had a desk, chair, couch and a tiny space heater that hummed in the corner. It was safe, warm and quiet.

He leaned back against the door, exhaling sharply as he ran a hand over his beard.

“I didn’t want our first real moment to be in a freezing aisle,” he admitted.

“I kinda liked it,” You joked.

He chuckled and stepped closer. Your breath mingled as he crowded you.

“I meant what I said,” he expressed. “About wanting you. About thinking about you.”

“I know,” you nodded. “I’ve seen it. In the little things.”

“Like what?”

“The way you always save me the good clipboard, the way you walk me to my car, and definitely the way you notice my hair.”

His eyes softened as he confessed. “It smells so good.”

You laughed softly. “My conditioner?”

“Yeah,” he admitted. “Been my weakness for two years.”

You reached up, lightly grazing his beard.

“Mine’s your cologne,” you whispered. “Especially that cedar wood one.”

His breath hitched.

“Elijah,” you said softly.

He closed his eyes for half a second, pulled you flush against him, and opened them.

“I’m right here.”

For once, nothing stood between you anymore. The heater gently hummed in the corner, while snow pelted the windows with a furious intensity.

Smoke was holding you in his arms like he’d finally decided to stop running from himself.

“I held back,” he admitted.

You tilted your head. “Why?”

He cleared his throat. “Cause you my coworker. The most peaceful aspect about this damn job is you. Your chest warmed as he continued. “I didn’t wanna mess it up because once I start wanting you, I’m all in.”

Your thighs clenched involuntarily. “Is that supposed to scare me?”

He grinned. “Maybe.”

You rested your hands on his shoulders. “So you been torturing both of us…for professionalism?”

“This ain’t all on me. Why you ain’t tell me you was feeling me?”

You cleared your throat. “That’s rude.”

“Nah, it’s the truth.”

He lifted his hand, knuckles brushing your cheek.

“Imma kiss you now. You good with that?”

“Yes,” you breathed.

He closed the distance, capturing your lips in a tender kiss. You sighed softly and kissed him back, grip tightening on his shoulders.

Two years poured into one touch.

You deepened the kiss, and his hand slid to your waist, groaning quietly against your mouth. His restraint cracked, and he kissed you like he’d been starving. You melted into him. He backed you against the desk, tugging on your bottom lip.

His hand slipped under your hoodie, grip firm on your hip, and you gasped. His lips trailed from your jaw to your neck.

“Elijah…” you moaned.

He froze and pulled back, panting softly.

“No,” he muttered.

You blinked in confusion. “No?”

He rested his forehead against yours.

“I want you,” he acknowledged. “Bad.”

“Then why—”

“But I respect you too much to treat you like Bernadette,” he finished.

You stared.

Then burst out laughing. “Oh my God.”

He chuckled too. “I’m serious.”

“You comparing me to a retired lot lizard right now?”

“I am not—”

“You absolutely are.”

“I’m just saying—” He laughed harder. “You special. You not some late-night mistake.”

You wiped your eyes. “Wow. Romantic.”

“Shut up,” he chided.

“So,” you teased, “how did Stack even end up with her?”

He groaned. “Don’t remind me.”

“You gotta tell me now.”

“She bought him wings,” he muttered.

You screamed. “NOT WINGS.”

“She paid the extra $3 for all flats too,” he sighed. “That’s all it took.”

“She get him ranch too?”

“Yep. The homemade kind.”

“That’s a damn shame.”

You reached for his hand.

“Two years,” you noted. “We been tiptoeing around each other for two years.”

“I know.”

“I’m tired of tiptoeing.”

He searched your face. “You mean that?”

“Yes.” You smiled. “I’m ready to find out what I been missing.”

He hummed, eyes darkening with anticipation.

“And,” you added lightly, “it’s Valentine’s Day. So it’s only right.”

“Don’t say shit like that if you don’t mean it, Y/N.”

“I mean it,” you promised.

“Then I’m yours tonight,” he murmured. “And every night after that.”

Outside, the storm raged. Inside, two hearts finally stopped pretending.

You pulled him back in by the back of his neck, kissing him with everything you have. His full lips were soft and warm against yours. You couldn’t get enough of him. He broke the kiss, and you tugged his bottom lip between your teeth.

He groaned softly. “Careful,” he warned against your lips. “I’m tryna be respectful.”

“Who said I wanted you to behave?”

His eyes darkened. “You want me to take you in here?”

“Yep. Right on that lopsided couch.”

“Damn,” he snorted. “You really been holding back, huh?”

“So have you,” you shot back. “No more holding back. I want you.”

He pressed his forehead to yours and checked in one last time, “You sure you want me to fuck you?”

“Yes.”

“There’s no going back. You mine now.”

“Then take what’s yours then, Elijah.”

He kissed you again, and you kissed him back even harder, stumbling back toward the small leather couch in the corner, and he lowered you down gently, hands steady despite the way his breathing isn’t.

His fingers hooked into the waistband of your pants, and he paused—just long enough to give you a chance to stop him. You don’t stop him, of course, and the air shifted as the moment deepened.

He pulled your pants and panties off and stepped back for a second, reached into his pocket, and pulled out his phone. His thumbs moved quickly across the screen.

Tap. Scroll. Tap.

After removing your sweater and bra, you propped yourself up on your elbows, flushed and confused.

When he handed the phone to you, you arched a brow. “You want me to record or something?”

He snorted, shaking his head. “Will you just look at the damn screen, woman?”

You rolled your eyes playfully and finally turned it toward yourself, instantly freezing.

It was his MyChart.

The screen displayed his most recent STD screening lab results.

All negative.

Your breath caught, and the room suddenly felt quieter despite the snow coming down faster and the wind blowing harder outside.

He didn’t say anything at first. He just stood there, vulnerable in a way that had nothing to do with the Henley he’s slowly pushing off his shoulders.

“I just wanted to assure you,” he expressed softly, meeting your eyes now, serious. “You safe with me.”

The thoughtfulness, the fact that you didn’t even have to ask, and the fact that he thought about your comfort before anything else only made your heart beat faster and clit pulse harder.

Your chest tightened and your eyes widened once he was finally down to his briefs. The fabric didn’t do much to conceal what Smoke had been packing all these years. The man had more girth than a Montezuma cypress.

“Goddamn,” you muttered as you bit your lip.

He grinned as he kneeled on the couch cushion by your feet and offered, “I got a condom too, if you feel more comfortable.”

You shook your head and set the phone carefully on the side table, eyes and voice softer now. “I trust you, Smoke.”

“Elijah,” he corrected.

You smiled at him as you watched him settle comfortably between your legs. “Elijah.”

Your legs trembled just from the way he was looking at you. He slid his hands up your thighs, warm palms slowly caressing your soft brown skin like he was finally touching something he’d only gotten the chance to in his wildest dreams.

He gripped your hips and pulled you closer to his face. “That pussy shining for me,” he praised, fingers trailing back down your thighs. “So pretty for me.”

You gasped softly as he hooked both of your legs over his shoulders. He paused, looking up at you like he was memorizing every expression. “You good, Y/N?”

All you could do was nod.

He leaned down and placed the most tender kiss on the inner part of your thighs. The feather-light action caused you to inhale eagerly. He pressed another kiss, higher this time, and you held your breath in anticipation.

"Breathe for me," he instructed just before licking up your slit, tongue warm and pressure tender, taking pleasure in every taste because he'd been longing for you. Your hips shifted, but he held you in place with firm hands.

“Keep breathing, baby,” he cooed against you. “I got you.”

He circled your clit with his tongue, each motion deliberately timed.

You gasped, the back of your head thunking against the arm of the couch, “Elijah…”

“Mmm.”

“It feels so good.”

He closed his mouth around your clit, sucking gently, tongue pressing in insistent strokes. Your eyes rolled back as your hands grabbed at your thighs, the cushions, and then the back of his head.

“Eli—fuckfuckfuck—yes, Elijah.”

“There we go,” his encouragements came out muffled. He flattened his tongue at your entrance and dragged it upward, swirling at the base of your clit. “Taste so good.”

Your thighs were already shaking like a salt shaker, and he just got started. The anticipation and overall excitement got the best of you.

He pushed two fingers into you slowly, curling them upward at the perfect angle.

“Need to open this tight-ass pussy up.”

“Oh shit.”

Your eyes fluttered closed, and a low whine escaped your throat. He was too good at this. His skills far exceeded your naughtiest dreams.

He sucked your clit harder, thick fingers curling deeper and stretching your walls. The pleasure was building so sharp and fast you choked on a sob, hands flying to your mouth to stifle the sound.

"Don’t hide from me," he scolded, brown eyes locking onto yours as he waited for you to drop your hands. "Let me hear how good I’m doing.”

You dropped your hands and nodded.

His hands pinned your thighs open wider as his tongue flicked faster and his fingers thrusted harder inside you, your wetness coating the digits. Your back arched, and a cry spilled out before you could even catch it. “Smo—Elijah, I’m about to cum.”

He groaned against you, the vibration surging through every nerve as his skilled tongue applied more pressure against your clit and his fingers curled deeper. Your orgasm ripped through you so hard your body convulsed as a pleasurable scream tore out of your throat. You writhed on the couch, moaning Smoke’s name as his grip on your thighs tightened.

“Oh my—Elijah!”

Eventually he slowed, fingers slipping out of you when you let out an overstimulated whimper. He placed one final kiss on your clit before rising up, knees digging into the couch cushions.

He freed himself from his briefs and stroked the base of his length while he watched your chest rise and fall. You sank your teeth into your bottom lip as you stared back at him. You didn’t know what to be more impressed by—the length or the girth. The tip was fat and glistening, and your mouth began to water.

If someone had told you your Valentine’s Day was going to end like this, you would have looked at them like they were a lying fool.

“Come here,” you beckoned as your breathing eased.

He slotted himself in between your legs, fingers digging into your sides as he kissed you hungrily. You exhaled softly at the sweet taste of yourself on his tongue and deepened the kiss while wrapping your arms around his neck.

He reached between your bodies and gripped his length, tapping the thick tip against your sensitive clit. You moaned into his mouth as he lined himself up and pushed inside.

“Fuuuck,” you both exhaled sharply.

He pushed deeper, muttering praises and reminding you to breathe until he finally sank all the way inside you. Your lips parted in a breathless moan, grip tightening on his shoulders as your eyes fluttered shut. “Ohh fuuuckkk…”

“Wet ass pussy.”

“Feel so good.”

“Y/N, shit, baby.”

“Keep going, Elijah.”

He groaned into your neck, voice ragged. “You squeezin’ the fuck outta me…pussy warmer than—ooooh shit.”

He pulled out an inch before plunging all the way back in, circling his hips a few times before rocking into you slowly. “How that feel?”

“Good…” you gasped, legs spreading wider to grant him better access, voice cracking. “Really fuckin’ good.”

“Mmhmm, I can feel that tight pussy stretching,” he grunted softly. “Open up for me, baby.”

Your body softened under him, tension melting away as pleasure warmed every inch of your skin. You lifted your hips, taking more of him.

“There you go,” he rocked into you a little deeper, and you moaned into his mouth, your legs tightening around his waist in instinctive want. “Give me that pussy.”

“Take it, baby.”

“Fuucckk.”

“You feel so good.”

“Goddamn,” he grunted, shifting the angle of his hips slightly before setting a faster pace. “You look so pretty takin’ this dick.”

“Yes, yes, yes,” your moans came out raspy, breasts bouncing as he continued fucking you deep.

“You like the way I fuck this pretty pussy?” He asked, hips slamming against yours rougher now.

You nodded your head.

“Use your words, baby.”

His words of praise and the way he looked down into your eyes pushed you closer to the edge. You couldn’t even respond. The relentless pace he set damn near knocked the air from your lungs, and your mouth fell open in a silent scream.

“Ooooh,” he chuckled, a smug grin appearing on his sexy-ass face. “I’m hittin’ that spot, huh?”

“Elijah!”

“This what you wanted, right?”

His hand slid up your body, squeezing your breast while the other bounced freely. The heightened intensity of the pleasure washed over you until it was all you could feel pulsing through your veins.

“Fuuuck,” you gasped sharply. “Elijah, ple—please don’t stop.”

He couldn’t help but shudder at the desperate way you moaned his name. His lips captured yours in a hungry kiss as the room filled with the increasing sound of wet slaps of skin and filthy moans.

Thwap. Thwap. Thwap. Thwap.

“Give me that pussy.”

“Take it, baby! Take it!”

“Such a good girl, the way you takin’ all this dick.”

“Ooooooh my god!”

“Just like that.”

“Fuck, I—I c—“

“Mmhmm, come up off it, Y/N. Give me that pussy.”

Your breaths were getting more uneven and sharp as each blissful second passed.

“Breathe through your nose, Y/N.” Smoke reminded you as he reached between your bodies and teased your clit with his thumb. “You hear me? Just breathe, baby.”

“Yes, I hear you!”

“Good fuckin’ girl.”

“You feel so good, Elijah.”

“Stop holding it in then. Give me that nut.”

You couldn't help but whimper as he brushed against that sweet spot deep inside of you again and again AND AGAIN.

“Yessss!” you cried out, squeezing your legs even tighter around him and gripping his shoulders as he stroked deeper. “Eli—shitshitshit—I’m gonna fuckin’ cum again,” you warned shakily, toes curling as your eyes snapped shut.

“Oooh, I feel it,” he growled, restraint barely holding on as he felt your walls contract around him. “Cum all over this dick.”

Your orgasm ripped through you, and your mouth fell open in a loud scream. This one was much more intense than the first. He kept fucking you through it, drilling the breath right out of you.

“There she go.”

“Ahhh!”

“Look how pretty you look when you cumming all on this dick.”

“Baby, fuuuuuck!”

“Look at that,” he cooed, eyes staring down at the cream coating his dick. “You makin’ a mess all over this dick, baby.”

He wasn’t letting up. In fact he was ramming into you harder and faster. Knocking the Mario coins right up out of you like they were long lost treasure.

Thwap. Thwap. Thwap. Thwap.

“Elijah, please—fuckfuckfuck—You gonna make me cum again! I’m—I”

It didn’t take long for your walls to tighten back up around his fat dick; you trembled silently, choking on your own gasps and whimpers.

“Oh shit—that’s what the fuck I’m talkin’ about,” he moaned deeply, pace growing more relentless with each needy noise you made. "Keep nuttin’ on this dick, baby."

“Pleaseee!”

“You ready for this nut?”

“Yesss! Please give me that nut!”

“You finna get all this shit.”

“Elijah—“

“Look at me,” he demanded, moans growing louder as he rutted into you like a madman, chasing his own orgasm. “Look at me while I nut in this pussy.”

You looked up at him, eyes filled with blissful tears. He was fucking you so good. Every nerve felt like it was being pinched. Your thighs were still shaking, and your wetness was everywhere.

You bit your lip and dug your fingers into his forearms, pausing for a few seconds, then asked, “You hear that? You hear what you do to me?” The squelching sound of your wet pussy filled the entire room. He glanced down at how much of a mess you made on his dick and groaned. When his eyes lifted and met yours again, you whispered, “Make one more mess and nut in this pussy.”

His hands gripped your hips so tightly you could feel his nails digging into your flesh. He was without a doubt going to leave thumbprints on your skin. “Fuckfuckfuck—I’m cumming, baby.”

He came with a growled curse, hips faltering as he shot everything he had inside of you. You whined as his cum filled you, warming you from the inside. He stroked your pussy lazily a couple more times before pulling out entirely, his soaked length softening. He exhaled sharply as he lowered himself on the couch, back in between your legs, gawking at the mess he had made.

“Mm, mm, mm. I put a hurting on that pussy, huh?” He kissed your thigh. “Let me see you push my nut out, baby.”

Your face burned with embarrassment as he shoved his face closer to your glistening cunt, but you obeyed and began pushing it out. He cursed under his breath, and his spent dick twitched in interest as his cum dripped out of your entrance.

"Good fuckin’ girl," he praised, unsure whether the sight of his claim or the fact that you didn't hesitate to listen to him turned him on more. “So pretty, Y/N.”

He kissed your knee before standing and grabbing some napkins. You both breathed shakily, warm bodies completely spent as he cleaned you up.

“I can’t believe we waited two years to do that.” You uttered incredulously.

He grinned. “Worth the wait though, right?”

You nodded. “Hell yeah. We should—“

—KSSHHHT—

“SMOKE?! Y/N?! WHERE YOU AT?!”

You both jumped.

“Oh shit,” you whispered. You forgot where y’all were for a few minutes.

“I’LL FIRE EVERYBODY ELSE AND SHUT THIS PLACE DOWN!”

Smoke grabbed the walkie. “We here!”

“Where?! The storm is getting worse!”

You froze halfway through clipping your bra back on.

“Inventory,” Smoke said quickly. “Doing one last count.”

You covered your mouth, fighting back a snort.

Capone groaned. “Get back up here, the both of you! It’s cold as hell back there, and I ain’t giving you worker’s comp for frostbite!”

Click.

You both scrambled to halfway clean yourselves off and redress.

After staring at each other for five seconds, you both burst into laughter.

“You fucked me so good I forgot we was at work,” you sighed deeply.

“Worth it,” he vouched as he smoothed your edges and kissed your forehead. “Happy Valentine’s Day, Y/N.”

You beamed at him. “Happy Valentine’s Day, Elijah.”

You know he’s there even as you face away from the panes. The moonlight casts his shadow along the wall of your bedroom, broad shouldered and still as a tombstone. You don’t move, continuing to lay on your side as you trace the shape of him with your eyes. Cicadas and crickets sing in time with one another, a sweet song that sours at the edges as he stands among them.

The longer you lie still, the heavier the room becomes. The air thickens like soup on the stove, slow to bubble. The shadow raises its arm, all you can do is listen as the sound of nails scratching gently along glass fills the four walls. 

He’s waiting.

He always waits.

You don’t need to invite him in, you haven’t since the first night.

He likes you to.

“Come in.”

When the pane creaks open behind you, slow and careful, you don’t flinch.

You breathe through your nose. The scent that rolls in with him isn’t human—copper and mineral, sweet like decay under sunbaked wood. It smells like the road, like blood, like the belly of something unholy. It smells like him.

“Remmick…”

Even now, as his boots touch your floorboards like thunder soaked in molasses, you don’t turn to face him. You’ve long since learned that looking at him too early gives him the satisfaction of watching your pupils dilate, your breath catch, your pulse flutter like a moth trapped in a mason jar. 

His voice is a rasp, smoke behind your ear. “You been waitin’ on me, honey?”

Remmick steps into the shine of the moon, eyes glinting dark and red-rimmed in the light.

He’s sin stitched in skin. Wears the allure of his very being like a preacher coming to warn you off temptation, but you know better. You’ve tasted temptation, bathed in it body and soul. Let it crawl between your legs and drip from your lips. 

You barely have time to breathe before he’s on you. Calloused hands, cold lips, teeth that drag across your neck but never pierce. There’s blood on his mouth already, you can feel the slickness of it as it stains your skin—it’s not yours, yet.

You watched him once. Stood by as he fed, watched impassively as the man beneath him writhed and choked on the blood flooding his torn throat, arms and legs scrambling in the dirt until the last traces of life finally faded from his eyes. He was left nothing but an empty husk, the color from his skin drained as the last few moments of horror were preserved on his face.

Remmick turned to look at you when it was done, blood drenched and nowhere near satiated. He fucked you for hours that night, right there on the dry dirt. Your face pressed into the earth as he took you from behind over and over again, cunt aching and abused around the ungodly stretch of his cock.

Your fingers shake as you curl them in the sheets, your body already aware of what’s coming. You’ve been craving it. Begging for it in the silence of empty, rotting pews.

Even as your mouth tried in vain to pray the memories away, your hips have been rolling against the mattress all night, slick with more than sweat, damp with more than fear. There’s a scent to it—ripe and hot, threaded through with iron. You’re bleeding. And he knows.

“I can smell you, baby.” You shudder as his lips brush your neck with every word, goosebumps pebbling over your skin as your cunt throbs shamefully between your thighs. Drool drips from the corner of his mouth, thick and hued in a dusty pink as blood melts into it.

Your body screams at you to reach out, to drag your tongue along the filthy mess and make it your own. Your lips part in a soft breath as Remmick smiles down at you wolfishly, sharp fangs catching the moonlight dangerously as it gleams through the open window.

“Sweet little wound. Givin’ it up for me already, angel?”

A broken sound blooms in your chest, caught in the lust and horror forming a knot in your throat. Your eyes flutter shut, soft breasts heaving with every shallow breath as big, frigid hands skate down the offered expanse of your body.

“Christ.”

A dark chuckle rings out over your head. “Trust me, he ain’t here, just me.”

Warmth burns at your cheeks, but the embarrassment has long been worked out of you after all this time.

Remmick likes it best like this. When you’re raw. Unclean. When there’s blood in your panties and God in your mouth.

He slides his hand beneath the thin cotton of your nightgown, and chuckles when he feels it—your cunt already bare, adorned with blood and slick, thick and messy, coating his fingers like oil paint. He brings it to his mouth and sucks them clean, the sound obscene, reverent. 

And the way he moans at the taste—full-throated, low in his chest, hungry and pleased and damn near feral—makes your spine arch. You swear you can feel your blood rush towards his voice like it’s called.

Remmick glides down your body like a serpent curling around the branches of a tree, urging you to bite from the forbidden fruit just as he will.

He never asks permission. Just parts your thighs with the heel of his palms and settles his weight between them like he belongs there—like he was carved from your ribcage in a past life to fuck the God out of you.

You feel it when his hand grazes the inside of your thigh, hot and slick. The mess between your legs has him inhaling hard through his nose, a deep growl tearing its way from his chest. His tongue comes out to wet the dry skin of his lips. Your heart stutters as his breath fans cool over your sweltering heat.

The first lick is obscene. A broad drag of tongue from hole to clit that has Remmick groaning like he’s starving. You think, a bit hysterically, that he is. He always is.

Although, you don’t know what he’s hungrier for—your cunt, or the blood slicking it.

He fucks you open with his mouth like he’ll be judged for it. Hands branding bruises into the soft skin of your hips. Forked tongue licking you until your thighs quake on either side of his head, until your breath hiccups into desperate moans that sound more like confession.

Your shaking hands fist in his hair, back arching off the bed and into his mouth. “God–”

Sharp pinpricks of pain bloom white hot between your legs. Your eyes dart down just quick enough to watch the way his nails pierce your flesh. Tiny trails of blood running in weak streams in time with the helpless pulse of your cunt. Fresh against the drying evidence of his red stained hands stamping their prints over your skin.

Remmick pulls back, mouth soaked. Your blood streaks his chin, his cheeks, his nose. It stains his teeth and tongue. He grins, and it’s terrible. “What’d I tell you, girl? God ain’t coming.”

He spits on your cunt. Thick. Filthy. Blood and saliva and slick mixing on your skin like a sacrament.

Then his mouth is back on your clit, rough and clever. He kisses the sensitive bundle of nerves once before dipping his head, thick fingers spread your lips apart, wide enough to watch your hole convulse and shake for him. A deep, evil sound fills the room as his lips descend onto you once more.

You can feel the blood trickle out as he sucks, feel his tongue move in tandem with the sharp press of his fangs. He doesn’t bite yet. He’s teasing. 

Tempting. 

Worshipping. 

You whimper. He groans. “Keep makin’ that sound,” he pants, voice hoarse. “That pretty little hurtin’ sound. Devil’s listenin’, baby."

You can't help but obey him, a symphony of pathetically sinful noises pouring from between your parted lips like hail mary’s. You writhe on the mattress, twisting the soft curls fisted in your hands tightly as your body trembles. Your rosary swings haplessly from the bedpost, deep red beads gleaming like an omen you’re blind to. 

Remmick pulls back once again, panting as he rests his soiled face against your thigh to peer up at you like a lonewolf stalks a lamb grazing far too close to its den. “Say you missed me, darlin’.”

You did. You hate it. You do.

“Say it,” he snarls, dragging his teeth along the vulnerable skin, breaking it so shallowly it stings.

“I missed you.”

He bites.

You scream.

You come on his mouth with your thighs trembling and your eyes rolled back far enough to strain.

Remmick won't stop. Not until he's drunk his fill, until your thighs are sticky and raw and he can kiss you with your own blood on his lips.

Outside, the cicadas resume their song.

MINI NAT'S NOTE: extra special shoutout to my husband @ebodebo for advocating for the posting of this fic with a near violent enthusiasm, she's to blame for this. thank you so much for reading!