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[lastpeachonearth]

PEACH, 18, she/her, afrolatina, multifandom

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CLARK KENT AND SWEETHEART-ROOMMATE

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[lastpeachonearth]

* INTEREST LIST - feel free to leave an ask about these characters/fandoms

MARVEL

- Peter Parker

- Yelena Belova

- Tony Stark

- Joaquin Torres

- Johnny Storm

DC

- Clark Kent

- Bruce Wayne

THE PITT

- Jack Abbot

- Mel King

- Michael “Robby” Robinavitch

- Dennis Whitaker

STRANGER THINGS

- Steve Harrington

- Mike Wheeler

MISC.

- Anakin Skywalker (Star Wars)

- Scott Miller (Twisters)

- Dave Lizewski (Kick Ass)

- Winchester Brothers (Supernatural)

- Remmick (Sinners)

- Luke Castellan (Percy Jackson)

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[oxalaia-quilombensis]

snowed in

word count: 8.1k

summary: you hated jack, and you were positive he hated you too. two broken down cars and one blizzard bring the truth to the surface.

warnings: no age gap :(, med student!jack and med student!reader, I'm imagining they're both 26 and in the last year of med school, forced proximity, one sided e2l, there's only one bed! oh no!, cuddle or die, jack is kind of a dick , reader thinks jack is gonna kill her, don't worry he's just hopelessly in love, jack calls reader a bitch, love confessions, getting together, wearing jack's clothes, spooning, grinding, fingering, kissing, hickies, accidental somnophilia, dry humping, unprotected sex, big dick jack, belly bulge, creampie, mating press, sex in a strangers home

author's note: idfk what time period this is set in, im just here to sexualize this man

we're playing fast and loose with how both med school works and jack lore. I'm back to spreading my 'jacks legal first name is John' agenda. also, I barely know how undergrad works, since I am a drop out! suspend your disbelief, my more educated mutuals

There’s no way the universe should be this insistent on fucking you over.

Your shitbox of a car died a day before you were set to present your research at a conference in upstate New York in the middle of January. It was the biggest opportunity of your medical school career so far, and was going to secure your residency. But you couldn’t afford to fix it or buy plane tickets and there was no bus that could get you from Pittsburgh to Syracuse in time.

So when your program advisor called you into his office to say he found another student driving to the conference that would be willing to carpool, you nearly jumped for joy. Until the next words out of his mouth put a bullet in the brain of your newfound hope.

“-Jack Abbot! You’ve met him, right? You’re in the same year.”

Yes, you had met Jack Abbot. Several, miserable times. 

Every interaction you’d had with Jack ended with you seething and him smirking. He seemed to be addicted to pushing your buttons every chance he could.

But you didn’t have a choice. And you’d definitely made sure to verify that Jack was your only option. You must have asked every other student you had classes with, but they were either flying or not going at all. So you were stuck with him.

Stuck in the confined space of the cab of his small truck, side by side on the bench seat, for five and a half hours.

Everything about him pissed you off. His perfect curls were irritating, especially since you were sure he used 15-in-1 soap to wash it, the woodsy scent of his aftershave made every breath feel agonizing, and the way his legs were spread wide was obscene. It was his car, you had no right to complain that he was taking up so much space. But god did you wish he was cowering against the door like you were. You wished he put more space between the two of you, but the small cab left about a foot between you, even with you folding your body into the farthest corner your seatbelt allowed. It was entirely too close for comfort.

You’d made it a point to avoid looking at him as much as possible since this disastrous ride had begun 2 hours ago. So far, you’ve managed to mostly succeed, focusing on the falling snow and the freezing scenery outside. But you felt his eyes on you every few miles. His gaze was hot whenever it landed on you. You could feel it, even through your thick sweatshirt and jeans. 

But Jack didn’t say anything. He hadn’t said a single word since you’d met him in front of your apartment building at 1 pm and loaded up your bags into the covered bed. It was unusual for him. Normally, he liked to goad you into a reaction, sending barbs your way constantly. So the silence unnerved you. You didn’t know how to exist in a space with Jack Abbot when you weren’t on the defensive.

And then the universe decided to fuck you even harder.

The snow was falling even harder as Jack pulled off the freeway and onto a smaller back road. You wanted to question him, but you didn’t want to be the one to break the silence. Plus, you didn’t know where you were. For all you knew, Jack had driven through this area a thousand times before. 

But the farther you got down the road, the heavier the snow was getting and the slower Jack was driving. You hadn’t seen another car or building for the past 30 minutes and the plows clearly weren’t running out here. 

And then - truly the cherry on top- the engine started sputtering.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Jack braked hard, the tires slipping slightly as he pulled off the road onto the shoulder.

“What the fuck?” You looked over at him for the first time in an hour.

Jack threw the truck in park before he was grabbing his coat. “Stay here.”

Where the fuck did he think you were going to go? You were in the middle of nowhere, in the middle of a snowstorm. The cab of the truck was pleasantly warm, and the burst of cold air when Jack opened his door convinced you even more that you were not going to get out.

You watched him round the front. He popped the hood of the truck, hiding him from view. What the hood didn’t hide, though, was the cloud of smoke that billowed out.

“Oh fuck me,” there was no way you were making it to the convention. You checked your phone. No service. Of course.

The hood slammed shut and you jumped, looking up to watch Jack walk back around to the drivers side. He slid back in, shutting the door hard behind him and scrubbing a hand over his face. 

“We’re fucked.”

“What are we going to do?” You chewed on your bottom lip as you looked at the land around you. “I do not want to die of hypothermia in your shitty truck.”

“My truck isn’t shitty,” he sounded like a petulant child.

“It just fucking died on us,” you leveled a glare at him. “I’d say that makes it shitty.”

He grumbled something under his breath.

Both of you sat in silence for a moment.

“We need to find somewhere to shelter,” Jack was looking out the windows.

“There is nothing out - ”

“There,” he was pointing into the trees at something that you could not see. Everything blended together in the dim lighting and haze of falling snow.

“What?”

“There,” Jack started gathering a few things scattered around. His phone, his water bottle, and the keys made the cut, all being stuffed into the pocket of his heavy duty coat. “There’s a cabin.”

“Bullshit there's a cabin. I don’t see anything,” you really didn’t. All you could see was a mass of black and gray and green.

“There is,” he opened his door again. “Are you coming or are you going to freeze to death here?”

There wasn’t much of a choice. You could already feel the chill creeping in through the thin glass of the windows now that the engine was dead. You could follow Jack into the woods and either find shelter or freeze to death in the snow, or stay in the truck and freeze to death in the carcass of his shitbox.

No matter what, the threat of hypothermia was real and, even though you weren’t officially a doctor yet, you knew the risks. So you gave one last long suffering sigh, and opened your door. 

You were immediately thankful you’d put leggings on beneath your jeans that morning. The temperature change slapped you in the face as soon as you stepped out into the ankle deep snow.

Jack was rifling through the bed of the truck, pulling out his duffel bag. You watched him hesitate for a minute, before abandoning the garment bag containing the suit he’d packed. You tried not to think about just how good he’d look in a formal get up.

“Grab your shit,” Jack was pulling on a pair of gloves. His cheeks were already rosy from the freezing wind. “We’ve gotta get there fast.”

You gathered your things, yanking your own gloves and coat out of your bag. You left your own garment bag containing the gown you’d thrifted for the final banquet in the bed alongside the covered poster board for your research. It was going to be ruined if you and Jack ever made it back to the truck alive, given that there was not a chance you’d be making it to the conference, you didn’t bother trying to save it.

“Lead the way,” you slung your bag over your shoulder, pulling the hood up over your head to try and shield you as much as possible from the chill.

Jack led you across the frozen road and down into the treeline. The snow came up to mid calf, soaking your feet through your boots. Very quickly, you started to shiver, trying to curl into yourself as you walked.

You were both grateful and pissed to see the shape of the cabin come into view. You needed to get warm, but you did not want to admit Jack was right. 

It took about 20 minutes for you to reach the front porch. By now, the snow was falling so hard that you couldn’t see the road or the truck through the haze.

“C’mon, c’mon,” Jack tried the door handle, sighing with relief when it swung open. 

The inside of the cabin was simple. About the same size as your studio apartment back in Pittsburgh. It was dark, but you could see a fireplace against one wall, across from a full sized bed. There was a small kitchenette and a small bathroom you could see through a half open door. The whole place was dusty and looked like it hadn’t been used since last summer, but it would have to do.

Both you and Jack tumbled in. It was cold, but at least the sturdy wooden walls kept the wind chill out.

“You got a lighter?” Jack was already moving towards the fireplace, inspecting a few of the logs piled next to it. He seemed to approve of a few of them, piling them up.

“Yeah, here,” you fished a lighter out of your jacket pocket, tossing it to him as you set your bag down on the bed. 

You watched him for a moment. He shed his coat, pushing the sleeves of his sweatshirt up as he set a few scraps of newspaper alight. With a gentle few breaths, he grew the flame before placing it under the pile of logs he’d formed in the fireplace. It took a moment, but gradually the flames grew until there was a bright, flickering fire lighting up the small room. 

You could feel the warmth it was putting off starting to seep into you, but it wasn’t enough. Your coat was still on, but you were shivering beneath it. 

Jack noticed, doing a double take over his shoulder when he saw you still standing by the bed.

“Come over here.”

“I’m fine,” your voice was unsteady.

“You need to get warm,” Jack was untying his boots, digging through his bag for a new pair of socks as he discarded the damp pair he’d been wearing. “You’re gonna get frostbite.”

“No, I’m not,” but you were moving towards him, crossing the small room to stand beside him in front of the fireplace.

“Take off your clothes.”

You looked over at Jack like he’d grown a second head, ready to tell him off. But the words died in your throat when you saw he was stripping his shirt and hoodie off, leaving him bare from the waist up. You froze for a moment, eyes wide and brain buffering, until his hands grabbed for the zipper of his jeans.

“What the fuck?!” You spun around, trying to will your blush away.

“We need to get into dry clothes and get warm,” the shuffling sounds of his clothes hitting the floor was tempting you to turn around. You wanted just a little peak.

“I’ll be fine.”

“No, you won’t.”

And then Jack’s hands were at your waist, pulling up your sweatshirt.

“Woah!” You spun away from him, putting distance between you and begging your heart to slow down its rapid beating.

“I’m not letting you blame me when your toes fall off,” Jack crossed his arms over his chest. He’d changed into a plain black t-shirt, gray sweatpants, and thick wool socks. God damn it, he looked good. “I won’t look, but you need to change.”

“Fine,” you walked back towards your bag. “Don’t look.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Jack’s eyes raked over you once before he was turning back to face the fire.

You moved quickly, stripping out of your layers. You’d been planning on being in a nice, cosy hotel and convention center, tucked safely away from the cold, so you’d only brought jeans, slacks, and your comfortable sleep shorts. Tight, spandex shorts that left very little to the imagination. The leggings you wore under your jeans were soaked up to the thighs with melted snow and unwearable.

So you grabbed your most modest shorts, although ‘modest’ was a stretch. They were tight and short, covered completely by the oversized crewneck you pulled on after. You didn’t have too many options for socks, stuck with a relatively thin pair of white ankle length ones. Your nice, insulating ones were soaked from your trek through the snow.

“Is it safe yet?”

You glanced over at Jack, silhouetted against the fire. His shoulders looked a hell of a lot broader than you’d realized, the muscles of his arms standing out. God fucking damnit.

“Yeah, it’s safe,” you cleared your throat, looking away from him as you moved your bag away from the bed, setting it on the floor by the nightstand.

“That’s what you’re wearing to not freeze?”

His judgmental tone made you bristle, reminding your traitorous mind that you did, in fact, hate this man.

“I didn’t have a lot of options,” you unnecessarily straightened your duffel, looking anywhere but at him. “I didn’t plan for you to get us stranded in the fucking woods. I packed for a fancy hotel and a conference, which is where we would be if you didn’t try to kill us.”

“I didn’t try to kill us,” he scoffed. You risked a glance at him. He was digging through his own bag. “I took a shortcut to go around the traffic on the interstate. Here.” 

He wadded up a pair of flannel pants and threw them at you. You caught them, trying not to take a deep breath. They smelled like detergent and that addicting smell of his cologne.

“These are fucking ugly,” the idea of wearing his clothes and being stuck in such a small space with him triggered your fight or flight instinct. Seeing as flight wasn’t a reasonable option with a blizzard outside, you decided to fight. 

“By all means,” Jack rolled his eyes. “Freeze to death because my pants are ugly. I’d finally get some peace and quiet.”

“The fuck do you mean ‘peace and quiet’? I didn’t say a fucking thing the whole car ride!”

“Yeah, and it was fantastic.”

Grumbling to yourself about what a dick he was, you gave in. You were fully aware he was trying to get you to wear the stupid pants. You could sacrifice your pride to put them on and deny him the satisfaction of you going silent.

“Maybe if I’d said something, we wouldn’t be stuck here,” you tugged the god awful pants up over your shorts, having to double know the waistband to keep them up around your hips.

“Oh so you agree, this is your fault,” Jack looked smug. He sat down on the rug in front of the fireplace, his legs spread out before him. His feet were blisteringly close to the flames. You hoped his stupid socks caught on fire.

“How is this my fault? I didn’t tell you to drive off the main road in the middle of a snowstorm. This is your fault,” begrudgingly, you made your way towards him. You sat down 3 feet away from him, relishing the wave of heat that greeted you once you were close to the fire. The rest of the space was slowly warming up, but the cold still seeped in through the fogged over windows and wooden walls.

“Well I wouldn’t be stuck out here if I didn’t have to drive you to this stupid convention,” Jack leaned back on his palms. He looked calm and relaxed, and that made you even more irritated.

“Oh, so you only took this backroad because of me,” you stretched out your hands to warm your frigid fingers. “Glad you admitted this was attempted murder.”

“‘Attempted murder’ my ass,” he shook his head, narrowing his eyes. His gaze scanned you from head to toe. You told yourself the shiver that ran through your body was from the cold. “I would be nice and cosy in my apartment if it wasn’t for you.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“I only agreed to go to the conference because you needed a ride.”

“Bullshit,” you scoffed. That didn’t make any sense. Why the hell would Jack do that? He’d been a massive dick since you met him. Every group project or hospital rotation you ended up on with him was hell. He pushed your buttons, poking and prodding at you with sharp little quips until you snapped.

Jack didn’t say anything. He turned his face back towards the fire, focusing on the flickering flames.

“Jack…?”

He stayed silent. 

You didn’t know what to say. You were confused. He hates you, so why would he agree to be locked in a car with you for an extended amount of time. Maybe he truly did want to lure you out into the woods and kill you. 

But why? Sure, you were classmates, both competing for residency spots in a technical sense, but that wasn’t strictly true. It pained you to admit it, but Jack was in a league of his own. He was smart. Annoyingly so. He was constantly at the top of your class, leading test scores by a mile. You weren’t stupid, not at all, but Jack was something else. You weren’t competition for him.

“Did you…” How do you ask a classmate if he planned to kill you? You swallowed hard, suddenly very nervous. “Did you bring me out here to - to get rid - ”

“Jesus Christ, [name],” he finally looked at you again, sitting up and resting his elbows on his outstretched legs. He looked horrified. “You think I agreed to drive you, took a shortcut, and sabotaged my truck to - to what? Kill you?”

“Then why did you agree to drive me?” You couldn’t wrap your head around it.

“Just drop it, ok?” He scrubbed a hand down his face, rubbing at his jaw and looking away.

“Just doesn’t make sense,” you were mumbling. You scanned him, reading the tension in his shoulders.

“Drop. It.” This was the most emotion you’d seen him exhibit in all four years you’d been in school together. His jaw was clenched.

In the flickering light, it was hard to tell if his cheeks were flushed from the rising heat of the fire or if he was actually blushing.

“No, I’m not going to drop it,” you finally had a chance to push his buttons, but you also wanted to know why he’d go out of his way to drive 12+ hours round trip if he wasn’t presenting or trying to network at the conference. “It doesn’t make sense.”

“I like you, alright?” He buried his face in his hands. “I’ve liked you for years. I wanted to do something nice for you. I wanted to spend time with you. I like being near you, I like talking to you when you’re not being a bitch - ”

“Don’t you fucking dare call me a bitch, Jack Abbot,” you were still trying to process his confession, the wheels in your brain turning at a snails pace.

“Fuck, fuck, you’re right. I’m so sorry, I’m fucking this up,” Jack took a deep breath, lifting his head to look at you. His expression was pained. “I like talking to you when you’re not trying to piss me off, and even when you are, I still enjoy it. You’re smart, you’re gorgeous - incredibly gorgeous. And we’re about to graduate soon, we’re both leaving for residency in a few months and I couldn’t - I couldn’t not say anything.”

You didn’t know how to respond. Jack paused for a moment at your silence, but then he carried on like he couldn’t stop.

“I practiced this whole little speech for the gala at the end of the weekend,” he laughed sardonically, running a hand through his curls. “I was gonna pull you to the side, somewhere pretty and romantic and tell you how amazing I thought you were, how beautiful you looked in whatever dress you brought. I was gonna ask you out on a date when we got back to Pittsburgh. And then I fucked it up. I swear, I didn’t know my truck was going to die.”

He was definitely blushing now. “And I didn’t take a shortcut. I went the long way around to get more time with you since I knew you’d ignore me as soon as we got to the hotel. But I really was trying to avoid traffic on the interstate! I just didn’t expect it to start snowing so hard.”

For a second, you were quiet. You still didn’t know how to respond, but words fell from your lips before you could stop them.

“The car ride back would have been awkward as fuck if I said no.”

Jack laughed, eyes crinkling as he shook his head. 

“Yeah, it would have been,” he sobered up, hope sparking in his eyes. “But I was willing to risk the humiliation if there was a chance you’d give me a shot.”

Would you have given him a shot? You didn’t know. For years you’d been so insistent that you hated him, but you couldn’t deny that you’d been attracted to him since day 1. You’d noticed him immediately at orientation, but you hadn’t gotten a chance to speak to him until the first randomly assigned group project in your cadaver lab. He’d been a know-it-all, correcting your technique with a scalpel, raising one of those condescending eyebrows and judging every move you’d made. It rubbed you the wrong way, and clouded your perception of him.

You’d written him off after that, but the two of you kept being forced together. Same professor assigned group projects, similar friend circles, same hospital rotations. Every interaction just reinforced your view of him. It pissed you off every time you caught him staring at you, every time he sat next to you in lectures, asked to share your notes, when he poked and prodded and teased you.

But everything looked very different with the knowledge that he’d been into you since the beginning. Now, he looked less like a piece of shit that wanted to torment you and more like a lovesick puppy that wanted your attention. Either way, it wasn’t a flattering look for him, but the latter option was much more forgivable than the former.

“So?”

You jumped, ripped out of your thoughts to find Jack staring at you again. 

“So…?”

“Do I get a chance?” He looked terrified of what your response would be.

“I - ” you didn’t know. Your mind was spinning, trying to parse out your feelings and figure out exactly how you were feeling about the situation.

“It’s ok if you don’t feel the same way,” his hand ran through his hair again, tugging at his curls as he went. “I get it, I’ve been a dick - ”

“No - I mean, yes you have been, but,” you took a deep breath. “I - I don’t know. I had no clue you felt this way. I’m just… trying to process this.”

“Ok, yeah, yeah that’s ok,” Jack was nodding, his eyes fixed on the floor. “Yeah, I mean, you don’t owe me an answer. And you can say no.”

He laughed again, but it was gruff and self deprecating.

“I swear I’m not going to kill you if you say no.”

“Gee, that makes me feel so much better.”

Both of you were quiet for a moment, and then you burst out laughing. A real laugh, not the sad imitation Jack had let out previously. You felt hysterical, the situation did not call for the intensity of the laughter spilling from you, but it did help to diffuse the tension that had been rising in the confined space.

When you were able to calm yourself, both of you gasping for breath and staring into the flames, your thoughts turned back to everything. You were hesitant to just accept, still struggling to reframe the last 3 ½ years now that you had more context. But you were curious. 

“If we live,” you broke the silence that had fallen over the room. “If we make it out of this fucking murder cabin, I’ll give you a chance.”

Jack snorted, a smile tugging at his lips.

“Then we better survive.”

The two of you sat there in front of the fire for a few more hours, passing bags of chips and candies back and forth, trying to make the time go by and conserve the batteries of your phones. You drifted in and out of conversation and silence. Surprisingly, you found yourself enjoying talking to him. For the first time since you’d been introduced, you had a pleasant conversation. Neither of you brought up his confession or your tentative acceptance.

Instead, you asked about him. And you learned a lot, shockingly. You knew the basics; he was a few months older than you, he was too smart for his own good, and he’d sold his soul to the Army and would be doing his residency at a military hospital. You almost envied the fact that he got to skip the stress of match day. Almost. You would absolutely not trade that stress in exchange for the next 10 years of your life.

Jack was from Maryland, and he was getting to go back to do his residency at Walter Reed. You saw his eyes light up with hope when you told him your first choice for residency was John Hopkins, but he didn’t say anything. You’d be pretty damn close to each other if you got lucky, but you didn’t dwell on that.

His first name was actually John, and he looked disgusted by it, but his expression softened when you laughed after he revealed he was actually John Andrew Abbot III. You pretended not to notice that, too.

You shared information of your own, also. Jack smiled when you told him about your childhood pets. He laughed when you told him silly stories from undergrad. He stayed quiet, letting you speak when you shared about struggling to make ends meet while still in school.

It endeared you but also pissed you off that he knew just how to react. He was empathetic and sweet when he wasn’t pushing your buttons.

You liked talking to Jack, you realized. You liked getting to know him.

The two of you had started yawning about an hour ago, but neither of you were ready to stop talking. It was only when the conversation finally lulled and you found yourself fighting against your increasingly heavy eyelids.

“We should get some sleep,” Jack was pushing himself up from the floor, dusting off his hands and sweats as he went. He extended a hand to you, and you found yourself not hesitating to take it, allowing him to pull you to your feet. His hand was warm and steady, and you found yourself fighting off a twinge of disappointment when he let go. “You can take the bed.”

“What? No,” there was only one bed in the one room cabin. It was so small, there wasn’t even room for a couch. The only other furniture in the space was a small kitchen table and two chairs, and a beaten up armchair covered by a thin white sheet. “Where are you going to sleep?”

He shrugged, shifting his duffel closer and moving the clothes in it around until he seemed satisfied with the shape. “Here, in front of the fire. I can make sure it keeps going all night.”

“No,” you grabbed his arm, stopping him from moving towards a small linen closet neither of you had bothered to peek into so far. “No, you’re not sleeping on the floor. We…” 

He raised an eyebrow, gaze flicking between your face and your hand still holding onto his bicep. You let go, taking a step back.

“We can share the bed,” you glanced over your shoulder. The bed was small, probably full sized. Just barely big enough to fit the two of you, although you’d have to scoot pretty close to the edge to avoid touching. 

“I’m not complaining about sharing a bed with you,” Jack looked at the bed too. “I think I’ve made myself clear about that - ”

You swallowed hard. You hadn’t let yourself think about that aspect of his confession. In fact, you’d beaten it back into the shadowy corners of your mind as aggressively as you could. You wouldn’t survive however long your confinement was going to be if you let yourself think about the more physical implications of Jack being into you.

 He looked down at you. The light from the fire was dancing across the planes of his face, knocking the breath out of your lungs with how ethereal he looked. He was handsome everyday, but he looked unreal in this lighting. 

“ - but I don’t want to make you uncomfortable. You haven’t told me how you feel, and you haven’t agreed to go out with me - not that that means you have to… y’know…” he seemed to be struggling to find the words. He was blushing again. “Be… be that close to me.”

“I - ” you paused, searching for the right words. You really were starting to be willing to give him a chance, especially with how well your conversations had gone. And yes, fine, maybe you’d been physically attracted to him from the beginning, but when you’d found yourself in moments of weakness before, you’d imagined any sort of physical or intimate encounter being… well, not nearly so emotionally charged. In those late night fantasies, it was rough, aggressive, something born out of hate and frustration. But now, he looked nervous, his eyes soft and apprehensive. You once again didn’t know how to handle this type of interaction with him. 

So, you decided to be an adult about it. For fucks sake, you were 26. You could share a bed with a man who just confessed he’d been in love with you for years and who you’d been fantasizing about for just as long.

You cleared your throat, taking your hand off his arm. “We can share a bed without… without it being anything more.”

“Right, right, of course,” Jack let out a breath. “As long as you’re ok, then yeah.”

“Yeah,” you were a big fat liar. “It’ll be fine.”

So the two of you got ready for your doom. You gathered your toiletries as Jack threw a few more logs on the fire to hopefully keep it going all night.

The bathroom thankfully had running water, even if the rest of the cabin had no electricity, so you were able to take turns brushing your teeth. You went first, taking many deep breaths and giving yourself a silent pep talk in the small, dark room. 

“All yours!” Your smile and chipper attitude felt forced when you let him have his turn. You sat on the side of the bed with your bag, digging through it, searching for nothing to give your anxious hands something to do.

“You ready for bed?” 

Jack came out of the bathroom, crossing to the other side of the bed and starting to pull back the covers. You stook, giving him a nod and pulling back the ones on your side. Both of you slipped in silently.

“Good night,” Jack rolled over, his back to you, facing the front door.

You followed his lead, turning your back to him and trying to snuggle in underneath the thin blankets. “Good night.”

Jack’s pants and the residual warmth in your clothes from sitting in front of the fire for so long helped lull you to sleep, and quickly, you found yourself falling under.

When you woke, it was to a warm presence at your back and freezing air nipping at the exposed skin of your face. It was completely dark in the room, no light coming in through the windows or from the now extinguished fireplace.

You pushed back, chasing the heat behind you. That’s when you became aware of several things at once. 

That warmth behind you was Jack. The entire length of his body was pressed against yours and his arms were wrapped tightly around your waist, one above and one below, keeping you firmly in place. Those arms were underneath your sweatshirt, one palm resting just below your breasts and the other right above the waistband of your borrowed pants. His face was nuzzled in the crook of your neck, breath hot against the sensitive skin.

You tried to shift, to move out of his hold and restart the fire so that you didn’t have to confront exactly how hot the skin on skin contact was making you deep inside.

Jack didn’t let you move, though. His arm tightened around you, tugging you back against him even more firmly. That was when you really felt him. The hard length of his cock was pressed against your ass.

He was still asleep, but that didn’t stop his hips from grinding forward. You gasped, clenching your thighs together. Involuntarily, you pressed back against him again. His hand shifted up, sliding over your breast and loosely squeezing the flesh.

“Jack,” your voice was quiet and broken around another gasp as he pushed his length against your ass again.

He mumbled something incoherent, before squeezing your breast again. The hand on your stomach dipped lower, his fingers just beginning to slide underneath your bottoms.

You were existing between sleep and waking, half convinced this was some sort of extremely vivid dream.Your pulse was racing, hips pushing back to meet his at every sleepy movement. Both of you were breathing harder, the cold seemingly beaten back by the rising heat between you. 

“[Name],” you could just barely make out the slurred groan of your name breathed against your neck. It sparked even more heat in your core to hear him say your name.

“Jack?”

God, you sounded fucked out already. Jack’s hand was pushing even farther into your pants and under the shorts you wore beneath.

The first brush of his fingers over your folds had you whining, and that was when Jack finally woke up.

You felt him freeze behind you, his hands tightening on reflex, dragging his fingers through your folds and against your clit. It ripped an embarrassing moan out of you, your hips pushing back against his cock in response to the jolt of pleasure.

“[Name]?” Jack’s voice was sleepy and confused. 

“Jack,” you whined in response.

“Oh fuck,” he pulled back, hands leaving you. “Fuck, I’m so sorry.”

“Wait - ” but Jack wasn’t listening

“Fuck, I told you I wouldn’t try anything, I’m so fucking sorry. That - I can’t believe I did that. Fuck.”

“Jack, stop,” he was sitting up, elbows on his knees and hands in his hair. The heat in you died when you saw him so upset. “Jack, look at me.”

“I’m sorry - ”

“Stop apologizing,” you pushed him flat onto his back, swinging a leg over his hips and leaning over him. Your hair created a curtain, closing the two of you into a little bubble.

“But I - ”

“Shut up!”

And then you kissed him. He froze for a moment, but he quickly melted into you, his hands coming up to grab your waist. He let you lead for a moment, his lips following the slow, languid rhythm you set.

Until your tongue swiped over the seam of his lips. Then, his hold on you tightened and with a firm buck of his hips, he was rolling you onto your back. He settled between your legs, grinding his length against you as his tongue stroked against yours, licking into your mouth and swallowing the noises that leaked out of you. Your hands tangled in his hair, holding him to you.

“Fuck,” Jack pulled back, gasping for air. His forehead rested against yours. “Are you sure - ”

“Yes, I’m fucking sure,” you bucked your hips up against his, tugging on his hair as you did. He groaned, meeting your thrust. “Wanted this for a long time.”

“I thought you hated me,” Jack’s hand was slipping back underneath your sweatshirt to push it up. His thumb dragged over your newly exposed pebbled nipple.

“Yeah, I did,” your back arched, pushing your chest even further into his hand. “Doesn’t mean you’re not hot, though.”

“Yeah?” He was smirking, his lips ghosting over yours. “I’m just that irresistible?”

“Shut the fuck up,” you pressed your lips against his, drawing him into a filthy kiss. You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him back down so you could chase your own pleasure with his body. One of your hands slipped under his shirt, dragging your nails down over his chest and abs.

He moaned, grabbing your hand on his chest and pinning it to the mattress beside your head. He broke the kiss, nipping at your lower lip as he went.

“Unless you want this to end way too soon, you better fucking stop that,” his voice was low and ragged, fingers flexing against your wrist.

“Stop what?” You wanted to both know exactly what was driving him crazy, and to play dumb and rile him up.

“Touching me,” he ducked his head, nipping and sucking at the skin of your neck. “Looking so fucking good underneath me, all of it.”

“See,” you bit back a whimper. “I don’t think you really want me to stop.”

Your back arched and your hips bucked up again as he sucked a dark mark into the skin below your jaw.

“I don’t, but I don’t want to cum in my pants, either,” he moved lower, to a new, unblemished patch of skin. “So either take your pants off or tell me to go take a cold shower.”

“Gotta let go of my hand first,” your teeth dug into your lower lip as he licked a stripe up your neck.

“Are you gonna keep it to yourself?” Jack pulled back to look down at you. You grinned back up at him and he rolled his eyes.

“No.”

He laughed, releasing you and sitting back on his knees between your spread thighs. His hands came down to the drawstring, undoing the bow at lightning speed, pushing the pants down your hips. Jack groaned as your shorts came back into view.

“These little fucking shorts,” he stripped the pants off you, lifting your legs into the air as he did. “Made me hard earlier.”

His hand trailed over your hip, brushing across the fabric until he was stroking a finger over your covered slit. Your teeth bit into your lip even harder to smother the whine that he was drawing out of you.

“You’re fucking soaked,” that little smile tugging at his lips was smug and self satisfied. He pressed into you a little harder, circling your covered clit through the spandex. “Is this all for me?”

“You’re an ass,” your teeth were gritted. Every circle he made had your hips twitching up, little sparks shooting from the light touch.

“I think you like that about me,” Jack’s hand left you for just a minute, long enough for it to slip beneath the waistband of your shorts. For the second time tonight, the first with both of you fully aware, his fingers dipped below your soaking folds.

Jack leaned forward, his unoccupied hand braced against the bed by your head. His eyes fixed on yours, chest heaving as he watched every shift of your face while his hand moved. He was exploring, teasing, fingers wandering through every soaked inch of you, the tips just barely dipping into your entrance and then moving back up to circle your clit.

“Fuck,” you were panting, trying to move your hips against his hand, guiding him to the right spot. But every time his fingers found where you needed him, he’d move them away, smiling as he worked you up.

“Jack, I swear to god, I’ll - ”

“You’ll what? Hmm?” He slowed to a stop, his index and middle finger sandwiching your clit between them, pressing down to keep you from rocking into them and chasing your pleasure. “C’mon, tell me what you’ll do.”

“If you don’t make me cum in the next 2 minutes,” his cocky demeanor made you want to simultaneously punch him and kiss him. You hated it, but it fueled the heat and desire curling low in your stomach. Judging from the hard length of him you can just barely make out through his sweats, he was enjoying it, too. “I’ll never let you touch me again.”

His face fell, hardening into determination. “Is that so?”

“Yes - ”

Jack’s fingers pressed directly against your clit, rapidly drawing tight circles around your clit. It was like an electric shock to your body after so much of his teasing. Your back arched, eyes falling shut as your moans filled the air.

“How’s that? Is that what you wanted?”

“Shut - fuck - shut up!”

You were impossibly close, already wound so tightly that you were dangerously close to snapping beneath him.

“I thought you liked it when I was a dick?” Jack leaned even farther over you, his lips closing around your nipple, flicking the bud with his tongue and scraping over it with his teeth. 

“Stop fucking talking, Jack!” You felt him laugh against your skin, sending vibrations through your breast. 

Your hand tangled in his hair, yanking at the strands. He groaned, switching to your other breast and sucking hard.

You cracked, thighs trying to snap closed around his hand and hips. He didn’t let you, pushing his body even farther into yours to keep them open as he worked you through it. Your legs shook and your hips jerked against his fingers that were still going, drawing even more tremors and cries out of your lips.

You writhed beneath him, forced to let each wave crash over you as Jack held you through it.

“Fuck - no more,” it was nearly impossible to get air into your lungs, but as the sensations died down and overstimulation, Jack backed off.

He pushed back up, easing his hand out of your shorts. He let you breath for a moment, his hands rubbing over your thighs until their trembling slowed to a stop.

“You good?”

“Yeah,” your voice was breathy.

“Can I fuck you now?” 

You cracked your eyes open to look at Jack. There was a small wet patch on his sweats, right over the head of his cock. Fuck, he looked long and thick.

“Yes, please,” your hands found the waistband of your shorts, pushing them down.

Jack laughed, his hands joining yours to help remove the shorts from your legs. 

“I should have made you cum 3 years ago,” he threw the shorts over his shoulder once he got them free from your ankles. “So nice and polite.”

“Shut up and get naked, asshole,” you sat up, reaching for his sweats, tugging them down his hips. 

Suddenly, you were face to face with his cock. He was bigger than you though. The flushed length of his cock slapped against his stomach when it was freed, the leaking head smearing clear fluid against his abs.

You couldn’t help yourself. You leaned forward, licking a stripe up the length from base to tip. The skin was smooth and soft, his cock twitching beneath your touch.

“Fuck!” Jack’s hand grabbed your hair, pulled your head back and away from him as he hissed. “Don’t do that. You’re gonna make me cum.”

“Isn’t that the goal of sex?” You smiled up at him, straining against the hold he had on you to try and get your tongue back on him. 

“Yeah, but I’m trying not to embarrass myself and end this way too soon,” Jack guided you by your hair, easing you down onto your back again. “You can blow me later, right now, I think I might die if I don’t get inside you.”

“Then hurry up,” you lifted your legs, hooking them around his waist and pulling him down onto you.

“Alright, alright,” Jack slipped a hand between your bodies, grabbing himself by the base. You forced yourself to breathe as his tip swiped through your folds, coating his cock in your fluids before he was lining himself up. He pressed in slowly. You felt yourself part around him, your walls stretching around the crown of his head. You were impossibly full, and he was barely in you.

He kept pushing in, both of you panting and looking down, eyes locked on where you were joined. You didn’t think you could take anymore, but he kept going, your walls sucking him in and pulling him into your depths.

“Fuck,” your head dropped back when he bottomed out. He ground forward, staying fully seated inside you and letting you adjust.

“Oh shit,” Jack sat up between your legs, hands gripping your hips, keeping them pressed fully against his. The shift in angle had you keening. “Look at that.”

Your eyes cracked open, trying to figure out what he was talking about.

“Can fucking see myself, holy shit,” one of his hands left your hips, tracing around the very visible sight of his cock outlined in your lower stomach. You were transfixed, watching with bated breath as his fingertips brushed against your skin. Goosebumps broke out across your body at the sensation.

“I wonder…” Jack trailed off, eyes still focused on your stomach. His hand moved, gently laying over the outline of his cock. He let it sit there for just a moment, palming his length through your skin.

And then he pushed down. 

Both of you cried out at once. You’d already felt full, but the added pressure of his hand made his length feel even bigger. He was everywhere, completely consuming you from the inside out.

“Holy fuck!” His hips jerked into you, snapping against a spot deep inside you that had you arching in his hold.

“Oh fuck, Jack!”

“Yeah? You feel that?” Jack started moving, his hips withdrawing and punching back into you, rapidly working his way up to a punishing pace. You couldn’t answer with words. He was pushing the breath out of your lungs with every thrust. “God, you’re so full of me, baby.”

And then Jack hiked your legs up over his shoulders, releasing the pressure on your stomach in exchange for keeping your thighs pressed tight to his chest. It opened you up even more to him.

“Oh my god,” Jack bent forward, burying his face back in your neck, pushing your legs into your chest, folding you in half. He was rutting into you, groaning as he chased his pleasure.

You were getting close again, too. Every thrust had the neatly trimmed hairs at the base of his cock grinding over your clit as his tip slammed home against your g-spot. Your eyes were closed, lost in the pleasure. You couldn’t move, completely pinned beneath him and forced to take the overwhelming pleasure.

“Jack! Please!” Your hand tangled in his hair again, holding the strands tightly. It was your only lifeline and you used it to tether yourself to reality. 

“Oh fuck,” Jack was panting into the skin of your shoulder. “Fuck, I’m close. C’mon, cum for me. Please, need to feel you.”

You were so close, only a hair's breadth from your peak.

When Jack bit down on your shoulder and his hips stuttered, you came again. You clamped around him, walls spasming and squeezing while he rutted even deeper into you. Jack was groaning your name while he spilled deep inside of you. The hot pusles of his release propelled your own, the two of you pushing each other even higher.

He finally let go of your legs, helping to ease them down until they were resting on the mattress on either side of his hips. He didn’t move to pull out, though. The two of you stayed wrapped around each other, his softening length buried inside you, until the cold was too much to bear.

“So,” Jack gingerly climbed off of you, the cold air rushing in. “Can I take you on a real date now?”

“If you get me a washcloth to clean up with and get the fire started, I’ll marry you as soon as we get out of here,” you were shivering now.

Jack grinned, leaning back down to press a quick kiss to your lips. “Promise?” 

another little note: I'm trying out a new reader insert format. usually, I just keep it vague and don't use any form of y/n, but we're gonna do something a little different. my dear friend @fangirl-dot-com asked her followers how they felt about y/n and y/l/n, and someone in the comments said they prefer [name] and [surname] and I like that. its not really used here very much, but I wanted to give it a try. lmk if you hate it but, like, I like it so ill probably keep using it. unless all of you hate it

[lastpeachonearth]

gimme 10

[selmas-teashop]

Longing for Lilith - Part I

A moment of weakness and God's sense of humor leads Jud to mistakenly assume he is talking to a phone sex operator named Lilith when he calls you, an unsuspecting artist. The awkward encounter surprisingly develops into a close friendship. However, nothing is as innocent as Jud would like to believe, and soon he is not only at God's mercy, but also at yours, body and soul.

Part I | Part II | Part III | Masterlist

Pairing: Jud Duplenticy x reader (female) 

Word count: 6.8k

Warnings: romcom logic and shenanigans, reader uses the artistic alias „Lilith“, mentions of sex work, breach of the celibacy vow, religious guilt, sexual themes, (consensual) voyeurism, (mutual) masturbation, phone sex, angst with happy ending in Part III

Note: Unfortunately, I am not immune to the hot priest propaganda. My deeper thoughts and feelings about wake up dead man are shared with my friends, while tumblr is responsible for the thirst. A warning in advance: I did a bit of research, but I myself have a complicated relationship with faith and was not raised catholic, nor do I live in the usa. Since I don't want to offend anyone's beliefs, please read the warnings carefully before continuing. And as always: English is not my native language or the one I primarily use. Hope you enjoy it anyway! :)

Even before the first dial tone rang out, regret crept upon Jud. This was a mistake.

Not only was he about to breach his vow of celibacy (again) but now he also involved a stranger in his sin. Nervously, he fiddled with the hem of the white bedspread. Jud sat fully clothed in the small chamber that he had been assigned after his arrival in Albany, only the warm light of a single night lamp tracing the outlines of the room. No matter how minor the offense seemed compared to a physical sexual encounter, and no matter how much he longed for that kind of human contact, this clearly crossed all lines. He lowered the phone, about to hang up, when the ringing abruptly ended and a gentle voice responded.

“Hello?”

Jude almost choked on his own heartbeat. Instinctively, he answered.

“Yes! Uh...Hello. I, erm -” He cleared his throat, arranged the words in his mouth before speaking them. “I'm calling about the ad on your website, but I've reconsidered and no longer need...your services.”

“Oh, that's a shame,” you said. “Could you possibly tell me what changed your mind, if that's not uncomfortable for you to share?“

The simple design of the website had indicated a rather professional company. No erotic photos of women in compromising poses or ambiguous wording, just the elegantly curved font announcing that you would find the perfect voice for every fantasy here. Jud hadn't been sure what to expect, but certainly not this. Your composure took him aback so much that he just replied honestly.

“Well, I'm a priest, so - you know…”

You laughed a little. The sound made him flinch.

“Now I understand,” you said. “It's because of the alias I work under, isn't it? Lilith.”

Lilith. Of all the phone sex workers in this country, he had to wind up with one that used a pointedly biblical name. Jud couldn‘t recall seeing a stage name or a list of performers, only a number you were supposed to call to be transferred to the right person. But he ended up with Lilith. It seemed like a divine warning to him, or at least bitter irony. A sign to hang up immediately.

When he didn't respond, you continued:

“That initially deters some devout clients, especially clerics, from engaging me. But their concerns usually subside once they talk to me personally and get a sample of my work. Regardless of their beliefs, I try to create a comfortable environment for all my clients during our collaboration.”

“Some of your clients are clergy?,” he asked, once again drawn in by your casual manner of speaking, allowing this strange encounter to continue unnecessarily. Jud wrinkled his brow. How could a collaboration respect a person’s faith when its goal was to infringe upon one of its disciplines?

“It has actually become my main source of income, although I never planned it that way,” you replied. “So there's no need to be nervous, you're in safe hands.”

By the sound of your voice, he could tell you were smiling. Something about the way you said it reminded Jud of how he spoke to congregants when they sought his guidance. A kind of recognition, a shared understanding filled him. He believed you. The tension in his chest eased a little. Nevertheless:

“I'm sure you're very professional, but I regret calling at all. This...This just isn't right,” he said.

“Hmm, if you tell me what your concerns are, maybe I can address them directly?”

Jud shifted his weight, the narrow bed beneath him groaning disapprovingly.

“I had no intention of using your services at first,” Jud began hesitantly.

Even before you had taken the call, the moment of temptation had passed, but something must have driven him here in the first place. Surprisingly, you had managed to steady him in this moment of weakness. Perhaps it was a good thing that he ended up with you of all people today. Who was to say that another priest could advise him better in his situation, understand his desire for intimacy more than a sex worker? Maybe it was worth a try.

“I haven't been a priest that long yet,” he explained. “In a previous life, I was a boxer and lived on the streets for a while.”

“Holy shit - Sorry! Sorry. I didn't expect that. The transition must have been quite challenging.”

A small smile crossed Jud's face.

“Yes, it is,” he admitted. “Some things are easier to get used to than others. I love what I do for the people, it fuels me, makes me who I am. But I also struggle with myself sometimes, have to convince myself that some things no longer belong in my life.” He hesitated briefly, his words faltering. “Like...intimacy with another person. Sexuality in general, you know?”

“Are you talking about...celibacy?” Your voice suddenly sounded stiffer, slower, as if you couldn't quite follow him. The warmth was still there, but it wasn't radiating as strongly anymore.

“Yes, I assumed that your other clients from clergy seek out this service for similar reasons. It’s not just that you miss, um, the act itself, it’s also about the connection with another person.“

There was dead silence on the other end of the line. His hands began to sweat. Had he said something wrong?

“Wait a minute - what kind of service are you looking for exactly?”

An uneasy feeling rose in the pit of his stomach, just like in training, right before he had to step into the ring.

“Well, I think the website said something about voices for every fantasy...or, uh, something like that.”

Another beat of silence. Then:

“Are you talking about phone sex?”

Phone sex. Hearing the term so plainly and bluntly from someone else’s mouth felt like the cold shower Jud needed. The accumulated weight of regret he had felt briefly at the beginning came rushing back, hitting him like a cold wave.

“Well, erm...yes? I - I think so,” he stammered. “I stumbled across your website, but it was a stupid idea and that’s why I didn’t want to…ah. Yes.”

You paused for a moment. The quiet stretched on for an eternity. Then, finally, you said:

“The only thing you’ll find on my website are photos of stained glass windows.”

Jud didn't understand, your words came through to him over the phone, but they formed no sense in his mind.

“I'm an artist, not a sex worker. When you mentioned an ad, I thought you wanted to place an order for a restoration or redesign of windows, like other churches,” you explained calmly.

Artist. Not sex worker. Slowly, the realization sunk in. And to Jud's horror, you confirmed exactly what he had just figured out.

“I think you have the wrong num -“

He hung up before you could finish the sentence.

In the following days, Jud Duplenticy experienced what was essentially a hell on earth designed specifically for him. The confession did not lighten his conscience by even the weight of a single feather. Not only did he have to confess his impure thoughts, he also had to explain the misunderstanding and relive it all over again. He knew that Bishop Langstrom did not condemn him (which was why he had asked him to take his confession), but the smirk that his Excellency suppressed after they had finished their conversation didn't escape Jud‘s notice. Again and again, he picked up his phone, ready to tap your number in his call list to apologize, and each time he lost the courage to do so, sinking into a new spiral of shame.

It was only about a week later that Jud managed to find a moment of peace. He had offered his help in tending the gardens during his lunch break. In a secluded part of the grounds, he dug through the damp earth, weeding the flower beds. The midday sun warmed his skin below the rolled-up shirt sleeves, fresh air and silence soothed his soul. Unfortunately, the latter did not last long, as a mechanical ringing sounded through the garden, shattering the idyll.

“Hello?”

Jud's voice came through muffled from the phone he'd wedged between his shoulder and head, pulling off one gardening glove, the other still between his teeth, which he'd taken off to answer the call.

“Hi, it's me,” you said on the other end. When Jud didn't react, you added: “The artist slash presumed sex worker.”

With a soft plop, the glove fell from Jud's open mouth into the flower bed. He managed a weak greeting in response to yours, but then fell silent immediately. Now he severely regretted not having found the guts to reach out to you when he had a rehearsed apology ready. This call caught him completely off guard.

"I've been thinking about our conversation the other night for a few days now and came to the conclusion that, in true priestly fashion, you're probably beating yourself up over this silly mix-up. So I've decided to offer you the only way out I can: I forgive you."

Jud had expected just about anything: anger, accusations, questions, laughter. Unsolicited forgiveness had not been part of the scenarios his guilt-ridden brain had come up with in great detail.

“Why?” he asked.

“I'm no expert, but forgiveness is one of the virtues taught by the Church, isn't it? Besides, I wasn't offended. Looking back, I find it quite funny, to be honest.”

“Well, I couldn't really laugh about it.”

“A priest trying to hire a woman named Lilith for an erotic encounter, come on! That sounds like the beginning of a bad joke that people crack after three beers at the local bar.“

You laughed and the sound spread through Jud like the warmth of the sun, from the roots of his hair to his toes. He couldn't suppress a small smile.

“Thanks,” he said.

“It was easy,” you replied, now more serious again, “You seemed like you just needed someone to talk to, to be honest. If you want…”

You left the end of the sentence hanging in the air, a sincere offer.

“Oh, no! That's very kind, but I um...no,” Jud declined, even though a small part of him wanted to accept. The part of his soul whose desire for honesty was stronger than his sense of embarrassment.

“Okay.”

You paused. Jud's fingers rubbed nervously over the leather of his gloves. He was unsure how to end this call. Or whether he even really wanted to.

“Can I ask you a question?” you asked, resolving the matter for him.

Jud straightened up, reverting to his natural demeanor as a priest. Always ready to help, to serve.

“Of course.”

“What makes a boxer follow the path to priesthood?”

Over the next few months something strange happened, even weirder than the mix-up and the forgiveness that followed: somehow, against all odds, you became friends.

After Jud had answered some of your questions in the garden - his life story had undoubtedly piqued your interest - he called you again a few days later. It bothered him that he never formally apologized to you, he claimed, and another conversation ensued. After that, you called him one evening requesting further explanation of some Bible passages that a client wanted to see incorporated into a piece. Although you were accepting more and more commissions for churches, your own relationship with faith remained complicated, which was why you valued a second opinion.

A quick google search led Jud later to your website (the right one this time) and he studied the photos of your artwork in detail. A selection of beautiful stained-glass windows that you had designed or restored for various churches and some other buildings, as well as private customers. He liked how you used color to create mood and the symbolism (whether colors or individual elements) that you skillfully employed; sometimes subtle, sometimes provocative. He hovered the cursor over a tab labeled about me for a while before clicking on it. Relief washed over him when no headshot appeared next to your biography. He didn’t want to know what you looked like. Or rather, he did want to know, and that was precisely where the cross was buried.

Your friendship rested on two simple principles: anonymity and honesty. Since you had been brought together by chance (your version) or divine providence (Jud's version), but only communicated over calls, you never met in real life. Neither of you would recognize the other even if you were standing right in front of each other, giving you the comfort of talking freely. It was easy opening up to someone when you didn't have to look them in the eye, and each of you had qualities that further enhanced this ease. You liked Jud's empathetic nature, how he remained true to his beliefs in forgiveness and love no matter what, his warmth. He liked your wit and open mind, the curiosity driving you to explore the world and people around you without prejudice.

In his brief search to satisfy a certain need, Jud had instead found a loyal friend. However, the harmlessness of this relationship, which he had ascribed it due to the impossibility of ever getting physically close to you, lulled him into a false sense of security. It clouded his perception, made him believe in its innocence, even though he awaited your calls with increasing anticipation and worried about you disproportionately often. The longer he talked to you, the more he nurtured an affection for you that shouldn't grow any further if he didn't want to risk stoking the fire he tried to extinguish.

This dilemma reached its climax on a seemingly random Tuesday evening.

Jud sat on his bed, bathed in the dim light of the meager bedside lamp. For the past hour, he had drunk chamomile tea, read a few pages of a book, and closed it again after five minutes. He had done some breathing exercises, stretched, prayed the rosary a second time, flipped through a church magazine without even registering what he was looking at, and then rearranged and cleaned his entire room. None of these activities showed the desired effect. His thoughts circled incessantly, he was both tired and restless, and yes, that was the biggest problem, also a little bit turned on.

He reached for his phone on the bedside table, read the displayed time, and sighed. It was a stupid idea. You were probably already asleep and there was no guarantee that talking to you would take his mind elsewhere.

His fingertips drummed on the black plastic.

Then he unlocked the display again and tapped on your number at the top of the recent calls list.

It took a while for you to pick up, much longer than usual.

“Jud?”

Your voice sounded distant, a little husky and somehow... a bit out of breath?

“Hello! Hi. Do you have a moment?”

“Well... I, um -” You cleared your throat. There was muffled rustling in the background. “I guess?“

Jud frowned. Something was wrong. You normally had no trouble finding words, always the direct one out of you two. Sometimes a little too direct, even though he liked that about you. On the other hand, was there anything he didn't like about you?

“Is everything okay?” he asked concerned.

“Oh, yes! I was just, um...lying in bed.”

The guilt set in immediately. Of course you were lying in bed, he shouldn’t have called you so late in the evening.

“Oh! I’m so sorry. Did I wake you?”

“No, no! I was just... well, I - um... actually, uh.” You stopped, exhaling sharply through your nose, annoyed with yourself. Then you took a deep breath and whispered quietly but clearly, this time without stuttering:

“Actually, I was just masturbating.”

Your statement reached Jud's ears, but it took him a moment to comprehend what you had just revealed to him. It wasn't unusual for people to share details about their sex lives with him during confession. But this wasn't confession and he wasn't your priest.

“Oh. OH. Sorry, should I - um - should I hang up?”

Jud ran his hand over his face and pinched his eyes shut. So much for the idea that talking to you would distract him. Involuntarily, an image rose in his mind of unfamiliar hands digging into a sheet, caressing naked skin. The husky tone in your voice - did it always sound like that when you touched yourself? He banged the back of his head against the headboard, a futile attempt to knock these indecent thoughts out of him.

“It's okay,” you said, a slight smile on your lips, back to your usual temperament. “To be honest, it reminds me a bit of how we met, only with reversed roles in a way.“

“Please don't remind me, I have no idea what came over me that evening,” he groaned, his eyes still covered. The mixture of desire and shame that had risen within him now shifted almost entirely to shame.

“Oh for sure! You were so nervous and completely clueless.”

Your giggle echoed through the line. The sound loosened the knot in his throat a little, enough that he dared to open his eyes again.

„Hey, you can't blame me for that! I mean, how is something like that even supposed work?"

“Well, you can give each other instructions on what to do,” you answered his question, although it was meant to be rhetorical, “but you can also just listen and let the other person describe what they’re doing to themselves.”

The last sentence lingered suggestive in the air. Your playful tone had given way to tense silence. Nervously, Jud listened to the static crackling on the other end, letting your words resonate within him. Describing what you did to yourself, turning the other person into an uninvolved, almost innocent audience. Sharing your own pleasure without the other person having to break any disciplines. He swallowed hard, heat creeping up his neck.

“So, like you describing to me what you were doing before I called,” he murmured.

“Yes,” you said. Your voice now soft - not shy, but rather full of anticipation.

A test, it struck him.

This is a test, and the only right thing to do now would be to say goodbye and hang up. He had to put an end to this temptation before he crossed a line that could not be undone. Something that would not only weighed on his faith, but could also sever your delicately woven bond of friendship. He had to hang up.

Instead, he heard himself whisper:

“For example?”

His heart raced so fast he could hear the blood rushing in his ears. A thick silence settled over the room, pressing down on his lungs. No air to breathe, only your voice keeping him alive.

“For example,” you began, barely a whisper, “I took off everything except my underwear and T-shirt, slipped under the covers...” You paused briefly, unsure whether you should continue, if you were allowed to continue. When he didn't dissuade you, you proceeded: “Let my hands wander over my body.”

“Where?” he murmured.

The question left his mind as easily as a raindrop falling. Gravity, attraction. Simply Unstoppable.

“My neck... my breasts - hmm, my stomach. Moving lower -”

Your voice trailed off. Jud imagined fingers gliding over your bare body, lower and lower until -

“Jud... I -” you mumbled. Your voice trembled slightly, your breathing quickened.

“Don’t stop.”

The plea just slipped out. He waited in awe for your heavy breathing, the moan you tried to suppress as you slid your fingers under the waistband of your panties.

“Keep going,” he begged. “Please.”

Jud closed his eyes, concentrating on the lustful sounds coming from you, pressing the phone against his ear as close as possible to not miss a single one of your sighs.

It was obscene, it was human, it was breathtaking.

You gave yourself fully to your desire while Jud listened. Sounds of pleasure, gasps and quiet moans, shaky breathing poured through the phone. He breathed harder, in harmony with you, but unlike you, he fought the urge to touch himself. If he broke his celibacy now, he would have to make a confession tomorrow and this intimate moment between you would be destroyed. He wanted to be a part of your pleasure, hear you moan as you tipped over the edge, and seal this sound away inside him forever.

You grew louder, your breathing hastened, until you reached your climax with a tembling oh god. A shattering sound that washed over him like a powerful wave, knocking him off his feet and spitting him out again. Sweat dampened Jud‘s clerical collar without him having lifted a single finger.

The very next morning, less than five hours later, he went to confession. Jud omitted the part of the story where a phone call with you had escalated into a voyeuristic-erotic experience and told the priest in the confessional a version in which he had been tempted and given in to unchaste thoughts. The man granted him absolution, comforted him by saying that all clergymen struggled with such thoughts and needs from time to time, congratulated him for his fortitude in not going further, and advised him to focus on his calling. Which Jud did.

Unfortunately, when he ignored your calls, he could neither lie to God nor to himself that he was doing so for a noble reason. The truth was simple: he was scared. Dealing with the guilt of struggling to keep his vow of chastity was something he had to work out between himself and God. But the fact that he had broken the innocence of your friendship by using you for his desires weighed heavy on him. He knew he had to fix the situation, but it took him a few days to gather the courage he needed.

This time he called you first. Jud had prepared the words beforehand and sought refuge in the most secluded part of the garden, the place he felt safest beyond the walls of his room (which stirred up too many memories of you). Sheltered beneath the green of trees, he felt liberated and, above all, unobserved enough to openly address this delicate matter.

The first dial tone hadn't even faded before you picked up.

The next few minutes were a jumble of apologies, clarifications, and forgiveness. Clear words alternated with guilty stutters and relieved, albeit still timid, laughter. Nothing had changed regarding your friendship; you didn't consider him a perverted priest and he didn't accuse you of seducing him into sin. None of your fears turned into bitter reality. The clear air and relief of his conscience towards you made Jud a little light-headed. The two of you joked that the purpose of your first encounter had been fulfilled after all, just differently than expected.

“That was by far the dumbest thing I’ve ever done,” you muttered, your tone not entirely convincing.

“Yes, so dumb,” Jud echoed.

The leaves above him rustled, raindrops began to fall on the small awning above him, but he hardly noticed. In his mind, scenes from that very night played out, one that would never be repeated. A stupid fantasy, indeed. You, completely vulnerable and eager to open yourself up to him, to make him the sole audience for your desire, touching yourself and - suddenly, his mouth felt dry, his pants a little tighter. The rising wind offered no relief from the heat growing within him.

“Jud?”

When you started speaking again, your voice was rough and quiet, carefully testing the waters.

“Yes?”

“Do you want to...do it again?”

It was embarrassing how quickly the pleading yes escaped his lips.

Going forward, two things changed. Firstly, Jud went to confession more often than before. Not so often that it was noteworthy, but often enough that a small portion of shame and guilt almost became part of his priest's robe. Secondly, he stopped ignoring your calls on days that followed erotically charged conversations.

You were still friends who confided in each other about all the major and minor aspects of your lives. You still shared stories, reflected on your problems together, analyzed doubts and dreams, laughed over silly jokes, and recommended music, books, or movies to each other. Sometimes, however, Jud just listened to you touching yourself. The only moments when he felt this kind of intimate connection without breaking his vow of celibacy in a physical way. It was pure martyrdom, pure indulgence. Surprisingly, apart from the vow, nothing about it felt like the sinful seduction, which one might ascribe to the arrangement when viewed from an outsider's perspective. You were simply two people sharing every aspect of their lives, including their sexuality. Natural. Human.

But one evening, Jud pushed it too far.

He probably shouldn't have answered your call in the first place. Last week, you mentioned in passing that a friend had given you some expensive black lingerie, an attempt to bribe you into accompanying her to a new bar in the neighboring town. According to her, the amount of time you spent working on your current project in a church had apparently led you to believe that you, too, had to remain celibate. The thought of you, dressed in sexy lingerie (temptation), flirting with a stranger (anger) kept Jud's mind spinning and his emotions in turmoil.

Your phone call had actually started quite harmless, you spoke about your difficulties with the project in question and the conflicts within the church administration regarding your artistic vision. But one topic led to another and you ended up talking about former relationships, which, to your surprise, Jud had a few of. Perhaps it was less a surprise and more envy. Jealousy towards the people he had freely given himself to when that opportunity still existed.

“I'm sure you had no shortage of suitors, but phone sex was obviously not part of the package,” you teased him, alluding to how you met, in order to distract yourself from this nagging feeling.

“Not really,” Jud replied. “One of my exes wanted to try it once, but I was terrible. How do you start a conversation like that without sounding unnatural or creepy?

He grimaced at the memory.

“Well, a safe bet would be to start by asking what the other person is wearing,” you answered his question much more honestly than you intended. When you realized in what risky direction you had steered the conversation, you added: “But that would be a waste of time with you. I bet you’re lying in bed wearing full black priest’s getup again.”

Jud glanced down at himself. Black socks. Black trousers. Black button-down. His belt (also black) rested on the nightstand, and the sleeves of his shirt were casually rolled up. Bull's-eye. Only the white clerical collar stood out.

“Well then, what are you wearing?”

Before Jud noticed what his question implied - that he had basically hit on you with a standard opening line for phone sex - it was already too late. Nervous, he chewed on his bottom lip.

“Coincidentally, the perfect outfit for an erotic phone call,” you said a little more hushed. “I'm getting changed right now and am basically just in underwear.“

A single question lit up in his mind. But he couldn't possibly ask that. He had to say something else, anything else, a harmless compliment or a distraction, just not the question that was most pressing on his tongue right now.

“What color?” he whispered.

“Black.”

Black. Of all things. The expensive underwear you were supposed to wear when you met other men at your local bar (with a devil theme, how ironic), flirting with them, maybe even taking them home with you. But you didn't wear it for other people. You wore it while calling him. Was it so wrong of Jud to get carried away for a moment and believe you were wearing it for him?

A slight pause, then your voice, with a hint of promise and vulnerability, capturing his full attention: “Jud, what do you want me to do?”

A million possibilities rushed through his mind. I want you to get dressed and make some tea so we can end this day on a calm note. I want you to hang up and go out with your friends instead of spending your Saturday night on the phone with a priest. I want you to stop telling me all these things about your life that make me want to be a part of it. I want to stop thinking about you all the time. That's what he should have said.

But that would have been a lie and priests don't lie.

“I want you to take it off,” he murmured.

The events flowed into each other like the unstoppable waves of the sea, following their natural rhythm. Jud couldn't say exactly how it had come about, all he could hear now was your voice clouded with lust. Today you appeared more agitated than usual, repeatedly pushing yourself to the edge only to stop or slow down again. You had already come once and felt more sensitive than before, but that hadn’t satisfied you yet. It was the sweetest torture for Jud. His arousal was almost painful, his trousers uncomfortably tight.

“Oh god, I'm so wet,” you moaned into his ear, earning a stifled groan from him.

He needed relief, however small, or he would give in. With trembling fingers, he pushed up his shirt a little and unbuttoned his trousers, making room for his arousal. His knuckles accidentally brushed against it, a feather-light touch that, against the backdrop of your heavy breathing, sent a shiver through him.

“It feels so - so good,“ you mumbled.

Yes, it did. It had been ages since anyone had touched him like that, since he had touched himself that way. When he closed his eyes, he could imagine your hand teasing his skin. Before Jud managed to gather his thoughts again, his hand reached down, gliding up a single long stroke. Pure pleasure shot through him. A low groan he had held for far to long poured from the back of his throat. Your reaction followed immediately, your breathing quickened, having picked up the pace, whimpering and begging for release. Hearing how his own arousal stirred you felt overwhelming. When you moaned his name, something you had never dared before as it felt too intimate, all restraint was lost.

He was at your mercy, body and soul.

The last remnants of control Jud believed himself capable of exercising vanished. Hearing his name on your lips this way fundamentally rewired his brain. The hand he imagined was yours slid over his length, sweat dripped down his neck, trickling over his tattoo. Fueled by each other's sounds, you pushed each other further, getting closer to heaven. There was only the touch, the heat, the breathy moans of the other. It felt so good that Jud swore he could see stars. His brows were furrowed in concentration, he was so close to reaching fulfillment already that he could almost taste it.

Just a little more. A single touch from you. Please.

“I want you so much,“ he blurted out.

Your answer was a rambled mess of affirming words and some profanity. Your breathing quickened, Jud knew you were just as close as he. But then you managed to utter a husky, barely audible sentence:

“You have me.”

That was all it took to push him over the edge. A jolt shot through his body and twitching, whining, he spilled over himself. Your climax poured out of the phone shortly after, a divine sound leaving Jud temporarily in a cloud of pure bliss before abruptly pulling him back to reality. His pulse pounded in his ears, his breathing still somewhat irregular, attempting to calm itself. Slowly yet uncomfortably quickly, Jud realized what had just happened.

He had sex with you.

Not in the conventional way, he hadn't been anywhere near you physically. But you had felt sexual desire for the other, turned each other on and brought each other to climax. You had called out his name and he - he had admitted wanting you. He wanted to sleep with you and if you had been there in the same room at that moment, by God, he would have done it.

The revelation hit him like an uppercut, with brutal force: it had never been just about friendship or desire.

It was about you.

The real danger didn't lie in seeing you, in fantasies of physical intimacy, against which he thought himself safe due to the harmless nature of a phone call. Far more disastrous was the bond formed between your souls, an attachment he should have severed from the very first moment. Selfishly, he had repeatedly found excuses to maintain - no - to strengthen a relationship that would forever remain beyond reality.

And at that moment, he understood that this was precisely why he had to end it. In his heart, he believed God would never punish him for a feeling of true affection, that his love was enough for both his mission to serve God, the world, and you. However, he also recognized the commitment he had made to God and the Church, accepting principles that conflicted with his desire of loving freely. He was accountable not only to Christ, but to the Church as an institution, and even if He approved of this connection, it would still be impossible in the eyes of the later. A game of hide-and-seek for a relationship that only took place over the phone - neither he nor you deserved that. Delaying the inevitable end of this relationship would just be unfair to you.

This time it felt like a punch in the gut. He had to hurt you in order to protect you from longer suffering, but you would feel used, without him being able to soothe that pain. The thought was agonizing.

Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner.

“Jud?” Your voice reached him only faintly. “Are you okay?”

“I, um - I'm so sorry, but I have to go. Sleep well, okay?”

You took a breath, about to reply, but he hung up.

Coward.

The next morning, Jud's fist struck the Deacon's face.

The gossip indicated at least some agreement that this confrontation had been in the making for a long time; everyone knew that Deacon Clark was a prick, but Jud knew his reaction would have been not as drastic on any other day. Before entering the gym, where he was about to give his statement on the incident, he sent you a text message. It was quite detailed and well written: warm tone, understanding, explaining the difficulty of the situation without resorting to blame or clichés, rounded off with honest wishes for your happy future. Yet the essence could be reduced to a single sentence: Whatever we had is over.

When Bishop Langstrom informed him of the committee's decision, it seemed like a sign. The task Jud was given, the relocation - as if God was telling him to take a new path and lay the past to rest. He should devote himself to his work, refocus on the calling he had taken the priesthood for. Not question some rules attached to the title and long for an unattainable bond.

As it turned out, Our Lady of Perpetual Fortitude had some trials of her own in store for him, and Jud faced them even more eagerly in light of his recent failings. He wasn't going to stray from his path again. With shame, he thought of this good intention as he stood in front of shattered glass from the window he'd smashed the previous night after getting pretty toasty.

“Rowdy teenagers, riots,” Martha grumbled as she swept the shards into a bucket.

“Should we, um, call someone about the repair?"

Guilty, Jud scratched his dark curls.

“With Easter so close, no contractors will take on new jobs, but I’ve contacted someone in town who’s just returned from a long work trip and might be able to lend a hand at short notice,“ Martha replied. “Even though it makes me sick to ask that harlot for help.“

Before Jud could follow up on what she meant by that, the church doors burst open with a crash and a gentle, albeit somewhat teasing voice echoed from the stone walls, filling the whole building.

“Would you look at that, Martha? I crossed over the church’s threshold and didn’t burst into flames.”

You strode toward Martha, swinging your arms in a broad gesture inviting her to examine your unharmed body. Jud noticed the vigor in your step, the playful sparkle in your eyes - if not for the thousand other things going through his mind at that moment, he might have admitted how attractive he found you.

“Yes, yes,” Martha growled as Jud helped her to her feet. Annoyed, she brushed off her black skirt.

Meanwhile, you had walked over to the broken window and greeting Jud with a friendly nod, before inspecting the damage with raised eyebrows.

“Well, I don't know what you expect me to do here, but there's no way I can fix this in a day. Especially not with my amateur knowledge of installation and the materials I have in my shed.”

Something about you evoked an association in Jud that he couldn't quite put his finger on. His brain was working overtime, but to no avail.

“So you're not a contractor?,” he asked.

“Lilith is an artist,” Martha answered in your stead, emphasizing the last word with a condescending intonation. Although the whole sentence had a single condescending emphasis.

She stepped up to you, eager to negotiate the possibility of repair with you, completely oblivious to the fact that she had just pulled the rug out from under Father Jud. He had quite a bit of trouble controlling his heart and utterly shocked expression. It felt as if God had tilted the axis of the earth out of alignment, and no one noticed but him.

“Lilith?” he choked out.

“Just a creative alias that kind of stuck, don’t worry,” you called back over your shoulder, then carried on discussing realistic work output with Martha. You argued a little about the ratio of time, effort, and your abilities until Martha eventually gave in to your reasoning and abandoned her ideas as unfeasible, since you completely agreed with Samson's earlier assessment of the situation. He would have to seal the window with tape or boards until a professional company could install a replacement.

Jud couldn't hear a single word. Your request not to worry fell on deaf ears, because at that very moment he realized what he had only suspected before.

Your alias from when you started painting glas, which had somehow gained traction (Lillith), your work for churches that you never offered to your local church because there was some tension with the Monsignor (Wicks), your favorite bar with the devil theme (Nikolai's bar il diavolo), your home town you only moved back to because you inherited a house (Chimney Rock). The pieces of this puzzle that was your life, which Jud had so often wished to solve, all fell into place. But he didn't like the picture they formed one bit.

It was the worst case scenario.

After breaking off contact, he had hoped - prayed - that he would never cross paths with you again, and even if he did, that he wouldn't recognize you. He had hoped that - as awful as it sounded - even in such a scenario, he simply wasn't attracted to your looks, that your presence in person was different, that the fantasy would lose all its appeal and the spell would be broken.

But you were here, in Our Lady of Perpetual Fortitude, in his church, right in front of him, and he knew it. He knew it was you, and looking at you for the first time now, you were just as you always had been:

Created to fall in love with.

It would be so easy for Jud to reach out and touch your face, to hold you in his arms, as he had so often longed to do. No. He couldn't. That was why he had came here in the first place.

But why did God send him to Chimney Rock, reminding him of his mission, and then deliver you into this very church? The sunlight pouring through the broken window enveloped you in an almost golden glow, as if to say:

Here she is, I have sent her to you once again.

If you enjoyed reading this, I would be ⭒delighted⭒ if you would let me know by leaving a heart, reblog or comment! c:

Taglist: @eliosberry

Want to find out what happens next? Read Part II here!

[lastpeachonearth]

discovering things about myself

[murdrdocs]

i need to take advantage of luke so fucking bad. need to abuse my powers as the daughter of hypnos and ride him when he’s asleep or make him have wet dreams of me until he corners me and begs me to stop.

ohh anon i fear he is not begging you to stop he's demanding. like he's angry and he's trying to hide it, which makes it all the more obvious. the sharp way he beckoned you over from your friends to pull you deep into the forest, the tensions in his shoulders and face, the growl to his voice. he's telling you to "stop what you're doing," trying to threaten you, too. "or i'll—" and you're not fazed at all because you see the plea in his eyes, the slight softness in his gaze. you know luke so well, you've grown up together, so you know what it looks like when he's worn down and cornered. you've only seen it a couple of times, this time makes a third, but the look is so potent and rare that you have it memorized.

your arms are crossed over your chest as you tell him, "or you'll what?" because there's truly nothing he could do. he couldn't snitch, not like he would anyway, but what's he going to say? you're making him dream of cumming on your tits and he keeps coming into his plaid pajama pants instead? no, there's no real way he could get back at you. unless he starts torturing you, too, making you see just how much you're riling him up without any real release.

eventually the two of you are just gonna have to fuck it out.

(you make him dream of that later on, too. knees scratching in dirt, the same substance caked beneath your fingernails as you let him have you from behind, his fingernails creating indents in your skin. it's sort of your best work yet.)

[lastpeachonearth]

im gonna be so normal about this

[sativariddle]

CHECK YOUR WINDOW ₊˚⊹ ᰔ

⌗ ┆ word count: 10k+

⌗ ┆content: perv!theo, boyfriend!mattheo, cheating & betrayal, strong language, heavy sexual content. if you don’t enjoy my content, there’s no need for you to stick around, i’m not responsible for what you choose to engage with. for @pilupotter ᰔ

⌗ ┆ summary: check your window, he’s at your window: caught in the mess between jealousy and obsession, theo begins to have a crush on the one person he knows he can never touch: his best friend’s girlfriend. but everything changes the night he sees you with mattheo through the window, a view he was never meant to witness.

♫ — ❝ check your window, he’s at your window. ❞

╰› navigation.⌇m.list.⌇my au’s .⌇other song lol.

THEO HAD NEVER KNOWN the ugly emotion of jealousy. it was an unfamiliar feeling to someone like him, one that belonged to other boys, boys who had to fight for attention, compete for power. jealousy, after all, only creeps in when you see something you want but believe you’ll never have. that had never been theo’s reality.

from the moment he could speak, if he pointed at a toy in a shop window, his father’s gold handled it before he even asked. if he admired a rare piece of jewelry in passing, it was in his room by nightfall. no explanations. possession had never been a question, it was an expectation. even people, in their own strange way, came to him. at school, if he decided he wanted someone’s company, it was only a matter of time. he never pleaded, never played the fool to earn friendship. he watched, waited, and the chosen eventually fell into his circle. whether from fear, or fascination, it didn’t matter. they came.

his father had shaped him this way. the elder nott would speak in a tone that meant more to theo than a shout. “there’s a difference between being loved and being feared,” he told theo once, as they stood in the drawing room. “when people hear the nott name, they do not smile. they do not speak it softly. they whisper it. that is power. power isn’t loved. it is obeyed.”

theo was like a cloth wiping down a table: soaking up everything his father said, holding onto it all until the next time he needed it.

so no, jealousy had no place in his chest. not when he’d been raised not to envy, but to expect. not when the world had always shown him that if he desired something, it would eventually belong to him.

mattheo was the only one who didn’t fear theodore, his closest friend, most would say. even back when they were in school, people used to joke they were glued at the hip. they told each other everything. from the girls they slept with, in detail, to family stuff. nothing was off limits.

when mattheo got kicked out of his father’s manor and showed up at the nott’ manor asking for a place to crash, no one was surprised when theo’s father said yes. the place had plenty of guest rooms, and mattheo had always been like a second son to the old man. leaving him homeless on the street would’ve been unthinkable.

"helloooo, girl next door,” mattheo whistled under his breath, leaning forward slightly as he peered out of the window. theo was scrambling through the mess on his desk, trying to find a quill beneath piles of parchment and books. at the sound of mattheo’s voice, he paused, head snapping up. with a furrowed brow, theo walked over and came to stand beside his friend. his gaze followed mattheo’s, settling on the window that overlooked the neighboring manor. it sat a little further out, though one window in particular caught their attention.

directly across from theodore’s was your room. your light was on, the sky outside had already started to darken into deep blues and purples. from where they stood, they could see just enough: the curve of your shoulder as you walked past, the way your curtains shifted with the breeze. "oh yeah," theo muttered, looking away. "the new neighbor my father was talking about." watching someone through their bedroom window, even unintentionally, felt intrusive to theo.

“didn’t think to tell me?” mattheo asked, he watched you move around your bedroom, opening boxes, pulling out books and folded clothes. your hair slipped over your shoulder as you bent forward, revealing the line of your bare neck. “sorry,” theo sarcastically replied from beside him, arms crossed loosely over his chest. “didn’t think you’d care about us getting a new neighbor.”

“i didn’t.” mattheo tilted his head, shifting a little closer to the glass. “now i do.”

you had no idea you were being watched, placing a few things on the windowsill before turning toward the bed, where a white towel was laid out. mattheo’s gaze followed your hands as they reached for the hem of your shirt, lifting it slowly, inch by inch. you were probably getting ready for a shower.

a cold water bottle came flying through the air, smacking mattheo square in the cheek. “stop watchin’ the girl, will you?” theodore snapped. “you look like a fuckin’ creep.” mattheo flinched only slightly, caught off guard, then turned his head slowly, the corner of his mouth curling into that annoying smirk. he rubbed the side of his face where the bottle had hit but didn’t look the least bit remorseful.

“jealous?” he drawled, cocking a brow. theo didn’t answer right away. he turned back to his desk, sifting through the mess like he hadn’t heard the question. a few crumpled pieces of parchment were swept into his hand and tossed into the nearby bin. “you’re still the love of my life, theo,” mattheo added, leaning back against the window frame. “there’s no need to be jealous.”

theodore let out a dry snort, not even turning around as he casually flipped him the middle finger. “and if she catches you staring at her while she’s taking off her shirt?” theodore said, looking over his shoulder. “might as well tattoo ‘pervert’ on your fuckin’ forehead and let the whole neighborhood know.” mattheo just shrugged, biting the inside of his cheek as he glanced once more toward the window.

“don’t know,” he said. “some girls love that shit.” theodore exhaled sharply through his nose. he was done. done trying to reason with a walking hormone in human form. “get to bed,” he muttered, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “you’re speaking with your dick again.”

mattheo chuckled, stepping closer to theo and giving him a playful shove to the chest. it wasn’t hard, more of a nudge, but it earned a shove right back.

that shove earned mattheo’s full attention: a harsh push to theodore’s shoulder that made him stumble back a step. without hesitation, theo shoved him again, harder this time. mattheo huffed. he’d always been a sucker for a good play fight, the kind that started as a joke but never stayed that way for too long. and the second theodore turned his back to brush him off, mattheo lunged.

he tackled him around the middle, dragging him down to the floor. the impact sent theodore crashing onto the floor with a thud, his back hitting the wooden floor beneath it as a grunt escaped his chest. “you fucker-” theodore cracked, trying to twist out from under him. but mattheo was already trying to pin him, arms locked around theodore’s shoulders.

in the fight, theo shoved at mattheo’s head with one palm, trying to push him off. his fingers caught the side of mattheo’s head, forcing him sideways — too far. the motion sent mattheo’s skull colliding with the edge of the desk beside them.

“asshole,” mattheo muttered under his breath, he rubbed the spot where his head had hit the desk, slowly pushing himself up before giving theodore a light kick in the ribs with the toe of his shoe before disappearing out the door with a dramatic slam that rattled the frame.

theo rolled his blue eyes and stood up. mattheo had been living at the nott manor for nearly six months now, but he still spent more time in theodore’s room than his own. no matter how many guest rooms the home had, he always ended up across theo’s bed, in his desk chair, or raiding his bookshelf.

theo thinks it’s because his room has always felt more like home than anywhere else. when they were kids, they rarely hung out in the guest rooms. those spaces were too too quiet, meant for people who didn’t stay. theo’s had history. it had laughter ghosting into the walls, secrets in the closet. back then, when life felt fresh, before things got complicated, before people started drifting: they all used to cram into his room without a second thought.

pansy would sprawl across his bed, flipping through magazines and rolling her eyes at draco’s ‘girly’ commentary. blaise would sit on the floor, leaning against the dresser, legs stretched out. enzo always found the window seat, sketchbook in hand, not listening to the talk around him.

mattheo was everywhere. on the bed, on the floor, by the door. moving constantly: he was trying to soak in every second of it. theo’s room held their shared growth. the jokes, the fights, the long talks that happened when the lights were out and no one wanted to be the first to fall asleep. even now, theo can still hear the echoes of it when he steps inside. maybe that’s why he feels more at peace there than anywhere else: a place with the memory of his happiest days, when they were all together.

theodore walked over to the window, and reached for the curtains, he hated sleeping with them open. the way outside lights bled into his room always messed with his sleep, casting odd shapes on the walls and waking him up at stupid hours.

just as he grabbed the fabric, something caught his eye. you had just stepped out of the shower, the steam still curling around you. a towel was slung loosely around your body, clinging to your damp skin, the fabric darkened in places where water still kissed your flesh. your hair was wet, heavy with moisture, dark strands sticking to your shoulders and framing your face.

theodore paused the moment he saw you. he watched, completely helpless as a bead of water traced a slow path down the slope of your collarbone, disappearing beneath the edge of your towel.

he swallowed, feeling the back of his throat burn, blinking twice as if to make sure he wasn’t hallucinating. every instinct in him choosing between looking away out of respect and drinking in the sight of you: wrapped in nothing but a bit of fabric.

the towel slipped from your body, falling to the floor soundlessly. theo’s breath hitched the second the fabric fell, revealing every inch of your bare skin. his lips parted without him realizing, gaze caught immediately on your breasts: perfectly perky—and pierced. the silver flash of the jewelry against your skin made his head spin.

he should’ve looked away. fuck, he knew that. he should’ve snapped the curtains shut the moment he saw you walk in, dripping wet from your shower, towel barely clinging to you. he should’ve thrown himself into bed, buried his head under the covers, forced himself to pretend he hadn’t seen anything.

you didn’t bother getting dressed. still naked, you crossed the room without a hint of shame, water on your skin as if you were dipped in moonlight. with a small hop, you climbed onto your bed, body completely exposed from where theodore stood frozen by his window. he watched you move, comfortable in your own skin. the way you shifted around on the mattress, adjusting your pillows, tossing them this way and that way without a care in the world. you were putting on a show without even realizing it, every twist of your hips, every stretch of your arms offering him a new angle to memorize, to burn into the back of his eyelids forever.

once you finally settled, your back sank into the sheets, muscles relaxing into the mattress. the soft cloth cradled you, hugging every dip and curve. theo’s chest rose and fell unevenly, unable to look away as your pierced nipples stood tight and hard, pointing up toward the ceiling. the silver jewelry small and beautiful on you.

you trailed your right hand down, fingertips dancing lazily over your breast, nails scratching slightly across the sensitive skin. lower and lower you went, dragging those fingers over the smooth, freshly shaved skin of your lower stomach, your body arching just slightly into your own touch.

he could see everything: the way your breathing deepened, the way your thighs shifted apart the ever so slightest, welcoming yourself home. with a roll of your wrist, you dipped your hand even lower, your index finger brushing gently over the swollen mound of your clit.

theo couldn’t move, couldn’t even think as he watched you spread yourself out across the bed, knees bent and falling open, giving him a full view of everything. your skin practically glowed, a leftover dampness still clinging to your body. your fingers, those delicate fingers moved lazy strokes over your clit. his stomach tightened painfully, a low heat coiling in his gut. he watched as you dragged the tip of your finger in circles, the movement so soft it was almost teasing yourself, building your own tension.

you tilted your head back slightly, letting your teeth sink into your bottom lip. he didn’t know if you were trying to muffle your sounds or if it was some subconscious need to savor the pressure, but either way, it didn’t matter. all thoughts that made sense abandoned in favor of the desperate need flooding his body.

everything he was feeling, every throb of want, every spike of lust, every dizzying pull toward you seemed to rush straight down to his dick, swelling painfully against his sweats. you moved, hips rolling up into your own touch, adding more pressure. with the kind of slowwww that made theodore’s vision blur at the edges, you pushed a finger deep inside yourself. “mmph…”

the sound you made punched the air right out of theodore’s lungs. it wasn’t loud, but it didn’t need to be. whether you had meant it to be heard or not, it banged through him, making his entire body clench and his cock harden so fast it hurt. he squeezed his eyes shut for half a second, trying and failing to gather himself. but the second he opened them again, you rewarded him with an even filthier sight.

another finger joined the first, stretching you wider, making your hips rock slightly against your hand. you moved them in and out, out and in, fingers disappearing into the heat of your pussy, coated in the evidence of your own wetness. theo’s ears were ringing, too consumed by the sight of your hand moving, of your body writhing slightly against the sheets, of your thighs trembling as you fucked yourself open.

your eyebrows pulled together, forehead creasing in that beautiful, desperate way as your pleasure built. gasping sounds slipping free without a hint of restraint. the movements of your fingers grew faster, your hips subtly chasing every stroke, your thighs trembling with the effort to stay open. theodore’s eyes devoured you. every detail. every breath.

he noticed everything: the way your right breast, slightly pressed to the side by the movement of your arm, causing the piercing threaded through your nipple to poke out at a perfect angle. theo felt a an aching need crash through him, a hunger to have it between his teeth, to feel the cold shock of metal against his hot tongue, to suck and tug and soothe until you were gasping even harder beneath him.

his hand gripped the windowsill so tightly his knuckles turned white. he stared hard, breath fogging up the small corner of glass before him, matching the uneven, shuddering breathing of yours. every squeaky whimper, every hitch of your hips, every sound of your fingers plunging deep into your own body buried itself into his mind.

you came with a cry, legs quaking around your hand. your face softened in the aftermath, a look of pure bliss taking over your beautiful features: lips parted, lashes fluttering against flushed cheeks.

with a violent jerk, theo closed the blinds, the snap of the cord sounding too loud in the silence of his room. he stumbled back a step, chest heaving, staring down in disbelief at the painful boner against his sweats. he dragged a shaking hand through his hair, cursing under his breath. he felt like a damn teenager again, seeing boobs for the first time on a crumpled magazine page he wasn’t supposed to have.

“you think she’d like this?” mattheo asked, holding the dress up between his fingers. he rubbed the fabric between his thumb and forefinger, raising an eyebrow. “she’s always fuckin’ talking about wanting dresses with this kind of fabric. all soft and shit.”

it had become a routine, one theo never spoke about, even to himself. every day, he found his feet carrying him to the same spot: the window in the far corner of his room, the one that offered a perfect view into yours. from there, he could see you through the soft cover of curtains that you always forget, or maybe just didn’t care, to close.

most days, you were alone. reading, usually. sometimes curled on your side with a blanket pulled up to your waist, the bedside lamp illuminating your face. other times, you were cross legged in the center of your bed, a book propped open against your knees, mouthing the words silently as your fingers absentmindedly traced the dog eared page corners. sometimes, you’d bring a friend over, usually a girl with a laugh too loud. you’d lounge across your bed together, heads bent over the edge of your bed, your body loose with comfort.

theodore would watch. you’d become his obsession without even trying. he told himself it was nothing. that it would pass. that if he just kept watching from afar, the pull in his chest would ease. but it never did.

what made it so much fucking worse, what twisted the blade in deeper, was the guilt. not just the guilt of watching you when he shouldn’t have, but the guilt that grew the day he saw you kiss someone else. the day he realized it wasn’t just someone.

it was mattheo. theo hadn’t known. not even a hint. mattheo told him everything, or so he thought. they’d been friends for years, bonded by too many fights and drunken nights and secrets they weren’t proud of. every hookup. every fling. every girl who’d passed through mattheo’s bed had been a joke, something to laugh about the next morning.

not this time. theodore had been standing at the window like he always did, eyes drifting toward your room. you were sitting cross legged on your bed, a paperback open in your lap, your hair loose and slightly messy like you’d just woken from a nap. you were turning a page when the door to your room opened, and theodore’s heart gave a confused lurch: mattheo stepped in. like it was normal. like it was his place to be.

theo had watched, body frozen except for the slow tightening in his jaw. mattheo didn’t say anything. as if he didn’t need to. he just crossed the room with that confidence he always carried, tossed his hoodie on the chair by your desk, and leaned down. as if this was a routine, pressing his mouth to yours in a kiss that was far too comfortable. your hands slid up into his hair and kissed him back, like you’d done it a hundred times before.

theo just stood there, staring with furrowed brows. the silence of his room made everything worse, the way your lips moved, the curve of your smile against mattheo’s mouth. he watched as his best friend slid his hands beneath the hem of your shirt, slowly pushing the fabric upward, revealing the bare of your waist, the lump of your breasts, the metal piercings theodore had spent countless nights dreaming about tasting with his own tongue.

and when mattheo came back from your house that night, theodore couldn’t stop himself from prying. working around the edges of the conversation like trying to defuse a bomb without knowing which wire to cut, asking the kind of casual questions that wouldn’t make him seem desperate to know.

eventually, however, mattheo cracked. laughing under his breath, running a hand through his curls: told theo that the two of you had been sneaking around together for about five weeks now, slipping in and out of each other’s beds, pretending the fire between you wasn’t setting blaze to everything it touched. and just like fuckin’ that, theodore felt stupid.

he sat there, nodding along like an idiot, pretending to find it funny, pretending he wasn’t shattering apart piece by piece inside. because all those nights he’d been standing at his window, staring at you like some fool, you’d already been his. mattheo’s hands had already mapped the curves theo could only dream about touching; his mouth had already tasted the skin theo ached to claim.

of course. of course that was why your curtains were drawn most nights now, blocking theo out.

regardless, even after theo found out you were dating mattheo, the acknowledgment hadn’t been enough to pry him away from that damn window. it should’ve been. god, it should’ve been. but how could he stop? you were still there, every day, existing just on the other side of the glass. gorgeous. the thought that you belonged to someone else now, that you were mattheo’s, should’ve made it feel wrong. and it did. it absolutely did. but that shame came with something addictive. the twisted thrill of watching something he could never have, of seeing you laugh or stretch or curl beneath your sheets in the early morning, knowing you were his best friend’s girl.

“no clue. you’re the boyfriend,” theo muttered, eyes scanning the hang of a sundress mattheo had plucked from a display rack in some dress shop. a pale blue thing, the kind of dress that would fall just below your thighs and hug your waist. theodore didn’t want to picture you in it, but of course, he did. he could already see it: you standing barefoot in your bedroom, spinning just slightly in front of the mirror, fingertips brushing down the fabric. or worse—he imagined it sliding down your shoulders, puddling around your ankles as mattheo stepped toward you with that smirk he wore when he knew he was about to get lucky.

“have to get it for her,” riddle said, holding the dress up. “she’d look fuckin’ amazing.”

theo stayed quiet. watched as mattheo strutted up to the front desk, tossing the dress gently onto the counter. the woman behind the register gave a soft smile, eyes flicking up to riddle. theo could make out the exchange from a few steps back, hearing the cashier ask, “for your girl?” with a teasing smile. mattheo’s curls bounced as he nodded and said something that made her giggle. some stupid line, no doubt.

theodore had never been the jealous type. anything he wanted, he got, usually without even having to ask. but people always want what they can’t have. and theodore wanted you. wanted you soooo badly in a way that ate at the open places inside him he hadn’t even realized were empty.

mattheo strolled back, confidence in every step, a small black bag dangling effortlessly off his ring finger like it weighed nothing, catching on the silver rings he always wore. his grin was all teeth. “let’s go,” he said, tilting his head toward the street. theo didn’t trust himself to speak, not when his head was a hurricane of thoughts that had no business being there. he kept his hands shoved in his pockets, eyes on the ground, his jaw tight as he tried to walk off the jealousy clawing at his ribs. it was stupid, he knew.

by the time they reached home, the sky was a shade of indigo. theo didn’t wait around — the front door had barely clicked shut behind them when he was already climbing the stairs two at a time, footsteps heavy on the wood. he didn’t even glance back.

mattheo didn’t follow. turning on his heel and heading right back out the door, toward your place. theo caught it from the top of the stairs: the quick jingle of keys, the door creaking open again, the soft click as it closed behind him. theo stood there, hand still on the banister, lips parted like he might call out — tell him to wait, to stay, to go fuck himself. but nothing came out. what was he going to say anyway? don’t go see her? mattheo would’ve just laughed. that cocky laugh that always made theo feel two inches shorter. he’d say something like, “jealous?” with that tilt of his head, and then walk out anyway. so theo let him go. let him take that damn bag of whatever he bought you, let him walk right into your space, right into your home, into the warmth that wasn’t his to want.

who the hell was theo to protest? he went straight to his room, peeled off his jacket, and crawled under the covers fully clothed. the sheets were cool against his skin, but it didn’t soothe anything. the drinks he’d had earlier sat heavy in his stomach — not enough to make him dizzy, but enough to make everything feel just a little off. he hoped they’d knock him out. that sleep would come quick.

it didn’t. he lay flat on his back, one arm flung over his eyes to block out the thoughts, but they came anyway. he counted the cracks in the ceiling. focused on the soft tick of the old clock on his dresser. on the way the wind brushed against the window, rattling the glass every so often.

"mm... ugh."

theodore jolted upright, ears straining like an animal catching the faintest scent of a target. had he heard that right? he thought he was imagining it, but then he heard it again, clearer this time. “yes… augh, yes…” desperate.

he would have known those sounds anywhere. those pretty little squeal of a moan that slipped from your mouth. he’d spent many nights pressed against the windowsill, watching you with your curtains drawn open just wide enough, seeing the way your body moved beneath your own touch. each quiet gasp, each whimper had been burned into him. engraved so deep inside his mind that even now, with nothing but the sound of your voice to guide him, he could see it all: the way your lashes fluttered, the way your fingers moved, the way your back arched off the mattress as you chased your own pleasure.

theo tossed aside his blanket and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. pushing himself up with his arms, he began walking toward the window. it was already open, though the curtains were drawn. grabbing them at the center where outside light peeked through, he yanked them open.

your bare back faced the glass. mattheo lay stretched out beneath you, his dark curls a mess against your pink silk pillows, his chest rising and falling in uneven breaths. your nails: painted a perfect, glossy white, the edge of your french tips scratched lightly over the broad of mattheo’s chest, leaving red trails. every movement you made was sluggish, lifting your hips, rolling them with a rhythm that made mattheo’s fingers dig deeper into your skin, leaving bruises theo could already see forming along your hips.

his best friends hands clutched you, urging you to move faster, so much harder, needing more.

you leaned down, your spine arching in a curve, and pressed a line of tongue mouthed kisses along the side of mattheo’s neck: hungry kisses that spoke of intimacy theo had never been allowed to taste. he watched you part your lips against mattheo’s throat, tasting the salt on his tan skin, heard the low groan mattheo let out as you continued to ground your hips down.

theo bit down so hard on his own cheek he tasted blood. his cock was hurting against his sweats, but he didn’t dare move, didn’t dare breathe, terrified he’d miss a second.

mattheo’s hands slid from your hips to the plush of your ass. his fingers digging into the meat, squeezing with a grasp that made your body jolt slightly against him. with rough strength, mattheo lifted you just enough to adjust the angle between you, guiding you down again. until you took every inch of him, your bodies fitting together like two broken pieces of the same shattered thing.

theo saw the way your head tipped forward, a moan falling from your lips: the sound sooo soft, vibrating against mattheo’s throat where you kissed him, your lips dragging across his pulse point. fingers curled against mattheo’s chest for balance, the rock of your hips as you rode him faster.

mattheo’s cock drove into you, the swollen head bumping against your g-spot with each thrust.

theodore could see it, could feel it, just by the way your body reacted. every time you lifted your hips, your thighs quivered, your back arching in those beautiful little spasms you couldn’t control.

but frustration simmered just beneath the heat because you were facing away from him, the smooth curve of your back blocking the view he craved most: he’d always loved watching the way your pierced nipples caught his full attention, how the metal glinted as your chest rose with every breath. and now it was hidden from him, kept secret while mattheo got to touch it, taste it.

each grind of mattheo’s hips had your body jolting forward, theodore knew, knew that the thick veins along his best friend’s cock were dragging against your squishy walls, stroking you just right. the way your body melted against his, the way your mouth parted in gasps said everything. your wetness coating him, making every thrust sticky, the lewd squelching sound loud enough that theo could almost hear it through the damn glass.

theo’s dick was throbbing painfully against his jeans, hard as fuck. he hated himself for it. hated that he couldn’t look away. hated that you were right there, split open for someone else, and he couldn’t touch you.

a sound clawed its way from theo’s throat as he shoved his hand into his pants. the first cold brush of his fingertips against his cock tore a choked gasp from him, body jerking against the window. he wrapped his hand around himself in a punishing hold, stroking, as if he could tear the want out of his body by force alone.

“fuckin’ look at yourself,” theodore heard mattheo. you whimpered, head falling back, the ends of your hair grazing over his best friends thighs.

theo fisted himself harder, his eyes on the curve of your back to your golden hoops — in his mind, he saw it clearly: the tattoo beneath your right breast, the one he wanted to mouth, to bite, to worship until you sobbed his name. he imagined it was his cock buried deep inside you, his hands tangled in your hair, your voice breaking as you screamed for him.

that alone made the coil inside theo snap: a release that yanked a whine from his throat. his fingers pinched instinctively, milking every last pulse of hot, desperate seed into his palm. his body jerking against the windowpane, trembling as wave after wave of pleasure ripped through him. the glass against his forehead blurred and fogged with his stuttering breath, but he barely noticed, lost to the absolute high of it.

however, he was instantly flooded with embarrassment at how quickly he had come, all from just the simple sight of his best friend and you.

“oh, come on, nott. it’s my girl’s fuckin’ birthday,” mattheo said, annoyed. pleading as he leaned heavily against the edge of theo’s bedroom window, arms crossed tight over his chest. his chocolate eyes moved between his friend and the view just beyond the glass, where you sat at your vanity, running your fingers through your hair. “pansy and her girlfriend are already there,” he continued, yanking his head toward the sound of laughter and music starting to rise.

“draco, enzo, blaise—everyone’s waiting. it’s going to be weird as fuck if you don’t show up.”

theo didn’t look up. he remained at his desk, wiping it down with a soft cloth like he did nearly every evening. no matter how often he cleaned, it somehow managed to look messier by the next morning. what mattheo didn’t say, but knew, was that theodore’s desk sat in the perfect spot, positioned just below the large window that framed a direct view into your room. from where he stood, theo could see everything. the setup wasn’t intentional, it had been that way since before either of them could remember. his desk had always been there, longggg before he realized what that window actually offered.

“don’t feel like it,” theodore replied, barely looking up from where he was running his cloth in circles across the surface of his desk. “barely even know the woman,” he added with a shrug.

he didn’t know you, not in the way people usually mean when they talk about getting to know someone. he didn’t know your favorite color, or what kind of movies you liked, or whether you bit your nails when you were nervous. but he knew what your body looked like beneath soft silk and tight cotton. he knew the way your lips parted and your head tilted back when you were chasing pleasure, whether it was under someone else’s touch or your own. he’d never heard your voice in conversation, but he’d heard it in squeaky moans carried through open windows.

mattheo exhaled loudly, dragging a hand down his face before turning back toward the window. “exactly,” he said, gesturing toward the sight of you. “you don’t know her. so m’trying to fix that. my two favorite people don’t even know each other, theo. that’s messed up.” that made theodore pause. he turned his head, giving a sideways glance at mattheo. his best friend wasn’t even looking at him, his gaze had returned to the window, locked on you.

curious despite himself, theo followed his best friend’s line of sight. you were sitting at the edge of your vanity chair, legs crossed, applying a final coat of lip gloss. your hair was half up, curls falling down your back like warm honey. the dress you wore, silky where it hugged your hips: the one mattheo had bought for you last week.

you looked gorgeous. too stunning. and somehow theo’s eyes weren’t drawn to the usual things. his attention caught on the tiniest details: the shimmer of body oil on your collarbone. the way your earring swung each time your head tilted. and, because he couldn’t help it, the outline of the piercings on your breasts, barely visible through the thin material of the dress, but justtttt enough to be noticed if someone was looking closely.

“not in the mood to party anyway.” the words were simple, tossed out casually as theo leaned back in his chair, fingertips tapping lightly against the edge of his desk. but the second they left his mouth, mattheo’s head snapped around like he’d been slapped. “not in the mood to party?” he repeated, disbelief in his voice.

mattheo had known theo since they were kids, since scraped knees to the stolen bottles of alcohol behind the castle. if there was one thing he could count on, it was that theodore nott never missed a party. not for exams, not for breakups, not even for detention. the boy lived for chaos, for loud music and dancing girls and a drink in each hand. so this didn’t make sense. “who are you, and what the fuck did you do to my best friend?” he asked. “seriously, tell him i want him back.”

nott rolled his eyes but couldn’t stop the small smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. he shook his head and stood up slowly, stretching before he leaned his weight against the desk. “i’m serious,” he said. “go have fun with your girl. it’s her fuckin’ birthday, just tell her i said happy birthday, yeah?” but even as he spoke, even as he tried to sound uninterested, theo’s eyes wandered back to the window. back to you. still seated at your vanity, fastening the tiny clasp of a necklace around your neck, brushing the curve of your collarbone as you adjusted it.

theo couldn’t go to that party. he wouldn’t. if he saw you and mattheo together, up close, arms around each other, eyes locked in that way that only couples do. he wouldn’t be able to handle it. he’d pretend, obviously. theo was good at pretending. he’d lean against the wall with a drink in hand and wear that handsome grin. but the whole time, he’d be watching you. watching him with you. watching you with him. it would tear him apart.

you were already irresistible when seen through a window. but up close? with that perfume he’d caught traces of in the hallway? with your laugh in his ears instead of muffled through glass? he’d lose his mind.

mattheo bit the inside of his cheek. he hated this. hated the feeling of walking away from something that was supposed to be fun, that was supposed to include everyone he cared about. he and theo had done everything together since they were eleven: first smokes, first fights, first girls, first heartbreaks. there wasn’t a memory worth keeping that didn’t have nott’s name scribbled somewhere in the corner of it. and now, on a night that mattered. his girlfriend’s night, your night, mattheo couldn’t help but feel wrong leaving him behind.

however, mattheo knew better than to argue. if theo said he didn’t feel like partying, then dragging him out would be a lost cause. the fucker was more stubborn than anyone he’d ever met. once he was set in a direction, you’d break your legs trying to turn him around.

letting out an exhale through his nose. “alright,” mattheo said finally, turning toward the door, disappointment dragging at his voice. “if you change your mind, the party’s next door. you know where to find us.” theo gave a nod, already turning his back on his best friend. behind him, he heard the sigh mattheo always gave when he was pretending not to care, followed by the slow creak of the bedroom door opening, closing, then fading footsteps down the hallway.

the moment he knew he was alone, theo turned around. he didn’t even try to hide it anymore. his gaze went straight to your window.

you were standing now, having just risen from your vanity chair. the hem of your dress settled around your thighs as you reached for your perfume, spritzing a small cloud into the air before stepping through it, letting it kiss your skin.

your hands smoothed down the fabric of your dress once more as you took a final look in the mirror, brushing a curl of hair behind your ear. theo watched as you grabbed your little clutch bag. paused at the frame for just a second, looking back, maybe to check your reflection one last time, maybe just thinking—and then disappeared from view.

of all the people theo could’ve become obsessed with, why did it have to be you? why did it have to be his best friend’s girlfriend? the one girl he couldn’t have, the one person who should’ve been completely off limits. obsession didn’t even feel like the right word anymore. it was deeper than that.

when this all started, when theo first saw you touching yourself, you weren’t even with mattheo. he remembered that night vividly: down to the way you were lying back, lips parted, chest rising and falling with every desperate sound you let out. your hand was slow between your thighs, and the look on your face was tattooed into his mind permanently.

what if he’d moved first? what if he hadn’t stayed silent, hadn’t given mattheo time to get close to you? would you have looked at him the way you look at his best friend now? would you have let him touch you until you were trembling, maybe even crying from how good he’d make you feel? would you have let him ruin you in all the ways he dreamed of?

oh, could’ve, should’ve, fuckin’ would’ve. but the most twisted, most fucked part of it all: theo had only grown more obsessed after finding out you and mattheo were together. he couldn’t explain it. something about seeing the two of you wrapped up in each other, giving and taking pleasure so lovingly, cracked him open in ways he didn’t even want to name.

just like mattheo had said, his two favorite people. you and mattheo: two people theo is utterly obsessed with — had found each other. the two people theo loved to watch, to crave for, had somehow ended up in a relationship.

god, he loved it. he loved when his best friend came back smelling like you: the sweetness of your skin, raw scent of sex still sticking to him. he loved knowing you had made mattheo feel so good that he’d finally settled, finally stayed in a relationship.

theo loved it. loved that if it couldn’t be him wrecking you, worshiping you, making you come on his cock so deliciously, at least it was his best friend. if he wasn’t the one making mattheo’s eyes flutter shut in pleasure, you were. he tried to deny it — every part of him convinced that he was just jealous because mattheo had you. but the truth was more twisted: he was jealous because you had mattheo too.

theo blinked hard, over and over, as if it would somehow erase the thoughts that had taken inside his mind. thoughts so bizarre, so fucked, they didn’t even feel like they belonged to him. his chest felt tight, his skin too hot. he pushed himself up from his desk chair, the legs scraping roughly against the wood floor, and stalked toward the bathroom. he slid open the shower door with a clatter, the sound echoing in the tiled space, and twisted the faucet on full blast toward freezing cold. the pipes making a shuddering sound as he tore at his clothes: stripping his shirt off over his head, kicking his pants down in one tug, leaving a trail of garments behind him like he couldn’t get them off fast enough.

the moment he stepped beneath the icy spray, the shock of it hit him instantly. theo hissed through his teeth, bowing his head as the water tickled down his overheated skin, soaking his hair, dragging goosebumps across his frame. he leaned a palm against the cold tile, his other hand curling briefly into a fist at his side as he forced himself to stand there, to let the freezing water do its brutal work.

the arousal he’d gotten, just from the vivid thought of his two favorite people tangled up in pleasure, so good for him — fucked him up.

he stayed there longer than necessary, shampooing his hair, scrubbing his body hard enough to turn his skin red. as if he could wash the images out of his mind along with the sweat from his skin. when he finally shut off the faucet, the silence was instant. water dripped from his hair, trailing down his spine as he reached for a towel. he wrapped it low around his hips, the cotton scratching at his skin, and wiped a hand across the fogged mirror without bothering to really look at himself.

he grabbed a handful of cotton swabs, poking one into his ear, not yet swishing it around. with the other hand, he reached for his toothbrush, squeezing a quick line of mint toothpaste across the bristles before jamming it into his mouth.

theo stepped back into his room, still brushing his teeth, however: he stopped dead in his tracks. the sight before him instinctively made him stumble back a step, his heel catching on the edge of the rug. the toothbrush slipped from the corner of his mouth, hanging awkwardly. “what ttthe—” he mumbled, his voice barely hearable through the toothpaste foam.

he spun around and rushed back into the bathroom. the faucet screeching as he turned it back on with clumsy fingers, quickly bringing his mouth down to gather water. he swished, then spat it out, gripping the sides of the sink to steady himself for a second before straightening up. his eyes searched his reflection in the mirror, as if to confirm he wasn’t losing his grip on reality. then he stepped back out into his room.

you were standing near the foot of his bed, wearing that dress, it looked even more stunning up close. one thin strap had slipped down your shoulder, exposing more skin that seemed intentional… or maybe it was intentional. you tilted your head slightly. “rude of me not to announce myself, i know,” it was the first time he'd heard your voice in a complete sentence, and he was already captivated by it. “but you were in the shower, and i didn’t want to interrupt.”

theo just stared at you, his brain struggling to catch up. he blinked once. then again. and again, expecting you to disappear like some strange dream.

his voice came out lower than usual, cracking embarrassingly. “where’s matt…heo?” his gaze darted briefly around the room, expecting his friend to appear from behind the curtain or the closet door. if you were here, then surely mattheo couldn’t be far behind.

“he actually sent me,” you said, lifting the keys you still had clutched awkwardly in your hand, as if they somehow validated your presence. “said you… uh… had condoms.” theo almost chuckled at how shy you got just saying the word condoms. sweet thing. if only you knew how much he had already seen, how much he had already imagined. his blue eyes dragged over you, barely suppressing the smirk that tugged at the corner of his mouth.

“yeah?” he exhaled, turning away, crossing the room. his towel sat low on his hips, the damp fabric wrapped around the cut of his waist. every step he took made it shift dangerously. you stayed frozen by his bed, trying very hard not to look: failing miserably.

theo crouched down in front of his dresser, yanking open the bottom drawer. it creaked, revealing a mess of old things: wrinkled shirts, an empty box of mints, and underneath it all, a few leftover condoms from an ex-girlfriend.

he grabbed three without thinking, large hands checking the slim foil wrappers, and walked back toward you. the condoms dangled casually from his fingers as he extended his hand out: just close enough for you to reach. your hand was halfway there when theo snatched them back.

“you know how to put them on, right?” you lifted your gaze up at him through your lashes, lips parting slightly like you wanted to say something but couldn’t quite find the words. and theo, all bare in front of you, save for the thin strip of towel slung dangerously low around his hips. the shape of him barely covered the way your thighs instinctively pressed together.

you shook your head. theo could’ve groaned at the sight. he already knew, obviously. knew you and mattheo didn’t use condoms, his best friend had always been stubborn about it, even back at school, bragging about how he hated the “killjoy” of it. the number of plan b boxes theo had seen mattheo toss into his bag over the years only confirmed it: it was even worse now that he had you.

regardless, knowing it was your birthday, theo was certain mattheo wasn’t going to stop at just one round. not a fuckin’ chance. shit, knowing his friend, he’d probably go as many rounds as the number you were turning, determined to fuck you until you couldn’t even remember how old you were.

these were mandatory.

“want me to show you?” theo asked, the words slipping out before he could think better of them. he knew. fuck, he knew — this could either go insanely wrong or exactly how he’d fantasized a hundred times in the guilty corners of his mind. the moment the question was said, your pretty lips parted, eyes blinking up at him with disbelief. theodore couldn’t blame you, your boyfriend’s best friend had just asked if you wanted him to show you how to put on a condom.

silence pulled between you. theo’s stomach twisted, a thread of doubt shredding through the daze of heat blurring his mind. he thought about taking it back, covering it up with a laugh, pretending it was a joke, anything to save face.

“yes,” you breathed. so sickly sure. the single word dip into him like a match to gasoline.

theo’s pulse pounded loud in his ears as he moved to sit on the edge of his bed. he ran a hand through his damp hair, pretending to be okay, but every nerve in his body was tickling. he gestured for you to sit beside him, hand loose in the air, but his entire body felt tense. you obeyed without hesitation, shy as you perched on the mattress next to him. so fucking obedient. so fucking tempting.

he let the towel fall from his hips with a flick of his fingers, letting it pool on the bed. your breath caught. fully bared in front of you, was theo’s dick: an angry red at the tip, straining up at full attention. all from the simple sight of you sitting there, looking so shy and sweet in that little dress mattheo had bought you.

you swallowed, throat bobbing with the effort. your body shifting almost unconsciously on the bed: thighs pressing together, hands clenching into the fabric of the comforter beneath you. you couldn’t stop looking at him, at all. that gorgeous, heavy heat standing between his hips. theo’s mouth tilted into a smile at your reaction, but his voice stayed rough around the edges, when he said, “don’t open it with your teeth. could accidentally rip it. then it won’t work.”

you nodded, completely focused on him. on what he was doing. on how he was doing it.

he tore the wrapper open with his hands, the foil crinkling. he plucked the condom from the packet, letting it spread slightly between his fingertips. “it’s a little wet,” theo murmured, his accent peaking through due to nerves. “you have make sure it doesn’t slip through your pretty little fingers.” the way he said it, your pretty little fingers, made your entire body hot. you couldn’t tear your eyes away as he lined the condom carefully with the head of his cock, making sure it was angled just right before slowly rolling it down.

the latex slapped onto his skin, catching every vein, every impossible inch that had you pressing your thighs even tighter together. “just like that.” you bit down hard on the inside of your cheek to keep from making some humiliating sound right there on the bed. your hands squeezed tighter in your lap, thighs trembling from the effort of staying still.

“can i… can i try?”

theo was about to nod, maybe crack a joke about grabbing a banana or something less dangerous, but you shook your head quickly, moving forward on the bed before lifting a manicured hand to stop him. “i mean… on you,” you said. “can i try… on you?”

theo genuinely thought he was on the verge of passing out. your words ricocheted around his mind, hitting every nerve. his heart was pounding so loud it was all he could hear, he wondered if you could hear it too. nott gobbled down his saliva, fingers a little shaky now as he grabbed one of the extra condoms from where he’d tossed them on the bed. his hand brushed yours when he passed it over, your manicured nails scratched slightly against the rough pads of his fingers as you took the foil packet from him.

he forced himself to move, peeling off the condom he’d already put on, tossed it into the small trashcan by his desk.

you tore open the foil carefully, trying not to rush, your bottom lip caught between your teeth in concentration. when you slid the condom out, you held it up between your fingers. “you weren’t wrong,” you said, giving him a shy glance from under your lashes. “it’s… really wet.”

his cock twitched, visibly, at the sound of your voice, at the sight of you sitting there so pretty. you turned slightly to face him, holding the condom between your fingers. theo had to clench his fists into the mattress to stop himself from reaching for you. you were so close now that the scent of your shampoo mixed with the smell of latex was starting to become theo’s new favorite scent.

he observed, almost in slow motion, as you lined the condom up with the tip of his dick, so carefully he found it cute. and started to roll it down over him.

the first brush of your nails against his cock had theo’s thighs tensing, an involuntary jerk of his hips that he quickly bit back. you were trying so hard to be gentle, to be careful, your eyes flickering up to his face every few seconds for approval. “like that?” you whisper, voice barely hearable over the ringing in his ears. you were so close that when you tilted your chin to look at him, the slightest movement brought your face right near his: breath sweet, brushing across the tip of his nose. theo thought he might actually lose his mind. his dick throbbed against your palm, and it took every control he had not to thrust into your hand and wreck every bit of innocence still in the room.

“just like that,” theo rasped. he cleared his throat roughly, trying to ground himself, to wrestle back the thin shred of control slipping through his fingers. he was about to hook a finger under the rolled latex and slide it off, end this insanity before it went any further. when your hand shot out and stopped him, fingers brushing his wrist.

“wait,” eyes wide and questioning, locked onto his. “what about… if it’s filled?” you asked, cheeks flushing at the bluntness of your own words. “how do i remove it without any of the… juices spilling inside me?”

thrown off by how sweetly filthy that question sounded coming from your mouth. theo licked his lips slowly, mind racing, what to do. because the images flashing behind his eyes were downright dirty. he should have just explained it easily — but instead a far darker thought came to mind a sick, sick thought. one he didn’t have the power to resist.

theo reached out, his fingers brushing along your bare shoulder where the strap of your dress had slipped down. he caught the strap between two fingers and lifted it gently, sliding it back into place, his knuckles skimming your heated skin in the process. the soft prickle raising across your skin in visible waves. his fingers stayed a second too long, memorizing the warmth radiating off your body, before he forced himself to pull away.

“i’d show you… but it’s more of a visual lesson.” a smile tugged at your mouth, and you leaned in, just enough that theo could see the lust in your eyes. “good thing i’m a visual learner.” the condom still slapped over his cock stretched as he grew even harder. something he hadn’t thought physically possible until now.

“oh, i believe you,” theo muttered, he nodded toward the two empty condom wrappers on the mattress, to show how very serious you both were taking this ‘lesson.’ he adjusted himself on the bed, settling more toward the middle to give you both more room. “let me just-” he started, reaching for himself, intending to stroke his cock and mimic how the condom would fill. however, before his fingers could even brush his hardened dick, you stopped him.

“i have a better idea,” you said, syrupy sweet. “to get the full experience.” theo blinked at you, confused, until you rose up from where you were sitting beside him. you swung a leg over him, straddling his hips, and his heart just about stopped.

the thin material of your underwear brushed over the sensitive head of his dick, and theo had to bite back a sound. a pathetic noise that scratched up his throat. he could already feel it, could already feel himself on the verge, and you hadn’t even taken him inside yet.

“always have to be sure…” theo’s voice weakened. you gave him a look, that sexy look and slipped your fingers down between your legs, hooking into the side of your panties. you dragged the fabric aside, exposing yourself to him, and theo’s mouth actually watered.

you reached between your bodies, your hand wrapping around the base of him. theodore nearly jolted at just that, your fingers, so warm wrapping around him. “for learning purposes,” you said softly, locking eyes with him. for learning purposes. you lifted yourself up a bit, lining him up with your entrance, and theo could barely believe this was real. he was finally going to touch you, finally going to make you feel so unbelievably good, just like he’d imagined far too many times. then slowly, soooo slowly, you started to sink down.

the head of his red, angry dick disappeared into the squishy walls inside you. theo whimpered instantly, an embarrassingly wrecked sound that slipped out through his nose and clenched teeth. this was the same position you’d been in when he watched you and mattheo through the window, your back to him, making his best friend fall apart under your touch. only now, you were on top of theo, and he could still smell your boyfriend on your skin. he could still smell mattheo on you.

he wasn’t sure which he loved more: the scent of you on mattheo… or the smell of mattheo left on you.

your palms laid flat against theo’s chest for balance, hips rolling in waves that had both of you gasping, lost in the feeling. his hands roamed your body, thumbs sweeping over the curve of your waist, the full bulge of your breasts. his hands traced lightly over the ink just beneath your right breast, the red cursive spelling angel against your skin.

what an angel, riding him like your boyfriend, his best friend, wasn’t just next door. throwing a party in your honor. “feel fuckin’ amazing…” theo breathed against your skin. “my best friend had all this to himself?” his words dissolve into kisses and biting sucks against your pierced nipples, leaving trails of swollen, purpled marks. you moaned, arching into him, shoving your breast deeper into his mouth. he groaned as he sucked around the metal, loving the taste he had only ever dreamed about. it was even better than he had imagined, shocking against his tongue.

even up close he could still taste the traces of your boyfriend’s cologne clinging to your skin. the thought should have disgusted him. however, it made him impossibly harder.

theo sits up, caging you against him in a bruising hold, his arms locking around your body so tightly you can barely breathe. he holds you there, crushing you to his chest as he thrusts up into you, giving you everything. your hands fly to the back of his neck, fingers tangling in his hair, dragging him even closer to your chest as he continued to drive into you.

“keep hitting right th—ugh…” your words broke off in a choked moan, the sentence dying on your tongue. theo didn’t need to hear the rest; he already knew. he obeyed immediately, adjusting the angle of his thrusts, jabbing into the spot inside you that made your body jolt. you tried to keep moving, hips grinding down against him in desperate circles, but every time the thick head of his cock nudged that sensitive spot: you faltered, legs trembling around his waist. theo caught you when you slumped forward, letting your head drop onto his shoulder as you whimpered. his arms curled around you, holding you steady while he kept thrusting up into you, meeting your weak movements halfway, guiding you through the waves of pleasure crashing over your body.

every breath you took fanned across his neck as you clung to him. you hadn’t even bothered warning him that you were about to come, you couldn’t find the words, and he didn’t need them anyway. he could feel it.

the way your walls sucked him in, squeezing him tighter. even through the condom, he could feel the rush of your release, dripping down all over his cock. theo cursed under his breath, losing his rhythm as his own orgasm hit, his body pushing against yours. hips lifting up into you one last time, deeper than before, as he spilled into the condom with a groan muffled against your shoulder.

for a while, neither of you moved, the only sounds in the room were your heavy breathing. theo pulled out of you, the latex still slapped against him gleaming with your juices. but instead of letting go, he wrapped his fingers tightly around the base of the condom. “first,” he said, voice still recovering from the aftershocks, “don’t just yank it out like you usually do.” he demonstrated, pinching the tip of the condom carefully between two fingers to trap the contents inside. “always pinch the tip,” he instructed, “or you’ll make a fuckin’ mess.”

“then,” theo murmured, eyes locked on yours, making sure you were paying attention. his fingers gripping the base of the condom, not letting a drop escape. “slowly roll it down,” he instructed. “keep your grip tight at the tip.”

you watched, still catching your breath, as he demonstrated for you: rolling the condom down his still softish cock inch by inch. you could see the way his knuckles tensed slightly with the control he forced himself to maintain, ensuring not a single drop spilled.

when the condom was finally off, theo pinched the tip again for extra caution, lifting it between two fingers. you caught a glimpse of it, full of everything he was going to pour into you. theo twisted the open end into a tight knot, sealing it shut before tossing it casually into the nearby trash can with a flick of his wrist.

only then did he turn back to you. your back sprawled out across his bed, hair wild against his dark sheets, skin covered in sweat. fat purple hickeys scattered down your neck, your chest, your thighs. theo stood for a moment, just drinking it in, the gorgeous sight of you, the mess of you. the way you looked destroyed and beautiful under his touch. part of him, a greedy part, wanted to take a picture, to keep you like this forever, ruined by him with the scent of his best friend on you.

instead however, he let himself hover over you, one hand brushing your cheek. “happy birthday, by the way,” voice almost too soft for what they’d just done.

he lowers himself, mouth trailing a path down your throat, across your collarbone, tongue lapping up the thin sweat he left behind. you exhale through your nose, blinking down at him through post-orgasmic daze. “you’re obsessed,” you whisper, voice wrecked.

“of fuckin’ course i am,” he mutters, almost resentful, like somehow it’s your fault he’s like this. when his mouth reaches the curve of your breast. he stops, catching on the silver piercing on the tender peak. “fuck…” he breathes. his mouth falls open, tongue flicking over the metal before he seals his lips around it, sucking it into the heat of his mouth. his free hand cups your other breast, thumb rolling over the second pierced nipple, the barbell clicking under the pressure.

he devours your chest, leaving trails of saliva and bruises like signatures across your skin. dark red and purple marks blush over the soft bump of your breasts, around the delicate piercings, down to the fragile skin just above your ribs.

you sink your nails into his hair, yanking sharply when the overstimulation becomes too much. he looks up at you then, lips all swollen. “now go show my best friend everything i just taught you.”

[lastpeachonearth]

i had to spin back sorry not sorry. fire. magnificent.

[dearmisshoney]

pitch a (his) tent

synopsis. when your brother mattheo brings his new girlfriend on the annual boys-only camping trip, you're invited along to balance out the dynamic. everything’s fine... until your old tent gives out, forcing you to share one with the only person staying alone — theo nott. insufferable yet maddeningly hot theo nott. let’s just say… they should be making warning signs of him too, not just of bears.

pairing. brother's bsf! theo x reader

content/mdni. fem! reader, brother’s bsf! theo, very mean! theo, switch! theo energy (he's losing it), pent-up! theo, pussy-drunk! theo, messy-eater! theo, enemies-to-lovers tension,  allusions to male masturbation, handjob (assisted), clit stimulation, oral (f receiving), dry-humping, cum play, allusions to overstimulation, allusions to edging (m receiving), dirty talk, pet names (amore, good girl), p in v implied but doesn’t happen, smut with ton of plot, one freddy fazbear joke

word count. 4k

a/n. hello, honeybuns! as promised, i came back to theo, specifically brother’s best friend! theo. this fic is also part of the first week of @acourtofchaos ’s event (although i am late oopsi). let me know what you think about this theo piece! feedback and reblogs are deeply appreciated!

the harmonious sounds of the crickets were the only hums spilling over the camping grounds. the joyous laughter and the ongoing chatter of daylight toned down little by little, falling prey to nighttime, vanishing entirely.

four tents were pitched around a put-out campfire, all jet black and covered by a thick layer of drowsiness. one lonely tent was perched farther from the cluster, partially hidden behind a sturdy tree.

a glowing beam of light emerged from one of the four tents, hauntingly hovering — fast yet quiet — towards the isolated one.

some might say that was a forest spirit, making its appearance at midnight to prowl around the mortal word.

some, against such meager fairytales, would suggest the yellowish orb to be but a tiny firefly, aimlessly flying around the camping grounds.

you would confirm that it was actually the light of your portable lamp, dangling from your hand and swinging according to the whim of the forest’s chilly wind. and the trajectory was not arbitrary — even before you’ve emerged from your tent, you decided to stick to the quickest route towards nott and his secluded shelter.

your feet, clad in simple flip-flops, crushed the dry dirt of the pathway, stepping with swiftness through the cold air of the night. the distance between the tents was not that far, yet your pajamas and your almost bare feet were not enough to protect your body from the temperature change.

hurrying your pace, you finally arrived before nott’s enclosure.

no inside light pierced through the thick material of the tent, a clear signal that theodore may be asleep. soft murmurs could be heard here and there, but you were not sure those came from inside.

you stretched out your arm by reflex, pushing the lamp forward, closer to the tent, trying somehow to see what theodore was up to. however, the additional light did little to nothing, making only the dirty green colour of the tent more vibrant; the inside was still a mystery.

“n–nott?” you whisper-yelled his name, testing the waters, still hoping he was awake.

it would make your life so much easier.

your call and the silence following it made the entire moment feel eerie. you were suddenly more aware of your singular existence in the middle of a sleeping forest.

the air felt harsher, cutting into your lungs. the light of your lantern was suddenly too bright, blindingly so. urgency spiked throughout your body, making goosebumps appear all over your skin.

fuck it, you will wake him up.

reaching out your free hand, you tightly gripped the outside slider of the zipper. and, with a final intake of air, you dragged it in the opposite direction, slowly revealing the entrance.

but it immediately flew away from between your fingers, fastly separating half the length of the zipper’s teeth.

“what the fuck is wrong with you?”

theodore's voice boomed in your ear, hitting you before his dishevelled appearance did. his voice sounded exhausted, although he did not seem to have been sleeping before your intrusion. yet, his visible grimace and his hand shooting upwards to shelter his eyes from your stupid lantern gave away the fact that he has been staying with the light off for a while.

“umm, i-”

“put that shit away, will ya’?”

his words were harsh and rude, thrown at you with no second thought. that's usually how he is when it comes to you; your brother’s best friend barely holds back, and if he must restrict his vocabulary, he colours his speech through intonation.

intonation showcasing annoyance and displeasure.

“yeah, yeah, my bad.”

you mumbled a half-hearted apology as you flipped off the switch of the lamp, the light slowly dimming in your hand until there was no more.

your surroundings were yet again swimming in darkness, and your eyes — not yet accustomed to the lack of brightness — seem to betray your disadvantage in the face of nott.

“what do you want?”

you could barely distinguish his silhouette, the contour of his body slightly blending in with the shadowy insides of the tent. you could see, however, the way his tent was partly open, a sign you were unwelcome in his vicinity.

that and his venomous words. he clearly wanted you gone.

you sucked in a breath, hammering down your ego, and carefully answered theodore.

“my tent’s ripped. didn’t notice until now–”

“and? the fuck do you take me for? bob the builder?”

oh, his patience was wearing thin. with your vision slowly adapting to the darkness, you registered the way his hand dragged the slider back down by a quarter of the length, wishing to separate the two of you for good.

“wait, wait.” panic surged into you and your hands jumped out instinctively, clutching theo’s fingers, stopping his movement altogether. your lantern long forgotten, dropped somewhere on the dirt path. “i can’t sleep there.”

“oh, please. you think a ghost will eat you?”

theo bit back at your reasoning, poking fun at the silly horror stories the group told right before bed and mocking your childish fear.

you can insist all you want, he doesn’t care.

his other hand ushered yours away to prove his stance, pulling the slider further down.

“you’re so ugh–” you were using all your power to stop yourself from kicking the supports of his tent and have it collapse over him.

“BEARS. i am scared of bears. actual animals that are in this forest.”

“just har har back at–”

“can i please stay in your tent?”

please. you never say please to him. please, thanks, and sorry are three words you’d never redirect at him unless you were extremely desperate.

and, shit, you seem to be needing to share his tent by the way you’ve swallowed up your pride and begged.

“fine. hop in.”

he does it for mattheo, he convinced himself as he pulled back the slider, revealing the full width of the entrance for you. he does it so your brother won’t rip his skin off if something does happen to you in your ripped tent.

yeah, that’s the only reason.

you slowly crawled into the tent, careful not to touch anything in your wake; theo seems to be in a bad mood, and you did not want to aggravate the situation further. so you propped yourself at the opposite side of him, sitting with your legs crossed one over the other, observing how he zipped back up the entrance.

you were now irrefutably stuck in a small tent with theodore nott.

after securing the slider, theo turned around to locate you. and when his eyes landed on you, all stiff and unmoving, he just sighed and slapped his forehead with his own palm.

“i hope you won’t stay like that all night.”

“like what?”

“like a creep, watching me sleep.”

“a creep? what do–”

“just lay down and sleep.”

theo issued his command and moved away from the topic at once, crawling back to his sleeping bag and sliding right in. ignoring you. even if you tried to continue the discussion, him turning his back towards you was enough evidence he did not want to interact with you more than necessary.

“okay, okay.”

you still answered him, sighing with exasperation at his bitchy attitude.

why was he so irritated tonight? indeed, theodore nott was not a big fan of yours, but his patience was never this fragile. maybe you angered him during the day? you don’t really remember talking to him at all though, more interested in spending time with mattheo’s girlfriend away from the boys.

the reasons behind his shitty behaviour will remain a mystery, as theo seemed to be adamant to go to sleep. you conceded too, finally laying down, closer to the edge of the tent, taking a similar sideway position as him.

the tent was warmer than yours, no rupture disturbing the temperature of the insides, yet the lack of covers did make your body curl into itself and seek more warmth. you did so for a few minutes, twisting and turning from side to side, searching for the optimal position.

theodore seems to be aware of it all as a long exhale emerged from his side of the tent. all loud — exaggeratedly so — and purposeful, acting as a warning, as a replacement for a verbal complaint.

you bit down on your bottom lip, hoping you were just reading too much into it, and shifted the position of your legs again. the loud whoosh sound of your pants across the tent material resonated around the entire shelter.

“move one more time and i am kicking you out.”

he spat the threat at you in a heavy tone, seriousness latched onto every word of his. he even betrayed his initial position and turned around to prove it, facing you for a third time that night.

“i am not doing it on purpose.” you hissed back at him, encircling your arms around your torso and pushing your knees further into your stomach, hoping he will realise cold was making you so restless.

“oh, so your body moves on its own?”

sassiness. mockery. rage.

“i am cold.” you blatantly stated, more of a whisper than a fully articulated sentence.

this will soften his resolve, right?

“not my problem.”

no.

you huffed out a shaky breath, curling tighter into yourself. your body was visibly shivering against the cool air, air that was sneaking underneath your pajama and pinching at your skin. you did not dare to spoke another word to him, certain his coldness will only worsen your situation; so, trembling into yourself deeper and deeper, you hoped your body will just heat up on its own.

silence stretched between the two of you, heavy and palpable. you paid theo no mind, completely averting your gaze from his emotionless face and closing them with an unspoken wish for sleep.

“­fuck, fine. c’mere.”

your head snapped immediately at his words, your eyes locked in on theodore in an instant. “what?”

“you won’t sleep otherwise, right?” he muttered, reaching for the edge of his sleeping bag and pulling at the zipper just enough so you could slip in. “just– get in.”

your heart stuttered, nerves, confusion, and something else colliding inside you. carefully, you inched closer to him, joining him into the sleeping bag as instructed.

it was cramped. too cramped.

it was obvious the sleeping bag was made for one person only. yet you couldn’t complain. wouldn’t complain.

your thighs shifted against his, pajama pants brushing against pajama pants, and your chest pressed against his arm. the space between you two was almost non-existent, your bodies mushed under the too-small sleeping covers.

it was so strange, but it felt so good.

a sigh of pleasure slipped past your lips as your body soaked in the warmth of the sleeping bag and of theodore’s body. unconsciously, you even drew closer into him, dipping your head towards his clothed chest and–

“back off, weirdo.”

his hand emerged from underneath, pressing against your forehead and regaining some distance between the two of you. your upper body might have been pushed away towards the edge, but your lower body was strongly opposing theo by latching your legs to his own and keeping your ground.

“but you’re warm.”

“i don’t offer cuddles, so stop– ugh”

his complaints were interrupted by a deep loud groan. you would have said you hit a nerve with your forwardness, and that was his reaction.

but no.

you hit something else, something in the nether regions — your knee aimlessly nudged between his thighs in your attempts at trapping him, brushing against his cock.

his hard cock, if you were to be specific.

“oh my god, is that–”

“i told you to back–”

“is that why you’re so bitchy?”

you suddenly had a moment of epiphany: theodore nott was so irritated by your arrival because you ruined his jack-off session.

“you’re so weird, geez– ah.”

you kneed him again, this time applying more pressure to his cock. you did it to stop his mindless ramble, but also to see that raw reaction again. to see how his lips parted, quivering in pleasure, to see his annoyed eyes roll back at the slightest touch.

to feel how his shaft twitched against your leg.

“were you mid-stroke?”

oh, you were so taking advantage of his weakness, taunting and humiliating theodore for his previous actions. yet, your knee never stopped its ministration, shifting around his cock and applying just enough pressure to take theo’s breath away.

“and because of me, you didn’t finish?”

“f–fuck.”

his hand dropped completely from your head, slipping down your body and sliding right over your problematic knee. and with a harsh thug, he removed your leg altogether, forcing it in the opposite direction.

any sort of control you had over him disappeared.

“i really hate you, y’ know?”

he was angry. really angry. his hand on your knee was strong, pushing at your leg hard enough to hurt. the muscle stretch indeed burned, but so did his eyes. they were focused on your face, part of his gaze wishing to light you on fire and turn you to ashes, part of it to ignite a similar flame within you.

“give me one good reason why i shouldn’t throw you out, hm?”

his beautiful orbs betrayed him, but his tongue still spoke in lies.

he managed to captivate you fully, and for a moment you did not register his question. you only stared back into his eyes, forming a link with the hidden yet burning desire in them. that blazing lust was pouring out of his gaze straight into yours, only to slowly expand all throughout your entire body.

you were submerging in undeniable arousal, and his big hand pressing into your knee was keeping you underneath it all.

“i can help you out.”

so charmed by your own unwavering stare, theo did not registered the movement of your own hand, slowly creeping down his pajama top and sliding downwards to the band of his pants. your fingertips, still cold from theo’s negligence, dipped underneath the waistband in no time, only stopping their trail when reaching his cock.

“s–shit, fuck.”

his cock was heavy and hot in your palm, trembling at the mere contact with your cold fingers. his hips jerked upwards instinctively, his cock slotting deeper in your grip. it was all wet and sticky, covered in precum and what you assumed was theo’s own spit from before, so his shaft glided along your palm nicely.

“so cold, damn.”

a shaky exhale joined his remark, puffed against the crown of your head, as you slowly started to stroke him.

“told you so.”

you merely retorted, smirking against his clothed chest, allowing your hand to pick up a lazy, teasing rhythm. now it was the perfect time to torture him, carefully twisting your wrist and applying more pressure to the underside of his cock, or shamelessly thumbing at his weeping slit.

theodore couldn’t even complain, his tongue caged by a plethora of grunted moans and nonsensical babbles. his incoherence betrayed him, and so did his hand, leaving your poor knee alone and slapping itself on your ass.

with fingers spread out across your pants, he grabbed with vigour your left buttcheek.

“shut it.”

he growled low in his throat, all his pent-up frustration and need vibrating through both of your bodies. his hand was becoming greedier and greedier, groping and squeezing your ass at every harsh tug on his cock. and you had no mercy, sliding your hand up and down his shaft, with so much dexterity.

but when you dipped your other hand lower to his balls, fondling them at with a gentle touch, he too dipped his fingers into your pajama pants.

“oho, what do we have here?”

his warm fingers dragged downwards along your skin, smacking your ass one last time and, finally, dipping lower to your cunt. the tip of his digits pushed underneath your thong, all slutty and wet against your pussy, parting your sloppy fold with a single calculated stroke.

“dirty fucking girl.”

you moaned against his chest loud, unrestricted, taken by surprise by theo’s lack of hesitation at exploring your messy cunt. you could feel his fingers brushing up and down your slit, swimming in your arousal and collecting as much of your wetness as possible.

“all this just from jerking me off?”

he was taunting you, grinning like a little devil into your hair, somehow forgetting how needy and touch-starved he behaved just minutes ago.

you would have reminded him, really, but you couldn’t form one single coherent word as his fingers pressed down harshly on your clit.

“so so needy.”

tight little circles followed soon, his fingers toying with your little bundle of nerves to his heart’s content. theo finally found your irrefutable weakness — as long as he played with your quivering pussy, you were less annoying.

“i kind of like you like this.” theo mused, humming against your head as he peered down at your face. “look at me.”

you were less annoying and more obedient. you immediately listened to his command, raising your gaze up to his eyes, looking at him with your glassy orbs, so full of lust and desperation. your lips were caught between your teeth, already bruised and bullied in the process of quieting down.

but your tiny whines were loud enough for his ears to pick up.

you were so fucking cute.

“is that what it takes, huh? all i have to do is toy with your cunt to keep you in check?

his hand sped up, flicking your clit with the pad of his fingers. your hand on his cock stilled a while back, so overwhelmed by your own pleasure, but theo seems to not care about his release right now.

“what if i eat you out, hm? will you be a good girl for me?”

“theo! good god, yes.”

and here it was, your beautiful cracking voice, finally making its appearance after a good period of only moans and whimpers, accepting theodore’s proposal in a heartbeat. your pleading eyes were a nice touch to it all, making theo conform to your wishes without additional fuss.

“no takebacks.”

it’s all he says, like a warning, before retracting his palm from between your legs. and what he does next makes another glob of arousal gush out of you.

theodore nott removed his hand and directed it towards his mouth to lick it clean.

to lick it clean.

your wetness was all over his lips and tongue as he diligently lapped up all the stickiness from his hand.

“please, god. pleaseplease–”

“yeah, amore, i got you.”

pulling his fingers away from his mouth with a squelching pop, theo then completely discarded the covers of the sleeping bag, throwing the piece somewhere to the side.

“on your back, let me see that pretty pussy.”

you conformed to his words immediately, plopping yourself on your back and even discarding your pants and panties in the process. the garments joined the forgotten covers, the ones you’ve craved since the beginning of your intrusion.

but warmth was no longer important now, as you were practically burning with lust underneath theo’s predatory gaze.

his hands joined your knees again, applying enough pressure to part them away and create a passage for him and his hungry mouth. and no great effort was needed, your legs complying and allowing theo to finally see the mess between them.

“fuck, you’re soaking wet.”

his voice was gritty, disbelief laced with something darker, something feral. he was no longer mocking you — his gaze was locked between your thighs like a starved man, as if the gates of heaven have opened at the same time as your legs.

theo pushed your knees a bit more, just enough for him to slot himself between them. and you gasped as you felt his warm breath fanning over your pussy, your hole twitching in anticipation.

“spread wider for me, amore.”

you didn’t hesitate — again. your thighs stretched further apart for him, your muscles burning yet again from the pressure. but this was something you could handle for the sake of ultimate pleasure.

“fuckin’ perfect.” he muttered briefly and then–

his mouth was on your cunt.

his slippery tongue licked a long stripe from your pulsing entrance to your hard clit, savoring every drop of your arousal just like he did with his hand. your hips jerked upwards into his face, chasing his mouth — yet his arms immediately snaked around the upper part of your thighs, locking you in place and making you take every single flick of his tongue, every single kiss to your swollen pussy.

and when he sucked your clit in his mouth, between his plush wet lips? you sobbed.

“theo– that feels so good, fuck.”

your fingers clutched at his hair, tugging at his messed-up curls, needing something to hold onto as pleasure washed all over you. and that only made him delve into your cunt more, groaning in between your folds and making such vibrations travel straight to your clit.

your enjoyment was clear from miles away, but so was his. if you got extremely wet from fisting his cock, theo also got excruciatingly horny from licking your pussy. his hips were grounded into the sleeping mat, humping the surface in desperation as he lapped at your core.

he has been edged for quite some time now, and he was no longer patient.

he too needed to cum.

“always wanted to eat this pussy.”

theo was so pussy-drunk, god. you would have never in a million years expected theodore nott to announce between slurps and kisses how much he’s dreamed about your cunt.

“y–yeah?”

“yeah. i knew you’d have the tastiest fuckin’ cunt.”

his clothed cock was moving faster against the mat, the wet squelches of theo messily making out with your pussy being joined by the swish-ing sounds of the two materials colliding.

he was definitely close, and so were you.

“this” and he placed a kiss right against your clit. “haunted me all day.”

“shiiit… w–why?”

“your dress was so goddamn see-through, and fuck–”

theo was already picking up the pace, his tongue working harder to make you cum at the same time as him. his fingers even joined in, pulling your pussy lips apart for him to feast better on you, while his nose continued to poke and prod at your bundle of nerves.

“had a boner all fuckin’ day.”

and there it was. the full story on why theodore nott was jacking off before bed and why he was so irritated by your mere presence in his tent: he was affected by you all day and you had no idea.

“‘m sorry, ‘m sorry, ‘m so– ughh.”

you had no time to give him a warning, retorting to weak apologies as you creamed all over his face and tongue. thighs clamming around his head and convulsing from the immense pleasure.

theo, your brother’s best friend, just made you cum in his tent, on a camping trip with all of your close friends.

and that wasn't all.

“ah, shit, wait, wait.”

he didn’t stop.

no, no, no.

theodore continued to lap at your pussy, slurping up all of your release as he continued to jut his hips into the sleeping mat. and, finally, after a couple more seconds, with a guttural moan, he too came, spilling his release inside his boxers.

filthy, pathetic, and so so hot.

he pulled away from your pussy only after his own hips stabilized, moving up from the ground and away from between your legs. his face was wet, incredibly so, yet he was smiling bigger than ever.

with glistering lips and blown-out eyes, you expected theo to say something meaningful about the entire ordeal.

but alas, he was still the idiot friend of your brother.

“someone did eat you. but it wasn’t a bear.”

“oh, shut up.”

you were so done with him and his idiocy. if it weren’t for your shaky legs, you would have kicked him in the shins by now.

“what? you make a tasty meal.”

“nott, stop! you–”

“come tomorrow too.”

oh?

“i will steal condoms from mattheo and fuck you all night, amore.”

your breath hitched.

“… and the next night.”

your legs instinctively parted.

“… and the next night.”

your cunt was already pulsing with need.

 “… but only if you want to.”

“how could i refuse such an offer, nott?”

©dearmisshoney 2025. do not copy, translate, or claim any of my writings or works as your own.

tags: @downbad4reid, @cafechichay, @lov3notts, @nottslove

[lastpeachonearth]

okay so boom

[hanasnx]

MINORS DNI 18+

inviting PETER PARKER over as friends for a movie night on your laptop. you didn’t believe people actually gave a fuck about gray sweatpants and when you told pete to dress comfy you didn’t expect him to show up in a pair. your eyes glance down involuntarily, and he doesn’t visibly take note of it at first. it’s the second, or third time you accidentally make eye contact with something that the gears in his head start turning. innocent—albeit a little awkward—cuddling evolves. he gets a whiff of your hair, you feel the muscle under his fitting white t-shirt, he sees the cold perk your nipples through your pajama top, you swear there’s a halfie hiding between his legs. suddenly, your bodies start to gravitate towards one another a little more purposely, nudging each other while “adjusting” positions. soon, you’re not focused on the movie, you can’t stop staring at his rig through those damn gray sweatpants.

[lastpeachonearth]

im gonna fuck him and nobody can stop me.

[nottswitch]

꒰ you ride bsf’s ex!mattheo in his car when he comes over to pick up his stuff ꒱

cw: 18+ mdni, morally ambiguous, unprotected p in v, car sex, cursing

a/n: been wanting to finally write for this au for a while, and finally inspo hit to finish this piece. enjoy <3

⋆˚꩜｡

you didn’t plan on this – you didn’t even know mattheo was coming over to your friend’s place, where you’ve been staying for the last week to help your friend get over the break up. but once you saw him leave the building with a small duffel bag in hand, it just kind of… happened. a word, another one, a touch, his lips on your neck… and now you’re in his car, back pressed against the steering wheel, thighs hugging his as he pounds into you like it’s the last time he’ll ever see you.

“fuck, baby,” mattheo grunts against the skin of your neck, trying to bite into it. reluctantly, and with great resistance from his side, you push him away, though your moans don’t subside – you simply muffle them in his hair, so as not to attract the passerby. he seems to understand that you don’t want any marks left, so your best friend wouldn’t see them, though he’d very much like to leave some. “feel so fucking good. so fucking good.”

you claw at his t-shirt, crumpling the fabric between your fingers as his hips thrust up harder and harder. mattheo seems desperate, he feels desperate in every single movement he makes, hands kneading at your thighs as he guides you up and down to meet him.

“i don’t need any of the shit i took,” he mutters, lifting his head up from your neck to look into your eyes. you’re momentarily stunned by what you see there – vulnerability, the last thing you expected. but you quickly get lost in pleasure again, as his cock continues to stretch out your slick walls with each thrust.

“it was just an excuse. i– fuck.” he gets interrupted by the tip of his cock hitting your cervix, sending a wave of pleasure straight to his stomach. “i came to see if you’re here,” he confesses, his voice breathless, his jaw clenched in an attempt to hold back his orgasm – you look too damn good riding him, your tits bouncing right in front of his face, exactly like he imagined. “figured you would be. you’re such a good fucking friend.”

this is actually the last thing on your mind right now, and you aren’t even sure he’s telling the truth – a good friend wouldn’t be fucking her best friend’s ex a week after their break up, right? but you choose not to think about it, not to think at all, instead crashing your lips together. mattheo accepts – how could he not? – his tongue sliding right into your mouth to taste it again.

“let’s talk about it later, yeah?” you murmur in between messy kisses, and mattheo nods eagerly, his mind already turning off once more. you know you’re going to have to unpack whatever this is afterwards – but right now, the only thing you want to feel is mattheo’s cock deep inside your aching pussy.

au. more.

[lastpeachonearth]

questioning my morals rn

[spikedfearn]

I Thee Bled

one-shot

Remmick x fem!reader

Summary: On the eve of your arranged wedding, you flee into the woods with trembling hands and a bloodstained gown—only to slip a ring meant for another onto a graveyard root and wake something ancient beneath the soil. Remmick is not a man, not anymore, but he remembers how to be tender. Touch-starved and centuries dead, he offers you the one thing the living never did: choice. In a forest that breathes and remembers, where the dead dream and the moss learns your name, you find yourself questioning everything you left behind. After all, what is a monster—if not a man who waits for you? And what is love, if not something you’re willing to bleed for?

(or: A Corpse Bride au)

wc: 15.2k

a/n: thank you all so much for the overwhelming love and support you’ve shown my fics, it means the world to me!! I originally planned to release I Thee Bled on Monday to celebrate one month since Brittany Broski posted Mercy Made Flesh to her Insta story (!!!), but life had other plans, so she’s arriving fashionably late. This one’s especially close to my heart, and I want to dedicate it to the lovely Moga @somnolenthour, whose beautiful fanart for this fic when it was still just an idea (completely unprompted!!) lit a fire under me, this one’s for you <333 shout-out to my beta readers, starting with Liz who also came up with the title: @fuckoffbard @titaniasfairy @jaythewriter @anhelconhmuda @kkniveschau

warnings: Corpse Bride!au, gothic horror, supernatural romance, blood, vampirism, smut, oral sex (f!receiving), praise kink, dirty talk, creampie, touch-starved monster, monsterfucking, sub!remmick, ghost town setting, period-typical misogyny, vague Victorian era, Tim Burton aesthetics, mutual pining, tragic undertones, Remmick in his final monster form

likes, comments, and reblogs as always appreciated, please enjoy!!

Masterlist

It was a quiet kind of death—to walk toward a future that never belonged to you.

The candlelight danced in its sconce like it too was afraid of the dark, throwing gold and shadow in uneven patterns across the walls of your bridal chamber. The air was heavy with the scent of crushed lilies—white, thick-stemmed, and already browning at the edges—as though the blooms themselves had second thoughts. A bridal veil hung limp from the mirror. You had not put it on.

You sat at the edge of the chaise, corseted to breathlessness, the bony ridges of your knuckles straining beneath the thin layers of skin from how hard you're clutching the ring.

Not your ring. Not yet. It was his—your would-be husband's—a man who smiled without his eyes and spoke of love like it was transactional. Whose name alone made your face pucker like you just smelled curdled milk. Mr. Langdon. So old your mother whispered “distinguished.” So cold the maids whispered other things when they thought you couldn’t hear.

Outside, the wind howled through the wrought iron balcony rails, shrill and wild like something mourning. You stood slowly, your bare feet silent against the marble floor, gown whispering around your ankles like the ghosts of every woman who’d gone quietly before you. The gown had been sewn for beauty, not for running. But you would run in it anyway.

You packed light, brought a white shawl and gloves to combat the chill. You brought the ring.

Not because you meant to keep it. Not because it held sentiment. It didn’t. It had no warmth, no story, no soul—just gold, cool and dull beneath your thumb. But it was worth something. Enough to pawn. Enough, maybe, to buy a train ticket. A meal. A room somewhere with a bed that didn’t come with a price pinned to your spine.

You told yourself that was why you kept it clenched in your fist as you slipped out the servants’ gate and into the dark. Not because it was his. Not because it had ever touched your skin. But because the world beyond your wedding had no place for a girl with nothing—and a gold ring, even one never worn, could be a lifeline.

Or a curse.

Fate hadn’t decided yet.

A band of simple gold, dull with fingerprint smudges, too loose for your thumb. You had not even worn it yet. It was handed to you this evening after supper, set beside a slice of blood-orange cake you hadn’t touched. “Keep it close, darling,” your mother had said, smoothing your hair as if you were already a corpse. “It will be yours come morning.”

You slipped it into your palm. And now it pulsed there like a secret.

The hallway outside your chamber creaked and groaned, the house settling into its evening sighs, and still you waited. You waited until the grandfather clock struck eleven, slow and solemn, each chime echoing like nails hammered into your future. Then—silently, so silently—you fled.

The woods did not wait to welcome you.

They swallowed.

The moment your slippered feet hit the dirt path behind the manor gates, the trees leaned in like they were listening, thick with Spanish moss and shadow. The moonlight fractured through their limbs, casting the path in broken, silver stripes. Your breath came out fast, clumsy, fogging in front of you as the night grew colder with every step, every frantic press forward into bramble and black.

The hem of your gown—once bone-white satin—darkened with mud. Then blood. A snag of thorns caught your ankle, sliced skin. You barely flinched. Pain felt like permission.

You weren’t sure where you were going.

Only that it has to be away.

You didn’t stop until your lungs burned and the trees had turned unfamiliar, too thick, too silent, the air tasting of copper and something older—stone, earth, iron. You collapsed against the base of a twisted tree, your gown a tangle of ripped silk and smeared petals, a bridal bloom gone to ruin.

The ring was still in your hand.

You looked at it—glared, really—angry at its weight, at the heft something so small contains. “To have and to hold…” you muttered under your breath, voice bitter, breathless, a mockery of a vow.

Your fingers fumbled blindly through the loam, sticky with sap and rainwater, until you found what you thought was a root. Something slender and pale rising from the earth like a bony finger.

You laughed, delirious. “Here,” you whispered, sliding the ring onto it. “Do you, strange tree, take me to be your lawfully wedded wife?”

The wind rose.

“I do.”

You reached out to steady yourself against the gnarled bark—but as your hand met the tree’s twisted surface, a sharp edge of wood caught the pad of your finger, snagging your bridal glove and the soft meat underneath. You hissed.

Blood welled—bright and living. It wobbled off your fingertip and fell. One drop. Then another. The red hit the base of the tree and sank into the soil like ink into paper. The bark beneath your palm felt warmer now. Almost…breathing.

Something moved. Beneath the dirt. Beneath you. You blinked. Sat up straighter. Listened.

Nothing.

Then—again.

A twitch. A shift. Like the earth itself was exhaling after a long silence. The root curled, moved, wrapped just slightly around your finger. Cold as the grave.

You yanked your hand back with a startled gasp. But it was too late. Blood had already spilled from your hand, sliced on bark or thorn or bone, and soaked into the black, thirsty soil. You watched it disappear.

The tree shuddered. Not in the breeze—there was no breeze anymore. The air had gone still, heavy as boiled milk, clinging to your throat, your hair, the space behind your knees. Your breath hitched. The birds had gone quiet. The crickets. The frogs. The world was listening.

And below you, the earth moaned.

A sound like old wood splitting. Like ribs breaking beneath dirt. Then, suddenly, a violent lurch—wet, sucking, earthly. The ground near the tree root cracked open, moss peeling back like flesh. You scrambled backwards on your palms, your gown tangling around your legs, but you couldn’t look away.

It didn’t feel like waking the dead. It felt like being watched by something that had never closed its eyes to begin with.

First came a hand.

Wide-palmed, thick-knuckled. Fingers unnaturally long, his nails cracked and gray and dirty, like shale. A gold ring gleamed faintly from the third finger. The wedding band you slid onto what you thought was a gnarled uproot.

Then the second, this one skeletal, stripped clean of flesh and muscle and tendon.

And finally, the rest of him.

He rose in pieces, as if gravity itself hadn’t yet decided whether to allow him back. His body pushed through layers of sod and clay and root like a memory that refused to stay buried. His shoulders were broad, shoulders that had once carried something heavy—tools, a body, a burden. One arm braced against the edge of the grave, veins bulging under pale, slick skin.

You saw the sweep of a dark, deep blue tuxedo, its fabric dulled by dirt and time, stitched with the memory of ceremony. The jacket clung to his shoulders unevenly, one side sagging low with centuries of damp, the lapels wrinkled and soil-smudged. Beneath it, a white collared button-up lay partially unbuttoned at the throat, the linen stained faintly at the seams.

A slightly lighter blue tie hung askew from his neck, knotted but loosened, the silk puckered where it had weathered through the grave. His trouser legs matched the tuxedo, tailored once, but now creased and grimy at the hem. Shoes to match—oxfords, maybe—scuffed to near ruin, soles coated in moss and wet earth.

He pulled himself from the dirt slowly, deliberately, like someone waking from a sleep they weren’t meant to return from—each breath thick in his throat, each movement dragging time behind it.

And his face—God, his face.

He was beautiful. In the way statues are beautiful. The way a ruin is beautiful. Pointed cheekbones beneath a mask of grave-filth. Mud in the seams of his short, messy brown hair, clinging in dark curls across his forehead. His mouth parted as he panted for breath he didn’t need, and you saw the right side of his jaw was ruined—torn open, exposing ribbons of raw muscle and the gleam of sharpened teeth. All of them sharp. Uneven. Crooked in places, silver-fanged and jagged like they weren’t made for a human mouth.

He drooled. Milky and thick, slow as syrup, threading from his teeth to the black soil.

His skin was a deep, post-mortem blue—something between bruised flesh and storm-lit sea, like teal left to darken in shadow. In the moonlight, with his veins just barely visible beneath the surface, it looked like cracked glass. His chest heaved. His head turned. And then—

He looked at you.

His eyes were wide as a frightened dog’s. But in the shadows, they shifted—black, almost red, glowing from somewhere behind the pupil like dying coals still clinging to that cherried spark.

He didn’t speak. He just…stared. Watched. Not like a stranger. Like someone trying to remember you. Like someone who knew you. Maybe before. Maybe in another life.

“Are—are you…” Your voice broke, shamefully small. You didn’t finish the question. Couldn't.

He swallowed, thickly. The sound was wet. And then—he smiled. Not cruel. Not ghoulish. Soft, tender.

“I knew ye’d come,” he said.

His voice came low and lilted, thick with the cadence of an Irish accent—rounded consonants, vowels pulled soft and long, a kind of music in his throat whether he meant it or not. The kind of voice made for stories. For lullabies. For oaths.

He took a single, stumbling step forward, mud pulling at his shoes, laced tight enough to keep the soil from suctioning them off his feet.

You couldn’t move.

“Ye put a ring on me hand,” he said again, gentle this time. Coaxing. He held up his fingers, all blood-caked and twitching, the wedding band glinting faintly beneath the filth, fractals of moonlight dancing off the polished gold, a stark contrast to the dirt and grime clinging to his skin. “And ye spoke a vow. That counts, don’t it?”

He tilted his head, like a curious animal. “Didn’t reckon ye’d be so bonnie.”

You should have run.

You knew that. Every part of you knew that. The sensible part. The terrified part. The part that still heard your mother’s voice whispering warnings about strange men, and worse things still, things that didn’t breathe right, didn’t die right.

But something rooted you.

Maybe it was the ring still snug around that pale, twitching finger. Maybe it was the way he looked at you. Like you were the first warm thing he’d seen in centuries.

He took another step forward. Then another. His oxfords left deep, sucking impressions in the soil, and his gait wasn’t quite right—like a marionette with its strings pulled too hard, or a man remembering how to be one. You flinched when he got too close, but he didn’t reach for you. Not yet. Just stood there, arms slack at his sides, mouth slightly open, that thread of spit still hanging from one fang like an afterthought.

His head dipped low, curls shadowing his brow, and when he spoke again, his voice was almost shy. Like he feared you might bolt.

“Was it the blood that roused me, then?” he asked, one brow raising slowly. Thoughtful. “Or the vow ye whispered?” He swallowed, working his jaw with a faint wince. “Might’ve been both. Hard to say.”

You blinked at him. Swallowed the lump that had risen hard and high in your throat. “Who…who are you?”

His smile faltered. Just a flicker. Not hurt—more like confusion.

“Don’t remember me, do ya?” His voice dropped low, almost tender. “But you called, lass. I heard ya—clear as day, so I answered.”

He tapped his skeletal palm against his chest, right over his sternum, his eyes round and brows raised in a puppy dog look, a pleading little tilt to his head like he's desperate for you to believe him.

“I felt you in here.”

You opened your mouth. No sound came out.

The man—the thing—before you cocked his head again, just slightly. His eyes were too soft for the rest of him, too warm. And the accent in his voice made everything worse, somehow. Made it gentle. Comforting. It stripped you of fear, piece by piece, until all that remained was the strange throb of something you didn’t understand.

“What’s your name?” you asked, finally.

His gaze lit up like the question pleased him. He didn’t answer right away. Just dragged a hand through his hair, leaving streaks of mud and grit and grave soil across his temple.

“I’ve been called a lot o’ names,” he said after a pause. “Some of ’em I earned. Some I didn’t. But the name I remember best is…” A thoughtful frown pulled at the less-damaged corner of his mouth.

“Remmick. That’s what me ma called me,” he said, almost shy now. “Back when the sky was still thick wi’ peat smoke and the land hadn’t yet learned the sound o’ English steel. When we carved prayers into stone ‘stead o’ paper, and the rivers boiled not from fire, but from the rage o’ gods long buried.”

He glanced at you then, as if expecting you not to understand. But you didn’t flinch, causing his smile to grow like a decaying flower that didn't know it was dead yet.

“Back when the forest had a name you weren’t meant to speak after dark,” he added, voice gone soft and faraway. “And folk still left cream out on the stoop, hopin’ to keep the hills quiet.”

You said nothing. You had no words.

He glanced down at himself as though just now noticing the state he was in. Fingers touched the torn lapel of his jacket before dusting the front off next. His nose wrinkled faintly, sheepish, eyes round and sorry.

“Would’ve cleaned meself up a bit had I known,” he said, glancin’ back up at you with a crooked smile. “But by Gods, ye caught me right in the middle of me dirt nap, didn’t ye?”

And then he laughed. A soft, broken sound. It wasn’t cruel. It wasn’t hollow. It was almost—sweet. You didn’t realize you’d taken a step back until your spine hit bark.

He noticed.

“No need to fear me, lass,” he said, quickly, voice pitching soft, hands raised just a little, his eyes bleeding red like a freshly weeping cut, “I won’t hurt ye. I wouldn’t.” His fingers curled back toward his chest again. “Not you.”

“Why me?” you asked, finally. “Why—why do you think I called you?”

His smile returned, slow and tender. He lifted his hand—the one with the ring, the one that was intended to collar you to Mr. Langdon before you turned tail and fled, looking sleek and shiny against grimy blue skin.

“’Cause ye put this on me finger,” he said. “Ye made a promise. A vow.”

You shook your head, your breath catching like a bird startled mid-flight, wings beating frantically in your throat. “It wasn’t real.”

“It was real enough for me.”

He looked down at the gold band, turned it with his thumb. “You bled for it, didn’t ye?” he murmured. “Spoke words into the trees. Placed a ring on a buried hand. That’s old magic, love. Older than graves. Older than the Gods above.”

His eyes flicked back to you—red blooming around the edges now like ink through water.

“Old magic don’t care whether you meant it.”

You didn’t know if it was the way he said love, like it meant something eternal…or if it was the silence of the woods, how they held their breath around him…but your world had suddenly been flipped upside down like you'd been living inside a snow globe and someone decided to just come along and shake it. All because you'd gotten cold feet. All because you couldn't bring yourself to walk down the aisle and wed a man who barely made your acquaintance prior to the arranged ceremony.

You recall last night in great detail, the last time you were alone with Mr. Langdon. It had been in your father’s study—dark-paneled, smelling of tobacco and power. He hadn’t touched you, not exactly. But his hand had rested too long on the curve of your shoulder, fingers splaying toward the top of your spine like he was trying to gauge how much pressure it would take to snap it.

“I prefer quiet girls,” he’d said with a smile that didn’t reach his shrewd eyes. “Ones who don’t ask so many questions. Obedience is a virtue, you know.”

You had smiled. You nodded. Because what else could you do?

He had leaned in close, breath stale with wine and something bitter, suppressing the reflexive urge to recoil, “After tomorrow, your body belongs to me. That’s what marriage is. Best you start getting used to the idea.”

You hadn’t answered. You’d gone to your room and vomited in the basin. And tonight? Tonight—you ran. You didn’t bring a bag. You didn’t bring a plan. You brought the ring.

And you brought the no you hadn’t dared speak aloud.

It’s only then that you start to notice—the world around you moves. Not with the subtle rhythm of wind or wildlife, but with a kind of strange, theatrical breath, like the forest is alive.

The tree behind you creaked like a yawning coffin, bark groaning against your spine as if waking from its own long sleep. Overhead, the moon hung too round, too large, almost theatrical in its glow—more paper lantern than celestial body. It cast light not white but a washed-out bluish silver, the kind that made every shadow look like it was up to something.

There were no clouds. The sky didn’t need them.

Instead, the forest itself began to shift—bending at the edges like a curtain drawing inward, branches twisting and stooping with exaggerated grace, their tips curling into crooked little hooks. The trees no longer stood tall and noble; they hunched and leaned like gossiping old women, knotted spines cracking as they bent to get a better look at you.

The leaves above clinked faintly like dry metal. One branch spiraled down and hovered beside your shoulder, like it was waiting for permission to touch you.

And still, Remmick didn’t seem to notice.

Or maybe he did.

Maybe he was used to it—the way the world rearranged itself around him, the way nature bowed and blinked and breathed differently wherever he walked.

Maybe he’d never known a forest that didn’t follow.

He took another step toward you.

He was close enough now that you could see where the flesh on his cheekbone pulsed faintly, still clinging to old life. Where blood had dried in a crooked path down his exposed jaw. Where some of his teeth weren’t perfectly sharp at all—some had chipped, split, yellowed in ways that proved he hadn’t always been what he was now. He had once been a man.

You stared. Not at the horror. At the detail.

His collar was unbuttoned. There was a ring of skin just below his throat that was somehow clean, as if protected by the chain that still hung there.

“You’re real,” you breathed, as much to yourself as to him.

He smiled again. Small, head bowed slightly. Like the thought embarrassed him.

“Aye,” he said. “At least I was.”

Your heart skipped. The accent curled around that last word—was—turning it melancholic and soft. He sounded deeply lonely in a way that didn’t scream or shudder, but bled slow and quiet—like a candle left to burn itself out in a chapel no one prayed in anymore.

You didn’t realize your hand had risen until he caught it. His grip wasn’t strong. In fact, it was hesitant. Loose. Like he feared you might flinch, and he was giving you time to do it. To reject it.

You didn’t.

His thumb dragged over the small wound on your finger where your glove was torn. The one you’d cut on the tree. Your blood had dried there, rust-colored and still.

“’S’what woke me,” he murmured. “This wee thing.”

You tried to speak, but the words tumbled over each other, panic and fascination tangled in your throat. “What are you?”

Remmick looked up at you, then down at your hand in his. He didn’t let go.

“I was a man once,” he said. “Before they put me in the ground like a secret.”

There was no anger in his voice. No grief. Just barebones honesty.

“I remember cold,” he continued. “I remember bein’ bound.” His brows drew together. “I remember hunger.”

You swallowed.

His head tilted slightly again. “But now I remember you.”

You opened your mouth to deny it, to tell him he was wrong, that you weren’t anyone, that this was all a mistake. That you weren’t his. That you weren’t meant to be anything.

But the woods behind you had gone too still. And he was staring at you with a gaze so tender it made your stomach twist.

“Ye came in white,” he said, voice softer now. “Like a bride. Ye gave blood. Ye spoke vow.” He brushed a skeletal knuckle to your chin with aching slowness, the bone surprisingly soft, “don’t reckon the veil’s far behind.”

The branches rustled above, though there was still no wind. You realized the forest wasn’t closing in. It was gathering.

And Remmick…he was looking at you like he was home.

It was no longer night in the way night should be.

Time moved differently now. The sky above bled grey and silver and rust, but the moon never shifted from its throne behind the trees. The light stayed fixed in place, like the forest had slipped sideways into some pocket behind the world. Hours passed like fog. You slept, but never fully. You walked, but your feet left no prints.

And Remmick—Remmick stayed near.

Not hovering. Not leering. Just there, always just far enough not to crowd you, yet always within reach, like the forest had redrawn its laws to keep him at your side. Like you were its axis now.

You thought of Langdon.

Of his voice—measured, polished, practiced. The kind of voice that never raised itself above a certain register, as though passion was unsightly. He had a way of looking at you that always felt more like study than affection. Like you were something to be assessed, not adored. His fingers, when they grazed yours, were cold from gloves and colder still beneath them. Everything about him had been lacquered to a shine: his shoes, his manners, his hollow future he spoke of with such sterile pride.

You remembered one night, not long ago, when you’d dined together at his family estate. A private supper. Three courses. Too many forks. You’d asked him if he liked poetry.

He blinked. Set down his wine glass. “I tolerate it,” he said. “In women.”

That had been it.

No questions in return. No warmth. No wanting.

You’d spent the rest of the meal smiling at your plate, wondering if it would be considered madness to simply climb out the window and run.

And now—here.

Now, you were with a man who’d crawled out of the earth, with dried blood under his nails and a ruined jaw, and somehow he made you feel safer than any lace-draped parlor ever had. Remmick, who flinched when he touched your skin like you were the sacred thing. Remmick, who didn’t ask you to perform, or flatter, or prove anything—who simply stayed close because he wanted to be near.

He was a walking corpse.

And he seemed more human than Mr. Langdon had ever been.

Remmick spoke in murmurs. Half-conversations.

“My folk used to call this part the belly,” he said, gesturing toward a clearing that bloomed only with pale fungi and white moss. “Said the trees grew too thick with memory. Said it weren’t safe for the livin’.”

You stepped forward slowly, the hem of your gown brushing through the hush of strange underbrush. The clearing pulsed in stillness, like something held its breath just beneath the surface.

The fungi were long-necked and ghostly, some capped in translucent bells, others curled like fingers mid-spasm. They glowed faintly in the dark—not enough to see by, but enough to feel seen.

Overhead, the trees now leaned inward with impossible arches. Their bark smooth and gray as drowned bone, and where knots should’ve been were instead hollowed faces, soft and suggestive, as though the trunks had grown around someone who once leaned too long against them. One of the branches creaked in a slow, pendulum sway, even though there was no wind.

You tilted your head. The white moss underfoot looked soft, inviting—until you noticed it wasn’t growing in any natural pattern. It coiled in tight spirals, some large enough to circle your slippered feet, others small and delicate as lacework.

When you asked what he meant, what memory had to do with the trees, he only gave a crooked smile and pointed at your feet.

You looked down. The moss had formed perfect circles beneath your heels.

Spirals.

“See?” he said. “She’s already learnin’ you.”

And sure enough, even as you stood there, the spiral beneath you shifted. Just slightly. Not like a plant reacting to pressure, but something alive—tracing the shape of your sole, marking your weight, remembering the heat of your blood. It liked you.

Or worse—it recognized you.

He never called the place a graveyard. He called it “the kept.”

You first saw them while following a worn path between black pines—stones laid flat into the dirt, unmarked, sunk deep with age. You almost stepped on one before he reached out and caught your wrist, not harshly—just quick.

“Aye, mind where ye tread,” he said, voice gentle, Irish vowels lilting around the warning. “They don’t take kindly to bein’ disturbed.”

You stared at the stone. And then you realized it was moving. Not rising. Not moaning. But the soil above it—it breathed.

You took a step back, heart climbing into your throat.

“They don’t wake unless they’re called,” Remmick said softly. “But they listen.”

Far off, from a hollow deeper in the woods, a chime echoed. High and delicate, like a piano key played underwater. Another answered, lower, more metallic. You didn’t see the source, but you could feel them vibrating in your bones. And yet it didn’t frighten you.

He never told you how he died. You tried to ask. More than once.

The first time, he looked away. The second, he closed his mouth mid-sentence and didn’t speak for a full hour. Not angry. Never angry. Just—withdrawn. The third, he reached up and touched the ruined side of his jaw, as if he’d forgotten it was there.

Then he whispered, “Not yet,” and nothing more. You didn’t press.

Some things, you could feel, were kept buried by more than soil.

It was on the fifth day—if you trusted your own body’s clock—that you tried to leave.

You didn’t make a show of it. You waited until Remmick went still beneath the shade of a hollow tree, head tipped back, eyes closed like he was listening to something beyond your hearing. You crept away quietly. You didn’t look back.

You hadn’t meant to stay that long. You told yourself it was only curiosity, only caution, only until you understood what he was. But the forest had begun to feel too quiet in the right places. Remmick had begun to speak too softly, like a prayer meant only for you. And that was precisely the problem. He was too gentle. Too kind. Too patient.

You weren’t supposed to like any of this—weren’t supposed to be lulled by a dead man’s voice or find comfort in a world where bones lined bird nests and laughter came from unseen mouths. You ran not because you feared him. You ran because, terrifyingly, you didn’t.

At first, the trees parted for you. The path unfolded.

You ran.

You didn’t cry. You didn’t call his name. You just ran. But the forest…it shifted.

The branches overhead grew too low, too tangled. Vines curled beneath your feet like hands reaching out to stop you. A bramble reached out like a whip and slashed across your collarbone, slicing clean through the dress, nicking your skin just enough for blood to bead along the uneven seam of your cut. Still, you kept going.

Until you hit it.

The edge.

It wasn’t a wall—not exactly. It was air. Thick, humming, wrong. The veil between life and death. When you stepped into it, your skin felt like it peeled. Your lungs refused to fill. The world blurred and bent at the corners like warped glass.

You stumbled back, coughing. Gasping. Remmick was there. Not chasing. Not angry. Just there.

He caught you around the middle before your knees buckled, arms strong but careful, like you were made of spun sugar and he was afraid you'd shatter.

“Sshh, now,” he whispered, curling you to his chest, soothing, the brush of his lips, the bloodied network of muscle fiber and tendons woven through his jaw pressed to the side of yours, wet and textured, “easy, easy, you’re alright.”

“I—I had to try,” you managed, fingers curling into the lapels of his jacket. “I didn’t want to stay. I didn’t mean to—I can't stay.”

“Shhh,” he soothed again. “I know.”

You felt him exhale into your hair. Slow. Shaky.

“I know wee bride,” he murmured, the accent softening everything it touched. “But she don’t open the same way twice. Not once she’s taken a name.”

You pressed your forehead into his shoulder, trembling. And for the first time—you wondered. Not how you got here. Not how to undo it.

But if you even should.

You thought of Langdon. Of his thin lips, the contracts, the expectations. Of your mother, her quiet threats tucked into lace gloves. Of the veil that felt more like a burial shroud than a blessing.

And then you thought of the way Remmick had caught you—like a man catching the last soft thing left in the world.

Later—how much later, you couldn’t say—you sat with him in the moss-ringed clearing where the mushrooms bloomed like broken teeth, soft and damp and glowing faintly blue at their tips. The forest had gone quiet again, but not heavy this time. Not watching. It simply…was.

Remmick had taken to lying on his side, propped on one elbow, his ruined jaw turned slightly from view, though you were never sure if it was for your comfort or his.

His fingertips brushed through the withered stems, and chose one near the base of a crooked stone. It was long-dead, crumpled and brittle at the edges, the color all but drained. He held it up between thumb and forefinger, and as he rolled the stem, you watched something shift. The petals darkened—deepened—like blood soaking back into flesh. It bloomed, slow and unnatural, into the shape of a dried red rose. Not living, not quite—but remembering life. Like something dressed for mourning.

“These only grow where the veil’s thin,” he said quiet-like, voice laced with that low, lilting Irish bend. “Where things slip in and out. Couldn’t say for certain which side they’re meant for, if I’m honest.”

You didn’t reply. You just looked at him.

There was dirt under his nails. sediment clinging to his collarbone. His oxfords were still caked in grave mud, but he hadn’t touched you with anything other than gentleness.

Your voice felt small when you spoke. “Why did you wait?”

Remmick blinked slowly. His fingers stilled.

You clarified before he could pretend not to understand. “All this time. You said you felt me. But you were already down there, weren’t you? In the earth. Waiting for someone to call you back. Why?”

He didn’t answer right away. Didn’t shift. Didn’t look at you. And just when you were sure he wouldn’t speak—he did.

“I didn’t know I was waitin’,” he said, voice gone low, just a touch rough. “Not truly. Time goes quiet when you’re laid under like that. Y’don’t count the years. Some days, y’don’t even remember your own name.”

He looked at the sky through the trees.

“Sometimes I’d dream o’ faces. Yours, maybe. Or someone who looked like ye. Sometimes I’d think I heard someone weepin’. I’d think, was it me?”

You felt your chest tighten. Remmick smiled again, faint and lopsided, like a man recalling a song he hadn’t sung in years.

“But when I felt ye, I knew. I knew it weren’t just hunger or ghosts or wind. I knew it was real. Ye bled for me. Ye called for me.” He glanced over. “No one’s ever done that before.”

You stared at him. At his hands, broad and veined. At the faded chain around his throat. At the ring you’d slipped, thoughtlessly, onto the hand of a tree like a promise.

A tree that had promised back.

“I didn’t know what I was doing,” you said.

“I don’t care.”

You swallowed.

He said it without venom. Without accusation. Just—resolute. And maybe something softer curling underneath. He rolled onto his back, the moss giving way beneath him like a cradle.

“I’d have waited another thousand years for that drop of blood,” he said, quiet now. “Another thousand after that just to hear your voice say I do.”

You turned away. Not because you didn’t believe him. But because some part of you did. And it made your throat ache.

Your gaze drifted to the edge of the clearing, where the trees stood thick and close.

“Will it ever open again?” you asked. “The forest.”

Remmick didn’t move. “Aye. Someday. When she’s good and ready.”

“And if I’m not here when it does?”

He was quiet for a beat too long. Then:

“Then I’ll follow.”

That made you look back. He didn’t smile this time.

“I’d walk through fire to find you, wee bride.”

His voice was still Irish—but there was something else behind it now. Something old. Ancient. Something so sure of its longing it didn’t need to shout. It just was.

You realized, in that moment, how terribly lonely he must’ve been. How quiet his world had become. How loud your heartbeat must be to him now.

And how warm you still were.

He asked if you wanted to see the rest.

Didn’t demand. Didn’t lead without waiting. Just…offered.

With a hand half-outstretched and those eyes still puppy-wide, still lit like you were a miracle he was afraid to touch too quickly, lest you vanish into smoke.

You hesitated. But not long.

The forest parted for you both this time. Not like it had when you tried to run. Now it was more like—inviting. The way a house might creak its doors open when it recognizes one of its own.

You slipped your hand into his, the one that still wore flesh. His fingers were cold, yes—but not corpse-cold. Not the kind that bit. His hand was rough in places, as though he’d lived long enough to carry calluses even through death. His thumb flexed gently along your knuckles, testing. Not possessive. Just…checking.

Reassuring himself you were real.

He showed you the orchard first. Or what was left of it.

A grove of trees that no longer bore fruit, only ribbons—hundreds, thousands of them, hanging from the branches like wilted party streamers. Blue, white, ivory, pale lilac. Some patterned, some torn, some fraying from centuries of wind.

You reached up and touched one.

“They’re wishes,” Remmick said, voice softer than ever, his breath beside your cheek. “Made by the dead. Before they were buried.”

You turned to him.

“But they never came true?”

His expression shifted—fond, wistful.

“Some did. Some didn’t. Doesn’t matter.” He touched the ribbon nearest to him, the pad of his thumb brushing its edge. “It’s the hoping that counts, innit?”

You said nothing. The breeze moved the orchard like a lullaby.

Further in, he showed you a town of sorts.

Carved into the side of a crumbling cliff where the rock split into ribs and the stone seemed to breathe, the little village clung to the earth like a half-forgotten secret.

The houses were squat mudstone cottages, weathered and slouched, their chimney pots crooked like snapped fingers. Moss crept up their sides in thick velvety bands, swallowing old lanterns, window frames, and entire doorsteps. Windowpanes blinked with eyes pressed from the inside.

The doors were low and arched, some made of driftwood painted in peeling funeral hues—deep violet, waxy blue, iron black. A few homes had teacups balanced on their roofs. Others had shingles shaped like fingernails or pressed flowers. Bones hung from strings between rafters, clacking gently in the hush, arranged like wind chimes or family crests, each one carved or etched with little initials, or painted with the ash of something you couldn’t name.

A skeletal cat darted past your ankles, all jangling vertebrae and twitching tailbone, its paws clicking faintly against the cobbled path. Its jaw hung open in a rictus grin. You didn’t scream. It looked up at you once—empty sockets glittering faintly—and carried on.

And then the town began to move.

A shutter creaked open. A door whined on its hinges. A hatless man with no lower jaw swept the stoop of what looked to be a bakery, the scent of charred sugar and burnt cinnamon floating faintly from within. He nodded at you politely, bits of soot falling from the collar of his shirt, and kept sweeping. Further down the lane, a trio of old women sat in rocking chairs that had been nailed directly into the wall of a house—sideways, five feet off the ground—and knitted with thread made of silver hair. One of them had no eyes. The second had too many. The third winked at you with a socket.

“Don’t mind them,” Remmick murmured. “They been there long as I can remember. Like to keep to themselves.”

He led you past a crooked fountain that spewed a slow, syrupy trickle of black water, and through a crooked square strung with dim, blue lanterns that hung from lengths of discolored intestine braided like ribbon. In the center was a music box the size of a carriage, its brass bell warped and dented, still playing a waltz you could swear you remembered hearing in a dream long ago. No one danced to it—but some of them swayed.

There was a tailor’s shop with mannequins made of stitched skin and bent spoons. A chapel whose bell tower rang without sound. A bar, glowing faintly green from the inside, where shadows moved across the windows though the glass had long since clouded over with frost from the wrong side. A child floated by without legs, giggling into a jar that held a swarm of candleflies. You saw a man with a flowerpot for a head watering it with tea. A woman selling buttons shaped like teeth.

This was not a place that mourned death.

This was a place that remembered it, wore it, built tea tables from it.

Remmick led you down a sloping path toward a cottage built halfway into the stone, the door crooked, the curtains made of faded funeral veils.

“This was mine,” he said, his voice almost sheepish. He toed at the dust near the doorstep, head ducked slightly.

“When?” you asked.

He smiled faintly, lifting a shoulder. “When the veil was thinner. When the dead and the livin’ shared more than just memory.”

He said it like someone recalling the smell of something they’d never taste again. Like someone who’d tried, once, to live after he’d been buried.

You looked around you.

The town wasn’t decayed. It was…rearranged. It had rules you didn’t yet understand. Gravity worked only where it felt like it. The dead did not walk in straight lines. Some glided. Some bounced. Some stitched themselves together fresh each morning and wandered about humming.

And the strangest thing of all?

You didn’t feel afraid.

Not in the way you should have. Not even when you turned around and the fountain had grown teeth. Not even when a man tipped his hat and his entire scalp followed. Not even when a door sighed open with a voice like your own and whispered, Stay.

Remmick was beside you, his body casting a shadow even here, where most things didn’t. He looked at you not like you were lost—

But like you were home.

That night—you still called it night, even though the moon hadn’t moved—he brought you to a bridge.

It spanned over nothing. No river. No ravine. Just a stretch of fog and sky. A ghost bridge.

You sat beside him at the edge, your legs dangling off as if you could fall somewhere, though you knew you wouldn’t. He sat close. Close enough that your shoulder brushed his.

He didn’t move away.

“Used to dream o’ this,” he admitted, after a long silence. “Not the forest. Not the dirt. Not the blood.”

He looked over at you, slowly.

“Just this. You. Here.”

You couldn’t answer. Your throat ached again.

His voice dropped, deep in his chest, accent thick with emotion he couldn’t hide. “Haven’t been touched since they put me down.”

The confession wasn’t vulgar. Wasn’t even pleading. It was starved. He smiled, crooked and small. “Can’t remember the last time someone just…looked at me. Like I wasn’t somethin’ to be feared.”

He didn’t touch you again, not even your hand.

He didn’t need to.

Your fingers brushed his pinky. Slowly. Once.

And his breath hitched so sharp you felt it in your bones.

By the next day—if you could still call it that—you weren’t watching the sky anymore. Weren’t thinking about what the world looked like outside these woods.

You walked the paths beside him. You listened to the hush of wind that sang like violins through cracked branches. You let him point out where the ghost-lanterns grew, little flowers with glass bell-heads that chimed when you passed them. You started remembering the feel of his shoulder bumping yours and missing it when it wasn’t there.

And you started to wonder.

Would it really be so terrible if you stayed?

You asked yourself that once. Then again. Then again.

At first it was just a whisper behind your ear. A suggestion. But now it nestled behind your ribs. Grew there. Took root.

Because you remembered Langdon, didn’t you?

You remembered his hand on your waist at supper, always too firm, like you were something to steer. You remembered how he spoke over you in every conversation, like a man correcting a child he hadn’t bothered to raise. You remembered how the ring—his ring—had been handed to you by someone else. No kneeling. No asking. Just expectation.

You remembered the way his lips never curled unless he was closing a deal.

And then there was Remmick.

Who asked if you wanted to see the rest. Who offered you his hand like it might be too much. Who waited every time you hesitated, and looked like it hurt him to do so.

He smiled with his whole mouth—ruined and all. He grinned when you laughed, even if he didn’t understand why. He softened around you like someone desperate to remember warmth. Every time he brushed against you, it wasn’t accidental. It was careful. Measured. Hopeful.

He looked at you like he was still not sure he deserved to.

You sat on the bridge again. Together.

Remmick had his hands in his lap, thumbs tracing nervous circles against each other. Every now and then, he’d glance at you. Say nothing. Then glance again.

You finally looked back.

“What is it?” you asked.

He startled slightly, sheepish. “Ah—nothin’. I just…”

His jaw clicked when he closed his mouth, then tried again.

“Ye don’t wear nothin’ on your finger,” he murmured.

Your breath caught. “Remmick—”

“No, no, love, I didn’t mean it like that,” he said quickly, huffing a laugh with no sound. “I know ye didn’t mean what ye said under the tree. I know ye weren’t…ye weren’t askin’ for all this.”

He paused, eyes dropping to the ring still on his own hand, the one you'd given him. “I just thought,” he added, quieter now, “maybe it’d feel a little less lopsided, is all.”

You didn’t know what to say. But your silence wasn’t rejection.

He must have felt that, because something flickered behind his eyes. He turned his palm over, and reached into the inside pocket of his coat. From it, he drew something strange.

A spool of hair, spun fine as thread—white and silvery-blue, like spider silk in moonlight. A broken thorn. A sliver of bone, no longer than a sewing needle. And the petal of one of those ghost-lantern flowers, shriveled but still glowing faintly at the edges.

He looked at you. Not for permission, exactly. Just to be sure you were still there.

Then he began.

He wrapped the hair into a loop, whispered to it in a language you didn’t understand—soft, low, rhythmic, like a lullaby hummed through soil. The thorn pierced the bone. The petal melted as it touched the band, fusing everything together in a slow flicker of light. It wasn’t magic like fireworks. It was quieter than that. Sadder. But it was real.

When it cooled, it had taken shape.

A ring. Fragile-looking, but solid. Matte white, like pearl gone to sleep. Veined faintly in red.

He offered it, resting on the flat of his palm like an offering. You looked at it. Then at him.

“It’s not a bindin’ spell,” he said softly. “I’d never do that to ye. It’s just a…a mark. That ye’ve been seen. That someone loved ye enough to make it.”

Your breath caught. You reached out, fingers trembling, and took the ring. And when you slipped it on—

The forest sighed.

Branches curled in. Flowers blinked open. The bridge beneath your feet thrummed like a harp string plucked once, gently.

And Remmick—Remmick made the smallest sound.

A choked inhale. Then, in a voice so soft it broke your heart:

“Ye look like someone worth waitin’ for.”

You don't remember dozing off.

But you did—still sitting beside him on the bridge, the soft weight of the ghost-ring warming your finger, his presence beside you steady as the moon that never shifted in the sky.

And when you woke, he was gone.

You startled upright, heart lurching. Your hand flew to the ring first—still there. Then to the edge of the bridge—still solid. The air felt heavier. Scented with something faint and iron-rich.

You called his name.

No answer.

Not at first.

You stood, blinking the fog from your lashes—and that’s when you saw it.

Laid carefully across the planks of the bridge, stretching in a line from your feet to the treeline beyond, was a trail of dead butterflies.

Hundreds of them. Each one perfectly intact, wings folded like prayer hands. Black as pitch with veins of crimson. Their bodies still. Sleeping. Dreaming. Waiting.

You followed.

Each step brought a rustle beneath your slippers, the softest stir of powder-dust wings. And up ahead—beneath the crooked trees that hung low like eaves—there he stood.

Remmick.

He had one hand behind his back, and his head tipped, sheepish as ever, like he’d been caught with something sinful in his pocket.

“Didn’t mean t’worry ye,” he said, voice soft.

You looked at the butterflies. Then back at him.

“What…is this?”

His smile wobbled.

“A bit of foolishness, maybe. Or maybe not.” He stepped forward, still holding whatever it was behind his back. “Back where I’m from… when we had no coin, no land, no dowry to offer—only things we’d taken from the earth—we’d still find a way t’make a gift.”

He stepped closer.

“An’ the most prized thing a man could offer…” He brought his hand forward.

In it, he held a locket.

But not gold. Not silver. It was made of bone, carved smooth and rounded into the shape of a heart. Not anatomically perfect—no, it was whimsical and off, a little uneven, the way a child might draw one. Etched into the surface were little spiral markings—like the moss had made beneath your heels that first day.

He opened it.

Inside was a pressed bluebell, perfectly preserved, its color dimmed to twilight. Across from it was a single moth’s wing, paper-thin and gleaming dully like wet stone—its veins iridescent, its edge slightly frayed. It shimmered like dusk and felt like a secret, as if it had been plucked from some dream before it could end.

Remmick didn’t explain right away. He only watched you open it, watched your thumb trace the curve of the petals, the fragile line of the wing. When he did speak, his voice had gone quieter, almost reverent.

“Th’bluebell,” he said, “they grow o’er graves where the dead were loved. Not all graves. Just the ones where someone wept hard enough t’water the earth.”

Your fingers stilled.

"And the wing?" you asked.

He hesitated. His eyes—those soft, wolf-sad things—lowered.

“She followed me once,” he said. “When I had no body. When I weren’t really a man at all. She’d land on me shoulder. Wouldn’t leave. Thought maybe she’d carry me soul somewhere if it ever got light enough.”

His smile came crooked. “She never did. But…I kept her. Just in case.”

You looked down at the locket again. At the love tucked carefully inside it—not gaudy, not gold, not spoken in flowers or poems, but in grief. In memory. In quiet things that didn’t ask for attention, only to be kept.

That was how he loved, you realized. Not loudly. Not demanding.

But devoutly.

With mourning in his blood and hope in his teeth. And you, wearing that little bone heart, felt something ancient stir beneath your ribs. Like maybe you'd been waiting for this place—this grave-bound man—just as much as he'd been waiting for you.

You blinked. Then laughed. It startled even you, the sound of it. But he didn’t flinch. Just watched, like you’d handed him the sun.

“I know it’s not what you’re used to,” he said, scratching the back of his neck, that left side of his face pulling with a skeletal twitch where the wound exposed too much. “But I’d like you to have it. If you want it.”

You took it with both hands.The weight of it pressed into your palms like a heartbeat. You looked at him.

At his eyes—those wide, sorrowful things that glowed only faintly red now, not from hunger, but hope. At the way he didn’t reach for you, didn’t presume. Just stood still. Waiting.

You reached up. Tied the chain around your neck. It settled just above your collarbone. Close to your throat. Close to where he watched your pulse.

When your hand brushed his chest after—just lightly, just shyly—he let out the breath he’d been holding like it was his last. That was the moment you knew.

Not the rose. Not the bridge. Not the ribbon orchard. Not even the ring.

This.

This strange, mournful creature who had carved you a heart from the bones of the dead. Who watched you like you were worth every moment of his waiting. Who asked for nothing except to love you.

And you thought—

I feel more alive here, in this place of ghosts and ghouls and goblins than I ever did among the living.

You didn’t say it. But you didn’t have to. Because the forest heard you.

And so did he.

You held the locket in your palm long after it cooled, long after the weight of his gaze had eased—but not faded. He didn’t speak again. Only watched you with that tremble behind his smile, like he was scared his own heart might make too much noise and scare you off.

You looked at him. Really looked.

The sharp, wolfish teeth. The wound yawning over the right side of his jaw, red-veined and lipless but somehow not grotesque—just raw, unhealed, honest. The way his suit jacket hung slightly crooked over his frame. The moss in his hair from when he’d laid down in the grove beside you and listened to your voice like it was music. The wedding band still on his finger, slightly dirty with time passing but not with meaning.

You thought of the bluebell. Of the moth wing. Of all the things buried. And you asked, gently, “you never did get to kiss your bride, did you?”

He blinked. His breath caught like a match about to light. “No,” he said, slowly, voice cracking around the edges, thick with barely restrained emotion. “Never did.”

You stepped closer. Bare feet brushing bone-white moss, slippers silent as ghosts. The town behind you stirred like something dreaming—warm, moon-drowsy lamplight spilling from crooked windows. A cart creaked past on rusted wheels, pulled by a skeletal mule with eyes like glow-worms. Somewhere overhead, a thousand paper bats took flight from the belfry, flapping on stringy wings like dying leaves.

You lifted your hand.

Touched his face—gently, gently—cupping the uninjured side, but letting your thumb rest just at the edge of that ruined jaw. He didn’t flinch. He didn’t lean in.

He just…stood there. As if he was scared his own desire might shatter him.

“Then kiss her now,” you whispered. “She’s right here.”

Remmick’s eyes burned. Not metaphorically. Literally.

A ring of red swallowed his dark gaze—glowing like coals in a hearth that hadn’t felt breath in years. His lips parted, a tiny whimper caught between them. His hand twitched at his side, then lifted—hovering over your waist, then pulling back, trembling.

“I—” he choked. “Tell me if y’don’t want it. I’ll wait, I swear, just—just say it, an’ I’ll wait ‘til the grave grows cold.”

You didn’t answer.

You kissed him.

It wasn’t graceful. It wasn’t chaste. It was raw and starved and aching. His hand finally landed on your back, gripping your gown in a fist like it was the only thing tethering him to the world. His mouth was cold—unnaturally so—but the longer it moved against yours, the warmer it got, like you were coaxing heat back into him.

He whimpered into you.

That sound—ragged and small—was almost too much.

His other hand found your cheek. Not greedy. Just reverent. Like he couldn’t believe you were solid under his fingertips.

And all around you, the forest bloomed.

Not with roses or lilies—but with boneflowers and glowing toadstools, with lantern-bugs that lit the air like constellations. Wind chimes made from ribs began to sing, and the belltower rang once, a low, humming note that quivered like a heartbeat.

You didn’t want to pull away.

Not because it was perfect. But because it wasn’t. Because it was messy and trembling and stitched together from grief and longing and the quiet, sacred madness of being wanted exactly as you were.

When you finally parted, his forehead dropped to yours.

“Christ above,” he whispered, voice gone soft and accented and wet with disbelief, “Ye taste like warmth. Like bloody spring after a thousand years o’ frost.”

You smiled.

Because for the first time in your life, you believed someone meant it.

His forehead rested against yours, breath shaky and uneven as if he’d forgotten how to need anything until now.

The world around you hummed in its stillness. Lantern-light flickered like breath behind gauze. Something in the cliffs sighed—the sound of wind moving through the hollow spaces of a place not meant for the living. The scent of old parchment and smoke-moss clung to the air. The boneflowers glowed dimmer now, like candles burned low in anticipation.

Remmick’s hand still cradled your cheek, reverent as a benediction. His thumb moved once, a trembling stroke along your jaw.

You looked at him. Really looked. The way his lashes fluttered like he couldn’t hold your gaze too long. The way his lips—wet, bitten, parted—trembled just slightly even though he’d stopped kissing you. He looked stunned. Like a man waking from a century-long dream and realizing heaven hadn’t been a lie after all.

You pressed your hand over the one still clutching your back.

And you asked, very softly, “Is there somewhere we can go?”

He blinked. “Go?”

Your thumb brushed his wrist.

“Somewhere private,” you said. “Somewhere we can be alone.”

You let the weight of your meaning hang there, open. Raw.

His eyes—still rimmed in that glowing red, still almost black where the light didn’t touch—widened just slightly.

He didn’t speak right away.

Then: “Y—ye mean…”

You nodded.

He let out a breath that wasn’t a laugh, wasn’t a sob, but something caught in the middle. His jaw flexed, the muscles around the torn part twitching as if it ached to smile and didn’t remember how.

“Aye,” he said at last, breathless. “Aye, I—Christ. C’ourse there is.”

You followed him through the quiet town, through paths lined with broken gravestones and wrought-iron gates wrapped in black ivy. The skeletal mule lifted its head as you passed, but didn’t move. The sky flickered between colors that didn’t exist aboveground—indigo, absinthe green, deep plum, midnight rust.

The house he led you to was small, crooked, nestled between two weeping trees. Its windows were frosted over from the inside, but lanterns glowed behind them—soft and inviting, not gold but something bluer, like the edge of candlelight seen through tears.

He opened the door and held it for you, eyes not leaving your face even once.

And when you stepped inside, the house breathed around you.

Like it had been waiting too.

The moment you stepped inside, the door shut behind you with a hush like a drawn curtain. No click. No finality. Just the sound of something sealing the world away—just the two of you now, cocooned in this crooked little house where time didn’t dare intrude.

It was warm, impossibly so. Not with fire, but with memory.

Lanterns floated untethered above the room, bobbing gently like sleeping fireflies in glass cages. Their glow was the color of old violets pressed between pages—dim, wistful, soft. A chair sat crooked beside a hearth with no fire, its frame carved with sigils too old to name. The walls were mismatched wood and stone, patched in places with stained-glass panels that bled moody light across the floor. Dust danced in the air like confetti made from ash and pearl.

And across the room stood a bed.

Not some pristine matrimonial thing. No, this was older. Lovingly worn. A frame of twisted wrought iron and bone-white wood, headboard etched with curling ivy and crescent moons. The sheets were moth-gray and velvet-soft, tucked in neat but frayed at the edges like they'd been waiting for years—centuries—to be touched again.

Remmick lingered behind you, his presence like a shadow you didn’t want to outrun. He hadn’t stepped closer yet. He was giving you space. But you could feel the way he vibrated with restraint. His hand hovered just inches from your back, like he couldn’t trust himself to touch without unraveling.

“If ye…” he began, and his voice cracked down the middle. He cleared his throat, tried again. “If ye’ve changed yer mind, just say the word. I’ll not take a thing ye don’t want to give, not even a breath.”

You turned to face him.

There was nothing hungry in his stance. Not yet. Just reverence. Just awe. But something in you had already begun to ache with want.

You stepped closer, silent as snowfall, until your fingers found the button of his collar. He startled at the contact—but didn’t stop you.

“I’m not scared of you,” you said, voice hushed. “I want this.”

You slid off the suit jacket, palms skimming the broad expanse of his shoulders, Remmick's lashes fluttering in response. Underneath, you found a pair of suspenders stretched taut over his chest, creating wrinkles in the fabric of his collared dress shirt.

You undid the top button. He didn’t move. Then Another.

His throat worked around a swallow, breath trembling. The glow in his eyes flickered, pulsing, softening. Like it responded to your touch.

Another.

You watched his chest rise and fall, slow and shallow as he tried not to pant. As if the sheer fact of you, undressing him—not in horror, not with trembling hands, but deliberately—was too much.

Another.

You laid your palms flat against his chest now, pushing the shirt from his shoulders. The white wife beater underneath clung to him, threadbare and soft, stretched over his broad frame. He was muscular in that quiet, devastating way—someone who’d labored long past death. His chest heaved with breath he didn’t need.

He hadn’t stopped watching your face.

Not once.

“I dunno if I remember how to do this slow,” he murmured, voice hitching on every word. “I’m too far gone for gentle if ye ask me to take too much control.”

You smiled, cupping the side of his neck. The unbroken one.

“Then let me.”

You stepped back once, your own hands now at the hem of your gown, torn at the hem, blood dried like rust at your shin. You pulled it loose now, bit by bit, letting it fall from your shoulders with the softest sigh of fabric meeting floor, leaving you in just your panties.

Remmick stared. His lips parted. No sound. His knees bent slightly, like he was fighting the urge to fall to them.

“Sweet hell,” he whispered, reverently. “Ye look like…like the night I died dreamin’ someone might love me anyway.”

And then, as if the words had summoned it, the lanterns above bloomed brighter, casting kaleidoscope patterns over your bare skin. The stained-glass windows threw ribbons of blue and red and indigo across your collarbones, your hips, your thighs.

Remmick reached out—slowly, slowly—and let the backs of his fingers trail along your arm. He didn’t dare touch your breasts. Not yet. He touched the hollow of your elbow. The dip of your wrist. The edge of your shoulder where your gown had once kissed your skin.

“Are ye sure?” he breathed.

You nodded.

“Lay with me.”

He exhaled like he’d been holding that breath since his last life.

And then he moved.

He moved like he wasn’t sure he was allowed.

Like the spell might break if he touched you too boldly—if he let himself believe for even a moment that he could have this. Have you.

You were already on the bed, the velvet beneath you rich and rippling like ink-stained water. Your head resting against moth-gray pillows. The locket he’d given you pressed cool against your breastbone, shifting with every breath. The air smelled of petrichor, moonlight, and something sweeter—something you’d begun to associate only with him. A scent like charred lilac and old longing.

Remmick knelt beside the mattress on one knee, wide palms gripping the edge of the frame like it was the only thing keeping him from coming undone.

“Christ, darlin’,” he rasped, his voice thick, slurred just slightly with his Irish cadence. “Ye don’t know what ye’re doin’ to me.”

But you did.

You could see it—see the way his jaw clenched, the left side twitching faintly where the skin had long since been torn away. The way his fangs caught on his lower lip, not bared, but there—unavoidable. You could see how hard he was fighting himself, how deeply he was suppressing the parts of him he feared you’d flinch from.

You didn’t flinch.

Instead, you reached for him, fingers curling into the front of his thin undershirt. Pulled him closer.

“Remmick,” you whispered. “It’s alright.”

He froze above you, nose inches from yours.

“I can’t—”

“You can.” You cupped his cheek, gently thumbing along the edge of exposed muscle. Not in disgust. Not in pity. But in affection. “I want all of you.”

Something in him broke.

He surged forward with a noise caught between a sob and a growl, his mouth crashing against yours. It was not the kiss of before—this one had heat, had desperation, the kind of longing that hadn’t been touched in over a thousand years. His lips were cold, but his tongue burned. You tasted the salt of old grief and something copper-sharp beneath it. His hands—God, those hands—one cupped your jaw while the other slid around your ribs, feeling flesh and bone simultaneously, cradling your back like you were sacred, like he might be punished for touching you too hard but couldn’t stop himself even if he tried.

“So soft—” he whispered, kissing the corner of your mouth, then your cheek, then your neck. “So fuckin’ soft, love, like the world before it soured…”

His fangs dragged the faintest line along your throat. Not piercing—just testing. Just tasting. His breath hitched like it pained him to hold back.

And you whispered again:

“It’s fine.”

That was all he needed.

A low, guttural moan tore from his chest as he finally let himself grip you harder—your hips, your thighs, hauling you into his lap like he needed you closer, needed your skin pressed to his or he might rot again right there on the floor. His body was strong, stronger than a man’s should’ve been, and you could feel that strength now as he spread your thighs wide and settled between them, the weight of him pressing down deliciously heavy.

He groaned when he felt the heat of you beneath the fabric, when your legs wrapped around his waist. He wasn’t shy anymore. His teeth caught on your lower lip as he kissed you again, hungrier now, drooling slightly with want—not from gluttony, but from sheer, unbearable starvation.

“Ye smell like everythin’ I’ve ever lost,” he murmured raggedly. “And everythin’ I thought I’d never be allowed to touch again.”

His hips rolled once, helplessly, against yours. You felt the hardness of him, thick and restrained behind old linen and buttons. His breath hitched, head dropping to your shoulder.

“I’m tryin’, I swear it, I’m tryin’ to be slow…”

“You don’t have to be,” you told him, voice gone small and shaking. “I’m not afraid of you. I want you. All of you. Even the parts you’re trying to hide.”

He lifted his head slowly—eyes glowing red now, the pupils huge and blown with need.

“Fuckin’ hell,” he breathed. “Marryin’ me twice over, sayin’ that.”

You hadn’t meant to tempt him. Not exactly. But you’d said the words—I want all of you—and now you could feel what that meant in the trembling of his fingers as they hovered over your body. Not touching. Not yet. Just breathing you in like he couldn’t quite believe this was happening. That you were happening.

His voice cracked through the hush of the room. “D’you know what yer sayin’, love?” He cupped the back of your neck, gentle as a grave flower. His thumb dragged along your pulse like he was listening to it. “A thousand years o’ hunger in me…an’ you go sayin’ that?”

Your answer came not in words but in action—pulling his hand down, pressing it against your chest so he could feel your heart race for him. For this. For the way his eyes glowed like twin embers in the dark.

That did it.

He surged forward, lips grazing the shell of your ear. “Then lie back for me, mo chroí,” he breathed. “Let me see what I’ve been dreamin’ of since before I knew what dreamin’ meant.”

You reclined against the velvet, heat curling low in your stomach, and Remmick followed you down—kneeling between your legs like a knight in a fairy tale gone all wrong and better for it. His skin caught the light, that blue like moonlight over still water, marred only by the right side of his jaw—where muscle and bone were laid bare, yet never once did he try to turn his face away from you.

Because you didn’t flinch.

You reached up and traced the edge of the torn flesh, and he shuddered, a sound like something old breaking loose in his chest.

He kissed you then—not hurried, but deep, wet, needy—and his hand came to rest between your thighs, warm despite everything. His fingers traced the seam of your inner thigh first, featherlight, before his mouth followed. Down your jaw. Your throat. Lower.

Praise spilled from him like prayer:

“Look at ye—soft as sin, warm as summer rain—ain’t never seen anythin’ like ye.”

He mouthed at your thighs, biting down just enough to make you gasp, but never break the skin. He lapped at the indentations like he wanted to memorize every tremble, every twitch. When your legs started to close reflexively, he hooked an arm around one, spreading you wider with a low, sinful groan.

“No, no, love. Let me see. Let me taste. It’s been so long—I’ll be good, I swear it, I’ll make ye forget everythin’ but me.”

His hand moved between your legs again—rough palm against soft heat. He doesn't remove your panties yet, content to tease you through the., letting the slick there soak into the cotton. He rutted his palm against you, slow and grinding, until your hips started chasing it.

You keened. And he moaned in response—open-mouthed, desperate.

“Fuckin’ drippin’ f’r me already…ain’t even had a taste…”

And he did.

One long stripe with his tongue over the damp cotton. Then another. Until he was panting into you like a starving man nosing through the seam of your underwear. One hand splayed over your belly, keeping you still.

Then he sucked the fabric into his mouth like he could wring the taste of you through it.

When you gasped, he looked up—eyes blown wide, red rimmed, lips wet and parted.

“Beggin’ ye,” he whispered. “Let me have ye proper, yeah? Just me mouth for now—let me make ye sing, mo chroí, let me worship ye like the altar ye are.”

And when you nodded—more a whimper than a yes—he pulled your panties aside and groaned, deep and broken.

You didn’t expect him to kiss your cunt.

But he did.

Like he meant it.

Like it was holy.

He parted you with reverence—his breath hot against your folds, one trembling hand holding your thigh like it anchored him to the earth. The other lay against your belly, fingers twitching as though resisting the urge to claw, to grasp, to sink into your softness and never let go.

And then…he kissed you.

Not rushed. Not ravenous. Just lips to flesh, slow and aching, as if the act itself might undo him. As if his very mouth might shatter around you—and he’d welcome the breaking.

Your back arched.

Not from shock—but from the texture.

Because his mouth wasn’t whole.

His lips were soft, yes. Warm, even. But where the skin gave way—where bone and sinew lay exposed, where every sharp, imperfect tooth glistened with preternatural hunger—his kiss became something otherworldly.

It should’ve been frightening.

It wasn’t.

It was devastating.

You felt it not just in your cunt, but in your spine, your ribs, your soul. He didn’t just use his tongue—though God, that tongue, wet and thick and curling with practiced strokes that told you he hadn’t forgotten how to ruin a woman—he used his mouth in full. The broken parts. The jagged ones.

He scraped—not hard enough to hurt, but just enough to tease. Just enough to remind you this wasn’t a dream. That this was him. Remmick. The dead man with the living hands. The monster with the gentle touch.

He licked you like you were spun sugar and sacrament, and when he pressed his tongue flat against your clit and sucked, your hands shot to his hair, tangled in it, dragging him closer—

He moaned. Moaned into you, like the taste alone could kill him.

“Christ alive,” he rasped, pulling back for half a second to pant against your slick. His voice was wrecked, thick with emotion and want, thick with his Irish cadence.

He ducked back down—open mouth, flat tongue, slow circles that made your thighs tremble—and then slid two fingers inside you in one smooth, devastating motion.

“Tight little thing,” he whispered, “grippin’ me like ye missed me your whole life.”

You sobbed something between his name and God and yes, your thighs clenching around his ears, and he groaned again—deeper this time—rutting against the bed like he was getting off on the noises you made alone.

And somewhere between the moaning and the wet pop of his mouth over your clit, somewhere between the slurp of his tongue and the squelch of his fingers moving inside you, the thought came—

My mother warned me of what goes bump in the night.

She whispered it when you were little. When the winds howled. When the floorboards creaked.

She said, “There are monsters, my love. Stay in the light.”

And now here you were, sprawled beneath one, flushed and soaked and gasping, letting him drag you apart with teeth and tongue.

You wondered what she’d say if she saw you like this.

If she knew that you’d chosen the dark—and begged it to keep you.

You felt it coming.

Not like a storm—fast and brutal—but like a tide, rising slow. Heat bloomed between your hips, slow and dangerous. Your thighs ached with the effort of keeping him there, like if you let go he’d vanish back into the earth that made him.

And still he stayed. Mouthing at your cunt like a man devoted. Like a man damned.

His eyes fluttered shut as his tongue circled your clit, drawing wet, lazy shapes—infinity, you thought, or a name—until you couldn’t tell where his mouth ended and your body began.

And then—

His eyes opened.

They glowed dimly at first, that reddish hue flickering like coal beneath ash. But when he felt your hand trembling against his scalp—when you whimpered “Remmick, I—”, his gaze snapped to yours.

Locked. Frozen. Held. It wasn’t lust you saw there. It was awe. It was reverence.

It was a man who hadn’t been touched in thirteen hundred years, now watching you—bare, flushed, trembling—fall apart beneath his mouth like a blessing.

His lips glistened. His fingers curled inside you, stroking something sharp and sacred. And still, he didn’t look away.

He stared at you like he was watching the stars be born. Like you were the only heaven he ever hoped to find.

And you knew—without him saying it—that if you asked him to stop, he would. If you asked him to die again, he would.

But you didn’t want that. You wanted more. So you said nothing.

You only whispered, voice shaking, “Don’t look at me like that.”

His jaw twitched. His breath caught. Then came his voice, low and ruined:

“Can’t help it, darlin’. Ye look like salvation.”

And you broke.

Your thighs clamped around his ears. Your back arched. You came with a sound so soft it felt like mourning. Like prayer. Like surrender.

And Remmick—beautiful, monstrous, trembling—moaned like he’d been given breath again.

He kept licking you through it. Slower now. Gentler. One last kiss to your clit, soft and grateful. He pressed his cheek to your thigh, jaw wound resting against your skin like it belonged there.

And still, his eyes never left your face.

After, you pulled him up.

He came willingly. Crawled over you with something almost shy in the set of his shoulders, the way his body trembled despite its strength. You reached for him—and for a moment, he hesitated, like he couldn’t believe you were still here. That you wanted this. That you wanted him.

You cupped his face.

Cold skin. The torn edge of his right jaw like worn marble. One fang brushing your thumb where it passed his lip. His eyes flickered between black and red—uncertain, afraid he might be dreaming.

“Remmick,” you said, your voice thick and still breathless, “do you want me?”

The question broke something in him.

He nodded too fast, like a man who’s never been given permission to hope. “Aye. Christ, aye, I do—been wantin’ ye since the trees took yer scent. Since ye bled on the bark and woke me.”

Your fingers trailed down his chest, down the wife beater—until you reached his belt. He sucked in a breath, whole body twitching when your knuckles brushed the tented front of his trousers.

“Then show me,” you whispered. “Show me how much.”

His mouth twitched into a smile, wide and crooked. “Ye don’t know what ye ask, lass.”

You leaned up, lips brushing his jaw, your whisper soft and sharp against his skin. “Then show me anyway.”

He kissed you—harder this time, desperate now, hips grinding against your thigh with the ragged rhythm of a man barely keeping himself leashed. His tongue pushed into your mouth, all heat and hunger, and you could taste blood and lavender and something older, something wild, on his tongue.

And God, he kissed like he meant to die in your mouth. When he pulled back, his voice rasped, thick and low:

“Ye sure?”

You nodded once. Twice. Then said it, clear and sure:

“I want to feel you inside me.”

He shuddered. Not just a tremble—but a full-body quake, as if your words went deeper than skin, straight to the buried places inside him.

“Then lie back, ma wee bride,” he murmured, voice shaking, thick with that Irish lilt you’d grown to crave. “Let me make a proper mess of ye.”

He moved slowly, reverently, as he undressed you fully, fingers shaking as they peeled your underwear down. His breath caught at every inch of exposed skin, like he was memorizing it with his mouth slightly parted.

He bent low, kissed the inside of your thigh again—then your hip, your stomach, your ribs. Worshipful. Starved.

And when he reached for himself, undid the buckle of his trousers with fumbling hands, he looked up at you once more, almost apologetic.

“I—ah—may not last long,” he confessed, shame flickering across his face. “Not when ye’re lookin’ at me like that. Not when I’ve waited this long. I’ll—I'll make it up to ye, I swear it—”

You touched his face again.

“Then come undone for me, Remmick,” you whispered. “You’ve waited long enough.”

He lowered himself between your thighs like a man preparing for worship, not fucking.

His forehead pressed to your sternum. His breath trembled. You felt him—not just the weight of his body, but the heat of him, pulsing against your thigh, thick and straining beneath your touch.

And God, he was big.

You glanced down and saw it—long and flushed dark at the tip, veined like marble, so hard he twitched in time with his breath. The way his cock curved heavy toward his stomach made your breath catch. He looked like something carved from sin.

He saw your eyes widen and started to pull back.

“I—I’ll wait, love, I’ll—”

“No,” you breathed, grabbing his arm. “I want it. I want you. Just…slow.”

He swallowed, hard. His throat clicked.

“Gonna ruin ye,” he whispered, voice thick with Irish dusk and awe. “Gonna stretch ye wide and deep and still wish I could go deeper.”

Your legs parted further on instinct. Your heels dragged the sheets. He looked down at you like you were something sacred, worshipped and half-afraid of.

Then his hand moved between your thighs.

His fingers—two at first, slow and careful—slid back into your soaked heat, working you open gently, watching for every flinch, every sharp breath. His jaw—half-torn and glowing faintly with the light of his hunger—tightened.

“Look at ye,” he whispered hoarsely, breath like a vow. “So soft f’r me. So warm already.”

Your hips arched into his hand. You whined when his thumb brushed your clit, your hands clutching at his shoulders, his name escaping your lips again and again in half-sobs.

“Please, Remmick,” you gasped.

He kissed your knee. Your hip. Your inner thigh again. Then—

He lined himself up with you, shaking. “I can feel ye callin’ f’r me,” he said, voice low, trembling. “Can feel yer body beggin’ mine to belong.”

You didn’t have words for what he made you feel. Only need. Only the hot, aching stretch inside as he finally pressed forward, the thick head of his cock nudging into you with aching slowness.

And God—the burn. It wasn’t pain. It was too much and not enough all at once. You clutched his arms. Gasped. He froze.

“Too much?” he rasped. “Do I stop?”

“No—Remmick—don’t stop,” you moaned, “just—go slow—”

And he did. So slow, like he was trying not to shatter.

His cock dragged deeper, inch by inch, your walls clutching at him, your slick coating him as he bottomed out in you with a shudder that shook his whole body. His arms shook. His forehead dropped to yours. His mouth opened but nothing came out—not until your name escaped his throat on a cracked, desperate sound that felt more like prayer than pleasure.

“Fookin’ Christ,” he choked, barely moving, buried to the hilt inside you. “Ye feel—Gods above—ye feel like fire.”

You were full. So full. Stretched in a way that left your eyes fluttering, your voice catching in your throat. You didn’t want to move. Didn’t want to breathe. You only wanted to feel him there, pulsing deep inside, trembling like you were the first sunrise he’d ever seen.

And maybe you were.

He stayed there, deep and still, as if even the smallest movement might break you. His eyes squeezed shut. His jaw flexed against the side of your throat. You could feel him shaking—not from strain, but from the restraint it took not to move.

You wrapped your arms around his neck.

“It’s okay,” you whispered, mouth brushing the shell of his ear. “I can take it.”

He didn’t answer at first. Just trembled, breath warm on your shoulder. But the sound he made when your hips tilted up—when your walls squeezed gently around him—wasn’t human.

It was a groan wrenched up from the deepest part of him. A sound centuries old.

“Ye don’t know what ye’re sayin’,” he rasped. “Ye don’t know what I’ll do if ye tell me I can…”

“I do,” you whispered, meeting his gaze. “I want you to.”

And that’s what broke him.

The first thrust was shallow, but sharp—his hips twitching forward, grinding deep. Your mouth fell open, a gasp slipping past your lips. He did it again. Then again. Each movement just a little rougher, a little more desperate. Until he was fucking you with the kind of pace that spoke of appetite, not lust.

He pressed you down into the sheets, breathing ragged, body arched over yours like he couldn’t get close enough. His lips dragged down your throat, over your collarbone, mouthing at the tops of your breasts like a man starving.

He muttered something in Irish against your skin—raw, thick, ruined—but you didn’t need to understand it. You felt what it meant in the way he rutted into you, deep and fast, his cock dragging along the parts of you no one else had ever touched.

You sobbed his name.

Your nails dug into his shoulders. You felt his back ripple beneath your hands, all sinew and strength, every part of him working to fuck you the way he’d been dreaming of since long before your first breath.

“You feel me?” he groaned into your mouth. “Deep in that sweet lil cunt, aye? So warm—so wet—I could drown in ye.”

You cried out, back arching, thighs trembling.

His mouth kissed down your breast, licking over your nipple before sucking it between his teeth. Your whole body jerked beneath him.

“Fook,” he breathed against your skin. “Ye’re squeezin’ me like you like it when I lose m’self.”

“I do,” you sobbed. “I want you to—Remmick, please—don’t stop—”

He didn't.

He pounded into you, hips snapping, the slick drag of his cock obscene as your bodies slapped together. His jaw wound gleamed faintly with wet, his eyes glowing a deep carnelian red. But even with his mouth parted, his teeth sharp, even with the beast in him taking hold—he still looked at you like he loved you.

Loved you, even if he didn’t dare say it yet. You clenched around him. His rhythm faltered.

He growled, low and broken, “Tell me if I hurt ye, love. Tell me—swear it—”

“You’re perfect,” you whimpered, tears slipping down your cheeks. “You’re perfect, Remmick.”

His forehead dropped to yours. Then he rutted into you with such bruising depth, you saw stars.

He couldn’t stop shaking.

Even as his body rocked into yours, even as your legs wrapped around his hips and your nails raked down the meat of his back, Remmick trembled like a man possessed.

“Can’t hold m’self back,” he whispered, voice rough and wrecked and soaked in longing. “Not when ye’re like this—soft and beggin’ beneath me—so fuckin’ warm—”

“Then don’t,” you breathed. “Remmick, please—don’t stop—don’t hold back—just take me—”

Your words undid him.

He groaned low in his chest, mouth falling open, and something inside him slipped. His pace turned brutal—not cruel, never cruel—but driven. Like centuries of craving finally had a body to answer to.

Like you were the only thing he’d ever wanted, and the wait had nearly broken him.

The frame of the bed creaked beneath his rhythm. Your thighs trembled around his hips, slick and trembling, your body rocked with every deep, ragged thrust. And still—still—he tried to speak.

“You feel me, yeah?” he rasped, forehead pressed to yours. “Deep in that sweet cunt…like I belong there. Like I was meant to be there—"

Your hands curled at his nape. Your lips brushed his ear.

“You do,” you said.

That was all it took.

Remmick let go.

His body slammed flush against yours, hips stuttering hard, cock pulsing deep inside you with a heat so full, so heavy, it knocked the breath from your lungs.

He groaned brokenly against your skin, his whole body arching as he spilled inside you—deep, thick, endless—his forehead resting against yours like he had nowhere else left to go.

You clung to him. His breath hitched. Then again.

And when you looked down between your bodies, when your thighs parted with a sticky ache—you saw the proof of him leaking back out of you, thick and warm where you were still stretched around the base of his cock.

A creamy ring of white.

Remmick saw it, too.

He moaned—deep, guttural—and pulled you closer, nosing at your throat like he was afraid you’d disappear. “So full of me,” he whispered, dazed. “Look at ye. Stuffed so pretty…”

You kissed the corner of his mouth.

“Remmick,” you whispered.

His eyes fluttered open.

And when you looked into them—when you saw the pain, the wonder, the sheer reverence—you knew. He’d been waiting longer than you’d been alive. For this. For you.

His voice cracked, Irish accent trembling:

“Don’t leave me, love. Not now. Not ever.”

You kissed him back.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

The air felt different after.

Not warmer, not colder—but fuller. As if something ancient and unseen had exhaled at last. A spell released. A promise made flesh.

Remmick lay tangled beside you, arms wrapped tight around your body like he didn’t know how to let go. His cheek pressed to your shoulder, jaw wound cool and tender against your skin. His breath was shallow, uncertain—like he still couldn’t believe you were real.

You watched the glow-worm lanterns drift lazily overhead. Somewhere outside, the bones in the wind chimes knocked gently together like teeth. The forest whispered.

You should’ve been afraid.

Of the damp, breathing woods. Of the moss that learned your name. Of the way the moon never moved and the veil hung so thin you could taste it when you kissed him.

But you afraid. You were…calm.

He stirred slightly when you traced a lazy pattern down his back—soft whorls against undead skin still damp with sweat. A low, content sound rumbled in his throat, and he nosed into the crook of your neck, whispering something like “m’wife…” so quietly, you weren’t sure if it was meant for you or just the silence.

And God help you, you smiled.

It hadn’t been love with Mr. Langdon. It hadn’t even been kindness.

It had been a future written in ink not your own. One you’d been expected to accept without complaint, because it was tidy. Respectable. Fitting of a girl raised to smile politely, to never contradict her elders, to marry for property and speak only when spoken to.

Your mother had called it security.

Had warned you to stay away from things that wandered in the woods. From things with glowing eyes and sharpened teeth. Things that hungered.

And now—

Now you lay in a moss-slick bed of dirt and silk, bare and marked and full of one such thing. You wore his locket. His bite. His ring.

You brushed your fingers along the smooth place at your neck where his lips had lingered. A perfect bruise. A signature.

And still you weren’t afraid. You weren’t ashamed. You were…

Content.

“I wish I’d met ye sooner,” he whispered against your collarbone. “Back when I still knew how to be a man.”

You turned your head, met his eyes. Those wide, glowing eyes.

“You still are.”

He swallowed, expression caught between reverence and disbelief.

“I ain’t decent,” he said, voice thick with that Irish lilt again. “Ain’t clean. Ain’t right. I sleep in the dirt, I feed when I must, and I carry more ghosts than I do breath in m’lungs.”

“You’re kind,” you said.

“A monster.”

“You’re mine.”

He closed his eyes at that.

You rested your palm over his heart—cold and still. But when you pressed closer, you could swear something stirred there. Like an echo. Like a wish.

He buried his face in your chest, arms tightening around your waist. And you let him hold you.

You never looked back again.

Not at Langdon. Not at the mother who warned you off the dark but allowed the devil in anyway. Not at the world where your name was written beside a stranger’s in a church you hated.

Instead, you stayed in the belly of the forest. In the town built of bones and moss and memory. You watched the ribbons in the orchard sway like breath. You fed the skeletal cat scraps of peach and laughed when it swiped at your slipper. You kissed your husband when the wind moaned, and whispered promises against his cheek when his hands trembled.

Because you loved him. Because he waited.

And because when you reached for a tree with trembling hands and a bloodstained ring, he was the one who answered.

Not Langdon. Not God.

Him.

On the morning the bluebell bloomed again—only one, shy and frost-bitten—you knelt beside it with Remmick and whispered,

“Maybe this was the wish that came true.”

He stared at the bloom, then at you. And smiled.

“I ran from a man with a pulse,” you whispered, lacing your fingers through your undead husband’s. “But I stayed for the one with a soul.”

[lastpeachonearth]

“Maybe it was the way he looked at you. Like you were the first warm thing he’d seen in centuries.”

i need to lie down.

[roomiesoreo]

Girl I am gnawing at the bars of my enclosure at the idea of playing with Remmick using vampire weaknesses. Letting wild garlic grow all around your house, knowing he’ll be fighting his way through it every night anyway, just to sit on your porch and beg on his knees to be let in. Sitting just inside your front door, legs slightly parted, while he’s crawling and drooling on your front porch, begging you to let him inside. Wearing silver rings while you have sex, so every time you touch him you burn him just a little. Letting him sleep in your bed and keeping the curtains closed in your bedroom, but throwing them open in every other room in the house. Playing with yourself on the couch, soaking in the late afternoon sunlight, while he’s whimpering and crying in the darkness of the bedroom, losing his mind. You know he loves to choke you, so you wear a silver necklace to keep his hands off your throat, knowing it’ll drive him insane. Something about the power dynamics of it all just scratches my brain the right way.

[whosjunglejim4322]

Warnings : SMUT! This is almost sappy…idk Remmick yearns for connection and he’s so so angry he can’t have you without hurting you … erm anyways he’s also a PERV!!!

“I should hate you.”

You rasped it out, like finding the strength or will to say anything else might stop what’s happening - and you mean what you say. You shouldn’t be as sticky and wet between your legs as you are right now, shouldn’t feel like keeping your eyes open is impossible - but it’s too good, he’s so deep you feel him twitch against your cervix.

Your insides are being rubbed and prodded over and over by his length, the pleasure is white hot and spreads all over, inside and out. A tightness inside of you, a pressure that feels overwhelming.

“Y-you should,” he pants, wet mouth glued to the side of your neck - his canines graze your skin and he teases himself with the idea of wrapping his lips around your shoulder and pressing his teeth into you - a shiver wracks your body. You sense it in him, get goosebumps everywhere.

You cling onto his tattered tank top with all your strength, ensnaring your thighs around his strong waist and holding him inside like a vice. He feels so heavy, so deep inside of you - a slow pace with the force of something, not someone.

“But you take it- oh god, y’take it so gooooood.” He mewls, eyebrows pinched together. Red irises glare at you - stare like you’re the sun he hasn’t had the pleasure of basking in for centuries. You see the void, the depths of despair- it feels like a beckoning.

He’s being loud and lewd, peering down between your bodies and the thatch of his dark hair- watching his slick soaked length go in and out and in and out, the sounds are squelchy and obtrusive and fuck he’s somewhere in your stomach, feels like.

“Why are y-you fucking me li-like this?” You plea, and his mouth is on yours before you can take another inhale. Wet, hungry.

He’s moaning against you like he’s never felt the touch of anything good, anything as whole and divine as you - while he spears you - curling his hips upwards while clawed fingers hold your face preciously. Softly.

“Told you - mm, I love you, didn’t I?” He punctuates between thrusts, juices dripping down to your ass and forming a wet spot beneath your bodies. Your old bed is weary, your sheets tired.

You whimper like a hurt, small thing. It makes him feel crazy - makes his instincts become a real palpable thing - if you weren’t the closest thing to salvation something like him could have, well - he doesn’t like to think about that. Would be messy.

So he softens his lip bruising kisses, makes sure to use his tongue and lick all the knicks from his teeth on the spongy surface of the inside of your bottom lip.

“Oh sweetheart, you’re throbbing around me, y’know that? Yeah that’s it - awe baby take it just like that.”

His hips lose a bit of control- his stomach is tensing at the bottom, thighs tight and balls sore - aching to release, aching to soothe this insatiable need to rock you back and forth on his manhood till he’s raw.

You’re a mess down there, swollen and puffy and your arousal mixed with pre cum has coated his cock in this white translucent slick - it’s gorgeous, he wants to suckle your clit and clean you up.

“Love you, R-Remmy.” You hiccup, and if he had a heart that could beat - it’d be hammering out of his chest. He’d do anything, anything, to give you his babies, build a nice big garden out front - dine between your legs for dessert after the house is asleep.

It’s pathetic. That’s what does it for him. It washes over him like a spell - a lucid dream that shatters his ability to hide. He rips the sheets between his fists - and his mouth is buried into the mattress between the empty space of your neck and shoulder.

He’s ripping the material with his teeth, thrashing while his hips form an unsteady, frantic rhythm - you feel it inside of you, his release. It’s warm because he fed earlier - you don’t think of it too hard - and you can’t when your body is quivering and trembling underneath him.

“Cumming, cumming - oh god, Remmick, Remmick.”

You’re fucking yourself on him while the otherworldly feeling creeps in - you’re not sure how he does it, or why it happens - but his release almost always spurrs your own and it’s an unbearable sort of pleasure.

You want to cry, but your voice doesn’t work. He’s still pumping cum into you, you’re coated between your legs with its abundance - and your fingers tangle within his sweat soaked strands of hair.

You tug him up, like you need him to breathe. You kiss him so roughly, he almost finds it cute. But he’s got you pinned to your mattress and he’s sheathed inside of your cunt and he’s a fucking vampire. Ain’t that a bitch?

“Feels good honey? Yeah I know I know, shhh.”

He pecks your mouth, moving your hair out of your face, admiring his work on you. You’re kiss bitten, fucked out, barely here but you’re so completely locked into him - a spirit to the void. A match into the darkness. You are so alive beneath him, a perfect, delirious daydream.

He gives you a second. A human second. Knows you need it the most after he makes love to you, deflowers you over and again. He can’t feel shame. Maybe if he could, he’d feel something close to it - but how can he?

You’re staring up at him, thumb squishing into the soft flesh of his mouth, prodding the fangs behind the pink skin. You trace the lines etched into his skin, wonder what he looked like as a human man. Doesn’t matter now. He’s yours.

You press your nose to his, and he pulls out - you wince and you blink once - he’s in between your legs, licking you clean, sucking and resisting the urge to draw blood - you try to squirm away but he doesn’t let you - it’s almost endearing if you weren’t so overstimulated.

He’s doing it so lovingly, just cleaning up his mess, licking his plate clean. Your clit, your folds, everything he can reach. Kisses your bundle real sweet when he’s done. He’s satisfied, stands up and he’s still not yet fully soft as he pulls his trousers back on.

“Stay.” You say it like you’re surprised it came out of your own mouth. But it was bound to be said at some point. Every time you’re with him like this - the pull gets worse and worse. It doesn’t feel natural, but it doesn’t feel unnatural either.

You’ve got it bad.

He pauses, stares at you in a way that should scare you to death - should make you run. It’s creature - like, as if he’s trying to figure out if you’re a threat or not. You’re used to it, know it’s just part of his nature now.

“You mean that?”

He shouldn’t sound so breathless. He hasn’t had a need to breathe in centuries. He steps closer, slowly. And you know that it’s on purpose, makes you smile a little.

You pat the bed, ruffling the covers. His ears twitch, nostrils flare and the scent of you is so perfumed in the air he almost moans.

“I always did like taking strays in.”

He smiles, even chuckles, irises a crimson and obsidian melt of admiration.

“Keep feedin me, and I might stick around too long.”

[lastpeachonearth]

id have him as a pet

[jordiemeow]

18+ mdni

something something something farm boy!clark kent who spends his summer pining over the city girl spending the summer with his family—a favour for martha's old friend. he's a mama's boy, all bashful and polite, greeting you with dimpled smiles but never able to hold eye contact for long. he's lucky he has kryptonian strength because a lesser man would melt under your gaze when he's hauling things around the property.

he calls you ma'am and pulls your chair out for you at dinner, but god, he's going insane every time he's around you. all he can focus on is his super senses zeroing in on the smell of your arousal, sweet and heady, every time you give him an innocent smile when you bend over in your little denim shorts. he doesn't whistle. that'd be rude. but lord, he wants to. wants to just drop to his knees in front of you and beg you to let him fuck you. just once, to put an end to this agony.

then finally, finally, you ask him for some help. bat your lashes up at him and in your sweet, soft, city-slick little voice you say "clark? i can't get this saddle off the rack. can you come give me a hand?" and he obediently trails after you down to the barn. but you don't head towards the saddles. you make a beeline straight for the hayloft, beckoning him with a single crook of your finger. he spends a minute stalled at the bottom drooling over the way your shorts ride up before scrambling up after you.

"you gonna sit there and pretend you're not staring again, clark?"

"i ain't staring," he lies, red creeping up his neck. "i'm just praying."

"praying?"

"yeah. praying i don't do something real stupid," he affirms. and then you're on him, and he doesn't have to be the one to break first. not when you're unbuckling his jeans and licking into his mouth, whispering about how you want his cock right there in the hayloft. and like the good little farm boy he is, he gives you exactly what you want.

yes ma'am.

[lastpeachonearth]

let me grab my boots

[laceyfaeryy]

MDNI 18+

— loser! clark kent getting hard by the librarian’s cleavage

cw: masturbation, clark is a loser with a big dick but doesn’t know what to do with it

it was no secret that clark didn’t have many friends, he was too awkward, too nerdy, too shy. so he spent majority of his time inside the college library, his nose buried in academic texts, whilst listening to music, his bushy brows furrowed in concentration as he occasionally pushed up his glasses.

that was until his concentration was broken by the soft sound of a mug being placed on the wooden table. he jolted awkwardly, his large body instinctively pushing the rolling chair away, tugging his wired headphones out. “o-oh, um,” he stammered awkwardly, mentally slapping himself for making a fool of himself.

“thought you’d like a cup of tea,” you smiled at him, your voice soft and your gaze so warm and welcoming it made his heart thud a little faster. “good luck studying,” you patted his shoulder before walking away. leaving clark speechless, his blue eyes glued to your hips as you walked, the thin tight material of your skirt doing nothing to hide your curves.

as sad as it was he’s never been noticed before, always tucked away in the corner of the library that was covered in dust because no one in their right mind would study in the darkest corner.

but you noticed him.

and he started to notice you a little more.

it started off innocent, small shy dimpled smiles from clark when he walked in, his eyes already roaming around the library the moment he crossed the threshold. then it started to get a little physical, his palms sweating when you sat on the table after offering him some tea, your skirt rising up allowing him to see your smooth thighs, his gaze instantly turning away hoping that you didn’t see the blush that slowly crept up his face in the dark corner.

it was like his eyes had a mind of their own, glued to your cleavage whenever he saw you, whether it was you working behind the desk, placing the books back or speaking to him.

he felt filthy.

especially when he felt his pants tighten ever so slightly when you leaned down, giving him a bigger view.

but he couldn’t help himself from fisting his cock each night because of you. his hand moving awkwardly along his fat cock, his cheeks flushed as he whimpered when his thumb brushed over his sensitive leaking tip, his thighs shaking. “fucking m-mph,” he groaned, tilting his head back as he panted, wondering what it would feel like to be buried inside you, how long would he last?

answer?

not long, especially when he came within seconds just by thinking about you.

you clouded his mind, each time he went to the library he imagined you on his lap, bouncing on his cock moaning his name in the small corner, how you would go on your knees and suck him off whilst he studied like you weren’t there, or bending you over the desk during the late hours when the library was empty.

he was fucked.

[lastpeachonearth]

yayyy suffering!

[rawjutsu]

next door's lemonade

pairing: dilf!clark kent x fem reader

summary: clark kent’s a mild-mannered single dad, but when you decide to turn up the heat, things get messy—literally. three easy steps to seduce your unlikely crush, plus one totally unexpected meltdown. chaos, flustered kisses, and way too much dad energy guaranteed.

cw: age gap, domestic thirst, 40 yr old single dad clark, i had mid 20s reader in mind but it's up to you, soft-spoken filth, oral (f!receiving), pet names, overstimulation, size kink, thigh riding, praise, piv smut, unprotected sex, creampie, breeding kink, 3k wc mdni

you’re convinced clark kent was god’s personal apology to women for everything else men have done.

he’s quiet, polite, and always has that bashful little smile when he sees you. when he walks his daughter to the bus stop every morning, your heart does that stupid flutter thing—but worse than that, your uterus practically weeps. her pigtails are always slightly crooked, like he tried his best and she wouldn’t sit still, and the sight alone makes you want to hand in your iud and volunteer as tribute.

but clark? clark’s completely unaware of the chaos he causes. or so you thought.

you’d always exchanged casual greetings—him with his chipper “morning” and you with a smile that bordered on horny—but nothing past that. until one day, standing outside your front door, key half in the lock, you catch sight of him in his front yard.

his sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, hands deep in the flower bed. his shirt clings to his back in all the right places. biceps flex. forearms strain. there's a smudge of dirt on his jaw.

he looks up. catches you staring.

you freeze.

he waves. smiles. it’s boyish. innocent. cruel.

you scramble inside like you just saw god himself—because, honestly, you might’ve.

and that’s when it hits you: this man will not realize you want him unless you physically spell it out. and even then, there’s a 50/50 chance he’ll think you’re just being neighborly.

fine.

you can be aggressively neighborly, because one way or another, you are going to get into clark kent’s dad pants if it’s the last thing you do.

step one: bait the child

you “accidentally” bake too many muffins. double batch. how clumsy of you.

“these? oh no, i can’t eat them all. would your daughter like some?”

she comes over giggling and thanks you every time, bouncing with excitement. and when she beams up at clark and says, “daddy, she made blueberry again!”—your heart squeezes in your chest and your pussy clenches right after from the goofy smile he gives you, muffin crumbs on his lip.

step two: damsel in distress

you wave him over one hot afternoon. “mr. kent! my ac unit’s being dumb again. it’s so confusing. would you mind taking a look?”

he spends twenty minutes crouched down fiddling with it, sweat glistening along his hairline, shirt riding up in the back, glasses slipping down his nose. you pretend not to stare. you fail. miserably. he turns back, flustered. “it was just the filter. uh—real easy fix.”

“still, thanks,” you say, handing him a cold, homemade lemonade. “you’re such a good neighbor.”

his ears turn red. he mumbles, “a-and you can just call me clark, you know. ‘mr. kent’ makes me sound like… my dad.” his laugh is self-conscious, cheeks pink as he glances at you and quickly looks away.

god, how can a 40-year-old dad be so fucking hot and so stupidly cute at the same time?

“sure thing, clark.” you purr. he blinks twice like his brain just blue-screened.

step three: verbal homicide

today’s the day.

you and clark are sitting on your front porch. he’s sipping the lemonade you made. his daughter’s across the lawn, playing with chalk on the driveway. you watch her draw a lopsided sun with a smiley face.

“she’s amazing,” you say softly. clark beams with quiet pride. “next woman in your life’s gonna be real lucky to have your baby.”

he chokes.

full on, hand-on-chest, coughing fit.

you innocently pat his back, wide-eyed. “oh no, clark! you okay?”

“w-wow, that’s… uh… that’s quite a thing to say,” he manages, voice an octave higher. his ears are red. “i mean—thank you, that’s… that’s kind. she’s, uh… she’s my whole world.” he glances away again, adjusting his glasses like they’re suddenly the most interesting thing on earth.

you blink at him all doe-eyed. “i just meant—anyone would be lucky. you’re an amazing dad. sweet. strong. gentle. built like a truck.”

his jaw tightens.

you bite your straw.

he gulps.

it’s so over for him. 

step four: reap the rewards

you wait until his daughter gets picked up for a sleepover before making your move.

it’s storming. your lights flicker. and right as scheduled, you're knocking on his door.

“power out?” he asks softly.

“yeah,” you say. “can i wait it out in here?”

he hesitates. then nods. “of course, it's no bother.”

you smile sweetly as he lets you in.

both of you are sitting on his couch now. clark’s all stiff and awkward. his glasses fog slightly every time he exhales.

your legs are in his lap.

he’s definitely pretending not to look at them.

he’s not touching you, not really, but his hand’s resting near your calf and you can feel the heat radiating off his skin. his eyes flicker down to your thighs again—just for a second.

then he mumbles, “you’re, uh… you’re real young.”

you blink innocently. “too young for what?”

he opens his mouth. closes it. flusters.

you lean in.

he doesn’t stop you.

you touch his cheek, soft and slow, and whisper, “you’ve been such a good neighbor to me, clark. such a gentleman.”

he swallows again. you’re starting to love how often you make him do that.

then you murmur, “you wanna keep bein’ a gentleman, or can i show you how long i’ve been thinking about your hands?”

you start to climb into his lap and his breath catches.

“i don’t think—i mean, this probably isn’t—” he cuts himself off when you fully settle in his lap. his hands hover near your waist but don’t quite touch. “i’m—i’m not exactly good at this sort of thing,” he says quietly, eyes darting everywhere except your face. “you think i don’t notice when you look?” you murmur. he swallows. “i—well. i try not to.” “that’s cute.”  you lean forward. “wanna try failing a little harder?”

then you grind down.

he jerks beneath you.

his hands fly to your waist—but he doesn’t stop you.

“been thinking about this forever,” you whisper against his neck. “thought about riding your thigh just to see if you’d notice.”

his chest rumbles. “i noticed.”

you shiver.

“then why didn’t you do anything?”

he exhales shakily. “i’m not supposed to want you like this.”

you whimper. “but you do.”

“yes,” he admits, breathless. “god help me, i do.”

you start grinding against his thigh, desperate, sticky, your hands fisting in the fabric of his shirt.

he’s hard. thick and long and straining against his pants.

his hands move to your hips. help you rock. guide you through it like it’s killing him.

you whimper when your clit drags against the firm muscle of his thigh.

“oh my god—fuck—”

he stiffens. “don’t say that. don’t curse.”

you blink, dazed. “you don’t like it?”

he looks almost pained. “i just—i don’t use that kind of language, and i don’t like hearin’ it on your pretty mouth. not when you’ve got so many sweeter things to say.”

you blink.

then you grind harder.

“you’re unreal,” you pant, high on power. “clark, i swear—your thigh—i’m gonna cum just like this, i can’t—”

his breath comes fast.

“you wanna come on my thigh, darlin’?” his voice is low, but there’s that shy hitch in it, like he’s almost embarrassed to say it out loud. “go ahead. make a mess, it’s alright—i’ll take care of it.”

your whole body shudders at the warmth in his tone.

“yeah?” he murmurs, glancing down at where you’re pressed against him. “you gonna–uh, soak right through these shorts for me?”

you nod frantically.

“pretty girl,” he breathes, thumb brushing your cheek in a gentle, almost hesitant touch. “you’ve been actin’ so sweet lately, real flirty. but– you’re not a bad girl, right?”

“i’m such a slut,” you whisper, breath hitching.

clark sits back just slightly, blinking hard. “hey—hey, now. don’t say that.”

“why not?”

his brows pinch. “’cause that’s not… that’s not what this is. you’re not—i mean, you’re just…”

he looks flustered. desperate to explain. “you’re sweet. and—and good. and i’m probably too old and really not good at this anymore, but—”

you pull him back in by the collar.

“clark,” you whisper. “shut up and keep ruining me.”

“yes ma’am,” he mutters again, voice cracking.

you’re whimpering into his neck, panting like it’s the only thing keeping you alive.

your clit is throbbing. his thigh is slick. and he’s so still underneath you, chest heaving with every shaky breath, eyes fixed on where your soaked sleep shorts have turned nearly translucent against his skin.

“clark—i’m gonna—”

“go on, honey,” he breathes. “i’ve got you”

your head drops against his shoulder. you cry out—soft, desperate, overwhelmed—and he shudders beneath you when your body locks up and twitches in his lap.

“that’s my girl,” he murmurs, a little bashful. “such a good girl for me.”

you’re trembling. sensitive. overstimulated. and yet—

you still want more.

you roll your hips again, chasing that high, gasping when it stings a little but still feels so good.

he freezes, swallowing hard. his voice gets all tight and breathy.

“don’t… don’t do that.”

“why?”

he bites his lip, voice cracking just a little.

“’cause if you keep goin’, i’m not gonna be able to stop… and, uh, that’d be a problem.”

your eyes flutter open.

your lips part.

yes, you think. finally.

“then don’t stop,” you whisper. “please. i want it. i want you.”

he groans—actually groans, like you just kicked the legs out from under his self-control—and then suddenly you’re on your back, clark looming over you, so much bigger than you imagined.

his broad shoulders block out the lamp behind him. his hand cups the back of your knee, spreading your legs gently but firmly, as if he’s trying to be respectful even now.

you’re soaked.

he stares down at your flushed body and breathes, “you look like temptation itself.”

he sinks to his knees at the edge of the couch like you’re holy.

like he’s praying.

your breath catches when he pushes your thighs apart, pulling down your small shorts and panties, pressing a soft, warm kiss to your inner thigh. then another, higher. and another, closer to where you need him.

he looks up at you once, eyes dark, lips parted.

“i haven’t… done this in a while,” he confesses. “i hope i don’t mess it up.”

“you wont,” you whisper, chest heaving. 

he smiles. soft and sweet. “okay, baby.”

then he leans in and devours you.

his mouth is warm. firm. so, so thorough. he kisses you like it’s a love language, like it’s something he’s always wanted to do but never thought he’d get to. he eats like a man starved—slow at first, reverent, dragging his tongue through your folds until you’re squirming—and then deeper, rougher, gripping your thighs tight as he licks into you like he’s memorizing the shape of your pussy with his tongue.

you moan. loud. unrestrained.

“oh wow,” he breathes, pulling back just enough to blink up at you, dazed. “you—you taste like—uh—like sugar? or lemonade? is that weird to say?”

you giggle, breath hitching when his tongue darts out to lick a slow stripe through your folds again.

“you can say whatever you want as long as you keep doing that.”

“okay,” he mumbles, immediately diving back in, muffling a sheepish, “yes ma’am” against your cunt like the respectful farm boy he is.

you whimper.

he laps at you again, dragging his tongue from your entrance to your clit in one long, messy stroke.

you arch off the couch. cry out. your second orgasm hits harder than the first—shaking your legs, making you grab for him, thighs clenching around his head.

he doesn’t stop.

god, he doesn’t stop.

he sucks your clit right through it, tongue flicking, mouth hot and wet and everywhere, and suddenly you’re crying—hands fisting in his hair, tears streaming down your cheeks.

and clark—sweet, soft clark—he pulls back just enough to kiss your thigh and murmur, “you cryin’, darlin’? oh, honey. did i go too hard?”

you sob. “n-no—feels so good—i just—”

he kisses you again. this time, between your legs. slow. gentle. sinful.

then he presses a kiss to your hip and asks, sweet and red-faced, “may i…?”

you nod. “please.”

he pulls out a little foil packet from his wallet.

“you had that ready?” you tease.

he blushes so hard you think he might die. “i—just in case. not that i assumed—i didn’t! i just… hoped.” you bite your lip, voice soft but steady. “i appreciate the gesture, but i wanna feel you, clark.”

clark blinks fast, mouth opening and closing like a stunned fish before he fumbles, setting the condom aside like he’s a little caught off guard.

you giggle.

and then he unbuttons his pants.

you don’t even get to see him pull it out. you just feel the weight of it as he presses the head against your inner thigh, and even that makes you twitch.

“you sure about this?” he asks, voice tight, breathless.

you nod, voice shaking. “please. want it so bad.”

he leans over you. presses his forehead to yours.

his cock nudges your entrance.

thick. heavy. he’s holding back like he’s scared of breaking you.

he’s so careful when he pushes in. you’re so tight around him he actually groans.

“oh, sweetheart. i’m—i’m sorry, i’ll go slow—”

you nod.

he bottoms out.

his hands tremble when you look up at him. flushed. full.

your hands clutch his shoulders as your body stretches around him. you feel every inch. every pulse. he’s groaning—groaning, eyes squeezed shut, jaw clenched as he sinks deeper and deeper.

“feels like heaven,” he chokes. “tight little thing—s’like you were made for me.”

you nod, trembling. you feel so full—like your body had just been waiting for this, built for this, desperate to be filled up by a man with hands big enough to lift you and a voice soft enough to break you.

stays there.

“you okay?” he asks, voice almost shaking.

you nod, tears still on your cheeks.

“clark—i need you to move.”

and when he does?

it’s over.

he breaks you down slowly, tenderly, thrust by deep thrust.

he kisses your tears away.

he calls you his sweetheart.

he thrusts deep, still trying to be gentle.

“feels like i’m dreamin’, sweetheart,” he mumbles, burying his face in your neck. “i can’t believe this is real.”

you gasp. your walls clench. he whimpers.

he whimpers.

his forehead is pressed to yours. one of his huge hands is cradling the back of your neck. the other is splayed low on your stomach like he’s trying to feel himself from the outside, to make sense of how snug you are, how perfectly your body takes him.

“can feel it, sweetheart,” he pants softly. “you’re squeezin’ me so good. like you don’t wanna let me go.”

you don’t.

you never want him to stop.

you’re crying now, wrecked and wet and shaking, each drag of his cock against your walls sending little shocks of heat straight to your toes.

he murmurs against your skin, “is that too much, baby? you need me to slow down?”

you sob out a broken, “no, please don’t stop—feels so good—clark, please—”

he hushes you softly, lips brushing your temple. “i got you, honey. i know.”

you swear you can feel him twitching inside you, the stretch just bordering on overwhelming—so thick and deep and gentle, like he wants to ruin you but only if you’ll let him.

and you will.

you want to.

you want to feel him lose it. you want to feel him fall apart.

“i wanna make a mess in you,” he confesses, voice cracking just a little, breath heavy. “wanna fill you up good. is that okay?”

you moan. nod frantically. “yes—please—please—”

his thrusts get a little rougher. still slow. still deep. but heavier now, driven by the desperation he’s clearly been holding back this whole time.

“clark—”

and then he kisses you.

not just a press of lips—a real, messy, breathless kiss, mouths open, tongues grazing, teeth clashing a little when he finally ruts deep and stays there, cock pulsing hard inside you as he cums.

you feel it—hot and thick and endless, like his whole body’s pouring into you.

you gasp against his mouth. twitch. your walls flutter around him.

he groans through his orgasm, lips brushing your cheek. “that’s it, baby—take it. take all of it, you’re doin’ so good—”

he stays there.

buried inside.

not moving, not pulling out, just breathing hard and holding you like you might float away if he lets go. you’re both sweaty and sticky and breathless, and your thighs are quivering, but his arms never stop holding you.

you don’t know how much time passes.

just that eventually, you feel his hands—big and warm and careful—slide beneath your thighs as he lifts you gently into his arms.

“where are we going?” you whisper, voice small and dazed.

he chuckles softly. “bed.”

“you want me to stay?”

he kisses your forehead. “if you’ll have me.”

(you will.)

he helps you clean up. tucks you in. finds one of his old flannel shirts for you to wear—big enough that it hits mid-thigh.

you’re curled up in his lap again—except this time, under the covers. his hands are stroking your back slowly. steady. reassuring.

you murmur, “was it weird? being with someone younger?”

he blushes a bright red.

“felt right to be with you.”

you go quiet.

then: “i think i wanna be a stay-at-home wife.”

he laughs—bright, full, happy—and kisses the top of your head.

“yeah?” he murmurs. “that why you keep bakin’ cookies for my daughter and flirtin’ with me?”

“…yes.”

he smiles against your hair. “well. if you’re serious about it, honey—”

he kisses your temple.

“—we can talk about it over breakfast.”

“you’re makin’ me breakfast?”

“of course,” he says, brushing your hair off your cheek. “you like bacon? i make ‘em good. you can show me how you make that lemonade."

and maybe—just maybe—he makes you a baby too.

but that’s for next time :3 a/n: still haven't watched superman. this was supposed to be a request and i got very carried away...

[lastpeachonearth]

involve me.

[glossykissies]

manipulative!anakin skywalker who tells younger, naive reader that underwear doesn’t exist in space . . . ໒꒰ྀི o . o ; ꒱ྀིა

you’re someone in the senates daughter, he’s not even sure who — just did this as a stupid favour to maybe land himself closer to a seat on the council. he agreed to take you along for a few weeks, give you some real life experience so you can write some paper on it. ‘said you wanted to be a political journalist. smart girl. incredibly easy to trick though.

it started off as harmless pranks, the jedi growing tiresome on the trips to the more boring planets he let you visit. you reach out to stroke a fuzzy creature of sorts, rolling and nuzzling in the grass as you pass through a forest and the man grazes his hand on your back in warning. “no, you don’t wanna touch those. they may look friendly, but they have the sharpest teeth in the galaxy and could swallow you whole.”

he’s already smirking, expecting you to roll your eyes or maybe dispute this with him, but instead you’re gasping, squealing and jumping up on him, wrapping your arms around his neck and lifting your feet off the ground squeamishly, breasts pressed to his chest plate desperately.

“anakin! i’m scared!”

he hates how easily he laughs, rubbing at your waist good-naturedly — which was a slip up and certainly not jedi approved body language.

he becomes so confident in his abilities to convince you of anything that he stops telling you when he’s joking, instead letting you revel in his stories and hang off his every word. it was… cute, and if he’s being frank — it was just the two of you out there for long periods of time. he couldn’t help that his cock was starting to ache.

he chose the day you were wearing a dress. you always insisted on wearing those flowy, short little things. he’d insisted that it was too cold for that in space, but stopped arguing when he’d observe the way your nipples would pebble against the fabric, or if it was extra cold you’d move right up against him, telling him that he’s 'warm’ and it ‘felt nice.’ it most certainly felt nice for him too.

“i hate to be the one to tell you this, but you must remove your underwear.” he speaks with such a confident nonchalance as he steers his ship, head held high and brow furrowed in concentration. your head whips towards him.

“hm?” you practically squeak and his dick thumps against his uniform pants.

“its bad for your health. no one wears underwear in space. its… restricting. with the gravity and atmosphere ‘nd all.” he glances at you, sitting back in his seat and beginning to steer with one hand lazily, spreading his thighs and lifting his hips slightly to adjust himself handsfree. it’s not like you’d know what he was doing anyway. you were far too naive for that.

“really?” your eyes widen. the last thing you needed whilst travelling around and focusing on your research would be to catch an infection of some kind. better to let it breathe, right?

“yes, really.” he drawls like this is common knowledge, and this time it’s hard not to let his signature smirk fly when he senses you absolutely believe him.

“goodness, well — i suppose i should remove these.” you shake your head, all innocent like — and it’s hard for anakin to keep his eyes ahead when you reach up your dress and pull down the flimsy thin underwear that had been stuck to you. he swore he even caught a glimmer of slick on the centre from the corner of his eye. you look around, clutching them in your fist as if unsure of where to put them.

“look. i’ll keep them safe for now. it’s probably better you just don’t wear them at all next time. okay?” anakin swipes them from your clutch, spinning them around his finger once before stuffing them into his pocket.

and of course, you listened. when has anakin ever lead you astray?

[lastpeachonearth]

im screaming

[yasministration]

Just the tip - Ex!Peter Parker

summary: just the tip with ex!peter parker cw: SMUT, kind of pushy/manipulative peter but everything is consensual. wc: 2k

When Peter fell through the open window of your bedroom, you had let out a loud gasp, spinning around in your desk chair, only clad in your exposing pyjamas. At the sight of your ex boyfriend, you put your hands on your hips, instantly abandoning the homework laid out on your desk. Standing up, you walked towards the hopeful boy, watching as he approached you, a pleading look in his eyes. “So we’re normalising breaking into our ex’s apartments now?” Peter opened his mouth, putting both hands on your hips desperately. “Peter just because you’re spider-man-” “Please.” Peter whispered, his eyes tearing up slightly. “I miss you.” He said, making you drop your hands flatly by your sides. One of your hands came up to cup Peter’s face, thumb caressing his cheek softly. Peter leaned into your touch, shutting his eyes as he savoured the moment.

You looked at Peter with concern; this wasn’t the first time he had come back to you, longing to be held. Things had always escalated to more despite telling yourself that you wouldn’t allow it to happen again. “Can you hold me, please?” Peter asked, ducking his head down to nuzzle in the crook of your neck. Obediently, you snaked the hand on Peter’s face around his neck and over his shoulder, the other one wrapping around his torso. Peter sighed, his own arms enveloping around the curve of your waist. You held him for a moment, inhaling his familiar scent as you gently stroked his back. From where Peter’s head is pressed up in the pocket of your neck, he slowly presses a soft kiss to your skin. You took in a sharp breath, jumping slightly at the sudden movement. Peter kissed your neck again, but you didn’t have the heart to pull away from him. “We can’t keep doing this Pete.” You mumbled instead, a hand finding its way in Peter’s soft locks. “Just this once. It’ll be the last time I promise.” You vividly recall him uttering similar words to you last time.

Sighing, you stepped away from Peter, unravelling your arms from around him. As though he knew what you were thinking, Peter added “Baby, please.” You let your head drop to the side, crossing your arms over your chest in an unconvinced manner. “Peter, we broke up. Exes don’t keep going back to each other like this.” At your words, Peter dropped to his knees in front of you, both hands landing on your thighs, softly grasping them. He looked up at you with his signature begging, puppy eyes, leaning his chin on your exposed abdomen. “You broke up with me. I’d never leave you. Just one night. Let me spend one night with you.” You uncrossed your arms from your chest, returning your hand to Peter’s hair, softly scratching at his skull. Peter never broke eye contact with you, leaning just slightly forward to press a kiss on your bare stomach. You tugged your short tank top down, hoping to stop the tickle from Peter’s kisses, until you finally gave in, telling the boy to stand up.

Peter followed you to your bed, chanting quietly “Thank you, thank you, thank you.” You tossed the covers off the corner of your bed for you to climb in, patting the empty space next to you for Peter to join you. He immediately climbed in next to you, allowing you to cover him up with the soft blanket before cuddling into you. You turned on your side, facing Peter and watching as he pressed his face directly against your breasts, both hands coming to your hips to pull you closer to him before his arm settled over your waist. Sighing melancholically, you threw a leg over one of Peter’s, tangling your body with his as you leaned forward, pressing a kiss on his forehead. Peter laid still as you played with his hair and kissed along with hairline, treasuring the intimate moment. It had been so long since he had felt loved like this. In fact, the last time he felt cared for was the previous time he had been in your arms, despite your complaints about these reoccurring meetings.

Finally taking his opportunity, Peter shuffled upwards on the bed so that he was face to face with you, nose nudging against yours. With Peter’s intentions clear, you had enough time to pull away if you wanted to, but you felt bad, or at least that’s what you told yourself. You didn’t want consider that the way Peter’s eyes flickered down to your lips made you feel engrossed in him, or that his lips also looked soft. You didn’t want to consider the fact that maybe Peter wanting you so badly drew you closer to him. But he was your ex, and the furthest you would go is a kiss. So when Peter leaned ever so closer to you to press his lips against yours, you didn’t pull away, allowing your eyes to flutter shut.

Peter’s lips moulded against yours, his lips separating slightly so his tongue could shoot out to lips your bottom lip, a silent request for access into your mouth. When your mouth dipped open, allowing Peter’s tongue to press against yours, his hand came up, cupping your jaw to pull you closer to him. Peter pushed himself up on one of his forearms, using the height over you to press you deeper into the mattress as he deepened the kiss, his tongue licking deeper into your mouth. You gasped, pushing Peter away by his chest as you panted in attempt to catch your breath. Peter’s mouth latched onto your neck, immediately suckling at the sensitive skin as he moved his weight over you. Peter held the leg you had on top of his to pull it over his waist, testing your limits as he experimentally thrusted his hips between your spread legs. You immediately gasped, pushing Peter’s mouth off your neck and sitting up straight. Peter fell on the bed next to you, a guilty look on his features. “I thought-” “Peter, exes don’t have sex. If we have sex, we’re official again.” Peter furrowed his eyebrows at your words, the same sentence echoing in his mind over and over again. But I want us to be official again.

“Let me put the tip in. Just the tip.” You looked unconvinced, leaning over to take a sip of water from your bedside table. Peter scanned your legs, your cotton shorts riding up with each movement you did. When you sat up straight again, you readjusted the straps of your tank top and crossed your arms over your chest, suddenly aware of the way your nipples were constraining against the fabric of your top. “Just the tip isn’t sex.” Peter pushed, adding a pleading “Please.” “You’re really going to get off on just putting the tip in?” You questioned, eyeing Peter down. He felt himself harden when your gaze landed on his covered cock. “Just want to feel warm.” He weakly argued.

You rolled your eyes, reaching your hand out to grasp the cotton of Peter’s t-shirt, roughly pulling him towards you so you could slam your lips against his. Peter moaned, softly holding your face, but you broke the kiss as quickly as you started it. Peter froze, awaiting further instruction from you. “Just the tip.” You warned, laying back on your bed. Peter instantly jumped up, as though he had to act before you changed your mind. He tripped over his trousers twice before finally tossing them somewhere in our room, and his boxers went next, carefully watching the way your eyes widened slightly in reminiscence. Peter climbed over you, his knees on either side of your legs as he hooked his fingers through both your shorts and panties. He slowly tugged them down your smooth legs, leaning down to press a single kiss on your mound. Peter climbed off you, manhandling your body to lay on your side and settling himself flush against your back. You gasped, feeling Peter’s hard cock poking against your hip. Peter wrapped an arm over your shoulder, pulling you back to stay put against him while his second hand guided his cock towards your entrance.

Peter’s dick nudged your tight hole and you shut your eyes tightly, listening to the immediate moan that ripped from Peter’s chest. You cursed, seriously considering to tell Peter to push all the way in as you felt his swollen tip dip into your entrance. Peter whined, pulling his dick out of you and you sighed disappointedly. Peter bit his lip so hard it almost bled, his thighs shaking in attempt not to push himself all the way in. He needed to abide by your rules if you were going to let this happen again. “Just the tip.” You mumbled absentmindedly, drool gathering in your mouth as you pushed your ass out for Peter to put it back in. Peter panted, trying to control himself as he put the tip back in your entrance, rocking slowly back and forth. “Just the tip.” Peter repeated, but quickly found himself losing control over his actions, and suddenly, he had half his dick inside you.

The both of you moaned in unison, and Peter brought a hand to the arch of your back, caressing your skin. He needed to take a moment or else he'd instantly be coming inside you. You reached a hand behind you, landing halfway on Peter’s cheek. Peter kissed your hand, pushing himself up to press kisses on your cheek and jaw. You whined in pleasure, rolling your hips back to take as much of Peter’s dick as possible. “Fuck, just put it in baby!” You cried, finally letting your put-together front crumble down. Peter chanted a string of ‘thank you’s, finally snapping his hips all the way in so his cock fully sheathed himself in your folds. Wrapping an arm over your hips, Peter shifted his weight to switch your positions, landing you laying on your stomach with him on top of you.

Whining, you pushed yourself on your knees, chest touching the mattress as Peter kneeled, gripping both your hips tightly before setting an unforgiving pace on your cunt. Your moans immediately increased, small sounds escaping you with each push of Peter’s cock closer to your cervix. Peter relentlessly whimpered, feeling his orgasm building up quickly, but he needed to make you cum. He needed to make you cum or you’d never let him fuck you ever again. Desperately, Peter snaked his fingers around your body, concentrating hard on finding your clit while keeping up the pace and brutality of his thrusts. You whined impatiently, your own hand finding Peter’s to guide him to your clit. When his fingers finally made contact with your clit, your toes were immediately curling, a high pitched moan escaping you. Peter squeezed his eyes shut, feeling your pussy clench around his dick. “Come on baby, cum for me.” He begged, rubbing harsh circles on your clit as his thrusts became sloppy. You couldn’t help your bodily reaction to how pathetic Peter sounded, your cunt clamping on his dick as you came, causing a string of curse words to leave Peter’s mouth as his own orgasm was triggered. “Shit, shit, shit.” He mumbled, whimpering softly as he emptied his loud into you, your sounds of ecstasy ringing in his ears.

Peter softly rocked his hips into yours, hoping to ride out your orgasm, but you whined at the overstimulation, and Peter knew it was time to pull out. You immediately slumped against the bed when Peter pulled out with a groan, sitting next to you to rub a hand over your back. You turned onto your back, looking up at Peter tiredly, and gesturing for him to get closer to you. With a hand on his jaw, you pulled him into another kiss, engrossed in the fact that this would be the last time you two had sex. “Last time Peter. Yeah?” Peter nodded, mumbling “I’m happy with that, yeah.”

But his words sounded so familiar you refused to believe them.

[lastpeachonearth]

id fold like laundry