bite me! ♡ @hatethysinner - Tumblr Blog

Hey! I love all your fics but Hound Dog and Bed Chem are my absolute favorites because I L O V E how you write pathetic feral sub Remmick. Is there any chance you could write something in that vein (maybe a sequel to Bed Chem) with the reader being visibly pregnant and Remmick being horny and overwhelmed in a pathetic feral sub-y way about it? Thank you for sharing your amazing work!

ᴍᴀɴᴄʜɪʟᴅ

ᴡᴄ: 14.1k

ᴀ/ɴ: y'all this ask was from AUGUST OF 2025, i hope anon is still around because i truly want them to see their delicious ask come to fruition. i was made aware that there's been a pathetic!remmick drought and i simply couldn't allow that to last any longer. so, of course, i made my most disgustingly shameful, self-indulgent work of him yet. do not ask me where my mind went as i wrote this, i blacked out and woke up with my keyboard mysteriously on fire and sabrina playing in the background. on a technical level, this is def some of my least "professional" writing yet (i'm rusty yall PLS), so take that as you will. sorry in advance ^^!

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: 18+ MINORS DNI!!!!, FILTHYYYYYYY DISGUSTINGGGGGG HYPERINDULGENT SMUT, plot and porn, mostly porn, a LOT of porn, established relationship, angsty backstory, referenced child loss, well-placed timeskips, excessive use of pet names as always, surprisingly fluffy, fingering, cunilingus, face-riding, p in v, cockwarming, begging, reader is pregnant, and remmick has a NASTY pregnancy kink, soooo pregnant sex obvs, baby fever, scent kink, spit kink, breeding kink, lactation kink, dry humping, rutting, masturbation, multiple orgasms, hands-free orgasm, orgasm control, EXCESSIVE bodily fluids, light exhibitionism, squirting contest let's see who can squirt the farthest, sex on every surface, somnophilia, discussions of consent, obsession, vampirism, biting, pussy drunkeness, dacryphilia, groping, voyeurism, aftercare, dom!reader, afab!reader, black!reader but girlies you know in the clerb we all fam, pathetic!remmick our beloved, sub!remmick, pet!remmick, vocal!remmick, hairy!remmick too because why not, matching each other's freak, all the kinks are mutual btw, lots of ruined fabric, unironically emotional, my own take on remmick's backstory, yall this is just nasty okay leave all judgments at the door, so long it's actually a one-shot (it wasn't supposed to be)

You woke to the scent of breakfast.

Bacon first—crisp, smoky edges mingling with the sweet tang of maple syrup and something buttery, like pancakes warming on a griddle. It drifted through the bedroom like an invitation, warm and familiar, cutting through the soft haze of sleep.

Sunlight filtered in thin shafts through heavy curtains, painting gold stripes across the rumpled silk sheets. Your body felt heavy, content, the gentle swell of your belly a constant, reassuring weight under the loose nightgown.

Remmick must have slipped from bed hours ago.

Or, more likely, he had lain there the whole night.

Sea-blue eyes fixed on you in that silent vigil he loved so much—watching the rise and fall of your chest, the flutter of your lashes, committing every breath to memory. He was always like that now, especially since the pregnancy had started showing. Four months in, and his obsession had bloomed into something tender, all-consuming.

You shifted, propping yourself up on one elbow. The movement stirred a faint queasiness in your stomach—morning sickness lingering like an unwelcome guest—but it was milder today, just a low hum rather than the violent waves of yesterday.

The door burst open before you could fully sit.

Remmick barreled through, barefoot and aproned over his usual white shirt and slacks, suspenders loose on his shoulders. His hair was slightly tousled, as if he'd run a hand through it in haste, and those eyes—glowing faint red at the edges—locked on you with immediate, unneeded alarm.

He crossed the room in three strides, dropping to his knees beside the bed with a grace that belied the urgency.

“Darlin’,” he breathed, voice thick with a lingering morning roughness, hands hovering like he ached to touch but waited for permission. “Ya alright? Hurtin’ anywhere? Morning sickness hittin’ worse again?” His gaze darted to your belly, then back to your face, concern etching deep lines around his mouth. “Need help sittin’ up? Lemme—”

You laughed, soft and genuine, the sound easing the tension in his shoulders just a fraction. “I’m fine, Remmick. Really. Just a little nauseous, but nothing like yesterday. I can manage.”

He exhaled, long and shaky, but didn’t rise. Instead, he reached for your hand, pressing kisses to your knuckles—reverent, lingering. “Still. Let me help ya up. Can’t have my girls overdoin’ it.” His free hand settled warm on your belly, palm splaying wide over the curve, fingers trembling faint with awe. He rubbed slow circles there, thumb tracing the nightgown’s thin fabric, eyes softening to something pathetic, adoring.

You smiled, letting him pull you upright. His arms wrapped around you immediately—strong but careful, lifting you like you were glass. He buried his face in your neck, inhaling deep, lips brushing your skin in feather kisses. “God, ya smell like heaven,” he murmured, voice muffled.

One hand slid to the small of your back, the other daring lower, slipping under the hem of your nightgown to caress the swell of your hip.

You swatted his hand lightly, though your tone held no real heat. “Too early for that, you beast! Breakfast first.”

He pulled back just enough to meet your eyes, expression crestfallen but pleading, like a puppy denied a treat. “Sorry, darlin’. Can’t help it. Seein’ ya get all round and beautiful like this… drives me wild.” His hand lingered at your thigh, fingers tracing lazy patterns, testing. When you didn’t swat again, he pressed a kiss to your jaw, then your throat, breath hot and uneven.

“Remmick,” you warned, half-laughing, but you let him guide you from the bed. He kept one arm banded around your waist, the other hand never straying far from your belly—or dipping lower when he thought you weren’t paying attention.

His touch was everywhere: stroking your arm, cupping your elbow as you walked, lips grazing your shoulder. The manor’s hallway passed in a blur of polished wood and morning light, but he moved slow, prioritizing you.

“Need the bathroom?” he asked, already steering you toward it. “I’ll help. Everythin’ ya need.”

You nodded, pushing open the door to the bathroom—tile gleaming, steam from last night’s shower still faint in the air. “What about breakfast? Won’t it burn?”

He waved a hand, ushering you inside, eyes never leaving your form. “Cookin’ it on low. Got all the time in the world, sugar. Nothin’ more important than this.” He knelt again as you reached for the sink, hands on your hips to steady you, kissing the side of your belly through the gown. “Sit if ya need. Or lemme draw ya a bath.”

“I’m brushing my teeth, not running a marathon.” You squeezed toothpaste onto the brush, but he was already there—rinsing a washcloth under warm water, dabbing gently at your chin, your neck. His gaze tracked every movement: the way your nightgown clung to your curves, the subtle shift of your belly as you leaned over the sink.

When you bent to spit, his hand slipped over your gown—higher this time, fingers grazing the underside of your breast.

“Remmick!” You straightened, swatting firmer, though heat bloomed low in your belly at his whine.

“Please,” he begged soft, kneeling closer, face nuzzling your thigh. “Just a touch. You’re so perfect. Carryin’ our baby… I can’t stop thinkin’ ‘bout it.” His eyes pleaded up at you, red glow intensifying, hands kneading your hips with desperate reverence. He kissed the fabric over your belly, then higher, testing boundaries with every press of lips.

You sighed, affectionate, running fingers through his hair. “Patience. Help me with my hair instead.”

He obeyed instantly—rising to stand behind you, hands gentle as he gathered your hair, patiently wetting then detangling it with a comb from the counter. His chest pressed warm to your back, chin resting on your shoulder, breath ghosting your ear. “Like this?” he murmured, strokes slow, massaging your scalp. But his hands wandered—sliding down your sides, cupping your belly, thumbs circling.

When you didn’t protest, one dipped lower again, palm flat against your lower abdomen.

“Boundaries,” you teased, but leaned into him.

He whispered another halfhearted apology, kissing your neck, voice thick with need. “Ya glow. Every inch of ya. Makes me wanna worship ya all day.”

He helped you slip into fresh clothes next—a loose sundress that draped soft over your bump—fingers lingering on every button, every loop, caressing bare skin whenever he could. His touches built slow, insistent: a graze along your inner thigh as he knelt to adjust your slippers, lips brushing your knee; a nuzzle against your belly as he stood, inhaling deep like your scent was his air.

By the time you finished, the air hummed with it—soft love laced with hunger. He scooped you up without asking, carrying you back toward the kitchen despite your protests. “Gotta keep ya safe,” he insisted, eyes shining. “My girls. Both of ya.”

You let him, heart full and skipping sweet under his touch. Breakfast waited, but so did everything else.

He carried you into the kitchen like a treasure, steps measured and careful, as if the floor might give way beneath you both. The space smelled even richer up close—bacon grease popping faint in the pan, pancakes steaming golden on a warmer plate, the sharp brightness of fresh berries cut in a bowl.

Sunlight poured through tall windows overlooking the estate gardens, casting a warm glow over the long oak table set for two. Remmick’s shirt was crooked now, flour dusting his sleeves, but his focus stayed locked on you.

He eased you down into your chair at the head of the table—a high-backed antique with cushions he’d added just for you, extra padding for your back and a footrest pulled close.

“There ya go, love,” he murmured, kneeling again to adjust the cushion behind you, fluffing it just so. His hands lingered on your shoulders, massaging light circles down your arms before settling a napkin in your lap.

“Comfortable? Need a pillow for your feet? Water? Juice?”

You shook your head, smiling at his fussing. “Perfect. Sit before it gets cold.”

He straightened, but not before pressing a kiss to your forehead, then your nose, hovering like he might add more. “Wouldn’t dream of lettin’ ya wait.”

He moved to the counter with that silent, fluid grace, stacking your plate high. Pancakes first, fluffy towers drowning in butter that pooled golden and syrup trickling slow and sticky down the sides. Then bacon, crisp strips fanned out neat. A generous scoop of fresh berries—strawberries ruby-red, blueberries bursting blue—tumbled over the top, juice staining the edges pink.

Before you could even murmur thanks, he was back, sliding the plate in front of you. His knife flashed quick, cutting the pancake stack into precise fourths, fork already in hand as he murmured, “Don’t need to waste yer energy on this, sugar. I got it.”

You watched his movements, fork poised, and felt a flicker of amusement mixed with exasperation. He was seconds from spearing a bite to feed you himself—eyes already soft, pleading in that pathetic way.

But he caught himself, fork clattering soft to the table.

Wisely so.

You would have absolutely smacked his hand away, pregnancy hormones or not.

“Good boy,” you teased under your breath.

He flushed—actual color tinting his pale cheeks—and leaned in for a lingering kiss. Lips soft, syrup-sweet from tasting, tongue brushing yours just once before he pulled back with a shaky exhale. “Enjoy, darlin’. Made it all for ya.” He straightened, plating his own food—simpler, just bacon and berries, no need for the human pretense of a full breakfast—and dragged his chair close.

Too close.

He used to sit across the table, giving you space to eat in peace. Now, he pulled it flush beside yours, knees knocking yours under the wood, thigh pressing warm against yours.

The contact grounded him, you knew—his way of staying tethered. He settled in, fork in hand, but his eyes fixed on you, watching every bite like it was the most fascinating sight in his centuries.

You speared a pancake quarter, syrup dripping, and brought it to your mouth. The flavors burst—fluffy sweet, butter melting rich. “This is incredible,” you said around the mouthful, swallowing with a hum.

His smile bloomed wide, fangs peeking, but his fork stayed untouched. “Glad ya like it. Anything for my girls.” His hand found your knee under the table, thumb stroking slow arcs, inching higher on your thigh with casual insistence. You didn’t swat it away this time—let it rest there, heat seeping through your dress.

You ate steadily, the queasiness fading under the food’s warmth. Berries popped tart on your tongue, bacon crunching salty. Remmick picked at his plate—more show than substance—but his attention wandered. He’d pause mid-bite, hand drifting to caress your arm, fingers tracing the curve of your elbow.

“You’re eatin’ good today,” he murmured after a minute, voice low, reverent. “That’s my girl. Keepin’ our baby strong.”

His gaze dropped to your belly, hand abandoning his fork to splay there instead—palm warm, fingers spreading wide over the swell. He rubbed gentle, obsessive circles, eyes glazing faint red as he felt for kicks. Minutes ticked by like that; you chewed slow, letting him lose himself in it. His knee pressed firmer against yours, body leaning closer, breath syncing with yours.

“Remmick,” you said finally, popping a berry. “Your food’s getting cold.”

He blinked, as if surfacing from a dream, but didn’t move his hand.

“Don’t care. Rather watch ya.”

Another caress—this time slipping under the table’s edge to your thigh again, fingers squeezing light, testing. His eyes pleaded silently, fork lying forgotten. He shifted in his seat, thigh rubbing faintly against yours like he couldn’t help the subtle grind.

You speared more pancake, letting syrup drip deliberate, watching his pupils blow. The air hummed soft between you—loving, insistent. He leaned in after another long stare, kissing your shoulder through the dress fabric. “You’re glowin’ brighter every day,” he whispered, hand venturing higher, breath hitching. “Can’t keep my hands off.”

The breakfast stretched lazy, his touches building that familiar heat—knee to knee, hand on thigh, eyes devouring.

Your plate was near-empty by now, but you knew Remmick’s hunger was for anything but food.

Before Remmick could all but pounce—his hand inching scandalously higher, breath ragged against your neck—you stood abruptly, plate in hand. The chair scraped back, and you sauntered to the sink, hips swaying deliberate under the loose dress. Water rushed hot as you rinsed syrup from the dish, berries staining pink swirls down the drain.

He followed.

Dronelike.

Silent steps trailing you like a shadow addicted to light.

The second you braced your hands on the counter, he enveloped you from behind—chest flush to your back, arms caging you gentle but insistent. His belly pressed warm against your swell, hands splaying possessive over it.

“Breakfast’s over, sweetheart,” he pleaded, voice wrecked already, lips brushing your ear. “Lemme take care of ya now. Please. Been dreamin’ of it all mornin’. Taste ya. Make ya feel good.”

You arched a brow over your shoulder, still rinsing. “You haven’t finished your plate, Remmick.”

He whined low, nuzzling your neck in a halfhearted attempt at sympathy. But before you could turn, a whoosh of air cut the kitchen.

He’d crossed it in a blur.

Plates clattered as he scarfed his food—bacon crunched savage, berries gulped whole, fork scraping like an animal at the trough. Gone in seconds.

You couldn’t help it. A giggle bubbled up, bright and teasing. “Good boy.”

He was back.

Plate clunking beside yours in the sink, water still running. His greasy lips planted on your neck—wet, salty kisses trailing down to your shoulder, fangs grazing faint. “All done,” he mumbled against skin, hips grinding forward. His cock strained shameless through slacks, thick and hard, rubbing insistent against your thighs. Heat seeped through fabric, throbbing with every rut. “Now lemme—”

You spun in his arms, hands on his chest shoving light. “Breakfast hardly earns you favors, you greedy mutt. Look at you—humping like a dog in heat.”

He whimpered.

High, broken, knees buckling faint. Eyes welled red, pleading. “Please, darlin’. Starvin’ for ya. That sweet pussy—need to taste it. Bury my face in it. Lick ya clean.” His hands gripped your hips, lifting slow—effortless—perching you on the counter edge. Your dress hiked up your thighs, exposing lace panties that were already soaked.

He dropped to his knees between your legs, nose inches from your core, inhaling deep like a junkie. “So wet for me. Lemme eat. Please.”

You smirked, legs dangling. “You just ate, Remmick. But, if you’re good, you can have my leftovers.”

His whine pitched desperate. Before he could lunge, you planted a foot on his chest—the light kick sending him stumbling back into the outward-facing chair. He landed hard, thighs splayed, cock tenting obscene.

“Watch,” you commanded, spreading your legs wide on the counter. You hooked your panties aside, dipping slow into the slick folds. You moaned loud—shamefully exaggerated—head lolling back. “Mmm, fuck. So full already.”

Remmick gripped the chair arms white-knuckled, knowing better than to move. But the begs poured nonstop. A litany.

“Sweetheart—please, lemme finish ya. Taste it. I’ll be so good. Lick every drop. Fuck, ya sound so pretty. Moanin’ like that—g-gonna kill me.”

Tears brimmed his lashes, spilling hot tracks down cheeks.

Drool had gathered thick at his fangs, spilling from parted lips in glossy strands, dripping to his shirt.

His cock strained the zipper to popping point, a dark wet spot blooming huge. Precum leaked like a faucet—endless strings stretching from tip to fabric, snapping wet to pool on the floor in shiny puddles. He rutted the air, helpless, hips jerking, sobs choking into begs. “Need it. Need it so bad, sugar. Please—let me lap it up. Swallow ya whole.”

You plunged deeper—two fingers now, curling vicious, thumb grinding your clit, moans amplified filthily.

“Oh god, yes—right there. So much better than your greedy mouth.”

Your hips rolled exaggerated, slick squelching loud, splashing faint on counter. The dress bunched at your waist, belly swelling proud as your free hand cradled it to tease.

Remmick’s eyes devoured you—tears streaming, drool soaking, precum dangling endless as it coated the chair beneath him.

“Fuck—darlin’, I’m beggin’. Ruinin’ me. C-Cock’s hurtin’—leakin’ everywhere for ya.” He pawed at his slacks, not unzipping, but grinding, palm desperate. The puddle was really starting to become obscene.

A vulgar idea bloomed in your mind as you crested higher, drawing a gasp from you.

“Come here, pet. Kneel under me. Catch it all in your mouth. Don’t even think about touching me with those lips.”

He obeyed.

In a frantic blur of motion, he knelt between your legs at the counter, tilting his head back with his mouth gaping wide. His fangs gleamed under the kitchen lights, and drool cascaded from his lips like a waterfall, pooling thick on his outstretched tongue.

His eyes locked onto yours—completely wrecked and worshipful, tears carving glistening paths through his drool-smeared face. His zipper strained even further as he continued soaking through his slacks from thigh to floor in sticky, endless webs.

The sight undid you completely.

You came hard—shattering, gushing in hot pulses. Your slick squirted straight into his waiting mouth. He swallowed it greedily—nearly every drop—his tongue flicking at the air to catch any stray droplets.

Remmick’s spit mixed thick with your fluids, forming glossy ropes that trailed down his chin and pattered onto the floor. His gulps were audible and desperate, Adam’s apple bobbing frantically with each one. A few pearly strands escaped, splattering the hardwood between his knees.

He stared at them, transfixed.

He bit his lip hard enough to draw blood, his eyes pleading up at you in silent desperation—a wordless beg to lick the floor clean.

“Leave it,” you snapped, your voice laced with an exaggerated disgust, though a faint genuine revulsion twisted in your stomach. “Filthy mutt. Look at the mess you made. Stand up.”

He whimpered pitifully, standing before you with his chin still dripping and eyes glassy.

You couldn’t help but smirk.

The sight of him—utterly wrecked—sent a thrill through you. His chin glistened obscene, coated in a glossy mix of drool and your slick, strands still clinging to his fangs like filthy jewels. The top half of his shirt clung sodden too, dark patches blooming from collar to navel where he’d drooled rivers down himself. His pants were ruined too—that was putting it nicely. The zipper bulged grotesque, fabric soaked black with precum, endless strings of it gleaming under the sunlight.

“Shirt off,” you commanded, voice low, teasing.

He scrambled.

Fingers fumbling buttons frantic, peeling wet cotton from pale skin. It slapped the cabinets wet as he tossed it aside, baring his torso—toned and vascular, muscles etched sharp from years of predatory grace. A moderate scruff dusted his pecs, trailing down to his navel and lower. The happy trail was one of the many benefits that came from him not giving much thought to shaving after your pregnancy announcement. His gold chain looped at his throat, catching light and dangling hypnotic between collarbones.

You drank him in.

Slowly.

Appreciating every ridge, every vein pulsing faint under skin, the way his chest rose and fell as he tried to instinctively match your breathing pattern.

Then you held your arms out.

Remmick surged up—immediate, desperate—scooping you from the counter like you weighed nothing. Strong arms banded secure around your back and thighs, belly cradled safe against him. You looped arms around his neck, pulling him into a deep kiss.

Your tongues tangled messy—gifted slick still thick on him, salty-sweet, drool swapping hot. He groaned into your mouth, hips twitching instinctive.

A slight shift—your thigh brushing his cock light through slacks—and it undid him.

He came.

Instant.

A guttural groan ripped from his throat, feral and broken. He yanked you closer, face burrowing deep into your neck—fangs grazing skin as he shuddered violent. Standing strong, but barely—a miracle he didn’t double over.

Come spurted thick, excessive, always warm like fresh blood—pulsing ropes soaking his slacks through, flooding zipper to drip heavy on floor. Splattered your thighs too, sticky trails seeping under dress hem, marking you both.

He rode it out clinging—hips jerking shallow, sobs muffled against your pulse. “F-Fuck—sugar—oh god,” he gasped, body trembling, chain cool against your skin.

Finally, it ebbed.

You burst into laughter—bright, uncontrollable—head thrown back in his arms.

“We really need to get cleaned up,” you managed between giggles, swiping a finger through the mess on your thigh, smearing it teasing on his chest.

He whined soft, still hard despite it all, pupils dazed in worship. “Yes ma’am.”

You laughed again, lighter this time, as he cradled you close and carried you from the kitchen.

His steps remained steady despite the mess soaking his slacks, his bare chest warm against your cheek, and the gold chain cool where it brushed your skin. The hallway passed once again in a blur of polished oak wainscoting and faded floral wallpaper—hallmarks of the old Delta manor, with its high ceilings and the lingering scent of beeswax polish. He shouldered open the bathroom door, where faint steam from earlier still hung in the air.

You were back already.

You giggled as he stepped inside. “Has it even been an hour since the last time? You’re so impatient, Remmick.”

He nuzzled your temple, a sheepish hum rumbling in his chest. “Can’t help it, darlin’. Always wantin’ ya close.”

He set you down gently on the broad marble vanity—its edge cool under your thighs—and braced you with one hand while the other cupped your face for a soft kiss. His lips lingered sweetly, devotion replacing the heat of the morning. Then he turned to the clawfoot tub that dominated one wall—a massive porcelain basin on gilded feet, larger than any you had seen in the other old estates scattered across the Delta. He twisted the brass faucets, and water rushed hot and steady into the deep basin.

He said nothing.

Just focused.

You loved watching him work like this.

Remmick sank into his own quiet world, with every twist of the handles and every test of the stream using his dipped fingers done entirely for you. It was a silent dedication.

It never took him long; he knew your perfect temperature by heart—warm like a summer evening on the bayou, soothing without scalding, easing the faint aches of your changing body. Steam rose lazily, filling the room with humid comfort and mingling with the faint lavender from the soap dish.

Once satisfied, he straightened and turned back to you.

Undressing you came next, reverent and slow. His fingers worked the dress buttons one by one, peeling the fabric from your shoulders and over the swell of your belly. His touch ghosted your skin—worshipful palms skimming your arms, hips, and thighs—while his eyes traced every curve like sacred text.

Your panties followed, with lace tugged away gently and the ruined spots from his spill noted with a murmured apology. He bundled the clothes softly into the wicker hamper by the door.

He stripped himself quickly afterward—slacks peeled away with a wet schlick and kicked aside. His pale skin was marked faintly with old, long-healed scars, the gold chain swinging as he moved.

You slipped into the tub first.

The water embraced you like silk—reaching the perfect depth that lapped at your waist as you settled back against the curve.

“Is the temperature alright?” he asked immediately, kneeling at the tub’s edge with his hand hovering in the water. “Too hot? Is the level good? Do ya need more bubbles, sugar?”

You smiled and sank deeper. “It’s perfect, Remmick. As always.”

He nodded but checked twice more—dunking his elbow and adjusting the faucet faintly—before climbing in himself.

Water sloshed generously as he settled behind you, his legs framing yours and his arms drawing you back against his chest. The spacious tub swallowed you both easily; there was room enough for him to cradle you fully without crowding, your belly floating safe in the warmth.

You remembered the day he had replaced the old one—a cast-iron relic from the manor’s original days, grand but narrow. He had grumbled that it wasn’t right, that he couldn’t hold you both comfortably. This new porcelain monster matched the clawfoot style but was oversized on purpose—almost wasteful for one person.

Lonely, even.

He swore it came from some supplier in Memphis, nothing special.

But you weren’t fooled.

It was custom, through and through. Built for this: you nested in him, always.

His hands found the ivory soap bar—milled and rose-scented from the black-owned New Orleans shops—and lathered it slowly. The bathing began thoroughly and lovingly: his palms glided over your shoulders, massaging away knots from sleep. Suds trailed down your arms, and his fingers interlaced with yours briefly, squeezing gently.

“Lean forward a touch,” he murmured, his voice low and velvety. You did, and he worked your back—thumbs circling your spine and easing tension with practiced care.

Kisses were stolen softly.

One to your temple as he rinsed. Another to your shoulder blade, with lips sweet and chaste. The caresses were laced with tenderness—his hand cupping your belly under the water, cradling the swell like fragile glass and stroking lazy circles where faint kicks fluttered.

There was no grind of hips, no desperate rut. Just softness, with his breath warm on your neck.

“Are ya feelin’ good?” he whispered, now soaping your thighs with a touch that was feather-light over sensitive skin.

“Mmm. Bliss.” You tilted your head back against his shoulder, eyes half-lidded. The water lapped rhythmically, and steam curled lazily around the brass fixtures and marble walls.

He hummed contentedly and moved to your hair—fingers working shampoo in with gentle scrubs, nails grazing your scalp just enough to tingle. The rinse came carefully, with cupped hands pouring water slowly to avoid your eyes. More kisses followed: to the crown of your head, to your earlobe. His chest rose steadily behind you, the chain dipping into your cleavage when he leaned in.

Every motion screamed care.

Centuries distilled into this quiet service. Sunlight filtered gold through the frosted glass, painting ripples on the water’s surface.

His free hand never left your belly for long, tracing the faint veins under your stretched skin and always whispering something. “Growin’ strong in there. Just like yer mama.”

You sighed happily, your hand covering his.

He pressed another lingering kiss to your neck as the bath stretched on.

Neither of you rushed to shatter the comfortable silence that had settled in like a soft blanket. Remmick's hands continued their fond caresses, tracing lazy patterns along your arms and over the curve of your belly, where the water lapped gently with every subtle shift.

His touch grew bolder by degrees—palms cupping the undersides of your breasts a touch too lingering, thumbs brushing the sensitive peaks before sliding innocently away.

He feigned nonchalance, humming a low, tuneless melody under his breath as if he weren't aware of what he was doing, but you felt the faint hitch in his breathing, the way his fingers flexed obsessively before retreating.

You savored it all, letting the intimacy wrap around you both. Finally, you reached back, wrapping his arms tighter around your middle and pulling him closer against your back.

“Remmick?”

“Yes, sugar?”

“What do you think our girl is gonna look like?”

Even without facing him, you felt the big grin spread across his face—the shift in his posture, the sudden warmth blooming in his chest against your spine, the way his hold tightened joyfully.

“Oh, darlin’,” he started, voice lighting up with uncontainable excitement, “I reckon she’ll be your spittin’ image. Just as beautiful as her mama, with that fire in her eyes and a smile that could stop a man’s heart. Smart as a whip, confident enough to rule the world. And that dark skin of yours, glowin’ like amber. Those beautiful curls, too, bouncin’ without a care in the world when she runs. Can’t ya just see it?”

The palpable thrill in his voice wrapped around your heart like vines.

You loved it—his unfiltered joy, the way generations of longing cracked open in that moment. “Mmm, I think she’ll be the perfect blend of us both,” you replied, leaning into him. “No matter what, I know she’ll have your eyes. Those sea blue things are too strong a trait to not win out over everything else.”

He chuckled deep, nuzzling your wet hair. “My eyes on her? Lord, she’d be unstoppable.”

You grinned playful, twisting just enough to tease. “How’re you gonna handle a fanged, hungry vampire infant, then? Little thing gnawin’ on your fingers from day one.”

Silence.

No response.

No rumble of laughter, no clever retort.

You turned in the water, sloshing it gentle, to find his face vacant—eyes distant, jaw slack, heartbreak etched deep into his expression. The joy had vanished, replaced by a hollow ache that stole your breath.

“Remmick?” You pivoted fully, water cascading off your shoulders as you cupped his face in both hands, thumbs stroking his cheeks. “I’m sorry, honey. Are you okay? What’s wrong?”

He blinked back to you slow, like surfacing from deep water. His lips found your palms immediately—kissing fervent, then your wrists, your forearms—pressing into damp skin as if anchoring himself. “M’sorry,” he murmured, voice cracking raw at the edges. “Just... zoned out. Didn’t mean to.” A pause, throat working swallow hard. “I just wanna see her. Hold our girl in my arms. Feel her cryin’, movin’, breathin’. Alive. Real.”

The words hung heavy, steam thickening around them.

Fragments of his past flickered in your mind—stories he had sparingly shared on hushed nights, slowly pieced together over months.

Ireland.

When he was still human, eking out life on fields turned to dust.

The famine gnawing relentless, his wife wasting away despite his desperate hunts, his makeshift soups from foraged roots.

She’d gone in childbirth, body too frail, the baby slipping still and silent with her. Leaving him utterly alone—twenty-four and completely shattered, wandering aimlessly until the vampire curse found him.

Tears welled in his eyes now.

He couldn’t hold them back.

They spilled down his cheeks, mixing with bathwater as his shoulders shook. A sob tore free—deep and hoarse. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, arms banding tight around you both, careful of the belly between.

“Shh, Remmick,” you whispered, cradling his head to your chest, fingers threading wet hair. “I’ve got you. She’s coming, Remmick. Our girl’s strong—kicking up a storm already. You’ll hold her soon. See her eyes, hear her cry. She’s ours.”

He clung harder, sobs muffled against your skin. “Lost ‘em both,” he choked out, voice thick. “Couldn’t save her. Couldn’t feed her enough. Tiny thing, never even drew breath. Been dreamin’ of this... m’terrified it’ll slip away again.”

“It won’t.”

You rocked him gentle in the water, one hand stroking his back in slow circles, the other cupping his nape.

“We’re in this together—me, you, her. She’ll thrive. And you’ll be the best daddy she could dream of. I know it. I promise you that.”

His cries eased gradual, breaths hitching less violent. He lifted his head at last, eyes swollen but clearing, gratitude shining through tears. “Love ya,” he rasped, kissing your collarbone soft. “More’n anything. You and her... my whole world.”

You smiled tender, wiping his cheeks with wet thumbs. “We love you too. Now hold us close. She’s kicking—feel that?”

His palm pressed your belly instantly, a grin flickering back faint as a flutter answered from within—strong, insistent, like she knew her daddy needed the reassurance.

You smiled up at him, tracing the line of his jaw with a damp fingertip. “Ready to get out, Remmick? Any longer in here, and all that’ll be left of us is a couple of prunes floating in the bathwater.”

Remmick’s laugh bubbled up rich and genuine, chasing away the last shadows of grief. Water sloshed as he nodded, eyes crinkling at the corners. “Fair enough, darlin’. Can’t have y’all turnin’ to dried fruit on my watch.”

He moved with care, rising first to step out onto the marble floor—water sheeting off his lean frame in rivulets that caught the sunlight filtering through the frosted window.

The oversized towel from the brass rack enveloped you next; he lifted you effortlessly from the tub, one arm under your knees and the other supporting your back, settling you on the vanity before wrapping the plush cotton around your shoulders.

Drying came thorough and tender—his hands working slow circles over your arms, your back, patting gently at the swell of your belly where droplets clung. He knelt to towel your legs, calves, even between your toes, murmuring soft nonsense about how soft your skin felt, how lucky he was.

Only then did he tend himself—quick swipes over chest and limbs, chain glinting as he dried his hair with a final tousle.

You took his hand and led him from the bathroom. The bedroom waited down the hall—a sunlit haven with heavy oak four-poster, crisp linens in soft cream, and gauzy curtains billowing faint from the open casement windows. The breeze carried magnolia scent through the manor’s old walls. “Not even noon,” you teased over your shoulder, “and you’ve already tired me out.”

He followed close, fingers laced warm in yours, that boyish smile curving his lips. “That was my plan all along, sugar.”

You sank onto the mattress, and he climbed atop you graceful, bracketing your body with forearms, careful not to press too heavy on your belly.

His eyes held yours, blue depths shimmering with affection. The kiss started sweet on your lips—slow, lingering, tasting of rose soap and salt tears dried. Then it trailed: feather-light to your jaw, nuzzling the sensitive spot beneath your ear. Lower still, to the curve of your neck, where his breath ghosted warm, fangs retracted fully now, just the velvet press of mouth.

Heat stirred lazy in your core—a sensual promise in every downward movement—but sleep tugged stronger.

You sat up with a grin, hands on his shoulders to still him. “Nap first, Remmick. I want rest, not another orgasm.”

He froze mid-descent, lips hovering at your collarbone. Color flooded his cheeks—a deep flush gathering on his pale skin, ears tinting pink.

“Oh,” he said, sheepish and endearing, drawing back with wide eyes.

“Right. Nap. Sorry, darlin’.”

You laughed soft, pulling him down beside you. “C’mere, you.”

He settled quick, mattress dipping as you both stretched out. You lay on your side, facing away, and he spooned in perfect—chest to your back, arm draping secure over your hip to palm your belly protective. His legs tangled with yours, thigh nudged gentle between for warmth. You could feel his breath evening steady at your nape.

“Love ya,” he whispered, lips brushing hair. “Sleep well, my girls.”

“Love you more.”

“Love ya most.”

This didn’t feel like a dream.

A glorious ache pulsed between your thighs—wet, insistent, ravenous. Something moved there, thick and unyielding, stroking with obsessive care. A tongue? Yes—but broader, probing deeper, curling just right against that spot that made stars burst behind your eyelids. Each lap responded to your every twitch, every soft gasp you hadn’t realized you were making. Sopping sounds filled the dark bedroom—obscene, intimate, right there.

You debated it in the haze of sleep.

Dream.

Had to be.

Pregnancy dreams ran wild at six months now—belly heavy and round, skin stretched taut over the life kicking restless inside. Dreams of him, always him, devouring you whole. But this felt too real. The heat too vivid, pressure building heavy in your core. The sound—a wet, rhythmic schlick—echoed too close. Inches away. No way.

No way.

Fangs—

Scraped your inner walls.

Lightning pleasure bolted through you—sharp, searing, exquisite. Your back arched off the mattress, a loud moan ripping raw from your throat.

You shot up.

Moonlight slanted silver through gauzy curtains, painting the king bed in ghostly glows. Remmick knelt between your legs—knees denting the feather ticking, shoulders broad and bare, gold chain dangling low. His face stared up at you, dumbfounded. Mouth parted slight, lips glistening, eyes wide as saucers—blue swallowed by black pupil, shock mirroring yours.

As if he weren’t the culprit.

Slick coated his jaw.

Droplets beaded clear, reflecting the glow like diamonds as they trailed slow down his neck, vanishing into the hollow of his throat.

You gaped.

Shock tangled hot with fury, arousal, confusion—emotions crashing too fast to name. Belly shifted heavy as you scrambled back on elbows, thighs clamping instinctive despite the ache begging more. “Remmick—what the fuck—”

“I’m sorry!”

He surged up on knees, hands hovering placating, palms open like surrender. Words tumbled frantic, thick drawl cracking under panic.

“D-Darlin’, please—didn’t mean to wake ya. Ya looked so goddamn beautiful, layin’ there all peaceful, belly round and glowin’ in the moonlight. Couldn’t stop myself. Had to... had to taste ya. Just a little. Swear I was careful—didn’t wanna disturb ya or the baby. Y’all were sleepin’ so sweet, breathin’ even, her little kicks settlin’ down. Thought I could... slip in quiet, make ya feel good without rousin’ ya. I’m sorry, sugar, truly—”

His eyes pleaded—red glow faint under blue, hunger warring with guilt. Jaw still shone slick with you, a stray droplet catching his chin, dripping onto the sheet. Fangs peeked subtle, not bared but evident, saliva gleaming on lower lip. He looked wrecked—hair tousled wild, chest heaving, briefs tented obvious at his hips. But the shock lingered genuine, brows knit like he’d been caught mid-trance.

You blinked, heart hammering.

Your thighs trembled.

Empty now—but echoes lingered, walls clenching on nothing, slick gushing fresh down. Six months had changed everything: breasts fuller, heavier, nipples dark and peaked constant; hips wider, stretch marks silvering faint across belly; cravings sharp, body hypersensitive, every nerve lit eternal.

Remmick had been reverent through it—hands gentle on the swell, feeding you midnight cravings before you could even name them, rubbing almond oil into your skin. But this...

This was beyond words.

“Remmick,” you breathed, voice unsteady—anger fracturing into something molten. Your hand drifted low unbidden, fingers brushing folds swollen and slick. His smell was everywhere—scent thick in the air, copper-sweet like blood and lust. “You... you were inside me. While I slept.”

He winced, crawling closer, cautious. His knees dragged the sheets, not touching you just yet.

“I know. God, I know. Yer scent, darlin’, it’s stronger now. Sweeter. Woke me up achin’. Saw ya shift in sleep, legs partin’ just so, and... lost my mind a touch. Wanted to worship ya. Make ya come quiet, lap it all up so ya’d wake refreshed. I-I didn’t think—should’ve woken ya proper.”

Confusion swirled thicker.

He looked so sorry—eyes downcast now, hands fidgeting with the sheet's edge, broad shoulders slumped vulnerable.

You exhaled shakily.

Part of you wanted to shove him away.

Part of you wanted to pull him back in.

“Could’ve hurt the baby,” you managed, though doubt crept in as soon as the words left your mouth. He’d been feather-gentle always, attuned to every flutter.

“Never,” he vowed fierce, inching forward. “Felt her the whole time—strong heartbeat, content. Stopped at every kick and adjusted. You’re safe. Both of ya. Ya know that.”

You nodded immediately, guilt piercing your heart as you saw the devastated flash in his eyes at the very notion of putting his little girl in harm’s way.

You bit your lip hard, tasting blood as you mulled over how to proceed. Sharp shadows were carved across his face—wide eyes pleading, jaw slack with remorse, that slick sheen still drying sticky on his skin. Your arousal thrummed insistent, but confusion knotted tight with it, demanding words first.

Finally, you drew a deep breath, steadying your voice.

“Remmick, listen. For now—no more of that while I’m asleep. Wake me up next time, properly. Or just watch, silent like you usually do when the hunger hits. Hell, touch yourself if you need to, I don’t care. But not... not that. Not without me knowing.”

He nodded fervent, knees shifting restless on the sheet, hands twisting fabric like a lifeline. “Yes, darlin’. Anythin’. I swear.”

Your hand pressed instinctive to the swell of your belly, feeling a light flutter. “It’s not that I’m disgusted. Far from it. I could see myself liking it, even wanting it someday. But tonight? You caught me off guard. I woke up to fangs inside me. My body’s changing fast. My hormones are wild and everything’s heightened. I need to feel safe, especially now. I need to have my say in everything. Can you give me that?”

Remmick deflated further, shoulders slumping as if kicked, eyes glistening wet in the silver light. His voice cracked just a hair. “God, yes. Your word’s law, sugar. Should’ve known better—centuries old and still actin’ like a fool. I’m so sorry. Won’t happen again without you sayin’ yes first. Clear as day. Please believe me.”

He looked so... small. His broad frame curled inward, fangs tucked fully now, cheeks flushed deeper than blood could explain. You could almost see the tail between his legs.

“I do,” you said softer, tension easing faint. “Just... talk to me. Always.”

“Always,” he echoed, desperate. Head ducked low, chain swinging. “Can I... can I hold ya? Kiss ya? Make it right?”

You nodded.

He all but collapsed to your side—body folding careful around your pregnant form, arms banding gentle but needy across your back. He buried his face in your neck, lips peppering fervent kisses: forehead, cheeks, nose, jaw. Soft, worshipful presses, breath hitching with each.

“Sorry,” he whispered into your skin, hot puffs against your collarbone. “So damn sorry, darlin’. Love ya too much—gets me stupid. Won’t fail ya again.”

Kisses trailed lower—shoulder, swell of breast above nightgown. Apologies murmured endless, voice thick with shame and devotion.

Mixed emotions churned in you—forgiveness warm, but darkening quick.

Another idea bloomed.

What a terrible time to be so clever.

“Lay on your back for me, Remmick,” you asked, voice light and innocent, fingers still tangled in his hair.

He obeyed without question—shifting quick onto the mattress, broad back sinking into the comforter, head propped on pillows. His expression held mild confusion, brows knitting slight as he glanced up at you.

“Like this, darlin’?”

“Perfect,” you murmured, swinging a leg over to straddle him slow.

Your pregnant belly swayed heavy with the motion, nightgown whispering against thighs as you settled onto his not-fully-soft hardness. He throbbed immediate under you—thick length trapped between folds, heat radiating through thin fabric.

Remmick’s breath hitched sharp. Babbling erupted wild, words spilling frantic and filthy from his lips.

“Oh, sugar—fuck, yes, ride me like that. Gonna fill that pretty pregnant pussy so full, breed ya deeper till ya can’t walk. Lemme in ya, pump every drop till it’s leakin’ down yer thighs for days. Yer mine to ruin, darlin’, gonna—”

You ground down deliberate, slick coating his bulge, clit dragging perfect friction along the shaft.

A giggle bubbled free when his tip nudged insistent against your folds—fabric barrier doing nothing to stop the copious pre leaking through, soaking hot and sticky.

He bucked up instinctive, eyes rolling back.

Before excitement overtook him fully, you shifted abrupt—forward crawl on hands and knees, hiking nightgown high over hips. Silk bunched at waist, exposing everything: swollen folds glistening, ass cheeks parting slight, belly hanging round and full below. You settled onto his face deliberate—thighs framing his head, core hovering teasing inch above mouth.

Then you sank.

And Remmick went feral.

His mouth latched voracious, lips sealing suction-tight around clit before tongue plunged deep. He devoured like a starving man at feast, broad laps slurping every drop of arousal with obscene schlurps echoing in the quiet room.

Fangs grazed your outer lips careful—pinpricks of thrill without pierce—while his nose ground firm against mound, inhaling your scent like a drug.

“Fuck—yes,” he growled muffled into core, voice vibrating straight through you. His hands clamped your thighs with a bruising grip, pulling you down harder, drowning himself willingly. His tongue fucked relentless—curling thick inside, twisting to hit spot after spot, then retreating to circle clit swollen and throbbing. Saliva flooded excessive, mixing with your slick to drip messy down his chin, pooling in the hollows of his neck and collarbone.

You moaned loud, fingers fisting his hair to ride face mercilessly. Your belly pressed lightly against his forehead with each rock. Pleasure coiled vicious, thighs quaking as he sucked clit between lips, teeth nipping a faint spark of edge.

Remmick pulled off gasping once—barely—eyes a wild red-glow, jaw drenched to ears. “Drown me, darlin’. Fuck my face till I choke on it. Gonna drink ya dry, then fill ya back up.”

His tongue speared again immediate, deeper, faster—lapping clenching walls, probing your cervix with a gentle nudge that sent lightning up your spine.

Hips bucked unbidden.

His fingers dug deep into your thighs, spreading you wide for better access—tongue delving obscene, rimming entrance before thrusting back in. Growls rumbled constant, vibrating core to bones. Precum soaked his underwear darker now, cock straining untouched, twitching desperate against his abdomen.

You chased the high ruthlessly—grinding circles, chasing friction on his nose, clit pulsing under the relentless assault. Saliva bubbled at corners of his mouth, frothy white from fervor, smearing your thighs shiny. Fangs scraped your inner walls again—deliberate drags now, pleasure-pain booming.

“Remmick—fuck—”

He hummed approval, doubling suction, his lips pursing tight around bundle, tongue flicking rapid-fire. One hand abandoned your thigh to palm at your belly, reverent.

Your orgasm crashed suddenly.

You shattered—walls spasming violent, gush flooding his mouth in hot wave. He drank greedy, swallowing audible gulps, tongue milking every quiver. Your thighs clamped his ears tight, vision whiting as cries tore free raw.

He didn’t stop.

Remmick lapped through aftershocks gentle, coaxing a second build immediate. His fingers joined—two thick digits curling inside, scissoring stretch while the thumb circled your clit, still endlessly slick.

Sweat beaded both of your foreheads.

Moonlight gleamed off fluids everywhere.

His face a mask of devotion, your thighs rivers of combined mess.

You rode harder.

He begged muffled—“More, darlin’. Gimme everything.”

High number two built savagely, coiling tighter and bursting white-hot. Another gush, cries peaking as your body convulsed, belly contracting sympathetic ripples.

Remmick groaned in ecstasy, finally relenting as you slumped forward, panting and boneless. He licked you clean like you were the last source of water on Earth, slow laps savoring remnants, kisses peppering your mound and inner thighs.

“Perfect,” he rasped, voice wrecked. “My perfect girls.”

Remmick sensed your utter spentness immediately—body limp and quivering in the afterglow, breaths coming in shallow pants.

He shifted gentle beneath you, strong arms encircling your waist with effortless care, lowering you to the mattress as if handling fragile porcelain. The bedding sighed soft under your back as he laid you out proper, knees bracketing hips for stability until you settled full.

“There ya go, darlin’,” he murmured, voice velvet-thick with tenderness. He reached for the pillows piled at the headboard, fluffing them one by one with precise pats, stacking them high behind shoulders and neck. “Lift up just a touch... perfect. Comfy now?”

You nodded hazy, sinking into the nest he’d made, nightgown still rucked high around your waist. Six months’ weight distributed easier on your back, belly rising prominent like a moonlit hill.

Satisfied, he twisted to the bedside table. A silver basin gleamed faint in moonlight, soft cloth draped ready over the edge.

Remmick had insisted on it weeks ago, filling it nightly with warm rosewater despite your initial eye-roll at the fuss. Now, gratitude flooded warm. You couldn’t imagine the sticky aftermath without it. He wrung the cloth gentle, steam rising faint, then returned—kneeling between your parted thighs, eyes all soft worship.

Cleaning began indulgent and reverent. Warm fabric glided first over your inner thighs, wiping away trails of slick with slow, circular strokes, chasing every bead and smear. He leaned in constant, lips brushing cleaned skin: a kiss to your knee hollow, another to the hip bone. “So beautiful,” he whispered against flesh. “Every inch of ya glows, sugar. Thank whatever stars or saints or old gods brought you here to me, to us. And our girl... Lord, every day I wake grateful.”

The cloth moved higher—dabbing folds swollen and sensitive, parting labia minor gentle to cleanse deeper. You sighed content, arching faint as he avoided overstimulus, kisses peppering mound and lower belly. “Strongest woman I know,” he continued, voice cracking earnest. “Carryin’ our miracle, lettin’ me love on ya like this. Could spend eternities kneelin’ at yer feet.”

He dotted a final kiss to your cleaned thigh before setting the cloth in the basin, returning to smooth the nightgown back down proper—tucking the hem under your belly swell. Basin water splashed soft as he set it aside.

Next came a candle—a beeswax taper from the drawer, lit with a match struck by the flick of his thumbnail. The flame danced gold, casting a warm glow across the room and pushing back the moonlit shadows. He disappeared briefly to the kitchen downstairs, bare feet silent on the oak steps, and returned with a steaming mug: chamomile and mint, honey swirled in with a faint, soothing sweetness.

“Here, darlin’,” he said softly. “Sip it slow.”

You propped yourself up on your elbows, taking the mug in both hands. The warmth seeped into your palms, and the first sip soothed your throat, still raw from your cries. He watched you closely, his thumb idly stroking your ankle.

When the mug was half-drained, you set it aside.

Then he slid between your legs, moving with careful ease, his body curling into place. His head came to rest against the curve of your stomach, cheek pillowed against your skin. One arm draped loosely over your thigh, his fingers tracing lazy circles around your navel.

Remmick’s gaze lifted to yours, soft and adoring in the candlelight—blue eyes gentle now, the red beneath them dimmed to quiet embers.

You couldn’t help it. Your hand moved on instinct, cupping his jaw, your thumb brushing over the roughness of his stubble.

“Thank you,” you whispered. “For everything. The care… the love. You make all of this feel right.”

He nuzzled into your palm, pressing a soft kiss to your fingertips.

“Ain’t nothin’ compared to what you give me,” he murmured.

Silence lingered, soft and unbroken, the kind that didn’t press or crowd but settled warm over everything. Beneath his ear, your daughter’s kicks fluttered faint and steady, little pulses of life that drew a quiet hum from him without thought. It slipped out low in his chest, contented, almost absent, like breathing.

“Speakin’ of our girl…” he murmured after a while, his voice easy, the words folding naturally into the quiet. “Been thinkin’ more on the nursery.”

Your fingers kept moving through his hair, slow and absent, smoothing back the strands that always refused to stay tamed. “Have you now?”

“Mm.” His cheek shifted slightly against your stomach, just enough to follow another faint kick. His mouth curved, not quite a smile, something softer. “Got the crib near done. Hand-carved oak. Took my time with it—made sure every rocker’s smooth as silk. Ain’t gonna have her catchin’ a splinter on my watch.”

You smiled, picturing it without trying.

“Spells are set into the rails,” he continued, tone still gentle, but threaded with quiet pride. “Druidic. Nothin’ that’ll hum or flicker. For safety, subtle as breath. She won’t even know it’s there.”

“She doesn’t have to,” you said. “That’s the point, isn’t it?”

“Exactly. I... hadn’t done ’em in a while.” Remmick’s hand drifted wistful across your stomach, thumb brushing slow circles as if he could already soothe her through skin and bone. “Changin’ table’s next. Want drawers deep enough for every little thing she might need. Cloths, blankets, whatever nonsense she decides she can’t sleep without.”

You huffed a quiet laugh. “You’re already assuming she’ll be difficult.”

“She’s ours,” he said simply.

You couldn’t argue that.

“But the look of it…” he went on, his tone shifting just slightly, thoughtful now. “Walls are still bare. Can’t seem to settle on somethin’ that feels right. Been runnin’ it over in my head. Sketchin’ ideas that don’t quite land.”

Your fingers paused for a moment before resuming their slow path through his hair.

“What about a forest?” you offered.

He went still.

“Not something dark,” you added, more certain now. “A grove. Soft, open. Moss underfoot, light coming through the trees, vines curling along the edges. And maybe… fireflies. Just a few. Enough to glow when the room’s quiet.”

His head lifted almost immediately.

The shift was instant—like striking flint.

“A forest?” he repeated, and the word carried something brighter now, something alive. His eyes lit, wide and intent, that grin breaking across his face without restraint. “Darlin’, that’s—” He shook his head once, breath catching on the edge of a laugh. “That’s perfect.”

You felt it ripple through him, the idea taking hold, rooting deep.

“Our little grove,” he said, the words softer now, almost reverent. “I can see it.”

Remmick pushed himself up just enough to look at you fully, but his hand never left your stomach, still tracing slow, thoughtful paths like he was already mapping it out beneath his palm.

“Walls’ll start deep,” he said, his voice picking up momentum but never losing its rhythm. “Emerald at the base, real rich ’n grounded. Then it fades as it climbs—softens into the lighter greens, like the light’s filterin’ through leaves overhead.”

You nodded.

“Tree trunks are gonna come up from the baseboards,” he continued, one hand lifting now, gesturing as if the shapes already stood around you. “Twisted a little. Oak, maybe. Willow where it curves. Bark textured just enough that she can feel it when she’s old enough to reach.”

“That sounds beautiful,” you said quietly.

“It will be,” he answered, not boastful, just certain.

His gaze flicked briefly to your stomach again.

“Leaves layered over that,” he went on, slower now, more deliberate. “Spring green, summer deep, a touch of gold for autumn. Let ‘em shift just a little in the light if we paint it right.”

You smiled, your thumb brushing along his jaw now.

“And the vines?” you asked.

His grin softened, turning thoughtful again. “They’ll frame it all. Wind along the edges, curlin’ near the crib. Keep it open in the center so she ain’t feelin’ closed in.”

“Good,” you murmured. “I don’t want her to feel trapped.”

“Ain’t never gonna let that happen,” he said, almost absently.

You believed him without a second thought.

“Flowers,” he added after a beat. “Not too many. Just enough to break it up. Magnolia, maybe. A little fern. Soft things. Nothin’ that’ll overwhelm.”

“And the fireflies?” you prompted.

His eyes lit again, just a little.

“Glass,” he said. “Tiny jars, hung from the ceiling. They’ll glow soft—yellow, maybe a touch of blue. Gentle. And they’ll move, just enough. Like they’re breathin’. If she wakes, they’ll be there.”

You exhaled slowly.

“That sounds perfect.”

“It will be,” he repeated, quieter this time.

He settled back down, his cheek returning to your stomach, his hand smoothing over the curve like he could already feel her nestled there in that imagined space.

“The floor…” he continued after a moment. “Can’t leave it plain. Needs to feel like somethin’. Thick rug, maybe. Woven soft, but dense. Mossy, like you said. So when she starts walkin’, she’s got somethin’ gentle under her feet.”

“And when she falls,” you added.

He huffed a faint, amused breath. “She’ll fall. I’ll make sure it don’t hurt too bad.”

Your hand slipped down to the back of his neck, thumb tracing slow circles there now.

“What about above the crib?” you asked. “You always forget that part.”

“I ain’t forgettin’ nothin’,” he muttered, though the corner of his mouth twitched.

“Well?”

“A mobile,” he said after a beat. “Hand-carved. Nothin’ store-bought. Owls, maybe. A deer or two. Rabbits. Somethin’ that moves slow. Can’t ever be loud. Just enough to catch her eye.”

“And the ceiling?” you pressed gently.

He went quiet for a moment.

Then—

“Sky,” he said simply. “Almost full open. Big glimpses. Like you’re lookin’ up through branches.”

You felt your chest tighten, just a little.

“She’ll trace them,” you said softly.

“She will,” he agreed.

“And you’ll sit there and name them all.”

His lips curved faintly against your skin. “Course I will.”

You smiled, fingers drifting again, slower now.

“Anything else?” you asked.

He thought about it.

“Shelves,” he said eventually. “Low. Within reach when she’s ready. And we’ll line ‘em with things that matter. Things she can touch and hold and learn from.”

“Pressed leaves,” you suggested.

“Yeah,” he said. “Pressed leaves. Stones, too. Smooth ones. From the river.”

You nodded.

“Keep it real,” he added. “Even if the rest ain’t.”

Silence settled again, but this time it felt full—filled with something growing, something taking shape between the two of you.

His hand slowed.

His breathing evened.

“You like it?” he asked after a while, quieter than before.

“I love it,” you said, without hesitation.

He didn’t answer right away.

Just pressed his cheek a little closer, his hand resting more firmly against your stomach now.

“Good,” he murmured.

And the way he said it made it feel like it was already done.

The months peaked warm and golden on the Delta, the sun hanging lazy in an endless stretch of blue that seemed too wide, too full for anything but long days and slower breaths. The manor gardens had become your sanctuary in these final days—lush and sprawling, a cultivated wildness that wrapped itself around the estate’s rear where old brick walls met the untamed edge of woods.

At thirty-nine weeks, your body had become something else entirely.

There was no easing around it, no softening the truth of it. Your belly dominated everything. An immense, undeniable curve that strained the seams of every loose sundress you owned. The fabric stretched thin across skin pulled taut, every movement of your daughter visible beneath it if you watched closely enough. You felt immense in every sense of the word. Heavy. Full. Slowed down to careful steps and measured shifts of weight.

Even walking had become a negotiation.

Still, stubbornness kept you moving.

It always had.

Remmick hovered more now than ever, his concern no longer subtle or hidden behind easy charm. He watched you with a constant, quiet intensity, offering his arms, his strength, his everything—ready to carry, to steady, to intervene at the smallest sign of strain.

You had pushed back against it this morning.

“I need air, honey,” you had told him, brushing his hand aside with a soft smile. “A fresh breeze. No fuss.”

He had painstakingly agreed, but not without that shadow lingering behind his eyes.

Even now, you felt him.

Not seen or heard, but present all the same.

That familiar prickle at the nape of your neck, like the weight of his gaze following the slow sway of your hips as you moved along the crushed-shell paths. You let it be. Let him linger at the edges where he thought you wouldn’t notice.

You let him play at being sneaky.

The path curved through the garden in soft arcs, shells crunching faint beneath your feet. Your espadrilles were comfortable enough, but even so, your soles ached with every step. You moved carefully, one hand braced beneath your belly for support, the other trailing occasionally along whatever you passed.

Everywhere you looked, his touch was evident.

Rose trellises climbed iron arches overhead, blooms heavy and full in shades of crimson and soft peach, petals curling outward like they couldn’t contain themselves. Herb beds spilled over with lavender and rosemary, their scents thick in the air, blending with the sweetness of honeysuckle that clung to the garden’s edges.

The back walls were draped in wisteria—lavender cascades that should not have been blooming so late in the season, yet did so anyway under his careful, unnatural coaxing. The flowers swayed gently in the breeze, shedding soft dustings of pollen that caught the sunlight like drifting gold.

Butterfly bushes thrummed with quiet life.

Monarchs and swallowtails moved lazily from bloom to bloom, their wings catching the light in flashes of orange and blue. The central fountain murmured steadily, water bubbling over smooth stone, koi gliding beneath the surface in flashes of bright orange and white.

From a breeder in Louisiana, you remember him telling you.

Pausing came so easily out here.

Not because you wanted to stop, but because your body demanded it.

Each lull gave you a moment to breathe, to settle your weight, to feel her.

Your daughter shifted beneath your hand, a firm press of elbow or knee that pushed outward against your palm with unmistakable insistence. She was strong. Active. Restless in a way that felt almost eager.

You smiled, tracing slow circles over the place she pressed.

“I know,” you murmured. “I know, sweetheart.”

A peach tree stood nearby, branches bowed under the weight of fruit that ripened far too late for any natural season. Remmick’s doing. Of course it was. The fruit hung heavy, skins blushed gold and rose, the scent faintly sweet in the warm air.

You breathed it in.

Let it settle.

Let yourself feel, for a moment, something close to peace.

By the time you reached the wrought-iron bench at the garden’s center, your body had begun to protest in earnest. The curved seat sat tucked beneath a rose arbor, shaded and inviting, the metal warmed just enough by the sun to be comfortable.

Lowering yourself took effort.

Hands braced on your thighs, you eased down carefully—one hip first, then the other, shifting your weight slowly until you were fully seated. Your dress rode up slightly, the fabric clinging to your damp skin, but you didn’t bother adjusting it.

A soft sigh slipped from your lips as the weight lifted from your feet.

Relief.

Immediate and deep.

“Remmick,” you called, your voice carrying easily through the garden, threaded with quiet amusement. “I don’t appreciate the stalking.”

There was no pause.

The hydrangea bushes rustled almost immediately, large blooms parting as he stepped through them with far less grace than he probably intended. Leaves clung to his hair, dirt smudged the knee of his slacks, and for once, he looked… caught.

The faint flush along his pale cheeks made your smile widen.

“Darlin’…” he started, brushing his hands together as though that might erase the evidence.

You patted the space beside you.

“Come sit.”

He didn’t hesitate.

He crossed the distance quickly, settling beside you with a familiarity that felt like home. His thigh pressed warm against yours, his arm draping over your shoulders as though it had always belonged there.

The apologies came soft and quick, lips finding your temple, then your cheek, then the line of your jaw.

“Sorry, sugar,” he murmured between them. “Couldn’t help it. Yer so close now… carryin’ all that weight. One wrong step, one stumble—” He shook his head faintly. “My heart’d stop.”

His nose brushed yours, then your forehead, his touch lingering, affectionate and just a little desperate.

“Forgive me?” he asked, quieter now. “Sneakin’ instead of just comin’ to ya proper.”

You leaned into him, a soft laugh escaping.

“You’re always forgiven,” you said. “But next time, just join me.”

“Deal.”

The word came easy, accompanied by a grin that softened his features again. He nuzzled into the curve of your neck, breathing in deeply, like grounding himself in your presence.

Above you, the wisteria stirred.

Petals drifted down slowly, catching in your hair, settling on your lap.

His hand found your stomach again, palm spreading wide, thumb brushing absent circles over your navel through the thin fabric.

The conversation slipped forward as naturally as the breeze.

“The nursery’s comin’ together,” he said after a moment, his voice quieter, steadier. “Furniture’s finished. Crib rails are smooth, rockin’ chair’s set just right. You’ll have a place to rest while she feeds, even in the middle of the night.”

You nodded, resting your hand over his.

“And the walls?” you asked.

“Paint is up, just dryin’ now,” he said. “Greens are settlin’ the way we wanted. Light shifts through ‘em real soft.”

You smiled.

“I can’t wait to see her in it.”

“Neither can I.”

His voice softened, something deeper settling into it.

“Every day I watch you,” he continued, his gaze lowering briefly to your stomach, “and I think about how that’s real. How she’s real. I spent a long time thinkin’ that kind of thing wasn’t meant for me.”

You glanced at him, your thumb brushing lightly over his hand.

“And now?” you asked.

He huffed a quiet breath.

“Now I don’t know how I ever thought that,” he admitted. “Feels like she’s always been on her way.”

You leaned your head against his shoulder.

The garden hummed around you, alive in small, quiet ways—the splash of koi, the distant rustle of leaves, the soft drift of petals overhead.

“What do you think she’ll be like?” you asked after a while.

Remmick went still for a moment.

Then his hand shifted slightly, thumb tracing a slow line where she pressed outward beneath your skin.

“Strong,” he said. “Stubborn.”

You laughed softly.

“That’s your fault.”

“Ours.”

His gaze softened again.

“But gentle, too,” he added. “In her own way. Curious. I think she’ll want to see everything. Touch everything.”

You nodded, the conviction in his voice making you smile without realizing it.

Remmick’s kisses resumed without warning, his mouth finding the sensitive spot just beneath your ear. They were softer at first—a gentle press, a flick of tongue that lingered longer than before, tasting the faint salt of garden-warmed skin. But they deepened quickly, lips parting wet and insistent, drawing a quiet hum from low in his throat as his breath ghosted hot against you.

You felt his hand move again, deliberate and unhurried.

Fingers trailed down from your belly’s immense curve, slipping beneath the hem of your sundress once more. They moved agonizingly slow, tracing the plush inner curve of your thigh with feather-light strokes that raised gooseflesh despite the sun’s warmth.

Inch by inch, they climbed higher, brushing the damp edge of your panties with maddening patience. He tugged the thin fabric aside casual, callused fingertips gliding between your awaiting folds.

The touch was exquisite torture at first, parting your outer lips with deliberate slowness, circling your entrance in lazy loops without mercy. Fresh slick welled immediate, coating his fingertips shiny, the faint wet glide audible in the garden’s hush amid distant koi splashes and leaf rustles.

“We’re outside,” you reminded him, voice already breathy, edged with half-hearted protest as heat rebuilt low and insistent. “Sun’s still high, beaming right down. Someone could walk by.”

He kissed along your jawline sweet and unhurried, brushing the concern off between lingering presses of lips that left trails of saliva glistening in sunlight. “Nobody’s on the grounds, darlin’. Y’know that better than anyone. And if some fool peeks through the hedges?” His mouth drifted lower, nudging the sundress neckline aside with his nose to expose the heavy swell of your breast.

His lips latched onto your nipple—dark, peaked, already beading under attention—suckling slow and deep. Tongue swirled broad and flat around the areola, fangs grazing the tender edge in a faint, thrilling scrape.

A warm bead of milk welled up.

He groaned deep from his chest, lapping it up greedy with open mouth. “Nectar,” he murmured reverent against your skin, voice muffled thick with drawl and hunger. “Tastes like heaven’s own honey, sugar. So damn sweet—gimme more, please. Love nursin’ from ya like this.”

Suction tightened rhythmic—pulling insistent, drawing another leak that spilled warm. He chased it all, drool mixing messy, lips smacking soft as his free hand kneaded your other breast, gentle but firm, coaxing twin flow through thin fabric. Milk darkened the linen spotty, your faintly sweet scent blooming in the air.

Pleasure sparked vicious—nipples wired straight to core, walls fluttering empty and aching, clit throbbing neglected.

His fingers pressed inside then.

Two thick digits sliding home easy on abundant slick, stretching you full. He fucked them agonizingly slow at first, curling immediate to stroke that spongy g-spot deep inside with perfect precision.

Every thrust hit you flawlessly.

Grazing your walls on withdrawals, pressing firm against the bundle with every plunge, thumb finally joining to circle your clit.

“Please,” Remmick begged between hungry suckles, switching breasts to lavish the other nipple with the same worship—fangs nipping faint, tongue laving leaks voracious. “Lemme fuck ya proper, darlin’. Cock’s throbbin’ so hard it hurts—need that pussy squeezin’ me. Gonna fill ya slow, deep—breed ya even fuller, pump every drop till yer leakin’ my come. Hit every place ya love, make ya scream in this garden. Please, sugar—say yes.”

Your moans spilled free and unrestrained, a lewd litany of breathy “ah-ah-ah” gasps syncing with his building rhythm, punctuated by the wet schlick of fingers plunging deeper.

“You can,” you managed between noises, hips bucking instinctive into his hand, chasing friction. Your sundress was fully hiked now, belly heaving. “Just... fuck—not out here. Take me inside first.”

He growled, surging up to claim your mouth fanged and messy—tongue plunging deep to tangle, sharing your nectar’s sweet tang mingled with his thick saliva. His fingers never faltered, pistoning faster now with another obscene squelch.

“C’mon, sugar. Right here on this bench—strong enough to hold us both while I rail ya. Sun’s kissin’ yer skin perfect. Nobody sees us but the butterflies and koi. Let me have ya.”

Remmick tried shifting you then, strong arms banding your waist, careful around your belly’s weight. He lifted slight as if to swing his leg over, cock grinding insistent through slacks against thigh.

“No,” you gasped firm, pressing your hand against his chest hard despite the pleasure fog. Your shameless symphony crescendoed: moans pitching a desperate soprano, slick gushing fresh rivulets down his knuckles to pool on wrought-iron below, petals sticking thighs damp. “Make me come first. Then inside—oh god—”

Command ignited him.

He obeyed perfectly. His fingers hooked ruthless now, pressing your walls mercilessly with unmatched precision while his thumb assaulted clit with rapid-fire flicks, edging you brutal.

His mouth returned, alternating between your breasts—suckling hard enough for his fangs to scrape your areola, the deliberate sting amplifying every feeling. “Yes—fuck yes, darlin’. Drench my hand, soak this whole damn bench. Gonna lap it clean after, taste ya on the metal. Come hard for me—show the garden how good I make ya feel.”

You could feel your walls clamping vice-tight around his fingers, clit pulsing electric under every press. The breeze cooled your slick-soaked thighs in its own tease, a butterfly circling a rose mere feet away, oblivious. Koi splashed emphatically in the fountain, almost mocking your building cries.

Your orgasm ripped through you, a shattering white-hot supernova. A raw cry tore through your throat into the garden air, echoing off the estate's brick walls. You came endlessly around his hand, flooding thighs and bench in a hot flood that dripped audibly to the shells below.

Remmick milked every last pulse relentlessly, fingers grinding deep and unyielding. His mouth soothed your nipples with tender laps now, drawing further waves until tears began to prickle from the overstimulation.

He finally eased his fingers free with a slow drag, slick rivers trailing obscene in the sunlight. He brought it to his mouth without a second thought, licking knuckles clean in deliberate swirls. His eyes stayed locked on yours, the feral red glow only diminishing slightly.

“Inside now?” He rasped hopeful, cock straining against his slacks obscenely, his soaked crotch all but completely unnoticed.

You nodded, breath still ragged.

Remmick moved immediately, scooping you up effortlessly yet impossibly careful, one arm banding under your knees, the other cradling the immense weight as if handling glass.

His strength made it feel weightless.

Centuries of vampire power rendering your thirty-nine-week fullness feather-light in his hold. He paused deliberate, eyes scanning your face with doting concern. “Comfy, darlin’? No pinch anywhere?”

“Perfect,” you murmured, arms looping neck, head tucking shoulder.

Only then did he start walking at an instantly fast pace. His strides were long but smooth across crushed shells, excitement betraying a hurried rhythm despite care. “That’s my girl,” he praised low, lips brushing temple. “So strong, takin’ me so good out there. Beautiful. Full of our miracle, glowin’ like summer sun. Gonna worship ya proper now, make ya feel every bit cherished.”

Praises flowed nonstop, murmured husky against hair as he mounted the steps two at a time. “Look at ya, sugar—carryin’ her so proud, body made for this. Love seein’ ya like this, all ripe and ready. My perfect wife, my everything.”

You weren't even sure if his feet were touching the ground anymore as the hallway blurred past, his excitement thrumming audibly through his ribcage.

Remmick kicked the bedroom door open with his foot.

Laid you down gentle on the vast four-poster bed, your soft mattress sighing a welcome under your weight. The cool Egyptian cotton sheets felt impeccable against your skin.

He blurred then, clothes vanishing in a whirlwind. Shirt unbuttoned and flung, slacks kicked aside, suspenders dangling forgotten. He was naked in literal seconds, chest heaving in anticipation.

He turned to you deliberate, taking his time undressing, fingers reverent against the linen of your sundress. Slid it down your shoulders slowly, peeling fabric from sweat-damp skin, exposing breasts heavy and leaking faint, stomach looking even fuller somehow.

“Goddamn beautiful,” he breathed, a worshipping gaze raking every curve. “Look at ya laid out like this—tits full, belly round perfection, pussy still glistenin’ from me. Most gorgeous thing I ever seen, darlin’. Made for carryin’ my young, for takin’ my cock deep.”

He slipped your espadrilles free gently, kissing up from feet to thighs.

He grabbed the wedge pillows from beside: one under your lower back, another under your knees, and a third to prop up your head. He adjusted you with a quiet fuss, hands smoothing the fabric for no good reason.

Finally, Remmick took off his underwear, shoving them down his legs, cock springing free with a heavy bounce. He was oozing precum nonstop, fat beads welling through his slit, dribbling ropey down his veined shaft. Even under his stretched-taut extra skin, his vascularity remained savagely defined.

Like clockwork, he fell into another obsessive ramble. Kneeling at the edge of the bed, stroking himself lazily while eyes devoured.

“Fuck, sugar—ya look like a goddess, all swollen and needy for me. Wanna fuck ya so bad, bury this cock in that molten heat, make ya feel good—better than ever. Stretch ya wide, hit that spot till ya squirt again. Gonna fill ya full, breed ya even deeper now. Swear, darlin’, gonna make sure we see our little girl today—push her so close with how good I fuck ya.”

Remmick shoved himself inside you—bottoming out with just one thrust, girth splitting your walls with an obscene stretch. He swallowed your moans with a filthy kiss. Fanged and drooling and open-tongued, his tongue attempting to fuck your mouth in a mimic of what was happening below.

“Fuck—,” he groaned through the kiss, hips snapping with a punishing rhythm. “Pussy squeezin’ me just like this, all wet and hot and perfect. Feel that, sweetheart? Cock kissin’ yer cervix, grindin’ that spot—gonna make ya come so hard.” He pulled back for a moment, letting a saliva string follow him down to your throat as he began to bruise.

“Walls already—milkin’ me greedy. Best feeling in the world, darlin’. Gonna ruin ya for anyone else—fuck—takin’ every inch like I knew you would.”

He pounded into you relentlessly, hips a pistoning blur, slap-slap-slap reverberating against every surface of the bedroom, precum-slick churning froth at base.

His hands bracing your belly, the other pinching your nipple, coaxing nectar he’d lap up mid-thrust greedily. His fangs constantly grazed your collarbone, kissing sloppy trails down your sternum.

“Tell me how good m’doing,” Remmick begged between praises. “Pussy feels like paradise—grippin’ so tight, suckin’ me deeper. Gonna flood ya baby, paint yer walls white—give our girl a siblin’.”

He shifted his angle wickedly then, drawing a guttural cry out of you.

Your moans blended with his bestial growls, the smell of sex filling every inch of the room, sheets tangling between your thighs.

He railed you endless, promises spilling between every lunge.

“Would knot ya if I could, sugar.”

“Wanna lock my cum inside ya forever.”

“Gonna keep y’like this for so long ya forget what not being pregnant is like.”

You knew he meant every single one.

“I—fuck—I’m close,” you stammered, the words fracturing on the tail end of a particularly devastating thrust. Your walls clenched involuntarily around his invading thickness, as the coil low in your belly wound tighter, heat licking up your spine in merciless waves.

Remmick’s rhythm never faltered for a heartbeat—absolutely wrecking, relentless and unforgiving, hips snapping forward in that piston-like drive that split your soaked folds open again and again, his cock dragging every pronounced ridge and pulsing vein along your hypersensitive inner walls with filthy devastation.

The vulgar orchestration of slaps and smacks and squelches filled the sunlit bedroom alongside your shared, ragged gasps and the creak of the four-poster bedframe straining under the onslaught.

Yet even through the raw savagery of his pace, his voice dipped into something earnestly gentle, breath hitching soft and vulnerable against the shell of your ear as he leaned in impossibly close.

“Okay, okay, darlin’—fuck, yeah, I feel it,” he rambled fervent, words tumbling out in a breathless cascade, his unyielding thrusts continuing to press you into the mattress without mercy. “Yer squeezin’ me so goddamn tight—like ya can’t get enough. I’m right there with ya, sugar. Can we—shit, please—come together? Flood that pretty pussy same time ya drench me? Wanna feel ya milk every drop—please?”

His touch remained impossibly tender amidst the chaos—one broad hand cushioning the underside of your stomach, fingers splayed wide to support and soothe the taut skin where your daughter kicked frantic flurries in response to the rhythm. The other hand stroked sweat-damp tendrils of hair from your forehead with aching gentleness, callused thumb tracing your temple in slow, grounding circles.

His lips peppered your cheek with soft, lingering kisses, fangs grazing harmlessly over your earlobe in a scrape that sent shivers racing down your neck, his breath a warm, honeyed plea.

“Y-yes,” you gasped out, the affirmation dissolving into a broken whine as another deep plunge kissed your cervix with bruising bliss, your walls clamping down in a spasm that had him groaning low. “Together—oh god, Remmick—”

Tears spilled sudden and unchecked down his pale cheeks—silvery tracks glistening in the afternoon light filtering through gauzy curtains, his blown crimson eyes now shimmering with raw, vulnerable emotion as centuries of isolation cracked wide open. His pace became even harder in response—thrusts turning fractionally erratic, deeper, cock swelling impossibly thicker mid-plunge, the fat head battering your deepest barriers while veins throbbed hot against every inch.

“Goddamn, darlin’,” he sobbed openly, forehead pressing against yours, tears dripping onto your chest.

“Waited so fuckin’ long for this—nights bleedin’ into nothin’, achin’ for a real heartbeat against mine. Here I am now, buried to the hilt in the only other woman who’s ever made me feel alive, makin’ our girl with ya, buildin’ somethin’ eternal. Exactly where I wanna be—need to be. Gonna keep ya forever, sugar—you, her, and every baby we make after. Fill this manor wall-to-wall with our blood, laughter echoin’ halls, little feet patterin’ everywhere. Mine. Ours. Fuck, love ya—love—”

Somehow, each thrust became more methodical. Shallow teases at the outset, withdrawing just enough for the head to pop free with a wet schlick and grind insistently against your clit. Then a single devastating plunge slamming home balls-deep with a resonant thud, holding there to rotate his hips in filthy, cervix-kissing circles. The pattern repeated with a hypnotic, creative cruelty.

Precum flooded constant now—hot, voluminous spurts jetting from his slit to paint your cervix in sticky prelude, slickening your passage into a frictionless glide. Your nipples throbbed with neglected ache, breasts leaking lazy rivulets of sweet nectar that trailed sticky paths down your ribs. He chased one errant drop mid-thrust with a tongue-lash, fangs scraping faint as he hummed in delight.

“Feel that, sugar? Hittin’ ya perfect—gonna make it last. Waited lifetimes, ain’t rushin’ heaven.” Remmick’s babble hiccuped through fresh sobs, tears flowing freer now, one splashing your parted lips for you to taste salt mingled with his spit from earlier kisses.

You had no control over your body anymore, pussy clenching frantically around him, squirts coating his thighs and the sheets beneath.

Pleasure fractured into endless waves and swells, your clit throbbing under his thumb, g-spot swollen to rutted ecstasy that bordered pain. Your breaths synced ragged—his cock twitching violent warning flares deep inside, your thighs quaking vise-grip around his hips.

The precipice held no longer as Remmick’s thumb delivered one last rolling pinch to your clit, twisting with diabolical precision that sent lightning jagged through every nerve. Deep inside, his cock throbbed with violent urgency, nudging your cervix in teasing half-grinds.

His tear-streaked face hovered mere inches from yours, eyes locked in a desperate, soul-baring intensity, babbles fracturing into a sob-choked mantra. “Now, darlin’—c’mon, gimme everythin’—please—”

“It’s—time!” you shouted, the cry shredding raw from your throat like shattered glass as the dam finally burst.

Your orgasm hit without mercy, erupting from your core and radiating outward in shockwaves that made you see stars, walls clamping down around his girth, convulsing in rhythmic, milking pulses that dragged a guttural sound from the depths of his chest.

Squirts erupted violent and immediate—hot, forceful floods soaking your joined seam with ferocity, absolutely soaking him, matting the coarse hair at his base, drenching your trembling thighs and the supportive pillows beneath in a pooling torrent that spread dark across the sheets. Your body arched off the mattress like a drawn bowstring, belly rippling with uncontrollable contractions, thighs quaking in uncontrollable tremors that locked him.

Remmick shattered in sync, his own release flooding you thick and seemingly endless, the first spurt a volcanic surge painting your cunt in a blistering heat, bloating your walls instant with viscous fullness. “Fuck—yes, take it—all of it!” he hollered, voice cracking, rutting through the deluge.

His cock pulsed with immense jet after jet that he chased with savage snaps forward, churning the creamy overflow that bubbled with every plunge. He just couldn’t stop—wouldn’t stop, pace turning even more wrecking in a frenzied abandon, heavy balls contracting visibly as they drew up tight to pump more in relentless barrages. “Takin’ it so good—milkin’ me fuckin’ dry—yer so perfect, sugar, squeezin’ like ya never wanna let go!”

The warm, voluminous pulses bloated you fuller by the second, excess cum squirting back out with each withdrawal, mixing with your own floods into a slippery puddle that spread bed-wide, soaking the Egyptian cotton to translucence and dripping off the edge onto the hardwood floor.

“Ours now—our family—fuck, I love ya, love this—” He rutted like a beast unchained, fangs fully bared in a snarling mask of ecstasy, thick drool spilling from parted lips to land hot on your leaking breasts.

Your release blissfully mirrored his, squirts hosing continuously in forceful jets that arced high to splatter his abdomen and the headboard. Moans devolved to pure animal—shrieks pitching into desperate cracks, nails raking bloody marks down his back that healed near instantly, heels bruising his ass as you bucked wild to meet every slam.

He chased every last quiver and aftershock with brutal, overstimulated grinds that wrung fresh whimpers from your spent body. The froth whipped to airy peaks now, sheets sodden beneath you, the air thickened to choking with a salty-sweet primal mix.

Remmick finally collapsed forward with a shattered groan—burying his face in the crook of your neck, cock still twitching spent and softening deep inside, one final lazy dribble pulsing into your flooded channel. His breaths heaved wrecked against your skin— “Beautiful... my perfect girls... forever...”

But the liquid kept coming.

A rush. An unending, steady, insistent flow pooling fresh beneath you, soaking thighs and pillows anew in a flood that didn’t taper.

You shook him frantically, hand fisting sweat-matted dark hair to yank his head up. “Remmick—my water just broke!”

He jerked upright instantaneously, eyes flaring wide with manic, triumphant joy, hands thrown skyward in victorious exaltation as all that spent energy surged back electric, vigor reigniting in a full, blazing inferno.

“Yes! Promised ya we’d see our girl today, didn’t I?”

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