ABOUT HER: peach, 18, she/her, hopeless romantic, afrolatina, jacob elordi dick rider, dave lizewski dick sucker, libra sun, scorpio rising, libra moon, multi fandom, not a big writer unless Iâm absolutely dying to get an idea out.
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CLARK KENT AND SWEETHEART-ROOMMATE
EX!THEO NOTT WATCHING YOUR SEXTAPE â°?
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FACE FUCKING - L.B. â°
SlytherinSlasher!AU (incomplete, not discontinued)
i need to take advantage of luke so fucking bad. need to abuse my powers as the daughter of hypnos and ride him when heâs 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'llâ" 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.)
â âcontent: perv!theo, boyfriend!mattheo, cheating & betrayal, strong language, heavy sexual content. if you donât enjoy my content, thereâs no need for you to stick around, iâm not responsible for what you choose to engage with. for @pilupotter á°
â â summary: check your window, heâs 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 friendâs girlfriend. but everything changes the night he sees you with mattheo through the window, a view he was never meant to witness.
â« â â check your window, heâs at your window. â
â°âș navigation.âm.list.âmy auâs .âother 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 youâll never have. that had never been theoâs reality.
from the moment he could speak, if he pointed at a toy in a shop window, his fatherâs 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 someoneâs 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 didnât 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. âthereâs a difference between being loved and being feared,â he told theo once, as they stood in the drawing room. âwhen people hear the nott name, they do not smile. they do not speak it softly. they whisper it. that is power. power isnât loved. it is obeyed.â
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 heâd 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 didnât 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 fatherâs manor and showed up at the nottâ manor asking for a place to crash, no one was surprised when theoâs 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 wouldâve been unthinkable.
"helloooo, girl next door,â 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 mattheoâs voice, he paused, head snapping up. with a furrowed brow, theo walked over and came to stand beside his friend. his gaze followed mattheoâs, 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 theodoreâs 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.
âdidnât think to tell me?â 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. âsorry,â theo sarcastically replied from beside him, arms crossed loosely over his chest. âdidnât think youâd care about us getting a new neighbor.â
âi didnât.â mattheo tilted his head, shifting a little closer to the glass. ânow i do.â
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. mattheoâs 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. âstop watchinâ the girl, will you?â theodore snapped. âyou look like a fuckinâ creep.â 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 didnât look the least bit remorseful.
âjealous?â he drawled, cocking a brow. theo didnât answer right away. he turned back to his desk, sifting through the mess like he hadnât heard the question. a few crumpled pieces of parchment were swept into his hand and tossed into the nearby bin. âyouâre still the love of my life, theo,â mattheo added, leaning back against the window frame. âthereâs no need to be jealous.â
theodore let out a dry snort, not even turning around as he casually flipped him the middle finger. âand if she catches you staring at her while sheâs taking off her shirt?â theodore said, looking over his shoulder. âmight as well tattoo âpervertâ on your fuckinâ forehead and let the whole neighborhood know.â mattheo just shrugged, biting the inside of his cheek as he glanced once more toward the window.
âdonât know,â he said. âsome girls love that shit.â theodore exhaled sharply through his nose. he was done. done trying to reason with a walking hormone in human form. âget to bed,â he muttered, rubbing the bridge of his nose. âyouâre speaking with your dick again.â
mattheo chuckled, stepping closer to theo and giving him a playful shove to the chest. it wasnât hard, more of a nudge, but it earned a shove right back.
that shove earned mattheoâs full attention: a harsh push to theodoreâs shoulder that made him stumble back a step. without hesitation, theo shoved him again, harder this time. mattheo huffed. heâd 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. âyou fucker-â theodore cracked, trying to twist out from under him. but mattheo was already trying to pin him, arms locked around theodoreâs shoulders.
in the fight, theo shoved at mattheoâs head with one palm, trying to push him off. his fingers caught the side of mattheoâs head, forcing him sideways â too far. the motion sent mattheoâs skull colliding with the edge of the desk beside them.
âasshole,â 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 theodoreâs room than his own. no matter how many guest rooms the home had, he always ended up across theoâs bed, in his desk chair, or raiding his bookshelf.
theo thinks itâs 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 didnât stay. theoâs 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 dracoâs âgirlyâ 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. theoâs 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 thatâs 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 wasnât 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. theoâs 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 perkyâand pierced. the silver flash of the jewelry against your skin made his head spin.
he shouldâve looked away. fuck, he knew that. he shouldâve snapped the curtains shut the moment he saw you walk in, dripping wet from your shower, towel barely clinging to you. he shouldâve thrown himself into bed, buried his head under the covers, forced himself to pretend he hadnât seen anything.
you didnât 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. theoâs 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 couldnât move, couldnât 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 didnât know if you were trying to muffle your sounds or if it was some subconscious need to savor the pressure, but either way, it didnât 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 theodoreâs vision blur at the edges, you pushed a finger deep inside yourself. âmmphâŠâ
the sound you made punched the air right out of theodoreâs lungs. it wasnât loud, but it didnât 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. theoâs 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. theodoreâs 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 wasnât supposed to have.
âyou think sheâd like this?â mattheo asked, holding the dress up between his fingers. he rubbed the fabric between his thumb and forefinger, raising an eyebrow. âsheâs always fuckinâ talking about wanting dresses with this kind of fabric. all soft and shit.â
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 didnât 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, youâd bring a friend over, usually a girl with a laugh too loud. youâd lounge across your bed together, heads bent over the edge of your bed, your body loose with comfort.
theodore would watch. youâd 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 shouldnât have, but the guilt that grew the day he saw you kiss someone else. the day he realized it wasnât just someone.
it was mattheo. theo hadnât known. not even a hint. mattheo told him everything, or so he thought. theyâd been friends for years, bonded by too many fights and drunken nights and secrets they werenât proud of. every hookup. every fling. every girl whoâd passed through mattheoâs 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 youâd just woken from a nap. you were turning a page when the door to your room opened, and theodoreâs 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 didnât say anything. as if he didnât 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 youâd 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 mattheoâs 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 couldnât 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 wouldnât 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 otherâs beds, pretending the fire between you wasnât setting blaze to everything it touched. and just like fuckinâ that, theodore felt stupid.
he sat there, nodding along like an idiot, pretending to find it funny, pretending he wasnât shattering apart piece by piece inside. because all those nights heâd been standing at his window, staring at you like some fool, youâd already been his. mattheoâs 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 hadnât been enough to pry him away from that damn window. it shouldâve been. god, it shouldâve 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 mattheoâs, shouldâve 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 friendâs girl.
âno clue. youâre the boyfriend,â 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 didnât 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 worseâhe 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.
âhave to get it for her,â riddle said, holding the dress up. âsheâd look fuckinâ amazing.â
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, âfor your girl?â with a teasing smile. mattheoâs 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 canât have. and theodore wanted you. wanted you soooo badly in a way that ate at the open places inside him he hadnât 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. âletâs go,â he said, tilting his head toward the street. theo didnât 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 didnât wait around â 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 didnât even glance back.
mattheo didnât 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 â tell him to wait, to stay, to go fuck himself. but nothing came out. what was he going to say anyway? donât go see her? mattheo wouldâve just laughed. that cocky laugh that always made theo feel two inches shorter. heâd say something like, âjealous?â 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 wasnât 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 didnât soothe anything. the drinks heâd had earlier sat heavy in his stomach â not enough to make him dizzy, but enough to make everything feel just a little off. he hoped theyâd knock him out. that sleep would come quick.
it didnât. 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. âyes⊠augh, yesâŠâ desperate.
he would have known those sounds anywhere. those pretty little squeal of a moan that slipped from your mouth. heâd 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 mattheoâs chest, leaving red trails. every movement you made was sluggish, lifting your hips, rolling them with a rhythm that made mattheoâs 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 mattheoâs neck: hungry kisses that spoke of intimacy theo had never been allowed to taste. he watched you part your lips against mattheoâs 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 didnât dare move, didnât dare breathe, terrified heâd miss a second.
mattheoâs 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 mattheoâs throat where you kissed him, your lips dragging across his pulse point. fingers curled against mattheoâs chest for balance, the rock of your hips as you rode him faster.
mattheoâs 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 couldnât 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: heâd 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 mattheoâs hips had your body jolting forward, theodore knew, knew that the thick veins along his best friendâs 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.
theoâs dick was throbbing painfully against his jeans, hard as fuck. he hated himself for it. hated that he couldnât look away. hated that you were right there, split open for someone else, and he couldnât touch you.
a sound clawed its way from theoâs 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.
âfuckinâ look at yourself,â 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 â 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.
âoh, come on, nott. itâs my girlâs fuckinâ birthday,â mattheo said, annoyed. pleading as he leaned heavily against the edge of theoâs 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. âpansy and her girlfriend are already there,â he continued, yanking his head toward the sound of laughter and music starting to rise.
âdraco, enzo, blaiseâeveryoneâs waiting. itâs going to be weird as fuck if you donât show up.â
theo didnât 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 didnât say, but knew, was that theodoreâs 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 wasnât 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.
âdonât feel like it,â theodore replied, barely looking up from where he was running his cloth in circles across the surface of his desk. âbarely even know the woman,â he added with a shrug.
he didnât know you, not in the way people usually mean when they talk about getting to know someone. he didnât 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 elseâs touch or your own. heâd never heard your voice in conversation, but heâd heard it in squeaky moans carried through open windows.
mattheo exhaled loudly, dragging a hand down his face before turning back toward the window. âexactly,â he said, gesturing toward the sight of you. âyou donât know her. so mâtrying to fix that. my two favorite people donât even know each other, theo. thatâs messed up.â that made theodore pause. he turned his head, giving a sideways glance at mattheo. his best friend wasnât even looking at him, his gaze had returned to the window, locked on you.
curious despite himself, theo followed his best friendâs 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 theoâs eyes werenât 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 couldnât 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.
ânot in the mood to party anyway.â 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, mattheoâs head snapped around like heâd been slapped. ânot in the mood to party?â 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 didnât make sense. âwho are you, and what the fuck did you do to my best friend?â he asked. âseriously, tell him i want him back.â
nott rolled his eyes but couldnât 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. âiâm serious,â he said. âgo have fun with your girl. itâs her fuckinâ birthday, just tell her i said happy birthday, yeah?â but even as he spoke, even as he tried to sound uninterested, theoâs 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 couldnât go to that party. he wouldnât. if he saw you and mattheo together, up close, arms around each other, eyes locked in that way that only couples do. he wouldnât be able to handle it. heâd pretend, obviously. theo was good at pretending. heâd lean against the wall with a drink in hand and wear that handsome grin. but the whole time, heâd 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 heâd caught traces of in the hallway? with your laugh in his ears instead of muffled through glass? heâd 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 wasnât a memory worth keeping that didnât have nottâs name scribbled somewhere in the corner of it. and now, on a night that mattered. his girlfriendâs night, your night, mattheo couldnât help but feel wrong leaving him behind.
however, mattheo knew better than to argue. if theo said he didnât feel like partying, then dragging him out would be a lost cause. the fucker was more stubborn than anyone heâd ever met. once he was set in a direction, youâd break your legs trying to turn him around.
letting out an exhale through his nose. âalright,â mattheo said finally, turning toward the door, disappointment dragging at his voice. âif you change your mind, the partyâs next door. you know where to find us.â 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 didnât 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 thinkingâand then disappeared from view.
of all the people theo couldâve become obsessed with, why did it have to be you? why did it have to be his best friendâs girlfriend? the one girl he couldnât have, the one person who shouldâve been completely off limits. obsession didnât even feel like the right word anymore. it was deeper than that.
when this all started, when theo first saw you touching yourself, you werenât 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 heâd moved first? what if he hadnât stayed silent, hadnât 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 heâd make you feel? would you have let him ruin you in all the ways he dreamed of?
oh, couldâve, shouldâve, fuckinâ wouldâve. 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 couldnât 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 didnât even want to name.
just like mattheo had said, his two favorite people. you and mattheo: two people theo is utterly obsessed with â 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 heâd finally settled, finally stayed in a relationship.
theo loved it. loved that if it couldnât be him wrecking you, worshiping you, making you come on his cock so deliciously, at least it was his best friend. if he wasnât the one making mattheoâs eyes flutter shut in pleasure, you were. he tried to deny it â 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 didnât 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 couldnât 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 heâd gotten, just from the vivid thought of his two favorite people tangled up in pleasure, so good for him â 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. âwhat tttheââ 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 wasnât 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. ârude of me not to announce myself, i know,â it was the first time he'd heard your voice in a complete sentence, and he was already captivated by it. âbut you were in the shower, and i didnât want to interrupt.â
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. âwhereâs mattâŠheo?â 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 couldnât be far behind.
âhe actually sent me,â you said, lifting the keys you still had clutched awkwardly in your hand, as if they somehow validated your presence. âsaid you⊠uh⊠had condoms.â 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.
âyeah?â 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.
âyou know how to put them on, right?â you lifted your gaze up at him through your lashes, lips parting slightly like you wanted to say something but couldnât 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 couldâve groaned at the sight. he already knew, obviously. knew you and mattheo didnât use condoms, his best friend had always been stubborn about it, even back at school, bragging about how he hated the âkilljoyâ 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 wasnât going to stop at just one round. not a fuckinâ chance. shit, knowing his friend, heâd probably go as many rounds as the number you were turning, determined to fuck you until you couldnât even remember how old you were.
these were mandatory.
âwant me to show you?â theo asked, the words slipping out before he could think better of them. he knew. fuck, he knew â this could either go insanely wrong or exactly how heâd 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 couldnât blame you, your boyfriendâs best friend had just asked if you wanted him to show you how to put on a condom.
silence pulled between you. theoâs 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.
âyes,â you breathed. so sickly sure. the single word dip into him like a match to gasoline.
theoâs 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 theoâs 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 couldnât stop looking at him, at all. that gorgeous, heavy heat standing between his hips. theoâs mouth tilted into a smile at your reaction, but his voice stayed rough around the edges, when he said, âdonât open it with your teeth. could accidentally rip it. then it wonât work.â
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. âitâs a little wet,â theo murmured, his accent peaking through due to nerves. âyou have make sure it doesnât slip through your pretty little fingers.â the way he said it, your pretty little fingers, made your entire body hot. you couldnât 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. âjust like that.â 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.
âcan i⊠can i try?â
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. âi mean⊠on you,â you said. âcan i try⊠on you?â
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 heâd 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 heâd 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. âyou werenât wrong,â you said, giving him a shy glance from under your lashes. âitâs⊠really wet.â
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 theoâs 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 theoâs 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. âlike that?â 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.
âjust like that,â 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.
âwait,â eyes wide and questioning, locked onto his. âwhat about⊠if itâs filled?â you asked, cheeks flushing at the bluntness of your own words. âhow do i remove it without any of the⊠juices spilling inside me?â
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 â but instead a far darker thought came to mind a sick, sick thought. one he didnât 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.
âiâd show you⊠but itâs more of a visual lesson.â a smile tugged at your mouth, and you leaned in, just enough that theo could see the lust in your eyes. âgood thing iâm a visual learner.â the condom still slapped over his cock stretched as he grew even harder. something he hadnât thought physically possible until now.
âoh, i believe you,â theo muttered, he nodded toward the two empty condom wrappers on the mattress, to show how very serious you both were taking this âlesson.â he adjusted himself on the bed, settling more toward the middle to give you both more room. âlet me just-â 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.
âi have a better idea,â you said, syrupy sweet. âto get the full experience.â 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 hadnât even taken him inside yet.
âalways have to be sureâŠâ theoâs 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 theoâs 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. âfor learning purposes,â 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 heâd 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 youâd 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 wasnât sure which he loved more: the scent of you on mattheo⊠or the smell of mattheo left on you.
your palms laid flat against theoâs 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, wasnât just next door. throwing a party in your honor. âfeel fuckinâ amazingâŠâ theo breathed against your skin. âmy best friend had all this to himself?â 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 boyfriendâs 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.
âkeep hitting right thâughâŠâ your words broke off in a choked moan, the sentence dying on your tongue. theo didnât 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 hadnât even bothered warning him that you were about to come, you couldnât find the words, and he didnât 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. âfirst,â he said, voice still recovering from the aftershocks, âdonât just yank it out like you usually do.â he demonstrated, pinching the tip of the condom carefully between two fingers to trap the contents inside. âalways pinch the tip,â he instructed, âor youâll make a fuckinâ mess.â
âthen,â 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. âslowly roll it down,â he instructed. âkeep your grip tight at the tip.â
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. âhappy birthday, by the way,â voice almost too soft for what theyâd 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. âyouâre obsessed,â you whisper, voice wrecked.
âof fuckinâ course i am,â he mutters, almost resentful, like somehow itâs your fault heâs like this. when his mouth reaches the curve of your breast. he stops, catching on the silver piercing on the tender peak. âfuckâŠâ 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. ânow go show my best friend everything i just taught you.â
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. everythingâs fine... until your old tent gives out, forcing you to share one with the only person staying alone â theo nott. insufferable yet maddeningly hot theo nott. letâs 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, brotherâs 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, Â 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 doesnât 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 brotherâs best friend! theo. this fic is also part of the first week of @acourtofchaos âs 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 â fast yet quiet â 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 forestâs chilly wind. and the trajectory was not arbitrary â even before youâve 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 nottâs 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.
ânânott?â 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 zipperâs teeth.
âwhat the fuck is wrong with you?â
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.
âumm, i-â
âput that shit away, will yaâ?â
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 brotherâs best friend barely holds back, and if he must restrict his vocabulary, he colours his speech through intonation.
intonation showcasing annoyance and displeasure.
âyeah, yeah, my bad.â
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 â not yet accustomed to the lack of brightness â seem to betray your disadvantage in the face of nott.
âwhat do you want?â
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.
âmy tentâs ripped. didnât notice until nowââ
âand? the fuck do you take me for? bob the builder?â
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.
âwait, wait.â panic surged into you and your hands jumped out instinctively, clutching theoâs fingers, stopping his movement altogether. your lantern long forgotten, dropped somewhere on the dirt path. âi canât sleep there.â
âoh, please. you think a ghost will eat you?â
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 doesnât care.
his other hand ushered yours away to prove his stance, pulling the slider further down.
âyouâre so ughââ you were using all your power to stop yourself from kicking the supports of his tent and have it collapse over him.
âBEARS. i am scared of bears. actual animals that are in this forest.â
âjust har har back atââ
âcan i please stay in your tent?â
please. you never say please to him. please, thanks, and sorry are three words youâd never redirect at him unless you were extremely desperate.
and, shit, you seem to be needing to share his tent by the way youâve swallowed up your pride and begged.
âfine. hop in.â
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 wonât rip his skin off if something does happen to you in your ripped tent.
yeah, thatâs 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.
âi hope you wonât stay like that all night.â
âlike what?â
âlike a creep, watching me sleep.â
âa creep? what doââ
âjust lay down and sleep.â
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.
âokay, okay.â
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 donât really remember talking to him at all though, more interested in spending time with mattheoâs 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 â exaggeratedly so â 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.
âmove one more time and i am kicking you out.â
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.
âi am not doing it on purpose.â 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.
âoh, so your body moves on its own?â
sassiness. mockery. rage.
âi am cold.â you blatantly stated, more of a whisper than a fully articulated sentence.
this will soften his resolve, right?
ânot my problem.â
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.
âÂfuck, fine. câmere.â
your head snapped immediately at his words, your eyes locked in on theodore in an instant. âwhat?â
âyou wonât sleep otherwise, right?â he muttered, reaching for the edge of his sleeping bag and pulling at the zipper just enough so you could slip in. âjustâ get in.â
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 couldnât complain. wouldnât 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 theodoreâs body. unconsciously, you even drew closer into him, dipping your head towards his clothed chest andâ
âback off, weirdo.â
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.
âbut youâre warm.â
âi donât offer cuddles, so stopâ ughâ
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 â 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.
âoh my god, is thatââ
âi told you to backââ
âis that why youâre so bitchy?â
you suddenly had a moment of epiphany: theodore nott was so irritated by your arrival because you ruined his jack-off session.
âyouâre so weird, geezâ ah.â
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.
âwere you mid-stroke?â
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 theoâs breath away.
âand because of me, you didnât finish?â
âfâfuck.â
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.
âi really hate you, yâ know?â
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.
âgive me one good reason why i shouldnât throw you out, hm?â
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.
âi can help you out.â
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 theoâs negligence, dipped underneath the waistband in no time, only stopping their trail when reaching his cock.
âsâshit, fuck.â
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 theoâs own spit from before, so his shaft glided along your palm nicely.
âso cold, damn.â
a shaky exhale joined his remark, puffed against the crown of your head, as you slowly started to stroke him.
âtold you so.â
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 couldnât 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.
âshut it.â
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.
âoho, what do we have here?â
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.
âdirty fucking girl.â
you moaned against his chest loud, unrestricted, taken by surprise by theoâs 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.
âall this just from jerking me off?â
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 couldnât form one single coherent word as his fingers pressed down harshly on your clit.
âso so needy.â
tight little circles followed soon, his fingers toying with your little bundle of nerves to his heartâs content. theo finally found your irrefutable weakness â as long as he played with your quivering pussy, you were less annoying.
âi kind of like you like this.â theo mused, humming against your head as he peered down at your face. âlook at me.â
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.
âis 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.
âwhat if i eat you out, hm? will you be a good girl for me?â
âtheo! good god, yes.â
and here it was, your beautiful cracking voice, finally making its appearance after a good period of only moans and whimpers, accepting theodoreâs proposal in a heartbeat. your pleading eyes were a nice touch to it all, making theo conform to your wishes without additional fuss.
âno takebacks.â
itâs 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.
âplease, god. pleasepleaseââ
âyeah, amore, i got you.â
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.
âon your back, let me see that pretty pussy.â
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 youâve craved since the beginning of your intrusion.
but warmth was no longer important now, as you were practically burning with lust underneath theoâs 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.
âfuck, youâre soaking wet.â
his voice was gritty, disbelief laced with something darker, something feral. he was no longer mocking you â 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.
âspread wider for me, amore.â
you didnât hesitate â 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.
âfuckinâ perfect.â he muttered briefly and thenâ
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 â 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.
âtheoâ that feels so good, fuck.â
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.
âalways wanted to eat this pussy.â
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 heâs dreamed about your cunt.
âyâyeah?â
âyeah. i knew youâd have the tastiest fuckinâ cunt.â
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.
âthisâ and he placed a kiss right against your clit. âhaunted me all day.â
âshiiit⊠wâwhy?â
âyour dress was so goddamn see-through, and fuckââ
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.
âhad a boner all fuckinâ day.â
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.
ââm sorry, âm sorry, âm soâ ughh.â
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 brotherâs best friend, just made you cum in his tent, on a camping trip with all of your close friends.
and that wasn't all.
âah, shit, wait, wait.â
he didnât 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.
âsomeone did eat you. but it wasnât a bear.â
âoh, shut up.â
you were so done with him and his idiocy. if it werenât for your shaky legs, you would have kicked him in the shins by now.
âwhat? you make a tasty meal.â
ânott, stop! youââ
âcome tomorrow too.â
oh?
âi will steal condoms from mattheo and fuck you all night, amore.â
inviting PETER PARKER over as friends for a movie night on your laptop. you didnât believe people actually gave a fuck about gray sweatpants and when you told pete to dress comfy you didnât expect him to show up in a pair. your eyes glance down involuntarily, and he doesnât visibly take note of it at first. itâs the second, or third time you accidentally make eye contact with something that the gears in his head start turning. innocentâalbeit a little awkwardâcuddling 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 thereâs a halfie hiding between his legs. suddenly, your bodies start to gravitate towards one another a little more purposely, nudging each other while âadjustingâ positions. soon, youâre not focused on the movie, you canât stop staring at his rig through those damn gray sweatpants.
you didnât plan on this â you didnât even know mattheo was coming over to your friendâs place, where youâve 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 youâre in his car, back pressed against the steering wheel, thighs hugging his as he pounds into you like itâs the last time heâll ever see you.
âfuck, baby,â 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 donât subside â you simply muffle them in his hair, so as not to attract the passerby. he seems to understand that you donât want any marks left, so your best friend wouldnât see them, though heâd very much like to leave some. âfeel so fucking good. so fucking good.â
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.
âi donât need any of the shit i took,â he mutters, lifting his head up from your neck to look into your eyes. youâre momentarily stunned by what you see there â 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.
âit was just an excuse. iâ fuck.â he gets interrupted by the tip of his cock hitting your cervix, sending a wave of pleasure straight to his stomach. âi came to see if youâre here,â he confesses, his voice breathless, his jaw clenched in an attempt to hold back his orgasm â you look too damn good riding him, your tits bouncing right in front of his face, exactly like he imagined. âfigured you would be. youâre such a good fucking friend.â
this is actually the last thing on your mind right now, and you arenât even sure heâs telling the truth â a good friend wouldnât be fucking her best friendâs 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 â how could he not? â his tongue sliding right into your mouth to taste it again.
âletâs talk about it later, yeah?â you murmur in between messy kisses, and mattheo nods eagerly, his mind already turning off once more. you know youâre going to have to unpack whatever this is afterwards â but right now, the only thing you want to feel is mattheoâs cock deep inside your aching pussy.
Summary: On the eve of your arranged wedding, you flee into the woods with trembling hands and a bloodstained gownâonly 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 monsterâif not a man who waits for you? And what is love, if not something youâre 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 youâve 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 sheâs arriving fashionably late. This oneâs 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 oneâs 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 deathâto 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 liliesâwhite, thick-stemmed, and already browning at the edgesâas 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 hisâyour would-be husband'sâa 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 âdistinguished.â So cold the maids whispered other things when they thought you couldnât 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 whoâd 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 didnât. It had no warmth, no story, no soulâjust 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 didnât 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 servantsâ 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 nothingâand a gold ring, even one never worn, could be a lifeline.
Or a curse.
Fate hadnât 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 hadnât touched. âKeep it close, darling,â your mother had said, smoothing your hair as if you were already a corpse. âIt will be yours come morning.â
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. Thenâsilently, so silentlyâyou 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 gownâonce bone-white satinâdarkened with mud. Then blood. A snag of thorns caught your ankle, sliced skin. You barely flinched. Pain felt like permission.
You werenât sure where you were going.
Only that it has to be away.
You didnât stop until your lungs burned and the trees had turned unfamiliar, too thick, too silent, the air tasting of copper and something olderâstone, 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 itâglared, reallyâangry at its weight, at the heft something so small contains. âTo have and to holdâŠâ 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. âHere,â you whispered, sliding the ring onto it. âDo you, strange tree, take me to be your lawfully wedded wife?â
The wind rose.
âI do.â
You reached out to steady yourself against the gnarled barkâbut as your hand met the treeâs 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 welledâbright 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. AlmostâŠbreathing.
Something moved. Beneath the dirt. Beneath you. You blinked. Sat up straighter. Listened.
Nothing.
Thenâagain.
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 breezeâthere 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 lurchâwet, 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 couldnât look away.
It didnât 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 hadnât 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 heavyâtools, 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 matchâoxfords, maybeâscuffed 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 werenât meant to return fromâeach breath thick in his throat, each movement dragging time behind it.
And his faceâGod, 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 didnât need, and you saw the right side of his jaw was ruinedâtorn 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 werenât 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 blueâsomething 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 thenâ
He looked at you.
His eyes were wide as a frightened dogâs. But in the shadows, they shiftedâblack, almost red, glowing from somewhere behind the pupil like dying coals still clinging to that cherried spark.
He didnât speak. He justâŠstared. Watched. Not like a stranger. Like someone trying to remember you. Like someone who knew you. Maybe before. Maybe in another life.
âAreâare youâŠâ Your voice broke, shamefully small. You didnât finish the question. Couldn't.
He swallowed, thickly. The sound was wet. And thenâhe smiled. Not cruel. Not ghoulish. Soft, tender.
âI knew yeâd come,â he said.
His voice came low and lilted, thick with the cadence of an Irish accentârounded 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 couldnât move.
âYe put a ring on me hand,â 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. âAnd ye spoke a vow. That counts, donât it?â
He tilted his head, like a curious animal. âDidnât reckon yeâd be so bonnie.â
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 motherâs voice whispering warnings about strange men, and worse things still, things that didnât breathe right, didnât 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 heâd seen in centuries.
He took another step forward. Then another. His oxfords left deep, sucking impressions in the soil, and his gait wasnât quite rightâlike 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 didnât 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.
âWas it the blood that roused me, then?â he asked, one brow raising slowly. Thoughtful. âOr the vow ye whispered?â He swallowed, working his jaw with a faint wince. âMightâve been both. Hard to say.â
You blinked at him. Swallowed the lump that had risen hard and high in your throat. âWhoâŠwho are you?â
His smile faltered. Just a flicker. Not hurtâmore like confusion.
âDonât remember me, do ya?â His voice dropped low, almost tender. âBut you called, lass. I heard yaâclear as day, so I answered.â
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.
âI felt you in here.â
You opened your mouth. No sound came out.
The manâthe thingâbefore 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 didnât understand.
âWhatâs your name?â you asked, finally.
His gaze lit up like the question pleased him. He didnât answer right away. Just dragged a hand through his hair, leaving streaks of mud and grit and grave soil across his temple.
âIâve been called a lot oâ names,â he said after a pause. âSome of âem I earned. Some I didnât. But the name I remember best isâŠâ A thoughtful frown pulled at the less-damaged corner of his mouth.
âRemmick. Thatâs what me ma called me,â he said, almost shy now. âBack when the sky was still thick wiâ peat smoke and the land hadnât yet learned the sound oâ English steel. When we carved prayers into stone âstead oâ paper, and the rivers boiled not from fire, but from the rage oâ gods long buried.â
He glanced at you then, as if expecting you not to understand. But you didnât flinch, causing his smile to grow like a decaying flower that didn't know it was dead yet.
âBack when the forest had a name you werenât meant to speak after dark,â he added, voice gone soft and faraway. âAnd folk still left cream out on the stoop, hopinâ to keep the hills quiet.â
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.
âWouldâve cleaned meself up a bit had I known,â he said, glancinâ back up at you with a crooked smile. âBut by Gods, ye caught me right in the middle of me dirt nap, didnât ye?â
And then he laughed. A soft, broken sound. It wasnât cruel. It wasnât hollow. It was almostâsweet. You didnât realize youâd taken a step back until your spine hit bark.
He noticed.
âNo need to fear me, lass,â he said, quickly, voice pitching soft, hands raised just a little, his eyes bleeding red like a freshly weeping cut, âI wonât hurt ye. I wouldnât.â His fingers curled back toward his chest again. âNot you.â
âWhy me?â you asked, finally. âWhyâwhy do you think I called you?â
His smile returned, slow and tender. He lifted his handâthe 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.
ââCause ye put this on me finger,â he said. âYe made a promise. A vow.â
You shook your head, your breath catching like a bird startled mid-flight, wings beating frantically in your throat. âIt wasnât real.â
âIt was real enough for me.â
He looked down at the gold band, turned it with his thumb. âYou bled for it, didnât ye?â he murmured. âSpoke words into the trees. Placed a ring on a buried hand. Thatâs old magic, love. Older than graves. Older than the Gods above.â
His eyes flicked back to youâred blooming around the edges now like ink through water.
âOld magic donât care whether you meant it.â
You didnât know if it was the way he said love, like it meant something eternalâŠor if it was the silence of the woods, how they held their breath around himâŠbut 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 fatherâs studyâdark-paneled, smelling of tobacco and power. He hadnât 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.
âI prefer quiet girls,â heâd said with a smile that didnât reach his shrewd eyes. âOnes who donât ask so many questions. Obedience is a virtue, you know.â
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, âAfter tomorrow, your body belongs to me. Thatâs what marriage is. Best you start getting used to the idea.â
You hadnât answered. Youâd gone to your room and vomited in the basin. And tonight? Tonightâyou ran. You didnât bring a bag. You didnât bring a plan. You brought the ring.
And you brought the no you hadnât dared speak aloud.
Itâs only then that you start to noticeâthe 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 glowâmore 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 didnât need them.
Instead, the forest itself began to shiftâbending 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 didnât seem to notice.
Or maybe he did.
Maybe he was used to itâthe way the world rearranged itself around him, the way nature bowed and blinked and breathed differently wherever he walked.
Maybe heâd never known a forest that didnât 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 werenât perfectly sharp at allâsome had chipped, split, yellowed in ways that proved he hadnât 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.
âYouâre real,â you breathed, as much to yourself as to him.
He smiled again. Small, head bowed slightly. Like the thought embarrassed him.
âAye,â he said. âAt least I was.â
Your heart skipped. The accent curled around that last wordâwasâturning it melancholic and soft. He sounded deeply lonely in a way that didnât scream or shudder, but bled slow and quietâlike a candle left to burn itself out in a chapel no one prayed in anymore.
You didnât realize your hand had risen until he caught it. His grip wasnât 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 didnât.
His thumb dragged over the small wound on your finger where your glove was torn. The one youâd cut on the tree. Your blood had dried there, rust-colored and still.
ââSâwhat woke me,â he murmured. âThis wee thing.â
You tried to speak, but the words tumbled over each other, panic and fascination tangled in your throat. âWhat are you?â
Remmick looked up at you, then down at your hand in his. He didnât let go.
âI was a man once,â he said. âBefore they put me in the ground like a secret.â
There was no anger in his voice. No grief. Just barebones honesty.
âI remember cold,â he continued. âI remember beinâ bound.â His brows drew together. âI remember hunger.â
You swallowed.
His head tilted slightly again. âBut now I remember you.â
You opened your mouth to deny it, to tell him he was wrong, that you werenât anyone, that this was all a mistake. That you werenât his. That you werenât 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.
âYe came in white,â he said, voice softer now. âLike a bride. Ye gave blood. Ye spoke vow.â He brushed a skeletal knuckle to your chin with aching slowness, the bone surprisingly soft, âdonât reckon the veilâs far behind.â
The branches rustled above, though there was still no wind. You realized the forest wasnât closing in. It was gathering.
And RemmickâŠhe 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 RemmickâRemmick 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 voiceâmeasured, 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 youâd dined together at his family estate. A private supper. Three courses. Too many forks. Youâd asked him if he liked poetry.
He blinked. Set down his wine glass. âI tolerate it,â he said. âIn women.â
That had been it.
No questions in return. No warmth. No wanting.
Youâd 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 nowâhere.
Now, you were with a man whoâd 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 didnât ask you to perform, or flatter, or prove anythingâwho 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.
âMy folk used to call this part the belly,â he said, gesturing toward a clearing that bloomed only with pale fungi and white moss. âSaid the trees grew too thick with memory. Said it werenât safe for the livinâ.â
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 darkânot 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 shouldâve 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, invitingâuntil you noticed it wasnât 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.
âSee?â he said. âSheâs already learninâ you.â
And sure enough, even as you stood there, the spiral beneath you shifted. Just slightly. Not like a plant reacting to pressure, but something aliveâtracing the shape of your sole, marking your weight, remembering the heat of your blood. It liked you.
Or worseâit recognized you.
He never called the place a graveyard. He called it âthe kept.â
You first saw them while following a worn path between black pinesâstones laid flat into the dirt, unmarked, sunk deep with age. You almost stepped on one before he reached out and caught your wrist, not harshlyâjust quick.
âAye, mind where ye tread,â he said, voice gentle, Irish vowels lilting around the warning. âThey donât take kindly to beinâ disturbed.â
You stared at the stone. And then you realized it was moving. Not rising. Not moaning. But the soil above itâit breathed.
You took a step back, heart climbing into your throat.
âThey donât wake unless theyâre called,â Remmick said softly. âBut they listen.â
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 didnât see the source, but you could feel them vibrating in your bones. And yet it didnât 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 didnât speak for a full hour. Not angry. Never angry. Justâwithdrawn. The third, he reached up and touched the ruined side of his jaw, as if heâd forgotten it was there.
Then he whispered, âNot yet,â and nothing more. You didnât press.
Some things, you could feel, were kept buried by more than soil.
It was on the fifth dayâif you trusted your own bodyâs clockâthat you tried to leave.
You didnât 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 didnât look back.
You hadnât 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 werenât supposed to like any of thisâwerenât supposed to be lulled by a dead manâs 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 didnât.
At first, the trees parted for you. The path unfolded.
You ran.
You didnât cry. You didnât call his name. You just ran. But the forestâŠit 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 wasnât a wallânot 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.
âSshh, now,â 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, âeasy, easy, youâre alright.â
âIâI had to try,â you managed, fingers curling into the lapels of his jacket. âI didnât want to stay. I didnât mean toâI can't stay.â
âShhh,â he soothed again. âI know.â
You felt him exhale into your hair. Slow. Shaky.
âI know wee bride,â he murmured, the accent softening everything it touched. âBut she donât open the same way twice. Not once sheâs taken a name.â
You pressed your forehead into his shoulder, trembling. And for the first timeâyou 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 youâlike a man catching the last soft thing left in the world.
Laterâhow much later, you couldnât sayâyou 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 simplyâŠwas.
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 darkenedâdeepenedâlike blood soaking back into flesh. It bloomed, slow and unnatural, into the shape of a dried red rose. Not living, not quiteâbut remembering life. Like something dressed for mourning.
âThese only grow where the veilâs thin,â he said quiet-like, voice laced with that low, lilting Irish bend. âWhere things slip in and out. Couldnât say for certain which side theyâre meant for, if Iâm honest.â
You didnât 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 hadnât touched you with anything other than gentleness.
Your voice felt small when you spoke. âWhy did you wait?â
Remmick blinked slowly. His fingers stilled.
You clarified before he could pretend not to understand. âAll this time. You said you felt me. But you were already down there, werenât you? In the earth. Waiting for someone to call you back. Why?â
He didnât answer right away. Didnât shift. Didnât look at you. And just when you were sure he wouldnât speakâhe did.
âI didnât know I was waitinâ,â he said, voice gone low, just a touch rough. âNot truly. Time goes quiet when youâre laid under like that. Yâdonât count the years. Some days, yâdonât even remember your own name.â
He looked at the sky through the trees.
âSometimes Iâd dream oâ faces. Yours, maybe. Or someone who looked like ye. Sometimes Iâd think I heard someone weepinâ. Iâd think, was it me?â
You felt your chest tighten. Remmick smiled again, faint and lopsided, like a man recalling a song he hadnât sung in years.
âBut when I felt ye, I knew. I knew it werenât just hunger or ghosts or wind. I knew it was real. Ye bled for me. Ye called for me.â He glanced over. âNo oneâs ever done that before.â
You stared at him. At his hands, broad and veined. At the faded chain around his throat. At the ring youâd slipped, thoughtlessly, onto the hand of a tree like a promise.
A tree that had promised back.
âI didnât know what I was doing,â you said.
âI donât care.â
You swallowed.
He said it without venom. Without accusation. Justâresolute. And maybe something softer curling underneath. He rolled onto his back, the moss giving way beneath him like a cradle.
âIâd have waited another thousand years for that drop of blood,â he said, quiet now. âAnother thousand after that just to hear your voice say I do.â
You turned away. Not because you didnât 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.
âWill it ever open again?â you asked. âThe forest.â
Remmick didnât move. âAye. Someday. When sheâs good and ready.â
âAnd if Iâm not here when it does?â
He was quiet for a beat too long. Then:
âThen Iâll follow.â
That made you look back. He didnât smile this time.
âIâd walk through fire to find you, wee bride.â
His voice was still Irishâbut there was something else behind it now. Something old. Ancient. Something so sure of its longing it didnât need to shout. It just was.
You realized, in that moment, how terribly lonely he mustâve 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.
Didnât demand. Didnât lead without waiting. JustâŠoffered.
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 likeâinviting. 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, yesâbut not corpse-cold. Not the kind that bit. His hand was rough in places, as though heâd lived long enough to carry calluses even through death. His thumb flexed gently along your knuckles, testing. Not possessive. JustâŠchecking.
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 ribbonsâhundreds, 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.
âTheyâre wishes,â Remmick said, voice softer than ever, his breath beside your cheek. âMade by the dead. Before they were buried.â
You turned to him.
âBut they never came true?â
His expression shiftedâfond, wistful.
âSome did. Some didnât. Doesnât matter.â He touched the ribbon nearest to him, the pad of his thumb brushing its edge. âItâs the hoping that counts, innit?â
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 huesâdeep 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 couldnât 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 didnât scream. It looked up at you onceâempty sockets glittering faintlyâand 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 houseâsideways, five feet off the groundâand 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.
âDonât mind them,â Remmick murmured. âThey been there long as I can remember. Like to keep to themselves.â
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 itâbut some of them swayed.
There was a tailorâs 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.
âThis was mine,â he said, his voice almost sheepish. He toed at the dust near the doorstep, head ducked slightly.
âWhen?â you asked.
He smiled faintly, lifting a shoulder. âWhen the veil was thinner. When the dead and the livinâ shared more than just memory.â
He said it like someone recalling the smell of something theyâd never taste again. Like someone whoâd tried, once, to live after heâd been buried.
You looked around you.
The town wasnât decayed. It wasâŠrearranged. It had rules you didnât 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 didnât 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 didnât. He looked at you not like you were lostâ
But like you were home.
That nightâyou still called it night, even though the moon hadnât movedâhe 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 wouldnât. He sat close. Close enough that your shoulder brushed his.
He didnât move away.
âUsed to dream oâ this,â he admitted, after a long silence. âNot the forest. Not the dirt. Not the blood.â
He looked over at you, slowly.
âJust this. You. Here.â
You couldnât answer. Your throat ached again.
His voice dropped, deep in his chest, accent thick with emotion he couldnât hide. âHavenât been touched since they put me down.â
The confession wasnât vulgar. Wasnât even pleading. It was starved. He smiled, crooked and small. âCanât remember the last time someone justâŠlooked at me. Like I wasnât somethinâ to be feared.â
He didnât touch you again, not even your hand.
He didnât need to.
Your fingers brushed his pinky. Slowly. Once.
And his breath hitched so sharp you felt it in your bones.
By the next dayâif you could still call it thatâyou werenât watching the sky anymore. Werenât 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 wasnât 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, didnât 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 hadnât bothered to raise. You remembered how the ringâhis ringâhad 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 mouthâruined and all. He grinned when you laughed, even if he didnât understand why. He softened around you like someone desperate to remember warmth. Every time he brushed against you, it wasnât 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, heâd glance at you. Say nothing. Then glance again.
You finally looked back.
âWhat is it?â you asked.
He startled slightly, sheepish. âAhânothinâ. I justâŠâ
His jaw clicked when he closed his mouth, then tried again.
âYe donât wear nothinâ on your finger,â he murmured.
Your breath caught. âRemmickââ
âNo, no, love, I didnât mean it like that,â he said quickly, huffing a laugh with no sound. âI know ye didnât mean what ye said under the tree. I know ye werenâtâŠye werenât askinâ for all this.â
He paused, eyes dropping to the ring still on his own hand, the one you'd given him. âI just thought,â he added, quieter now, âmaybe itâd feel a little less lopsided, is all.â
You didnât know what to say. But your silence wasnât 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 threadâwhite 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 didnât understandâsoft, 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 wasnât 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.
âItâs not a bindinâ spell,â he said softly. âIâd never do that to ye. Itâs just aâŠa mark. That yeâve been seen. That someone loved ye enough to make it.â
Your breath caught. You reached out, fingers trembling, and took the ring. And when you slipped it onâ
The forest sighed.
Branches curled in. Flowers blinked open. The bridge beneath your feet thrummed like a harp string plucked once, gently.
And RemmickâRemmick made the smallest sound.
A choked inhale. Then, in a voice so soft it broke your heart:
âYe look like someone worth waitinâ for.â
You don't remember dozing off.
But you didâstill 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 firstâstill there. Then to the edge of the bridgeâstill 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 lashesâand thatâs 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 aheadâbeneath the crooked trees that hung low like eavesâthere he stood.
Remmick.
He had one hand behind his back, and his head tipped, sheepish as ever, like heâd been caught with something sinful in his pocket.
âDidnât mean tâworry ye,â he said, voice soft.
You looked at the butterflies. Then back at him.
âWhatâŠis this?â
His smile wobbled.
âA bit of foolishness, maybe. Or maybe not.â He stepped forward, still holding whatever it was behind his back. âBack where Iâm from⊠when we had no coin, no land, no dowry to offerâonly things weâd taken from the earthâweâd still find a way tâmake a gift.â
He stepped closer.
âAnâ the most prized thing a man could offerâŠâ 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 perfectâno, it was whimsical and off, a little uneven, the way a child might draw one. Etched into the surface were little spiral markingsâlike 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 mothâs wing, paper-thin and gleaming dully like wet stoneâits 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 didnât 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.
âThâbluebell,â he said, âthey grow oâer graves where the dead were loved. Not all graves. Just the ones where someone wept hard enough tâwater the earth.â
Your fingers stilled.
"And the wing?" you asked.
He hesitated. His eyesâthose soft, wolf-sad thingsâlowered.
âShe followed me once,â he said. âWhen I had no body. When I werenât really a man at all. Sheâd land on me shoulder. Wouldnât leave. Thought maybe sheâd carry me soul somewhere if it ever got light enough.â
His smile came crooked. âShe never did. ButâŠI kept her. Just in case.â
You looked down at the locket again. At the love tucked carefully inside itânot gaudy, not gold, not spoken in flowers or poems, but in grief. In memory. In quiet things that didnât 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 placeâthis grave-bound manâjust as much as he'd been waiting for you.
You blinked. Then laughed. It startled even you, the sound of it. But he didnât flinch. Just watched, like youâd handed him the sun.
âI know itâs not what youâre used to,â 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. âBut Iâd like you to have it. If you want it.â
You took it with both hands.The weight of it pressed into your palms like a heartbeat. You looked at him.
At his eyesâthose wide, sorrowful things that glowed only faintly red now, not from hunger, but hope. At the way he didnât reach for you, didnât 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 afterâjust lightly, just shylyâhe let out the breath heâd 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 thoughtâ
I feel more alive here, in this place of ghosts and ghouls and goblins than I ever did among the living.
You didnât say it. But you didnât 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 easedâbut not faded. He didnât 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 grotesqueâjust raw, unhealed, honest. The way his suit jacket hung slightly crooked over his frame. The moss in his hair from when heâd 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, âyou never did get to kiss your bride, did you?â
He blinked. His breath caught like a match about to light. âNo,â he said, slowly, voice cracking around the edges, thick with barely restrained emotion. âNever did.â
You stepped closer. Bare feet brushing bone-white moss, slippers silent as ghosts. The town behind you stirred like something dreamingâwarm, 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 faceâgently, gentlyâcupping the uninjured side, but letting your thumb rest just at the edge of that ruined jaw. He didnât flinch. He didnât lean in.
He justâŠstood there. As if he was scared his own desire might shatter him.
âThen kiss her now,â you whispered. âSheâs right here.â
Remmickâs eyes burned. Not metaphorically. Literally.
A ring of red swallowed his dark gazeâglowing like coals in a hearth that hadnât felt breath in years. His lips parted, a tiny whimper caught between them. His hand twitched at his side, then liftedâhovering over your waist, then pulling back, trembling.
âIââ he choked. âTell me if yâdonât want it. Iâll wait, I swear, justâjust say it, anâ Iâll wait âtil the grave grows cold.â
You didnât answer.
You kissed him.
It wasnât graceful. It wasnât 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 coldâunnaturally soâbut the longer it moved against yours, the warmer it got, like you were coaxing heat back into him.
He whimpered into you.
That soundâragged and smallâwas almost too much.
His other hand found your cheek. Not greedy. Just reverent. Like he couldnât believe you were solid under his fingertips.
And all around you, the forest bloomed.
Not with roses or liliesâbut 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 didnât want to pull away.
Not because it was perfect. But because it wasnât. 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.
âChrist above,â he whispered, voice gone soft and accented and wet with disbelief, âYe taste like warmth. Like bloody spring after a thousand years oâ frost.â
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 heâd 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 sighedâthe 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.
Remmickâs 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 couldnât hold your gaze too long. The way his lipsâwet, bitten, partedâtrembled just slightly even though heâd stopped kissing you. He looked stunned. Like a man waking from a century-long dream and realizing heaven hadnât been a lie after all.
You pressed your hand over the one still clutching your back.
And you asked, very softly, âIs there somewhere we can go?â
He blinked. âGo?â
Your thumb brushed his wrist.
âSomewhere private,â you said. âSomewhere we can be alone.â
You let the weight of your meaning hang there, open. Raw.
His eyesâstill rimmed in that glowing red, still almost black where the light didnât touchâwidened just slightly.
He didnât speak right away.
Then: âYâye meanâŠâ
You nodded.
He let out a breath that wasnât a laugh, wasnât 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 didnât remember how.
âAye,â he said at last, breathless. âAye, IâChrist. Câourse there is.â
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 didnât move. The sky flickered between colors that didnât exist abovegroundâindigo, 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 themâsoft 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 awayâjust the two of you now, cocooned in this crooked little house where time didnât 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 pagesâdim, 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 yearsâcenturiesâto be touched again.
Remmick lingered behind you, his presence like a shadow you didnât want to outrun. He hadnât 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 couldnât trust himself to touch without unraveling.
âIf yeâŠâ he began, and his voice cracked down the middle. He cleared his throat, tried again. âIf yeâve changed yer mind, just say the word. Iâll not take a thing ye donât want to give, not even a breath.â
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 contactâbut didnât stop you.
âIâm not scared of you,â you said, voice hushed. âI want this.â
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 didnât 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 himânot in horror, not with trembling hands, but deliberatelyâwas 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 wayâsomeone whoâd labored long past death. His chest heaved with breath he didnât need.
He hadnât stopped watching your face.
Not once.
âI dunno if I remember how to do this slow,â he murmured, voice hitching on every word. âIâm too far gone for gentle if ye ask me to take too much control.â
You smiled, cupping the side of his neck. The unbroken one.
âThen let me.â
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.
âSweet hell,â he whispered, reverently. âYe look likeâŠlike the night I died dreaminâ someone might love me anyway.â
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 outâslowly, slowlyâand let the backs of his fingers trail along your arm. He didnât 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.
âAre ye sure?â he breathed.
You nodded.
âLay with me.â
He exhaled like heâd been holding that breath since his last life.
And then he moved.
He moved like he wasnât sure he was allowed.
Like the spell might break if he touched you too boldlyâif 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 heâd given you pressed cool against your breastbone, shifting with every breath. The air smelled of petrichor, moonlight, and something sweeterâsomething youâd 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.
âChrist, darlinâ,â he rasped, his voice thick, slurred just slightly with his Irish cadence. âYe donât know what yeâre doinâ to me.â
But you did.
You could see itâsee 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 thereâunavoidable. You could see how hard he was fighting himself, how deeply he was suppressing the parts of him he feared youâd flinch from.
You didnât flinch.
Instead, you reached for him, fingers curling into the front of his thin undershirt. Pulled him closer.
âRemmick,â you whispered. âItâs alright.â
He froze above you, nose inches from yours.
âI canâtââ
âYou can.â You cupped his cheek, gently thumbing along the edge of exposed muscle. Not in disgust. Not in pity. But in affection. âI want all of you.â
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 beforeâthis one had heat, had desperation, the kind of longing that hadnât 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 handsâGod, those handsâone 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 couldnât stop himself even if he tried.
âSo softââ he whispered, kissing the corner of your mouth, then your cheek, then your neck. âSo fuckinâ soft, love, like the world before it souredâŠâ
His fangs dragged the faintest line along your throat. Not piercingâjust testing. Just tasting. His breath hitched like it pained him to hold back.
And you whispered again:
âItâs fine.â
That was all he needed.
A low, guttural moan tore from his chest as he finally let himself grip you harderâyour 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 manâs shouldâve 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 wasnât shy anymore. His teeth caught on your lower lip as he kissed you again, hungrier now, drooling slightly with wantânot from gluttony, but from sheer, unbearable starvation.
âYe smell like everythinâ Iâve ever lost,â he murmured raggedly. âAnd everythinâ I thought Iâd never be allowed to touch again.â
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.
âIâm tryinâ, I swear it, Iâm tryinâ to be slowâŠâ
âYou donât have to be,â you told him, voice gone small and shaking. âIâm not afraid of you. I want you. All of you. Even the parts youâre trying to hide.â
He lifted his head slowlyâeyes glowing red now, the pupils huge and blown with need.
âFuckinâ hell,â he breathed. âMarryinâ me twice over, sayinâ that.â
You hadnât meant to tempt him. Not exactly. But youâd said the wordsâI want all of youâand 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 couldnât quite believe this was happening. That you were happening.
His voice cracked through the hush of the room. âDâyou know what yer sayinâ, love?â He cupped the back of your neck, gentle as a grave flower. His thumb dragged along your pulse like he was listening to it. âA thousand years oâ hunger in meâŠanâ you go sayinâ that?â
Your answer came not in words but in actionâpulling 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. âThen lie back for me, mo chroĂ,â he breathed. âLet me see what Iâve been dreaminâ of since before I knew what dreaminâ meant.â
You reclined against the velvet, heat curling low in your stomach, and Remmick followed you downâkneeling 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 jawâwhere muscle and bone were laid bare, yet never once did he try to turn his face away from you.
Because you didnât 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 thenânot hurried, but deep, wet, needyâand 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:
âLook at yeâsoft as sin, warm as summer rainâainât never seen anythinâ like ye.â
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.
âNo, no, love. Let me see. Let me taste. Itâs been so longâIâll be good, I swear it, Iâll make ye forget everythinâ but me.â
His hand moved between your legs againârough 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 responseâopen-mouthed, desperate.
âFuckinâ drippinâ fâr me alreadyâŠainât even had a tasteâŠâ
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 upâeyes blown wide, red rimmed, lips wet and parted.
âBegginâ ye,â he whispered. âLet me have ye proper, yeah? Just me mouth for nowâlet me make ye sing, mo chroĂ, let me worship ye like the altar ye are.â
And when you noddedâmore a whimper than a yesâhe pulled your panties aside and groaned, deep and broken.
You didnât expect him to kiss your cunt.
But he did.
Like he meant it.
Like it was holy.
He parted you with reverenceâhis 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 thenâŠhe 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 youâand heâd welcome the breaking.
Your back arched.
Not from shockâbut from the texture.
Because his mouth wasnât whole.
His lips were soft, yes. Warm, even. But where the skin gave wayâwhere bone and sinew lay exposed, where every sharp, imperfect tooth glistened with preternatural hungerâhis kiss became something otherworldly.
It shouldâve been frightening.
It wasnât.
It was devastating.
You felt it not just in your cunt, but in your spine, your ribs, your soul. He didnât just use his tongueâthough God, that tongue, wet and thick and curling with practiced strokes that told you he hadnât forgotten how to ruin a womanâhe used his mouth in full. The broken parts. The jagged ones.
He scrapedânot hard enough to hurt, but just enough to tease. Just enough to remind you this wasnât 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 closerâ
He moaned. Moaned into you, like the taste alone could kill him.
âChrist alive,â 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 downâopen mouth, flat tongue, slow circles that made your thighs trembleâand then slid two fingers inside you in one smooth, devastating motion.
âTight little thing,â he whispered, âgrippinâ me like ye missed me your whole life.â
You sobbed something between his name and God and yes, your thighs clenching around his ears, and he groaned againâdeeper this timeârutting 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 cameâ
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, âThere are monsters, my love. Stay in the light.â
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 sheâd say if she saw you like this.
If she knew that youâd chosen the darkâand begged it to keep you.
You felt it coming.
Not like a stormâfast and brutalâbut 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 heâd 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 shapesâinfinity, you thought, or a nameâuntil you couldnât tell where his mouth ended and your body began.
And thenâ
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 scalpâwhen you whimpered âRemmick, Iââ, his gaze snapped to yours.
Locked. Frozen. Held. It wasnât lust you saw there. It was awe. It was reverence.
It was a man who hadnât been touched in thirteen hundred years, now watching youâbare, flushed, tremblingâfall apart beneath his mouth like a blessing.
His lips glistened. His fingers curled inside you, stroking something sharp and sacred. And still, he didnât 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 knewâwithout him saying itâthat if you asked him to stop, he would. If you asked him to die again, he would.
But you didnât want that. You wanted more. So you said nothing.
You only whispered, voice shaking, âDonât look at me like that.â
His jaw twitched. His breath caught. Then came his voice, low and ruined:
âCanât help it, darlinâ. Ye look like salvation.â
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 Remmickâbeautiful, monstrous, tremblingâmoaned like heâd 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 himâand for a moment, he hesitated, like he couldnât 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 redâuncertain, afraid he might be dreaming.
âRemmick,â you said, your voice thick and still breathless, âdo you want me?â
The question broke something in him.
He nodded too fast, like a man whoâs never been given permission to hope. âAye. Christ, aye, I doâbeen wantinâ ye since the trees took yer scent. Since ye bled on the bark and woke me.â
Your fingers trailed down his chest, down the wife beaterâuntil you reached his belt. He sucked in a breath, whole body twitching when your knuckles brushed the tented front of his trousers.
âThen show me,â you whispered. âShow me how much.â
His mouth twitched into a smile, wide and crooked. âYe donât know what ye ask, lass.â
You leaned up, lips brushing his jaw, your whisper soft and sharp against his skin. âThen show me anyway.â
He kissed youâharder 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:
âYe sure?â
You nodded once. Twice. Then said it, clear and sure:
âI want to feel you inside me.â
He shuddered. Not just a trembleâbut a full-body quake, as if your words went deeper than skin, straight to the buried places inside him.
âThen lie back, ma wee bride,â he murmured, voice shaking, thick with that Irish lilt youâd grown to crave. âLet me make a proper mess of ye.â
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 againâthen 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.
âIâahâmay not last long,â he confessed, shame flickering across his face. âNot when yeâre lookinâ at me like that. Not when Iâve waited this long. IâllâI'll make it up to ye, I swear itââ
You touched his face again.
âThen come undone for me, Remmick,â you whispered. âYouâve waited long enough.â
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 himânot 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 itâlong 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.
âIâIâll wait, love, Iâllââ
âNo,â you breathed, grabbing his arm. âI want it. I want you. JustâŠslow.â
He swallowed, hard. His throat clicked.
âGonna ruin ye,â he whispered, voice thick with Irish dusk and awe. âGonna stretch ye wide and deep and still wish I could go deeper.â
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 fingersâtwo at first, slow and carefulâslid back into your soaked heat, working you open gently, watching for every flinch, every sharp breath. His jawâhalf-torn and glowing faintly with the light of his hungerâtightened.
âLook at ye,â he whispered hoarsely, breath like a vow. âSo soft fâr me. So warm already.â
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.
âPlease, Remmick,â you gasped.
He kissed your knee. Your hip. Your inner thigh again. Thenâ
He lined himself up with you, shaking. âI can feel ye callinâ fâr me,â he said, voice low, trembling. âCan feel yer body begginâ mine to belong.â
You didnât 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 Godâthe burn. It wasnât pain. It was too much and not enough all at once. You clutched his arms. Gasped. He froze.
âToo much?â he rasped. âDo I stop?â
âNoâRemmickâdonât stop,â you moaned, âjustâgo slowââ
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 outânot until your name escaped his throat on a cracked, desperate sound that felt more like prayer than pleasure.
âFookinâ Christ,â he choked, barely moving, buried to the hilt inside you. âYe feelâGods aboveâye feel like fire.â
You were full. So full. Stretched in a way that left your eyes fluttering, your voice catching in your throat. You didnât want to move. Didnât want to breathe. You only wanted to feel him there, pulsing deep inside, trembling like you were the first sunrise heâd 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 shakingânot from strain, but from the restraint it took not to move.
You wrapped your arms around his neck.
âItâs okay,â you whispered, mouth brushing the shell of his ear. âI can take it.â
He didnât answer at first. Just trembled, breath warm on your shoulder. But the sound he made when your hips tilted upâwhen your walls squeezed gently around himâwasnât human.
It was a groan wrenched up from the deepest part of him. A sound centuries old.
âYe donât know what yeâre sayinâ,â he rasped. âYe donât know what Iâll do if ye tell me I canâŠâ
âI do,â you whispered, meeting his gaze. âI want you to.â
And thatâs what broke him.
The first thrust was shallow, but sharpâhis 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 couldnât 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 skinâraw, thick, ruinedâbut you didnât 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 heâd been dreaming of since long before your first breath.
âYou feel me?â he groaned into your mouth. âDeep in that sweet lil cunt, aye? So warmâso wetâI could drown in ye.â
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.
âFook,â he breathed against your skin. âYeâre squeezinâ me like you like it when I lose mâself.â
âI do,â you sobbed. âI want you toâRemmick, pleaseâdonât stopââ
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 holdâhe still looked at you like he loved you.
Loved you, even if he didnât dare say it yet. You clenched around him. His rhythm faltered.
He growled, low and broken, âTell me if I hurt ye, love. Tell meâswear itââ
âYouâre perfect,â you whimpered, tears slipping down your cheeks. âYouâre perfect, Remmick.â
His forehead dropped to yours. Then he rutted into you with such bruising depth, you saw stars.
He couldnât 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.
âCanât hold mâself back,â he whispered, voice rough and wrecked and soaked in longing. âNot when yeâre like thisâsoft and begginâ beneath meâso fuckinâ warmââ
âThen donât,â you breathed. âRemmick, pleaseâdonât stopâdonât hold backâjust take meââ
Your words undid him.
He groaned low in his chest, mouth falling open, and something inside him slipped. His pace turned brutalânot cruel, never cruelâbut driven. Like centuries of craving finally had a body to answer to.
Like you were the only thing heâd 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 stillâstillâhe tried to speak.
âYou feel me, yeah?â he rasped, forehead pressed to yours. âDeep in that sweet cuntâŠlike I belong there. Like I was meant to be thereâ"
Your hands curled at his nape. Your lips brushed his ear.
âYou do,â 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 youâdeep, thick, endlessâhis 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 acheâyou 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 moanedâdeep, gutturalâand pulled you closer, nosing at your throat like he was afraid youâd disappear. âSo full of me,â he whispered, dazed. âLook at ye. Stuffed so prettyâŠâ
You kissed the corner of his mouth.
âRemmick,â you whispered.
His eyes fluttered open.
And when you looked into themâwhen you saw the pain, the wonder, the sheer reverenceâyou knew. Heâd been waiting longer than youâd been alive. For this. For you.
His voice cracked, Irish accent trembling:
âDonât leave me, love. Not now. Not ever.â
You kissed him back.
âIâm not going anywhere.â
The air felt different after.
Not warmer, not colderâbut 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 didnât know how to let go. His cheek pressed to your shoulder, jaw wound cool and tender against your skin. His breath was shallow, uncertainâlike he still couldnât 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 shouldâve 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 wereâŠcalm.
He stirred slightly when you traced a lazy pattern down his backâsoft 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 âmâwifeâŠâ so quietly, you werenât sure if it was meant for you or just the silence.
And God help you, you smiled.
It hadnât been love with Mr. Langdon. It hadnât even been kindness.
It had been a future written in ink not your own. One youâd 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 nowâ
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 werenât afraid. You werenât ashamed. You wereâŠ
Content.
âI wish Iâd met ye sooner,â he whispered against your collarbone. âBack when I still knew how to be a man.â
You turned your head, met his eyes. Those wide, glowing eyes.
âYou still are.â
He swallowed, expression caught between reverence and disbelief.
âI ainât decent,â he said, voice thick with that Irish lilt again. âAinât clean. Ainât right. I sleep in the dirt, I feed when I must, and I carry more ghosts than I do breath in mâlungs.â
âYouâre kind,â you said.
âA monster.â
âYouâre mine.â
He closed his eyes at that.
You rested your palm over his heartâcold 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 strangerâs 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 againâonly one, shy and frost-bittenâyou knelt beside it with Remmick and whispered,
âMaybe this was the wish that came true.â
He stared at the bloom, then at you. And smiled.
âI ran from a man with a pulse,â you whispered, lacing your fingers through your undead husbandâs. âBut I stayed for the one with a soul.â
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 heâll 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 heâs 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 heâs 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 itâll drive him insane. Something about the power dynamics of it all just scratches my brain the right way.
Warnings : SMUT! This is almost sappyâŠidk Remmick yearns for connection and heâs so so angry he canât have you without hurting you ⊠erm anyways heâs also a PERV!!!
âI should hate you.â
You rasped it out, like finding the strength or will to say anything else might stop whatâs happening - and you mean what you say. You shouldnât be as sticky and wet between your legs as you are right now, shouldnât feel like keeping your eyes open is impossible - but itâs too good, heâs 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.
âY-you should,â 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.
âBut you take it- oh god, yâtake it so gooooood.â He mewls, eyebrows pinched together. Red irises glare at you - stare like youâre the sun he hasnât had the pleasure of basking in for centuries. You see the void, the depths of despair- it feels like a beckoning.
Heâs 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 heâs somewhere in your stomach, feels like.
âWhy are y-you fucking me li-like this?â You plea, and his mouth is on yours before you can take another inhale. Wet, hungry.
Heâs moaning against you like heâs 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.
âTold you - mm, I love you, didnât I?â 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 werenât the closest thing to salvation something like him could have, well - he doesnât 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.
âOh sweetheart, youâre throbbing around me, yâknow that? Yeah thatâs it - awe baby take it just like that.â
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 heâs raw.
Youâre a mess down there, swollen and puffy and your arousal mixed with pre cum has coated his cock in this white translucent slick - itâs gorgeous, he wants to suckle your clit and clean you up.
âLove you, R-Remmy.â You hiccup, and if he had a heart that could beat - itâd be hammering out of his chest. Heâd 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.
Itâs pathetic. Thatâs 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.
Heâs ripping the material with his teeth, thrashing while his hips form an unsteady, frantic rhythm - you feel it inside of you, his release. Itâs warm because he fed earlier - you donât think of it too hard - and you canât when your body is quivering and trembling underneath him.
Youâre fucking yourself on him while the otherworldly feeling creeps in - youâre not sure how he does it, or why it happens - but his release almost always spurrs your own and itâs an unbearable sort of pleasure.
You want to cry, but your voice doesnât work. Heâs still pumping cum into you, youâre 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 heâs got you pinned to your mattress and heâs sheathed inside of your cunt and heâs a fucking vampire. Ainât that a bitch?
âFeels good honey? Yeah I know I know, shhh.â
He pecks your mouth, moving your hair out of your face, admiring his work on you. Youâre kiss bitten, fucked out, barely here but youâre 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 canât feel shame. Maybe if he could, heâd feel something close to it - but how can he?
Youâre 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. Doesnât matter now. Heâs yours.
You press your nose to his, and he pulls out - you wince and you blink once - heâs in between your legs, licking you clean, sucking and resisting the urge to draw blood - you try to squirm away but he doesnât let you - itâs almost endearing if you werenât so overstimulated.
Heâs 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 heâs done. Heâs satisfied, stands up and heâs still not yet fully soft as he pulls his trousers back on.
âStay.â You say it like youâre surprised it came out of your own mouth. But it was bound to be said at some point. Every time youâre with him like this - the pull gets worse and worse. It doesnât feel natural, but it doesnât feel unnatural either.
Youâve got it bad.
He pauses, stares at you in a way that should scare you to death - should make you run. Itâs creature - like, as if heâs trying to figure out if youâre a threat or not. Youâre used to it, know itâs just part of his nature now.
âYou mean that?â
He shouldnât sound so breathless. He hasnât had a need to breathe in centuries. He steps closer, slowly. And you know that itâs 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.
âI always did like taking strays in.â
He smiles, even chuckles, irises a crimson and obsidian melt of admiration.
âKeep feedin me, and I might stick around too long.â
something something something farm boy!clark kent who spends his summer pining over the city girl spending the summer with his familyâa 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.
â loser! clark kent getting hard by the librarianâs cleavage
cw: masturbation, clark is a loser with a big dick but doesnât know what to do with it
it was no secret that clark didnât 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. âo-oh, um,â he stammered awkwardly, mentally slapping himself for making a fool of himself.
âthought youâd like a cup of tea,â you smiled at him, your voice soft and your gaze so warm and welcoming it made his heart thud a little faster. âgood luck studying,â 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 heâs 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 didnât 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 couldnât 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. âfucking m-mph,â 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 werenât there, or bending you over the desk during the late hours when the library was empty.
summary: clark kentâs a mild-mannered single dad, but when you decide to turn up the heat, things get messyâliterally. 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
youâre convinced clark kent was godâs personal apology to women for everything else men have done.
heâs 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 thingâbut worse than that, your uterus practically weeps. her pigtails are always slightly crooked, like he tried his best and she wouldnât sit still, and the sight alone makes you want to hand in your iud and volunteer as tribute.
but clark? clarkâs completely unaware of the chaos he causes. or so you thought.
youâd always exchanged casual greetingsâhim with his chipper âmorningâ and you with a smile that bordered on hornyâbut 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. itâs boyish. innocent. cruel.
you scramble inside like you just saw god himselfâbecause, honestly, you mightâve.
and thatâs when it hits you: this man will not realize you want him unless you physically spell it out. and even then, thereâs a 50/50 chance heâll think youâre just being neighborly.
fine.
you can be aggressively neighborly, because one way or another, you are going to get into clark kentâs dad pants if itâs the last thing you do.
step one: bait the child
you âaccidentallyâ bake too many muffins. double batch. how clumsy of you.
âthese? oh no, i canât eat them all. would your daughter like some?â
she comes over giggling and thanks you every time, bouncing with excitement. and when she beams up at clark and says, âdaddy, she made blueberry again!ââyour 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. âmr. kent! my ac unitâs being dumb again. itâs so confusing. would you mind taking a look?â
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. âit was just the filter. uhâreal easy fix.â
âstill, thanks,â you say, handing him a cold, homemade lemonade. âyouâre such a good neighbor.â
his ears turn red. he mumbles, âa-and you can just call me clark, you know. âmr. kentâ makes me sound like⊠my dad.â 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?
âsure thing, clark.â you purr. he blinks twice like his brain just blue-screened.
step three: verbal homicide
todayâs the day.
you and clark are sitting on your front porch. heâs sipping the lemonade you made. his daughterâs across the lawn, playing with chalk on the driveway. you watch her draw a lopsided sun with a smiley face.
âsheâs amazing,â you say softly. clark beams with quiet pride. ânext woman in your lifeâs gonna be real lucky to have your baby.â
he chokes.
full on, hand-on-chest, coughing fit.
you innocently pat his back, wide-eyed. âoh no, clark! you okay?â
âw-wow, thatâs⊠uh⊠thatâs quite a thing to say,â he manages, voice an octave higher. his ears are red. âi meanâthank you, thatâs⊠thatâs kind. sheâs, uh⊠sheâs my whole world.â he glances away again, adjusting his glasses like theyâre suddenly the most interesting thing on earth.
you blink at him all doe-eyed. âi just meantâanyone would be lucky. youâre an amazing dad. sweet. strong. gentle. built like a truck.â
his jaw tightens.
you bite your straw.
he gulps.
itâs so over for him.Â
step four: reap the rewards
you wait until his daughter gets picked up for a sleepover before making your move.
itâs storming. your lights flicker. and right as scheduled, you're knocking on his door.
âpower out?â he asks softly.
âyeah,â you say. âcan i wait it out in here?â
he hesitates. then nods. âof course, it's no bother.â
you smile sweetly as he lets you in.
both of you are sitting on his couch now. clarkâs all stiff and awkward. his glasses fog slightly every time he exhales.
your legs are in his lap.
heâs definitely pretending not to look at them.
heâs not touching you, not really, but his handâs resting near your calf and you can feel the heat radiating off his skin.
his eyes flicker down to your thighs againâjust for a second.
then he mumbles, âyouâre, uh⊠youâre real young.â
you blink innocently. âtoo young for what?â
he opens his mouth. closes it. flusters.
you lean in.
he doesnât stop you.
you touch his cheek, soft and slow, and whisper, âyouâve been such a good neighbor to me, clark. such a gentleman.â
he swallows again. youâre starting to love how often you make him do that.
then you murmur, âyou wanna keep beinâ a gentleman, or can i show you how long iâve been thinking about your hands?â
you start to climb into his lap and his breath catches.
âi donât thinkâi mean, this probably isnâtââ
he cuts himself off when you fully settle in his lap. his hands hover near your waist but donât quite touch.
âiâmâiâm not exactly good at this sort of thing,â he says quietly, eyes darting everywhere except your face.
âyou think i donât notice when you look?â you murmur.
he swallows. âiâwell. i try not to.â
âthatâs cute.â you lean forward. âwanna try failing a little harder?â
then you grind down.
he jerks beneath you.
his hands fly to your waistâbut he doesnât stop you.
âbeen thinking about this forever,â you whisper against his neck. âthought about riding your thigh just to see if youâd notice.â
his chest rumbles. âi noticed.â
you shiver.
âthen why didnât you do anything?â
he exhales shakily. âiâm not supposed to want you like this.â
you whimper. âbut you do.â
âyes,â he admits, breathless. âgod help me, i do.â
you start grinding against his thigh, desperate, sticky, your hands fisting in the fabric of his shirt.
heâs hard. thick and long and straining against his pants.
his hands move to your hips. help you rock. guide you through it like itâs killing him.
you whimper when your clit drags against the firm muscle of his thigh.
âoh my godâfuckââ
he stiffens. âdonât say that. donât curse.â
you blink, dazed. âyou donât like it?â
he looks almost pained. âi justâi donât use that kind of language, and i donât like hearinâ it on your pretty mouth. not when youâve got so many sweeter things to say.â
you blink.
then you grind harder.
âyouâre unreal,â you pant, high on power. âclark, i swearâyour thighâiâm gonna cum just like this, i canâtââ
his breath comes fast.
âyou wanna come on my thigh, darlinâ?â his voice is low, but thereâs that shy hitch in it, like heâs almost embarrassed to say it out loud. âgo ahead. make a mess, itâs alrightâiâll take care of it.â
your whole body shudders at the warmth in his tone.
âyeah?â he murmurs, glancing down at where youâre pressed against him. âyou gonnaâuh, soak right through these shorts for me?â
you nod frantically.
âpretty girl,â he breathes, thumb brushing your cheek in a gentle, almost hesitant touch. âyouâve been actinâ so sweet lately, real flirty. butâ youâre not a bad girl, right?â
âiâm such a slut,â you whisper, breath hitching.
clark sits back just slightly, blinking hard. âheyâhey, now. donât say that.â
âwhy not?â
his brows pinch. ââcause thatâs not⊠thatâs not what this is. youâre notâi mean, youâre justâŠâ
he looks flustered. desperate to explain. âyouâre sweet. andâand good. and iâm probably too old and really not good at this anymore, butââ
you pull him back in by the collar.
âclark,â you whisper. âshut up and keep ruining me.â
âyes maâam,â he mutters again, voice cracking.
youâre whimpering into his neck, panting like itâs the only thing keeping you alive.
your clit is throbbing. his thigh is slick. and heâs 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.
âclarkâiâm gonnaââ
âgo on, honey,â he breathes. âiâve got youâ
your head drops against his shoulder. you cry outâsoft, desperate, overwhelmedâand he shudders beneath you when your body locks up and twitches in his lap.
âthatâs my girl,â he murmurs, a little bashful. âsuch a good girl for me.â
youâre trembling. sensitive. overstimulated. and yetâ
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.
âdonât⊠donât do that.â
âwhy?â
he bites his lip, voice cracking just a little.
ââcause if you keep goinâ, iâm not gonna be able to stop⊠and, uh, thatâd be a problem.â
your eyes flutter open.
your lips part.
yes, you think. finally.
âthen donât stop,â you whisper. âplease. i want it. i want you.â
he groansâactually groans, like you just kicked the legs out from under his self-controlâand then suddenly youâre 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 heâs trying to be respectful even now.
youâre soaked.
he stares down at your flushed body and breathes, âyou look like temptation itself.â
he sinks to his knees at the edge of the couch like youâre holy.
like heâs 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.
âi havenât⊠done this in a while,â he confesses. âi hope i donât mess it up.â
âyou wont,â you whisper, chest heaving.Â
he smiles. soft and sweet. âokay, baby.â
then he leans in and devours you.
his mouth is warm. firm. so, so thorough. he kisses you like itâs a love language, like itâs something heâs always wanted to do but never thought heâd get to. he eats like a man starvedâslow at first, reverent, dragging his tongue through your folds until youâre squirmingâand then deeper, rougher, gripping your thighs tight as he licks into you like heâs memorizing the shape of your pussy with his tongue.
you moan. loud. unrestrained.
âoh wow,â he breathes, pulling back just enough to blink up at you, dazed. âyouâyou taste likeâuhâlike sugar? or lemonade? is that weird to say?â
you giggle, breath hitching when his tongue darts out to lick a slow stripe through your folds again.
âyou can say whatever you want as long as you keep doing that.â
âokay,â he mumbles, immediately diving back in, muffling a sheepish, âyes maâamâ 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 firstâshaking your legs, making you grab for him, thighs clenching around his head.
he doesnât stop.
god, he doesnât stop.
he sucks your clit right through it, tongue flicking, mouth hot and wet and everywhere, and suddenly youâre cryingâhands fisting in his hair, tears streaming down your cheeks.
and clarkâsweet, soft clarkâhe pulls back just enough to kiss your thigh and murmur, âyou cryinâ, darlinâ? oh, honey. did i go too hard?â
you sob. ân-noâfeels so goodâi justââ
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, âmay iâŠ?â
you nod. âplease.â
he pulls out a little foil packet from his wallet.
âyou had that ready?â you tease.
he blushes so hard you think he might die. âiâjust in case. not that i assumedâi didnât! i just⊠hoped.â
you bite your lip, voice soft but steady. âi appreciate the gesture, but i wanna feel you, clark.â
clark blinks fast, mouth opening and closing like a stunned fish before he fumbles, setting the condom aside like heâs a little caught off guard.
you giggle.
and then he unbuttons his pants.
you donât 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.
âyou sure about this?â he asks, voice tight, breathless.
you nod, voice shaking. âplease. want it so bad.â
he leans over you. presses his forehead to yours.
his cock nudges your entrance.
thick. heavy. heâs holding back like heâs scared of breaking you.
heâs so careful when he pushes in. youâre so tight around him he actually groans.
âoh, sweetheart. iâmâiâm sorry, iâll go slowââ
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. heâs groaningâgroaning, eyes squeezed shut, jaw clenched as he sinks deeper and deeper.
âfeels like heaven,â he chokes. âtight little thingâsâlike you were made for me.â
you nod, trembling. you feel so fullâlike 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.
âyou okay?â he asks, voice almost shaking.
you nod, tears still on your cheeks.
âclarkâi need you to move.â
and when he does?
itâs 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.
âfeels like iâm dreaminâ, sweetheart,â he mumbles, burying his face in your neck. âi canât believe this is real.â
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 heâs trying to feel himself from the outside, to make sense of how snug you are, how perfectly your body takes him.
âcan feel it, sweetheart,â he pants softly. âyouâre squeezinâ me so good. like you donât wanna let me go.â
you donât.
you never want him to stop.
youâre 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, âis that too much, baby? you need me to slow down?â
you sob out a broken, âno, please donât stopâfeels so goodâclark, pleaseââ
he hushes you softly, lips brushing your temple. âi got you, honey. i know.â
you swear you can feel him twitching inside you, the stretch just bordering on overwhelmingâso thick and deep and gentle, like he wants to ruin you but only if youâll let him.
and you will.
you want to.
you want to feel him lose it. you want to feel him fall apart.
âi wanna make a mess in you,â he confesses, voice cracking just a little, breath heavy. âwanna fill you up good. is that okay?â
you moan. nod frantically. âyesâpleaseâpleaseââ
his thrusts get a little rougher. still slow. still deep. but heavier now, driven by the desperation heâs clearly been holding back this whole time.
âclarkââ
and then he kisses you.
not just a press of lipsâa 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 itâhot and thick and endless, like his whole bodyâs pouring into you.
you gasp against his mouth. twitch. your walls flutter around him.
he groans through his orgasm, lips brushing your cheek. âthatâs it, babyâtake it. take all of it, youâre doinâ so goodââ
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. youâre both sweaty and sticky and breathless, and your thighs are quivering, but his arms never stop holding you.
you donât know how much time passes.
just that eventually, you feel his handsâbig and warm and carefulâslide beneath your thighs as he lifts you gently into his arms.
âwhere are we going?â you whisper, voice small and dazed.
he chuckles softly. âbed.â
âyou want me to stay?â
he kisses your forehead. âif youâll have me.â
(you will.)
he helps you clean up. tucks you in. finds one of his old flannel shirts for you to wearâbig enough that it hits mid-thigh.
youâre curled up in his lap againâexcept this time, under the covers. his hands are stroking your back slowly. steady. reassuring.
you murmur, âwas it weird? being with someone younger?â
he blushes a bright red.
âfelt right to be with you.â
you go quiet.
then: âi think i wanna be a stay-at-home wife.â
he laughsâbright, full, happyâand kisses the top of your head.
âyeah?â he murmurs. âthat why you keep bakinâ cookies for my daughter and flirtinâ with me?â
ââŠyes.â
he smiles against your hair. âwell. if youâre serious about it, honeyââ
he kisses your temple.
ââwe can talk about it over breakfast.â
âyouâre makinâ me breakfast?â
âof course,â he says, brushing your hair off your cheek. âyou like bacon? i make âem good. you can show me how you make that lemonade."
and maybeâjust maybeâhe makes you a baby too.
but thatâs for next time :3
a/n: still haven't watched superman. this was supposed to be a request and i got very carried away...
manipulative!anakin skywalker who tells younger, naive reader that underwear doesnât exist in space . . . à»ê°àŸàœČ o . o ; ê±àŸàœČá
youâre someone in the senates daughter, heâs not even sure who â 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. âsaid 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. âno, you donât wanna touch those. they may look friendly, but they have the sharpest teeth in the galaxy and could swallow you whole.â
heâs already smirking, expecting you to roll your eyes or maybe dispute this with him, but instead youâre 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.
âanakin! iâm scared!â
he hates how easily he laughs, rubbing at your waist good-naturedly â 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 heâs joking, instead letting you revel in his stories and hang off his every word. it was⊠cute, and if heâs being frank â it was just the two of you out there for long periods of time. he couldnât 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. heâd insisted that it was too cold for that in space, but stopped arguing when heâd observe the way your nipples would pebble against the fabric, or if it was extra cold youâd move right up against him, telling him that heâs 'warmâ and it âfelt nice.â it most certainly felt nice for him too.
âi hate to be the one to tell you this, but you must remove your underwear.â 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.
âhm?â you practically squeak and his dick thumps against his uniform pants.
âits bad for your health. no one wears underwear in space. its⊠restricting. with the gravity and atmosphere ând all.â 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. itâs not like youâd know what he was doing anyway. you were far too naive for that.
âreally?â 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?
âyes, really.â he drawls like this is common knowledge, and this time itâs hard not to let his signature smirk fly when he senses you absolutely believe him.
âgoodness, well â i suppose i should remove these.â you shake your head, all innocent like â and itâs 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.
âlook. iâll keep them safe for now. itâs probably better you just donât wear them at all next time. okay?â 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?
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. âSo weâre normalising breaking into our exâs apartments now?â Peter opened his mouth, putting both hands on your hips desperately. âPeter just because youâre spider-man-â âPlease.â Peter whispered, his eyes tearing up slightly. âI miss you.â He said, making you drop your hands flatly by your sides. One of your hands came up to cup Peterâs 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 wasnât the first time he had come back to you, longing to be held. Things had always escalated to more despite telling yourself that you wouldnât allow it to happen again. âCan you hold me, please?â Peter asked, ducking his head down to nuzzle in the crook of your neck. Obediently, you snaked the hand on Peterâs 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 Peterâs 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 didnât have the heart to pull away from him. âWe canât keep doing this Pete.â You mumbled instead, a hand finding its way in Peterâs soft locks. âJust this once. Itâll be the last time I promise.â 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 âBaby, please.â You let your head drop to the side, crossing your arms over your chest in an unconvinced manner. âPeter, we broke up. Exes donât keep going back to each other like this.â 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. âYou broke up with me. Iâd never leave you. Just one night. Let me spend one night with you.â You uncrossed your arms from your chest, returning your hand to Peterâs 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 Peterâs kisses, until you finally gave in, telling the boy to stand up.
Peter followed you to your bed, chanting quietly âThank you, thank you, thank you.â 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 Peterâs, 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 Peterâs intentions clear, you had enough time to pull away if you wanted to, but you felt bad, or at least thatâs what you told yourself. You didnât want consider that the way Peterâs eyes flickered down to your lips made you feel engrossed in him, or that his lips also looked soft. You didnât 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 didnât pull away, allowing your eyes to flutter shut.
Peterâs 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 Peterâs 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. Peterâs 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 Peterâs mouth off your neck and sitting up straight. Peter fell on the bed next to you, a guilty look on his features. âI thought-â âPeter, exes donât have sex. If we have sex, weâre official again.â 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.
âLet me put the tip in. Just the tip.â 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. âJust the tip isnât sex.â Peter pushed, adding a pleading âPlease.â âYouâre really going to get off on just putting the tip in?â You questioned, eyeing Peter down. He felt himself harden when your gaze landed on his covered cock. âJust want to feel warm.â He weakly argued.
You rolled your eyes, reaching your hand out to grasp the cotton of Peterâs 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. âJust the tip.â 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 Peterâs 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.
Peterâs dick nudged your tight hole and you shut your eyes tightly, listening to the immediate moan that ripped from Peterâs 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. âJust the tip.â 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. âJust the tip.â 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 Peterâs 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 Peterâs dick as possible. âFuck, just put it in baby!â You cried, finally letting your put-together front crumble down. Peter chanted a string of âthank youâs, 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 Peterâs 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 youâd 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 Peterâs 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. âCome on baby, cum for me.â He begged, rubbing harsh circles on your clit as his thrusts became sloppy. You couldnât 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 Peterâs mouth as his own orgasm was triggered. âShit, shit, shit.â 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. âLast time Peter. Yeah?â Peter nodded, mumbling âIâm happy with that, yeah.â
But his words sounded so familiar you refused to believe them.
â¶ a/n âș starting k-tober off light! heâs kinda mean in this!!! also, iâve never written for this concept before, be kinddd (ïœĄïčïœĄ") â¶
kinktober masterlist.
itâs truly a pity, the way you are.Â
at camp, it'd be better for you to just stay hidden. the way you dressed, your hair, how you hadnât even had your first kiss. even with all the summers youâd come back to camp, nobody wanted to be caught dead with you.Â
âitâs just unfortunate,â you hear a high voice say through the wooden door. youâd been sitting on your bunk all day after making a fool of yourself down at the lake. âlook at the girl! she can barely come out of her cabin without breaking down and sobbing. what a shame. luke?â she asks him, who you didnât know was there.Â
he was kind, though. the kinda boy who youâd feel comfortable alone in an elevator with. he waved at you once, like, two summers ago. he also asked if you knew where he could get a blunt. so charming, that one!Â
âno, yeah⊠sheâsâsheâs a fuckinâ freakâŠâ his mouth dried up. you werenât that bad.Â
the rotten wooden floors creaked underneath your feet as you stood and softly walked toward the door, making sure neither of them heard you. the girl talking to luke shushed him, who wasnât speaking at all, and leaned closer to the door, maybe pushing her ear up against it. âi think the bitch is listening right now!â and an obnoxious giggle followed right after. âhey, bitch, we can hear you!â she pounded her fists against the door before you stumbled back, tripping on a boot behind you.Â
you land flat on your ass. it throbs when you stand and run to the part of the cabin furthest from the door, barely holding back tears. âluke, iâm telling you, sheâs nothing. quite literally nothing.â you can just barely make out her voice. footsteps trail away from your door, you stay glued to the wall.Â
and for days you sobbed at the thought of luke hating you. the one person you take a liking to happens to hate you. he probably likes whoever was with him on the other side of the door. they probably bond over their shared hatred for you. you hadnât even come out of your cabin in fear of seeing luke after what happened! heâd know you as the girl who bust her ass after eavesdropping on a conversation with his girlfriend. or whoever that was. point still stands, he hates you.Â
didnât take away from the fact you liked him a lot. his biceps, calves, thighs. anything about him, you liked. you slipped your fingers between your slick folds, lying flat on your bunk while everyone else laughed and socialized down at the bonfire by the lake. your fingers ran over your puffy clit, pushing on it, making your hips buck up. luke would push your hands out of the way and whisper, âlâme do it,â and his fingers would circle your sopping hole, threatening to push inside if you promised to be quiet. to not let anyone know what you two were doing. not because he was ashamed, because he wanted you to himself.Â
or maybe heâd stretch his arm out to your lips, a blunt held between his index and middle finger, âcâmon,â heâd say. âyouâll feel better, baby.âÂ
that was romantic. him wanting you.Â
you screwed your eyes shut to the thought of that beautiful image. maybe heâd rut his cock against your ass at night after sneaking into your cabin. his fingers dig into your fleshy thighs as he gets himself off, inhaling your scent and moaning in your ear, letting you know youâre enough for him. âso beautiful. all i need⊠this right here,â voice all muffled from his face digging into your neck. âperfect.â
then you woke up.Â
you finally worked up the courage to do something about this. you ached for him to be as close as you imagined. you found him lingering by the lake, lighting an expertly-rolled blunt with a matchstick. your eyes run over his form, biceps toned and all perfect right in front of you. âyou need somethinâ?â a plume of smoke escaped through his teeth as he spoke. ânoâno, i waâi needed a rock,â your fingers tangled behind your back as you looked at anything but him.Â
âyou needed a rock?â a tinge of disbelief in his voice. he furrowed his eyebrows at you before bursting into laughter. a soft smile takes over your face as it warms with embarrassment. he found you funny. he wasnât laughing with you, but you didnât think he was fully laughing at you.
and so, you both sat and spoke for hours down at that lake. he made dumb jokes to you in an attempt to open you up, to get you to say something. you went back and forth asking each other questions about college and your lives outside of camp. his stories of parties and sex made you cringe but not for him, but for you.Â
he gave you the floor to talk about anything. you told him about school and how youâd done quite well this past year, but he wasnât phased. âanything but that shit. no parties? drinking? have you even had sex? huh?â he expected you to admit it was all a joke and for you to share stories that were better left unsaid. nothing. did he not know? you were sure he hated you and knew about your isolationist tendencies, the same ones that barred you from forming any meaningful relationships in and outside of camp.Â
he took a drag from the blunt and threw his head back, exhaling. âno parties, drinking, weed, or sex?â he really stressed that last word, pulling his head back up and staring at you. waiting. you shook your head with your lips pressed into a line as his teeth dug into his bottom lip, examining your form. knees close to your chest with your arms wrapped around them, foot tapping the small pebbles settled underneath your ass.
âi should go.â
weeks go by and you pass glances at one another from time to time. he lingers at the lake while you stay back, lying on your bunk. thinking.Â
thereâs a slight knock at the front door of your cabin, like itâs meant to be quiet. to not draw attention. your other mates are out because theyâd rather let you sulk in peace. whoeverâs outside is growing impatient because they knock again, this time a little more aggressive. âcoming! sorry!â you awkwardly shuffle to the door before swinging it open, only to be met with the face of luke. youâre unable to get a word out, your feet stay planted as you stare up at him.Â
âgonna let me in or just look all stupid?â he took a step closer, his arm grazing your chest. you let him in and asked him why heâd even set foot in your cabin. you told him you thought he didnât want to be seen with you, he didnât confirm or deny that. âyouâre in college and you havenât fucked, i wanted to help you. itâs honestly fuckinâ sad.â
your nails dig into your arm. âhelp me?âÂ
âhelp you, yeah, help,â fingers running through his hair, âlike i just said,â he exhales. âiâll fuck you.âÂ
your breath gets caught in your throat when he says it like that. you try your best to get him to leave by explaining youâll live without sex, and how it can actually benefit some people to be left alone, and how youâre fine. youâre lying, obviously, you need it.Â
both of his hands are holding your waist as he kisses your neck and suckles at it, they massage underneath your stomach and hips as he groans deeply in your ear. âpoor girl,â he whispers as he tugs at your loose shorts. âlie down fâme.â
âdonât get used to this, alright? iâm only doing it âcause youâve been so pathetic about it.â
you lie back with your thin, cotton underwear barely covering your wet cunt that throbs at the sight of the man before you. his thumb rests on your chubby clit and rubs circles on it with his other hand holding onto your thigh. âfirst time ever doinâ this and youâre already so ready, right? nobodyâs touched you here at all, huh?â he teases as your back arches off of the bed involuntarily. âso fucking sad,â you rubbed your cunt onto his thumb now, itâs all slick through your underwear.Â
he can tell youâre getting desperate, so he peels your underwear off and pulls you closer to him. cockâs all hard and sensitive, just having to rub against the fabric of his boxers while he ruins you. oh, how badly he wants to cum. he smirks to himself at the thought of cumming in a virgin, all tight and warm. âpretty pussy hasnât been touched at all⊠youâre so lucky iâm here,â he leans into your cunt, the warmth of his face near it makes you sigh softly. âmâso lucky, yeahâmy first,â you nod profusely.Â
his lips latch onto your pretty cunt which make your thighs tremble softly. he holds onto your thighs once again, keeping you still as he tastes you real good. his warm tongue dips into your cunt perfectly, just pushing past that spongy, soft spot in your gummy walls. âc-canât do it, luke!â you buck your hips into his mouth and your juices mixed with his saliva run down his chin disgustingly.Â
he pulls off for a second, just to speak, âsheâs been waiting for this, gotta give it to âer. donât move,â his nails dig into your plush thighs even more when he starts sucking your clit again, one thigh feeling a bit of relief when his hand pulls off and he dips his middle finger into your pussy.Â
âshit, youâre really this tight? guess beinâ ignored all this time did somethinâ to you.â
you thrash and cry out while he fucks your glistening cunt with one finger, ât-too much, luke!â you try and pull off his finger, but he just digs deeper into you, making sure to curl up into your hole. âyâknow, maybe this is why nobody fucks youâyou canât take it,â laughing.
âjusâ let me have it now, luke,â you whine, âdonât want it to hurt, put it in n-nowâŠâ his finger still deep in you. his eyes are trained on your face, the way your hair sticks to your forehead and how your teeth tear into your bottom lip, drawing blood. your eyebrows knitted as he hits that good spot. âsince you want it so badly,â he sits up and pulls his sweatpants off, his boxers follow.Â
your jaw goes slack at the sight of it and you crane your neck to get a better look. he notices your face and grins seeing you all nervous and shit. ârelax. iâll help you through it, we both know no one else will,â he spit on his hand and started stroking his cock while you watch, legs spread, a lump in your throat, hands gripping your bedsheets so you donât faint.Â
itâs so thick, and the tip of itâs all red, puffy and angry. he rubs it against your clit, hands wrapped around your thighs once again to really make sure you donât run. you wanted this, itâs clear. âf-first time feelinâ a cock against you, right?â he could barely get the words out without stuttering, you feel too good!Â
his cock slipped into you in a way that screamed "i'm so sorry for you,â like he wanted you to know this was a favor, that he wouldnât do this any other time. heâs helping a loser. he fucks his cock into you, pulling in and out with your shared juices at the base of his cock. âfuckinâ tight,â your nails dig into his arms that are planted on either side of your head, sheets in his fist as he pushes into you. the way your gummy hole squeezes him, practically beckoning him inside, itâs inviting.Â
you canât take it, to be honest! your thighs shaking and back arching off the bed as luke gives you what you wanted. âneed this experience if you want a man, yâknow?â he thrusts, âe-experience is required.âÂ
you unravel underneath him with that knot in your stomach tightening with every thrust he gives you, âg-gonna cum, luke, please!â you pleaded with him to get off of you, to not make you cum around him, to save you the embarrassment of letting go all over him.Â
âlet it go,â he thrusts with each word. his thick cock hit that spot too much for you to handle. so you do let it go and your cunt flutters around his shaft. you milk him with each time it restricts around him, choking him. âcumminâ! iâm cumminâ!â you cry out, every part of your body trembling as your orgasm takes over your entire body. he finds this hilarious, laughing as your body contorts just from the feeling of his cock.Â
your cunt is still so much tighter than anyone heâs had before, somehow! even with all of this, youâre just squeezing him so good. he has to cum. he feels his balls tightening as he approaches his orgasm. âput my babies nâ you,â groaning out, arms bending for his elbows to rest beside your head when he gives you his all. âpoor fuckinâ girl needed my cock to c-cum!â before his warm load spills deep inside of you. his cock twitches as he fucks it into you, holding your face in his hands while is cum spills out of you with each thrust.Â
the aftershocks of your orgasm were still hitting you as he quickly pulled out of you, pulling his boxers and sweatpants back on.Â
âyâknow, you should be grateful. nobody else would waste their time,â he ran his fingers through his damp curls as he spoke. âyouâre welcome.â
summary: clark found every excuse to be near you; fixing, helping, pretending it was harmless. but every smile, every soft 'thank-you' dragged him toward a line your youth made unforgivable. you were temptation itself, and even the good men fall.
clark kent x slightly younger ! reader
themes: pining, whining, yearning, fluff just how we like it!! you're v innocent and sweet, 8 year age gap but to clark that may as well be 30. very suggestive, slightly smutty. v domestic, he does everything for you. enjoy!xo
one | two
You were the most beautiful temptation Clark Kent had ever known.
Heâd been through wars, heartbreak, and the unending ache of carrying the world. Heâd stood at the center of storms, shouldered collapsing buildings, listened to the small cries of people miles away.
But nothing, not even the sound of cities breaking, shook him quite like your laugh spilling into the hallway at 6 a.m. on a Sunday.
Heâd told himself it was just neighbourly love, a fondness that came with sharing the same ZIP code. That was all. You lived across the hall, young and unguarded, with a way of talking that made the most ordinary things sound like invitations to stay.
You called him Mr. Kent because thatâs what his box in the mailroom said, and every time you did it, he felt something inside him falter. It wasnât the teasing tone that got him; it was the warmth. As if you really believed he was that safe, steady man whose door you could always knock on.
And you did knock. Constantly.
The first time, it was a dripping pipe. Your landlord was useless at the best of times, but Pa Kent taught Clark how to gut a house from the inside out from a young age- so naturally, he was more than happy to help.
The next, your grocery bags split on the stairs. The third was a window that left a permanent draft in your bedroom, one that he sealed up carefully with filler, his bare hands and a pleased smile.
Once, your cat Minnie darted into his apartment and hid under the couch, and heâd crouched beside you to coax it out while trying not to breathe you in. You always looked up at him with those wide, hopeful eyes, trusting him in a way that scraped at his chest.
He was supposed to protect people, not crave them.
Then came the morning you opened your door in an oversized hoodie and socks, nothing else that he could see. Your hair was a halo of sleep-tangled softness, your mouth still swollen from dreaming.
You asked, sweetly, if he had a flashlight- the power had flickered out again- and he tried to look anywhere but at the hem of that hoodie, so brief it might have been a whisper on your thighs.
He handed you the flashlight with both hands, careful not to brush your fingers. âKeep it,â heâd said, voice rougher than it shouldâve been.
You smiled, unbothered. âThanks, Mr. Kent. Youâre my hero.â
He had to step back then, because if he didnât, he might have told you that he didnât feel like one at all. Not when he could lift a building but couldnât lift his gaze from you.
After that, he tried to keep his distance. He filled his evenings with work, typed until the letters blurred, watched the news until dawn. His 33rd birthday came in the midst of his panic and he'd stayed out all evening in hopes of not running into you on the stairwell- only to come back to a box of celebratory cupcakes on his doormat, a note drenched in your perfume and handwriting, Happy 33rd, Clark. <3
But sometimes, through the wall, he could hear your music; soft and low, and heâd imagine you moving through your small apartment- barefoot, humming, hips swaying the same way they did when you stumbled home tipsy after a night out with your friends.
And then there was that night.
A faint, rhythmic buzzing reached his ears. His senses caught it before his mind did, the way they always did.
He frowned, thinking maybe an appliance had been left on. It wasnât completely out of the ordinary- after all, youâd been at work one time and asked him before to slip the spare key from under the doormat just to make sure you hadnât left the hair straighteners on.
He almost went to check, but then he heard the smallest sound- a stifled breath, a quick, soft exhale. His hands froze above the keyboard.
Realisation came slow and heavy, and it burned him with guilt. He should have tuned it out. He tried to. But his hearing betrayed him; every sound from your apartment was a gravity he couldnât escape.
He turned on the television, volume low, pretending to work. But the noise lingered, and with it the image of you- flushed, vulnerable, lost to your own arousal. The idea made him feel both holy and ruined.
He pressed his palms over his eyes until the hum inside his body quieted again, until the blood rushing below finally started to dissipate.
Then he saw you the next morning, hair damp, sweater hanging loose on your shoulder. You greeted him like always. âGood morning, Clark.â
It was rare for you to call him by his first name. The other one seemed more familiar somehow, a term of endearment he'd grown to love.
But this instance, he welcome the latter and nodded, forcing a smile. âMorning.â
You didnât notice how long it took him to meet your eyes.
From your side of the hall, Clark Kent was a mystery. Older, kind in a way that made you feel safe. There was something about him, an energy that pulled without asking.
He disappeared sometimes, his apartment empty and quiet for days on end. You knew he was a reporter and chalked it down to week-long expeditions on the latest national news, but you always hated those days he wasn't around.
Clark had become a comfort to you. He was lovely, soft around the edges but still strong- like your father taught you a real man should be. He remembered things about you- about your friends, your cat, even the small anecdotes about your job that other people wouldn't care to find as fascinating.
You'd be lying if you said that you hadn't thought about him in that way. An older, kind, beautiful man that took care of you, living just across the hall? Not to mention his gorgeous face, incredible build and everlasting patience for the people around him? Come on.
Clark was perfect. But perfect came with the one memory you'd had since he fixed your wardrobe, a happy smile accompanied with that one, earth shattering sentence, "All fixed, kid. I've hammered it into the wall, shouldn't move as much then."
You thanked him genuinely, but inside, the word broke you.
Kid.
You had no idea who you were trying to fool. Of course Clark didn't like you, not like that.
You were eight years his junior, and although it didn't seem like a lot, it was plenty. Because you were you, and you still had so much growing up to do- and Clark Kent was a man who got front page news and interviews with Superman and seemingly knew how to tackle every single household chore in the world.
He wouldn't want you. He probably had a mirage of different girls on his roster- women, at that. Strong, fierce, capable, independent women- who thought about him max five times a day and could control their thoughts about him in the confides of their bedroom.
Surely, right? A man like that had simply made a choice to be single. And when that time came for him to want to settle down... well, you just hoped she loved him as much as he deserved to be loved. Even more, actually.
Sometimes, when you looked right at him; past the charming facade and the endearing face he put on for the world- you could see it.
There was a sadness in his smile that you weren't very well acquianted with. Sometimes. Other times it was just gentleness, as if he carried the weight of the world and still found room for everyone elseâs troubles.
He listened to you. He cared about you; what book you were reading, what plans you had for the weekend, if you needed him to do anything for you while you were out. He left you notes on your door and took in your packages when he knew you were probably still asleep, dead to the world.
You liked that he never made you feel small. When he fixed your sink or brought in your mail during a storm, he did it without expectation, without lingering- except for the way his gaze softened, like he couldnât quite look away.
You didnât know what that meant, not really. It definitely wasn't what you wanted it to be. You only knew that when you knocked on his door, you felt steadier.
The winter outage came without warning.
A city transformer blew, plunging half the block into darkness. The wind howled through the cracked window in your bedroom, carrying a thin drizzle that found every weak seam.
You awoke to gentle taps of water on your forehead. A soaked pillow took up space next to you as you shot up, eyes wide.
The living room wasn't much better; the temperature worse than it had ever been in previous Decembers. It was unliveable, a catastrophe that seemed to have taken place between the time you fell asleep and were waterboarded awake.
You tried towels, buckets, a pan under the slow leaks. Still, the sound- the endless dripping, the antarctic conditions of your apartment that flooded every other room- wore at you.
You thought of Clark.
You hesitated before crossing the hall. It was late. But your place was freezing, and your phone battery was nearly dead, and Clark had told you countless times before to come get him him if that window seal broke again or the dripping came back. He'd fix it, he said, right then and there.
So, you wrapped yourself in a blanket and knocked.
The door opened almost instantly. He must have heard you coming. âPowerâs out,â he said softly, holding a lantern. His face looked different in the dim glow, sharper, somehow, like the light had peeled away the disguise he wore for the world. "You okay, hon?"
You explained about the leak, about the cold, stammering your way through the feeling of intrusion. You felt awful, but it was either this or curl up on the cold IKEA chair he'd built for your vanity for the rest of the night.
He didnât interrupt. When you finished, he nodded once, the way he always did before doing something heâd already decided.
âCome on,â he said. âYou can stay here tonight.â
"No, no, I couldn't-" You started to protest, but he was already pulling a blanket from the couch, shaking it out.
âItâs warmer in here,â he added, almost apologetic. âThe walls are thicker.â
You were wordless, the blanket around you slightly suffocating now. This wasn't the outcome you were expecting.
Clark could sense your apprehension, feeling guilty for not jumping at the chance to fix what was broken in your home. Normally, he would. But the lack of dry roof to cement shut meant that he wouldn't have been able to, anyway.
He gestured to the couch, face kind in the way it always was. âI'll stay here, you can take the bed. Itâs more comfortable.â
âI couldnât,â you said again, but your voice trembled, and he heard it.
He tried to laugh it off. âI donât sleep much anyway. Shall I get Minnie?"
You shook your head softly, "No, it's alright, thank you. She's at Mark's." his body stiffened slightly at the mention of another man's name, knots forming in his shoulders until he remembered the one and only man you'd ever introduced him to, months ago.
"Hi, Mr Kent! This is Mark. He's staying with me for the week while his boyfriend's in Gotham on a business trip. We'll try to keep it down."
You stepped inside, the cold air clinging to you. He caught the smallest shiver in your shoulders. Something protective- something reckless- rose in him.
âGo on,â he murmured, wrapping another layer around you. âYouâll freeze otherwise. Would you like something to drink? I can make you that hot cocoa you like."
You shook your head no, thanking him gently as you looked around the walls of his home.
You hadnât expected his apartment to feel so lived in. You'd seen it in brief spats, glances inside as you spoke to him in the hallway. It smelled faintly of paper and rain; of clean cotton and well-loved books.
They lined the shelves, hundreds of them, their spines cracked and thumbed. Old mugs occupied the counter space next to the sink, a cardigan draped over the chair.
When you brushed past him, you felt the warmth radiating from his body, far more than the lanternâs glow could give. He looked younger somehow, less official, as he stood in the center of the comforts of his home.
He handed you a dry shirt- his. It hung to your knees as you slipped it on, discarding your own shirt underneath it. It swallowed you whole. âUntil the powerâs back,â he said.
You nodded, clutching the fabric close. âThank you.â
"I just changed the sheets this morning, should be all good. If you need anything," he began, eyes on you, "Please. Let me know. Help yourself if you're hungry, or let me know of you want me to make you something."
"Okay, Mr Kent. I'm sorry again, for ruining your night,"
Clark shook his head, "You haven't ruined anything."
He smiled then, small but real, and the sight made something in your chest flutter. You disappeared into his bedroom, mind racing as you sat on the edge of his bed and the door shut behind you.
Back in the living room, Clark sat on the couch, pretending to read, but every creak from the bedroom door made his pulse thrum.
He told himself it was fine. Sheâs safe, he thought. Safe, warm, sleeping well. Thatâs all that matters.
But his mind betrayed him again. He pictured the curve of his shirt against your skin, the way your damp hair would leave faint dark streaks along the collar. He wanted to stop thinking. Wanted the discipline heâd always had to come back, but it didnât.
A faint shuffle caught his ear. Youâd come back to the living room, blanket around your shoulders again, eyes uncertain in the low light.
âI feel really bad,â you said softly. âAnd it's- really cold. I think it's colder out here than in there,â You hesitated. âShould I take the couch?â
He set the book down slowly, chest warm at the sight of your distress over the thought of him being uncomfortable. âYou take the bed, sweetheart. Please.â
You looked at him for a long moment. âBut it's your bed,"
âThatâs fine.â he said in amusement.
Your voice lowered to almost a whisper. "But, you don't understand- I feel really bad. That you're out here,"
"I don't get cold easily,"
"Clark, it's minus five degrees," you frowned. Then, you said it before you could stop yourself.
"... maybe we can share the bed?"
You tried to smile, but your words came out more ridiculous sounding than the concept in your head.
Clark Kent would do alot for you, you realised. He'd water your plants. Fix that dodgy step on the fire escape you loved to sit at. He'd babysit Minnie like Mark, your literal childhood best friend, did; making sure she felt so loved that often, the cat wouldn't even want to cross the hall back home.
But sharing a bed with you? Well, you weren't too sure about that.
He felt the air go still. For a heartbeat, neither of you moved.
âI donât think-â Clark began, then stopped. The words tangled. âIt wouldnât be- you wouldn't get much sleep with me in there."
Then, as if the realisation of his own words dawned on him like a shadow, his eyes widened. "N-Not like that, I didn't mean it like that! It's just- I'm a big man..."
âPenguins huddle to conserve body heat,â you said simply, and he could see it in your eyes, on your face; the innocence and belief in your words. To you, he could do no harm.
Pure, unfiltered sweetness that you were offering, tainted by the visions in his mind of his head between your legs and your back arched in the filthiest way.
That undid him.
Of all the things you could have said, and all the thoughts he could have had- that was the one that shouldn't have stripped away his resistance. But it did.
He drew a long breath, eyes closing.
He could say no. He should. He could remind himself of the years between you, of all the reasons he kept himself apart.
But the gentleness in your voice, the trust in your eyes- those things were stronger than any argument. You trusted him. So much so that to you, sharing a bed felt the same as asking him to help you figure out the age-old stove in your kitchen.
It weakened his resolve rapidly.
âOkay,â Clark said finally. The word left his throat rough and quiet. âIf it helps you rest.â
You nodded, relief softening your features.
He'd sleep in his own bed. You'd be warm. A win-win situation; and it didn't have to be weird, not at all. You could even top and tail it.
"Thank you, Mr. Kent.â
He rose from the couch just as you disappeared back into the bedroom, giving him time to gather himself; to blow out the candles that were lit, to back out if he really wanted to.
The lantern light brushed along his shoulders as he turned towards the bedroom. Each step felt heavier than the last.
When Clark reached the door, he paused, hand on the frame. He could see the faint outline of you beneath the blankets, small, waiting, socked feet rubbing against each other in a last ditch attempt at warmth.
For a moment, he let himself breathe. He thought of all the strength heâd ever used- every act of will, every feat of power- and how none of it compared to the effort it took now, to walk forward without giving in completely.
The wind rattled the windows. The city outside was dark.
And Clark Kent stepped into the room.
this may very well be my fav ive written so far!! hope you enjoyed and lemme know what u think <3
Maybe size difference with Sam where reader is one of Dean's friends and a bit older and always saw him in a brotherly way cause of that but after not hearing from him for so long loses her mind after seeing the man he's turned into (ig this could have fauxcest too?? Idk?)
MINORS DNI 18+
LINK. itâs a supernatural christmas! request smut for the big three of supernatural.
WARNINGS. fem reader: fem anatomy. established relationship. sexual content. flirting. smut: p in v. dirty talk: praise. pain kink: too big of a dick. size difference, size kink.
little SAM WINCHESTERâs always been thatâlittle. half your size and following you and dean around like a lost puppy. youâd ruffle his hair and tell him, âgo away, sam, me and dean are about to play house.â only for said older brother to loudly and dramatically exclaim yeuck! in the background in response to your joke. itâs not that youâve been around the winchester boys all the time, youâd just see them around and your folks ran in the same circles, it was only natural for some overlap because sometimes daycare just wasnât in the cards. sam and dean would frequent your house occasionally, at one point they were even your neighbors for a stretch. however, all good things come to an end. as you all grew older, youâd see less of each other. years go by without so much as a carrier pigeon.
itâs a good amount of time before dean comes walking back through your door. you greet him as an old friend, a hearty hug and a polite, âyouâre a sight for sore eyes.â as you give him a once-over. it earns you a throaty chuckle.
âyouâre not sâbad yourself.â he replies, and you can see the lines of age in his face. it brings a smile to yours. âsamâs on his way in he just had to fix his make-up.â
âhardy-har-har.â you respond flippantly, rolling your eyes. you cross your arms as your straighten and your attention is grabbed at the sound of the door opening. little sam winchester, not so little anymore, fills the doorway as he practically ducks in. itâs enough to take you aback, blinking up at him. you manage to choke out, âsam?â in disbelief, and youâre quick to mask it with some feigned scoff of a relief as you bring him in for a greeting hug.
âhey.â he replies, stooping to meet you, and you try not to linger on how hard his body isâeven underneath all the layers. he rears, and you can finally see his grin. heâs handsome. the kind of handsome that has your knees wobbly and your heart fluttery. those dimples are still there. your neck aches looking up at him like this and you chew on your lower lip to fidget.
âhi.â you say back, lofty and dreamy, sighing as you stuff your hands into the back pockets of your jeans. dean looks between you two with a narrowed gaze, uncomfortable with the awkward pause. you could hear a pin drop in this room.
it takes a bit for the boys to get settled but instead of talking deanâs ear off like you used to do, youâre on sam. itâs all about where heâs been, what heâs been up to, how long heâs been on the road, and whatnot. hearing about school and california reminds you heâs a totally different person. âyou know you, uh, you grew up nice.â you comment, vaguely gesturing to his person as he unpacks while you sit up on a dresser. he flashes you a look that demonstrates he doesnât want to assume what you mean.
âthanks. i think.â he furrows his brows, downturning his lips at the notion but he gets right back to it. âyou, too.â he talks like heâs not sure what heâs allowed to say, keeping his head down in a way that reminds you heâs hulking. his broad shoulders curl down into his great back, catching the light even under his shirt as he plucks a pile from his duffel. you scan his figure shamelessly.
âthanks.â youâre spacey at best while watching him. âyou were this dorky kid the last time i saw you, what happened?â he glances at you and the wheels in his head turn as he narrows his gaze on you.
âi dunno. ate my greens, drank my milk, normal stuff.â
âright.â you nod. after a beat, you clap your hands against your thighs and push off, landing on your feet with a bound. âwell, let me know if i can help you get settled in.â your tone is more than inviting, and intensely suggestive as you coyly take your leave. âmy room is, uh, just down the hall.â when you give him one last once-over, you let him catch you doing it. you lean on the door knob, and softly close the door behind you . . .
you shouldâve guessed heâs too quiet when heâs getting fucked. âdidnât think youâd take me up on my offer, champ.â you taunt, âthought i was coming on too strong.â your chest bounces with each sheathe in, your back against the wall of the room while he suspends you over air. strong hands keep you pinned, one cupping your ass while the other hooks under your knee. itâs the kind of position that makes you feel heavy, but samâs got the body to handle it, sculpted muscle damn near glistening in the dull light like heâs trying to show it off.
âjust enough.â he says, but itâs only to cut the conversation short by pressing his lips to yours. he kisses unlike anyone youâve tasted before, itâs fervent, and involves a lot of tilting his head as if to wedge his way in while the back of your head is stamped to the drywall. you let his tongue have its way with you, youâre mostly here for the free ride. fingertips press into the fat of your flesh as he bottoms out, his tip brushing that spot inside of you that lurches you forward when your core aches.
âmmnggâfuck,â you break the kiss, âsam, youâre big.â you say with the awe of being hurt, gasping for air as you throw your head back. the boy needs to do something with his mouth, and you feel that hot sensation on your neck just under your jawline, sucking into you and traveling down fast. âyouâre fucking big. youâre huge. not just this butâfuck.â you dissolve, unable to keep your sentence on track as your eyes roll into your head. he arches back at a slight angle, but enough to change the whole game, somehow the stroke hitting you just right. âoh, my god, samâŠâ you drag out the words, bubbling out of you as he makes your body jump whenever he lands fully seated inside of you. youâre not even sure how heâs keeping you up, your legs on either side of his hips bobbing from the motion. your nails claw into his broad shoulders.
the way heâs looking down at you, thereâs a certain darkness in his eyes, watching you take his every inch while youâre calling him monstrously sized.