(odette and art belong to @ohnopeepo​, used with permission!)

(nsfw, remy/odette - fem pc)

“Steady, flower.” Remy tells her with a peaceful smile that betrays none of the man’s hunger. It’s easy for him to lie to Odette; it’s easy for Remy to lie to all people, but the girl especially - she is too good, too beautiful, too important for the truth, he thinks. A doe scatters at the sight of a hunter’s gun or the glint of a wolf’s grin, even if those weapons are promises of safety, not danger. He lies to her with a steady hand sliding up her thigh and fingers that trace the contour of her stocking where it dents her pale skin - with the calmness of his stare, as if he does not yearn to brand his name into her skin and begin shaping her into a higher perfection. 

Odette is more guarded than she seems, but even she can’t know the way he’s set the scene perfectly for her. The cologne he is wearing made from the pink lichen that grows deep within the lake makes her head just fogged enough to be pliant but not so much as to make her feel any loss of control. Like this is all her idea. The bed around them is massive, as ornate as an illustration from one of the fairy tales she used to read as a child - the ones with princes and princesses, with damsels locked in faraway towers and the knights who come to rescue them, the beasts who locked them away in gilded cages. She feels herself reaching across her own body before she recognizes she is doing it, loosening the tie in her blonde-pink hair to let it cascade down her shoulders at rest. Odette likes the way Remy’s mouth quirks into something more like a smirk when she does; she knows his expressions are rehearsed, practiced, and that there’s something more genuine about the way his face cracks around his own desire when he sees her on display. It’s a nice kind of attention - for a moment, despite the haze in her head and the laziness of Remy’s touches, it almost feels like power.

“I wore the stockings you like.” Odette is tentative when she teases Remy. It’s not like the script she tries with clients - she wonders if she’s playing into her own fantasy, not his, when she chooses something she thinks he’ll like, imagining the murmur of approval on his lips and the faint falter of control when he presses his groomed face to her inner thigh where they’re on the storybook bed. There’s a hitch in her own breath when he leans in and kisses her stocking, kissing up the white fabric to the seam of it - where it’s just tight enough that it dents her unblemished and pale skin, turning flustered and red where his breath splays hot against her and beads sweat against the fabric. His breathing sounds coarse but he still looks so put together - not a hair out of place, no trembling in his smooth hands where they trace up her skin but never move to peel her clothing off. The man’s pants are tight enough that she thinks she can see the outline of his cock; she wonders if he’s growing hard, if the man who can have anything - anyone - gets excited when she’s sitting on his bed, dressed up for him. 

She hopes he is. It makes her wet, almost uncomfortably so with how close Remy is to her panties when he kisses up her leg - close enough that as he looms towards her on the bed he parts her thighs a little more, as if to look. The man presses a smile to the line of her stocking again, rubbing his face against her and sighing, deeply. Contentedly. 

“Very good, Odette.” Remy inches up further, allowing his mouth to taste not the pale fabric of her stockings but the bareness of her gentle skin. “You must be tense from school. You should relax. You’re safe, here.”

Should, but there’s no choice in it - he tells her to and she does, letting her head roll back against too-many pillows and staring up at the ceiling with half-lidded eyes. She doesn’t know where to rest her hands; Remy's hair feels too forward, so she lets them fall to either side of her body, limply, like she’s a doll posed in front of the man. His splaying breath moves further up her thigh until his head is nearly inside her school skirt; he’s never gone this far before, usually massaging her and kissing her legs until she’s drifted off to sleep and woken up later tucked into bed. It’s different this time, something about the faintest hint of teeth in his kisses and the ragged edge to his breathing - a mewing gasp bubbles from her throat when he reaches to roll her skirt up and put her further on display, admiring the sight with the same calm gaze with which he surveys his meadows of apple trees of fields of livestock. 

It’s the same sort of firm, judging hand that reaches forward and traces the clothed mound of her entrance - following the light stitching of her panties down to where her arousal has lightly soiled the fabric. When he looks at her he makes sure to lock their eyes in a prolonged gaze; he wants her to know that he knows, that he will remedy this for her, that beneath his hands and in his bed she is cared for by her master’s hand. Remy keeps himself from unraveling with practiced composure; he will dwell on those thoughts later, when something less perfect is chained to his bed, fucking the hole of one of his cattle in an act of masturbation while he thinks about what it will be like to one day plunge his length into Odette’s soft pussy and claim her over and over, wise this time not to let her slip away. In the moment he resists the desire; instead, he traces two fingers lightly over the bottom of her panties, feeling her wetness and pushing his fingers up just enough to slightly press them into her lips. Odette can’t help but murmur a little gasp at the slowness of his touch and the intensity of his eerie-calm stare, like some inhuman focus has suddenly fallen upon him. 

She wants to know what’s beneath. Seir taught her something about stealing a long time ago; no one locks a door with nothing behind it, Detty.

He knows this, too; he kisses at the threshold of her panties but does not peel them away, not yet, because everything must be perfect when it comes time to open that door himself. This is more than he’d usually grant himself; her scent is intoxicating, the wavering sound of her small breaths, his mouth forming quiet, blasphemous prayers against the softness of her thigh when he kisses her skin. It doesn’t bother him to know other men have seen this, but there’s a bile in the back of his throat as he thinks upon other men have yet to see this - that when she leaves this place she’ll stumble into the brothel, into a stranger’s car, into an alley where she can debase herself for an easy wallet of sullied bills that don’t deserve to touch her hands. He’ll fix that, later, just like he’ll fix anything. It doesn’t matter that he won’t be the first, but he will be the last - and that’s why he can be patient, now, and stop himself short with a tongue lapping sweat up her leg instead of pushing into her sweet cunt. All things in time. His fingers stroke over her covered pussy and pluck at the fabric as if he picks the strings of an instrument; even through her panties she can feel his touch is soft and warm, tracing circles over the small nub of her clit and applying the faintest pressure. 

Odette feels dizzy, almost. He doesn’t speak; part of her wonders if this is really happening at all, the silence in the room only broken by her own muted moans and stifled whimpers, and the rare murmur of Remy’s own low breath. There’s a heat that pools in her abdomen and makes her want to twitch her feet and kicks her legs, but she tries to keep herself from squirming in place in the great big bed, but the stiller she lies the closer to her slick entrance Remy’s kisses drift and the more insistent his touch becomes. It feels like he’s taunting her, almost, or trying to coax something out - she’s afraid she doesn’t know what, that she’ll give it all the more easily because his face is too gentle, his hands too practiced, his smile between her thighs too much of a promise for the girl not to melt. He pushes one finger up and presses the stretching fabric of her underwear deeper into her cunt, so wet and desperate that arousal seeps through the fabric and wets Remy’s eager finger. He pushes in again - a little deeper this time - enough that if she still had a hymen to break, he’d be standing at the threshold of it. An inch more and he’d be fucking her. 

He holds his finger there, pushing her own panties into her cunt, face leaning against a thigh glistening with spit from his tongue. It shouldn’t feel good; he’s not really fucking her, he’s not even touching her now - just barely filling her, moving his finger forward at a snail’s pace, but never in enough to really penetrate. It’s not the time for that, yet. He can be patient, but he can’t be perfect.

Remy’s finger slips away and he stares at her with unflinching eye contact - she stares down the length of her now-disheveled uniform, Remy gazing up from between her legs and wrapping lips around his finger and sucking her arousal off of himself. His eyelashes - feminine and pretty on such a handsome, masculine face - flutter as he murmurs around the taste, lips curling into a wiry smile. His finger slides out his mouth, strands of sticky saliva joining it still. Odette swallows.

“Just as I like my tea.” Remy murmurs. “Sweet.”

Odette tries to hide the tremors that course through her body at the sight; she would clench her legs together were Remy not between them to try and hide her excitement, but he glances down to watch the way her body twitches so intimately and privately when orgasm grips her. She bites her lower lip already red with lipstick and feels her panties grow even wetter, even more uncomfortably ridden up inside of her as her pussy trembles and her toes curl so tight her feet start to turn white. Remy sits up but doesn’t remove a palm from one of her stockings, steadying her, or feeling her - she can’t tell if he’s holding her in place or trying to savour each unwilling spasm she makes, but he watches intently as she flushes red and brings an arm up to rest on her brow with an uncharacteristic shyness. When she opens her eyes and flops her hand back down he’s off the bed and perfectly composed, no wrinkles in his outfit, not a hair on his head out of place - and if not for the wetness seeping between her thighs she might have thought she’d imagined the whole thing in some heated daze.

He touches her brow, lightly, as if to check if she’s okay. She blinks in a vague attempt to bring the world back into focus.

“You can stay the night, Odette. I’ll have one of the ladies bring you a change of bedclothes and a glass of water.” Remy tells her, kindly but firmly, like this was her idea all along. Like it was Odette who had asked to stay the night, something she doesn’t recall at all - but she’s nodding before she can try and parse what’s happening, Remy turning on his heels to leave the room before Odette has finished clearing her throat.