Sometimes you will be a lesbian to your parents and a straight man to your partners parents and a gay man to your partner and a woman to your grandparents and out to your friends and stealth to your classmates and a nice young lady to the cashier at the coffee shop and then people on your computer will ask you to choose which of these identities you ACTUALLY are and which you are Appropriating The Oppression Of because donât you know they contradict each other. You can only be one thing solidly forever
doing crafts while listening to a podcast is truely an ancient activity. makes me feel like a prehistoric grandma doing nÄlbinding at the fire and also a young lady learning to do embroidery and also a sailor knitting in his free time on the ship and also my gay friends doing fiber arts and we're all telling each other stories
I'm really not apologetic with this hard stance, either. I'm very firm on this, too. My art has already been used, twice now by people who did not ask my permission, so they could "enhance it" with Gen AI. I really see nothing good coming from generative AI except poor excuses for laziness and glorified search engines that don't work.
i hate when you google a word and some fucking company comes up instead. Do you think you are more important than the english dictionary you piece of shit corporation
This might be a weird request but it's rattling in my brain; reader is the vampire who turned Remmick and she finally finds him hundreds of years later, toxic sex and violence (optionally) ensues
I don't know if I actually hit the nail on the head with the topic you proposed to me but I hope at least that it is enjoyable to read.
New York has always had a peculiar scent. Not the stench of smoke and rotten food that mortals perceive. No, you smell the other side of the city: the iron tang of dried blood in the sewers, the sweat of broken dreams, the tears soaked with rust and gasoline. Itâs a rich, violent perfume. Like a kiss given with teeth.
It was probably the most beautiful city you had visited in the last decade. People were constantly running against time, reckless and superficial, andâmost enticing of allâno one noticed if someone vanished into thin air in the dead of night.
It was a big city with a population that kept growing. You never would have expected to find him here, amidst all of this, when you had turned whole small towns upside down trying to track him down.
Youâre standing on the sidewalk of Clinton Street, under the sign of an old jazz club that hasnât yet realized itâs dead. The neon flickers with the anxiety of something that knows it wonât last until dawn. Inside, among half-finished drinks and music that plays too softly, is your ghost.
Your name for him is a whisper forgotten by the centuries, an open wound, an eternal sentence. His, instead, slides down your throat like ancient wine. You drink it without mercy.
Itâs been more than twelve hundred years since the last time you saw him, but only four hundred since you stopped searching for him every night. But your blood always knew. He was alive. He was hiding. And today, finally, he is yours again.
He had managed to sever your mental bond over the years and you couldnât reach him anymore, but you could still feel it distinctly whenever one of the vampires you had turned died. It was as if the rope you had so carefully tied around the person suddenly collapsed to the ground, as if it were now only clutching air, no longer supported by anything.
With him, that had never happened.
The rope remained tautâthe problem was, you couldnât see who it was tied to anymore.
You approach the entrance, and the bodyguard shifts slightly, giving you a nod. Thatâs all it takes.
Your foot crosses the threshold and the warmth of the room washes over you. Every movement you make is a precise note in a lethal symphony.
The light inside embraces you like an old, unhappy lover: yellow, uncertain, already tired. The music lowers ever so slightly as you step into the center of the roomâor maybe itâs just an impression.
Your arrival is like a change of season: inevitable, sudden, irreversible.
You donât look at anyone because thereâs no one worth looking at.
Everyone else is just background noise.
The only real figure, the only being that matters, is sitting at the far end. Slouched shoulders. A glass in hand. Staring into the void.
Remmick. Your Remmick.
He hasnât changed the way he sits or the way he dresses. He always wore those damn suspenders, always that slight tilt of the torso, as if seeking shelter from the world, as if danger were always lurking just around the corner.
Poor fool.
The danger is in front of him, and itâs wearing your smile.
You move through the tables with the slow gait of someone who knows they can take everything, destroy everything. Every step is a whispered vow in the forgotten language of blood. Your heels beat like an ancient heart on the wooden floor.
He hasnât seen you yet. His eyes donât rise.
But he has felt you.
Oh, yes. His body reacts before his mind. He stiffens. His shoulders tremble slightly.
The bloodâthe one you gave him and stole from him on the same nightâsenses it.
Itâs the instinct of the pup who feels the return of the mother⊠or the predator.
âRemmick.â
Your voice is honey and poison, dew and ash. Itâs just one word, yet enough to snap his spine.
He turns with a slowness that reeks of surrender, of resignation, of pure terror.
His eyes hit you like a painless bite. Theyâre still the same. Large, languid, filled with shadows and that marble-gray that made you want to drown in them.
He looks at you the way someone looks at a fire from inside a wooden house.
The way someone looks at the end⊠or the beginning.
âYouâŠâ he murmurs.
And you smile.
âMe.â
You sit down without asking. The space next to him suddenly becomes the center of the universe. The air contracts and the room changes texture.
You lean on the table with the carnivorous grace thatâs yours alone. Remmick stiffens again, and his eyes twitch toward the exit.
As if he could really escape.
As if New York were big enough to hide him from you now that youâve found him again.
âI didnât thinkâŠâ he says.
His voice is hoarse, caked with ash.
âYou didnât think I was alive?â You raise an eyebrow. âOh, Remmick, darling, it takes more than a millennia to kill me.â
He lowers his gaze. The glass trembles between his fingers.
You feel the urge to take it from him, to press it to his lips, to make him drink and choke on the same misery heâs wallowing inâwhen he could have had a radiant future by your side. Feared, adored, safe.
But you hold back.
Not yet, you tell yourself.
âWhat're ya doin' here now?â
The question comes out like a rasp. It has no strength. No soul.
You sip it like fine wine.
âI looked for you. Since you fled from Dublin. Since you left a trail of blood and cowardice in the woods where I had given you my blessing.â
He swallows. You can see his throat move. That human gesture he still hasnât forgotten.
âI only wanted toâŠâ
âDisappear?â
You lean toward him. Your hair brushes his shirt. The scent of his nervousness intoxicates you.
âAnd you almost did. Do you have any idea how many villages I crossed, how many people I tortured and turned to get information about your possible path?â
Your hand closes on the aluminum table and it starts to crumple under your grip, collapsing on itself.
âSure. I didnât want ye to find me at all.â
Your eyes shine red and this time, you laugh.
A liquid sound, deep, ancient. A thunder choked between teeth.
âI found you anyway.â
You look at him. Really look.
Heâs no longer the boy writhing in your arms that Irish night, crying the name of his dead wife. But heâs not a fully grown vampire either.
Thereâs something in him that stayed behind. A part that refused to become you.
âDo you know what I canât decide?â you ask, brushing his wrist with a fingernail. He doesnât pull away; he knows he canâtânot if he wants to keep his hand. âIf you were more stupid to run or more brave to stay alive just to reach this moment.â
âI couldn't be lettin' ya that close to me no more.â
The sentence is whispered. Itâs true. And for a momentâfor the briefest, smallest momentâit hurts you.
But then your smile returns, fierce.
âAnd yet here we are. Youâre looking at me like that night, and I⊠I wonder if your body remembers my bite.â
He flinches.
That one word was enough. Bite.
His eyes widen and you know what he sees.
The red mouth. The fangs shining like unkept promises. Your hands on his chest. The broken breath.
âDo you remember it, Remmick?â
He doesnât answer. He canât.
But the tremble in his muscles is enough for you.
You want him to suffer.
You want him to be afraid.
You want him to feel every single one of the dark emotions that devoured you from the inside when he chose to break away from you.
âDo you remember⊠when you came to me? Bleeding. Mortal. With eyes full of death and a heart full of hate.â
You take his chin between your fingers. You feel the stubble scratch your fingertips, the cold skin.
But youâre colder.
Youâve always been.
You see him bite his lip to hold something back. A word, a groanâyouâre not sure.
âI was your new beginning, Remmick. I told you that. And you chose me anyway.â
The club around you seems to disappear. The lights dim, the chatter dies down as you lean closer to his face and watch Remmickâs mind clearly drift back to the past.
đ»đŠđđđđ, đ đđ
The night was thick with smoke and pitch, as if the sky itself had decided to choke that God-forsaken village. Among the motionless branches, swollen with suspended rain, the forest breathed in anticipation. Every leaf seemed to be holding its breath. The ground was soaked with the blood of those punished merely for existing, and the roots beneath youâancient, twisted, keepers of a thousand deathsâthrobbed with the rhythm of a distant echo, one only you could hear. It was the heartbeat of a dying man. And you already knew he would be yours.
You had felt it the very moment the first torch touched the flesh of his bride. You had heard the broken manâs scream echo through the trees, and then the human sound of his footsteps as he fled, blood on his hands, throat clenched around her name, eyes blind with pain.
You remained still, as naked as the forest, skin wet with dew and your face turned toward the direction from which he would come. Your lashes did not flutter. Your lips did not move. Waiting was a sacred act. You didnât need to see to know. You already knew that blood. It was the kind that doesnât ask for forgiveness. That doesnât seek justice. That wants only a second chance.
When his figure finally emerged from the blackened trunks, he looked more like a shadow than a man. Staggering, his tunic torn, the skin of his hands shredded by moss and thorns, he moved forward like a dying beast. A long wound slashed across his side, leaving a dark trail behind him. His face was covered in soot and mud, and yet beneath the mask of ruin, there was still something terribly human.
The astonishment of someone who hadnât yet realized he was going to die.
You didnât speak at first. You rose slowly, the tips of your toes sinking into the damp soil, your legs melting like shadows among the bark. He collapsed a few steps from you, breath ragged, chin trembling. He looked at you like someone seeing an illusion. As if he had called for the devil and instead received an angel too cruel to be called salvation.
âHelp meâŠâ he whispered. His voice came out broken, corroded, like a dry branch snapping in the silence.
You knelt before him. The scent of blood filled the air like spoiled honey. It was metallic, thick, but within that stench of death there was also a stubborn warmth. He was dying, yesâbut dying still as a human.
His eyes were full of her.
Maeve.
Her name hovered in the night even though he never spoke it. You heard it, like a drumbeat played with bones.
âDo you know who I am?â you asked. Your voice was no louder than the wind. But it was enough.
Remmick lifted his face, and his eyes locked onto yours. Two wells full of fear and wonder.
âThe witch of the woodsâŠâ he answered, lips cracked, throat dripping. âThe creatureâŠâ
You leaned closer. A thin line of blood trailed from his lip. You wanted to gather it with a kiss, but you waited. Desire was part of the ritual.
âAnd why did you come to me?â
âThey took all I had from meâŠâ he coughed, his shoulders shaking like the wings of a broken bird.
âThey burned her⊠my Maeve. They came for her 'cause she knew the herbs, knew the old ways. Tied her wrists and set her to the flame. She screamed me name, and I⊠I hadn't it in me to save her. Could only stand there like a coward. Could only run. Should've died with herâŠâ
There was a moment when you could have killed him for that name.
Not yours. Hers.
His love was so alive, so cruel in its loyalty.
No one had ever loved you like thatânot even when you were human.
But that same blade that wounded you also made you choose.
You would take him.
Not to save him.
But to strip every last ounce of light from that memory.
You bent over him. Your face brushed his chin. You felt his warm, faltering breath, his heart struggling to survive just a few more seconds.
âDo you want to live?â you asked, and when he nodded with the twitch of a condemned man, you knew his soul was yours.
âLiving has a price. You cannot remain what you are. Youâll have to forget the sun. The faith. The dreams. Youâll have to carry me inside you every time you open your eyes.â
Remmick didnât reply with words. It was enough for him to tilt his head back, part his lips slightlyâlike a newborn awaiting their first milk.
He was ready.
Ready to die.
You caressed him just once. Your palm on his dirty cheek. Then you embraced him.
And in the most sacred silence of the forest, you sank your teeth into his throat.
The taste flooded you instantly. Warm. Viscous. Exquisite. Every drop told his story.
His hands tangled with hers. His footsteps through the village mud. The whispered promises beneath rough sheets. The first kiss. The last prayer.
And youâat the center of it all.
Your mouth tore away what made him human, and made him yours, fiber by fiber.
When you pulled away, he was dead.
His eyes still open, staring into nothing, but his body empty.
The death hadnât been quick, but it had been yours. And that was enough.
You cut your wrist with a fingernail, without pain. The blood flowed slowly, black as the oldest ink. You brought it to his mouth.
âDrink, little oneâ you ordered. The word wasnât a request. It was a key.
He didnât need your blood to turnâbut he needed it to heal quickly.
Your blood touched his tongue, and after a few long moments, his mouth moved and began to suck gently, then more hungrily, like a starving pup. With every sip, his body changed. Wounds closed. Skin regained color. Broken bones mended with a dull crack. And finally, the heart⊠began to beat. A new beat. Not human.
But eternal.
He opened his eyes.
And in those eyes, there you were. Reflected. Full. But different.
He looked at you the way one looks at an oracle. With devotion.
And with terror.
That moment was sacred.
And it was the beginning of the end.
Time holds no meaning for creatures like you, but certain silences carry the weight of centuries.
And this oneâbetween you and himâdoes.
Remmick no longer speaks. The glass in front of him is still full, the ice in the amber liquid has melted, carrying with it the artificial scent of remorse. Youâre no longer looking at him directlyânot now. Youâve leaned back against the chair, legs crossed with the kind of grace only the immortal possess, fingers tapping slowly on the edge of the tableânot out of impatience, but to remind him that youâre still there, that youâre real, that youâre here.
Outside, the rain has grown more insistent, and the streetlights reflect on the windows like cat eyes crouched in the dark.
Inside, everything is muffled.
The sounds of ordinary life have lost the courage to challenge the silence that has formed between you.
When Remmick finally speaks, he does so as if stepping into icy water.
âAnswers wouldn't bring her backâŠbut revenge, at least, might quite the scream in me bones.â
His voice is low, trembling. Thereâs no challenge. No contempt. Only weariness.
You donât respond immediately. You let the words settle onto the table like an old coat made of human skinâheavy, worn. Then, you look at him.
And you wonder how many times you imagined him broken, torn from the night, chained inside a coffin abandoned at the bottom of a river.
But not like this.
Not worn down by loneliness.
âYou donât know what you became to me.â
Your voice isnât gentle. It never will be. But itâs steady. Itâs the voice of someone who has clawed through time just to find a name.
Remmick turns to face you.
âAnd what did I become, then?â
He asks like a man expecting a sentence.
You smile faintly, and the smile is a polished blade.
âOne of the few things I regretted. That doesnât happen often.â
He flinches, as if unprepared.
And you wonder if he truly hadnât understoodâif he hadnât heard every call you whispered in the shadows, every echo reaching for him in dreams, every animal watching him from afar during his centuries of escape.
But now, it doesnât matter.
âI crossed half the world to find you, Remmick. I did it with hunger in my heart and empty hands. Iâve slept in crypts and courts, taken blood from those who swore you were dead. Not to punish you. But because I needed to see you with my own eyes.â
Remmickâs eyes widen, and that tiny vulnerability touches you more than you expected.
Youâll never admit it aloud, but seeing him aliveâstill himselfâlifted a weight you didnât know you were carrying.
And now⊠that relief starts to scratch at you from the inside.
You shift in your chair, your hands rising slowly to comb your hair back. Itâs a simple gesture, but on you, itâs a rite.
Then you stand.
He watches you, and thereâs a shadow of alarm in his gaze.
âAre ye heandin' off?â he asks, unable to mask the panic in his voice.
âDo you need me to stay?â
The question leaves your lips so naturally, even you are surprised.
You could have said a thousand things: Youâre not worth my time, or Iâm not done with you.
And instead, you ask for a chance.
An invitation.
Remmick lowers his head.
He doesnât look at you when he answers.
âI never thought Iâd be layinâ eyes on ya again. But now youâre hereâŠNow Iâm hearinâ your voice again, and starinâ right at yaâŠGod help me, I donât know what to feel.â
He pauses.
Then, more quietly, with something unnamed tightening his throat:
âI donât want ya goin'.â
The rain begins to pound harder against the windows. The neon sign above groans.
You stand before him.
For a long moment, you say nothing.
Your eyesâthose eyes that have seen empires fall, that have stared into the sun without burningânow look at him with a different intensity.
Thereâs no longer only power.
Thereâs something subtler. Older.
A tenderness ashamed of itself.
You lean forward slowly. Your hands rest on the edge of the table. You draw closer to him like a predator that has chosen not to kill. And when you speak, the words settle on your tongue with a new taste.
âI was afraid Iâd find you broken in a way I couldnât put back together. But I see you still whole. Lost, yes. But intact.â
Remmick lifts his eyes, and in those weary eyes, for a moment, thereâs a spark.
The same one you saw centuries ago, when he clung to your arm in the woods and begged you not to leave him alone with death.
You sit down again.
Not because you give in.
But because you choose to stay.
He places his hand on the table. He doesnât reach for you. Doesnât dare. But he leaves it there. Halfway. A silent declaration.
You look at it.
Then extend two fingers and barely touch his skin.
Remmick closes his eyes, and you let him.
In the silence that follows, you understand something: he forgave you long before seeing you again.
And you⊠you may have come to ensure that the monster you created was still capable of loving something.
Now you know he is.
Maybe not you.
But something.
âIf I stay, it wonât be like before.â
Your words are clear, cut straight.
âI know.â
âI will have no mercy.â
âIâm not askin' for any.â
âAnd I wonât be yours like I was then.â
At that, Remmick opens his eyes. Looks at you. And smiles. âYou were never mine. Not even that night. I was yours, every bit of me.â
Thereâs no possession in the statement.
No submission.
Itâs the acknowledgment of a truth thatâs followed him like a shadow.
And you⊠you feel something loosen in your chest.
One of your hands rises and touches his chin.
Gently, this time.
He doesnât pull away.
The face has changed, but the structure remains the same. The strong jaw. The shape of the mouth. The eyes that canât hide a thing.
âI'll stay, if youâŠâ
He hesitates.
Then, like a snapped thread, the voice breaks in his throat: âIf you're stayin' with me.â
You freeze.
The words latch onto something inside you that no longer remembers how to move.
Your face stays still. But inside, something shudders.
âI let you go once. I wonât allow it again.â
The relief that washes through his body is visible, like a wave.
Slowly, he places his hand over yours.
The air between you has changed. Itâs not just silence now.
Itâs hunger. Not for blood.
Not just that.
Itâs hunger for contact, for belonging, for skin screaming beneath skin.
Remmick looks at you like one looks at a knife they love, knowing it will hurt. His gaze is dull, wet, full of that silent implosion burning beneath his skin for centuries. His hands lie still on the table, but you feel the vibration in his body, that shiver you know well.
Itâs the moment right before the fall. And you are the blade.
You stand without saying a word.
No need to ask.
And he, as always, follows you.
Outside, the rain has become a continuous layer wrapping the city.
The streets are empty, and your steps make no sound. No one watches. No one dares.
You lead him into your refugeânot a castle, not a crypt, but a loft in the heart of the city, glass and stone and silence. Like you: ancient beneath a modern skin.
As soon as you cross the threshold, you turn.
Heâs there, hesitant, feet just a step from the doorway, eyes glossy.
And you lose patience.
You step toward him, exiting the house without warning.
You see him take a step back before you close one hand around the collar of his shirt.
He emits a low, broken soundâitâs not fear, itâs need.
âDo you really want it?â you murmur, pulling him close, hovering near his mouth but not touching it.
âYeah, darlin', Iââ
âTell me whose you are.â You stop him before he begins to murmur incoherent things.
âYoursâŠâ
Itâs a whisper. A moan. A plea.
Itâs all you needed to hear.
âThen you can come in.â
And you kiss him.
Noâyou devour him.
Your mouth seizes him violently. Your tongues intertwine and you hear him meow when yours brushes his palate.
You grab the edges of his shirt and pull him inside, then shove him violently against the wall. Your hands pin him to the wood, and his body opens beneath you like an unhealed wound.
Thereâs no tenderness in that first assault, only claimed right.
You tear off his clothes; buttons fly like bullets. Your claws leave marks everywhere: on ribs, neck, between shoulder blades.
Youâre not making love.
Youâre taking whatâs yours.
Remmick lets go. He doesnât resist. On the contrary, he seeks you, presses against you, makes guttural sounds, begs wordlessly.
When your nails scratch his back, he moans softly but doesnât pull away. When your hand closes in his hair and you yank him to one side to access his neck, he grunts, a crooked smile on his lips.
âThatâs the thing with you.â
You trail your nose along his spine and near his jaw, your red eyes shining in the dark, curious.
âNo softness in ya. Never was.â He adds, and the comment irritates you.
You pull back to look at him, and your grip tightens in his hair, making him moan on your lips.
âAnd do you care?â You growl just inches from him.
âDrives me fuckin' mad, it does.â
He fights against the grip on his head and bites your lips without knowing how. He drinks the blood he managed to extract from you and begs for access to your mouth again with his tongue that delicately passes over the damaged spot of your closed lips.
And you love him for it. Not for the submission, but for the fact that, finally, heâs stopped running away.
When you open your mouth and he moans softly, that broken sound, his body surrendering to you like wet silk, you know itâs over. The resistance, the pride, the distance.
Everything.
You push him against the couch without any kind of gentleness. You watch him squirm for a moment before landing against the soft cushions and you sneer at his shocked expression. Did he think youâd throw him to the floor? Would he have liked that?
You take off your clothes gracelessly, like someone who no longer needs veils.
Your body is beauty and death. Strength and hunger.
And as you climb up on him, over him, against him, you feel every atom screaming at you: take him back.
Remmick is open, vulnerable, half naked beneath you. His thighs are shaking. His hands are closing on the pillows as if he expects to be torn to pieces.
And maybe thatâs what he wants.
Your hand flattens against his chest. You feel him under your palm. You feel everything: his pulse, fast and fragile under your fingers. You feel the muscles underneath tense and you slide it down his body to his pants.
They were designer so you were a little sad when the claw popped the button and buckle.
You grinned at the sight as you pushed the fabric aside.
His cock strained against the material of his boxers with painful insistence, literally begging for more attention. You loved the hiss that escaped his lips as your palm collided with his clothed erection.
Heâs already hard.
âOf course you areâ you hiss, dragging your nails over the bulge, slow and deliberate.
He jerks beneath your touch, his hips twitching forward despite himself. âPathetic little thing. All it takes is my voice and my hand.â
His eyes shine like yours, and you wonder â is it your lust reflected in his gaze, or is it entirely his own desire?
âLove, just look at ye. Itâs a miracle Iâm still holdinâ myself backâŠâ
You look up, caught off guard by the rawness of his words.
Heâs beneath you, trembling.
Skin flushed, eyes glassy, lips parted like a prayer too afraid to reach the gods. Youâre straddling his hips, completely bare, your body gleaming in the outside light like a blade thatâs already tasted blood.
You can feel his cock twitching beneath your hand, hard, helpless, and begging â but you donât give him what he wants. Not yet. Youâre still watching him suffer.
Your hand grips his throat â not tight enough to cut off breath, just tight enough to make him still.
âYou ran from me,â you whisper, âCenturies. You ran. And now are you telling me this?â
He whimpers under your touch. His thighs are tense. His hands, still not touching you, rake over the soft fabric beneath them. Thereâs no resistance left in him. Only ache.
âI didnâtâ didnât know how to stay, not the way you needed me to.â he breathes, barely able to speak.
âYou donât need to know.â Your voice is low, feral. âYou just lie there and let me fuck you like I own you. Because I do.â
He whines when your fingers wrap around his length â tight, rough, merciless. You pump him once, twice, through the material. Then you let go, smiling when his hips chase your touch like a dog that doesnât know if itâs allowed to beg.
âPleaseâŠâ he chokes out, the word cracking. âPlease, I needââ
âYou need nothing but what I give you.â
His breath catches, then he nods.
You lowered yourself onto him. Your lower lips touching his clothed erection and you let the muscle rub between them, gathering the essence of your arousal against the fabric already wet from his precum. Youâre soaking wet and you want him to feel it.
You watch him throw his head back and it hits the armrest with a soft thud, his teeth gritted and sharp.
Fuck New York. Suddenly, heâs the most beautiful thing youâve ever seen. So desperate, so broken.
âPleaseâŠâ he breathes again, barely audible.
You cut him off with a slap to the faceânot hard, just enough to shock him. His head turns with the impact, a red bloom left across his cheek. You grab his jaw and make him look at you.
âSay it like you mean it.â
His lips tremble. âPlease. Please, touch me.â
You ripped his panties off with a ferocious gesture. His cock bounced out and stretched upwards, against the beautiful V that outlined his pelvis.
You straddle him, your thighs tight around his waist, your body naked, glowing, godlike. He looks up at you like heâs never seen anything more terrifying or more holy.
Your hand wraps around his, finally naked, shaft.
He makes a strangled noise, both hands fisting the sheets. You start slowâyour grip firm, your strokes cruelly shallow, teasing the head with your thumb until heâs squirming under you, moaning through clenched teeth, trying not to beg again.
âYou want to come?â you ask softly. Almost kindly.
He nods desperately.
You move your hand away again.
He whinesâa broken, sharp little sound that dies in his throat when you lean down and spit directly onto his tip, letting it run slick over the length.
âThen earn it.â
You jerk him off with brutal precision. Fast. Rhythmic. Just tight enough to make him buck his hips, to make his toes curl. His body is so responsiveâtoo responsive. Heâs too sensitive, too desperate, too easy to destroy.
You watch his eyes roll back, his abs tense. You know heâs close.
You stop again.
âNoââ He gasps, one hand reaching up for your wrist. You slap it away and grab him by the throat, hard enough to choke off the next protest.
âDonât touch me unless I let you.â You lean down, nose brushing his. âYouâll come when I say. Not one second before.â
Tears pool in his lashes. You see them, smell the salt. Heâs shaking.
You reach between your legs and line him up, without holding him in your hand. You grind down onto him slowly, agonizingly slow, taking the head, then inch by inch, until heâs buried inside you and crying out.
Heâs hot, thick, and pulsing inside you. You saw his hands rise again from the couch but at your mere glance, they came back down, obedient.
And then, after he behave so beautifully, you move.
You ride him with violent purposeâhips snapping forward, your body rolling over him like a storm. You fuck him like a threat, like a warning, like a punishment he begged for in his sleep. Each thrust is deep, sharp, grinding. Flesh against flesh, wet and loud and inevitable.
He moans for you without shame now.
âPleaseâpleaseâI canâtââ His hands are balled into fists. Heâs crying, actually crying, his chest heaving, thighs trembling beneath your grip.
âYou can. You will.â
He cries out. Itâs not a moan â itâs a sob.
Your thighs cage him, your hands pin his arms above his head, and you keep ride him, unrelenting, like your body is punishing his for leaving you. Each thrust is a strike. Each grind is a brand.
You slap his chest, grab his nipples, twist until he arches up with a shout, and then you fuck him faster. Sweat beads at your temples. His tears stain his hair. His cock throbs inside you, on the edge again.
âDonât you dare come yet,â you growl.
He shakes his head wildly, lips bitten raw. âIâIâm tryin', sweetheartââ
âBeg me.â
He meows. âPlease⊠Iâm yours. Always have been. Iâll do anythin' â just let me come, yeah? Please⊠I canât take much moreââ
You let go of his wrists just long enough to wrap your hand around his throat again.
âNow,â you whisper.
And he breaks.
He cries out, hips lifting, muscles locking. He comes deep inside you, hot and violent, spilling himself in waves while his body writhes and collapses. Heâs a sobbing, ruined mess beneath you.
You donât stop.
You keep moving, dragging every last drop out of him, until heâs twitching, oversensitive, trying to squirm awayâbut you hold him down, pin him, take it all.
âLook at me.â
He does.
And in that look, you find the boy you found in the woods, half dead and still capable of love.
You find the man who feared you for turning him into a monster crawling in the night, and who now begs you to never leave him again.
Only then do you slow.
You ease off him, sliding forward until youâre curled on top of his chest. His arms rise slowly, hesitantly, and wrap around your waist. He holds you as if the world is about to tear everything away from him again.
His voice is a rasp.
âThank you.â
Your breath stops. Time falls apart.
Neither of you speak.
Your bodies remain entwined. Your face in his neck and his hands in your hair.
You close your eyes.
And for the first time in ages, you let your dead heart move.
truly the end goal is not "my close friends aren't annoyed by me and it's all in my head, they're my friends and they love me", it's "sometimes I do annoy my close friends, just as the people I love most will also annoy me sometimes, because this is normal, and we will continue to stay friends, and they're not going to want to immediately cut me out of their life if I do something annoying once in a while"
germansingergirl
ellievsbear
snowghoul
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jbbartram-illu
andulkaphoto
gummygunk
