#remmick au

[cherryxhaze]

You Gotta Earn It First

Professor!Remmick x Fem!Reader

Part Two ->

Fic Playlist & AO3 Link

Summary: The new Irish Folklore professor seems to have it out for you. Constant critiques and unfair grades. There's a strange air to him, beyond the passionate lectures and the other students who seem to adore him. As much as you'd like to deny it, you too find yourself under his spell. WC: ~14.2k Tags/Warnings: NSFW/MDNI 18+ ONLY. heavy dubcon: somnophilia (f!receiving oral), power imbalance & manipulation. modern day professor AU. no use of y/n. dom!remmick, brat tamer!remmick, cheating/infidelity (reader cheats on bf w/ remmick), hive mind plot device, semi-public masturbation & sex, panty stealing, panty sniffing, blood kink, marking, spanking, degradation, praise, oral sex (f! & m!receiving), anilingus/rimming (m!receiving), unprotected vaginal & anal sex (f!receiving), classroom sex, hair-pulling, creampie, possessive language, obsession, rough and soft sex, jealousy. A/N: I could not have written this without the support, help & ideas from these lovelies: @confetti-cakemix @weavingduck @madkingcrowley @fuckoffbard @remmicks-salvation with a special thanks to my love @eternalstrigoii for beta reading! Credit to @cafekitsune for dividers.

When you first signed up for the Irish Folklore course this semester, you never imagined it’d turn out like this. Every student is required to take a Humanities course for their degree and this one seemed to be the perfect fit. It piqued your interest, fit into your schedule with work and other classes with a meeting time in the evenings, and you (foolishly) figured it’d be easy enough to pass without much effort. 

You were very wrong.

It’s a Tuesday night when class convenes, a handful of students scattered about at their desks in the small room stationed on the first floor in one of the oldest academic buildings on campus. You preferred small classes like this, it was more intimate, helped you be immersed, and provided better opportunities to connect with the professor. If only this Professor didn’t seem to have some personal vendetta against you, targeting you every chance he got. Professor Remmick, he insisted you all call him. Not Dr. O’Brien or Professor O’Brien, just Professor Remmick. 

“Alright, now. Before we pick up where we last left off on the discussion of Filidh, I’m returnin’ your last graded assignment.” Remmick peers down at the stack of papers in hand through the clear lenses of the glasses fixed on the bridge of his nose before he shifts, standing from his spot leaning against his desk to begin walking down the aisles. “Most of y’all did well.”

Most.

The word echoes in your ears and a heavy weight settles in your gut, churning with each appraising comment he gives to the other students upon returning their graded work.

Nice work, Chris. 

Good job, Jess.

Your teeth begin to nervously chew on the inside of your lip as he draws nearer, hoping for the string of praises to continue but dreading for more of the endless criticism you’ve received since the start of the semester.

Polished black cap toe shoes scuff against the linoleum as he stops by your desk. You chance peering up at him, but he doesn’t even glance your way before sliding the paper onto the desk like it’s a discreet, dirty secret.

A silence passes, quiet but resoundingly loud, before he moves on to the next student. He doesn’t say a word and that’s somehow worse than if he had told you it’s the worst work he’s ever seen in front of the entire class. Your eyes immediately search for the damage, landing on the C- circled and written in red ink at the top of the paper.

Disappointment floods through you before frustration, and finally anger. You’ve never gotten a C in any college courses until this class, until this Professor. If someone had told you before that the hardest class you’d take in college would be an Irish Folklore course, you would’ve laughed and looked at them like they grew two heads. 

Your eyes trail down the paper, glancing over every note written in red. 

Grammar.

You’re rambling a bit much here. 

Not quite. 

?

There is room for improvement. I expect better on the next assignment.

You don’t get it. You could’ve sworn you did everything right and had all the correct information. Hell, you probably could’ve spent hours working on it and he still wouldn’t give you an ‘A’. A heavy exhale huffs out through your nostrils as you lean back into the hard plastic seat, arms crossing over your waist. 

This class is shaping up to be more trouble than it’s worth, and you can’t help but wonder how you’d have fared with the original professor, Dr. Hughes.

It was only a few months ago when Remmick found himself in this little college town. He didn’t seek it out intentionally, only meaning to pass through on his journey to an undesignated destination. He’d been wandering for so long, he couldn’t tell you a specific number of years. After so many failed attempts to find connection to his old home, he’d begun to lose hope. That was until that December night when he found himself strolling across the quiet, concrete paths and grassy patches of your campus. When the familiar words of the legend of Fionn Mac Cumhaill and the Giant’s Causeway floated through the night air and to his ears, it stopped Remmick in his tracks. He followed it to an open window in one of the campus buildings where he lingered in the shadows, watching and listening as this Dr. Hughes butchered the retellings of the legends and myths from Remmick’s homeland, the stories near and dear to his heart. What else could he have expected from a damn Englishman. Worst of all, these students were victims of it. 

And Remmick… Well, he just couldn’t have that.

So he continued watching Dr. Hughes’ flimsy lecture until the class adjourned, waiting as the students filtered out of the old building until finally, the professor emerged. Remmick followed him as he made the walk to the Faculty parking lot, oblivious to the danger lurking in the shadows. By the looks of the dark and quiet campus there didn’t seem to be many night classes, and after that night the college would lose one of its professors.

After that, all it took was a forged degree and resume, which along with his vast knowledge on the course subject landed Remmick a position as an adjunct professor. 

He’d finally found something to give him purpose.

Remmick, oblivious or uncaring to the anger simmering within your body, continues on with class as usual, picking up where he last left off in the discussion of Irish filidh and traditional music. Palpable enthusiasm and confidence ooze from him as he lectures with an undisputable knowledge on the subject. Qualities that initially sparked excitement at the beginning of the semester, that now annoy you like an itch under your skin you just can’t scratch.

Remmick leans back against his desk as the oldest recording of The Rocky Road to Dublin plays through the computer speakers, the only time he elects to utilize electronics in class. You should be paying attention, immersing yourself in the tune, but your mind wanders elsewhere. 

Still ruminating on your bad grade, on your workday, other classes, upcoming exams, your boyfriend, James. 

At the thought of your boyfriend, your eyes fall to the Claddagh ring fixed on your right ring finger. A soft smile graces your lips, briefly remembering the moment James had gifted it to you on your birthday, telling you it symbolized love and loyalty with two hands holding a crowned heart. 

You’re distracted as you admire the ring before the hairs on the back of your neck rise with the unmistakable feeling of being watched. Slowly, your eyes lift to seek out the culprit of the discomforting sensation in the surrounding classroom. A look to the left toward your classmate Chris makes you pause, catching his eyes slowly trail up your legs to the curve of your ass and up to your breasts, until they finally lock with yours. He catches your look of disgust and before he can even react Professor Remmick clears his throat, loud and abrupt from the front of the classroom. Chris’s head snaps forward like an obedient dog following a command before it lowers, whether from shame or embarrassment, you aren’t sure.

Remmick doesn’t look at you, only exhales sharply and licks his lips before delving back into the lecture as the song comes to a close. The distraction of catching Chris undressing you with his eyes pulls your focus back to the lecture for a moment, but as Remmick discusses the significance of the traditional ballad, your mind drifts once again. This time, it isn’t toward thoughts of your boyfriend, work, or your other courses. It’s solely focused on your professor. Your frustration with him is still tangible and simmering in your body, but it begins to mix and fuse with another emotion.

Your eyes follow Remmick’s movements as he slowly paces at the front of the class. 

The way he talks with his hands.

Thick, calloused fingers. You imagine they’d feel both rough and soft dragging along your bare skin.  

The gold chain hanging from his neck. You wonder how it would catch the light as it swings back and forth above you.

That crooked, almost boyish yet calculating smile. 

The soft curve of his cupid’s bow, plump bottom lip shining under the overhead lights as his tongue darts out to lick them once more.

The way those lips wrap around each word, moving in a way that seems downright vulgar.

Biceps outlined by a light blue button up shirt, sleeves rolled up to the elbow. You imagine how much strength is harbored within them.

The ego that earlier wrought your irritation now mixes with admiration for his passion and knowledge.

Your mouth grows dry as the heat rises in your body with the wavering thoughts. Remmick’s eyes catch yours briefly with what you perceive to be a heavy weight of unspoken words within them, and it’s enough to send a tingle right between your clenched thighs. His eyes leave yours just as quickly as they met, but the undeniable signs of arousal pulse through you, a wet warmth resonating at your core.

A glance at the clock on the wall. 9pm. Still another hour left.

With each passing minute the hunger residing in your body only grows, becoming harder to ignore. You can’t make it another hour like this.

“-explores the mostly misfortunate adventures of a man on his journey to-”

“May I go to the bathroom?” You blurt out with a raised hand, too impatient to wait for him to call on you.

The classroom falls silent as Remmick takes a deep inhale, his lips forming into a thin line from exasperation at your interruption. His gaze meets yours before he reluctantly gives a curt nod, freeing your thrumming body from the seat. Your feet quickly follow the path to the door at the front classroom, only for his voice to stop you.

“Aren’t you forgetting something?” 

You can’t help but roll your eyes before turning to face him. A fiddle bow turned bathroom pass sits in his outstretched hand, though his gaze remains cast forward to the rest of the class. You huff under your breath at the ridiculousness of it, no one else is even in the goddamn building. Nevertheless, you cross the short distance to retrieve the bow from his hands, but he doesn’t release it.

A sharp tug jerks your body toward him, close enough to feel his breath fan over your skin as his eyes finally meet yours.

“Don’t take too long.” He murmurs a low and gravely warning that practically sets your body ablaze, flames licking at your most sensitive, aching parts.

As soon as his hand drops from the bow and eyes shift back toward the other students, you turn and exit the classroom as quickly as your feet can carry you.

One of the advantages of taking a night class was having the entire academic building to yourself. Something you’re grateful for as your fingers part your slick pussy lips in the bathroom stall. You’re so goddamn worked up and throbbing for release with the confusing mix of anger and arousal.

You can’t decide if you hate Professor Remmick or want to fuck him, but it’s becoming painfully obvious that it’s both.

Who the hell decided to hire him in the first place? He’s far too hot to be a professor, let alone a hard-assed one. 

You sigh softly with a jerk of your hips, a finger finding the sensitive bundle of nerves.

Your thoughts drift to wonder how his tongue might feel instead of your fingers, imagining he knows just the right places to lick and suck, since he seems to know everything.

“Fuck” The soft moan fills the empty bathroom, mixing with heavy breaths as you rub your clit in tight, slow circles.

You can’t decide if you want more of his punishment or to take your anger out on him.

If you want him to bend you over that mahogany desk and spank your bare ass until you give him the correct answers,

Or if you want to straddle him in that desk chair and ride that cocky grin off his pretty, plump lips.

Your walls pulse and squeeze, body vibrating with waves of pleasure as your fingers move faster, teeth biting your bottom lip to muffle the whimpers.

He’s big and thick, stretching you wider than any other man has, but the way you wrap around him would have him a whimpering mess beneath you, suddenly devoid of arrogance as his hands grip onto your body like it’s the only thing keeping him from blowing his load inside you.

The pleasure builds in your core, a single thread on the brink of snapping. 

You’re so goddamn close.

His calloused hands would soothe your reddened, sore flesh before moving to the wet patch of your panties. “How badly do you want that ‘A’?”

With a stutter of your hips and a muffled cry, the thread finally snaps, granting the release of intense pleasure to course through your shaking body. The tight, fast circles on your clit slow and loosen as you ride out the high until your breaths finally even out. 

It isn’t long before guilt replaces lust. You have a boyfriend for god sakes and here you are, in the bathroom of the lecture hall masturbating to your professor. With a groan, you pull out your phone and open the Messages app.

Are you coming over after class?

You hit send before setting to clean up the evidence of the escapades between your thighs and head back to class, unsure if you’ve been gone long enough to raise suspicion. Head down and gaze averted, you hope not to draw attention to yourself as you slip the bow back onto Remmick’s desk and return to yours with a silly worry that everyone knows exactly what you just did.

And he does.

Remmick takes note of the flush of your skin, the shame written all over you, the smell radiating from between your thighs and into his flared nostrils. He’s unable to stop the small smirk that tugs at his lips before steeling his mask and resuming the lecture as if he wasn’t aware of your very presence or absence.

The cool night air is a welcomed respite against your still warm skin as you step out of the building and onto the concrete pathways of campus. You love walking around at this time of night, sidewalks and roads devoid of the daytime bustle of bodies and cars. A few straggling students camping out in the library until closing time and the small group of your classmates being the only signs of life.

“So, what did you think of tonight’s lecture?” The cheery sound of your classmate Sarah’s voice pulls you from your thoughts as she comes into step at your side. You cock an eyebrow at her with an exasperated, scoffed laugh.

“What?” She questions with an oblivious but amused tone, to which you sigh.

“I mean… the subject matter is interesting.” 

“Okay…? What, you don’t like Professor Remmick?”

“Like? I think he’s a bit of an asshole, actually. I had an easier time in Chemistry, for christ’s sake.” The bitterness for what you perceive as unfair treatment seeps into your voice.

In the solitude of the now empty classroom, Remmick listens in through Sarah, letting out an amused chuckle at your crass retort.

“Yeah, I guess he can be a hard grader. At least he’s kinda cute though, right?” Sarah counters with a shrug and a coy smirk. Your eyes widen slightly and you’re caught off guard for a moment before quickly brushing it off with a laugh.

“I have a boyfriend, remember? I’m not worried about how cute a professor is.” It’s a flimsy lie, you know it is, but it’s all you can conjure up in the moment. You can hardly handle the confusing feelings the professor provokes in you, let alone admit them outloud. 

Remmick rolls his eyes. 

“Okay.” Sarah murmurs, sounding unconvinced. “How are you and James doing anyway?”

Your phone vibrates at that moment, the screen illuminating with a new text.

Not tonight, babe. Me and the boys are watching the game.

That stupid goddamn fraternity. You fight back the urge to let the irritation reflect in your expression before dimming the screen and turning your attention back to Sarah, just as the lights from the dorms begin to come into view.

“Oh, you know. We’re both busy with classes and work but we’re good.” 

Not for much longer. 

You give Sarah a tight-lipped smile, unsure how effective it is, but she returns it and nods nonetheless.

A bid good night sends the two of you parting ways where the sidewalk splits, leading to your respective buildings. Under Remmick’s selfish influence, Sarah’s eyes follow your movements. Watching the way your hair flows with the wind, the bounce of your ass with each step until your form disappears through the glass doors of the dormitory.

It turns out turning a few students had its advantages. At first, it was merely for information, inserting a few spies into the web of the college. It didn’t take long for Remmick to lose himself in the role of a professor, and even a centuries old vampire like himself wasn’t immune to falling into the allure of petty professional rivalries. Particularly that bastard of an English professor Dr. Michaels, who seemed to turn every compliment Remmick received into a boast about himself.

That was until you. Until he first saw your pretty face and that tempting body strut into his classroom. Everything Remmick’s done since then has been with tunnel vision. 

And boy, has he learned a lot about you and that boyfriend of yours.

It doesn’t take long for exhaustion to overtake you upon returning to your room and stripping off the clothes carrying the weight of the day. A few hours later, you’re deep in the throes of sleep. Campus is dead silent at this time at night with the exception of a few students pulling an all nighter for one reason or another. That meant no witnesses as Remmick helps himself through the window you conveniently left open in an attempt to seek the cool night air to aid in your slumber. Remmick just can’t help himself as it becomes increasingly harder to stay away from you. And after what he knows you did in that bathroom tonight, he needs more. He needs something to hold him over until he can have you completely. 

Upon entering, his eyes immediately fall to your sleeping form scantily clad with the covers thrown about. Restless sleeper, it seems. An oversized shirt hands loosely around your body, the hem ending dangerously close to the curve of your ass, leaving your bare legs on full display. A deep, shaky inhale passes through him in an attempt to offset the onslaught of raging emotions and desires seeing you like this spurs within him. He forces his focus to shift to the surroundings of your room, to soak up the opportunity to be in your space.

He takes everything in, from the trinkets that line the desk and shelves, to books housing stories of romance and mystery, fingers running along them as if to commit every memento that is you to his memory.

Posters of musicians and movies line the painted brick walls, along with pictures of you with friends, family… that loser boyfriend. Remmick scoffs lightly at the photograph, knowing soon enough he’d be out of the picture. He’d make sure of it.

His exploration continues until his eyes land on the laundry hamper by the foot of the bed, a discarded pair of underwear lying on top. The faint smell hits him as soon as he sees it, beckoning him closer step by step.

Hands grasp the flimsy lace material before lifting it to his face. A deep inhale of the unmistakable scent that was wafting off of you earlier fills his nostrils. The smell of pure, lustful desire. He can’t help but groan softly, the sound of satisfaction and hunger rumbling in his chest. His hand curls, balling your underwear in his fist before slipping the fabric into his pocket. He’s not leaving without a token of yours and this is just what he was looking for.

Just as he considers it’s time to leave, Remmick’s eyes fall to your sleeping form once more and his feet draw him closer to the side of the bed. You could only look more beautiful than you do now whilst in the throes of pleasure, he imagines. A sight he aims to see for himself very soon.

His breathing slows as his hand gently clasps around your ankle, warmth radiating off your body and into his palm, a sensation that both balms and ignites the restless desire for you residing in his chest. Even as his heart hammers against his ribcage, his fingers trail up your skin leisurely but with full intent. Intent to memorize the feeling of this, your warm, soft skin beneath his hands at last. The touch is tender, ghosting, and reverent.

“Rem-”

The movement stills over the plush flesh of your thigh, eyes darting up to your closed ones at the sound of the muffled groan. You’re still sleeping soundly, eyes moving behind the closed lids. His heart stills, breath catching at the realization he hadn’t imagined the beautiful sound.

“You dreamin’ about me, doll?” A low and raspy whisper leaves his dry throat. Teeth digging into the plump flesh of his bottom lip, his hand presses more firmly against your skin, caressing the meat of your thigh and inching higher and higher to the hem of your shirt.

“Remmick…”

There it is. The airy, needy murmur of his name from your parted lips goes right to his hardening cock. You put on a good front in class, but even in the depths of sleep he is the one you want, the one you desire. The one you call out to within the realm of filthy dreams, fueled by unbridled lust. There’s no denying it now.

And fuck, look at you. So tempting. Laid out like a platter of ripe fruit, begging to be tasted, to be savored. And who is he to deny you, to deny himself? He only came for a token to keep with him while you’re gone but now, he’ll have the memory and lingering taste of you on his tongue. Just a little taste, right from the source. 

The path of his hand continues traveling up the back of your thigh until reaching the hem of your shirt where he pushes past, hiking the fabric up to reveal the bare globes of your ass.

“Fuck…” Remmick mutters under his breath, mouth salivating at the sight of your juicy ass and pussy completely bare with no panties on. A wicked smirk pulls at the corner of his lips, “Always hoped you were a naughty girl.”

Carefully, his body lowers onto the bed between your parted thighs, one leg bent and hiked up. Your swollen lips aren’t even parted yet and he can still see the wetness held within them, seeping out of the glistening folds. His hands gently squeeze the fat of your ass, eyes fixed on the way it makes your puffy lips spread to give him a glimpse of the paradise held within- like digging into a succulent, juicy peach.

“So wet for me…”

He leans closer, the tip of his nose nudging along the slit before taking a deep inhale that sends a wave of shivers down his body, filling his mind with a hungry, lustful haze. Parting your slit with a flat tongue and a breathy moan, he collects the juices from your clit to your throbbing hole,  taking a moment to savor the flavor spreading along his tongue, like a man dying of thirst cherishing that first sip of water. 

You’re magnificent.

With a groan, he dips back in for more. Curled tongue delving into your tight, wet channel, licking up every drop of your sweet nectar he can. Remmick moans at the taste, the feeling of your walls squeezing around his tongue, the soft, breathy moan that slips past your lips. He’s drunk on you, on your taste, the sounds you make. He needs more.

Satisfied he’s licked up every drop, his mouth lowers to your swollen clit. With a glance up toward your sleeping, blissful face, his tongue flicks against the bundle of nerves teasingly, eyes watching for any reaction. Satisfied you won’t stir, he presses the muscle more firmly against you, swirling around and licking the sensitive bud. A mix between a sigh and moan rises from your throat, like beautiful, sinful music to his ears. It spurs him on, eliciting his lips to seal around your clit and gently suckle it into his mouth.

Your pussy pulses against his nose with a slight jerk of your hips, the movement pushing your cunt firmly against his face. He obliges your unspoken plea, fingers digging into the meat of your ass as he sucks harder on your tender clit. Within the confines of his pants, his cock strains and throbs against the material, pre-cum no doubt staining them.

“Remmick…” The words slip from your lips so quickly in a stifled, high-pitched moan, but he hears it, the sound sinking in and echoing in his ears. Even in your slumber, your body and mind associate pleasure with him and it only strengthens his raging desire for you, the resolve to make you cum on his tongue before he leaves.

A low groan rises from deep in his chest, muffled against your slick folds as his mouth continues to work your throbbing clit to a heightened bliss. Until he hears your breath hitch, your body tense beneath him, and a shaky gasp burst from your mouth. Remmick’s eyes roll back behind closed lids, moaning softly as you cum with a buck of your hips. He softens his attack on your clit as the waves of pleasure course through your lush body, and only when you relax and fall slack against the sheets does his tongue return to your still spasming channel, lapping up your release like a reward. 

With a sigh, his face turns to rest against the delicate flesh of your inner thigh as the haze of lust in his mind and body calm to a low thrum, one he won’t be able to ignore for much longer. He can take care of that later, for now he knows he needs to depart with your token stored in his pocket and lingering on his taste buds. But, not before he leaves you with a token of his own. Remmick’s lips kiss your tender skin before latching onto it, sucking gently to leave behind a small bruise to form overnight, effectively marking you as his.

Reluctantly and with one last kiss along your skin, Remmick carefully rises and slips off the bed, pulling your shirt back down to its previous position. With your arousal stained panties in his pocket and one last look over your peaceful form, he leaves the way he came, through your window and out into the dark depths of the night.

It isn’t until hours later with the sun risen above the treeline, the chirping song of birds flowing into your open window that you finally awaken to the obnoxious alarm on your phone. You silence the nagging sound with a tired groan before sitting up, legs lazily shifting to hang over the edge of the bed. As the full depth of your senses slowly return, you’re unable to ignore the slick, wet feeling between your thighs. You can’t usually remember your dreams beyond small details and flickers of images, but you know last night’s sleep consisted of another ‘wet dream’ involving your professor. 

Only when your vision drops to your legs do you see something purple and part them to reveal a small bruise on your inner thigh. Your brows furrow in confusion regarding its creation. Was it from the last time you and James had sex and you just didn’t notice until now? Maybe you need to get your iron levels checked at your next doctor’s appointment…

Regardless, you don’t linger on questioning the source of your new bruise for long as the reality of your day full of work and exams comes to the forefront of your mind.

The following night, you return to the old, cracking stone building for your next Irish Folklore class. Your movements are sluggish upon entering the classroom and taking your seat, brain exhausted but anxious as your eyes mindlessly survey the antiqued items and posters reflecting Irish culture hanging along the walls. You’d already had a number of exams today with more scheduled tomorrow, not to mention the one you’d be taking in the next few minutes.

You hadn’t studied as much as you probably should’ve for this exam with your other classes taking priority, and it leaves you with a growing pit in your stomach. You fool yourself into believing you can still perform well on it, all while knowing Professor Remmick would no doubt slap that hope down just as quickly as it bloomed. The thought beckons a restless bouncing of your leg under the desk as class convenes and Remmick begins to walk down the aisles, handing out the exam to each student. With a nervous gulp, you don’t dare to meet his eyes as he passes your desk, wordlessly sliding the multi-paged, stapled test on top.

You close your eyes and take a deep inhale that does little to unravel the knot residing in your stomach before diving in. There’s no turning back now. As you begin, the questions seem easy enough, mind readily recalling the information from previous classes. Then there’s the questions you have no recollection whatsoever of going over, and with it a wave of embarrassment passes through, realizing you may have missed those moments while daydreaming about fucking your professor. Then, there’s the questions that are worded in a misleading way. The kind of question that you think you immediately know the answer to, only for there to be another very similar answer… fucker. It prompts you to begin second-guessing all your other answers thus far, eyes tracking over every single word until you feel an ache begin to form in your temple. He’s gotten in your head, making you doubt yourself even when you were so sure. 

Your hand moves to your forehead, supporting the weight as your fingers massage your temples. Your mind is foggy and exhausted, frazzled from lack of sleep, hours of studying, classes, and work on top of the very specific stress of this course you just can’t seem to function in. Suddenly, a crimson drop splatters onto the test beneath you, dark red staining and spreading into the white paper.

Remmick’s nostrils flare and eyes squeeze shut as the scent hits him like a wave. By connection and nature, the other students can smell it too, but as Remmick’s eyes open to land on you, he directs them to focus elsewhere. With brows furrow in confusion, your fingers seek out the source at the opening of your nostrils where the slickness of blood quickly coats them. 

One second, you’re staring down at the drops of blood along the pads of your fingers and in the next, Remmick is standing before you, expression concerned as his hand gently curls around your bicep.

“Let’s step outside,” His tone is soft and hushed with a cocking of his head toward the classroom door.

You nod absentmindedly, standing from the desk to follow behind him with fingers pressed against your bleeding nose.

The empty silence of the hallway engulfs the two of you, the classroom door shutting behind to leave you truly alone. Your eyes catch sight of a white tissue in his hand as it lifts toward your face. 

“Oh, thank-” You attempt to take the tissue from Remmick’s hand only to be immediately cut off by an “aht” as he shakes your hand away, raising his own to dab the tissue against your nose.

Your eyes widen, staring up at him dumbfounded and confused by the seemingly tender gesture, a stark contrast to the treatment you’ve received from him thus far. You hate the way your body reacts to it, the flip in your stomach, the breathless hitch in your throat, the flutter in your chest. 

He notices your confused expression and a smile tugs at the corner of his lips, “What? It’s just blood.” 

Just as your vision flickers down to admire the plumpness of his lips, he gently tilts your head back, pressing the tissue gently against your nose.

“Didn’t know I was workin’ you hard enough to bleed.” He murmurs, but you can hear the subtle amusement in the words. Your face twists up with a weak scoff, a mixture of bewilderment and frustration flaring at the weak concern, but it fizzles out just as quickly with his close proximity and caring touch. 

Does he not know how much of a pain in the ass he is to you?? Surely he does, there’s no way it’s not intentional.

“It’s just been a stressful week is all.” You manage to reply, earning a soft hum in response.

He pulls the tissue from your nose and you sniffle in response, tilting your head back down to meet his eyes.

“Well, you need to take better care of yourself then, darlin’.” The pet name stuns you, spurring a warmth to bloom and grow inside you. Still stunned as you watch his fingers close around the bloodied tissue before it disappears into his pocket, not thinking anything strange of it.

His nostrils flare with a deep inhale, squaring his broad shoulders and expression growing stern. “I’ll have to mark your exam as incomplete. You’ll just have to come back tomorrow night and make it up.”

Taken aback, your head shakes side to side at the directive.

“Seriously? On a Friday night?” You blurt out, anger flaring by what you perceive to be yet another set back personally handed to you by Professor Remmick.

“Oh, I’m sorry. Do you have more important plans to attend to?” He feigns concern, leaning closer and daring you to argue further, effectively fizzling out the protest that was dancing on your tongue.

“No…” With a quiet mumble and deep sigh, your shoulders slump in defeat.

“Good.” A flicker of that cocky grin flashes across his lips before it disappears. “Now, go collect your things and head home. Ya need to get some rest.” He leaves no room for argument, reaching for the handle and holding the door open for you to reenter the classroom.

Even with stubborn reluctance you follow his instructions, collecting your bag and now blood-stained exam, returning the latter to his desk where he stands.

“Tomorrow at 8. Don’t be late.” Remmick’s low voice stops you just as you’re about to depart the classroom, eyes locked from over the rim of his glasses.

You nod curtly before stepping out and back onto the cement pathways leading to your dorm room, a nervous excitement bubbling in your gut at the prospect of being completely alone with Remmick in the empty classroom tomorrow night. James won’t be happy about your delayed Friday night plans, but part of you that you’re afraid to acknowledge doesn’t really care.

Given your spectacle in class, you know you should be in bed, likely mindlessly scrolling through social media while trying to fall asleep. But instead, you’re sat in the desk chair, laptop open and idly sitting on the google home screen as your professor permeates your thoughts once again. Your thumb nail has found a temporary home amongst teeth as your mind tries to make sense of the confusing mix of emotions he’s brought onto you, trying to make sense of him. This feels beyond the scope of a standard crush, and there’s something… off about him.

Within the solitude of the now empty classroom, Remmick sits at his desk replaying the events and images of you over the last few days in his mind. Your now dried and bloody tissue rests in his palm before he lifts it to his nose, taking a deep inhale of the intoxicating, coppery scent. A groan rumbles in his chest, the smell sending an electrifying frenzy through his body all the way to his already hardening cock. He palms it as his mouth begins to salivate and fill with thick drool, bringing the tissue to his lips and sucking, trying to taste the little bit of your blood that’s trapped within the fibers.

You can’t quite put your finger on what it is about him. He looks rather young for a professor, especially compared to the others at your university. Despite this, there’s an older, wiser air to him in the way he speaks and runs the class. Old-fashioned, for sure. No electronic assignments, a stark contrast to what’s been the standard for as long as you can remember, instead insisting that everything be hand-written and physically turned in. Then, there’s the way he speaks during lectures. You’ve always appreciated professors that are passionate in their taught subjects, but Remmick seems to be on another level. He speaks of the Irish folklore myths and legends with such reverent fondness and innate knowledge, knowing the information like the back of his hand.

The hints of your blood spread across his taste buds, making his cock throb and strain against the tight fabric of his slacks. Hands make quick work of the button and zipper to free his hard, red cock from its confines, the swollen head leaking as he sucks the last little bit of your blood from the tissue. It tastes just as divine as your cunt. He hums, reaching for the panties kept within his back pocket with his free hand. He wraps the fabric stained with your juices around his leaking tip, letting his own arousal mix with the evidence of yours.

Then there’s the somewhat off-putting love all the other students in class seem to have for him, the kind of power he seems to hold. Like Chris. The way he ripped his eyes from ogling your body the second Remmick seemed to notice, like a dog heeding its owner’s command. The Google search bar reflects back to your blank stare, questions and suspicions looming in your mind. You need to know more. With a sharp breath, your fingers land on the keyboard and type out “Remmick O’Brien” into the bar and hit search. Within seconds only 2 results are presented back, both of which are from your university’s website. One from an article welcoming him to the department, another from the department’s staff listing page. Your brows furrow and brain short-circuits for a brief moment of bewilderment. Everyone has some kind of digital footprint bigger than this. Shouldn’t there at least be some kind of result from whatever college he attended?

Remmick’s head falls back as the fabric slides down his thick, throbbing shaft, his hand guiding the slow, stroking movement. He imagines it’s your tight, wet cunt wrapped around his girth instead, squeezing and pulsing around him. His chest rises and falls with heavy breaths, tongue darting out to wet dry lips, low groans slipping out as he squeezes the flimsy fabric around the base of his cock. 

You think, searching for any memories where Remmick might’ve shared where he got his degree, surely he mentioned it during your first class. Boston, that’s it. “Remmick O’Brien Boston”. Search. 0 results. You huff, crossing your arms and leaning against the back of the chair. There’s just no way. No social media, you can understand. But not even a Dean’s List or Commencement article? Shit, did your university even verify his degree? Surely, they’d have had to… right? Teeth dig into your bottom lip, chewing on the cushioned flesh as your thoughts race with confusion. 

Remmick’s hand moves faster, jerking himself off with your panties and the lingering taste of your blood dancing on his tongue. The swollen tip continuously leaks and soaks into the fabric as his mind is filled with images of you in every goddamn position imaginable, remembering the way you called for him in your sleep, the way your cunt tasted, the sight of your doe eyes, the way your cheeks burn with a heady mix of frustration and desire for him. It’s just enough to get him there, to hold him over until tomorrow night, when this little game you’ve been playing finally comes to a head. When he can finally have you all alone and make you his.

You’re left with no answers to your questions, your lack of findings only fueling the conflicting emotions swirling inside you, adding to the nervousness residing in your gut ahead of tomorrow’s ‘make-up exam’ all alone with him. Sure that you can’t possibly get anywhere farther tonight along with the exhaustion weighing heavily in your body, you slam the laptop shut before standing from the desk, cutting out the lights and crawling into bed. It’s another in a string of recent nights where your professor has overtaken your thoughts and dreams, and as much as part of him is unsettlingly mysterious and frustrates you to no end… you don’t object to his residence there in your mind and fantasies, with an undeniable craving for more growing hungrier every day.

A choked groan of your name, a stutter of his hips, and a hard squeeze of his cock sends Remmick barrelling over the edge, his seed seeping into your panties. A dazed, sloppy smile adorns his lips at the sight before using the fabric to clean himself up as the high slowly wanes. Only one more day and he’ll have you fully within his grasp.

There’s an anxious gnawing in your stomach, a quickening of breaths with every step toward the old stone building that houses the Folklore class. It’s quiet. Not a soul in sight wandering the buildings this time of night on a Friday. You can hear the distant buzzing of cars, people in town just down the street starting their festivities for the night. Festivities you’d otherwise be partaking in, likely at your boyfriend’s frat house. Another sweaty party filled with drunk college kids, loud music, and meaningless conversations. Your boyfriend surprisingly didn’t seem too upset about your absence for the first part of the night, and you yourself aren’t too upset about it either.

The creaking of the building’s glass entrance doors echo down the empty hall, followed by your singular footsteps. You chew on your bottom lip as your feet bring you closer to the classroom door, taking a deep breath before entering. He’s the first thing you see, sitting at the desk fashioned at the front of the classroom grading papers. At the sound of your steps, his gaze rises from the collection of papers, meeting your eyes over the brim of dark framed glasses with the flicker of a smile and a murmur of your name.

“I do hope you’re feeling better tonight.” Remmick leans back into the leather chair, gaze slipping to taking in your form.

You step closer toward the edge of the desk, skin tingling under his probing gaze.

“I am, thanks.” A beat of silence. “So um, am I just finishing yesterday’s exam?”

“Oh, no. Of course not.” He chuckles as if you cracked a joke. “I made a new exam entirely for you. Can’t trust that one of your classmates didn’t give you the answers.”

There’s that cocky grin again, a playful gleam in his eyes. You stifle the scoff bubbling up your throat, eyes closing with a deep inhale at the insinuation you’d cheat. “Okay…”

Another stretch of silence hangs heavy in the air as you survey on another.

“You know,” He speaks up just before you can try to break the tension. “I suppose I’m glad things worked out this way. I’ve been meanin’ to have a talk with you.”

“Okay. A talk about what?” You ask, despite already knowing it must be about your ‘performance’. Preparing for the onslaught, you stand before him confidently, arms crossing as your hip leans against the edge of his desk..

“About your grades. Should come as no surprise to you that you- well… you’re not doin’ well.” His fingers interlock, hovering above his chest as if contemplating. “Lackluster papers, missin’ assignments, often distracted in class… Quite frankly, I don’t think you’re puttin’ in the effort.”

You sigh, briefly looking away to collect your thoughts. Confrontation has never been one of your strong suits, let alone being put on the spot like this.

“Look, I know I’ve missed some assignments or turned them in late but it’s just… I’m busy-” You regret the words as soon as they come out and in turn, word vomit the rest. “I’m taking a lot of classes. I work. I have club meetings. Sometimes I just forget or I’m too tired to-”

“Well,” A scoff cuts you off, shaking his head with a smirk at your excuse. Your body grows fidgety with a wave of frustration at his interruption and dismissive gesture. “Your classmates have the same responsibilities and still manage this class just fine.”

His eyes bore into yours as he stands, sliding one hand into the pocket of his slacks as the other plants onto the desk, propping up his leaning body. “In fact, I’ve spoken to a few of the other professors and they all speak very highly of you. You seem to excel in their courses. A star student.” His words are almost mocking as he takes another step closer.

“So tell me… why is that?” His gaze is scrutinizing all the while that soft smile plays on his lips. He’s enjoying this.

You falter for a moment, mind racing as you contemplate what to say.

“I just… sometimes I don’t have time to do everything and I have to decide what’s more important to work on…”

“Oh. So what you’re saying is this class isn’t a priority for you, is that it?” 

“No, that’s not-”

“That just because this class isn’t in your major, it’s not just as important and worthy of the same attention?” 

It feels like the walls are closing in around you, like he is closing in around you. Judging and critiquing, pushing your buttons to get a rise. 

“No.” The word comes out weakly as your mouth goes dry, a lump forming in your throat as your heartbeat quickens.

“What is it then, hm? Does all the intelligence in that pretty lil head of yours just dissipate the moment you cross that threshold?” He motions dramatically with the words, tilting his head to survey you, waiting expectantly for whatever grand explanation you’ll give.

Your eyes widen with a scoff, mouth falling open in shock before resentment replaces it with the furrow of your brows.

“You’ve got some nerve…” You bite back with a little surge of confidence, even as his face softens in amusement. In that moment, your mind flutters back to your findings, or lack thereof, on his background and credentials online. 

“It’s funny how hard you’re hounding me right now, considering it’s unclear if you’re even a real professor. Yeah, I looked you up and there was nothing to be found. Nothing from the college you attended, no Dean’s List or Commencement mentions, no social media. In fact, if you hadn’t started working here, there’d be no evidence you even existed!” The volume and confidence in your voice rises with anger at the disrespect that tainted his words, reflecting his own scrutinization back onto him as you place your hands on your hips.

You watch his expression, looking for any signs of panic or his smirk faltering. But it doesn’t. The lines around his eyes crinkle as a rumbling snicker slips past his lips that pull into a wide grin. He nods, almost out of respect at your little outburst before leaning in closer.

“Ya know, if you put this much effort into your classwork, you wouldn’t be failin’ miserably… maybe think about that.” He mutters lowly, eyes trailing over your faltering expression before he steps back and turns away, leaving you to stand there dumbfounded.

You’ve always known yourself to be a little sensitive at times and you can’t deny the way his words sting.

“You don’t have to be so mean about it!” Your voice has lost its edge despite you, faltering along with your resolve.

“Aw, sensitive lil thing aren’t ya?” A low hum as he looks toward you again, tone lacking any actual sympathy or concern. “In more ways than one I bet…” His voice lowers, gaze faltering to trail down the curves of your body.

“What?” The question comes out in a shocked whisper, brows furrowing as you question if you actually heard him right.

“Maybe it’s somethin’ else that’s affectin’ your performance in class… maybe it’s this boyfriend of yours.” His eyes fall to the inaccurately placed Claddagh ring on your finger. “Or maybe it’s just me…”

You roll your eyes at the first suggestion before they narrow with the second. Of course it’s him. 

“Uh, yeah. I’d say it’s you.” You retort matter of factly. “You’re the one being an ass and critiquing every little thing I do-”

“No, no…” Remmick shakes his head softly, his voice a breathy rasp. “I’ve seen the looks you give me, even when you think I’m not lookin’. Not to mention those long bathroom breaks you take. Ya think I don’t know what you’re doin’ in there?”

Your eyes widen in surprise, had you really been so foolish to think he wouldn’t notice? You didn’t think you were that obvious, but you’re definitely not about to admit it to him.

“You’re crazy. I don’t know what you’re talking about.” You hope your words are more convincing than you feel. 

He grins at you, seemingly unconvinced by your proclamation. Despite your words, you feel your body ignite with his close proximity and unwavering gaze from your eyes and body, prompting the return of that familiar pulsing between your thighs that he always seems to awaken.

“Well, let’s just see about that then, hm? If that’s the case, you should be able to pass this oral exam no problem.” 

Oral exam? 

The words send a spike of anxiety through you. Written exams are enough of a pain in the ass, but being expected to verbally recall the answers on the spot with no time to contemplate? You grimace, watching as he steps back to return to the leather chair like he’s settling in for a show.

“Please,” Remmick gestures. “Both palms on my desk.”

“W-What?” Your body stills, staring at him like a deer in headlights.

“Both. Palms.” The deep timbre of his words sends an electric charge through your immediately flushing body.

With a gulp and lick of your dry lips, you obey. Stepping closer, you turn to face the desk, your back facing toward him merely a foot behind you and lay your palms flat against the cool, polished wood surface.

You mentally chastise and thank yourself for wearing a skirt tonight, the slight lean forward of your body causing the fabric to hike up just a fraction, enough to feel the air hit the tender flesh of your upper thighs. You can only imagine the view from his seated position behind you, heat spreading up your neck and across your face at the thought.

“Let’s start with something easy, hmm?” Remmick’s eyes glide up your bare legs to where the hem of your skirt rests dangerously close to the curve of your ass. 

“Name 5 of the ancient Celtic gods.”

A brief moment of silence passes as your brain catches up to your ears, recalling the names repeatedly mentioned throughout class.

“Rhiannon, Morrigan, Lugh… Dagda… Bridgid.”

No praise or criticism, he simply moves on.

“And the four cycles?”

“Mythological, Ulst-” You stutter, feeling the sudden touch of calloused fingers gently caressing the back of your knee, a ticklish sensation that shoots up your thigh and throughout your body.

“Ulster… Fenian… Cycle of Kings.” Your voice and breaths waver as his touch, feathery light and painfully slow, glides up the back of your thigh, leaving a trail of rising goosebumps behind.

“Good.”

“Profes-”

“When is St. Brigid’s Day?” A swift cut off, moving onto the next question.

“The first day of spring?”

“Which is?” The dancing of his fingers along your thigh ceases, waiting as you hesitate and struggle to recall the answer. You’re almost ashamed of the way your body reacts to his halted touch, spurring a flicker of panic and racing heartbeat. 

“Um, February… 1st?” It’s a guess you’re only half-confident in, but a lucky one nonetheless as his touch resumes, hand moving under your skirt to caress the bare skin of your ass.

A shaky exhale escapes your parted lips, eyes fluttering closed as the stroke of his fingers turns the kindling fire flickering in your core into a wild blaze. Your body automatically reacts by bending forward slightly to lean into the touch, the meat of your ass pressing fully against his palm. You hear his hum of approval, the palpable hunger in his low, breathy voice.

“The mother goddess of Tuatha Dé Danann?” Remmick pushes the fabric up, fully revealing the round globes. No panties… He groans at the sight of wetness already slicking your puffy folds and the sound goes right to your core, a shiver running up your spine as the air hits your bare cunt. You can’t think straight, mind focused solely on your professor’s groping and caressing hand, your most private regions exposed to his ravenous gaze.

Remmick himself is distracted until a moment passes and he realizes you haven’t answered the question. “Oh, don’t disappoint me now, darlin’. You’re doin’ so good.”

The soft creak of leather hits your ears, his presence shifting behind you until the fabric of his clothes brushes along your skin, mouth hovering by your ear.

“Fuck,” You mutter under a breath, palms growing sweaty against the polished wood. Think. “Morrigan?”

The tsk hits your ears as a disappointed chide, all movement stalling before his gravelly voice whispers, “Lay your chest against the desk.” Breath fanning over your ear, a sick and anxious thrill shoots through you with the command.

You obey and bend over fully, upper body flush against his desk. The coolness of the polished wood is a welcomed shock, a stark contrast to your blazing, flushed skin. He makes you wait, only just for a moment to make you antsy and anxious, fidgeting with anticipation for what you know will inevitably come. 

Knowing doesn’t prepare you.

Remmick’s hand collides with your bare ass, a smacking sound that echoes off the walls of the empty classroom, pulling a broken gasp from your parted lips pressed against the desk. 

“One more chance. Try again.”

He’s trying to utterly wreck and humiliate you. You try your best to think of the correct answer, at this point you’ve nearly forgotten the damn question.

“Fuck. Eriu? I don’t know!” He grins at how pathetically desperate you sound, returning the incorrect answer with another resounding smack against the tender, already reddening skin of your rear. 

Your body jerks against the desk with a whimper and then a yelp when he spanks you again, unexpectedly and hard. He’s not sure he wants to stop, seeing the way his handprint is beginning to mark the flesh, watching the way it jiggles with each smack. “That one was for being a mouthy little brat.”

Another smack. 

The pain bleeds into pleasure, reverberating throughout your body and spreading right to your soaking cunt. You don’t think you’ve ever been so wet in your entire life. Remmick seems to take notice too as his calloused hand soothes the red, beaten flesh.

“I think I’ve found the root of your problem, sweetheart.” He hums before his hand trails down and two digits slowly part your puffy, slick lips. The two of you moan softly in tandem, body trembling with the touch as your pussy throbs with want, with need.

“Too busy thinkin’ with this,” A flinch and a gasp as his hand spanks your cunt. “instead of your brain. Isn’t that right?”

You can barely nod, too focused on the way his fingers soothe your pussy just as they’d done with your ass.

“Answer me.”

“Yes, Professor.” You answer obediently, voice thick with barely restrained desperation that mirrors your restless body, unable to resist the impulse to rock your folds back against his hand.

“Poor thing. ‘Course you can’t pay attention when all the blood in your body is between your legs.” The outline of his hard cock nudges along your thigh, breath hot against your ear. “I could give you what you need, darlin’. If you want me to fuck you, all you have to do is ask…”

His touch stalls, waiting for you to obey, to beg him for what you both know you want. But even in the haze of arousal, a moment of clarity passes through as you remember your supposed commitment, the loyalty you’ve already broken.

“I shouldn’t… I- I have a boyfriend.” Your protest is shamefully weak and your cunt, well she has a mind of her own, pulsing pathetically in protest from the lack of your professor’s touch. Remmick knows it too, can hear it in your voice, can see it in your eyes.

“Ah, yes. James…” A breathy laugh and devious smirk. “Quite a flirt from what I hear.”

Your eyes widen, visibly taken aback. “Excuse me?” You question despite knowing you have no ground to stand on to be hurt or upset, given you yourself have already crossed the line.

And Remmick, well, he’s more than heard that James is a flirt. He happens to know that in this very moment under the guidance of that powerful little hivemind, James is currently tangled up with his spawn and your classmate, Sarah. It hadn’t taken much convincing at all. 

He won’t tell you that part, though. You don’t need to know. You’ve already let Remmick in, let him touch you in your most intimate area and now, all you need is a little push.

“You heard me, darlin’. Your little ‘relationship’ clearly isn’t serious to him… and judgin’ by the way you’re soakin’ my fingers right now, I’d say it’s not serious for you either.”

A muffled gasp slips past your lips with a flick of his calloused fingers stroking your throbbing, needy clit.

“This pretty lil pussy is all wound up. She needs a man to take care of her… all you gotta do is beg me for it.” He practically growls, hunger lacing the filthy words as his lips brush against your ear.

The little voice reminding you of your commitment to James grows quieter until fizzling out all together, leaving just the raw arousal for your professor behind. Your body is trembling and aching for it, to give into your forbidden carnal desires.

“Yes,” The words slip eagerly from your tongue with a languid nod. “Please.”

The pad of his thumb continues its ministrations against your clit as his other hand grabs your jaw, not enough to hurt but enough to exert his power. His fingers flex against your soft skin, grip forcing your lips into a pout that you’re sure looks as pathetic as it feels, even as a newly discovered part of yourself loves it.

“Please what? You’re gonna need to get more specific, darlin’.” Remmick taunts, lips moving to the blazing skin of your cheek.

“I want you to fuck me. Please, Sir.”

Remmick’s cock aches behind the confines of his slacks at the pure, unbridled need in your voice. He could push you further, make you beg and edge you until tears stain those pretty blushing cheeks. Hell, maybe he will later.  But for now, even he can’t hold back anymore.

Remmick uses his grip to turn your head to face him, the rest of your body quickly following suit as his lips crash against yours in a demanding kiss. It’s wet, sloppy, and full of ravenous hunger as you readily return it, lips moving in a frenzied, passionate dance. There isn’t an inch of space between your bodies pressing flush together, his hands greedily roaming your backside as your own grip onto his biceps to ground yourself amidst the dizzying sensations of his touch.

As soon as your lips part, his tongue delves in to explore and claim the depths of your mouth. He swallows your wanton moan at the feeling of his tongue against yours, licking and tangling together as one of your hands trails up his arm to thread your fingers into his short, curled strands of hair. Rumbling groans rise from his throat with the mixing of your spit and you’re too lost in a daze of arousal to question the thick, viscous consistency of his. You readily lap it up as the throbbing between your legs intensifies with every brush of his tongue against yours, every breath that presses your chests closer together.

With a shuddering gasp, Remmick pulls his lips from yours, a thick string of saliva still connecting your lips. He sees the same glazed over look in his eyes reflected in yours. With his hand cupping the side of your jaw, the calloused pad of his thumb slowly rubs along your now swollen bottom lip, breaking the chain of spit and collecting the rest off the plump skin. 

A grin appears as he pushes his slick thumb into your mouth, eyes locked in an intense gaze as you softly suck the remnants of the kiss from his finger. 

“Good girl” The raspy praise washes over you in a wave of sweet relief, settling into your knees that wobble under the weight of it. His praise is a refreshing drop of water down your parched throat, a substantial load off your shoulders that leaves you stumbling after weeks of persistent criticism.

A soft smacking sound leaves your lips with a slow pull of his thumb, dragging down to your chin before his palm leaves your face entirely. His body follows, eyes locked onto one another as he steps back, watching in amusement when your brows furrow in confusion from the loss of touch.

Your eyes follow as he casually sits back into the leather cushioned desk chair before you, thick fingers working the button and zipper of his slacks with practiced ease. “You wanna pass this class? Want me to fuck you? I can give you everything you want, baby, but you gotta earn it first. On your knees.”

All it takes is a slight push down of the waistband for Remmick’s aching cock to spring free and stand at attention in all its engorged glory, the swollen head red and leaking. Your eyes take in every detail, following the pulsing veins that run the length of his thick girth, mouth watering at the sight alone. It feels like you’re in a trance as your body slowly lowers until your knees land on the cold tiled floor, lips parted with every heavy breath flowing freely. On hands and knees you crawl toward him and his waiting cock, his own eyes flickering between your hungry expression and the sway of that sinful ass with each shift of your hips.

The movement halts once your shoulders become caged between his knees. A tentative glance up to those eyes staring back, shadowed by the overhead light behind him. There’s a light twinkling within them. It flickers, the white glimmer shifting to crimson before it disappears just as quickly. It should scare you, should send a shiver of fear down your arched spine… but it doesn’t. The heat radiating throughout your body, the hunger residing in your core only grows. The moment only adds to the looming mystery around your professor, but also, his intoxicating allure and pull.

Your gaze settles back onto Remmick’s leaking cock before you, watching as it twitches in anticipation before you can no longer deprive the both of you. With your tongue sticking out flat, it slowly drags along from the base to the tip, gathering a taste before curling to flick at the cleft marking the underside of his swollen head. A swirl to collect the drops of dripping pre-cum onto your tastebuds sends a shudder through his heaving chest, eyes falling half-lidded as he watches your pursed lips pepper kisses between kitten licks along his throbbing shaft.

“That’s it.” He breathes out, fingers anchoring into the hair on the back of your head when your lips finally wrap around him. The warm, wet cavern of your mouth feels better than he could’ve imagined, hot saliva engulfing his length with the teasing wiggle of your tongue that makes his breath hitch. 

The grip on your hair tightens with each inch that disappears past the plump curve of your lips, testing just how much of him you can take before a gag, pop, and a gasp bursts from your lips with the incessant nudging of his head deep down your throat. He smirks, tongue darting out to wet his lips when you do. But if anything, you’re determined and already craving more of the salty, heady taste of him.

A deep satisfaction settles into his bones, mixing with the sparks of toe-curling pleasure your mouth ignites throughout him. “Look at that,” A breathy chuckle rumbles from his chest. “Turns out you are good at somethin’ besides runnin’ your mouth.” He comments as his fingers work to undo the buttons of his shirt, voice beginning to strain when your tongue swirls around the tip with each bob of your head.

His words only spur you on more, prompting your fingers to reach for the waistband of his slacks and impatiently push them all the way down and off until there’s no barrier, no resistance to keep you from fully sliding yourself between his legs. Your arms straddle his strong, thick thighs, hand joining your mouth to move in sync stroking up and down the thick girth, eliciting a deep groan of approval.

Despite his fingers remaining tangled in your hair, he doesn’t try to guide or force your movements. He can tell by your closed eyes, the moans that vibrate through his length, the deeper you take him, the faster your mouth moves, the harder you suck, that you’re enjoying this as much as he is. So he lets you, reveling in the most pleasure he’s had in a long time, so long that the past pales in comparison to this, to you.

Then, you open your gorgeous eyes to lock onto his just as your free hand falls to cradle and rub his heavy, aching balls. All the strength in his body can’t stop the drawn-out moan that leaves his mouth or keep his eyes from rolling back. “Fuck… so good, darlin’.” The shaky guttural praise only heightens your resolve and hunger to a degree you’ve never felt before. You’ve been horny and aroused, but this, this is a different level entirely. 

Your lips pull from his cock with a wet pop while your hand continues to pump him, body lowering and back arching as your mouth moves down to his heavy sack. Your hot, heavy breath surrounds his balls before your mouth does, licking and swirling before gently sucking them into your mouth. Remmick practically growls at the intense stimulation and your eyes watch as his head falls back against the cushioned headrest. His jaw tenses, chest shaking with every exhale, veins protruding along the thick column of his throat.

You lather his sensitive sacks with attention amid the dripping arousal between your legs. You crave more, you need more. More of him, every inch you can get, every depraved sound and moan you can pull from those plush lips. You’re lost in the throes of hunger, with the desire to please him, to taste every inch of his alluring body you can. 

With a mind of its own, your tongue slips lower in hopes of exploring more of him and his pleasure, moaning as it lavishes the stretch of skin below his balls. An experimental zigzag of your tongue against it elicits a shaky moan, Remmick’s eyes opening to watch you sink lower and lower. Your own eyes lock onto his as your tongue flicks out, giving a testing lick against his puckered hole. It’s uncharted territory for you, but you can’t resist the intoxicating urge to keep going, especially with the way his breath hitches.

“Fuck, I knew you were a filthy girl.” He groans as the feeling of your mouth becomes dizzying, his cock rock hard in your still stroking hand. His grip on your hair tightens as he spreads his legs wider, shifting lower on the seat to grant easier access as your tongue presses firmer with another lick and swirl against his asshole. 

“Oh god,” Remmick’s head begins to fall back before he catches himself, forcing his eyes to focus on the dirty, sinful sight of you. On all fours, back arched with that perfect ass in the air, glazed eyes fluttering up at him with your mouth buried beneath his balls. “You eat your boyfriend’s ass like this?” His breathy, strained voice reflects his quickly crumbling composure, only furthered by the way he can practically feel your smile in response.

“Uh uh,” You gasp, only pulling from his core enough for him to hear you. “Just you, Sir.” He groans as you waste no time diving back in, your tongue incessantly licking and prodding at the sensitive hole with a one-track minded hunger that reflects his own.

Fuck, you’re going to be his unravelling. Body, flesh, soul… his entire being.  

The pleasure coursing through him builds at a rapid pace, balls drawing up tight with the coil in his lower stomach with each lewd lick and moan muffled against him.

Using the leverage of his fingers in your hair, he pulls your mouth from him with a guttural curse, almost busting right there on the spot upon seeing your expression. You gaze up at him like a newborn dazed and drunk off their first taste of blood. His cock aches and twitches at the sight before his lips collide against yours with a swift speed.

Strong arms lift your body with his as he stands from the chair, tongue invading your mouth to taste himself from you. A few stumbling steps and the cool surface of the desk presses against your backside. “Bend that ass over the desk again, now.” Long gone is the cool, snarky and collected persona from earlier, stripped away to leave only the primal, feral lust behind.

There’s no time wasted on stripping off the remainder of your clothes, the impatient need to be connected on the most carnal level taking precedence. With your body resuming its previous position bent over his desk, Remmick settles behind you and flips up the flimsy fabric of your skirt. His cock slots between your puffy lips, thrusting slightly to coat the length with your slick. 

“Tell me you want it,” He pleads, rasping your name against your ear with his last bit of restraint, your sweet, depraved begging the last thing he needs to hear before he fully lets go. You swear you’ve never heard your name sound so beautiful and with such desperation before.

“Yes. God, yes! Please, Professor. I need you.” Your bottom lip trembles as you beg, your entire body thrumming with need, hips rocking back in an attempt to chase the promise of what you both know only he can give you. Ecstasy beyond your comprehension, beyond what you’ve ever experienced. 

The swollen head of Remmick’s cock breaches your cunt with a shuddering exhale before slowly sinking deeper. He leans back to watch his length disappear inside you, the tight, wet warmth of your pussy surrounding him inch by inch until he’s fully hilted inside. Your gasping whimpers are like music to his ears, tight walls fluttering as they attempt to accommodate his thick girth. So thick it makes your eyes roll back, stretching you farther than anyone before ever has, filling your walls with an intoxicating ache that borders on painful.

“So fucking tight.” He grits out through clenched teeth, fingers digging into the fat cushioning your hips. His eyes follow the slow unsheathing of his cock from your cunt before a roll of his hips sends him plunging back into you with a deep, hard thrust that knocks the breath from your lungs.

Remmick doesn’t give you time to catch it, setting a rough and fast pace as one hand slides up the curve of your spine to land at the nape of your neck, curling his fingers around the tender skin with a tight grip.

“Oh, fuck!” A high-pitched whine bursts from your lips, body jerking against the desk with every sharp thrust that sends your fingers searching for purchase along the cool, smooth wood. His body brackets you against the solid furniture, forcing you to take the full brunt of his relentless pounding.

The desk begins to shake, sending pens, papers, and books clattering to the floor. The sound joins the echoing symphony of your combined, debauched moans and the slapping of skin against skin.

“This is what you wanted, isn’t it?” Remmick’s hand moves from your neck to collect your hair, gripping and tugging it back. “For me to fuck you and put you in your place, hm?” His voice takes on a unrestrained, feral quality that matches the way he’s fucking you, juxtaposing your choked, wanton cries.

“Yes, Sir!” The way your words jumble with each thrust only makes his cock twitch and pulse inside you, you’re already so fucking wrecked and drunk off him.

“Yeah? You wanna be my good little pet?”

“Oh god, yes!”

“Yes what?” A harsh tug on your hair and a sharp smack against the bouncing meat of your ass. “Yes, Professor!” Actual tears begin to brim your eyes with the overwhelming sensations, your pussy throbbing from the unrelenting abuse of his cock while aching for more.

A near animalistic growl rises from his throat, sweat beading and slipping down his forehead. His eyes are locked onto the way your ass recoils with each stroke, the sight of his length repeatedly disappearing inside you, the feeling of your tight cunt squeezing him like it never wants to let go.

A shift in angle sends your hands grasping at the edge of the desk with a high-pitched gasp, stars beginning to bloom behind your eyes. Remmick’s length rubs against that spongy spot inside you that James could never find, sending radiating waves of intense, hot pleasure through you. It rapidly builds, walls fluttering with a deep throb.

“Fuck, harder!” You beg, craving more of that intoxicating feeling that already has your body trembling.

“Louder!” He demands, not caring if anyone left on this side of campus at this time of night hears the utterly depraved sounds he’s pulling from you.

“Please! Harder, Sir!” You use all your breath to raise your voice into a desperate cry, one that seems to satisfy as his cock hits that sweet spot even harder. It’s nearly too much to handle as your nails dig into the wood, feeling yourself begin to slip. “I-I think I’m gonna-”

“Let it out. Give it to me. Now.” 

Your body immediately reacts by obeying his command, releasing a flood of pure, blinding ecstasy with a scream of carnal rapture. Remmick’s guttural groan joins you at the feeling of your juices flooding his shaft, walls spasming around him with a vice grip. He fully hilts himself inside you as his own release crashes over him, cock twitching as it fills up your cunt with his seed, possessive satisfaction mixing with pleasure.

The sounds of your heavy breaths fill the room, chests heaving and cores pulsing together, still joined. Remmick slowly pulls his now drenched cock from your pussy, smirking at the way it clenches around nothing from the loss. Despite the intense orgasm and his seed stuffed deep in your cunt, he’s not done with you yet as desire still simmers between your bodies.

He tears off the already unbuttoned shirt hanging off his arms, one hand rubbing along the arched curve of your back as the other grips the base of his cock. His tip slides up and down your soaking slit, collecting your combined juices before teasingly rubbing the swollen head against your puckered, unused hole.

“Ya ever let your boyfriend fuck you here?” The raspy question meets your still ringing ears with the feeling of his tip teasing your asshole.

“No, Sir…” Teeth dig into your bottom lip and even as your body tenses with the unfamiliar territory, a thrill shivers down your spine with the prospect.

A grin pulls at his lips, muffling a short, rumbling chuckle before he lets the thick saliva pooling in his mouth drip out onto his cock and your unused hole.

“Good…” His voice hits your ears like honey laced whiskey, twinged with an undeniable dark, defiling possessiveness. 

He braces a hand on the desk next to your waist as the other guides his cock, steadily pushing forward until the head breaches your opening. A grunt and heavy breath escapes him at the feeling, your ass is even tighter than your pussy, the walls resisting his exploration. 

“Just relax, baby. Let me in.” The cooing of his voice combined with the soothing touch along your spine sends sparks fluttering throughout your body. You try to focus on steadying your breaths, relaxing your muscles to ease his way inside.

With each inch he sinks deeper, his body lowers until he’s fully hilted inside your pulsing walls and his chest is flush against your back. The uncomfortability slowly fades as he holds himself there, waiting for your breaths to even out until all that remains is a foreign ache and you fully relax around him.

“There you go.” Remmick praises as he withdraws and thrusts back in at a leisurely pace with less resistance, hearing the soft gasps that begin to leave your lips. “You’re takin’ me so well, baby.”

The praise goes right to your head, already spinning and hazy from the stark shift in his disposition, from rough and feral to the now slow and tender that makes your stomach flutter. This, it’s just as charged with hunger and desire, but far more intimate. 

His hips set a steady rocking rhythm, thick cock stretching your virgin ass with long and deep strokes. You feel every heavy breath tickle the sensitive skin along your neck and ear, making your walls squeeze around him, rewarding you with another wrecked moan from his lips.

Soon, the shift in your moans and body is palpable, eyes fluttering as waves of pleasure flow through you with each plunge of his dick inside you. “Yeah… you like that, darlin’?” A breathy whisper fans across your cheek with a tilt of Remmick’s face, pressing his forehead to rest against the side of yours.

“Yes. You feel so good, Sir.” You answer with a needy whimper, turning your face slightly to lean into him. A shuddering sigh passes through him in response and despite already being inside your tight ass and feeling the parts of your body flush with his, he still needs more, needs to be even closer, needs you to feel absolutely surrounded by him.

“Such a good girl for me, aren’t you?” He murmurs, lips brushing against the flushed skin of your cheek as one hand searches for more, reaching around to grasp at the low neckline of your shirt. A slight tug is all it takes for the soft mounds of your bare breasts to fall free, his hand immediately moving to grab and massage the tender flesh.

“Yes, Professor.” You practically purr for him, the added stimulation of his fingers tweaking your sensitive nipples making your eyes roll back.

“Say it, baby. Tell me who you are.” Remmick pushes further, shifting his other hand to cover yours that’s holding onto the edge of the desk. He flinches as the silver of your Claddaghs ring burns, but he doesn’t pull away, instead slotting his fingers into the spaces between yours.

“Oh, god. I’m your good girl, Sir.” You answer with a broken, breathy moan, eyes opening to meet his half-lidded ones.

They gaze back at you with affection and desire, his lips parted for every breath and groan to slip freely. “Fuck, you’re so beautiful like this.” The blissed out expression on your face, the glazed look in your eyes, put there by him. 

There’s no time to respond before his lips capture yours in a deep, passionate kiss. The speed of his thrusts picks up slightly, spurred on by your moans that muffle against his lips. You part them, tongue freely and languidly sliding in to tangle with his. That familiar blinding heat begins to bloom in your core once again, heightened and building with each added layer of stimulation.

The full, pleasureful ache of his cock in your ass. The feeling of his body and skin flush against yours. His hand fondling your breast, teasing your hard, sensitive nipples. The other covering yours, fingers laced together. Mouths swallowing each other's moans as your tongues engage in a dance as old as time.

The forbidden filth and yet intimacy of it all.

Remmick can tell you’re getting closer, can feel it in his own tightening coil. Your breaths quicken, tight walls squeeze rhythmically around him, your sweet, muffled sounds growing higher-pitched.

Your orgasm hits you like a freight train, waves of pleasure crashing over your trembling body. Remmick holds you through it as he cums with you, the tight grip of your ass around his thick girth spurring on new heights of ecstasy. Your moans and heavy breaths mingle, chests heaving in sync as he pumps you full, laying claim to both of your holes with his seed. 

You remain there together joined over the desk, basking in the afterglow of your orgasms until it eventually wades. Remmick presses a soft kiss to your lips before easing his length out of your sensitive, still pulsing hole. You remain there on the desk, catching your breath and waiting for the haze of ecstasy to clear from your mind amidst the sound of shuffling clothes, the buckling of Remmick’s belt. 

When you lift your chest from the desk to stand straight and turn around, Remmick’s stepping back toward you. His slacks are back on, shirt pulled back over his arms but still unbuttoned. His hands quickly return to your body, moving to adjust and fix the neckline of your shirt as you look at him with those doe-eyes.

“Now, given our… discussion, I’m willin’ to look past those missing assignments.” A wide, bashful smile pulls at your lips, matching his own grin as his hands drag down your sides.

“And my exam? Do I get an A?”

“Greedy now, are we?” He chuckles at the tilt of your head, the innocent batting of your eyelashes. “I’ll give you an A… but you’re still gonna run home and do your reading for the next class like a good girl, aren’t you?” His voice grows deeper, hands sliding to smooth the now wrinkled fabric of your skirt back down over the curve of your ass.

“Yes, Sir.” You answer with a dazed smile, heart still pounding against your ribcage.

Remmick’s gaze shifts down as his hand moves to take yours in his palm. His expression falters for a moment upon seeing the Claddagh ring gifted to you by James before a smug grin returns.

“Ya know, the way you’re wearin’ this ring… it means you’re single.” Your eyes shift down to watch as he reaches for it, already prepared for the burning sting once he grasps and slowly pulls the silver band off the column of your finger. He turns it so that the heart is facing inward and slides it back onto your right ring finger. “That means you’re in a relationship.”

You blink in confusion, unaware there was a significant meaning in the ring’s placement, James had surely never told you so either. The feeling of your professor’s fingers along your jawline snaps you from your thoughts as he gently lifts your face to meet his once more.

“And don’t be mistaken. It’s not with that boy, either… You’re mine now, ya understand?”

Part Two ->

[flixpii]

— 𝘀𝘄𝗲𝗮𝘁 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝘀𝘂𝗴𝗮𝗿 — three

part i | part ii | part iv

⤷ ‎ ‎ # ‎ ‎ featuring ‎ ‎ farmer!remmick × fem!reader ۶ৎ

— ♡ synopsis ‎ ‎ you get closer to remmick than you ever have before—close enough to see how much he wants you, how much you want him back. and after one impulsive moment, you both cross over into new territory ( wc : 13k )

mdni 18+ ‎ ‎ ‎hyperfeminine!reader. modern au. light slow-burn. mutual irritation / tension. spoiled / airheaded reader. forced proximity. semi-public sex. messy protected p in v sex. shy!remmick. virgin!remmick. oral ( both receiving ). overstimulation. dirty talk. praise. social micro aggressions. size kink / difference. vaginal fingering. teasing. masturbation ( f! & m! ). vibrator / sex toy usage. aftercare.

゛notes ⸝⸝.ᐟ⋆ another long one y’all… i just can’t stop yapping 😭 late post too lmaoo i got home from work and decided to post so i could knock it off the list. as always : warnings are based on all of what i have written so far as a whole, or are set in stone to be written ! this takes place right after part two.

The walk to his bedroom happens in a blur—quiet footsteps down the hall, your hand brushing his, the heat of what just happened between you still humming in the space where your mouth had been on him. 

Remmick moves like he’s afraid to touch you and terrified not to, stealing glances at your lips, at your hips, at the faint tremble in your thighs from kneeling too long.

By the time the door clicks shut behind him, the air feels thick enough to choke on.

He stands there for half a breath, chest rising and falling fast, eyes dragging down your body like he’s memorizing something he never expected to see. 

You take a step toward the bed, thumbs hooked in the waistband of your shorts, and his gaze follows the movement like he’s being led by instinct.

The shorts come off. Then your panties.

He goes still.

You lie back on the bed, spine arching slightly as you settle into the mattress, legs falling open in an invitation even he can’t pretend to misunderstand.

“C’mere,” you breathe.

His body obeys before his mind can catch up.

He moves onto the bed, onto his knees, large hands sliding beneath your thighs. His fingers curl, lifting, adjusting—guiding your legs up until they hook over his broad shoulders. 

The position forces you open completely, pussy exposed to the hot air of the room, folds glistening and already swollen from how wound up you’ve been since the couch.

He looks down at you from between your legs, face flushed, breath shaky.

“Tell me if I’m doin’ anything wrong,” he murmurs, voice rough.

You laugh softly, breathlessly. “Baby… you just have to put your mouth on me.”

His pupils blow wide.

And then his face lowers.

There’s zero hesitation. No warm-up.

He buries himself in you.

His mouth seals to your cunt with a hunger that almost knocks the air from your lungs. His nose presses hard against your clit, smushed up against it, the pressure so sudden and perfect your hips jerk up off the bed. His tongue dives between your slick folds, hot and eager, tasting you with long, greedy strokes that make a broken sound escape your throat.

“Oh my god—” you gasp, fingers flying to his hair. “Remmick, you—fuck—”

He groans into you, the vibration rolling through your cunt like a shock. His hands tighten on your thighs, pulling you higher, pulling you onto him until your pussy is fully smothering his mouth, his face nearly disappearing between your legs.

Your clit drags over the bridge of his nose as he licks deeper, tongue flattening to lap you up like he’s been starving for days. 

You grind without meaning to, cunt sliding against his mouth, wetting his lips and chin with every slick pass.

He moans again—louder this time—and the sound shoots straight through you.

“Don’t stop,” you pant, pulling him closer by the hair. “Please—don’t stop, don’t stop…”

He doesn’t.

He keeps you right where he wants you—legs thrown over his shoulders, cunt pressed so tight to his face you can feel every breath he takes. 

His tongue works your opening, fucking into you in slow, messy thrusts before he drags up again to suck your clit into his mouth, lips closing around it in a wet pull that makes your vision flicker.

Your thighs tremble around his head.

Your hips can’t stay still.

He holds you steady anyway, as if eating you out is something he’s been waiting to do without even knowing it.

And you can’t think, can’t speak, can’t do anything except moan his name like it’s the only language you know.

The pressure builds fast—too fast. Your thighs twitch against his cheeks, your stomach tightening like a wire pulled taut. The wet drag of his tongue, the suction around your clit, the messy glide of spit and slick across every part of you—it’s all too much.

Your hips stutter upward once, twice, and then freeze with a shudder.

“Remmick,” you gasp, voice breaking. “I’m—I’m coming—”

And you do.

You come with your thighs clenched tight around his head, back arched off the bed, your cunt leaking all over his mouth. 

He groans into it, licking you through it like it’s the best thing he’s ever tasted, his hands holding you in place while your body trembles and bucks. 

Your cunt pulses hard against his tongue, spasming around nothing, the slick sound of it obscene in the quiet room.

It takes a moment for you to breathe again.

When you finally peel your eyes open, his face is soaked—chin shiny, lips swollen, eyes dazed.

You reach for him.

“C’mere.”

He’s still catching his breath when you pull him up by the collar of his shirt, dragging him up for a kiss. 

You taste yourself on his tongue and moan into it, legs wrapping around his waist, hands fumbling to undo his jeans again.

“I want you to fuck me,” you whisper against his mouth.

He groans like it’s painful.

“Please, baby,” you add, slipping your hand between your bodies to help push his pants down. 

His cock springs free—already leaking again at the tip—and you shift beneath him until your hips align, your folds slick and swollen and so ready.

You grip the base of his cock, angle it down, and start to guide it through your folds—letting the fat head nudge at your entrance.

“God,” he breathes, “are you sure?”

But you’re already nodding, already rocking your hips up to press the head in—and that’s when the sound hits you.

Tires on gravel.

A distant car door slam.

Then another.

He freezes.

Your eyes widen.

“Oh my god—”

Remmick scrambles backward like he’s been electrocuted. His cock slaps against his stomach, flushed and twitching, and he fumbles to yank his pants up while you throw yourself off the bed, digging for your shorts with shaking hands and a squeal.

“That’s Grandma,” he says in horror, wiping his mouth with the back of his arm.

“No shit!” you hiss, trying to pull your panties up with one hand and smooth your hair with the other. Your lip gloss is smeared, your thighs are sticky, and you’re still twitching from your orgasm.

He’s tucking himself away, red-faced, breathing like he just ran a marathon.

You nearly trip pulling your shorts on.

By the time his bedroom door opens again, both of you are fully dressed—barely.

He glances at you. You glance at him.

Neither of you says a word.

Not about the way your panties are still wet, or the way his cock is still half-hard behind the zipper, or the fact that if she had come home even five minutes later, he would’ve been buried inside you by now.

Remmick clears his throat.

“I should, uh… probably see if she needs help with any groceries she may have gotten after church.”

You nod quickly, still breathless. “Y-Yeah. Sure. Totally.”

He leaves the room, and you flop back onto the bed with your heart pounding like you just robbed a bank.

The bath didn’t help as much as you hoped.

You’d soaked in it until your fingers pruned, head leaned back against a folded towel, steam curling around your lashes and the scent of sweet vanilla bath oil drifting through the room. You even washed your hair, shaved your legs, scrubbed between your thighs twice. But it hadn’t chased the heat away—just made it worse.

Dinner was pointless. A plate of lukewarm leftovers and a slow pick at your food. The bath hadn’t helped, and food wasn’t going to, either.

Now, back in your room, the house quiet around you, you shut the door and twist the little gold lock into place.

Your bare feet pad across the soft rug as you glance around—your makeup-stained vanity, the pink throw pillows on your bed, the little twinkling LED lights you stuck around the edge of your mirror when you first arrived.

Everything’s cute. 

And yet your mind won’t stop circling back to something else entirely.

The way his hands felt wrapped around your thighs. How wet his face had been when he pulled away. How easily he let you tug him around, mouth open, eyes big and eager like he’d do anything you asked. How close you got—so close—before it all fell apart.

You lick your lips.

Your legs feel warm again. Your panties are already damp.

You rise slowly, like you’re not even thinking.

It’s not even a decision—more of an instinct.

You walk straight to your dresser.

Second drawer, left side, tucked beneath a lacy lavender bralette and a tangled mess of satin panties is the soft, velvet-textured toy you haven’t touched since you got here. 

You pull it out without thinking, your fingers already twitching in anticipation, your thighs pressing together from the ghost of pressure alone.

A moment later, you’re crawling into bed, the hem of your oversized sleep shirt sliding up your thighs, no panties underneath. You settle back against the pillows, legs falling open, the cool air kissing the sticky mess already gathered between them.

Your fingers guide the toy over the soft curve of your mound. You’re already wet—slick, warm, throbbing in a dull, pulsing ache. The first pass over your clit makes your hips twitch. The second draws a breathy little whimper from your lips. By the third, your thighs are clenching around your wrist and your eyes are rolling back.

You press harder.

The vibration stutters against your clit, soft at first, then sharper as you angle it just right. 

“Fuck,” you whisper, voice catching.

Your other hand comes up to palm your chest, fingers pinching at your nipples through the cotton of your shirt. Your mind is buzzing, not just the toy—you. Thinking about him.

How big he felt in your hand. How he looked at you when you kissed the head, like he was about to fall apart.

The toy grinds harder.

You circle it, slow then fast, letting your imagination fill in the blanks. What he’d feel like inside you. How your walls would stretch around that thick cock. How it would feel to ride him, his big hands shaking on your hips, trying not to come too fast while you’re bouncing on his lap and laughing into his throat.

The orgasm hits hard. 

You gasp, legs trembling, cunt clenching on nothing as you press the vibrator tight to your clit, riding the rhythm until you can’t anymore. Your toes curl. Your thighs twitch. And then you go still—boneless, buzzing, your mouth parted and your chest flushed with warmth that creeps all the way to your scalp.

The toy drops from your hand.

You lay there, lips slick with spit, chest still heaving, heart kicking in your ribs.

Remmick’s face lingers behind your eyelids—soft and needy, lips bitten, eyes begging.

You close your thighs slowly.

You’ve never wanted a boy this much.

He barely slept. Not because his room was warm or because the old fan in the corner rattled itself silly through the night, but because every time he closed his eyes he felt your thighs tightening around his shoulders again, the heat of you pressing up against his mouth, the taste of you lingering on his tongue as if you had marked him from the inside out. 

His pillow still smelled faintly of the soap he used after he washed his face—twice—yet he swore he could still catch traces of the sweetness that clung to your skin. 

He tossed beneath the sheets with his chest tight and his cock aching, unable to shake the image of how you had looked, eyes half-lidded, breaths broken, lips parted in a helpless little moan each time his tongue curled just right. 

Sleep never stood a chance.

By morning his whole body felt raw with wanting you, though he did his best to move through the chores like nothing had changed. 

He fed the chickens, checked the sheds, filled the troughs, all while trying to ignore the echo of your voice from the day before. He lingered longer than usual by the fence line, pretending to re-tie a latch that didn’t actually need re-tying. The quiet of the early hours usually settled him, but today it only made the memory sharper.

When he hears your steps on the dirt road, he straightens too quickly, nearly fumbling the feed bucket. 

You move toward him with your usual brightness, travel cup in one hand, your glossy mouth wrapped around the straw as you hum to yourself. 

Your sunglasses perch crooked on your nose, and the soft yellow top you’ve chosen fits you in a way that makes his stomach dip. You smile easily, greeting him as though yesterday’s near-fall into something too intimate to ignore had never happened.

“Morning, Remmick,” you say, swirling your drink as if this is simply another day. “Did you feed the little guys already?”

You mean the chickens.

He grunts.

“Uh. Yeah.”

You gasp like he just told you your favorite boutique burned down. “Without me? I like feeding them now.”

“You were running late,” he answers, trying to keep his tone steady.

“I was picking a lip combo,” you say with artistic emphasis, as if it explains everything. “It’s important.”

The faintest tug pulls at the corner of his mouth before he smooths it away. 

He tells himself not to look at your lips again, but they shine in the sunlight and make it nearly impossible.

The day continues with you trailing behind him while you talk about things he only half understands—your show, your nail polish plans, a perfume sample you want to try. 

He nods at the right moments even though his attention keeps drifting. He can’t look directly at your thighs now without a jolt rising through him. 

You bend down to scoop feed into the tin and your shirt shifts, revealing the soft rise of your chest, and he feels a quick sweep of heat up the back of his neck. He grips the fence harder than necessary and silently begs his body to behave.

After a while, you drop onto a wooden crate with a dramatic sigh, dust puffing around you.

“You alright?” he asks, still not looking.

“I mean, yeah,” you mumble. “But I thought today we were gonna paint the porch too. You said we would on Sunday.”

“It is Sunday,” he replies, keeping his gaze on the latch he’s checking.

You blink slowly, tilting your head as if piecing together a puzzle that refuses to cooperate. “Wait. Seriously? Today’s Sunday?”

He inhales through his nose, long and steady, letting the air cool whatever heat is creeping up his chest. 

You pop your gum and swing your foot idly in the dirt, completely unaware of the chaos turning in him. 

When he finally turns toward you, you’re watching him with that bright, helpless sweetness that always gets under his skin. You smile without hesitation, as if yesterday’s intimacy was simply part of the afternoon and not something that has kept him up half the night.

He looks away quickly, terrified that if he holds your gaze any longer he’ll reach for you, pull you in close, and finish what nearly happened in that bedroom. His heart kicks hard against his ribs at the thought.

You go on chattering about something small—maybe your horoscope, maybe your new lip gloss—and he tries to nod, tries to answer, but the words don’t settle right in his throat.

You’re being yourself, unaware of the storm inside him, and he cannot believe how deeply he wants you. It feels dangerous. It feels close. And it feels entirely, horribly wonderful.

He realizes then that liking you isn’t something he can avoid anymore. It has already happened quietly, slowly, in the space between chores and conversation—and now, after yesterday, there is no turning back.

You brighten at something and call his name. He looks up automatically.

You’re smiling.

And he knows he’s done for.

The porch paint cans sit beneath the steps exactly where his grandma left them, the metal warm from the sun, the brushes stiff but still usable. The late morning light filters through the pecan trees, softening everything it touches—dust, railing, your bare legs swinging lazily over the edge of the steps. 

Remmick brings out a drop cloth and spreads it carefully across the boards, smoothing the creases with slow, deliberate strokes of his palms. You watch him for a moment, chin propped on your knee, noticing the way the sunlight catches in the faint curls at the nape of his neck.

“So this is what we’re doing today?” you ask, nudging an unopened paint can with your foot.

He kneels beside it, tapping the lid with a flat tool until it loosens. “Your idea. Said you wanted to make the place look nice.”

You shrug as if this is obvious. “Yeah, but I didn’t think you’d actually say yes.”

“I said it last week.”

“I thought you forgot.”

He lifts his gaze then—slowly, steady, with an expression that borders on gentle amusement. “I don’t forget things you say.”

Your breath catches a little, though you hide it by glancing at the screen door. He doesn’t seem to notice, already turning toward the brush in his hand, dipping it into the pale cream paint with careful precision.

You grab your own brush, plopping beside him on the porch floor. Your first stroke goes on uneven, streaked with tiny ridges, and he glances sideways.

“You’re pressin’ too hard.”

“No I’m not,” you insist, even though you absolutely are.

He shifts closer without thinking, one hand hovering near your wrist. “Here. Try easin’ up. Like this.” His fingers wrap briefly around your hand to guide the motion. “You just let the paint sit on the wood. Don’t make it fight you.”

You blink down at your hand in his. “You make it sound so poetic.”

“It’s just paint,” he replies softly.

“Mm. You say that, but you’re making a whole metaphor.”

His ears flush, and he pulls his hand back quickly, focusing on the railing instead.

The two of you fall into an easy rhythm—brushes dragging softly across the porch boards, the gentle clink of metal lids shifting in the breeze, the faint sounds of chickens pecking in the distance. You hum a song you half-remember from a playlist your friends made for the drive upstate. He listens, glancing over now and then with a curious tilt of his head.

“So,” he says after a while, voice low but steady, “what happened up north?”

Your brush pauses mid-stroke.

He doesn’t push the question, just keeps painting a smooth line along the trim, like he’s giving you space to answer or ignore him freely.

You force a small, breezy laugh. “What makes you think something happened?”

He shrugs lightly. “Folks don’t usually get sent across state lines unless somethin’ went sideways.”

“Nothing went sideways,” you say quickly.

He glances over, and you can tell he’s not convinced.

“It was just… stuff.” You wave the brush vaguely, splattering a dot of paint on your thigh. “Dumb drama. City people being city people. You don’t wanna hear about it.”

He watches you longer than he should, but the moment you look back, he drops his eyes and dips his brush again.

“Alright,” he murmurs. “Didn’t mean to pry.”

You swallow, the guilt settling strangely. You don’t want him to think you’re shutting him out. Or maybe you don’t want to poke at the wound yourself.

So you shift the conversation quickly.

“What about you?” you ask, leaning into him slightly. “You ever think about leaving this place? Or are you just gonna stay here forever and ever until the cows take over?”

His smile is small but real. “It ain’t that bad.”

“I dunno,” you tease, lifting your brush again. “Feels like a hostile chicken takeover is imminent.”

“There’s only six of ’em.”

“That’s enough.”

He shakes his head, but his shoulders relax a little. 

The tension melts from the air, replaced by that quiet warmth that’s started settling between you more and more lately. 

He tells you about the porch—how he helped his grandpa fix the boards years ago, how the nails always loosen after a storm, how his grandma likes to sit here in the evenings with her lemonade.

You tell him about your favorite nail salon back home, about how your friends once got into a screaming match over a pair of heels, about how you used to sit on your apartment balcony pretending you liked the smell of the city even though it made your head hurt.

You paint until the sun climbs higher, both of you speckled in dots of cream and gold, both pretending not to notice when your elbows brush, when your knees knock, when you laugh and he looks at you a little too long.

He doesn’t ask about the north again. But the look he gives you—quiet, patient, almost concerned—tells you he’s still wondering.

He can wait.

He’s good at that.

You’re the one who’s starting to feel uneasy with how easy it is to talk to him now.

By the time the two of you finish the last stretch of railing, the afternoon sun has dipped enough to cast a honeyed glow over everything—the fresh paint, the porch boards, even the little flecks of color stuck to your legs. 

You sit back on your heels and admire it with a satisfied sigh, brushing a smear of paint off your thigh and only smudging it further.

“It looks adorable,” you announce proudly, even though there are definitely a few uneven patches. “Like… way better than before. I think I’m a natural.”

Remmick lifts his head from where he’s wiping down a brush. “I did most of it.”

“I supervised,” you correct, nodding as if this explains everything. “Supervision is important.”

He huffs, something like a laugh tugging at his mouth before he hides it by leaning over the bucket. 

You pull your knees to your chest, wiggle your toes, and glance around with satisfaction while the breeze lifts your hair off your neck. 

Everything feels soft and calm, peaceful in a way you can’t quite name.

The screen door creaks behind you.

“Well now,” his grandma says as she steps onto the porch, dish towel still draped over her shoulder. “That came out real nice.”

You brighten instantly, popping up a little straighter. “Doesn’t it? I helped.”

Her gaze dips to your smeared legs and paint-speckled fingers. “Mm-hm. I can see that.”

Remmick mutters something under his breath that might be a quiet apology for your enthusiasm, but his grandma just smiles wider. She reaches out, running a gentle hand along the railing.

“Pretty work,” she says. “You two should be proud.”

You beam, delighted. “I am proud. And sweaty. And hungry. But mostly proud.”

Her eyes warm, fond and amused all at once. “Well, lucky for you, dinner’s just about ready.” She tilts her head toward the door. “You joinin’ us, sugar?”

You blink, caught off-guard for a second. “Me? Like—inside?”

“That’s usually where folks eat,” she teases gently.

You nod quickly, brushing your hands down the front of your shorts even though it only spreads the paint around. “Oh! Right. Yes. Okay. I mean—yeah. If you’re sure. I don’t wanna, like, mess the vibe.”

“What vibe?” she asks with a soft chuckle.

“I don’t know,” you admit honestly. 

Remmick coughs into his sleeve, trying—and failing—not to smile.

His grandma waves a hand, ushering you toward the door. “Honey, you’ve been helpin’ out here for weeks. You come sit down and eat.”

You hesitate only a heartbeat before glancing at Remmick. His eyes meet yours—quick, hopeful in a small, careful way you don’t fully understand yet.

“Is it okay?” you ask him quietly.

He nods. “It’s okay.”

You perk up immediately. “Then yes. Totally. I’m absolutely starving. Almost-dead starving.”

His grandma laughs as she steps back into the house. “Well let’s fix that.”

You hop to your feet, excited and lightly bouncing on your toes as you brush dust from your skin. 

Remmick watches you stand there with paint on your legs, and a bright, earnest smile that looks far too proud for the amount of actual painting you did.

He gestures toward the doorway, cheeks faintly pink. “Go on in. I’ll be right behind you.”

You nod, already stepping toward the kitchen and mumbling something about hoping there’s cornbread because “your last meal was a single iced coffee.” He follows after a moment.

Dinner leaves you full in a way you hadn’t expected—warm belly, warm cheeks, warm everything. 

His grandma cooked like she was trying to heal something invisible inside you, and you didn’t realize how much you missed that until you were scraping the last of the mashed potatoes off your plate. 

She fussed over you, filled your glass twice, asked if you wanted more cornbread even after you’d said yes three times already. 

By the time she excused herself to wind down for the night, you felt strangely settled, like some piece of you that had been drifting finally touched ground.

The house grows quiet in her absence, soft and humming with the evening crickets outside. 

Remmick gathers a few dishes while you stand uselessly with your hands hovering near the sink, not entirely sure how to help without knocking something over. 

He doesn’t seem to mind, though. Every time he glances your way, there’s this small curve at the corner of his mouth like he's amused you’re even trying.

When the kitchen is spotless, he shifts awkwardly, rubbing a paint-smudged thumb against his palm. 

“If you wanna… uh… hang out a bit longer,” he murmurs, eyes flicking up to yours and then away just as fast, “we can go upstairs. Grandma’s room is on the other side of the house, so she won’t hear us talkin’.”

Your chest jumps with a flutter you pretend isn’t there. “Yeah,” you say, nodding quickly. “I mean—obviously. I wasn’t gonna just leave after cornbread.”

He laughs under his breath, head ducked, and leads the way toward the stairs.

His room is the same space you saw yesterday, but this time it isn’t blurred by adrenaline or the thumping of your own heartbeat. 

You step inside slowly, taking it in with both eyes fully open.

It smells faintly of clean cotton and cedar, with a hint of whatever soap he uses lingering in the air. A stack of worn paperbacks sits on the nightstand beside an old lamp with a shade slightly crooked. 

His boots are lined up neatly near the door, socks tucked inside. The window is cracked open just enough to let the nighttime breeze drift across the simple quilt folded at the end of the bed. 

A few handwritten papers—his journaling, maybe—peek out from beneath a book whose spine has surrendered to repeated reading.

It’s simple, soft, lived-in and so him that you feel a little dizzy.

“You can sit—uh—wherever,” he says, gesturing vaguely, though he’s already lowering himself onto the edge of the bed, shoulders a little tight, hands clasped loosely between his knees.

You drift around the room, fingertips trailing the bookshelf, the edge of his dresser, the uneven frame of a photograph of him and his grandparents. 

“It’s cute,” you murmur, nose wrinkling with a smile. “Like… boy cute. Clean but messy. Cozy. Intimidatingly organized.”

“Intimidatin’?” he echoes, startled.

“Yeah,” you say, turning to look at him fully. “My room looks like a makeup store exploded. Yours looks like you actually know where your stuff is.”

His laugh escapes before he can trap it in his throat. “Ain’t much stuff to lose.”

You shrug and keep exploring. Your eyes skim over the worn denim jacket hanging behind the door, the jar of pennies on the dresser, the calendar pinned crookedly to the wall, the soft indentation on the pillow where he slept last night—probably tossing, turning, thinking.

Finally, you cross the room and stop in front of him. He straightens an inch, eyes lifting to yours with careful expectation, though his expression stays muted, almost shy. 

The lamplight softens him, rounds the edges of all that quiet longing he tries so hard to hide.

You sit beside him on the bed, thigh brushing his for the briefest moment. 

He watches you with a steadiness he doesn’t dare turn into a touch, hands resting still in his lap, fingers tightening once like he’s steadying himself. 

There’s a question hovering behind his eyes, unspoken but unmistakable.

You look around his room one last time before turning back to him, leaning the slightest bit closer. “It’s nice up here,” you say softly, your tone drifting, warm. “Feels calm.”

He nods, throat moving as he swallows. “Yeah.”

“Mm,” you hum, gaze dropping briefly to his mouth without meaning to. “Like somewhere you’d kiss somebody.”

His breath leaves him in a shaky hush.

You smile, absolutely oblivious to how devastating it is.

You lean in slowly. Drawn forward like he’s made of something warm you want to taste again. 

His breath softens, eyelids lowering a fraction, shoulders loosening as if he’s preparing himself to finally feel your mouth on his again.

But then your gaze flicks to the side.

A single, crumpled corner of paper sticks out of his desk drawer—barely an inch, but enough to snag your attention like a loose thread begging to be pulled.

You pause, squint.

He frowns slightly, following your line of sight. “Uh—wait—”

But you’re already standing, brushing off your shorts as you cross the room with that breezy, purposeful float that always unnerves him because it looks careless and confident at the same time.

“That’s gonna bother me,” you say, mostly to yourself. “Everything else is so organized and then that—” You flick your fingers toward the drawer. “It’s like a squeaky wheel or whatever.”

“Don’t—” he starts, rising just a hair too slow.

You pull the drawer open.

And freeze.

Several glossy covers stare back at you—retro-styled, slightly worn Playboy magazines stacked in a neat row, pages ruffled from use, one lying open under the others as if he’d been reading it not too long ago.

“Oh.” The word slips out of you in a small, stunned puff.

Behind you, Remmick goes absolutely still.

Not stiff like anger. Stiff like mortification.

His entire soul falls out of his body and hits the floor. “I—uh—that’s—um—those ain’t—”

You turn slowly, holding the edge of the drawer between two fingers like you’re afraid it might bite. 

Your expression is blank for one long moment while your mind catches up, eyes moving from the magazines then back to him.

He looks like a man awaiting execution—cheeks blazing red, hands hovering uselessly at his sides, lips parted in helpless panic.

You blink once, twice, then whisper:

“… You read these? Like… for fun?”

He winces. “I don’t ‘read’ ’em, exactly—”

“I mean, I guess the articles are famous,” you say thoughtfully, nodding to yourself like you’re piecing together a puzzle with far fewer brain cells than required. “My aunt used to talk about those. Or wait—were those the newspapers? Ugh, I always mix these things up.”

“No, I—uh—listen, you weren’t supposed to—”

You tap one glossy cover where a model poses in a satin bikini, arching dramatically over a couch. Then you point at another where a woman has hair that looks like it was sprayed with a fire hose. “They look vintage,” you murmur. “Like museum vintage. Did you get them at a thrift store? Or were they your grandpa’s or something?”

“No,” he groans, dragging a hand down his face. “They ain’t Grandpa’s.”

“Oh.” You nod solemnly. “Right. Because that’d be weird.”

He exhales, shoulders slumping in defeat.

You glance back at the drawer, then at him again, lips pursed slightly. “Wait—are these for your… um…  personal hobbies?”

He noises something between a cough and a strangled plea. “Can we please not talk about—”

“I just didn’t know guys still used magazines,” you continue, genuinely surprised. “I thought everyone used their phones now. Or laptops. Or tablets. Or those weird VR things. Do those even work? Bri said they gave her cousin a headache.”

He closes his eyes like he’s praying for mercy.

You look at him for another beat, head tilting as a thought finally clicks into place and lights up your expression like a sparkler.

“… Wait. So you were looking at these and not, like… actual videos because you’re shy?”

His eyes snap open.

Then dart away.

Then back.

Then away again.

You gasp softly, hands clasping together. “Oh my gosh, that’s adorable.”

He flinches like you slapped him with a flower.

“I ain’t adorable,” he mutters, ears glowing red.

You grin wide—bright, delighted, entirely unbothered by his public execution. “Yes, you are,” you say breezily. “You totally are. This is like… so old-fashioned and sweet. You’re like a historical reenactor but for… horny stuff.”

He chokes.

You keep going, unaware you’re destroying him.

“I mean, don’t worry. I won’t tease you. Much. But honestly? The girls in these are super pretty. Like, wow. Their tits are really symmetrical.”

He squeezes his eyes shut, shoulders curling inward, dignity leaking out onto the floorboards.

“Please,” he begs softly, “for the love of—can you close that drawer?”

You blink, glance at the magazines again, then gently push the drawer shut with one finger.

Then you turn back around with a soft smile—almost innocent in its sincerity—and say:

“It’s okay, Remmick. Everyone likes stuff.”

You sit back on your heels, hands resting primly on your thighs as if you didn’t just peel open his drawer and catch him red-handed with a whole collection of glossy, soft-lit sin. 

Remmick still hasn’t moved from where he sits on the edge of the bed, jaw clenched, eyes trying not to meet yours again for too long.

But then he risks it. He looks up.

And you’re smiling.

Not teasing or smug, but unnervingly earnest.

“I didn’t mean to embarrass you,” you say gently. “Seriously. Like—everybody does stuff. I mean, maybe not with magazines, but you’re just a little old-fashioned. That’s cute.”

He groans softly, hands scrubbing at his face.

“And if it makes you feel better,” you go on, crossing your legs criss-cross on the floor in front of him, “I’ve totally done things too.”

His hands fall away from his face. His ears go pink. “… Things?”

You nod enthusiastically. “Mhm. With my vibrator. She’s hot pink and glittery. She has settings, like, levels? Sometimes I use level two if I’m tired but still wanna finish.”

He full-on chokes.

You blink. “What? I thought we were sharing.”

He sputters. “I—I didn’t—I wasn’t asking—”

“You didn’t not ask,” you point out, chipper. “Besides, I think honesty is a sign of maturity or whatever.”

He lets out a noise that sounds like it belongs to someone having a minor heart attack.

You're still talking. “I mean… I guess I always imagined stuff too, but not with, like, photos. I just imagine stuff happening. Like someone touching me a certain way. Saying stuff. Grabbing my thighs. Or biting. Or like, humping a pillow. But I didn’t really know what I was doing until my roommate showed me how to edge properly—”

“Okay!” he nearly yells, hands flailing up. “Okay. You—you can stop.”

You blink innocently, lips forming a small ‘o.’ “Oh. Sorry.”

You reach for a random trinket on his desk and begin fiddling with it, looking unbothered. “I just thought since I saw the magazines and all…”

He’s staring at the floor, trying not to die. Or combust. Or leap out the window to escape whatever just happened.

Then you glance at him again, head tilted, eyes soft and a little dreamy now.

“… Do you think I could be in one of those magazines?”

He turns to look at you like you’ve completely lost your mind.

“I mean,” you continue, fluttering your lashes, “they’d probably wanna airbrush me a little. I got a tiny mole somewhere and my thighs are soft—but like, do you think they’d wanna take pictures of me all naked and shiny and laid out like that?”

His throat bobs. His hands clench into fists on his thighs.

You lean forward a little. “Or would you look at them differently if it was me?”

He opens his mouth.

No sound comes out.

He’s not even sure what you just asked him. Or if he’s hallucinating. But his jeans feel tighter again and your eyes are wide and blinking like you just asked him if he prefers apple juice or orange, not whether he’d jerk off to you in glossy centerfold spreads.

“… Girl,” he whispers, almost hoarse. “You don’t even know what you’re sayin’.”

You pout. “Yes, I do. I just said it.”

He exhales slow, heavy, ragged.

You twirl the trinket in your fingers and hum softly. “You’re so weird sometimes.”

He lets out a low, humorless laugh, voice dry as dirt. “You got no idea.”

And when you finally rise to your feet again, brushing your shorts down and giving him a little smile before plopping beside him on the bed once more, his entire body is fighting to stay still—because now all he can think about is you laid out across satin sheets, lips parted, eyes low, glittery toy discarded to the side as you beckon him closer.

He bites the inside of his cheek.

You bump his shoulder with yours and say, “You’re real quiet again. You sure you’re okay?”

“… Peachy,” he mumbles.

You nod, pleased. “Good. Wanna watch something?”

He shrugs, stiff. “Yeah. Sure.”

You grab the remote, settle in beside him like nothing ever happened, still humming some bubblegum pop tune under your breath.

Meanwhile, he’s still hard in his jeans, and all you’ve done is exist.

The two of you end up watching something on his tiny, slightly crooked TV—not really paying attention, not really talking either, just sharing space in that warm, quiet way that only happens when something invisible has already shifted between two people. 

Every so often you lean a little too close. Your shoulder brushes his. Your knee bumps his. You smell like vanilla body mist and fabric softener, and every time you sigh, he feels his stomach do this small, helpless drop.

Eventually, your phone buzzes with a reminder from your aunt, and you stretch your arms overhead, spine arching lightly, shirt lifting just enough to show a sliver of soft skin above your waistband. 

You slip off the bed, slow and lazy. “Guess I should go,” you murmur, smoothing your hair. “My aunt will freak if I walk in after midnight. Again.”

He stands too, hands awkwardly shoved in his pockets like he’s trying to hide how nervous he is… or how badly he wants you to stay.

You don’t notice.

Or maybe you do. It’s hard to tell with you sometimes.

You step closer, hand lifting to his cheek with an easy, casual softness that makes his breath stutter. “Thanks for hanging with me,” you say, thumb brushing just barely under his eye. “You’re always so sweet.”

Before he can respond, you press your mouth to his—soft enough to feel innocent but lingering enough to make his pulse kick.

He freezes.

You kiss him again, slower this time, your hand curling behind his neck.

And then—like you suddenly remember something—you lean in and place a third kiss just behind his ear, lips brushing the sensitive skin where his jaw meets his throat.

“See you tomorrow,” you whisper, and you pull away with a grin.

He stands there, stunned silent, as you float out the door with your bag over your shoulder, humming to yourself, hair bouncing with every step. 

You call goodnight to his grandma downstairs. The screen door clicks. Your footsteps fade down the path.

The following days fold into one another. Morning chores, porch repairs, fence checks, feed runs—every task falls into place like always, yet the air around you two carries something stretched thin between what happened and what hasn’t been discussed.

Remmick feels it constantly.

It settles behind his ribs whenever you walk toward him, when your perfume drifts close enough to distract him mid-task. It lingers each time you smile at him like nothing happened.

He wants to mention the way your lips had felt on his, the heat of your thighs around his face, the quiet sounds you made as you tipped closer to falling apart, but each time he looks at you, you greet him like nothing unusual ever happened. 

You wave, smile, wrinkle your nose at the heat, and talk about whatever floats into your head, unaware that every casual brush of your voice against his memory drives him further into distraction.

Three days pass.

At first he tells himself he’ll wait for you to bring it up. 

Maybe you need time to think. Maybe you’re shy. Maybe you don’t want to talk about it around his grandma or while knee-deep in chores. 

But as the days pass, you remain breezy and unbothered, happily feeding chickens, brushing horses, humming songs that get stuck in his head long after you go home. 

You tease him about his lack of fashion, ask him if goats have best friends, complain about your lip gloss melting, and then drift into a tangent about how you once tried hot yoga and nearly passed out from “all the sweating and bending.” 

Meanwhile, he can’t forget how you kissed him lightly behind the ear before leaving as though it were the most normal thing in the world.

Eventually the weight of it follows him everywhere. 

He fumbles tools, drops feed scoops, nearly walks into a fence post because your perfume drifts too close to him. Even his grandma eyes him one morning as if she can sense some inner disarray he is entirely unwilling to explain. 

By the fourth day, he’s collected enough courage—shaky but present—to finally confront the silence building between you.

It happens in the barn late in the afternoon, where the sunlight filters through slats in long beams that illuminate drifting motes of dust. You stand beside a young heifer, palm flat and open as she nudges into your hand, and you giggle softly, brushing hair away from your cheek with the back of your wrist. 

He watches you for a few seconds longer than he means to. Then he clears his throat. You turn immediately, smiling as though the question in his chest isn’t tightening every muscle in his back. 

“What? Do I have hay in my hair again?”

“No,” he says, taking a small step toward you. “Just… wanted to talk to you.”

“Okay,” you reply, turning fully toward him. “Talk away.”

He hesitates only a breath before moving closer, the barn air thickening around him as he tries to choose his words with care.

“I been waitin’ for you to bring up what happened the other day,” he says, words quiet but unshaking now. “But you ain’t mentioned it once.”

You go quiet, feed still resting in your palm as the heifer noses at it with slow, patient nudges.

He continues, trying not to lose his nerve. “And I ain’t complainin’. I just… I can’t tell if you wanna pretend it never happened. Or if maybe you’re expectin’ me to pretend.”

You shift your weight, chewing softly at your bottom lip.

He steps closer again. “I just—” His voice drops. “I ain’t been able to stop thinkin’ about it. And I ain’t sure what you—”

You interrupt without meaning to with an honesty so simple it nearly knocks the breath out of him: 

“Oh. I thought you didn’t wanna talk about it.”

His breath catches.

“I didn’t mention it because I figured if you wanted to, you would,” you explain, shrugging lightly. “Plus, I wasn’t really sure if you regretted it or if you were embarrassed or something. I didn’t wanna make you feel weird.”

It hits him like a blow—your complete lack of calculation, your unfiltered sincerity.

It leaves him with nowhere to hide.

Heat rises in his neck as he steps even closer, one deliberate shift of weight slightly closing the gap, voice steadying:

“I didn’t regret a single second.”

Your lips part slowly.

The heifer nudges your hand again, but you hardly notice.

Your lips part slowly. Your gaze drifts down his chest before returning to his eyes, soft and curious. When you finally speak, your voice is low, almost daring:

“… Then what do you wanna do about it?”

He draws a deeper breath, dust swirling in the golden light between you as the air thickens around the moment you just opened. 

It takes approximately four minutes before the two of you are inside the farmhouse, moving without remembering who reached for whom first. 

The hallway is dim, curtains filtering the afternoon sun into soft gold that settles over the framed photographs lining the walls. A faint trace of lemon polish clings to the air from his grandma’s morning cleaning.

Your back presses to the wall on the second floor just beside the stairs, and Remmick’s mouth is already on yours—hesitant for half a second, then hungry in a way that betrays how long he’s been thinking about this.

Your fingers tangle in his shirt, tugging him close; he stumbles a little, chest brushing yours, breath shaking against your cheek. He kisses you like he’s terrified you’ll change your mind if he pauses, lips warm and firm, his hands hovering before finally settling at your waist with a careful grip.

He murmurs your name against your mouth, the sound rough around the edges.

You gasp softly, head tipping back, lips parting just enough for him to deepen the kiss. His tongue brushes yours, clumsy at first, then surer, guided by the small whimper you let out when he slides one hand up your spine.

The farmhouse is quiet. His grandma is gone—off at the market, her list long enough to buy the time neither of you should trust but both of you cling to anyway.

He pulls back just a breath, eyes lowered, lips flushed. “Tell me if—if you wanna stop.”

You shake your head before he even finishes the sentence, sliding your hands up to frame his jaw. “I’m not stopping unless you do.”

Color rises along his throat. You don’t give him time to respond; you tug him in again, kissing him with more certainty than he can manage, and he melts into it, one hand bracing against the wall beside your head, the other gripping your hip through the soft fabric of your dress.

You push gently at his chest, guiding him backward. He follows without protest, steps slow and uneven, matching each retreat with another kiss. 

His heel bumps the edge of the runner rug in the hallway; he steadies himself with a shaky laugh you swallow immediately with your mouth.

The two of you inch down the hall in a stumbling dance of lips, hands, breath. 

Your fingers toy with the hem of his shirt, brushing warm skin beneath it. His breath stutters each time your chest presses to his. He tries to speak once—some half-formed thought—but you kiss him again and the words dissolve on his tongue.

He barely remembers he has a bedroom.

But you do.

Your hand catches his, tugging him toward the doorway. He follows, heart pounding, the hallway tilting around him as though the house itself recognizes what’s building between you.

Just outside his room, you pause long enough to kiss him harder, lips parting with a little sigh that sends heat rushing through him. 

You whisper against his mouth, already knowing the answer, “Your room?”

Remmick exhales shakily, nodding.

He pushes the door open without looking away from you, stepping backward into the familiar space with you pressed to him as the door swings shut behind you.

He backs toward the bed without breaking the kiss, knees brushing the mattress before he sits. His palms slide instinctively to your hips as you follow him down, settling into his lap in one smooth, eager motion. 

The weight of you steals a quiet sound from him—half gasp, half groan—your thighs bracketing his, your dress sliding up an inch as you shift to get comfortable. 

You kiss him again, deeper this time, your mouth warm and soft and hungry against his. His head tilts to meet you. 

The kiss grows messy in small ways—your tongue brushing his, his breath catching, the faint drag of your lip gloss smearing against the corners of his mouth as you angle yourself closer.

Your fingers skim the hem of his shirt, the rough cotton damp from work and heat. You tug at it lightly, testing him, watching his reaction through half-lidded eyes. 

His breath stumbles. He tries to steady it, tries to keep kissing you like nothing has shifted, but you can feel the tension in his chest, the flutter beneath his ribs each time your hands move higher.

“You don’t gotta—” he starts, voice a raw whisper into your mouth, but you cut him off with another kiss, your hips rolling the faintest bit over the hard shape straining against his jeans. 

His breath leaves him in a startled exhale. Your fingers slide under the hem of his shirt again, nails grazing his stomach, tracing the line of muscle there. 

“I wanna,” you murmur against his lips, pulling back just enough to meet his eyes. “You’re so warm. Let me take this off.”

His fingers curl into the fabric of your dress, gripping lightly as if he needs the anchor. He nods before he can process the decision, cheeks flushed, chest rising and falling faster with every passing second. 

You smile, bright and wicked in your sweetness, and tug the shirt up. He lifts his arms awkwardly, obediently, and the fabric peels away from his skin in one smooth pull before you toss it aside.

His chest is broad and solid, lightly dusted with hair down the center, muscles shifting beneath warm skin as he tries to figure out where to put his hands. 

You slide your palms over his shoulders, down his chest, feeling the heat of him under your fingers. Your thighs tighten around his hips as you settle deeper into his lap.

“Remmick,” you whisper, voice warm with want.

The kiss that follows is nothing shy of hungry. 

His grip tightens on your hips, guiding your movements without meaning to, each slow grind making his breath hitch in a way that feels dangerously addictive. 

You feel him beneath you, and each shift of your weight presses a little more pressure against him.

Your fingers drift down to work open the button of his jeans, slow and teasing. 

You kiss him deeper, lips plush and warm, your tongue brushing his. “Touch me,” you whisper into his mouth, your voice soft but edged with hunger. 

The request hits him like heat pouring low in his spine. His fingers slide slowly up your thighs, thumbs sweeping along the soft skin as your dress rides higher, inch by inch, until he’s cupping you through the thin fabric of your panties. 

Your breath stumbles, hips rolling into his palm, searching for pressure. His nose brushes yours as he exhales shakily.

His fingers trace the curve between your thighs, feeling the heat gathering there, your body shifting eagerly into his touch. “You want me to…?”

“Yes.” The word slips out without hesitation.

The mixture of boldness and innocence in your voice almost undoes him. Still, he obeys. His hand slips beneath the hem of your dress, dragging the fabric up your hips until the cool air hits your panties. His fingers hook under the edge and slip inside, trembling slightly as they finally meet your bare heat.

You’re wet for him—soft, slick, warm in a way that makes his entire body tense beneath you.

“Oh—” he whispers, the sound choked and awed. 

Your head falls against his shoulder as his fingers slide through your folds, slow and careful at first, tracing you like he’s trying to memorize every curve. 

You grind into his hand, needy and shameless, breath hitching with each pass of his fingers. The slick sound of it fills the quiet room, subtle at first, then unmistakably erotic as he grows bolder and your hips move more insistently.

“Remmick,” you breathe, voice warm and trembling as your lips skim his neck. “Inside.”

He groans into your hair, unable to resist you for even a second longer. Two fingers slip inside you, slow but steady, sinking into the wet heat he’s been aching to feel again. 

Your body tightens around him immediately, and a broken little moan spills against his throat. 

He curls his fingers gently, testing how you react, and the needy whimper you let out nearly unravels him.

You roll your hips into his hand, fucking yourself on his fingers in slow, desperate motions that make his breath stutter every time you squeeze around him. 

His thumb brushes your clit, hesitant at first, then more sure when your whole body trembles in his lap in response.

“That’s it,” he whispers, voice barely holding together.

Your breathing doesn’t settle, not even close. 

Suddenly, the impulse hits: you want him to see you, all of you, no hesitation, no pretending you weren’t aching for this the entire time.

You grab the hem of your dress and pull it up without warning. 

His eyes widen instantly, tracking the slow rise of fabric over your thighs, your hips, your stomach. 

The second you lift your arms and drag the dress over your head, he forgets to inhale. Your panties cling to your heat, still wet from his hand. Your bra strains against your chest, your skin flushed and warm as you toss the dress aside.

He stares like you’ve taken the world out of his mouth.

“God…” he whispers, voice breaking.

You unclasp your bra with a quick tug, letting the straps fall down your arms. The second it hits the floor, his gaze snaps downward—straight to your breasts. His breathing deepens, chest rising harder beneath you as your nipples tighten in the cool air.

He reaches for you without thinking, palms sliding up your waist before they close over your breasts. His thumbs brush your nipples slowly at first, then firmer when you arch into him with a soft, needy sound. 

You feel the heat in his hands, the roughness of his fingertips, the heavy drag of calluses against sensitive skin. 

His cock jumps under you, the denim doing nothing to hide the shape of him. He groans low in his throat, fingers digging into your skin as if grounding himself.

“You feel me?” you murmur against his jaw.

He nods, but his breath stutters when your hips press again, harder this time. The friction pulls a broken sound from him.

You kiss him hungrily, chest sliding against his, your nipples brushing his warm skin with each shift. 

He responds instantly, mouth opening for you. One hand cups your breast, thumb circling your nipple until your hips jolt; the other slips back between your thighs, fingers pushing aside your panties to feel your slick again.

“Jesus,” he whispers into your mouth when he feels how wet you still are. “You’re drippin’.”

You moan at the rough honesty in his voice, grinding down on his hand as he slides two fingers inside you again—deeper this time, confident now, curling into that spot that makes your thighs shake. 

His thumb presses against your clit again, light at first, then with a bit more pressure when you grab his shoulders and gasp against his throat.

“You like that,” he mutters, voice thick and shaking. 

“Don’t stop,” you breathe.

He continues to finger-fucking you. Your slick coating his knuckles while you ride his lap, bare chest pressed to his, hips moving with a rhythm you can’t control anymore. 

“Remmick,” you pant against his ear, “I want more.”

He groans and pulls you harder against him, mouth finding your neck. His tongue drags over your skin, his teeth grazing lightly, his breath hot and uneven. Your body trembles, cunt gripping his fingers with every thrust.

“Tell me what you want,” he says, voice low and wrecked.

You lean in, lips brushing his ear, voice trembling with something hot and breathless. “I want you to fuck me,” you whisper. 

His entire body tightens beneath you. The sound he makes is completely unguarded. Your nipples drag across his chest as you pull back from his lap, and the loss of your weight hits him like a shock; he almost reaches for you without thinking.

But you’re already moving.

You slide off his thighs and settle beside him on the bed, breasts still flushed and warmed from his hands. Your fingers trace the waistband of his jeans with a teasing sort of ease.

He doesn’t waste time—not with you looking at him like that. He unbuckles his belt quickly, fingers clumsy with urgency. 

The metal clinks, the leather slides loose, and he shoves the denim down enough to free himself completely. His cock springs out, flushed dark from how long he’s been hard. 

He wraps a shaky hand around the base, like he’s trying to steady himself for you, but you’re already leaning in—soft, eager, ready.

“Let me,” you murmur.

He lets go instantly, breathing hard.

Your fingers wrap around him, warm and slick from your own arousal still shining on his knuckles. His breath breaks as soon as you touch him, a hoarse, helpless exhale that seems to shiver right through his body. 

You stroke once, and the weight of him in your hand pulls a pulse of heat between your legs all over again.

“Jesus…” he groans, head tipping back. “Sweetheart—”

You stroke again, your grip sliding easily along the thick length of him, thumb brushing over the bead of precum already gathering at the swollen tip. He jerks, hips twitching, thighs tensing. 

He’s bigger than you remembered from the day you had him in your mouth—harder now, thicker, the veins along the length pushing against your palm with every upward glide.

“You’re so hard,” you whisper, leaning close enough that your breath grazes him. “You get like this just from touching me?”

His eyes flutter half-shut. “You know I do.”

You kiss his jaw, your hand pumping slowly, your thumb teasing the underside of the head the way you remember made him shake. His cock throbs in your grip, heavy and desperate for more.

He looks at you, at your hand around him, at your bare chest rising and falling with each slow stroke, and another broken sound slips from him—a quiet, strangled groan that proves just how close he already is.

His voice cracks on your name, low and strained, as he watches your hand pump him again. “I’m ready….”

The desperation in his tone sends a hot shiver through your stomach.

You smile and give him one last slow, tight stroke before letting go. He nearly falls forward from the loss of contact. You scoot back on the bed, settling onto your elbows with your thighs parting just enough to invite him closer.

“C’mere.”

He rises from the mattress carefully, cock thick and heavy in his hand, chest flushed, breath shaky as he steps between your open legs. 

The sight alone makes heat pool low in your belly—his broad shoulders, the faint trail of hair leading down his stomach, the way his cock twitches as he looks at you lying back for him.

His breath wavers.

Yours does too.

Then something flickers across your expression—and you huff a small, breathless laugh. “Wait—condom.”

He blinks, like he genuinely forgot the concept of protection existed. “Oh. Right.”

You reach toward the nightstand beside his bed and pull open the drawer. Inside lies a small stack of items—loose receipts, a pen, an old watch—and one crinkled foil packet wedged toward the back. You grab it and hold it out to him.

He swallows hard, takes it from your hand, and his fingers shake just a little as he tears open the wrapper.

You watch him roll it down his flushed length, your breath catching as the rubber stretches over the head and down the shaft. His cock twitches when your eyes follow the movement, and he lets out a soft, ragged breath that brushes heat across your chest.

Your legs fall open a little wider, the bed dipping under your weight.

“There,” you murmur, voice low and warm. “Now you can come here.”

He moves closer until his thighs brush the edge of the mattress. 

One hand slides beneath your knee, lifting it gently while the other drifts down your thigh, fingers hooking the waistband of your panties. 

They’re soaked—warm, clinging, useless now—and he exhales sharply as his thumb grazes the damp fabric.

“Let me take these off,” he murmurs.

You lift your hips without hesitation. 

He pulls the panties down slowly, the wet fabric dragging lightly over your swollen folds before slipping past your thighs, your knees, your ankles. 

The moment your feet are free, he drops the panties somewhere on the floor—not caring where—because his eyes have already drifted back to the place he just uncovered.

You’re bare. Open. Slick and glistening in the soft bedroom light.

His breath trembles.

He brings one hand to your thigh and nudges it wider. Then wider still. The sight of your cunt, flushed and wet from his fingers, makes his cock twitch against his stomach.

“Get up here,” you whisper, voice hushed and earnest.

He climbs onto the mattress, kneeling between your legs. His hands settle on your hips, thumbs brushing circles into your skin as he positions himself. 

The rubber-clad head of his cock nudges against your entrance, hot and thick, the pressure enough to make your breath catch.

“Tell me if it hurts,” he says softly.

You shake your head, fingers curling at his shoulders. “I want it. Put it in.”

He exhales your name, then tilts his hips forward. 

The blunt head presses into you— stretching you open around him. Your mouth parts instantly, a soft, breathy sound catching in your throat as the thick width of him slides deeper, inch by inch.

He groans low, the sound raw and aching. 

You grip his arms harder, nails digging lightly into his skin as the stretch builds—deep, intense, pulling a helpless roll of your hips as your body adjusts around him. 

He pauses only long enough to let you exhale, then pushes farther, the length of him gliding through your slick until the first deep thrust bottoms out inside you.

Your breath breaks.

His does too.

“God…” he whispers, forehead almost touching yours, “you feel warm… squeezin’ me already…”

Your legs tighten around his hips as you gasp his name, the fullness of him overwhelming and perfect all at once. 

He moves slowly at first, pulling back just an inch before sinking forward again, letting you feel every ridge, every throb, every hot pulse of his cock buried deep inside you.

You cling to him, body trembling with each controlled thrust. “Remmick… more… please…”

His hands slide up your ribs, sweeping under your tits, then back down to your hips as he starts a deeper rhythm—pushing into you with thick, satisfying force. 

He kisses you while his hips roll into yours.

Your nails drag up his back, searching blindly for something to hold on to as the slow grind of his hips pushes deeper, thicker, warmer into you with every thrust. 

He groans into your neck, the sound shaking through his chest as he tries to keep his pace steady. But the way you’re clenching around him, soft and wet and eager, makes it nearly impossible for him to think straight.

You slide one hand up into his hair, fingers slipping into the soft strands at the nape of his neck. 

When you curl your grip and tug him down for a kiss, he makes a sound into your mouth that sends heat rushing between your thighs.

Your mouth opens for him as your hips lift to meet his next thrust. He moans into the kiss, louder now, the sound vibrating against your lips. His rhythm falters for a moment—not from hesitation, but from pleasure crashing into him all at once.

You whisper against his mouth, breath ragged, “Faster… Remmick, come on…”

He nods against your cheek, swallowing hard, breath shaking. “Alright—just—hold on.”

His hands tighten on your hips, grip firmer now, guiding your body up into his as he draws his cock back and pushes in again with more force. The deeper thrust steals a gasp out of you, your nails digging into his shoulders. He hears it—feels it—and something wild flickers through him.

He thrusts again, faster this time, less careful, driven by the raw sound of your breath catching with every stroke. 

The bed creaks softly beneath the two of you, your bodies rocking together with messy, loud rhythm. 

Your slick coats him, making every push easy and filthy, each movement met with a wet, downright pornographic sound that would’ve embarrassed him if he wasn’t already drowning in how good you feel.

“You’re… fuck—” you gasp, pulling him in for another kiss, “you’re doing so good—don’t stop—”

He moans loudly, hips bucking harder as he sinks into you over and over, inexperienced but fueled entirely by your voice, your heat, your body tightening around him. 

His breath comes out broken each time he bottoms out, thighs trembling against the inside of yours.

Remmick tries to talk, to say something, anything, but the only thing that comes out is a desperate, strangled sound as you tug his hair again and kiss him deeper—open-mouthed, hungry, loud enough to fill the whole room.

You’re loud too.

Every time he thrusts just right, your voice breaks into a moan that makes his cock twitch inside you. Every gasp, every cry of his name pushes him closer to the edge. 

He wasn’t prepared for this—your body taking him so well, your voice so raw and unfiltered, the way you beg without shame.

Remmick pants against your mouth, completely undone. “I—I can’t—sweetheart, you’re—God, you’re squeezin’ me so—”

You pull him down, forehead pressed to yours, both of you gasping into each other’s mouths as he fucks you faster, louder, harder than he thought he knew how. 

Your breasts bounce against his chest, your thighs shake around his hips, your nails scratch down his back in frantic, filthy encouragement.

“Just like that,” you beg, voice cracking on the words. 

He loses whatever control he had left.

His thrusts become hard, rhythmic, desperate, each one angled a little deeper as he chases the sound of you coming apart beneath him. His moans get louder, shameless, spilling from him with every thrust, breathless and needy and overwhelming.

Your body rocks under him, every slide of his cock pulling your hips higher, needier. His breath is hot against your cheek, his chest pressed to yours as your hand slips between your bodies.

The moment your fingers touch your clit, your whole spine arches. The pressure is perfect—hot, tight circles that drag pleasure upward with dizzying speed. 

You gasp against his mouth, hips jerking.

He feels the change instantly.

Your walls clamp down around him, and his groan breaks apart, loud and helpless. 

His thrusts falter for a heartbeat, then slam forward again, harder, driven by the sudden squeeze around him.

Your fingers move faster, catching the rhythm of his hips, circling your clit while he drives into you with messy, uneven thrusts that make your breath stutter. Your thighs shake around his waist, slick smearing across his skin, your body opening for him with desperate urgency.

“Remmick—” you moan, barely able to speak through the pleasure building so fast.

His forehead presses to your temple, his breath ragged as your hand works your clit and your cunt squeezes him harder with every thrust. His hips buck without rhythm for a moment—just raw need, sloppy and deep—before he forces himself back into a pace, groaning through clenched teeth as you tighten around him.

“Darlin’,” he gasps, voice cracking on the word, “I—I’m real close…”

Your fingers circle faster, slippery with your own arousal as you push yourself higher and higher. 

He’s panting openly now, moaning into your neck, hips slamming forward with a desperate rhythm that matches the frantic pulse of your clit.

He chokes on a moan so loud it vibrates through your chest as his fingers dig into your hips.

“I’m—sweetheart, I’m gonna come—”

Your free hand drags up your stomach, trembling with the force of every thrust he drives into you. 

The pleasure builds fast—too fast—your clit throbbing under your fingers, your walls gripping him tighter every second.

You reach higher—past your ribs, past the quick rise of your chest—until your fingers brush your nipple.

The touch is electric.

You pinch lightly, rolling the sensitive bud between your fingers, and the shock of sensation tears a gasp from your throat. Your cunt clenches around him instantly.

His voice shatters around your name, hips jerking forward in a rough, uncontrolled thrust that drags the head of his cock against your sweetest spot.

Everything inside you snaps at once.

The orgasm hits mid-thrust—sudden, sharp, overwhelming—your body seizing around him as a cry rips out of you. 

Your fingers clamp on your nipple, the other hand circling your clit in frantic, trembling strokes as your climax slams through your whole body. Your cunt pulses around him, rhythm wild, squeezing him over and over.

He doesn’t last a second more.

The moment your climax hits, the moment he feels you clamp down on him, gripping him like you’re trying to pull him deeper, he breaks.

His head drops against your shoulder as a raw moan tears out of him. His hips slam forward one last time, burying himself as deep as the condom allows, his cock throbbing in your tight heat as his orgasm rips through him. His whole body shakes—thighs flexing, breath stuttering, hands gripping your waist hard enough to leave warm impressions on your skin.

You moan into his ear, voice high and breathless.

He groans against your neck, long and unrestrained.

Your orgasm milks his, each pulse dragging another broken sound from his throat. His cock twitches inside you, filling the condom with thick, hot release while your slick keeps dripping around him, soaking the base of him and the sheets beneath your hips.

You can feel his heartbeat through his chest—fast, pounding, wild.

And for a long, trembling moment, he keeps thrusting in tiny, helpless motions, riding the last waves of pleasure as your cunt continues to flutter around him, overstimulating him beautifully.

He finally collapses onto you—heavy, warm, panting against your throat—still buried deep, still shaking.

“Oh… ” he whispers, breath uneven. “That… that was somethin’ else…”

For a long stretch of slow, shaking breaths, neither of you moves. His weight sinks into you, heavy but comforting, his chest rising against yours in uneven waves as he tries to catch his breath. Sweat cools on both your bodies, your legs still trembling faintly where they hang around his hips, your fingers loosely curled in his hair.

You feel him soften inside you, still nestled as deep as the condom allows, still giving the occasional small pulse like the last remnants of his orgasm haven’t quite figured out how to stop. 

A soft, tired little sound slips out of you at the sensation, and it makes him groan quietly into your throat.

“Sorry,” he murmurs, breath warm against your skin. “Didn’t mean to… keep pressin’ on you like that.”

“You’re fine,” you whisper back, stroking the damp curls at the back of his neck. “Feels nice.”

He melts at that—actually melts. His whole body relaxes on top of you, muscles softening while he nuzzles lazily into the crook of your neck. The shyness returns only now, after everything, creeping softly into the edges of his voice.

“You okay?” he asks, gentle and earnest.

“More than okay.” Your hand slides down his spine, fingertips following the slick warmth of sweat between his shoulder blades. “You were, like… really good.”

He makes a noise that sounds somewhere between a bashful laugh and disbelief. “I just… wanted to make sure you felt good.”

“I did,” you say, and the honesty in your tone leaves him speechless for a second.

He lifts his head enough to look at you. His cheeks are flushed, lips swollen from kissing, curls sticking to his forehead. 

His eyes soften when he takes in your face—your own flushed skin, your parted lips, your hair messy against the pillow. Something tender flickers in his expression, warm and unguarded.

“You’re beautiful,” he murmurs, thumb brushing your collarbone before he even realizes he’s doing it. Then, like the words slipped out too freely, he hesitates. “If—if that’s okay to say.”

Your heart gives a small, unexpected squeeze. “It’s okay.”

He smiles then, small but genuine, like he’s proud of himself for saying it out loud. His hips twitch reflexively, making both of you gasp at the sudden overstimulation. He winces, blushing more.

“Think I should, uh… pull out,” he says, sheepish.

You nod, letting your legs fall open. He pulls back slowly, careful, his cock slipping free of you with a warm, sensitive glide that makes him grunt and makes you exhale softly at the sudden emptiness. The condom stays intact, drooping slightly at the tip.

He ties it off, still blushing, and gets up long enough to toss it in the tiny trash bin beside his dresser.

Then he comes right back to you.

He lies down beside you on the mattress, close enough that his thigh brushes yours. 

One arm slips beneath your shoulders, tentative at first, then more confident when you curl into him without hesitation. 

His body is warm, still humming faintly from the heat of everything that happened. His hand drifts over your hip, thumb tracing absent, sleepy circles along your skin.

Silence settles—soft, peaceful, nothing heavy or awkward.

Just two warm bodies in a small farmhouse room, wrapped in the quiet aftermath of something they both wanted far more than either was ready to admit.

“You stayin’ awhile?” he asks quietly, voice thick with exhaustion and hope.

You smile into his chest. “Yeah. I like being here.”

He exhales slowly, the breath warm against your hair, his hand still tracing gentle circles along your hip.

A few seconds pass. Maybe a minute. Long enough for both of your breathing to settle, for the heat on your skin to cool.

Then you tilt your head up toward him, eyes sleepy but bright with that familiar mischief he’s slowly—painfully—getting used to.

“Hey, Remmick?” you murmur.

“Mm?” His voice comes out soft, half-drowsy.

You trail your fingers lightly down his stomach, stopping just above his soft cock. His breath catches—not enough to make him tense, just enough to remind you how sensitive he still is.

“Next time…” You give him a lazy, teasing smile. “Which position do you wanna try?”

He goes completely still.

A flush creeps up his cheeks so fast you feel the heat rise against your palm. His mouth opens, then closes, then opens again—like he’s trying to respond but his brain is sputtering along with his heartbeat.

“I—uh—well—darlin’, I—” He swallows hard, voice pitching embarrassingly high before settling again. “I don’t… I mean, I haven’t thought that far ahead.”

“Yes you have,” you tease softly, nudging his thigh with your knee. “I can tell.”

He hides his face in your shoulder for a moment, groaning quietly in pure embarrassment.

You grin, fingers stroking along the light hair at his navel. “C’mon. Tell me.”

He lifts his head just enough to meet your eyes. His voice is barely above a whisper.

“Maybe… maybe the one where you’re on top.”

You grin, slow and wicked and entirely pleased.

ask to be added ! 🏷️ @sowntears @idlephantom @julxsxx @prettyxwhimsy @aemondloverr @mncxbe @ree5ep3ace @jolestar @bleedingsunlight @maura-has-a-bellyache @1ych333 @calebspipsqueak @cuntbitchandthebottlemen @skankhvnt42 @iluvsharon @ethereal-athalia @stonathanhag @bekahdabest

[angelickks]

somnophilia ft. remmick

eighteen plus, minors do not interact!

summ. sweet dreams baby

cw. unprotected p in v. perv!remmick. dubcon-ish. drooling. cumshot. estab. relationship. pet names . begging. scratching. not proofread so pls ignore my typos.

pairing. remmick x fem!reader

notes. felt like i havent done a good cumshot fic yet and thats how this was born. LMAO. pls excuse my tardiness, apparently im married to both my job and uni, AGH

. ⋮ navi .ᐟ ֹ ₊ jack o’connell mlist

OH, HOW SWEETLY YOU SLEEP.

He almost laughs at himself, at the ease of it all. How quickly a creature like him learned obedience. What was it you said that he’d turned into?

A proper house broken dog.

The thought tastes bitter and tender all at once. He should sneer, maybe even bare his teeth, but instead, he just watches. Watch you breathe slow and soft. Laying there, warm and pliant and unguarded.

His sweet girl, dreaming peacefully after letting a thing like him crawl into her bed, into her body, into the quiet rhythm of her nights. Sweet, yes. But oh, how greedy you are. And worse still, how much greed he wants to consume you with. 

“Oblivious little thing, ain’tcha?” he murmurs, voice rough like gravel and molasses, thick with lust. It curls low in his throat, a slow drawl meant only for you, meant to settle between your legs like a promise.

He watches you twitch at the sound of it, your thighs already pressing together under the weight of that voice. He knows what it does to you. Knows exactly how deep it sinks. His greedy girl. So wet, so eager—just from the scrape of his voice dragging across your skin like a matchhead.

You always were easy for him. Not soft, no—never soft. Just starved. Craving him like you were born for it. And he feeds you it in pieces as you wring him dry. A word, a growl, the whisper of his mouth against your ear. All of it dragging you deeper, needier, until your pussy clenches around nothing with just words alone.  

“All that attitude jus’ to sleep so damn cute,” he chuckles lowly, 

God he could just eat you the fuck up just like this. 

He can’t even help it. Sitting back on his haunches, he spreads your legs slowly, slotting himself between them to let his cock slap wetly against your clothed cunt, his precum staining your stomach and that oh so cute lace lining on them. 

He came home after his recent hunt just to find you with a thin shirt hanging off your frame, delicate and loose, clinging just enough to hint at every curve it fails to conceal. Slipping off one shoulder, threadbare and soft with wear, whispering temptation with every shift of your body.

And underneath? Nothing but a pair of panties — barely there, lace or cotton, it doesn’t matter. They’re the only thing standing between you and indecency, and even they look like they’re begging to be tugged aside. 

No bra. No layers. Just skin, warmth, and the quiet kind of invitation that drives him fucking mad. It’s the kind of sight that makes restraint feel like a cruel joke.

“Y’gon’ let me in?” He teases quietly, slapping his cock on your mound, chuckling darkly at you shifting a little under him, so unaware. 

His hands move slow and deliberate. There’s nothing rushed about the way his fingers curl into the hem of your shirt, tugging it upward inch by inch until the thin fabric gathers in a useless heap at the base of your throat.

Your breasts spill into the cool air, soft and inviting, rising gently with each breath you take. Then he moves, purposeful now as he slides onto his stomach, dipping his head with a hunger he doesn’t bother to hide.

He mouths at your panties, letting his saliva further dampen them alongside his precum and your arousal, trailing up your body in one long stripe until he reaches your sternum. 

His tongue finds the underside of one breast, dragging upward in a slow, indulgent stroke. The kind that leaves a trail of heat and thick saliva behind, glistening in the low light. He doesn’t stop until he reaches your nipple—already stiff from the air, but it hardens further the moment his tongue flicks over it.

He lathers it with his mouth, lips parting just enough to let his breath warm the wet skin. Your chest and stomach shines where he’s touched, flushed and damp and his. His hips jerk forward without thinking, seeking friction. A small, broken groan escapes him when the ache of his cock presses against the mattress. It’s not enough. He moves up again to let his cock rub against you again.

He could die again like this—starving, worshiping, trembling against your sleeping body like a man finally given a taste of a heaven he’ll never get. 

Then, your body responding for you in the form of a soft, involuntary arch of your spine. A slight twitch of your thigh against his weeping cock.

His hips jerk forward at the subtle shift, grinding down slightly, drawn toward the heat building between your legs. The damp cotton of your panties rubs against the hard line of his cock, and he groans low, almost pained.

“Mmf—yeah. I know, I know…” 

Slowly, his long fingers push your panties to the side to reveal the sticky webs of your arousal, the sight gleaming in the low moonlight.

The sight of it punches the air from his lungs. His jaw clenches, body tightening like he’s fighting himself—because God, you’re soaked, and you didn’t even know he was here. Didn’t even have to be touched to ache for him.

He groans under his breath, rough and guttural, as he shifts forward, rubbing the length of his cock against your slit, just enough to feel the pulse of it. 

“Shit,” he hisses, voice thick, forehead dropping to your shoulder as he tries to steady himself.

“Wha—”

“Hol’still, baby, fuck—”

Grabbing the base of his cock, he slips just the tip in with ease. A moan breaks past his lips—low, guttural, almost pained. Like holding back has cost him something real.

“C’mere,” he growls, voice thick and wrecked as his hands clamp down on your hips, fingers digging in like he’s claiming you. Like he’s branding you.

He pulls you down onto him, slow but merciless, dragging you into his lap until he’s buried to the hilt. His breath shudders out against your skin, hands massaging the meat of your hips, letting his nails dig in enough to keep you awake. 

You bite back a whimper, eyes still blinking back your drowsiness.

“Move,” you whisper, breath catching, tone laced with need and sleep. 

That does something to him—sets him off, really. You feel it ripple through him in an instant. His jaw clenches tight, the muscle ticking. His nostrils flare as he inhales deep through his nose, 

And then his hands tighten on your hips, brutal in their grip, fingers digging so deep you’ll feel him there tomorrow. It’s not cruel. It’s possession. Like he’s making sure you remember exactly who put you in this state.

“That’s it,” he mutters, but there’s nothing soft in it. His voice is ragged, low and sharp, like gravel dragged across steel. His eyes are locked between your bodies, transfixed by the way your cunt swallows him whole with every thrust—greedy, perfect, made for him.

“Look at you,” he breathes, voice rough with awe and something darker. He thrusts up into you, deep and sharp, the angle just right—just enough to kiss your cervix.

The jolt steals the breath from your lungs, your mouth falling open in a gasp you barely hear. Stars blink behind your eyes, but he’s not done.

One hand stays gripped tight to your hip, grounding you, keeping you flush against him. The other moves fast up to his lips, where he licks his thumb without breaking eye contact, slow and deliberate.

“Gimme one baby, know you can, can feel you squeezin’ me” he murmurs. And then his wet thumb is on your clit, rubbing tight circles with practiced ease, coaxing the pleasure to crest harder—faster.

Your body jolts, thighs tightening around his hips, your nails digging into his shoulders for something to hold on to.

“Oh—fuck, Rem—”

It hits you in a rush.

Your body locks up, everything going tight before the wave breaks. Pleasure rips through you in a shuddering, breathless release, your cry caught between a moan and a sob as your hips buck helplessly in his lap.

“That’s it,” he groans, eyes dark and reverent as he watches you fall apart above him. “Come on, let me feel it. Let me have it.”

And you do. Every pulse, every twitch, every aftershock—angled into one ragged, moan between you.

His other hand massaging your hip, soothing you through the aftershocks, glides up the curve of your spine, slow and possessive, until it settles between your shoulder blades. He pulls you into him, chest to chest, until there’s not a breath of space left between your bodies.

“Kiss me.”

The words fall from Remmick’s lips, soft and breathless. They were meant to be a demand, something sharp and in control but they come out as a plea instead, thin and aching, soaked in need.

His eyes flick down to your lips, and something in him breaks. All you can do is nod, tears brimming your lashes.

His mouth is on yours in no time, crushing and desperate, all tongue and teeth and the kind of fervor that doesn’t just want to kiss, it wants to devour.

“Lemme mark you up real pretty, baby. Please,” he groans between kisses, voice cracking like a fault line as he ruts into you, desperate and wild.

But you’re already ahead of him.

Your hands trail down his torso, slow and calculated, until they grip the curve of his lower back. Then—without warning—you dig your nails in, sharp and angry, dragging red lines up his skin.

His whole body jolts.

“Fuck—d-do that again!” he gasps, the sting making his pace stutter, his hips falter. You feel the tremble in him, the way his voice pitches higher, louder. He’s close. So close.

But you don’t let him have it. Not yet.

Too wrapped in how tight you feel, how impossibly warm your pussy feels, he doesn’t notice your shift—not until your hands clamp around his hips with purpose. In one sudden, fluid movement, you push his hips to pull him out of you.

He stares, stunned and a snarl starting to curl around his lips, chest heaving, cock slick and flushed, twitching in the space between you.

“The fuck—” he starts to speak, but the words die on his tongue when you slide down the bed, eyes locked on his like a silent dare.

He watches, dazed and wrecked, as your body shifts beneath him—gripping, guiding, commanding. You move with purpose, pushing at his hips until he’s straddling you just below your tits, his thighs tense on either side of your ribs.

From this angle, he can see everything.

The mess of your cum, slick and glistening, smeared from your cunt up to your stomach in a trail that makes his throat go dry. 

His cock, flushed and aching, hangs heavy between your breasts—and it jumps at the change in position, twitching with anticipation and need.

Your hand wraps around him. No hesitation. No gentleness. Just a sure, possessive grip. He sucks in a breath sharp enough to hurt, his hips giving a twitch he can’t control.

You stroke him once—slow, deliberate, and devastating—and his head tips back. Eyes fluttering. Mouth falling open. His control, already hanging by a thread, starts to unravel right there in your palm.

“Goddamn—” he hisses through clenched teeth, every muscle in his abdomen twitching as your hand works him over with slow, sinful precision. His hips jerk, instinct warring with control, desperate to thrust into your grip but holding himself back—just barely.

His eyes are locked on you, wild and glassy, jaw tight like he’s hanging by a thread.

“C’mon, baby,” he growls, voice rough and ragged.

You give him that look—that look—the one that’s equal parts challenge and invitation, lips parted, chest rising with every breath like you’re daring him to fall apart for you.

He groans again, lower this time, as if the sight of you is pulling something primal out of him.

“You want me to mark up that pretty throat, huh?” he mutters, voice getting meaner the closer he gets. “Paint you right here,” he brings his thumb up, smearing your chin with slick precum as he taps under your jaw, just where your throat tightens. “Lemme see what you let me do to you.”

His cock twitches in your hand, hot and heavy, leaking and pulsing as you stroke him—deliberate, unhurried, cruel in your confidence.

“Go on,” he pants, eyes flicking from your hand to your face, wrecked and reverent. “Finish it. Let me cum.”

You squeeze a little tighter. Twist your wrist just the way you know he loves. A small whimper whispers past your lips and that’s all it takes—he falls apart right there, for you, with your name cracked open on his tongue and his cum streaking across your skin. Splattering across your tits in thick greedy spurts, painting your throat, exactly where he promised.

[shedantlers]

Violent delights

pairing: Remmick x f!reader summary: As a preacher’s daughter, you find yourself helping a stranger in need, unaware of the wicked mutualism he seeks to offer… word count: ~6,0k warnings: SEXUAL CONTENT - MDNI!!!!!!!!!!!!!, english isn't my first language, blood k!nk, swearing, corruption k!nk, (mentions of) body mut!lation, injury, f!ngering, p in v, death, blasphemy/heresy, afab reader, 18+

[ao3] [masterlist]

It was four in the afternoon when death had taken the life of the corpse you watched carefully from afar. You sighed, staring at the dead fly lying on the windowsill. He had been a nuisance yesterday, and yet today his mouth had been sneered forever.

Dust covered it like a blanket across his fragile body; his ail no longer, his soul the better. Even here, in the enclosures of your own home, the heat tormented you further. You could be standing outside and it wouldn’t have made a difference. The scorching sun knew just right how to get beneath your skin. The prairie owed you no dignity, but you thought better of the wooden walls around.

You envied the creature. His soul was in a world of delight and peace, whereas your drained, sweat-stained self could barely stand after you’d finished your chores.

The wooden chair creaked beneath you as your feet felt the dry sanded wood below. The searing sun that had been the crux of today’s ache was soon to set. How much that old bastard had pulled you down throughout your walks to the neighborhoods and the marketplace; to and fro. Your father had appointed you the work of collecting the folks’ donations for the reconstruction of the library. You had assumed to only be given a couple of dimes, but the change had been plenty. To be doing something good for the community made your heart burn— even more when believing you were bettering it.

The sun didn’t care much, however. His gift of appreciation? Burnt shoulders. Despite the time passed, the surface still showed red and no sign of scaling soon. The straps of your top pierced through the skin, worsening your ache. With a finger, you repositioned the straps to another area, passing down its penitence.

A groan elicited from the Windsor chair’s paws with your ghost trailing behind. The floor was harsh and dry, your feet scraping against it. The see-through embroidered drapes touched delicately beneath your fingertips. It was a cloudless day, the sun hiding behind nothing but the anticipating horizon. Its orange blaze and unforgiving sight colored the sky around a captivating crimson red.

As a preacher’s daughter, you'd best believe it to be a sign for the doomed. Something was nearing, stunning to the eye but an agony to grasp. The drapes cast a shadow across the damp room as you tugged them to a close.

Dust danced in the limits of the light. You picked up the book you’d discarded earlier, the chair creaking when you resettled into it. Skimming through the pages, you found yourself seeking the one—of oh so many—dog-eared pages you'd left behind.

Page 319. The words read with ease in the torch-like glow surrounding the paper. You surrendered yourself to its content. Each sentence traced and connected to the other, each word as passing as the next. Still, your thoughts wandered to what had kept you awake for many nights: What would it mean to hold a library, a good one, in this town? Could it mean an opportunity for you?

The eye-catching vacancies up on the board by Ruthie’s shop had got many up and looking. Truth be told, they’d caught yours as easily as the others’. It’d be the first smell of freedom from the church – from your dad. Just because you carried the heart of a believer, and by God you were, didn’t mean you had to dedicate your whole life dangling behind Daddy. He’d given you so much—this house, education, and a real good life—but his gracious givings seemed to draw the line at your independence.

Lingering thoughts afflicted your mind, searching for what ought to be given to him to make him recognize your potential. You were good with the people, could stand your own ground; you could think, read, write, work, do math—what else does a daughter need to sacrifice to be seen as a mutual, one to be capable?

A sudden knock on the door awoke you from the rushing thoughts. Your fingers carefully unwrapped from the corner of the pages you'd gripped tightly in the storm that clouded your mind. A liquid trail found its way to your torso. Your breast heaved as your top stuck to your chest, realizing that you hadn't gotten a clue who'd come knocking at such a time of day.

The book left your embrace, dropping delicately to your chair. The corners of the bedroom watched you step into the living room. The hardwood punctured your skin with thorny kisses. A breeze blew the curtains in a wave, the wooden exoskeleton opened by a crack. You walked past, hearing the grass rustling beneath.

Another knock. Firmer. The noise startled you, forcing you to step back slowly. With a swift head turn, you watched the outside through the blinds. Dark clouds had taken over the blazing evening sun, now looming over the dry, scarred land. Did you just hear that right?

Three crows sat upon the fence right beyond the wooden texture. Their beaks were half open, their eyes sunless and onyx, capturing the essence of their feathers. Aside from their heaved motion, they stood as silent and dead as the night. One of them tilted its small head, taunting your question. A breath of the southern heat brushed the hem of your skirt. For a moment, the grass shut its talking, and the breeze spoke no more. You faced the ginger door, the knob bronze and faded by age, the edges thick and ruminating on its time.

You could've sworn by the devil, you'd heard your name—

Another knock gathered your senses, cold-cheeking your paranoia all the same. “Alright, alright,” you said hastily. “No need to be breaking down my door near night.”

The touch of the knob stunned you; its cold metal a contrasting feel to the space around. You turned it with a quick motion, and the door opened to a muffled lament. A voice of God entered the room. “God, help me,” a croaked voice sang before you.

A man knelt on the porch, blisters covering his back—a white tank top torn into rough cuts—and showing the fury of the devil. His hands were held like a prayer, his face downturned as if to repent. “Please—they just came out o’ nowhere.” His words were no louder than a whisper, the sentences spoken in fear of letting the wind carry the song further.

“My—” you sputtered in shock, your hand curling up and finding refuge across your mouth. “—What has happened to you?!” Splinters lingered with their touch against the back of the hand that kept holding the door. The smell of death clung to him like a trademark of sorts. It reminded you of war, sickness, and despair.

Memories crossed your view—of crosses and nails, shovels and dirt, wounded and their wounds. His head lifted, just slightly, to witness the agape of treachery in front of him. A lock of hair covered his eye like a veil—his brown eyes meeting yours as tears teased their edges. This was just a man in need.

With the burden of despondency, he furrowed his eyebrows, mouthing in similar anguish: “Can I please—” “Of course,” you interrupted, the words said hurriedly. “Come on in.” You stepped onto the porch, the oppressive wind tracing your movements. Quickly, you lifted him up, carefully carrying an arm around your shoulder. His skin was boiling and stuck to yours as beeswax to water. He winced at the act, hissing as he limped into your home. His knees were buckled in ache. With the curve of your heel, you nudged the door shut with a squeak.

Contact with a leaking liquid made your arms twitch. Blood dripped down his shoulders, seeking grace on yours. The floor tasted him before you could recollect your senses. What has he done?

With a crouch, you placed him on a chair by the dinner table—a compact appliance covered in the dust of sandstorms. A small light elicited from the oil lamp on top. He hoisted himself by the arm, straightening his back, but his head fell loose soon after. A hiss blew through his teeth, and a trembling hand reached for the scarred tissue on his back.

“Hold on—” you spoke, cupping his hand and pulling it away. “Don’t you be making it worse now.” With a quick glance at the surface above his top, you knew you had to sanitize most of the wounds. “Sir, some of these need stitching. I’m afraid I can only wrap them up,” you said as you gazed upon his shoulders. He shook his head. “I can’t go back now. Them folk might still be out there looking for me.”

“You’ll get infections if you don’t,” you insisted. Footsteps echoed into the cramped space of the kitchen. You grabbed a bottle of old whiskey from the cupboards, dust covering its handle. Opening the drawers below, you found the last tablecloth keeping it company, its ashen color fading into the compartment.

The ground held his eye while the poor man attempted to steady his breathing. His shoes were covered in a mixture of gravel and dirt, the trace going all the way up to the knees of his pants. “You wasn’t out there,” he huffed, his voice starting to break. “They followed me like savages.”

The smell of strong methanol extorted from the neck of the bottle. The aroma of drunken nights and blasphemy slipped into the air between you. A finger traced alongside a rip near the collar of his shirt—it held a blister beneath its texture; a fourth-degree burn. Your eyes saw its kin all around; everywhere across his spine your gaze met another second—third—fourth-degree burn. “What the hell they’ve done to you?” you muttered beneath your breath.

You sought the maroon, gaping cuts that covered his skin—wounds that carried a knife’s history. His muscles were ever so tense below your eyes. Beneath the raptured surface, you saw a hardworking man’s body. His lean figure and sun-weathered skin caught your mind. His hair stuck to his face, a set of dark brown curls in withered state. For a moment, your fingers halted against his back, feeling the heat of his skin against yours. “You saw who they were?” With a dap of alcohol, you met the broken surface.

He recoiled, snapping his head back in pain. With clenched teeth and eyes shut, he spoke, “No, ma’am.” His fingers gripped his earth-colored pants so tightly, the nails saw white. “Figured they were some folk that didn’t want nothing but to let out some smoke.”

A glance of an eye answered to his reasoning. You’d never heard of people causing such wretched trouble—at least not in this town, as far as you were aware. Had newcomers’ attention been drawn to this place? Was there truly vicious folk coming this way?

“I was just up the hill down the road making a deliverance when they got me,” he continued. You bound his wounds while offering an ear. The cloth quickly fused with the color underneath, as if cotton had met with wine. You made a loose knot, intertwined one end with the other, and tightened it well. It earned you a repressed grunt from the injured fellow.

His eye met yours through his brows when you wrapped up. “Thank the Lord for your kindness,” he said, a smile creeping up his lips. “Forgive me, but you a church woman? Knowing all this stuff…?”

The question stunned you. The cross necklace beneath your shirt mimicked the heat of your skin. You smiled. “I am. My father’s the priest from around here. You ever been?” “I’m afraid I haven’t.” He sighed. “My faith’s been weary lately.” His face turned away from yours at the words. His beard glistened in the little light that was left in this corner. A warm redness stained the skin beneath his burnt cheeks.

You lightly shook your head. “Ain’t no worries about that. Faith is complex, you see.” Little time passed while doubt grasped your instinct. With squinted eyes and creased brows, you corrected yourself. “No—God is. He understands.”

“Maybe for firm believers like you, but me?” he chuckled, as if the thought was a fool’s joke. His words turned whisper-like again. “I reckon He favors torturing me in ways you can’t possibly imagine.” His shame left you in dismay, leading you to offer a secret of your own.

“I’m not the truest believer you’ve met just yet,” you admitted. His head turned, brown locks ablaze and dark eyes full of pondering. “What d’you mean?” Reluctance painted your face before you continued. “I see God not just as ‘Him.’ I mean—the things I’ve seen happening to some of the people around here… no God could allow that, and the devil ain’t capable enough to do all that by himself.”

Something in his demeanor shifted. A flicker of light. You believed your eyes deceived you when the brownness of his showed a hint of red within. His irises fixated on you, his knuckles flaming with tension. “What if there ain’t no devil to begin with. But just God?”

When you spoke the last words, you were too focused on their meaning to notice that the man was just staring at you. Waiting. A silence fell over the room, and it was only when you were drowning in contemplation that you realized your actions. You briefly shut your eyes, berating yourself for speaking such heresy. “I’m sorry, I don’t know what overcame me just now—” you rambled, in contempt with one’s self. You shook your head, like to shoo away such demeaning thoughts. “Never mind me. Here, let me take a look at those burns—”

The oil lamp squeaked when you grabbed it in an attempt to behold a closer look. The obsidian handler, with its cold touch; the night having set at last. It was a sight that churned your stomach in fear, when the view of his shoulders seemed vice in the face of medicine.

The blisters had gone. Faded away like a ghost in daylight. The skin was pure, untouched— not a single sign of a corrupted, scarred surface. His back was covered with sun-bleached moles, the touch smooth beneath your fingertips. The stained cloth showed red, but when you pulled it loose, the marks had gone; the cuts no more. There wasn’t a single sign of the cause of abuse. Your eyes darted beyond his spine, his arms, his back, deciphering a possible explanation that might let you be at peace. An abrupt, warped feeling set in your soul, freezing you on the spot.

“I actually think I’m feeling a lot better now.” His voice was hoarse and sounded muffled, as if coming from another room. You didn’t realize that he’d gotten up, or that you’d stepped back. Something was cold and caged between your fingers.

His back still faced you when the color drained from your face. The surface beneath your eyes felt deepened and darkened. A shiver made its way from your neck—like a virus beyond your body—until it found a way into your bones. The wind blew the grass to a halt, and a crow screeched deep in the night. Fear had wrapped its hands around your throat, but still, you spoke. “You the devil or somethin’?”

A deep chuckle elicited from him in the faintly lit corner he stood. The hollowness that tainted it made your blood run cold. “Just Remmick’s all,” he said, a smile pitching up the end.

A sudden hit of adrenaline raised your confidence by the horns, holding up the flask between your fingers; its liquid within flowing to the tip. “Get out of my house!” you shouted, eyes wide with both fury and angst.

Your arm trembled like an animal gone rogue. Beneath your top, your nipples pierced through the fabric despite the heat. The lace sketched flowers at your hem, making your skin peek from the holes beneath; your entire body defiled with the move of friction from your never-ending quivering. Even your hands were decayed with the touch of shock.

Remmick’s hair stuck to his face, his shirt a made-up history of his supposed ambush. He slowly turned around, serenity stitching together a composure of something wicked. Drool covered the surface below his mouth, the trail glowing in the light. Comprehension was neglected when you met his eyes—the earth filled with blood as his showed red with yearning, eagerness; a way to still a desperation within him—a hunger.

“Or I could repay you,” he offered. “You see, you’ve been so good to me, fixin’ me up and everything,” he voiced as he approached you slowly, making you echo-reverse his movements. “How could I leave without giftin’ a lady like you something she might need?”

“I don’t want nothin’ to do with whatever you are,” you gritted between your teeth. Panic tingled in your spine, touching up your sleeves, setting in your teeth, your throat; it was all over, drowning you in his sight. The wood groaned as you took another step back, your eyes tearing up by drought. You never broke apart from his gaze, locking onto it, desperately trying to gain the upper hand. Another step and he was so close you could feel his breathing. He stared you down and felt beyond your palm, grabbing the flask from your shaking hand.

“Your pitiful songs brought me here to begin with,” he said, his voice so delicate. “Those ails was what I heard from miles down the road. It made my heart heavy to hear, but I know I can cure it—how to give you that salvation.”

Finally, you dared to turn your gaze, closing your eyes to accept your fate. “I’m not making a deal with the devil this night.” A tread. A groan. The hardwood met your back. With your cheek against the wall, and his mouth near your ear, he could only whisper: “Not if you ain’t want to see the outside’s of the world, you won’t.” His teeth grazed the tender shell of your ear, making you shudder and flicker your eyes in reflex. “Believe me, you’ve seen nothin’ yet—”

His words were a deceive, you knew. Somehow still, they tasted like honey and filled your mind with ease. You wanted this. You begged, prayed, and bargained to the Lord for the day you’d gain your freedom and live it.

There was a sudden feeling, one tingling far across your spine, for a need to abandon all. To disrupt and disfigure. To find and to behold. It took a dip in your stomach and felt the insides of your skin. It was an urge so strong, so abrupt, you could nearly touch the thread it was spinning in view.

His words were supposed to make you bear it with grace, but something within you warmed at the promises of his voice. With his chest so close, his teeth so near—you knew in your heart you were going to sin.

Something was said of a rescue, and something of a drink, several psalms, and a certain eleven-five. It all happened so fast, like lightning hitting a stump. You couldn’t even fathom the capability of leading yourself into this indignity. Even so, your soul felt alight, overshadowing a dubious mind. “You asked to be free,” he murmured. “And who am I to deny that?”

The hanger on your ceiling rotated slowly by the little breeze that had slipped into your bedroom. Thin cushions and linen sheets cradled your body. Calloused hands felt up your legs before breaking them apart in a swift but gentle motion. You swallowed before your dazed self dared to look below your waist. “It’ll be over in a gist,” he soothed. His mouth hovered below your knee, placing a soft kiss on the skin, his canines teasing below his lips. “I promised, remember?”

The feel of his teeth on your skin made you shudder. It’d be as if pinched by a needle, you reassured yourself. It’d be nothing you couldn’t handle. Remmick kneaded your thigh, noticing the hesitance in your poise.

“You’re gonna be so good to me, sugar, I know it,” he whispered. He worked his way to your thigh, scraping his teeth against it as he watched you. A sharp gasp parted your mouth slightly. With uncertainty, you dared to lock eyes with him. Condensation clamped to your back. The bed creaked. He closed his eyes. A tightness took you by the heart. Remmick closed his eyes as his cheek melded with your inner thigh, his eyebrows furrowed in a mixture of fever and yearning—before his teeth latched onto your skin.

A choke escaped your mouth. You threw your head back in ache and an agonizing, burning discomfort. You squirmed beneath his touch, teeth clenched as if to grind them to breakage. He continued to hold you in position, watching you as a predator a prey. His eyes were glowing with want. Yours were squinted near shut in despair.

Your life’s essence flowed between his teeth, staining his chin, dripping down to the sheets below. Remmick’s cheeks were aflame and captured the look of a person who finally met the needs of one’s excruciating desire.

It reminded you of what he’d said earlier: “These violent delights have violent ends—but might the ends justify the means?”

The shift from the agony of liquid warmth to a heat that set in your stomach felt like a blindsided discrepancy. Perhaps it was because of your drunken state. Or maybe it was the cause of his persuasion. But when the view took you, you took it precisely as it was.

The sight of him there, one knee screwed into the bed and the other against its frame. His pants sought friction as he watched you, and you him. Those eyes of his were filled with ecstasy beyond comprehension. The need he experienced, one within you that needed to be met alike. Your back arched in tenderness when his tongue slipped atop your core wound, gathering all the excess it could find.

By God, it felt like he’d reached up to the bone. Still, your focus was a different, contradicting pounding ache between your legs.

It was an instinct. A reflex. A tendency. A tick. A hand reached for his head as vigilance became a stranger to your actions. You held onto Remmick’s hair, the damp locks intertwining with your fingers. Were you pushing him away, or pulling him in?

Desperation caused a delirium that forced your mind, body, and soul. Your breathing became little more than a hitch. Remmick moaned into your touch, the vibrations sending sparks of soreness beyond the crux.

“Does the Lord know what this does to you?” Remmick gasped. He took sharp breaths of air, their cold breeze making you twitch in his grasp. The return to his greed brought you no blessing. Sweat trailed your face—temple, lips, and neck. Your eyes were deemed shut as his hand roamed your leg. Gluttony painted his practice when they reached beneath your skirt—cardinal, promising, and remorseless.

Beyond the lace stitches, a soft touch to your core beckoned your fragile principles. An involuntary urge opened your legs further. All the while, your thigh continued its searing ache, accompanied by your strained breath.

Remmick’s touch, as it reached your core, was so soft, so tender, it was maddening. A finger eased upward into your cunt. Another slipped through your folds. Your cunt pulsed frantically as your mind was left in a haze.

“Shit—” he sighed, eyes drifting shut. The muscles in his arms tensed. His hand gripped your thigh so harshly, it’d mark you enough for the morrow. At a prolonged pace, he pumped his fingers through your heat before slowly adding another. Contradictions drowned out the squelching sound from down under: You shouldn’t have done this—versus—You need more of him, if even you were capable of it. You were left scorched by the devil, and even now you continued to beg in your mind for more.

Conflict left your thoughts astray. The heat became more evident, and your sight blurred with the vehemence of his want—the hunch of his shoulders, the bodily need of his tongue lapping through your gaping cuts, and his eyes: cataclysmic, like venom. Antithetical, your breaths followed each other up, heartbeats a-synch. “Damnit—” you cautioned, a tremble coating the words. “You feel so good.”

With a last touch of his tongue, he left your corroding skin. The pressure of his canines tugged out from your flesh, while blood angrily seeped from the wounds. He abruptly pulled away entirely, leaving your core to yearn for the likes of his fingers.

With a mind so longing and fervent, your mouth nearly let out a whine. Instinctively, you raised yourself, eyes shifting to him between your legs. You sought a reasoning for his withdrawal. All you found was a devil you’d gotten too close to.

With the back of his hand, Remmick brushed his chin to keep the carbon liquid from dripping. The maroon substance had a dark undertone in this shadow of light. It stained him all over—his chin, his beard, his mouth. Droplets had even reached as far as the area around his eyes. Remmick’s eyes were the only thing aglow in this part of the room; a lighter shade of red than the sin on his face.

He crawled over to you, one leg hooked between yours. His bloodstained fingers reached for your chin. Locking your face, he forced it toward him, as you shuddered in his touch.

“I was only meant to make one deal, remember?” he remarked. He was Lucifer himself, you knew. His actions alone were enough to convince you, if not for the view before you. The smell of oxide roughened a route into your lungs; the scent of steel prominent in the small widths of the bedroom.

His beard nearly scratched your cheek, his eyes looking down above sun-kissed spots. You felt your own body heat fuse with his now cold caress. And your heart beat against a chest that had neither a pulse nor a soul no more. It was then that he spoke the words which, indeed, changed everything: “Or did you change your mind?”

Your lips trembled in a longing fever. They shook with fear and ecstasy as your heart demanded the opportunity for change. “I believe I have,” you confessed in a whisper. You’d be lying to the Lord if his ways of sinning weren’t so beautiful—so alluring—it took away all evil and persuaded it into something of value.

Light pants heaved your chest, his own breathing melding with yours. It was the anticipation that was killing. The time he took in meeting your words with a few of his own. “What else you need?” he asked at last. His teeth had constricted, aside from the canines peeking through between his lips, his mouth slightly ajar. A finger reached for his lips. He grabbed your hand, confining it and pulling you closer. “I’m afraid you’re going to have to use your words, sugar.”

“You.”

The word had barely left your tongue when you pulled him in. Hands locked behind his neck, the metal taste of your own carbon spreading from his lips to yours. His stubble brushed your cheek and chin. A hectic moan slipped from one tongue to another as you left your mouth parted, inviting him in again.

The feel of the muscle brewed a heat within you you’d chased before. The deliberate pace at which your lips brushed against one another, time and time again, was as animalistic as it was sweet—completely savoring the flavor of your own aching, and his absolute wicked approach to take it from you again.

A hand roamed from your hips to your chest, slipping beneath your linen top. The dampened state of it paid Remmick no mind as his hands cupped your breast, kneading it slowly. Another lingered toward your thigh, grabbing your ruptured skin, teasing the edges of your wound. A finger pressured its approach inside. A sharp gasp escaped your mouth. The cold touch unfolded and spread, blending with the warmth it found inside. A pounding, corrosive ache forced a choke past your tongue.

“Don’t tell me now you can’t take a bit of pain,” he teased, his voice low. Fingers caressed your chest, applying pressure and circling the nerves by your heart. His mouth wandered down to your neck, tracing a line of kisses that felt like marks—he wasn’t making love to you; he was claiming you as his.

His mouth lingered at the spot. Remmick looked at you from the corner of his eyes between lashes and contemplative brows. He panted against your collar, refraining from the urge to give in, his cheeks scorching and his teeth hurting. You hadn’t even acknowledged it in your deepened state of corrupted mind—only seeking that bodily urge you knew he’d meet.

“The devil can’t hurt me”—digging your fingers into the skin of his nape—“With God’s touch.”

You spoke the words so hastily, shivering each vowel as he scraped his canines across your vessel—the sentences lingering like a burn wound on your tongue—and descended down to your heat.

He pulled down your skirt, the fabric hesitant to let go, latching onto the dampness of its surface. With the other hand, he left your wound and raised your top, ripping it off. Blood spread across your torso as he laid wet kisses on your stomach. The sudden coldness on your skin caused goosebumps along the outline of your arms. Remmick’s movements became feverish, his hands moving nimbly. He grabbed onto your hips.

For a moment, he sat there on his knees, cradling your thighs around his hips. His gaze was low, his breath carnal. You felt overly exposed, your skin starkly uncovered against his fully clothed self. Uncertainty tainted your mind. He’d stopped in his tracks, sitting there as if waiting for a sign when you precipitously noticed the trembling of his lips. The slight jitter masked the contraction of his teeth, falteringly retracting in and out like a tick—a hunger that never ceased. “You don’t know what you’re doing to me,” he sighed.

Noxious air brushed against your chest. The discarded belt sounded like a lashing, followed by the rip of a zipper and the shift of a leg. It was then that you looked at him with teary eyes—not stained with fear, nor shame. Forsaken were the previous scare of whispers and the claim of being a ‘whore.’

His lips felt your skin, teeth grazing along. Hands grasped, held, groped any surface of yours they could reach, whilst his strained pants melded with the mattress below. The desperation in his touch was as intoxicating as the liquor he’d priorly held inches away from your mouth, watching it seep past your lips, parted in alacrity.

When finally released, the head of his cock had been red with ache and leaking with need. With hands colliding with the skin on your sides, he thrusted himself into your heat. “Christ,” he hissed. “I knew you’d be good to me.” Your walls embraced his cock wholly, molding it to perfection. You moaned as it hit that sweet spot within you, so brusque and incensed.

He threw his head back, canines and teeth exposed, the resistance no more. His teeth glistened in the red that continued to stain them. You watched his neck covered in your being, your taste, your soul. The nerves of his neck were thick and dreaded in time.

He would be the one to kill you, and all you could pant was, “Harder—” Eyebrows furrowed at the abrupt bliss of the heat in your lower stomach. The sinful slapping of skin aired the room. Slick coated his cock as he thrusted himself inside you in a frantic manner, like a man starved from touch. He kneaded your thighs, his eyes closed in vex. “Ain’t no repenting in the way you’re shaking, sugar.”

He sought the bundle of nerves by your core, rubbing in deep circles. A sharp inhale escaped your lips at the touch. His movements became frenzied, and you knew he was close—and by God, you were too. “You’re taking me so well,” he gasped. “’S like you were made for me.”

A warmth brewed inside your lower stomach. You pulled him by his top, kissing him feverishly—wet, sloppy kisses with a hint of steel. A sizzling drowned out the noises of your desperation. He hissed in pain as the burning of flesh filled the air, setting into your lungs. His lips parted yours. You drank the whine that tainted the space between you.

Remmick’s cock twitched inside you, your cunt pulsing alike. “Damnit,” you sighed. “Remmick, I need you.” Your fingers laced his locks, his hands burying into the mattress below. Nails dug in the delicate texture. If it weren’t for the sickening urge he had, he would’ve pulled apart—away from your chest. A pounding ache maneuvered into his body; the silver cross burning into his skin, edging its message in his chest. Your scent, the way you made him feel, was too much for him. He wasn’t thinking straight, his reality vivid with longing covering his eyes.

Deliriousness choked him from the inside out. “I can give you what you want.” He spoke so softly, a tremble corrupting the words. Your mouth was slightly open, your head falling backward. Remmick’s eyes shifted to your neck. The skin was smooth, your vein popping in ecstasy, beating for a yearning. Your hands plagued his shoulders, grabbing him tightly, pulling him closer.

His grip became ravenous and ardent. His cock fitted your walls so keenly that the heat within you was close to grasp. Stars shone in your sight at last, as your eyelids came to a close. He kissed your neck as you reached your high so harshly. “You’ve been so good to me,” he groaned. “I’ll see you in the morning, darlin’.” He moaned as he took the skin by your neck, stitching his teeth into the surface. His noises felt as pure as they were enlightening. It was the last thing you remembered before things went vague.

You don’t remember how much time had gone by.

Remmick had gone somewhere. For a while, you were alone, despite not wanting to be. You felt caged in your own flesh. Numerous times you had attempted to get up, raise your arms, move your feet, but all were in vain. Your legs were weary, your sight blurry. No, you’d decided, you’d just close your eyes for a bit.

Moonlight seeped through the curtains. You faced the window as the fly lay there still. The two of you were now covered with dust. Dust that never went away, but an ail that ever would cease. A tear kissed the corner of your eye, seeping to the cushions down under. Your wounds were thorn. Blood spilled and spilled. The linen sheets were drained of your essence. They beckoned to the creatures in bed, as there lay a devil and a soon-to-be.

In the morrow, whispers would come of a woman who sold her soul to a stranger—a devilish someone. But you wouldn’t be there. You wouldn’t return for another hundred years. All you knew now was the darkness that set in your skin, and the cold that settled in your eyes. The sprinkling light of the oil lamp shone as the eye of God. He was everywhere. Blasphemy was all around. And all you had done was answer to it.

[leftoversl1ce]

Turning Point

Coogler’s lore for Remmick is probably him being offered vampirism by a vampire traveller with the same rules of fae - he was promised he would never go hungry again @huntingformarrow 

I somehow turned this into political commentary on Ireland, but yknow…I’m Irish so that’ll happen sometimes…Not a full fledged fic, more of a headcanon or a drabble on my thoughts of Remmick’s origin story.  Ao3 Link

Word count : 2.1k

There’s no hunger like the one that rumbles when your life is turned upside down. A thunderous bass note that feeds on pain and weakness, that robs you of energy and saps all joy from life. 

Hunger pangs wracked young Remmick’s body, and left only a man clinging to a tenuous will to live in their wake. His hunger, his emptiness of spirit all stemmed from the systematic theft of his family land by men who saw his people not as humans, not as a nation of intelligent, creative beings with families and loved ones. No, they saw the Irish as pests, the lowest form of life. And relished in treating them as such. His hunger was not only physical, but held the pain of a drained soul, of a culture bleached and sanitised for power, for a foothold in a foreign land. 

These vermin saw the extermination of the Irish as little more than cleaning up an inconvenience. These same men sought to bring a whole population to their knees, taking what little was on the table, leaving nought in store for the harsh winters. Who systematically starved an entire nation, yet continued taking more. They drained the well dry, and came back for not only the supplies, but the heart of a culture. Their cruel influence would last for generations, the effects of their abject cruelty echoing through time. 

When Remmick had everything taken from him, when his family’s land was ripped from their grasp and they were thrown onto the road like vermin, when they died in his arms, old and young alike, their bodies frail and weak, riddled with disease, his life was changed irreparably. With nothing left, he took to wandering the lonesome roads. With nothing to live for, Remmick let his feet guide him - towards a new beginning, or similarly down the path of destruction. 

Hatred took root in his heart and only grew with each plodding step. With each rumble of his stomach, each gust of wind that rattled his bones, Remmick’s fury took hold and grew exponentially. With each stride, a burgeoning desire to punish those who stole everything from his people grew.

It takes a soul without purpose to let evil take hold, and that night, Remmick's soul was ripe for the taking.

He could barely see his feet beneath him, as his feet tramped the lonely blackened road outstretched before him, only illuminated by the dim glow of a pale moon. Hidden behind thick cloud, this celestial being provided little comfort or aid to his journey. This road, built by men in a similar position to himself, destitute and desperate, now supported his aimless trudgery. These roads,built by discontent, carried each step, taking the weight of the man and his burdens onwards. Remmick never expected such a road to carry the weight of pure evil right into his path. 

In the dark, he stumbled across a stranger, a man shrouded in mystery and yet, he seemed intimately familiar. The moon cut a halo around his imposing form, highlighting his silhouette in the dark. It was as if the moon was his accomplice, aiding in his dastardly deeds. Yet as Remmick drew closer, as he approached this enigma in the night, a strange emotion settled in his chest. It was a familiar numbness, an acceptance of this new person as one of his own.  

This mysterious stranger was no more than a traveller, a wanderer, a man of flesh and blood, yet he stood in that lonesome road with no beating heart beneath his skin. 

He was a man of story and song, who shared in culture and art, a vagabond with only a few gold coins and a bible to his name. Yet he stood before Remmick, soundlessly existing. He was a pilgrim of knowledge and history, a collector of culture and memory, with a mystifying secret.

He promised the world, each word dripping with honey and hope. Yet when Remmick looked into his eyes, he was met with only his own reflection. A void sat behind a pool of gold and crimson smoke. It both terrified and intrigued him. 

This inhuman being communicated without making a sound. His words seemed to vanish on the crest of his lips, evaporating into the ether, into the darkness that surrounded them both.

Remmick was entranced, both by his seemingly ethereal beauty and his silent yet intensely captivating promises of something new. He whispered sweet promises of a world freshly born, where Remmick would no longer feel the sting of loss or starvation. Where he'd be free of those human plights, yet he was not told of the devastating repercussions of such a tradeoff. And there were always downsides to a promise so grand. 

There were always hidden clauses to a contract with a being not of this realm, whether magic or evil, they operated the same. There was always a trick, or a hidden consequence in dealing with such beings, always a price to pay for luxuries beyond man’s means. 

Remmick had been wandering, his mind and ultimately his sanity lost to a dense fog since men who served a foreign king across the sea wiped out his family. They surreptitiously stole the land from under his feet, and left him with nothing but the clothes on his back and the tune in his head. Not content with taking what little he and his family possessed, the English men threatened their very existence, their culture and way of life quickly fading into obscurity. The island had long felt the effects of cretins like Cromwell, who served their masters at the expense of a whole nation. Who were apathetic to the suffering and needs of a people, and let them perish to a man made plight, under their rule. Although it had been several years, and the great hunger had long taken root, young men like Remmick felt the ripple effect. They still felt the iron fist of the British government, the heel of the boot pressing against their cheek. They still felt the loss and the lasting effects of a cultural identity cleansed from a land steeped in heritage and history.

Eventually hunger would subside, fade into an overwhelming emptiness, a resignation to his fate as he wandered the long and lonesome roads. The darkness could’ve swallowed him whole, the ground could have opened up beneath him, and there’d be nobody left to mourn. 

Evil lurked in every corner of this island, infecting his once perfect home like a pox. A man made blight and a hand crafted famine stole all vitality, forced people to flee this great land, or stay in abject poverty and die on its soil. It leeched the colour and joy from this land, ripped the heart out of the country and replaced it with religion, injected the creed of the colonisers into a crumbling society, and threatened those left with death and destruction if they didn’t give their souls to something they didn’t believe in. It was a genocide of a peaceful people, a true war against nature and all those who worshipped it rather than the man made ideals of a crown. 

He grew up hating those that brought such devastation to his country, detesting those that forced them from their home, yet somehow those hollow words of prayer brought him comfort, the religion forced upon him gave him something to cling to in the darkest times.

Such loss gave rise to a new wave of beings, ready and willing to further exploit the downtrodden under the guise of benevolence. Under the promise of something better. It was a wonder there were any humans left - who wouldn’t accept the opportunity at a life more grand, a life where your stomach never rattled, and you didn’t have to scrounge for your next meal. A life of comfort and fulfilment, where sorrow never took root. It was an enticing prospect for any man, and Remmick was only the next in their long line of victims. 

When he was approached by this spectre on dark and winding country roads, when he was so graciously held in the arms of a stranger, Remmick once more meditated on the lord's prayer, hoping that they would once more bring him comfort in an uncertain time. 

With his stomach hungry for more than food, Remmick couldn’t help but give in to temptation, giving himself over to the enticing offer of a new life, of companionship and love and a promise that he would never go hungry again.

When that wandering stranger offered something irresistible, something akin to a miracle, Remmick couldn't help but give in, surrender to a force far beyond his control.

Little did he know, this stranger would subject him to a world of pain in a single moment. 

“I could feel your pain…I knew it once. I too knew the rumbling of hunger. You stand in my shoes, for I once was you.”

His sweet words drew in the soul of a poet, lured Remmick to an existence not much different to the one he currently lived - instead of facing imminent death, Remmick was faced with immortality and a life eternally searching for something more, veiled as his escape. Imprisonment under the guise of emancipation. He was given false hope, honeyed whispers from a drifter in the night lured him into a subsistence, far from the liberation he was promised. 

All it took was one bite, the venom of one creature to trap his soul for eternity. Though he knew he would have to sacrifice something, he never reckoned on giving up his mortality. Remmick never banked on losing so much of himself. The very things that make a man - his soul, his culture, his history. All the experiences of a flawed human existence, and the connections that are made along the way. All lost in one bite. 

As sharpened  fangs pierced his flesh, a curtain fell over his eyes, plunging his world into darkness. On a lonesome country road, Remmick was reborn, but first his body was broken, each cell destroyed by the very thing that would save him. Venom coursed through his veins, burning its way through his body and leaving only destruction in its wake. 

As with all things that seem too good to be true, this offer came with its own caveats and downfalls. It was a gift presented as his salvation, yet it came with the most dire repercussions, the largest sacrifice a man can make. In one swift motion, his mortality was wrenched from his reach, replaced by an eternal longing for something more. There would be no end to his search for beauty and connection, no end to his thirst for culture and song. Never again would he feel the warmth of a sunrise, never again would he connect with a people beyond his own mind. 

Along with an emptiness he would seek to fill, Remmick felt the familiar pangs of physical hunger. Yet it wasn't the comfort of food his body craved, no morsel would satisfy his needs. 

As with all things in the world of tricksters and charlatans, this contract came with fine print, caveats that Remmick never saw coming. He was promised a life free of hunger, but this stranger failed to mention the inescapable thirst that would drive him forward, controlling his every move. From that night on, it would be at the forefront of his mind, always the motivation for his unthinkable actions. 

It would drive him to become a murderer, a thief of life and joy. A destroyer of worlds and harbinger of pain.

Like the stranger who had inflicted this terrible curse upon him, Remmick had become everything he hated. He had become a leech on the world of hard working men, a specter in the dark they would come to fear. He had changed into a soulless creature, devoid of love and light, like the vermin who stripped his land of everything worth living for. He no longer had a tie to his history, his connection with his ancestors untimely severed. 

Despite the initial shock and the pain of losing so much of himself, Remmick accepted this fate in the hopes of escaping the looming spectre of death, yet now he had no escape. No way out of this hell he was living in.

He was given reprieve from his weaknesses, from his base human needs, from a life of poverty and destitution. From that point onward, he was ruled by a different type of hunger. An agonising thirst, which could never be sated. Even when he gave in to the pangs, even when he satisfied those urges in the most monstrous of ways, they always came back. 

This was the origin story of a monster, this was his turning point. 

Taglist (no pressure) @whitedarkmoonflower @eoinmcgonigall @poetmayne @ecoustsaintmein @carriganrose @stitch-me-not @gydima @miggleverse @theboyfromcork @eoin-mcgonigal @derry-rain @davidstirlings @skyearth85 @tonobread @theabhartachsbride @faestunna @jimmys-tiara @coldcrimsoncrypt

Screenshot for first image by @scrprints

[ptolemaeasdaughter]

༺ 𝐩𝐭𝐨𝐥𝐞𝐦𝐚𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐝𝐚𝐮𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐞𝐫 ༻ ❧ 𝐖𝐄𝐋𝐂𝐎𝐌𝐄 ❧

☞︎ 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐫𝐨𝐝𝐮𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧:

~ hello lovely people, welcome to my blog!

My name (pseudonym) is Ptolemaea and I am a female writer here on Tumblr, Wattpad and Ao3. I have finally made my dreams come true and I have started to “publish” my work to the public, which is very new ( and exciting ) for me. The main content that you’ll receive here is fanfiction ( probably because I indeed am a “Fandom wh0re”) and little snippets( for now at least) of some original writing stuff. I desperately want to expand the work that’s been posted on this blog and if you’ll keep checking in on this post you’ll see for what fandoms I’ll write.

Some important things to mention before I continue are:

1. English is not my first language, I try to do my absolute best to write everything without any flaws, however I’m not immune to mistakes so if you happen to notice any errors I kindly ask you to let me know so I can improve them and make reading my work better for everyone else:)

2. I am willing to take requests from people, but I’ll only accept them if you ask them without turning on the anonymous option, this is mainly to prevent any minors from requesting any NSFW content or other content of that sort. I greatly suggest that if you are a minor you kindly stay away from the more darker content that I’ll post, I will of course always put a disclaimer at the beginning of a chapter to warn you;)

3. I’ll always love to hear your thoughts and opinions on my work, a bit of critique is also good for the soul, however any form of bullying/hateful speech will not be tolerated and you will be blocked!

4. If you would like to be tagged in any upcoming works please send me a message so I can make sure I won’t forget to tag you, if you don’t want to be tagged anymore please send me a message also so that I kind of have an overview of who does and who doesn’t want to be included ❤︎︎

༇ 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 :

𖦹 𝐒𝐈𝐍𝐍𝐄𝐑𝐒 𝐔𝐍𝐈𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐒𝐄:

𝐃𝐚𝐫𝐤 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐝𝐢𝐬𝐞 - Prologue ( 𝐫𝐞𝐦𝐦𝐢𝐜𝐤 𝐱 𝐟𝐞𝐦!𝐨𝐜)

- Before Remmick found his way to the Americas he roamed around Ireland trapped in his earthbound vampire form. Having seen his people oppressed for centuries, the darkness slowly ate away at his heart; yearning to see his people again without being shunned from society. Longing for a time when his animalistic nature didn’t overtake his rational. For years he roamed around the ancient lands, searching for something to fill the void.

In 1845 he stumbles upon a farm, housing the former Irish mob boss Cormac ‘Ó Murchadh ( Murphy ) and his daughter. Whilst fleeing from other vampires he finds shelter there, not intending to stay there for long; planning to drain the life from the man before the end of the week. However when the singing of Cormac’s daughter blesses his ears, he finds himself falling into sinful passion; haunting him for eternity.

A story of eternal longing, loss and romance. Reincarnation in its full glory

🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮

𖦹 𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐑𝐘 𝐏𝐎𝐓𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐔𝐍𝐈𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐒𝐄 :

- 𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐀𝐔𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐒 𝐄𝐑𝐀:

- 𝐓𝐎𝐌 𝐑𝐈𝐃𝐃𝐋𝐄 :

🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮

𖦹𝐓𝐖𝐈𝐋𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓 𝐔𝐍𝐈𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐒𝐄:

- 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐕𝐎𝐋𝐓𝐔𝐑𝐈: work in progress!

- 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐂𝐔𝐋𝐋𝐄𝐍𝐒:

🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮

𖦹 𝐓𝐎𝐋𝐊𝐈𝐄𝐍 𝐔𝐍𝐈𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐒𝐄:

-𝐋𝐎𝐓𝐑 :

- 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐇𝐎𝐁𝐁𝐈𝐓: coming soon!

- 𝐒𝐭𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐒𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 - part one

- 𝐒𝐭𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐒𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 - part two

- 𝐒𝐭𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐒𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭- part three

( Thorin x fem!oc)

Daughter born of Stone and Starlight,

A heathen child,

Burdened with eternal shame,

Born into Middle Earth like a lamb made for slaughter,

A fallen child consumed by the wolf,

Run now child,

Thou Heathen blood shall not return to the earth,

They love you but shall not safe you,

May the earth be your home,

Thou shall not escape thy lineage

Dark forces slither out of their holes again, creeping slowly back over Middle Earth. The hard fought peace slightly breaking. When the hearts of all the races inhabiting Middle Earth become corrupt, Gandalf seeks the help of Luelle the bastard daughter of Mîm to help him reclaim the lonely mountain; for if they fail the dark forces succeed and the races of middle earth are doomed.

The time when Thorin Oakenshield once again saw light at the end of his grief- stricken tunnel.  The time Luelle found out what home is. 

- 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐈𝐋𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐈𝐋𝐋𝐈𝐎𝐍:

🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮

𖦹 𝐇𝐎𝐓𝐃 & 𝐆𝐎𝐓 :

🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮

𖦹 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐄𝐂𝐑𝐄𝐓 𝐇𝐈𝐒𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐘 : -

🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮

𖦹 𝐍𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐀: -

🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮

𖦹 𝐎𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐢𝐧𝐚𝐥 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐤

☝︎︎These are the fandoms I intend to work on and I’ll gladly take requests for these fandoms. I do not have a schedule for posting any content, I kind of am winging it tbh 😅 so to keep you updated I’ll post -𝐮𝐩𝐝𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐬- so you know how far I am with the work❤︎︎

Also, you may have seen the words “coming soon” a lot on here, that’s mainly because I intend on writing real fanfics, when the fanfics are actively being written I’ll change the text to “work in progress”.

✍︎︎ also dont forget to check out my accounts on Wattpad, Ao3 and TikTok!

[whateyescantsee]

Had to make an edit for Remmick. Definitely an au, perhaps I was thinking of where I want to go with my story🫣 we’ll see.

[flixpii]

the night i chose you

fem!vampire!reader x human!remmick

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ao3 link !

word count : 25.4k

synopsis : mississippi delta, 1930s. you, a centuries-old vampire, find yourself drawn to the quiet life of a young irish immigrant who has nothing but his music, his work, and his trembling kindness. you tell yourself you will only watch. but each night you come closer—until you have him beneath you, kissing, touching, breaking, feeding. he doesn’t know it yet, but he’s already yours.

a/n : dropping this straight outta nowhere … i started this in june and just finished it yesterday 😭 now working on the pegging request along with the college dorm mate request from my pookie.

warnings (mdni 18+) : sub!virgin!remmick, soft dom!reader, slow burn, stalking, vampiric feeding, predatory obsession, tension/unease, implied intent to kill/turn, brief mentions of immigration, manipulation, teasing, dryhumping, premature ejaculation, reassurance/comfort after, praise kink (light), first time sex, virgin tension, fingering (f!receiving), oral fixation (sucking fingers), nipple/breast stimulation, handjob, unprotected sex (p in v), gaeilge slips, guiding/teaching, drool, biting/feeding during sex, blood, aftermath care, turning process/body horror implied, newborn vampire hunger frenzy, remmick is hella touch-starved and inexperienced

The rain comes down in thin, slanted sheets, blurring the edges of the storefronts and turning the gaslamps along the street into smudges of yellow. You’ve seen nights like this more times than you care to count—centuries of them, each one the same. The streets emptied quicker when the weather soured, and you’d learned long ago that the best feedings were found where no one wanted to linger. Men drunk and stumbling home from the juke joints. Women clutching their coats tight, ducking under awnings. They rarely looked up until it was too late.

That has been your rhythm for years. For decades. For lifetimes. Pull one into the dark, drain just enough to be sated, then let them collapse into the gutter. The faces blurred together, a tide of nameless, forgettable offerings. You didn’t linger. You didn’t watch. You didn’t remember.

But tonight, as the rain slicks the cobblestones and the storm pulls smoke from the chimneys down into the street, you see him.

He steps out from a narrow shop with its windows fogged from within, the faint sound of strings and brass still clinging to the door before it shuts behind him. He carries a case tucked under his arm, careful like it holds something delicate. He pauses under the awning, pushing the wet from his brow with the back of his hand. Even at a distance, you catch it—the slight hesitation in his gait, the way he squares his shoulders as though reminding himself to look sure of where he’s going.

You know the type. Young. Alone. A little out of place. They’re easy. You can already picture it: wait until he turns down one of the narrow lanes, until the lights thin and the shadows press closer. You’d done it a thousand times before.

And yet, something about him catches. Not his face—you’d seen handsome and plain both, enough to know neither mattered. It’s the way he walks, as though trying to be someone he isn’t. Like the lilt of his tongue has been traded for another man’s voice. A borrowed skin.

You find yourself moving before you can think, slipping into the rhythm of the hunt, your feet soundless against the wet ground as you begin to follow.

You slip into the rain as though it parts for you, the shadows gathering close, softening your steps to nothing. The boy—no, the man, though still young enough that you could sense the rawness clinging to him—walks with a strange tension.

He keeps the case pressed to his side as though it might be stolen, his fingers curling possessively around the worn leather handle. His hat brim sags under the weight of the rain, but he doesn’t lift it, doesn't fuss with it. He moves with a deliberate kind of quiet, a rhythm too careful to be natural. Every few steps, you catch the faintest drag in his stride, as though one leg doesn’t quite trust the ground.

Men hurried when they were alone in storms like this. They ducked their heads, shoulders bent, eager to get inside. Not him. His pace isn’t fast, not slow, but steady—like he has taught himself to move at that tempo, borrowed from others who belong more here than he did.

You caught his mouth once when he passed a lamp, and the way his lips moved even as no sound came. Practicing something, maybe. An accent. A word. The shadow of a tongue that is his, hidden beneath the mimicry of the Delta.

You should be thinking of where to take him. Which alley will hide the body best. How close to press your mouth before the first warm pulse spills down your throat. But instead, you watch the way the water slides down the back of his neck, darkening the collar of his coat. You count the times he shifts his grip on the case, cautious, careful, always with that same strain of someone trying not to be seen for what they were.

The storm wraps the streets in muffled quiet, and still you can hear him. The scuff of his sole on stone. The slight hitch in breath when he adjusts the weight of the case. You match his rhythm step for step, letting the thrill hum low in your chest.

He’s so unlike the others. Not because he’s harder to catch, but because he doesn’t even seem to know he ought to be afraid.

The rain hasn’t let up by the time he turns onto a quieter street. Houses crouch low to the earth here, porches sagging under the storm’s weight, lamplight spilling weakly from behind thin curtains. His pace slows, and you know he’s close—close enough that you can almost taste the heat rising from him, the faint scent of wood polish and brass clinging to his clothes.

Your hunger sharpens. Centuries of practice coil in your muscles, a certainty that this moment will end the way it always does—with your mouth at his throat, the rush of blood, the silence that follows. You step nearer, close enough that if you reached out you could brush his coat sleeve. The rhythm of his heart beats like a drum in your ears, steady, tempting.

He climbs the steps of a narrow porch, his case shifting in his grip. You ready yourself, already picturing the pull, the warmth, the release—

But then he stops.

A shift in the air. His head tilts, just slightly. You still yourself at once, body locked in the rain, but the sound betrays you—some small scrape of your shoe against wet stone, a whisper in the storm too human to be ignored.

Slowly, he turns.

The lamplight catches his face in profile first—sharp nose, rain-dark lashes, mouth pressed thin with some unspoken thought. Then his eyes find yours.

And you freeze.

It isn’t fear staring back at you. Not suspicion. Something else—something softer, sharper all at once, like a hand pressed against glass. He looks at you as though you’ve stepped out of the rain not as a predator, not as a stranger, but as someone lost. 

Your throat goes tight. The strike dies in you quicker than breath.

“Miss?” His voice cuts through the downpour, careful, uncertain. The lilt you noticed before is there, frayed at the edges—his tongue trying to hold steady against the pull of another accent beneath. “You alright? You lost?”

For the first time in longer than you can remember, you don’t answer. You only stare, your hunger cooling into something unfamiliar, something you can’t name.

The rain patters heavy between you, filling the silence you cannot break. His eyes don’t leave yours, steady despite the storm soaking his hat, despite the chill sinking into his coat. Any other man would have hurried inside by now, shut the door, let you vanish back into the dark. But he stays there on the porch, looking at you as though the world hasn’t blurred to rain around him.

You can see the effort in him—the careful set of his jaw, the way his voice had smoothed itself into the local cadence. But under it, you sense the truth, something rougher, truer, straining to break through. It makes him look vulnerable, not in the way prey does, but in the way of someone who carries more of themselves than they know how to hide.

You should move. End this moment before it twists you further off the path. Yet your body won’t obey. For the first time in centuries, the hunt does not feel like instinct—it feels like hesitation, like being caught.

The storm presses down harder, and still he waits. Patient. Concern etched into his brow.

You make yourself breathe, shallow and careful, and you let the smallest movement answer him.

You nod.

His shoulders loosen, almost imperceptibly, as though he hadn’t realized he’d been bracing for something else entirely.

He blinks once, the rain dripping from the brim of his hat, darkening the collar of his coat. Your nod seems to ease something in him, but not enough to turn him away. His hand tightens faintly on the handle of his case before he shifts his weight, looking you over like he’s trying to gauge just how far you’ve wandered, just how alone you might be.

“You got somewhere you’re headed?” His voice is quieter now, softened by the storm, though the thread of that hidden accent pulls through stronger, unguarded. He clears his throat like he hears it himself, like he’s trying to smooth it out again. “A street you’re lookin’ for?”

The question hangs between you, unanswered. You don’t move, don’t blink, though inside you feel the old hunger scraping at your restraint, at war with the strange stillness that his gaze has forced on you.

After a beat, his mouth presses into a faint line. His eyes flick once to the rain washing over you, then back again.

“Well.” He shifts his case under his arm, free hand gesturing toward the door behind him. “Ain’t good to stand out in weather like this. You can wait inside a spell, if you’d like. Just ‘til it lightens up.”

You remain still in the downpour, rain dripping from your lashes, cold against skin that hasn’t known true chill in centuries. His offer lingers in the air, almost absurd in its simplicity.

You think of all the years, the thousands of faces that came and went. Men who clutched their wallets closer when a stranger neared. Women who crossed to the other side of the street if a shadow lingered too long. Entire towns that would rather spit at your feet than offer a hand.

And here is this one—standing with his door half-open, shoulders squared in quiet stubbornness, asking a woman he doesn’t know to step in from the rain.

Fool, you think. The word sharpens in your chest. A fool who doesn’t even realize what he’s offered. Doesn’t realize what might come crawling through his threshold.

You should turn, vanish into the storm the way you always do. Let him disappear into memory as quickly as the others. But something roots you to the spot—the strange pull of his gaze, the way he tries to bury his tongue beneath another man’s speech, the careful clutch of that case against his side.

At last, you let yourself move. A single, deliberate step forward, then another, the porch creaking faintly beneath your weight.

His hand lingers on the door, steady, waiting.

You cross the threshold.

The air shifts at once. Quieter. Heavy in its own way, but no longer filled with the weight of rain. The floorboards creak underfoot, their polish worn down by years of use. Your eyes sweep the space—narrow walls paneled in dark wood, a scattering of furniture that looks more functional than inviting. A small table stands by the window, its surface scarred with shallow knife-marks, stacked with yellowed sheet music curling at the edges. Against the far wall, a stand leans, empty, waiting for the case he still clutches to his chest.

There’s a neatness to it, though not the kind born of pride. More like someone who has little enough to keep, and keeps it close, careful. A thin thread of smoke lingers near the ceiling beams, the remnants of a fire recently banked.

You take it all in within a breath, every detail sliding into the centuries of catalog you’ve carried. But unlike the others, this place doesn’t fade to sameness. It holds shape. Texture. The sharp imprint of him.

Behind you, the door shuts with a muted click. He sets his case down gently, leaning it against the stand like it might break under the weight of carelessness.

“It ain’t much,” he says, voice low, almost apologetic as he pulls off his hat and shakes the rain from its brim. That lilt slips through again, softer now, unguarded. “But it’s dry.”

Silence folds over the room, thick as the storm still battering the roof. You stand just inside the threshold, the wet sliding down your coat in thin rivulets, pooling at your boots. He moves about quietly, setting his hat on the table, loosening his collar, as if your presence is no stranger than the rain.

You let your gaze sweep once more—the careful neatness, the scent of wood and smoke, the case leaned against its waiting stand. Every detail etches itself into you. For centuries, you have never cared to look so closely. Rooms blurred together. Faces blurred together. But here you linger, caught in the shape of this man’s life, in the way it settles around him like something he’s still learning to carry.

Only after a long, weighted pause do you let your voice break the quiet.

“Small,” you murmur at last, slow and measured, your words tasting strange in your mouth after such stillness. “But kept.”

Your eyes lift to him as you speak, catching the flicker of something in his expression—a faint tug at his mouth, uncertain if he should take your words as praise or mockery.

He shifts where he stands, one hand brushing down the front of his damp shirt as if that might smooth away the awkwardness. His eyes flick to the corner of the room, then back to you, mouth pulling faintly before he settles on words.

“Reckon it’s all I need,” he says, earnest despite the hitch in his tone. “Keeps the rain out, keeps me dry.” A pause, then a quieter add, almost sheepish: “Can’t say much more than that.”

The silence hums again, though this time it isn’t heavy. He clears his throat, gaze skimming over you like he’s searching for the right measure of courtesy.

“You’d like some tea?” It’s more of a question than an offer, but before you can shape an answer, he’s already moving toward the back of the house, his steps quick and sure on the old boards.

“Got all sorts in here,” he continues, his voice rising a little over the sound of cupboards opening, the faint clatter of tin. “Mam used to swear by it when I was sick. Ginger, lemon, chamomile—made me drink it ‘til I couldn’t stand the smell of it no more.”

Your head tilts at the word. Not mother. Not mom. Mam. The soft curl of the vowel, the trace of something older beneath the accent he’s worn like a coat. It lingers on your ear, more revealing than he likely intended, the slip of truth breaking through his careful mimicry.

The storm hammers on, and for the first time in longer than you can recall, you find yourself listening—not to the rhythm of a heart, not to the promise of blood—but to the cadence of a man’s voice in his own home.

You follow the sound of his voice, quiet in your steps, though there’s no need for silence here. The kitchen is small, its counters worn smooth from years of use, the cupboards stacked with jars that catch the lamplight in muted gleam. He moves through it with a kind of practiced clumsiness—like someone who knows where everything lives but still handles it as though it might crumble in his hands.

He sets a tin on the counter, then another, lining them up without much order. His coat is still damp, shoulders dark with rain, but he doesn’t bother to change. Instead, he busies himself with the kettle, striking a match to coax the flame alive beneath it. The flare of light paints his profile for a moment—strong jaw, the faint shadow of stubble he must not have had time to shave.

You lean against the doorframe, watching. For centuries, you’ve stood in kitchens just like this, though never to linger. Always to feed, to clean what mess was left, to slip away. But now your hands stay at your sides, empty, your hunger pressed low as you take him in.

He hums softly under his breath as he works, some fragment of melody that breaks off before it finds its shape. His fingers tap a rhythm against the tin lid, restless, and when he speaks again it’s more to the room than to you.

“Always thought Mam just liked keepin’ me quiet,” he says, prying open one of the tins. The faint scent of dried ginger drifts out. “But I reckon she believed in it too. Tea for the belly, tea for the throat, tea for whatever else was ailin’ you.”

Again, that word—Mam—softened, rounded, marked by a place far from here. The sound tugs at you, lingers longer than it should.

The kettle begins its low hiss, steam curling faint from the spout, and he busies himself with measuring leaves into the pot. You stay in the doorway, your gaze tracing the movements of his hands—careful, deliberate, but not with the ease of someone born to this place. No, it’s something learned, borrowed. Just like his voice.

When you speak, your words cut softly through the kitchen air, slow and even, though they carry the weight of certainty.

“You’re not from anywhere near here.”

It comes as a question on your tongue, the rise at the end giving him room to deny it. But you know it isn’t one. The truth sits there between you, plain as the sound of the storm beyond the walls.

He stills. His hand hovers above the pot, fingers curled around the tin lid. For a moment, his shoulders tighten, the set of his back rigid in the glow of the stove’s flame. Then he exhales, low, as if he’s been caught at something small but telling.

His head turns slightly, not enough to face you yet, but enough that the lamplight brushes across the line of his cheek. A faint smile tugs at his mouth, more rueful than amused.

“That obvious?”

He lingers in that half-turn, the kettle’s hiss filling the gap between you. You study the slope of his shoulders, the way his fingers tap once against the tin lid before setting it down. He isn’t practiced at being confronted. That much is clear.

Slowly, he shifts his weight, leaning a hip against the counter. His eyes flicker toward you, steady but cautious, as if measuring just how much to admit.

“Me and my parents,” he starts, the words slow, as though they’ve been tucked away too long, “we came over not too long ago. From Ireland.”

The word leaves his mouth with the faintest curl, unmistakable even as he tries to smooth it away. He breezes past it quickly, reaching for the kettle, adjusting it like the task will distract you from the truth he’s let slip.

Your gaze sharpens, quiet and unyielding. You’ve known men who tried to lie with their eyes and men who tried to lie with their voices. He doesn’t do either well. His truth lives in the pauses, the edges of words, the parts he tries to skip over.

Centuries have taught you to read the smallest tells. And everything about him speaks of a man carrying another skin, hoping no one will notice the seams.

Your eyes stay on him, unblinking, following the little slips he tries to tuck away beneath the ordinary motion of pouring water, rattling cups. He moves like a man who wants to be invisible but hasn’t yet learned how.

“You wear it,” you say at last, your voice soft but cutting, “like a coat that doesn’t quite fit.”

The words hang there, sharper for their quietness. His hand stills on the kettle’s handle. He doesn’t look at you right away—his gaze fixes on the curl of steam rising, his jaw tightening as though the remark had landed in a place he hoped you wouldn’t touch.

When he does glance over, it’s fleeting, uncertain, almost defensive. There’s no anger in it, not yet, but there is a faint flicker of unease, the kind that comes when someone sees too much too quickly.

“Suppose it takes time,” he murmurs, a poor shield, his thumb brushing absently against the rim of the cup. His tone aims for casual, but it slips in the middle, leaving the truth exposed all over again.

He clears his throat, as though the sound might scatter the weight of your words. The kettle hisses louder, and he seizes it like an anchor, pouring the water in slow, steady streams over the leaves. His movements are careful, as if focusing on them might stitch his composure back together.

When he speaks again, his voice is lighter, deliberately so, brushing past what you’ve just laid bare.

“Listen,” he says, setting the kettle aside, “if the storm don’t let up, you can take the couch tonight. It’s not much, but—it’ll do. You don’t need to worry.”

He glances at you, a brief flicker of his eyes, earnest despite the strain at the edges of his voice.

You almost laugh, though no sound escapes you. You don’t need to worry. Foolish man. If only he knew what stood across from him in his small, neat kitchen. If only he knew what centuries had honed your teeth and hands to do. He should be the one worried, not you.

But still, the words settle strangely in you. Not because they’re wrong, but because they’re offered. Because they belong to a man who, instead of casting you back into the rain, has opened his door, poured his tea, and spoken as though your danger is only the weather outside.

You let the silence stretch just long enough to taste his offer, to weigh it against the centuries of men who would have slammed their doors or crossed the street to avoid even brushing shoulders with you. Then, slow and deliberate, you incline your head.

“Thank you,” you say, the words measured, almost foreign on your tongue after so long without needing them. “For letting me stay.”

His mouth lifts faintly at one corner, more reflex than smile, but it softens him all the same. He nods once, quick, like it costs him nothing at all.

“No problem,” he answers, voice steady again, the strain fading under the ease of hospitality. He sets the pot down and wipes his hands against his trousers before glancing toward the narrow hall. “I’ll grab some blankets for you. Couch’ll be fine enough with those.”

You watch him move—uncomplicated in his intention, as though offering shelter to a stranger in the storm is the simplest, safest thing in the world.

You follow him into the sitting room, silent as shadow. He doesn’t seem to notice your quiet steps behind him, too busy tugging an old quilt from a chest near the wall and shaking it out with a soft thump. The couch is small, narrow-backed and worn smooth by years of use, but he bends to it with the care of someone preparing a guest bed that he rarely, if ever, offers.

He spreads the quilt, pats down the cushions with a hand, adjusts the fold once, twice—as though the smallest imperfection matters. A pillow follows, tucked at one end, his palm pressing it flat. For a moment, he steps back to assess, as if the arrangement might need approval.

Then it comes sudden: a sneeze that doubles him forward, his hand fumbling to his face. He mutters something low under his breath, sharp and quick, a curse that doesn’t belong to this place. The syllables curl strange and unfamiliar, thick with the cadence of a tongue you don’t know.

Your head tilts, listening.

He clears his throat, rubbing at his nose with the back of his hand. “Sorry,” he murmurs, a little embarrassed. Then, straighter, steadier: “I’ll be down the hall if you need anything. Cups are in the cabinet if you want any water.”

He gestures vaguely toward the kitchen, then steps back, giving the couch one last look as though to assure himself it’s enough.

The sound of his footsteps fades down the hall, each board creaking softer until the house folds back into silence. The storm still presses against the windows, but inside the little room is steady, warm with the faint burn of lamplight.

You stand a moment longer, watching the couch he so carefully prepared. The quilt lies neat, the pillow settled just so, touched by the weight of his hands. A place meant for rest. For safety.

Slowly, you lower yourself into it, the fabric faintly carrying his scent—wood smoke, varnish, the trace of rain clinging to his clothes. You stretch out, though you don’t need the comfort, don’t need sleep the way he does. But the act is ritual enough, a mimicry of the life you’ve long since left behind.

Your eyes close for a moment, and there it is again—that flicker in him. The careful courtesy. The slip of a foreign word on his tongue. The soft edge of a man who has opened his door to a stranger in the night with no thought for what it might cost him.

You’ve taken countless lives. Drained bodies in alleys, left them to the shadows without a second glance. That had been your intent tonight, as it always was. But you know, as surely as the hunger that still smolders low in your chest, that it will not be the end of him.

No—he will not be another faceless offering.

You’ve already made up your mind.

You will not kill him.

You will keep him. Shape him. Make him yours.

A few nights have passed since the storm. You’d left in the darkest hours before dawn, just as you always do, though that night your departure had not been like the others. Instead of vanishing without trace, you had bent over the small coffee table, the lamplight guttering low, and scratched a single word onto a slip of paper you’d found there:

Appreciation.

No name. No signature. Just the word, left like a breadcrumb.

By morning, he would have found it. Perhaps puzzled over it, perhaps tucked it away in a drawer. Perhaps thrown it out. The thought lingers with you, but not in the way it once might have. This time, it gnaws. This time, you want to know.

So you begin to watch him.

Not just once, but every evening. Always from a distance, tucked beneath shadow or veiled by the cover of streets that never seemed to notice you. He leaves the shop at near the same hour, case in hand, shoulders squared against the press of the town. Sometimes he pauses to light a cigarette before walking on, his head bowed, the smoke catching in the glow of the lamps. Other nights he hums softly, the same half-melodies you’d heard in his kitchen, cut short when he realizes he’s doing it.

He is a creature of habit, though not yet comfortable in his skin. You notice the way he touches the brim of his hat when strangers pass, a nod too formal to be native. The way his vowels slide back into shape when he is alone, unguarded. The way his hand always clutches that case, fingers tightening whenever footsteps echo too near.

Each movement etches itself into you. Centuries of hunting have made you adept at reading weakness, at mapping out every flaw a body carries. But with him, you find yourself memorizing the small things instead—the tilt of his head, the crease of his mouth when he’s thinking, the rhythm of his gait when he believes no one is near.

Every night you watch, you tell yourself the same thing: you will not drain him. You will not waste him. He belongs to you already, whether he knows it or not.

Tonight, the rain has given way to a heavy stillness. The streets lie empty, shadows pressed deep into the corners where lamplight doesn’t reach. You follow the familiar path, already knowing where he’ll be. He is a creature of rhythm—you could set a clock by his habits now.

The instrument shop sits at the edge of the square, its windows dim, the faintest glint of brass and string catching where the lamps outside spill in. You’ve stood across from it countless times, watching him lock the door, watching him tuck the case under his arm before heading home. You know the shape of his evenings like you know the steady pull of hunger in your bones.

But you’ve never crossed the street. Never touched the door. Not until tonight.

Your steps carry you closer, quiet against the stone, until you stand beneath the narrow awning. The wood smells of varnish and dust, of music not yet played. Your fingers brush the doorframe, though you cannot pass it—not without invitation. The law binds you still, no matter how many centuries have scoured you of other ties.

So you do what you haven’t done in lifetimes.

You raise your hand. And knock.

The sound is soft but deliberate, echoing faint through the quiet street. For a moment, nothing stirs. Then, from within, you catch it—the scrape of a chair, the shuffle of feet, the faint rustle of paper being set aside.

His voice follows, muffled by the door, touched with that softened cadence he tries so hard to wear.

“Store’s closed.”

A pause. Then, more cautious, closer:

“…Who’s there?”

You don’t move from where you stand, hand still poised near the wood as though you might knock again. His voice drifts through the door, wary but not sharp, the kind of caution that has not yet hardened into distrust.

You let the silence stretch a moment, then answer, your words slow, deliberate—measured enough to offer nothing, yet leave him reaching for more.

“Not a customer,” you say, tone even, almost quiet against the hush of the street. “Just passing through.”

The words could belong to anyone. A stranger caught in the wrong place at the wrong hour. Yet they slip from you with the weight of intent, each syllable chosen, steady, meant to pull rather than push away.

From inside, there’s another pause. You hear the faint click of something set down on wood, his steps shifting nearer. For a breath, only the creak of the floorboards speaks. Then—

“Passing through?” His voice is closer now, just on the other side of the door. A note of uncertainty curls beneath it, but curiosity threads there 

The lock shifts with a scrape of metal, then the hinges groan as the door eases open. A wedge of lamplight spills into the dark, stretching across the awning until it touches your feet.

He stands framed in the glow, hair damp with sweat from the strain of the hour, shirt sleeves rolled up, fingers smudged faintly with graphite or dust. The tension in his shoulders lingers for a moment—then breaks as soon as his eyes meet yours.

A breath slips out of him, audible in the quiet, as if he’d been holding it. Relief softens the line of his mouth, the cautious edge in his gaze ebbing into something steadier.

“Well,” he says, the word carrying on a low exhale. “It’s you.”

He leans against the doorframe, not quite smiling, but no longer guarded either. “How you been?”

You tilt your head just slightly, your gaze steady on him. His question lingers in the air, waiting, but you let it pass you by. Instead, your voice unfurls slow and even, carrying no more weight than you choose to give it.

“And you?”

The silence that follows presses back against him, urging him to fill it. He shifts, thumb rubbing absently along the edge of the doorframe, as though grounding himself. For a moment he seems almost caught—then words begin to spill, easy in their honesty.

“Busy,” he admits, glancing back toward the dim shape of the shop behind him. “Too much so, sometimes. Been doin’ repairs more than anything—folks bringin’ in fiddles with strings near broke, horns that haven’t been cleaned in months.” He huffs a quiet laugh, soft, self-deprecating. “Ain’t glamorous work, but it keeps me fed.”

His eyes flick back to you, studying your stillness. He shrugs faintly, filling the space again before it can settle. “Nights get long, though. Quiet. S’pose I don’t mind the company, even if it’s just someone knockin’ at the door.”

You shift forward, one deliberate step, then another, until the lamplight folds over you fully. The shop air reaches you—wood shavings, metal polish, the faint tang of resin and oil—thick with the breath of instruments that have lived in other hands before his.

You do not cross the threshold, not yet. Instead, you let your presence press closer, filling the narrow doorway as though to test how far he’ll bend.

His gaze lifts to meet yours, steady but flickering at the edges. He doesn’t step back, doesn’t bar the way. If anything, his hand loosens on the doorframe, a subtle slackening, like he’s caught between courtesy and the tug of something he can’t name.

“You want to come in?” he asks at last, his voice quieter now, unpracticed, as though the offer has surprised even him.

The words curl in the air, an invitation laid bare.

Your lips curve faintly, just enough to acknowledge the invitation. “Yes,” you murmur, your voice low, smooth, carrying the edge of certainty rather than need.

And when the words leave his mouth, you move—gliding past him as though the door had always been meant to open for you. The threshold gives way beneath your step, the old boards sighing under your weight.

Inside, the shop breathes around you—rows of instruments resting in shadowed corners, brass dulled with fingerprints, strings trembling faintly from the shift in air. You drink in every detail, but your eyes are not on them. They’re on him. Always on him.

He closes the door behind you, the sound soft, final. For a heartbeat, he looks almost uncertain—fingers brushing the edge of his sleeve, eyes dropping briefly to the floor. But it’s enough for you. Every gesture, every flicker of hesitation, every attempt to steady himself feels carved just for you to witness.

You’ve lived long enough to see men in their thousands—bleeding, pleading, dying—but none of them lingered like this one. None of them pulled your gaze again and again, the way a starving thing might circle back to the same fire. You’d told yourself it was hunger, instinct. But even now, with his pulse thrumming steady beneath his skin, it feels like something else. Something deeper.

Your eyes catch on the damp curl of hair near his temple, on the way he squares his shoulders as though reminding himself he belongs here, in this shop, in this town. You feel the thought form and root inside you: he is already mine.

He clears his throat softly, as though to stitch together the silence that has settled thick around you. His hand gestures vaguely toward a small wooden chair near the workbench, its surface worn smooth by use.

“You can sit, if you’d like,” he offers, voice steady but a touch too quick, as if he’s grasping for normalcy. Without waiting to see if you’ll refuse, he pulls another chair from the side wall and settles into it himself.

The workbench between you is cluttered—tiny screwdrivers lined in neat rows, spare strings coiled into little nests, fragments of brass and wood polished to varying degrees of wear. He reaches for the instrument at hand—a battered fiddle with one string snapped loose, the body scarred by careless fingers. His hands move with slow confidence, not hurried, but practiced enough that you can tell this is his ritual, his way of filling long nights.

You take the offered chair, not because you need rest, but because it sets you directly across from him, close enough to watch the lines of his face shift in the lamplight. Every furrow of his brow, every faint press of his mouth as he leans over the instrument, etches itself into you like a scripture.

He doesn’t look up at first, his focus narrowed on the delicate repair. “Most folks round here don’t take care of their fiddles,” he says after a moment, voice softer now, filling the stillness with something steady. “Strings give out, wood splits—they bring it here thinkin’ I can make it new again.” His thumb runs along the edge of the bridge, testing it with a gentleness at odds with his broad hands. “Reckon I can’t, not always. But I try.”

The lamplight glints on the curve of the fiddle, but it’s his hands you follow, the way his knuckles shift, the care he gives to every fragile piece. That care—the same care he’d given to laying out blankets for you, to speaking softly through the rain—has begun to hook itself into you, deep, impossible to loosen.

You lean back slightly in the chair, the lamplight painting your features in warm shadow. His words linger between you, soft and earnest, as his hands continue to coax the battered fiddle into some semblance of wholeness.

“You care for them,” you say at last, slow and deliberate, your tone edged with curiosity more than praise.

The statement is simple, but the weight behind it presses, testing the truth of him.

He glances up briefly, caught by your gaze, before lowering his eyes back to the instrument. His thumb brushes a notch along the wood, thoughtful.

“Suppose I do,” he admits, the corners of his mouth twitching with something between humility and unease. “If I don’t, no one else will. Folks think a thing’s useless soon as it shows wear.” He pauses, shifting the fiddle in his grip, shoulders hunching just slightly as though he’s aware of how much he’s said. “Never did sit right with me.”

The words settle in you, curling tighter around the thought that’s been rooting deeper each night: he’s different. Not in strength, not in cunning, but in the way he holds fragile things like they matter.

Your eyes lower deliberately, following the slow precision of his fingers as they test the tension of the new string, as they smooth along the curve of scarred wood. There’s reverence there, even when he doesn’t mean to show it. You let the silence stretch until it threatens to make him look up—then you press.

“You don’t like to throw things away,” you remark, soft, measured. The words are more observation than question, but they settle with the weight of both.

His hands still for the briefest moment, a flicker so small another might have missed it. His jaw works once before he exhales, shifting the fiddle against his knee.

“No,” he says, quiet, almost wary in the admission. “Never saw much sense in it. What’s broken can be mended if you’re willing to take the time.” His thumb runs across the fresh string, drawing a faint hum from the wood, and his voice dips lower, distracted by the sound. “Might not ever be perfect again, but… doesn’t mean it’s useless.”

He doesn’t look at you as he says it, but the words curl in the air between you all the same. Something raw, unguarded.

You don’t answer.

Not because his words don’t stir something, but because they do. You let them linger, let them sink deep as you watch him test the string again, head tilted slightly to catch the sound. His fingers move with quiet devotion, steady despite the roughness in them.

You tuck the moment away—like you’ve done with each slip of his voice, each careless truth, each act of simple care. It’s another piece of him, folded into the growing collection you hoard in silence. A quilt he doesn’t know you’re stitching together, thread by thread, until the shape of him belongs entirely to you.

He exhales through his nose, the corner of his mouth twitching faintly as though relieved you haven’t pressed further. He bends again to his work, shoulders dipping, and the soft scrape of wood and wire fills the space.

You watch. You let him think the silence is mercy.

But inside, it is not mercy at all. It is claiming.

The lamplight has burned lower, casting the shop in honeyed shadows. His hands finally still, the fiddle resting whole again across his knee. The night has slipped by quietly, threaded with his murmured explanations, the soft hum of strings, and your steady silence.

You rise from the chair. The motion is unhurried, deliberate, and his eyes flick up at once, as though the shift in the air has startled him. He sets the instrument carefully aside, straightening where he sits.

“You’re leavin’,” he says, not quite a question, not quite ready to mask the faint drop in his tone. His fingers curl against the workbench, tapping once before he stills them. Then, with a breath that sounds steadier than it feels, he adds, “Thank you. For sittin’ with me tonight. Don’t… don’t get much of that.”

The words hang awkwardly at the edges, but his gaze doesn’t slip away. He swallows, jaw working, before pressing on with something almost too hopeful.

“Maybe we can do it again sometime.”

The storm outside is long gone, the air crisp and cool when you reach for the door. You pause there, his words curling warm and raw in the back of your mind. Another piece of him, folded neatly into your keeping.

You turn your head just enough for your gaze to catch his in the low lamplight. His hope is naked in the air, tentative but reaching, like a hand extended without promise it’ll be taken.

Your lips curve faintly, but the weight in your voice carries steady. “Perhaps.”

The single word is measured, offering neither certainty nor refusal—just enough to let him believe, to feed the spark he’s lit himself. You see it take root at once in his eyes, the faint uncoiling of tension in his shoulders, the smallest lift at the corner of his mouth.

You linger one beat longer, memorizing the shape of that expression, then ease the door open. Cool air rushes in, brushing your skin as you step into the night.

Behind you, he exhales again, softer this time, as if some small piece of him has been granted.

And you carry the sound with you, clutching it close like a relic.

Over the next two weeks, a rhythm settles in—first tentative, then inevitable.

Most evenings you arrive at the shop just after the lamps are lit. He learns the sound of your knock; the first night he hesitated, the second he smiled in surprise, and by the fifth his hand is already reaching for the latch as your knuckles touch the wood. You never enter until he invites you. He always does.

Inside, you take the same chair. He takes his. The bench between you fills with the small devotions of his trade—screwdrivers aligned like needles, strings looped into neat circles, a tin of rosin that dusts his fingertips with pale gold. He talks more now. About the woman with the cracked cornet who swore it had stopped playing in key on Sundays. About the boy whose bow hair had snapped because he stored it wrong in the summer heat. About his father’s hands, and how they were good with wood, and how he thinks he might have gotten that from him.

Sometimes he plays for you—only a measure or two, awkward at first, then braver when you say nothing at all. He watches your face after every note as if searching for a verdict, as if the slight tilt of your head might condemn or absolve him. You give him neither. You give him attendance. Presence. It is, he seems to decide, enough.

On stormswept nights, he makes tea again—ginger if your hands are cold, chamomile if your eyes look tired, as if either state could be true for you anymore. He still says Mam without meaning to; the word softens in his mouth and loosens the rest of his voice. He still tries to polish it away. You never stop hearing it.

Between these visits, you haunt the edges of his days. You learn the time he leaves the boarding house in the dim blue before morning, hair damp from a hurried wash, his collar misbuttoned one off when he’s slept too little. You learn the path he takes to the shop—how he skirts the muddy cut-through behind the bakery after rain, how he pauses at the corner to let the mule-cart pass, how he tips his hat to the old woman who sells thread from a tin box even though she never tips hers back.

You collect small facts as if they were beads on a rosary: he prefers the dry, reedy scrape of a fiddle warming up to the clean shine of a trumpet; he eats when he remembers to—bread, an apple, a wedge of cheese wrapped in paper—and forgets when he’s busier; he hums when he’s alone; he stops humming the instant someone opens the door.

You never lose him in a crowd. Even when the Saturday evening market swells and men bark prices and women argue over peaches, you can find him by the set of his shoulders—square, careful, as if he’s rehearsing belonging. When he laughs—rare, but it happens—it catches him by surprise; he glances down as if ashamed of the sound and then lets it out anyway.

Sometimes, at dusk, you follow him home again. You keep to the wash of shadow along the clapboard fences, to the slow seam of alleys where the lamplight fails. You watch him unlock his door with his shoulder pressed to the frame, as if bracing against a house that might not let him in. You stay until a single lamp brightens his window and a second follows, until his silhouette moves across the shades—coat off, sleeves rolled, hands scrubbing through his hair as if trying to erase the day. Then you leave him to sleep, the way you left him the first night: intact. For now.

Inside the shop, the intimacy of repetition does what seduction often can’t. He grows used to your nearness, to the way your gaze settles and does not flinch. He begins to ask small questions that mean nothing and everything.

“Do you like the sound of a low string better than a high?”

“Have you been to Vicksburg?”

“Do you believe people change when they cross an ocean?”

You answer sparsely, just enough to keep him talking. He fills the rest with stories—fragments of a ship crowded with bodies and trunks; a night sky that looked wrong the first month ashore; the first time he held an American dollar and didn’t understand its worth until it fed him. You file it all carefully away.

On the ninth night, he notices the way your eyes track his hands and goes shy, as if the attention were a touch. On the tenth, he brings a small tin of boiled sweets from the general store and sets it near your chair without comment. On the twelfth, he plays a simple reel and doesn’t stop halfway through; he lets the final note die and looks at you like the room might tell him what your silence won’t. You don’t applaud. You incline your head. He flushes anyway.

Your hunger does not fade. It sharpens. It learns the cadence of his pulse when he laughs and when he concentrates. It maps the hollow at his throat, the blue thread of vein that lies soft beneath skin. But it is not the swift, devouring appetite you’ve spent centuries obeying. It is patient. It is possessive. It wants him whole before it changes him forever.

You start to mark the places on him that will take your teeth best. The inside of his wrist, where the rosin dust collects. The tender spot just behind his jaw, where his accent lives when he’s too tired to hide it. The curve of his shoulder, where you will brace your palm when you ease him onto his back and make him look at you as he learns what you are.

He does not know that every evening he invites you further in—past his door, past his caution, past the skin of the life he’s patched together. He doesn’t know that you have stopped thinking in terms of nights and started thinking in terms of when.

And still, the pattern holds: your knock; his relief; the chair; the bench; the hush. A life being tuned, one quiet evening at a time.

By the end of the second week, when you rise to leave, he stands with you. He doesn’t say perhaps anymore. He says, “Tomorrow?”—like it’s the simplest word in the world.

You let him have it. “Tomorrow.”

And you mean it—because tomorrow is closer to the moment you’ll claim him, and closer to the soft, inevitable undoing he’s already begun to want.

It’s the last week of the month when the pattern breaks—though not in the way you feared.

The shop had emptied long before sundown, the last customer slipping away with a battered cornet cradled like treasure. He should have gone home then, locked the door and left the lamps to burn themselves out. But he stayed—mending a bow, wiping down brass, filling the silence with the faint hum of a tune that only faltered when he realized he was singing it aloud.

You watch from your usual perch in the shadows across the street, the glow of the windows painting him in gold. The hour stretches long, later than his habit, and when at last he sets his tools down and pulls on his coat, you’re already braced to follow him through the quiet streets.

He steps out into the night, pulling the door shut with its familiar creak, and his eyes catch on you almost at once—as if he’d already known you’d be there. No startle. No hesitation. Just that same soft exhale he always gives when the recognition strikes him.

“You waitin’?” he asks, voice low in the hush of the street. The brim of his hat shadows his face, but his mouth curves faintly at the edges.

You let the silence answer for you, the tilt of your head enough to tell him yes.

He shifts the case in his hand, then gestures down the street with a jerk of his chin. “Come on, then.”

You fell into step behind him, your gaze never leaving the square set of his shoulders as he leads you through the lamplit hush of the streets. The case swings lightly at his side, his stride steady, his head turning once or twice as though to assure himself you’re still there. He doesn’t need to.

When he reaches his narrow house, he mounts the porch steps and pushes the door open, holding it just wide enough for you. 

You cross the threshold without pause, the door closing soft behind you. His house is the same one you glimpsed that first night—but different now, because he’s the one who’s led you in.

The air is warmer here, carrying the scents of varnish and smoke, the faintest ghost of tobacco leaf pressed into the wood. The little front room is tidy in a way that isn’t fussy—everything in its place, worn but kept. The quilt on the couch is folded this time, not laid out for you. A stack of sheet music lies on the table, curling at the edges, weighted by a chipped mug.

He slips past you, setting his case gently in the corner, as though the instrument inside is more fragile than bone. He shrugs off his coat and hangs it on the peg by the door, his movements easy, unthinking, like this is the only space where he lets himself belong.

From here, you can see further than you did that first night. Down the narrow hall, a door stands ajar to a bedroom—only a sliver visible: a plain bedstead, sheets pulled tight, a single candle stub on the table. No excess, no softness. Just him.

He glances back at you, uncertain for a breath, then gestures toward the couch near the hearth. “Sit, if you want. Fire’s out, but I can strike it up.”

You take in everything—the neat lines of the place, the way his presence fills it, the fact that he has brought you here, into the marrow of his life. Your hunger sharpens, not for blood, not yet, but for the shape of him in this space. For the claim you’ve already decided is yours.

You lower yourself onto the couch, the quilt’s weight shifting faintly beneath you. The fabric smells faintly of cedar and smoke, the sort of scent that clings to things kept too long but cared for. You cross one leg over the other, hands resting loosely in your lap, your gaze tracking him as he crouches at the hearth.

He strikes a match, its brief flare painting the planes of his face gold before he tucks it into the nest of kindling. The fire takes slowly, coaxed by his patience, his broad hands careful as though he’s tending something fragile. It’s the same way he handles every instrument, every task—always with that quiet devotion.

The silence holds, filled only by the small crackle of wood beginning to burn. Then his voice cuts through, low and practical, though softer now that it’s just the two of you in this space.

“You want anything? Tea, maybe? Or water?”

He glances over his shoulder, eyes catching on you briefly before darting back to the fire, as though asking costs him more than the act of providing. His thumb brushes the edge of the hearthstone, restless, like he’s already bracing himself to rise and fetch whatever answer you give.

“I’m fine.”

The words leave you slow, deliberate, more a choice than a truth. You don’t need tea, don’t need water. What you need he cannot name.

He glances back at you at the sound, his eyes catching yours for a beat before flicking down again. The faintest nod follows, a small acknowledgement, though you can see the tension ease in his shoulders as if your refusal has lifted some imagined obligation.

The fire grows, throwing its first thin tongues of light across the room. He leans into the glow, coaxing it with another piece of kindling, the motion steady, practiced. The lamplight had shown him one way before; the firelight shows him another—his cheekbones sharper, his eyes shadowed, the quiet curve of his mouth softened by the orange heat.

You settle back against the couch, watching him as though every detail were a secret offered only to you. The way his hands move, the way his breath catches when the flames flare, the way he shifts his weight on his knees. Each motion feeds the growing pull inside you. Each one sharpens the thought that has taken root since the first night.

He lingers at the hearth a moment longer, as if reluctant to pull himself from the work of coaxing flame into steady burn. Then, with a quiet sigh, he dusts his palms against his trousers and stands.

His steps are slow, almost hesitant, but deliberate. He crosses the short distance and lowers himself onto the couch beside you. Not close enough to touch—he leaves a respectful space between you—but close enough that the warmth of his body mixes with the glow of the fire.

The couch dips under his weight, the quilt shifting slightly between you. He leans forward, elbows resting loosely on his knees, watching the flames lick higher, his profile lined in orange and shadow. The crackle of burning wood fills the silence, the only sound between you, settling into the hush of the room like it belongs there.

For once, he doesn’t rush to fill the quiet with words. He just sits, his breath slow, steady, the faint scent of rain and smoke still clinging to him.

And you watch. The sharp line of his jaw, the way his fingers rub absently together as if still carrying dust from the workbench, the subtle tension in his shoulders as though he is aware—keenly aware—of your presence beside him.

The fire snaps, sending a thin plume of sparks curling upward. He shifts on the couch, one hand dragging over his knee as though gathering courage, the other rubbing idly at his thumb.

“I was thinkin’,” he begins, voice low, meant almost more for the flames than for you. A pause, then he clears his throat, steadies himself. “I’m glad I met you.”

The words sit awkwardly in the air, unpolished, but honest. His eyes stay fixed on the hearth, as if looking at you directly might unravel the nerve it took to speak them. “Don’t… don’t often get someone sittin’ with me. Most folks just pass through the shop, say what they want, and that’s the end of it.” His shoulders rise, fall. “But you—” he falters a little, pressing his palms together. “You stayed. You come back. Means more than I can say.”

His voice dips softer at the last, nearly drowned by the crackle of wood, but not enough to hide the truth in it.

The words roll through you like heat, sharper than fire, older than any hunger you’ve ever known. It’s different from the blood-thirst you’ve lived with for centuries—deeper, more dangerous. The pulse of it shudders down your spine, sets your body alight. Every syllable he spills into the air feels like it was meant for you alone, and the rush of hunger that seizes you is almost unbearable.

You watch him, your gaze heavy, unblinking. The soft slope of his mouth, the nervous press of his fingers, the quiet hope he doesn’t know he’s offering—it coils inside you, makes your fangs ache against the back of your tongue.

You force your voice low, slow, steady, though the ache presses hard against it. “I’m glad to have met you too.”

The fire crackles, spitting sparks. For a moment he only breathes, shoulders rising as if those words have taken something from him and returned it in kind. Then—sudden, unthinking—he turns.

His body leans forward, closing the space between you in a heartbeat. His lips meet yours—warm, trembling, rushed—as though he’s been holding the impulse back for weeks and could no longer bear its weight.

The kiss is clumsy, raw, but it carries every piece of his earnestness. Every unspoken word he didn’t know how to give.

The moment his mouth touches yours, that hunger surges—flaring so fast it feels like fire in your veins, sharp and consuming. His lips are warm, human, fragile, and you want more. You lean into him, deepening the kiss, tasting the rush of his breath as if it might be enough to sate you.

And then—he pulls back.

It’s sudden, almost startled, as if the weight of what he’s done crashes into him all at once. His breath stumbles, his chest rising fast, his hand gripping the couch cushion between you as though anchoring himself. His eyes flicker to yours, wide and uncertain, caught between apology and desire.

The space he’s left feels unbearable, like something torn away too soon. The hunger inside you snarls against it, rising harder, sharper, clawing for the warmth you’ve just been denied. Your fangs press harder against your tongue, your fingers curling into your palms to keep from seizing him, pulling him back to where he belongs—against you, beneath you.

Every part of you wants to claim him now. To end the waiting. To make sure he never dares to pull back again.

His breath shudders out, uneven, and he drags a hand across his mouth like he can erase the kiss, though his lips are still parted, still trembling.

“I—sorry,” he stammers, voice rough, breaking on the word. “Shouldn’t’ve— I don’t know what I was—” His eyes drop to the floor, then jerk back to yours, guilt and want warring across his face. “Forgive me. I didn’t mean—”

You don’t let him finish.

Your hand lifts, slow but unyielding, brushing against his jaw as you draw him back toward you. His breath catches, body stiffening under your touch, but he doesn’t resist. The heat of his skin burns against your palm, and the hunger in you thrums hard and fast.

“You don’t need to apologize,” you say, your voice low, pressing against the chaos of his words like the final note of a song.

His lashes flutter, his lips parting as though he means to protest again, but nothing comes. He leans, hesitant but helpless, pulled back into the gravity you’ve set around him.

The fight leaves him in a single, trembling breath. His shoulders drop, his grip loosens on the couch cushion, and then he caves—collapsing back into you as if his body has decided for him.

The kiss is clumsy again, rushed, but there’s no hesitation now. His lips press hungrily to yours, trembling with nerves yet driven by something rawer, needier. His hands falter at his sides, then clutch the edge of the quilt between you, gripping too tight, like he doesn’t know where else to put them, like touching you fully might undo him completely.

You feel the heat of him pour into the space you left open, his breath mingling with yours, unsteady and sweet. Every nervous stutter of his mouth only feeds the hunger ripping through you—his inexperience, his sincerity, his eagerness to give despite not knowing how.

The sound that escapes him is small, caught in his throat, as though even this simple closeness overwhelms him. And still he doesn’t pull away. If anything, he leans harder, desperate to stay where you’ve allowed him.

You let him pour himself into the kiss—nervous, rushed, clumsy—and for a moment you drink it in, the rawness of it, the heat of him. His inexperience hums in every shaky press of his mouth, every uneven breath against your skin. It stirs the hunger in you sharper still, until you can no longer stand to let him fumble blindly.

Your hand moves, firm against his jaw, tilting his face to yours. He stills at the touch, caught, waiting—and you guide him, steady, deepening the kiss with slow precision. Your lips part his, coaxing rather than asking, showing him the rhythm, the weight, the way it’s meant to be done.

He follows without thought, pliant under your lead. His breath shivers against you, his mouth opening to yours, the tentative push of his lips giving way to the shape you mold into him. When he stumbles, you correct him—pressing closer, slowing him down, drawing him into the heat until he matches you.

A soft sound breaks from him, half sigh, half surrender. His fingers twitch against the quilt, desperate for somewhere to anchor, but he doesn’t move them without your permission. He leans into you instead, his whole body leaning, trusting you to hold him steady in what he doesn’t yet know how to give.

The hunger gnaws deep, but you keep it on a leash—for now. Control is yours, and he is already learning that.

The kiss drags deeper, heat spilling between you, and you feel the tremor of his want beneath every uncertain movement. You press him back, guiding him without words, your mouth dictating the rhythm, your hands framing his face as though shaping something raw and new.

When you shift, he startles faintly—a quick hitch in his breath as you move over him, your knees sliding onto the couch, your body straddling his. The firelight throws his features into sharp relief: wide eyes, lips parted, chest rising quick beneath you.

His hands lift instinctively, hovering uselessly in the air, caught between daring to touch and fearing to overstep. They tremble just shy of your waist, fingers flexing as though the ache to feel you is too much to still.

You break from the kiss just long enough to catch his wrists. His pulse thrums beneath your grip, frantic, human, delicious. Slowly, you guide his hands down, pressing them to your thighs.

The breath that leaves him is sharp, almost a gasp. His fingers curl against your skin, tentative at first, then firmer, clutching as though anchoring himself in the only place you’ve allowed.

The hunger rips through you at the sound, at the feel of him under you, pliant and eager, unsure yet desperate to follow where you lead.

You stay close, your mouth brushing his once more, drawing out the softness of his breath as your hips shift. The movement pulls a sound from him, low and startled, his hands tightening instinctively on your thighs.

You rock again, measured, pressing the weight of yourself against him. The hardness beneath you is unmistakable now, straining up through the fabric that does nothing to shield him from you. His whole body stiffens under the pressure, his chest rising sharp with each breath, eyes wide as though he can’t believe how quickly his body has betrayed him.

His lips part, the faintest stammer caught at the edge of his throat, but no words come. Instead, his hands clutch tighter, fingers digging into your skin as though holding on is the only thing keeping him from unraveling.

You savor it—the helplessness in his hips shifting upward without thought, the desperate way his body answers yours even while his mind fumbles. You set the pace, slow, grinding, making him feel every inch of your control, every intentional emphasis on the heat swelling between you.

His breath hitches again, a broken sound spilling from him before he clamps his teeth shut, as if ashamed of the noise. But the hardness pressing against you only grows, proof of what his body craves no matter how he tries to hold it back.

Your lips trail along his jaw, soft and lingering, before finding his mouth again. You kiss him slow, steady, letting each press of your lips match the rhythm of your hips as they roll against him. His breath stutters into yours, shaky and unrestrained.

Between kisses, you let your voice slip out low, brushing hot against his lips. “Don’t hold back.” Another kiss, deep and claiming, before you draw back just enough to whisper again. “Let me feel you.”

The words shiver through him, striking deeper than your touch. His hands tense on your thighs, gripping harder, his body jerking helplessly beneath you as though the permission alone has unraveled something tight in him.

You keep the rhythm unhurried, steady, savoring the way he begins to move with you—shaky, uncertain, but eager. Every brush of your hips grinds against the hardness of him, and every time, his breath catches louder, his chest pressing up into you like he’s desperate to give in.

His lips part, searching for yours, and when you meet him, the kiss is messier now—wet, hungry, breaking with small sounds he can’t quite stifle.

His breath is ragged, lips parted as though he’s barely keeping up with the steady pull of your body against his. You feel the tremor in him, the desperate tension in his hands still clinging to your thighs.

Slowly, you loosen your grip on his wrists, your fingers sliding up to cover his hands, coaxing them higher. He resists at first—not in refusal, but in hesitation, his touch hovering like he’s afraid to take what isn’t his. You guide him firmly, pressing his palms up along the curve of your hips, the shape of your waist.

The sound he makes at the contact is near voiceless, a breath sucked between his teeth, half awe, half disbelief. His fingers splay wide, testing the edges of what you’ve given him, gripping tighter when he realizes you’ll allow it.

Your mouth leaves his, trailing lower. Along his jaw, soft at first, then firmer as your hunger drives you down to the vulnerable line of his neck. The heat there coils against your lips, the thrum of his pulse pounding so close it sears into you.

The hunger spikes hard, sudden, so sharp you have to still yourself for a moment. Your fangs press, aching, the scent of him a storm against your senses. It would be so easy—too easy—to pierce, to take, to make him yours now.

Instead, you kiss the place where his pulse beats strongest. Once. Again. Slow, dragging your mouth along the column of his throat as he tilts his head without even knowing why, offering you more.

His grip on your waist tightens, needy, trembling. “God…” he breathes, barely a word, half prayer, half surrender.

You press your mouth harder to his throat, letting the heat of his pulse thrum against your lips, and your hips shift—this time with more force, a grind down against the length of him straining beneath his trousers.

The effect is immediate. His body stiffens under you, breath breaking into a sharp gasp that turns ragged, helpless. He clutches at your waist like he’s drowning, his head tipping back as a strangled sound tears from his throat.

And then—he’s gone.

The tension snaps all at once, his release spilling hot into his pants, soaking through in a rush he can’t stop. His whole body shudders with it, his chest heaving beneath you as the wave takes him.

The moment it ends, shame crashes into his face. His hands falter, falling back to the couch cushions, his head bowing forward as though he can’t bear to meet your eyes. The flush creeps high over his cheeks, spreading down his throat, his breath uneven.

“I—” His voice stumbles, breaks. He swallows hard, shaking his head. “I didn’t mean… God, I’m sorry—”

The words tumble out of him in a rush, choked with embarrassment, his hands twisting against the quilt as though he might fold himself away.

You don’t let the apology take shape, don’t let him drown himself in shame. Your hand slides back to his jaw, firm but steady, tilting his face up until his wide, guilty eyes meet yours.

“Don’t,” you murmur, low and deliberate, each syllable cutting through his stammered words. “You have nothing to be sorry for.”

His breath falters, caught in his throat. He looks like he wants to argue, to shrink from the weight of your gaze, but the way your fingers anchor him leaves him nowhere to go. His flush deepens, heat flooding his cheeks, his mouth parting as though to protest again—but your thumb sweeps lightly over his lower lip, silencing him before he can.

“You gave me what I wanted,” you continue, your tone soft but unyielding. “That’s all that matters.”

The firelight flickers over him, highlighting the nervous tremor in his lashes, the way his throat works around a swallow. Slowly, some of the tension eases from his body, not gone entirely, but shifted—shame twisting into something else, something closer to surrender.

Your hand lingers at his face, your thumb brushing once more, gentler this time. “Do you understand?”

He nods, small and shaky, his eyes locked to yours as if afraid to break away.

You hold his gaze a moment longer, your fingers steady at his jaw, until the last flickers of protest die in his eyes. Then you lean in and claim his mouth again.

This kiss is nothing like his rushed, nervous eagerness before. It’s slower, deeper—each press of your lips carrying weight, certainty. You pour reassurance into it, but also command, sealing over his shame, leaving no space for it to fester.

He melts under it almost instantly, the tension breaking from his shoulders, his breath spilling shaky against you. His hands hover again, uncertain, before one finally rises, tentative, to settle at your waist. His touch is feather-light, cautious, like he’s terrified of breaking the spell you’ve cast.

You kiss him harder, tilting his head to fit him perfectly against you, letting him feel that you’re not finished with him—that you have no intention of letting him go. When you finally draw back, your lips just a whisper from his, you don’t give him the chance to speak, to apologize again.

“You’re mine,” you murmur, soft but absolute, as final as a vow.

The words leave him trembling, his breath caught between disbelief and surrender. His lips part, but no denial comes. Only a nod—small, helpless—because he’s already given himself to you, and you’ve made sure there’s no way back.

The days blur into something different after that night.

When he asked you to stay, his voice had been soft, tentative, as though the very thought of having you under his roof might be too much to hope for. But you hadn’t been able to refuse—not when the pull of him was already stronger than the rhythm of your centuries-old hunger. And so you stayed.

The first week.

You ‘wake’ to the sound of him moving through the house in the mornings—boots on the floorboards, the clink of a mug against the table, the soft clear of his throat before he steps out into the day. He looks at you every time before he leaves, half in awe, half still uncertain that you’re really there. At night, he returns to find you waiting, and relief colors his face so openly it makes something deep in you twist.

The second week.

You settle into his patterns as though they were your own. The shop in the evenings, his careful hands bent over brass and wood, his eyes lifting to find yours across the bench. The quiet meals he takes when he remembers to eat—bread, fruit, thin soup—and the way he nudges a plate toward you though he’s seen you never touch it. He tells you stories sometimes, in fragments—about the crossing, about how hard it was to leave behind what he knew, about the way people look at him here, like they can hear his difference even when he says nothing at all. His father’s laugh comes up, quick and shining, but quieter are the moments when his voice thins out speaking of the work his mother’s hands endured, or the nights he lay awake listening for familiar words in an unfamiliar place. He never lingers long in those truths, but you do—listening, storing every word.

The third week.

The space between you shrinks without either of you naming it. He grows braver, brushing your hand when he passes, sitting closer on the couch so your knees touch, leaning his head back when you kiss him instead of stiffening in surprise. His inexperience never fades, but it softens into eagerness, into trust. And each night, as the firelight spills over him, you feel your claim deepen, the thought of him as yours no longer a decision but a fact.

When you slip from the house in the hours before dawn, it is no longer to leave him behind. It is only to hunt, to keep yourself fed, before returning to him. Always back to him.

By the end of the month, the house is different. Not because you’ve changed it, but because your presence has soaked into its walls. The quilt on the couch still carries your shape. The air still holds the echo of your voice. His eyes track you wherever you move, as if trying to memorize what you’ve already claimed.

And each night, when the fire dies low, he looks at you with the same steady, trembling certainty as the first time he kissed you—like he knows you’re no passing stranger at his door.

The house is silent but for the slow breath of him. The fire has long since died to embers, shadows stretching soft and deep across the room.

He lies on his side beside you, his body turned unconsciously toward yours, sleep pulling his face slack. The worry lines smooth out in these hours; his mouth softens, no longer pressed into its quiet self-discipline. He looks younger like this. Unhardened.

You do not sleep. You never do. Instead, you watch.

Your gaze traces the length of him—the curve of his throat where the pulse thrums steady, the hollow of his collarbone, the rise and fall of his chest beneath the thin fabric of his shirt. The scent of him lingers, warm and human, sweat and smoke and something that is only his.

You lift your hand, slow enough that even the air doesn’t stir, and let your fingertips trail lightly over his skin. Along the ridge of his brow. Down the line of his nose. Over the faint shadow of stubble at his jaw. He twitches once, the smallest stir, but doesn’t wake.

Your touch moves lower, brushing over his throat, pausing there. The warmth beneath your fingers is almost unbearable, the beat of his life calling to you as it always has. Hunger curls sharp in your belly, but you don’t bite. Instead, you map him—inch by inch, as if pressing every curve and hollow into memory.

It is as close to admiration as you can give. Not worship, not love—something darker, hungrier, but threaded through with awe all the same.

Your hand rests against his chest at last, feeling the steady thrum of his heart. For centuries, you’ve watched them die. Tonight, you only watch him live.

You shift closer, the quilt whispering faintly beneath you, until your lips hover just above his ear. His breath is warm against your neck, steady in its rhythm, the kind of rhythm you’ve learned to recognize as fragile, fleeting, human.

Your fingers trace one last line down his chest, stopping at the rise and fall of his ribs. You lean in, your mouth brushing the air above his skin, and let your voice slip out low, careful, almost reverent.

“You don’t even know yet,” you murmur, the words threading into the quiet like smoke. “How much of you is already mine.”

He stirs faintly, a small shift in his sleep, his brow creasing as though he hears something just beneath the dream. But he doesn’t wake.

You let your lips hover a breath from his skin, close enough that if he were conscious he might feel it, and you whisper again—softer this time, meant only for the shadows.

“I won’t let you go. Not now. Not ever.”

His chest rises, falls, and the sound of his breathing fills the hush around you. You press your mouth to his temple, the barest ghost of a kiss, before leaning back just enough to watch him again, your hand still resting where his heart beats steady under your palm.

It’s late when he returns, the door groaning on its hinges as he pushes it open with his shoulder. You’re already inside, waiting in the lamplit quiet of the front room. His coat is damp at the shoulders, his hat in one hand, and under his other arm he carries his worn leather case along with a bundle of tools wrapped in cloth.

He looks tired, but there’s a brightness in his eyes as he sets everything down on the table. “Couldn’t leave it at the shop,” he says, voice low, half-apologetic. “Been meanin’ to get to it for weeks now.”

When he opens the case, the banjo gleams faintly under the lamplight—though its body is scarred, its strings slack, its head worn with age. It’s no prize piece, but the way he touches it is tender, as if he’s setting down something more than wood and wire.

He unwraps the tools with care, laying them out in a neat row: screwdrivers, files, a tin of polish. His hands move with that same deliberate patience you’ve watched countless nights in the shop, but here, at the small table in his home, the ritual feels more intimate.

You watch him from the couch, your body still, your gaze unblinking. The lamplight softens his face, shadows catching in the hollow of his cheek, glinting at the edges of his lashes. He bends over the banjo, thumb brushing along the frets, jaw tight in concentration. Every movement seems more fragile, more human, outside the safe order of his workbench.

“I’ll have it singin’ again,” he murmurs, almost to himself, his accent curling unguarded through the words. “Mam always said a house feels empty without music in it.”

You say nothing.

The silence is heavy, deliberate, wrapping around the room like a second skin. You sit motionless on the couch, eyes fixed on him as he bends over the banjo, his hands busy in the dim spill of lamplight.

He doesn’t seem to notice the weight of your watching, or perhaps he does and forces himself to ignore it. His thumb runs over the frets, his other hand tightening a screw, the tools clicking softly against the table in a rhythm all his own. His brows knit in focus, his bottom lip caught faintly between his teeth as he coaxes the instrument back into shape.

Every movement is careful. His fingertips polish over the worn wood like a caress, tracing scars left long before it was his. He hums once—soft, tuneless—cutting it short as though embarrassed, before returning to the work.

You remain still, feeding on the sight of him in the hush: the curve of his shoulders under his shirt, the line of his throat bending low over the strings, the way the lamplight gleams against the small sweat at his temple. The hunger rises sharp and insistent in you—not only the pull of blood, but the darker craving to claim every fragile piece of him, to mark him as yours in ways he cannot yet imagine.

The quiet stretches, filled only with the delicate sounds of him working, and still you do not break it. You only watch, as close to worship as you will allow yourself.

Later that night, the banjo lies back in its case, its strings gleaming faintly after his careful work. You had reminded him to eat—your voice soft, but firm enough that he obeyed, setting aside the tools to take bread, stew, and the last of the fruit from the cupboard. He hadn’t meant to finish it all, you could see it in the faint surprise on his face when the bowl was empty.

The meal sits heavy in him. Within minutes of stretching out on the couch, his head tips back against the cushion, lashes lowering, breath evening into the steady rhythm of sleep. Ten minutes, no more, and he’s gone, the wear of the day and the weight of food dragging him under.

You linger beside him a while, watching. His lips parted just slightly, his chest rising slow and full, the faintest line of stubble shadowing his jaw. In slumber he looks impossibly vulnerable, laid bare to you in ways no waking man would ever allow.

But the hunger inside you is sharp, pressing against the ribs you’ve kept it caged in. Watching him so close only stokes it, until your mouth aches with the need you’ve denied too long. Not him—not yet. But something.

You rise silently, the floorboards barely whispering under your steps. The night outside is cool when you slip through the door, the air heavy with the scent of wet earth and magnolia. The streets are quiet, lamps throwing long pools of light across the cobblestones, shadows deepening at their edges.

You vanish into those shadows easily, as you always have.

It doesn’t take long. A drunk weaving home from the corner tavern, humming tunelessly, his pockets jingling faint. You follow him until the alleys close in, the light falling away, and then you strike—quick, precise, a whisper against his throat. His warmth floods your mouth, rich and filling, quieting the ache in your body.

You don’t take enough to end him. Just enough to sate. Enough to return to the man sleeping in his home without the gnaw of hunger making your hands shake.

When you slip back inside, the quilt hasn’t moved. His breath still fills the silence, steady, innocent. You stand there for a moment, watching him again, your hunger quiet now but replaced with something fiercer—something that feels less like need and more like possession.

His face is slack in sleep, mouth parted slightly, lashes shadowing his cheeks. He looks untouched, unburdened—like a man who doesn’t yet know what he’s already given away.

The thought presses heavier than it ever has: turn him.

It thrums through you like another pulse, stronger than the blood you’ve just taken, stronger than the centuries of hunger you’ve learned to master. To make him yours—not just for a night, not just for the fragile span of his human years—but forever. Bound to you. Shaped by you.

Your teeth catch your bottom lip, worry it slow, then harder. The ache in you is too sharp, too restless, and you bite down until the skin breaks. Blood wells, thick and metallic, flooding your mouth with its iron tang.

You stand there with the taste of yourself on your tongue, your gaze never leaving him, as the idea roots deeper, heavier. His throat gleams pale in the lamplight, unguarded. His pulse beats steady beneath skin so thin, so easy to pierce. One moment—one choice—and he would never leave you.

You swallow the blood on your tongue, the copper sting only sharpening the want. Your hand twitches at your side with the urge to touch him, to tilt his head and feel that pulse beneath your lips.

The hunger shifts from ache to vow inside you: not yet, but soon.

At last you move, slow and deliberate, bending toward him where he lies slack with sleep. The fire’s embers glow faint in the grate, casting enough light to trace the slope of his cheek, the faint crease at his brow even in rest.

You press your lips there—soft, lingering. A kiss that is almost tender, though hunger edges every part of it. The faint smear of blood from your already healing lip marks his skin, a dark streak against his warmth.

For a moment, you leave it. The sight of your blood on him is a brand, a secret vow only you understand. Then your thumb lifts, gentle, wiping it away as though you’d never let it slip. His skin is warm under your touch.

“Remmick,” you whisper, low, coaxing.

He stirs, lashes fluttering before his eyes half-open, clouded with sleep. A soft sound escapes him—confusion, maybe, or simply the weight of exhaustion. You smooth your hand over his jaw, keeping him tethered.

“Come,” you murmur, steady. “Not here.”

He doesn’t resist when you guide him up, his body pliant in your hands, still heavy with drowsiness. His hand finds yours as you pull him gently to his feet, leading him down the narrow hall. The boards creak beneath your steps, the hush of the house wrapping close.

In the small bedroom, you ease him down onto the plain bedstead, drawing the quilt over him. He sinks into it with a sigh, turning instinctively toward where you stand.

His lips part as though to speak, but no words come—just the faint brush of breath before sleep reclaims him.

The days fall into their rhythm again, but something has shifted—subtle, unmistakable.

You see it in fleeting moments. A glance caught too long, the way his eyes linger on your mouth when you speak, or on your hands when they brush near his. Desire flickers there, raw and unpracticed, before he buries it under a cough, a lowered gaze, the busy shuffle of his tools. He doesn’t speak of it, but you notice. You notice everything.

It starts to grow bolder, though not by choice. He looks at you when he thinks you’re not watching—while you sit at the shop’s table with lamplight on your face, or when the fire paints your skin in the quiet of his home. His throat tightens, his hand fumbles, and he pretends distraction, but the want is there. It blooms in the small tremors of his body whenever you lean too close.

One evening, you stand at the sink, wiping your hands clean of water, and you feel his gaze burn across your back. When you turn, he startles, nearly dropping the spoon he’d been drying. His cheeks flush, his voice too quick: “I—wasn’t—” But the truth is already written in his face.

Soon, the slips come more often. He catches himself staring, then looks away sharply, his jaw tight, his lips pressed into silence. Sometimes he covers it with nervous chatter, sometimes with a too-long sip of tea. Once, when you leaned down to press your mouth to his cheek in passing, his breath stopped, his whole body locking in place. When you drew back, his ears were red, his eyes wide, his mouth slightly open as though he’d forgotten what words were.

You never call it out. You let him think he hides it well. But each look is another thread twining tighter around him, another proof of what you already know: he wants. He wants, even if he doesn’t yet understand the shape of it, or the way it coils into hunger just as dangerous as your own.

And with every glance, every falter, your vow sharpens—he will not be allowed to hide it from you forever.

The kettle hisses low on the stove, steam curling toward the ceiling beams. You stand over it, steady, your hand loose on the handle as you wait for the water to boil. The lamplight lays soft across the room, catching the faint gleam of your hair, the curve of your shoulder.

Behind you, he sits at the small table, the banjo resting against the wall, his work laid aside for the night. You feel his gaze before you see it—warm, heavy, too still to be casual.

You pour the water over the leaves, the faint scent of mint rising with the steam, and the weight of his stare burns hotter with every motion. You don’t turn. You let him look.

When you finally glance back over your shoulder, he startles, his eyes darting down to the table, his fingers fumbling with a stray scrap of sheet music as if it had always been his concern. But the flush at his throat gives him away, the quick rise and fall of his chest betraying him.

You cross the room with the cup, setting it before him without a word. He reaches for it carefully, though his hand trembles faintly around the handle.

“Thank you,” he murmurs, his voice thick, low, as though the act of you preparing it for him means more than it should. His eyes flicker up once, meeting yours for the briefest moment, and the want there is sharp, unhidden—before he blinks it away again, tucking it back behind his guarded expression.

You ease down onto the chair beside him, the wood creaking softly under your weight. The steam from the tea curls upward between you, carrying mint and warmth into the hush of the room.

He sits stiffly, both hands curled around the cup as if it’s the only thing steadying him. His gaze stays fixed on the dark surface of the drink, shoulders tight, jaw working faintly.

You lean just enough that your presence brushes against him, your voice soft, unhurried. “What’s wrong?”

The question is simple, but it lands heavy. He flinches almost imperceptibly, his fingers tightening on the porcelain. He doesn’t answer right away. His throat works around a swallow, and when he finally speaks, his voice is low, almost rough.

“Nothin’,” he says too quickly, too flat. “Nothin’s wrong.”

But you already know. You’ve seen it every evening—the way his eyes linger, the flush that rises when you lean too close, the hunger he thinks he hides. You know exactly what’s been gnawing at him, even if he cannot bring himself to name it.

Your silence in response stretches long enough that he risks a glance at you. And the moment your eyes catch his, he falters—guilt, desire, shame all tangled and bare in the flicker of his gaze.

Your eyes don’t leave his. You let the silence weigh down until it’s clear he won’t escape it, then you lean just slightly closer, your tone still soft—but there’s steel beneath it.

“Remmick,” you murmur, his name deliberate on your tongue. “You’re lying.”

His breath stutters, the cup shifting faintly in his hands. He tries to hold your gaze, but it falters under the weight of yours. His jaw tightens, loosens, then tightens again.

“You’ve been different,” you continue, your words slow, measured. “I see it in your eyes. I feel it when you look at me.” Your voice drops lower, pressing, though not unkind. “Tell me what it is.”

He swallows hard, Adam’s apple bobbing, the tea trembling faintly as he sets it down on the table. Both hands fall to his knees, clenching tight, his shoulders rising with the effort of holding himself together.

“I…” The word comes raw, uncertain. His eyes flick toward you, then away again. “It’s not somethin’ I ought to say.”

But you don’t let him retreat. Your hand finds his jaw, tilting his face back toward you, firm but gentle, forcing him to meet you again.

“You will say it,” you whisper, calm, inevitable. “To me.”

His lips part, his breath spilling uneven, caught in the trap you’ve closed around him.

Remmick’s whole body trembles beneath your hand, every muscle taut with the effort of restraint. For a moment, it seems he’ll swallow it down again, bury it where he’s tried to keep it hidden these past weeks. But your grip at his jaw holds him fast, and the command in your voice leaves him nowhere to run.

His breath breaks. His lips part.

“I want you,” he blurts, the words rough, ragged, torn from someplace deep. His eyes squeeze shut as if he can’t bear to see your face when he says it. “God help me—I want you.”

The confession shudders out of him, raw and shaking. His chest heaves, his hands fisting tight on his knees, every inch of him wound tight with the shame of it.

“I try not to—” he stammers, voice cracking. “I try, but I can’t stop thinkin’—” His head shakes faintly, as if the words are too much, spilling faster than he can hold them back. “The way you look at me, the way you—” He breaks off, dragging in a breath, trembling with the enormity of what he’s given away.

His eyes open at last, wide and terrified, the desire in them unmistakable now that it’s unmasked. “I want you,” he says again, softer this time, like it’s a plea.

Your thumb strokes once across his cheekbone, the smallest gesture of reassurance, though your eyes remain sharp on him. His confession hangs raw and trembling in the air, and you let it breathe there for a beat longer, savoring the way he quivers under it.

Then your lips curve, slow and faint, a hint of a smile that doesn’t soften so much as sharpen. “Is that all?” you murmur, voice pitched low, threaded with the faintest tease.

His breath stutters, eyes flicking wider, his flush deepening hot along his throat. He tries to speak, but the words catch, choking at the edge of his mouth. He shakes his head faintly, swallowing hard.

“You say it like it’s a small thing,” you add, leaning just close enough that your breath brushes his lips. “Wantin’ me.”

His fingers tighten against his knees, knuckles white, his gaze flickering desperately between your mouth and your eyes. “It—it’s not small,” he manages, his voice frayed. “It’s everythin’. It’s—” He breaks off again, trembling, caught in the snare of your nearness.

Your hand doesn’t leave his jaw; instead, you tilt his face up higher, holding him there, steady beneath your gaze. The smallest trace of your smile lingers as you lean close enough that your lips nearly brush his.

“Then say it,” you whisper, the words a quiet command. “Not just that you want me. Tell me what it is you want.”

His breath comes shallow, his chest rising too fast under the weight of your demand. His eyes flicker, panic and need warring in them, his lips parting but closing again as though the words are too raw, too indecent to let free.

You don’t let him look away. Your thumb presses at his chin, keeping him locked in place. “Say it.”

His body shudders, his hands lifting helplessly from his knees, hovering in the air before curling back into fists. His throat works, his voice breaking when it finally comes out.

“I want—” He stammers, swallows, starts again. “I want to touch you. To have you… closer. I want your hands on me, your mouth on me—” His voice falters, heat flooding his face, but the words tumble on, desperate and unrestrained. “I want you to make me yours.”

The last syllable hangs trembling in the air, his entire body rigid, waiting for your judgment.

His words are still trembling in the air when you close the distance. Your mouth claims his before he can draw another breath, a kiss deep and sure, silencing every stammer, every shred of doubt. He gasps into it, caught off guard, his lips parting helplessly under yours.

The tension in his body breaks all at once—his fists unclench, his shoulders slump, and his hands rise, tentative but desperate, clutching at your waist as though to anchor himself. The taste of his want is there in the way he leans into you, every shaky breath feeding your hunger.

You kiss him harder, guiding him, steadying his clumsy eagerness until he’s moving with you, pliant beneath your control. His soft sounds spill into your mouth, raw and unguarded, each one unraveling him further.

Then, without breaking the kiss, you rise, pulling him up with you. He stumbles to his feet, still dazed, still clinging to you as though afraid the ground might give way. Your hand finds his, firm and unyielding, and you draw him with you down the narrow hall.

His breath is ragged, his eyes wide as he realizes where you’re leading him. The bedroom door looms ahead, the plain bedstead beyond it. His steps falter for half a heartbeat—but your grip keeps him moving, steady, inevitable.

When you reach the doorway, you glance back at him, your lips curved with the faintest trace of command.

“Come.”

The door closes behind you with a soft click, the hush of the bedroom folding around the two of you. The lamplight is low here, golden against the plain sheets and the narrow frame of the bed. His breath comes fast, unsteady, as you guide him backward until his legs brush the mattress.

He sinks down onto it without resistance, eyes fixed on you like he can’t believe this moment is real. His hands fidget at his sides, restless, uncertain of where they belong.

You step into the space between his knees, close enough that your body crowds his, the scent of him rising warm and human into your lungs. His gaze flicks up, wide and waiting, his lips parted like he’s on the edge of words he can’t bring himself to say.

Your hands rise to his face, framing it with deliberate care. His skin is hot beneath your palms, the rough edge of stubble scratching faintly against your fingers. You tilt his head up to you, steadying him, and your thumbs sweep slowly across his cheeks.

The touch makes him exhale hard, the sound half a sigh, half a shiver. His eyes flutter closed for a moment, leaning into the press of your hands as though it’s the only thing keeping him from breaking apart. When they open again, they’re glassy with want, his lips trembling under the weight of your nearness.

“You’re mine,” you murmur, your voice low but certain, your thumbs brushing him once more. The words are a claim, not a question.

Your thumbs linger against his cheeks, holding him still, and then you lean down, closing the space with exquisite slowness. His lips part before yours even reach them, his breath catching in anticipation, and when your mouth finally meets his, it’s soft—unhurried, savoring.

The kiss is slower this time, each press of your lips coaxing rather than consuming. You feel the shiver ripple through him as his hands twitch uselessly at his sides, unsure if he’s allowed to move. His restraint only sharpens the moment.

You deepen the kiss by degrees, tilting his head just so beneath your palms, guiding him into the rhythm you set. He follows nervously at first, then with more confidence, leaning into you, the warmth of him seeping up through the space between your bodies.

The bed creaks faintly beneath him as he shifts, trying to steady himself, but you don’t give him the chance to retreat into nervousness. Your lips linger at his, then trail to the corner of his mouth, brushing along the rough line of his jaw. His breath hitches, his head tipping back to give you more, surrendering to the path you choose for him.

When you return to his mouth, his lips are trembling, parted for you. The kiss stretches, deepens, his soft sounds muffled into the heat of it. Every moment is yours to control, and every moment he gives you willingly.

Your hands slip from his face, trailing down the strong line of his jaw, the curve of his throat, and lower still. You move with care, mapping the warmth of him beneath your palms. His breath stutters, his eyes never leaving yours, wide and glassy with anticipation.

When your hands press against his chest, you guide him backward, urging him down onto the bed. He yields immediately, his body folding under your touch, sinking into the thin mattress with a low creak. His lips part, the sound that escapes him shaky, unsteady, but he doesn’t resist.

You lean over him as your hand skims lower, over the ridges of his ribs, the dip of his stomach. He jerks faintly at the touch, sucking in a sharp breath—and then you feel it. The strain of him beneath his trousers, hot and hard, pressing against the fabric.

Your fingers ghost over it, just enough to tease, and his entire body tenses under you. His eyes squeeze shut, his throat working around a ragged gasp that escapes before he can bite it back.

The hunger coils sharp in your belly at the sound, at the helplessness of him. He’s already trembling, already unraveling, and you’ve barely touched him.

Your palm presses down more firmly, no longer just a ghost of contact but an undeniable claim. The heat of him throbs against your hand through the thin fabric, and the sound that tears from his throat is broken—half a gasp, half a moan, muffled only because he bites down hard on it. His hips twitch upward instinctively, betraying just how badly he wants more, how little control he has.

You bend close, your lips brushing his ear as you whisper, low and steady, “Tell me what you want.”

His whole body goes still beneath you, save for the rise and fall of his chest. His mouth opens, closes. A flush burns up his throat, spreading to his cheeks. He hesitates, his tongue fumbling for words as if speaking them aloud would cost him something he’s never given away.

You press your hand against him again, harder this time, coaxing the tremor that runs through him. He chokes on a breath, the sound ragged, desperate. His eyes flick open, searching yours, pleading silently before the words finally break free.

“I… I want you to touch me,” he whispers, voice hoarse, small.

The admission hangs between you, raw and trembling. He shuts his eyes again, like the shame of it might consume him—but still, his hips lift faintly toward your hand, betraying his need all over again.

Your fingers curl at the edge of his waistband, slipping beneath with a slowness that makes him stiffen beneath you. His breath comes fast and shallow, his chest rising against yours as if every second you delay is a torture he can’t endure.

Then your hand slides beneath the fabric, warm skin meeting your cool palm, and you feel him—hard, straining, aching for this. The sound he makes is helpless, torn from him before he can stop it. His hips jerk upward, clumsy and desperate, seeking more of your touch.

You close your hand around him slowly, carefully, as though savoring the shape of him, and he whimpers. It’s soft, muffled into his bitten lip, but it’s enough to make hunger claw at your insides. He’s so sensitive, every twitch of your fingers wringing a sound, every stroke sending another tremor rippling through him.

His hand finally moves, catching weakly at your wrist, not to stop you but to anchor himself. His knuckles are white, his grip trembling, and his voice is barely audible when he pleads, “Please…”

You lean closer, your lips brushing the shell of his ear as you squeeze him firmer, stroking just enough to make his voice break again. “Please what?” you murmur, low, coaxing, savoring his unraveling.

You keep your pace unhurried, your hand stroking him in a rhythm that makes his body arch and strain against the mattress. Every movement is slow enough to feel cruel, slow enough that he has no choice but to feel each shift of your palm, each curl of your fingers.

He gasps, sharp and shaky, the sound falling into a low groan as his head tips back. His throat is exposed, pale in the firelight, tendons straining as though even the act of breathing through this pleasure costs him everything.

You drink in the sight of him—his lips parted, his lashes fluttering as his eyes squeeze shut, his chest heaving with every shallow breath. He tries to stay quiet, but the smallest noises slip through: a stifled moan, a bitten-off whimper, a ragged sigh that betrays exactly how undone he is.

You shift just enough to hover above him, watching each expression flicker across his face. Your hand moves in steady strokes, coaxing each sound, drawing them out like secrets he’s never given anyone. He squirms beneath you, overwhelmed, but he doesn’t pull away. If anything, his hips lift toward your hand, clumsy, eager, needy.

“Good,” you murmur softly, low and certain, as though you’re marking him with the word. “That’s it… let me hear you.”

His breath shatters into a moan at your words, his body trembling beneath your slow, merciless touch.

You bend closer, your lips brushing the rapid thrum of his pulse. His skin is warm, flushed, and the rhythm beneath is frantic—like a trapped bird beating against a cage. You kiss him there, feeling the shiver that runs through his body at the touch.

Your hand never falters, stroking him with that same patient, torturous rhythm. Each sound he makes vibrates against your lips where they linger at his throat. A sigh, a muffled gasp, the catch of his breath when your tongue traces lightly along the edge of his jaw.

He tilts his head without thinking, baring more of his throat to you, a silent offering. The scent of his skin—warm, alive—floods you, stoking the hunger that’s been simmering beneath every touch. You taste him in the smallest ways, lips pressing firmer, tongue slipping lower until you’re kissing just above the hollow of his collarbone.

He moans your name, the sound ragged and unsteady, his hands flexing uselessly against the sheets. His hips buck weakly into your palm, desperate for more friction than you’re giving, but still too hesitant to beg outright.

Your teeth graze his skin, just the faintest scrape, and his breath hitches violently, a shudder racing through him. His hand rises, trembling, and hovers at your shoulder.

Your hand stills for the briefest heartbeat when the words leave his lips.

“I want…” His voice fractures, low and hoarse. He swallows hard, then forces it out in a rush. “I want to be inside you.”

It strikes you harder than you expect. For all his trembling, his hesitance, his inexperience—this sudden flash of raw want burns through the room like a lightning bolt. You hadn’t thought he’d say it. Not like that. Not so plain.

Your hunger twists inside you, sharp and sudden. For once, you’re the one caught off guard. The certainty in his words cuts through the nerves that have knotted him for weeks, and for a moment you only look at him—his flushed face, his parted lips, his chest rising and falling like he’s bracing for rejection.

Then, you begin moving your hand again, slow and steady, grounding both of you in the rhythm. “Is that what you want?” you murmur against his skin, lips brushing the edge of his throat. Your tone is calm, measured, but inside you feel that flare of surprise pulsing alongside your hunger.

He shudders, nodding quickly, almost desperately. “Yes. Please.” His voice cracks, earnest and unguarded.

You can feel the tremor running through him, the helpless way his body arches into your touch. It thrills you. It unnerves you. And it leaves you with the undeniable knowledge that you’ll give in to him—not because he asked, but because you want to.

Your strokes slow until they’re barely more than a ghost of touch, dragging out his sharp breaths. Then you let your hand slip free altogether, leaving him aching, flushed, trembling under your gaze.

He jerks at the loss, a faint sound escaping him, but doesn’t reach for you. Instead, he props himself up on his elbows, his wide eyes fixed on you with something between desperation and awe.

You take your time, studying him, weighing him, letting the silence settle heavy between you. Then you tilt your head, voice low and deliberate:

“Are you sure?”

The question hangs in the air, a test, a last chance to turn back.

He swallows hard, Adam’s apple bobbing. Then he nods, quick, eager, almost boyish in his urgency. “Yes.” His breath stumbles out, shaky but certain. “I’m sure.”

The way he says it—earnest, raw, pleading—strikes something deep in you, something that feels dangerously close to hunger and possession twined together.

You step closer, closing the short distance between his body and yours until the heat of him is impossible to ignore. His elbows give way under the weight of your presence, and with a steady pull of his hands, you guide him upright, back into a seated position at the edge of the bed.

His breath hitches when you place his trembling hands firmly on your hips. They hover there for a second as though he’s not sure he’s allowed to hold on, but your grip over his knuckles insists—this is where you want them. This is where he belongs.

Leaning down, your lips hover just a breath from his ear, your voice low and deliberate. “Undress me.”

The command sinks into him like a stone dropped in water. His fingers tighten against the fabric at your hips, hesitation flashing across his features before eagerness takes hold. He looks up at you then nods once, swallowing hard.

His hands fumble at first, clumsy with nerves, but the weight of your gaze steadies him. You let him take his time.

His fingers bunch the fabric, tentative at first, testing the weight of it as though uncertain he has the right. You don’t move to help him—only stand steady before him, watching, waiting.

Slowly, he begins to lift the dress, his knuckles brushing the curve of your thighs as the hem rises. The sound of the rain outside and the fire’s crackle fills the silence between you, broken only by his shallow breaths.

When the fabric slides higher, revealing more of you, his eyes widen. He drags the dress up with careful hands, Every inch revealed leaves him caught between awe and disbelief.

The soft line of your thighs, the shape of you beneath—he stares as if he’s seeing something sacred. By the time the fabric reaches your waist, his hands tremble. And still he continues, peeling the dress upward, hesitant but obedient.

When at last the bodice slips past your chest, his breath catches sharp in his throat. His gaze lingers, unsteady, drinking you in. His lips part, but no words come. He looks at you like he might break if he dares to touch, as though the sight alone is enough to undo him.

By the time the dress clears your shoulders, you raise your arms just enough for him to draw it fully away. He sets the bundle of fabric aside with unthinking care, and when he looks back at you, his throat works as if he can’t swallow around the weight of what he sees.

You bend slowly, closing the little space left between you, and his gaze jumps to your face as if pulled there against his will. His hands still hover uncertainly at your sides, fingertips ghosting without daring to press.

You take his wrist, firm but not harsh, guiding his trembling hand upward. His breath stutters as you place his palm against the curve of your breast, your own fingers curling over his to keep him there.

“Here,” you murmur, low, deliberate. “Touch me.”

For a heartbeat he freezes, almost paralyzed by the permission, by the reality of it. Then, as though your command gives him the strength to move, his fingers shift, tentative at first—exploring the softness beneath his palm. His other hand follows of its own accord, bolder now, cupping, testing, as though trying to memorize every line, every weight, every give of flesh.

His lips part on a shaky exhale, his eyes darting between your face and where his hands rest. It’s almost too much for him, this simple intimacy, and you can feel the nervous want radiating off him in waves.

Your hunger coils tighter, watching him, feeling how quickly awe turns into something hotter under your guidance.

He shifts beneath you, almost unconsciously, as if the pull is stronger than his own hesitation. His hands, clumsy but sincere, keep their hold on your breasts, thumbs brushing experimentally over sensitive peaks.

Then—halting, unsure—he leans forward. His breath fans warm against your skin, and you can feel how he wavers at the edge of daring. His lips part, but he pauses, searching your face as though for permission he doesn’t dare ask aloud.

The closeness makes your hunger coil sharp and hot in your belly. His mouth so near, his hands tentative but eager—it’s a picture of a man fumbling toward something far bigger than he knows, and you, letting him, feeding the fire with your silence.

When he finally lets his lips graze your skin, feather-light at first. The tremor in his hands betrays him, but the want is there, unignorable.

it doesn’t take long until he breaks past the line of hesitation—his lips parting, and he leans in with a shaky exhale, closing over the soft swell of your breast. The sound he makes is half-need, half-relief, as though he’s been holding himself back too long.

His mouth moves timidly at first, testing, then with growing urgency, pressing open kisses that trail across your skin before circling back. When his tongue flicks tentatively over the peak, he lets out a muffled groan, the vibration running through you.

A sharp gasp slips from your throat—unexpected, unbidden. The noise makes him pause, wide-eyed for a heartbeat, but when he realizes what it was, when he hears that it was because of him, his hold tightens. He mouths at you harder, hungrier, teeth grazing faintly, and the wet sounds of him working against you fill the quiet room.

You arch slightly into his mouth, the rhythm of his learning turning almost desperate. Every small sound he pulls from you fuels him, and it’s as though he can’t stop, can’t get enough, his hands clutching as though afraid you might vanish if he lets go.

He lingers as though he’s starved for this—every kiss, every pull of his mouth an offering of devotion he doesn’t know how else to give. His tongue laps clumsily, but it doesn’t matter; what he lacks in skill he drowns in sheer want. Each drag of his mouth grows wetter, needier, his breath catching as if he’s drunk on the taste of you.

Your hand threads into his hair almost without thought, anchoring him there. He shudders when you tug, a tremor running through him, but he doesn’t pull away. Instead, he groans into your skin, low and raw, as though the sound is torn from somewhere deep inside him.

You feel his body shift restlessly beneath yours, his arousal straining and throbbing between you, but still he mouths at you like he’s worshipping, like every kiss is prayer. The noises he makes are unrestrained, sloppy, but achingly earnest—and each one sends a curl of heat through your own body, tightening your hunger until it’s almost unbearable.

Your fingers slide from his hair to his jaw, tilting his face up. He resists for a heartbeat—mouth still clinging, lips flushed and damp against your skin—but when your grip firms, he lets out a shaky breath and lets you guide him back. His lips glisten as they part from you, his breath coming quick and shallow, chest rising and falling like he’s just been dragged from water.

You let him linger in that dazed state only a moment before your hand drops lower, pressing lightly against his chest to ease him back onto the bed. His elbows bend, supporting him as he looks up at you with wide, waiting eyes, pupils blown dark.

Slowly, deliberately, your fingers trace down the flat of his stomach, feeling the twitch of muscle beneath thin fabric. When you reach his waist, his body goes rigid, anticipation shuddering through him. You pause at the button of his trousers, giving him just enough silence to feel the weight of the moment.

Then, with steady control, you toy with the edge of his zipper. The soft rasp of metal sliding down fills the quiet, and he exhales hard, his throat working like he’s trying to swallow words he doesn’t know how to speak.

Your hand stills at the half-opened zipper. Instead of finishing the work yourself, you pull back just slightly, your eyes meeting his. A silent command hangs between you, sharpened when you tilt your head and gesture toward his pants.

It takes him a moment to move. His throat bobs, his breath uneven, but then he swallows and reaches down with trembling hands. The sound of fabric shifting fills the room as he fumbles with the button, then peels the trousers down his hips. He kicks them free with a clumsy haste, leaving himself bare before you.

And there he is.

The sight of him fully now makes your hunger throb in a deeper place. He’s flushed, straining hard, his cock heavy against his stomach, already leaking from all the teasing you’ve drawn out of him. Vulnerability clings to him as much as arousal does; his legs tense, his hands hover like he doesn’t know what to do with them, but his eyes—wide and glassy—never leave yours.

You feel that flicker of power coil tight in your chest. He’s yours to guide, yours to ruin, and he’s laid himself open to it completely.

You reach forward, closing the distance before his nerves can unravel further. Your fingers wrap around him—warm, deliberate—stroking once, twice, slow and steady. The sound he makes is half a gasp, half a whimper, and it ripples through you like fire. You do it again, dragging your palm down the length of him, savoring the way he trembles under the simplest touch.

Then you release him.

Without a word, you move from between his legs, your body unhurried as you walk to the side of the bed. His gaze never leaves you—head turning, shoulders twisting to follow as though he can’t risk a blink. You slip onto the mattress, settling back against the headboard like you own the space, reclining in quiet command.

He hesitates only a heartbeat before he pushes himself up from the mattress, feet planting on the floor. For a moment he just stands there at the end of the bed, bare and unsteady, drinking you in. His chest rises and falls, his cock flushed and straining again from nothing more than the way you look at him. He removes his shirt slowly, maintaining eye contact with you.

You see the war in his eyes: hesitation laced with raw hunger. He’s waiting—for instruction, for permission, for you.

Your voice cuts through the tension—soft, but leaving no room for refusal.

“Come here.”

It’s enough. He moves, careful but eager, climbing onto the mattress with the weight of someone stepping over a threshold he knows he’ll never return from. His knees sink into the bedding just before you, his eyes wide and uncertain, yet burning with something that pulls him forward despite himself.

You watch him hover there, trembling on the edge, and then—without hurry—you part your legs. The shift of your body against the sheets is quiet, deliberate. The hem of your dress already cast aside, there’s nothing between you and his gaze now. You see the moment it hits him, the sharp hitch of his breath, the way his throat works as he swallows hard.

His eyes drag down, slow, as though he’s terrified he might be dreaming. The hunger in him is raw and untrained, spilling into his expression with no disguise. 

And you let him look. You lean back against the headboard, unashamed, spreading wider as if to remind him that this is yours to give—and his to receive only because you allow it.

His hand hangs in the air, uncertain, caught between the want in his eyes and the restraint in his posture. His breath comes shallow, like he’s afraid the wrong move will break whatever spell holds him here.

You don’t rush him. You let the hesitation stretch, let him feel the weight of it pressing down. Then, softly, you give him what he needs. “Touch me.”

The words jolt him. His fingers brush your thigh, tentative, testing. A pause. Then he moves a little higher, slow, like he’s finding his way in the dark. His hand is warm, unpracticed, but steadying as he dares to follow the path you’ve opened to him.

You tilt your hips forward just slightly, letting him know it’s allowed, that it’s wanted. His hand settles firmer, dragging up over the smooth line of your leg, stopping short of where you know he wants to go.

Your voice threads into the silence again, calm but edged with command. “Don’t stop now.”

He swallows hard, nods almost imperceptibly, and lets his touch wander higher, closer, his hesitation giving way to something sharper.

His fingers brush your cunt, light and clumsy, and the touch drags a sharp gasp out of you. The sound startles him—he jerks slightly, like he’s done something wrong—but you catch his wrist before he can pull away.

“Keep going,” you murmur, voice steady, though your hips already shift forward, grinding into his hesitant hand.

He swallows, and tries again. This time his fingers slip through the wet heat of you, grazing your slit, the pads catching on how soaked you already are. A shiver runs through him, like he can’t believe what he’s touching.

You bite back another sound when he presses a little harder, sliding his fingertips up until he finds that tender spot. Your thighs tighten instantly around his wrist, breath breaking into a sharper moan.

His lips part, eyes darting up to your face as though seeking permission, and you give it to him with nothing more than the way you push down against his hand.

“Good,” you whisper, but the word trembles now, your hunger straining at the edges of your control. “Just like that. Rub me.”

He obeys, slow but deliberate, dragging his fingers in small circles over your clit. The touch is messy, unsure, but every slip of his hand only winds you tighter. Wet sounds gather between your thighs, and his jaw hangs slack as though the feel of you is undoing him just as much as you.

His touch falters, then grows bolder—fingers sliding lower, slick with your wetness. He hesitates just at your entrance, the tip of one pressing as though testing the give of you.

Your breath hitches, hips tilting forward to meet him. That’s all it takes. He sinks a single finger into you, slow, careful.

A moan slips past your lips, low and rough, and the sound makes his whole body jolt. His eyes dart up to your face again, nervous, but you catch his wrist and push him deeper.

“More,” you whisper, and his throat bobs.

The finger works inside you, shallow at first, then deeper as he grows braver. Soon another joins it, stretching you fuller. His inexperience shows—his movements uneven, too cautious—but it doesn’t matter. The raw want in the way he touches you, the way his breath stutters every time you clench around him, makes it enough.

Your head falls back against the headboard, lips parting in a sharp gasp when his fingers curl, brushing a spot inside that has you tightening around him.

“God,” he breathes, the word breaking out of him before he can stop it. His free hand grips your thigh, clinging like he needs to anchor himself to keep from coming apart just from touching you.

His fingers push deeper, curling again, and the angle nearly knocks the air out of you. Your back arches, a moan ripping free before you can contain it. He freezes, but you grab his wrist and roll your hips down, forcing him to keep going.

“Don’t stop,” you hiss, breathless.

He nods, cheeks flushed. His hand is shaky, but he does as he’s told, fingers pumping inside you, curling every so often. The wet drag of his knuckles fills the room, obscene and sloppy.

You spread your legs wider, letting him in deeper, and he groans under his breath as though the sight alone is too much for him. His thumb slips clumsily against your clit, not even meaning to at first, but the jolt it sends through you makes you gasp loud enough to have him repeat it. Again. And again.

Your hips move of their own accord now, grinding down into his hand, chasing the friction he gives you. He bites his lip, watching your face, eyes blown wide as if he’s memorizing every sound that tumbles out of you.

“Jesus,” he mutters, almost to himself, “you’re so—” His words choke off as you clench harder around his fingers.

The pressure builds sharp and fast, your thighs trembling where they cage his wrist. Each curl of his fingers drives you higher, until the hunger in your chest nearly breaks loose. You bare your teeth without meaning to, a shudder ripping through your body as the edge closes in.

Your whole body trembles on the brink, the edge so close you can almost taste it—then you seize his wrist and still him. His breath stutters, confusion written across his face as your hips grind one last time against his hand before you pull it free.

“Enough,” you murmur, voice low but sharp with command.

His lips part like he’s about to protest, but you bring his slick fingers to your mouth. Slowly, you take them past your lips. The taste of yourself floods your tongue, and you hold his wide-eyed gaze as you suck—slow drags, your cheeks hollowing as you make sure he sees every motion.

His chest heaves, his whole body gone rigid as though he’s the one being undone now. When you let his fingers slip from your mouth with a wet pop, a faint tremor runs through him.

“You feel what you’ve done to me?” you ask, voice like silk but edged in hunger.

He nods dumbly, throat bobbing as he swallows, eyes fixed on your mouth as if he can’t look anywhere else.

You guide him up between your legs, tugging until he’s hovering over you. Then you shift, sinking back into the mattress, your head resting against the pillow. The firelight flickers over his face, catching the nervous flush staining his cheeks, the sweat starting to bead along his hairline.

“Are you ready?” you whisper, voice low, steady.

He nods quickly—too quickly—but the hunger in his eyes makes the eagerness real. You let the silence stretch, just long enough for the weight of your words to settle on him, then you part your thighs wider, dragging him into the space you’ve opened.

“Then guide yourself to me,” you murmur, the command both soft and inescapable.

His breath hitches, and his hand slips lower, trembling as he wraps himself in his own grip. The sight of him—hard, flushed, wet at the tip—makes your mouth water, makes the hunger coil tighter in your gut. He hesitates, hovering at your entrance, brushing against your folds with an uncertain stroke.

“Go on,” you breathe, voice laced with both promise and threat.

His tip presses against your entrance, trembling as much as his hand. The first push is hesitant, his hips jerking forward just enough for you to feel him parting you.

A gasp rips out of him—raw, unsteady—and he stumbles over words that are not the accent he’s been wearing. A string of Gaeilge, thick and choked, spills from his mouth before he can stop it. He doesn’t even seem to understand what he’s said, his wide eyes fixed on where his body meets yours, like the shock of being inside you has ripped him down to something he can’t mask.

You hold still, letting him feel the way you stretch around him, the way he’s fully claimed by the heat of you. The tension in his shoulders, the tremor in his thighs—it all coils together into a single fragile line, and you can see it: this is his first. The weight of it presses into you almost as much as the length of him does.

“Breathe,” you whisper, steady, commanding but tender all the same. “You’re doing just fine.”

His chest heaves, another broken word in that foreign tongue slipping out before he bites it back, his whole body shaking as he inches further inside.

He eases in bit by bit, every slow thrust forward dragging a strangled sound out of him. His breath stutters against your cheek, his hand clutching at the sheet beside your head like he needs something to anchor him. The tight heat of you wraps him in completely, squeezing down on every inch he gives, and it’s almost too much—his body jerks, a tremor racing through his thighs as though the weight of it might fold him.

You watch him unravel in real time. His jaw clenches, then falls slack, lips parting on a sharp inhale as another curse of Gaeilge bursts from him without thought. His hips stutter forward, then stop as though he’s afraid to break you, afraid of losing what he’s just begun to have.

The sound of him, the look in his eyes—shiny, undone, disbelieving—sinks sharp into you. For centuries, you’ve taken what you wanted without pause, without thought. But this… watching him fight against the flood of sensation, desperate to endure the way you draw him in—it’s almost intoxicating.

“Good,” you murmur, your voice steady against the rawness of his. “Just like that. Don’t hold back from me.”

His head tips forward, a groan breaking out of his chest as he gives another inch. He’s nearly buried now, trembling with every heartbeat, his breath hot and unsteady against your skin.

The moment comes slow, trembling. His hips press forward that last inch, and then—he’s fully inside you. Buried to the hilt, locked in the heat of your body, trembling so hard you can feel it in your bones. His breath shatters in your ear, a sound closer to a whimper than a groan, raw and unguarded.

You feel the shock ripple through him as his body seizes and then stills, his chest heaving against yours like he’s run a great distance. For a second he doesn’t move at all, frozen in the disbelief of it—your tightness wrapped around him, your body taking him whole.

“Christ,” he gasps, voice strangled, broken by the Irish lilt that slips through no matter how hard he tries to smother it. His hands clutch at you without direction, fingers splayed across your waist, then sliding up as though trying to make sense of you, to prove this is real.

Your nails graze his back, grounding him, keeping him where he is. You tilt your head, lips brushing his temple. “There,” you whisper, almost indulgent. “All the way. Do you feel that? How deep you are?”

He nods frantically, forehead pressing into your shoulder, another helpless sound breaking loose from him. His whole body is taut, caught between the desperate urge to move and the terror that he’ll lose himself too quickly.

He’s stiff at first, his body straining under the weight of too much sensation. Every inch of him trembles where he’s pressed against you, as though even the thought of moving might undo him completely.

You press a hand to the small of his back, steady, coaxing. “Easy,” you murmur, guiding the rhythm with the roll of your hips. “Slow.”

He obeys. Tentative at first, he rocks forward, then back again—so shallow it’s barely a movement, but enough to make his breath stutter in your ear. He clutches at you like he’s drowning, forehead pressed against your temple as if to hide his face, but he doesn’t stop. Another slow push. Another careful draw back. Each one smoother than the last.

Your body welcomes him, and he feels it—the way you tighten around him, urging him on, rewarding each small thrust. The tension still binds his muscles, his jaw clenched, but he follows your guidance, letting your hands on his hips, your whispered words, shape the pace.

A soft sound slips from you, and it nearly unravels him. He groans low in his throat, the sound thick with awe and strain, and rocks into you again, just a little deeper this time.

Your voice meets him in the dark—low, steady, coaxing praise that cuts through his nerves. That’s it… good. Just like that.

Each word seems to sink into him, loosening the knots in his chest, tugging him deeper into motion. His hips begin to find their rhythm, not steady yet, but strengthening, bolder. The sound of him—his breath breaking apart, the uneven grind of his body pressing into yours—blends with the wet, lewd noise of him moving inside you.

Every moan you let slip feeds his urgency. You can feel it in the way he clutches at you. The trembling man who kissed you weeks ago is still there, but beneath him now is the raw want he can’t contain, stretching out with every thrust.

And your hunger sharpens with it. Each time his voice cracks on a groan, each time your name catches on his tongue, the ache inside you pulls tighter, deeper. His inexperience doesn’t dull it—it sharpens it, makes the taste of him more intoxicating.

He pushes again, harder than before, and you feel the edge of your own restraint splintering.

It builds too quickly—his eagerness, his trembling attempts at control, the way he bottoms out with each thrust like he can’t stand the thought of leaving you empty. Every time he grinds deeper, his voice rips itself raw, half-moan, half-broken gasp. His body is alive with it, desperate, consuming, and it stirs something far older and far darker in you.

Your teeth ache. The hunger gnaws sharp against your gums, that telltale throb pulsing in time with his movements. It takes everything to keep your mouth pressed to his shoulder instead of sinking in, everything to breathe through the slick heat of his neck so close, so vulnerable.

His rhythm falters for only a second when a sound tears from him, a strangled groan that feels like surrender. You tighten your thighs around him, drawing him closer, and the edge of your restraint frays further.

Each thrust drives the point home—you could take him now. You could make him yours in every sense, bind him to you forever. The thought burns through you hotter than the pleasure itself, the taste of inevitability on your tongue as sharp as iron.

You force yourself to hold. To breathe through the sharp ache in your gums. To keep your mouth from finding the frantic pulse at his throat. The hunger is a drum in your skull, pounding louder with every deep, reckless grind of his hips.

He pulls back just enough to look down between you—his wide eyes catching the sight of himself splitting you open, pushing back in with a pace that grows faster, messier, more desperate. A strangled curse falls from his lips, accent curling around it, before his head drops forward again, as though he can’t bear to watch for long without losing what fragile control he has left.

Your own breath comes harder now, the pleasure winding sharp and low in your belly. You can feel him trembling against you, torn between restraint and the wild rush to chase whatever this is building inside him. His hands clutch at you—hips, waist, thighs—like he’s afraid you’ll slip away if he doesn’t hold on tight enough.

And still, your hunger claws at you. His scent is everywhere: the salt of his sweat, the heat of his skin, the life surging so close beneath it. Every thrust pulls a groan from him, and every groan makes your teeth ache sharper.

You dig your nails into his back, not quite piercing but close enough to make him gasp, close enough to anchor yourself in the moment instead of giving in to what your body screams for.

You tilt your head, lips pressing against the damp heat of his throat. The kiss is soft at first, as though you can trick yourself into believing it’s enough—just lips, just tongue, nothing more. The taste of his sweat slides against your mouth, and you close your eyes, forcing yourself to savor that instead of the vein that thrums right beneath.

His breath shudders, hips jerking harder, pace losing all rhythm as his release builds. You feel it in the way his body tightens, in the frantic little noises that spill from him—half moans, half whimpers—as if he’s almost frightened by the pleasure unraveling him.

Your mouth trails lower, teeth grazing his skin, just shy of sinking in. A groan rips out of him when you suck at the spot, his whole body twitching as if the threat of your bite sends him even closer to the edge. His hand fists in the sheets beside your head, the other clinging to your hip like he’ll be torn apart without that anchor.

The hunger claws up your chest, but you hold it. You hold it while his thrusts grow erratic, sloppy, desperate. You hold it while his voice cracks on your name—while his release slams through him, spilling hot and raw inside you with a choked cry.

Your lips press harder to his throat, your tongue sliding over the pulse you crave. So close. Too close.

He slumps against you, chest heaving, his body spent—but still, he tries. His hips stutter forward, cock softening but not leaving you, as though he’s terrified to let go. The gesture is clumsy, almost pitiful, and it rips at something in you, because it’s devotion in the rawest form. He’s giving all he has, even when there’s nothing left.

You slide a hand down between you, fingers finding your clit. The shock of it nearly makes your back arch off the bed, and you bite down on a sound that still spills out anyway—low, hungry, jagged. You circle yourself in steady, merciless strokes, eyes half-lidded as you watch him try to keep moving inside you.

He’s trembling with the effort, brows drawn tight, teeth catching his lip like it’ll hold him together. Every shallow thrust drags what’s left of him through your slick heat, and the combination—the pathetic insistence of his body against yours, and your own fingers working tight against your nerves—pulls a string of curses from your throat.

“Don’t—stop,” you murmur, half-command, half-plea. And he doesn’t. He can’t. He gasps, clings to you, pushes forward again and again, giving you every last shred of himself while your own body climbs.

The hunger spikes sharp, unbearable, gnawing up through your chest as your climax begins to crest. His pulse hammers against his throat right by your lips, and you’re not sure if you’ll hold back this time.

It crashes through you sudden and brutal—your fingers working that last tight circle, the soft, desperate push of his cock inside you, the helpless noises he spills into your neck. Your body seizes with it, thighs clamping around his hips as the wave of release rips itself from the pit of your stomach and pours through every inch of you.

But the hunger spikes with it, sharp as knives, an ache that rides your climax like a second pulse. Your teeth throb, gums straining, and the sound that breaks from your throat isn’t pleasure alone—it’s feral, guttural, as if something ancient claws its way up through your chest. His pulse hammers beneath your lips, frantic and vulnerable, each beat a drum that begs to be silenced in your mouth.

You gasp, arching harder against him, the taste of his skin almost enough. Almost. Your lips drag open along his throat, breath hot, and your teeth scrape—not enough to break, but enough to make him shudder. It’s excruciating to hold back. The line between ecstasy and ruin feels thinner than the edge of a blade, and every nerve in you screams to tear past it.

But still—you fight. Trembling with the strain, you press your mouth harder against his neck, swallowing down the urge as the last ripples of release leave you shaking under 

Drool slips, hot and slick, from the corner of your mouth as your fangs press harder against the soft skin of his throat. You can feel the sharp points just breaking past your lips, aching with need, pulsing in rhythm with his heartbeat.

The hunger gnaws through you, more violent than the pleasure that wracked your body only moments ago. It curls and coils deep inside, demanding release, demanding him. The wet line trailing from your mouth to his skin shames you—centuries of control eroded by the fragile weight of a man trembling in your arms, buried inside you, still catching his breath.

He stirs beneath the drag of your teeth, not with fear but with a soft, confused murmur, pressing closer like he doesn’t understand what stirs in you.

Your jaw tightens, fangs hovering, drool spilling thicker now.

You break.

Your lips part wider, and your fangs pierce him with a clean, sinking push. The instant they slide into the heat of his throat, his body stiffens, his breath cutting off in a ragged gasp. Blood surges, hot and thick, flooding your mouth in a rush that steals the air from your lungs.

It’s exquisite—far more than you imagined. Centuries of feeding reduced to nameless faces, meaningless vessels, and now here he is: Remmick. His taste hits you with a burn that feels carved just for you, sweeter and heavier than any blood you’ve known. You drink deep, a shudder running through you as your body clenches around him, pulling him tighter, claiming him in the way you’ve craved since the first night.

He makes a sound—half moan, half whimper—his hands flexing at your hips, torn between pushing you back and pulling you closer. His heart hammers against your lips, every frantic beat feeding your hunger, your power, until you can’t tell where his pulse ends and yours begins.

The drool mixing with the blood streaks your chin, your chest. You drag your tongue along the punctures even as you feed, needing all of him, needing more.

And he lets you.

Trembling, gasping, his cock still softening inside you, he doesn’t tear away. He offers you his throat without words, as if some buried part of him already knew this was always what you wanted.

His body is still.

You’ve laid him back carefully, stripped away the mess of sweat and blood, wiped your own mouth until not a trace remained. Now, with his head pillowed in your lap, the silence of the room is broken only by the low crackle of the dying fire. Your hand drifts again and again through his hair, stroking, untangling, soothing—though he cannot feel it.

Unconscious, his face is pale, lips parted, breath shallow. His pulse is slower now, weaker, already shifting. You can hear it, faint but insistent, the sound of him being remade from within. Each beat stutters as the venom works, threading through him, unraveling his fragile mortality and knitting it into something else entirely.

You watch closely. His fingers twitch once against the sheets, then fall still. A shiver runs the length of his body, his brow creasing as though in some fever dream. You know the fire crawling under his skin, the burn in his veins that eats him alive before it rebuilds. You remember it—how it felt like death and birth together, like drowning and clawing up into air that no longer belonged to you.

Your thumb traces his temple as his lashes flutter briefly, his body straining before slackening again. A small smile touches your lips—not gentle, not cruel, but something in between. Admiration, possession, inevitability.

“You’ll be mine soon,” you murmur, voice low, steady, a vow more than comfort.

Outside, the storm has rolled on, leaving the world damp and quiet. But here, in this bed, you keep vigil, watching the first fragile stages of the change take root in him.

The turning takes days.

The first night, his body burned. Fever hot, sweat beading across his skin until the sheets clung damp beneath him. His muscles clenched and seized, his chest rising in short, shallow bursts as though he fought invisible hands dragging him under. You stayed through it all, unmoving, your hand combing through his hair when his cries rattled out like a man lost in a nightmare.

The second day, he quieted. His body weak, his lips dry, his breaths too slow. He looked as though death had already claimed him, but you knew better. His veins had already begun to darken beneath the skin, shadows threading like roots, evidence of the venom spreading, carving him hollow. When you pressed your palm against his chest, his heart still beat—but faintly, faltering, waiting for its moment to let go.

By the third night, the stillness had deepened. The fever broke, but so too did the last fragile ties of his humanity. He lay utterly motionless, no warmth, no pulse, no breath. It was the dead sleep of the change—the passage every one of your kind crossed before rising again. For hours, you watched him, your hand always hovering near, as if daring the silence to prove you wrong.

And then, sometime near dawn, it happens.

A sharp inhale tears into the quiet. His chest heaves, his back arches as if pulled up by invisible cords, his hands claw at the sheets, trembling violently. His eyes snap open, wide and unseeing at first, irises blown black until, slowly, the faintest rim of color reappears. He gasps, choking as though trying to remember how to breathe—before he realizes he doesn’t need to.

You’re there, steady, your hand pressing lightly to his chest, guiding him back down onto the bed. His body trembles beneath your touch, strength coiled in his limbs though he hasn’t yet learned to wield it. His lips part, a whisper cracking from his throat.

“What… happened?”

Your gaze holds his, a slow smile curving your mouth as you stroke back his damp hair. He doesn’t realize yet what he is—what you’ve made him.

He’s still trembling when he turns his face toward you, searching for an answer you don’t give.

The silence is thick, stretching between the two of you, only broken by the ragged sound of his unnecessary breaths as his body fights to understand itself. He lifts a hand, staring at it as though it belongs to someone else—the skin pale, the veins beneath gone dark like ink pulled too close to the surface. His fingers flex once, twice. Then, he jerks, startled by the sound of fabric tearing beneath his nails.

The sheets. Shredded where his grip had tightened too thoughtlessly.

He stares at it, wide-eyed.

Then comes the sound—the first true gasp. His head turns sharply, too sharply, to the side. He freezes, eyes fixed on the faintest creak in the house, the settling of wood. His ears catch it all now. The scratch of something in the walls. The far-off bark of a dog down the street. Even your breath, steady and measured, the shift of your clothing as you sit beside him.

It’s overwhelming.

His throat works around a swallow, but then it hits him harder: the hunger. The ache starting deep in his chest, coiling low in his belly, blooming sharp in his mouth. His tongue runs over his teeth, and he pauses when it meets the new points, the fangs he’s never felt before.

A sound escapes him—low, uncertain, half a groan. He presses a hand against his chest, as if that will keep the hunger down, keep the pull from clawing through him. His body arches slightly off the mattress, straining, wild without knowing why.

Still, you say nothing. You only watch, your hand smoothing over his hair again with the same steadiness you’ve kept since the first night.

He finally drags his gaze back to you, pupils still blown wide, hunger dilating every line of his face. His lips part. He doesn’t ask. He can’t.

He only stares at you as though you are the one thing in the room anchoring him to this new, unbearable world.

Your hand stills where it threads through his hair. For a moment, you just let him look at you—wild, lost, trembling beneath the weight of instincts that are bigger than him. Then, slow as the turn of a key in a lock, you shift, tilting your head to one side. The column of your throat is offered, bare and deliberate.

His eyes snap to it. His breath stutters out in a broken sound, and you can see the sharp swallow ripple down his throat as he fights it. He doesn’t know how to ask. He doesn’t know if he should.

You whisper anyway, low and sure, guiding him as you always meant to:

“Go on.”

The words unlock him.

He lurches, unsteady, his body moving before his mind can catch up. His lips brush your skin, trembling. The heat of his breath ghosts over your pulse, ragged, desperate, and then—fangs. They scrape at first, clumsy, unsure. He hesitates, and you can feel him shake with it, torn between fear and hunger.

You press a hand against the back of his head, not forceful, only steady. “It’s all right,” you murmur, your voice threading into the storm of his panic. “Take what you need.”

And he does.

The bite is sharp, unrefined. Pain sparks white before it melts into the pull, the deep draw of him drinking from you for the very first time. His entire body shudders against yours, a broken moan slipping from his throat as the hunger finally finds its answer. His hands clutch at you, one at your waist, the other fisting the sheets, grounding himself in the taste of you.

Every swallow is greedy, desperate, almost frantic—as though he’s been waiting his entire life for this without knowing it.You hold him steady, stroking his hair, even as your own hunger answers in kind, a dark satisfaction curling low in your chest. You’ve given him this. You’ve made him this. And now, with his mouth at your throat and his body clinging to yours, he is bound to you in every way that matters.

tags : @pathetic-remmick @avidreader73 @kentblvd @mintssanctuary