DARIA!

“Sweetheart?” “I’m fine, Remmick.” You run your hand under the water trying to wash away the blood but it was too late. Remmick already made his way behind you, one hand wrapping around your waist as his other hand tracing down your arm to your bleeding hand. “Now you know I can’t let this go to waste.” He brought your bleeding palm to his lips, eagerly lapping up the sweet crimson dripping from your gash. His actions make a shiver run down your spine. The feeling of his fangs grazing the delicate skin of your hand and his drool mixing with your blood makes your head dizzy and your chest heat. 

You try to pull away but his grip on your wrist doesn’t falter. “I ain’t done yet.” He continued to drink down the blood from your hand, lips gradually moving up your arm until they reached your neck. He kissed, nipped and sucked at your pulse point. Small whimpers spill from your lips as you tilt your neck to give him more access. Remmick’s hand moves to your throat. His clawed finger cutting into your skin makes you grimace. “I know, I know. I’ll clean ya up.” His lips move quickly to the cut he left on your neck, sucking the blood from the fresh wound. 

Pink tinted drool spilling from his mouth down your neck and chest. His saliva mixing with your scarlett fluid sends small jolts of pleasure through your body. You push back against him, grinding your ass on his evident erection. “Mmh- You like that baby? You like when I feed on you?” A choked moan escapes your mouth when you try to answer. The hand on your waist snakes down to the skirt of your dress. Remmick pulls up the fabric until his hand is able to reach under and cup your already soaking cunt. “Oh you really like this.” 

He palms you through your soaked panties for a little bit before pushing them to the side and sliding two thick fingers in. You shudder at the stretch and the sudden intrusion of his fingers but that pressure subsides when he begins pumping them in and out of you. You're a moaning mess on his hand. Head hanging low, hands gripping the edge of the kitchen sink. “You’re so fucking wet and I barely even touched you.” Your hips move forward in time to catch the movement of his fingers. Remmick continues to pump his fingers ruthlessly in your slick cunt.

He removes his fingers, slipping them into his mouth to taste you. “Aren’t you just the tastiest thing?” Remmick moves quickly–unbuckling his pants, bending you over, and lining himself up with your awaiting hole. He rubs the head of his cock through your slick folds a few times before sliding in with a groan. Remmick plants his head in the crook of your neck, fangs slightly nudging your skin as he moves in and out of you with careful precision. 

He loves having you like this. Being inside you while the delicate flavor of your blood dances on his tongue. It's almost like a fever dream for him. The taste of you making his head spin and his cock swell. Remmick’s clawed finger grip onto your hips tighter–pointy nails ripping at the fabric of your dress as he continued his hard thrust. His grip on your neck is unyielding as he feels himself reaching his climax. “Fuck- you got me feelin’ so good.”

 His sultry words made you clench around his cock, bringing him closer to the edge. “Yeah Baby. Grip me- just like that.” Each hard thrust made the head of his cock hit that sweet spot inside you. Your plush walls fluttered around him as your own orgasm was closely approaching. “Fuck- Rem- I’m gonna-” He thrusts get sloppier when he feels your gummy walls pulse around him. “Cum for me Baby, just like that. All over me- fuck” 

With a few more snaps of his hips you come undone on his cock. Your juices leak down his shaft to his balls. The pulsing feeling of your orgasm sends Remmick over the edge, releasing thick ropes of cum into your womb. His grip on your neck finally loosens. He kisses your temple, trailing his lips back down to your neck and licking up the remnants of your blood.

The heavy wood of the door, slots carefully into it's worn, splintered frame as Remmick steps over the threshold. He tries to be quiet as he makes his way through the kitchen, taking extra care not to wake you, who he thought was upstairs fast asleep. Tucked into bed just like he had left you.

Tracking blood down the hallway and towards the stairs.

The light at the bottom of the stairs flicks on, and highlights his guilt in it's spotlight.

His eyes close in defeat, and he huffs in realization that he's been caught, "Shit."

Your sleep soft voice meets his ears and his guilt multiplies as you make your way down the staircase, "Rem, what have I told you about leavin' your boots at the door. You're trackin' blood and dirt through the house an- oh." You stop in your tracks, bare feet halting on the hardwood floor, hand not left the railing yet, eyes darting from the mess he's made in the kitchen to the mess that stains his clothes and pale skin.

In the time that you had been with him, Remmick had been extra careful as to make sure that you didn't see him like this. Covered in blood and viscera. The spoils of his hunt painting his skin a different shade altogether. He had made sure you didn't see the way his fangs filled his mouth, taking up too much space to be human, or the way his digits grew like long talons rather than fingers. He hadn't wanted you to see all of that. See what a monster he turned into when you laid your head on your pillow at night to rest. You were too sweet. Too pure. Hadn't been exposed to the horrors the world had hid away from you the way that he had. He wanted to keep it that way. Make sure you weren't tainted by him.

"Darlin', I don't want you seein' me like this." His words come out muffled by the teeth that push against his gums and crowd his mouth. His hands fumble to clasp behind his back, like you hadn't just seen the way they stretched longer than their last knuckle.

"Oh Rem, I ain't a 'fraidy cat like you are." you yawned and chuckled, taking a step closer to him. He meets your step forwards with a step back of his own, trying his best to distance himself from you in this form.

"I know you ain't darlin', I just.. there's some things a lady shouldn't see." A clawed hand comes up to shield his mouth from you, drool beginning to collect at the corners of his lips like a dog.

You give him one last look before closing the distance and taking his blood coated hand in yours, not even flinching at the slick feel of it against your palm, "C'mon, let's getcha cleaned up so you can get some beauty sleep. Lord knows you'll need the rest when it comes time for your punishment for this damned mess."

He snorted and smiled as you lead him to the kitchen, urging him to take a seat at the table while you filled a bowl with warm water and grab a clean dish rag. You set it on the table beside him, and stand between his spread legs, wetting the corner of the cloth and bringing it up to his stained cheek. His big, clawed hands came up to gently rest on your hips as you work. Red iridescence lingers in his irises, his gaze slowly roaming over your features that focus on cleaning up his mess, while your fingers gently swipe the warm rag at the congealed blood on his chin, softly wiping at his neck and down the line of his throat.

"'Yer real pretty, ya know that?" he murmurs through the barrier of his fangs and past his pink, swollen lips.

You smile, just a twitch at the corner of your mouth, focus never straying from the work at hand.

"You never let me forget it." you say, just as quietly. Your fingers stop their cleaning, and your eyes meet his. You take in his features. The way his eyes glow slightly, like a wild animal. The way the points of his fangs peek from between his lips. Feel the way his claws dig just a little bit into the meat of your hips whether he means for them to or not.

You should be afraid of him. Afraid of the fact he could tear you apart with just his bare hands and teeth. The thought of getting as far away from him as you possibly can, sits at the back of your mind, but that self preservation instinct has yet to truly kick in when it comes to your Remmick. You still didn’t see him as the predator he so very clearly is.

His tongue darts out, swipes across his bottom lip, as his eyes land on your mouth.

Before he can lean up to kiss you, you speak, "Wanna look at your fangs. Really look at em'. Never really got to see em' like this." A fingertip drags lightly across his lip, urging him to open his mouth.

He hesitates, but ultimately obliges, jaw slowly opening to reveal the fangs crowding his mouth.

You don't realize the quiet gasp that leaves you. The sight of just how sharp his teeth are shocks you for a moment, a chill running down your spine at the thought of the damage they could truly inflict. He could so easily kill you. Tear you to absolute shreds... yet he doesn't. For some reason, he has restraint when it comes to you.

Your thumb prods gently at the sharp point of one of his incisors, making sure not to nick yourself, before running the tips of your fore and middle fingers upwards, pushing his lip up. You rub along his gumline, his eyes closing as he inhales deeply through his nose.

"Hmmm, are they sensitive?" you ask even though you can already guess the answer, opposite hand coming up to rest on his stubbly cheek that’s now flushed red.

Remmick sits transfixed by your touch. He nods, drool gathering at his bottom lip and spilling over, a whine catches in his throat when you rub at the gum of his incisor.

You pull your hand away slowly, "Do you want me to stop?" You ask him so sweetly. So innocently. Like you have no idea what it’s doing to him.

It makes him groan.

Low and throaty and desperate.

He shakes his head, eyes shut, and when he opens them to look at you, they’re glossy with need.

“Please darlin’, don’t stop.” He mumbles, clawed hand gently grabbing your wrist and lifting your fingers to his mouth.

You nearly choke on a breath when he takes your middle and forefingers between his lips and sucks, forked tongue swirling around the digits lewdly, drool coating them.

Your gaze doesn’t miss the obvious strain of his hard cock against the stiff fabric of his pants as he moans around your fingers.

"Awww," you coo, fingers pressing down on his tongue, "Are you getting hard just from this?"

He nods, a muffled sound leaving him as you inch your fingers towards the back of his throat. Drool pools from the corners of his mouth, dripping down the sides of his chin.

You pull your wet fingers from his throat and tilt his chin up, his wet eyes locking on yours, "Want you to take your cock out, can you do that for me?"

His hands are at his belt buckle, unfastening and unzipping his pants before he could properly answer with a mumbled, "Mmmhmm."

Remmick's cock slaps against his belly as he shuffles his pants just enough past his hips. The tip flushed red and angry, already leaking precum at the slit and dripping down the shaft. He takes himself in his palm, fingers wrapping in a tight grip as he spread the wetness over the length.

You run the pad of your thumb along his swollen bottom lip, before pushing it forwards into his mouth. The sound of him eagerly sucking on the digit, tongue lathing up the skin, pairs filthily with the symphony of slick that comes from his hand languidly jerking up and down his cock.

"That's it Rem, get it nice and wet." you praise him, moving to rub at his gums again, thumb rubbing right where the incisor met the soft pink tissue.

His eyes close, jaw going slack, hand faltering a bit.

"Right there." he whines, hand twisting a bit when it reaches the head.

Your thumb rubs back and forth, matching the rhythm of his hand.

You see the way his thighs tense with each upstroke, the way his chest catches at each sensitive touch.

Spit continues to travel down his chin in rivulets, catching in his collarbones and further wetting the collar of his blood soiled shirt. He's an absolute wreck, and putty in your hands.

"Want you to come for me, you can do that, can't you Rem?" you bring up your other hand, rubbing at the opposite incisor in tandem.

He tries to nod against your hold, eyes squeezing shut in pleasured agony, and he picks up his pace, chasing his end.

With one last swipe to his gumline, the muscles in his abdomen tense, and a breath he doesn't need catches in his chest, cum painting his stomach with every twitch of his oversensitive cock.

You wipe the drool from his chin with your thumbs and press a kiss to his cleaned cheek as he collects himself and grabs the rag you were cleaning him off with.

"Now don't go using this information against me." Remmick jokes, cleaning himself off and resituating his pants.

"You seemed to enjoy it too much for it to be a punishment." you quip back. "Your real punishment for makin' such a mess, is gonna be all the wash you're gonna have to do without my help."

"And what are you gonna be doing while I'm doing all that?" he asked, brow raised.

"I'll be planning the ways to use this newfound information against you."

You spot the O’Connor stand long before you reach it. It sits beneath one of the older pecan trees at the edge of the market, tucked in the stretch of shade everyone envies by late morning. 

The whole place is already humming with neighbors drifting between tables, paper fans flicking open, radios playing low from the parked trucks circling the lot. The August heat hangs heavy even this early, sweet with fruit and dust, and you smooth your dress once, then again, as if the fabric might quiet the flutter in your stomach.

You didn’t come here for him. 

That’s what you tell yourself, anyway, stepping slow between crates of tomatoes and looping banners advertising jarred honey. 

You came for peaches, maybe for custards if they’re selling them today, and because you like the feeling of slipping away from your father’s shadow for an hour. You like watching people barter, like hearing the soft hush of produce being shifted, like pretending you’re already some big-city agricultural journalist who writes about small southern markets with gentle authority.

But when you glance up and see him behind the table—head ducked, sweat-slicked curls brushing his forehead as he aligns each mason jar just so—you forget how to breathe for a moment.

Remmick isn’t usually here. It’s his mama who runs the stand most weeks, easy and talkative with the regulars, but today it’s him and only him. He looks too handsome for the setting, like he wandered in from some softer world. 

Sunlight slips through the pecan leaves overhead, gold and trembling, catching along the edges of his hair. He wipes his palms on the legs of his jeans in a nervous gesture he probably doesn’t realize he’s doing, gaze flicking up now and then—quick, uncertain, landing everywhere except the approaching customers.

You slow your steps without meaning to, pretending to examine a basket of squash at an empty booth as your heartbeat stumbles into a faster rhythm. You aren’t even close yet, but already you’re telling yourself not to stare. Don’t stare. Don’t make a fool of yourself. 

Your hair is catching the humidity and swelling in all the ways you keep promising yourself you’ll fix one day, and the thought of those dark brown eyes landing on you—a stranger’s daughter, a girl too noticeable and not noticeable enough at the same time—makes you warm all over.

When you finally approach the stand, it feels like stepping barefoot into cold creek water, the shock of it rushing up your spine and settling just beneath your ribs. 

Remmick is facing the opposite direction, kneeling slightly to straighten a crate of green beans, and you have a single, suspended second to take him in—the broad shoulders, the gentle slope of his neck, the way his hands move with a quiet deliberateness you rarely see in boys your age. Careful hands. Respectful hands. Hands that grew up milking cows before sunrise and shelling peas at his mother’s kitchen table.

Then he stands, and he sees you.

It’s immediate, the way his expression changes. His posture stiffens, surprise flaring softly across his features, followed by something shy and flustered that makes him look younger. His lips part, just slightly, as if a greeting rose to the surface but got stuck halfway. 

And you—forgetting every intention you’d had about acting composed—drop your gaze to the table so fast it probably looks like you’re trying to memorize every peach in the basket.

“Mornin’,” he murmurs, voice low and gentle, the kind that feels like it was shaped by being raised in a house where kindness isn’t optional.

Your throat goes dry. “Mornin’.”

You’re staring at a jar of custard like it holds the secrets of the universe. He’s staring at the top of your head like he’s trying to be polite about it, his eyes flickering away every time you start to lift your own. 

It becomes a quiet standoff of mutual avoidance, both of you pretending the other isn’t affecting you in all the ways that feel too sudden, too tender.

He clears his throat. “We, uh… we’ve got peaches today. If—if you’re lookin’ for peaches.”

You dare a glance, just one. He immediately finds something else to focus on.

Your lips twitch. “I am, actually.”

“Oh.” He swallows, nods once, then reaches for a small basket without looking at you again. “They’re good this week. Mama said they were some of the sweetest we’ve had all summer.”

You watch his hands rather than his face. It’s easier that way. 

His fingers curl gently around the basket handle, as if even fruit deserves a certain softness. When he hands it to you, your fingertips brush for the smallest moment, and he jerks his hand back so quickly you almost think you startled him.

“Sorry,” he whispers, attention snapping to the side again.

“It’s okay.” Your voice is too soft, too fond, too something you don’t want to examine yet.

There’s a pause, stretched thin between the two of you.

You pay, he counts the bills with unnecessary care, and somewhere in the distance, a cicada drone rises like a slow, shimmering tide. You think about saying something else—thank you, have a nice day, I like your shirt, anything—but the words flutter in your chest like moths and refuse to settle into sentences.

You turn to leave. You can feel his eyes following the shape of your hair for the briefest second before he remembers himself and looks away again.

And you don’t see the way he exhales, long and quiet, steadying himself on the table as you walk off with your peaches. You don’t see the way his ears flush bright pink. You don’t hear the soft, breathless little whisper he tucks under his tongue—

“She’s… real pretty.”

You’re halfway across the dusty stretch of the market when someone calls out, loud enough to make a few heads turn but warm enough not to embarrass you.

“Well now,” a familiar voice drawls, lilting with humor, “if it ain’t Miss Curly-Hair making her weekly pilgrimage to the O’Connor stand.”

You stop, cheeks warming before you even face him.

It’s Mr. Alden—the man who sells heirloom tomatoes and spends most of his time leaning on his folding chair like it personally offended him. He’s older than your daddy, sun-creased and gentle-eyed, and notorious for catching things no one should catch that fast.

He taps the brim of his hat with two fingers, smirking. “Might start thinkin’ you’ve got yourself a favorite farm, sweetheart.”

You try to play it off, shifting the basket of peaches in your arms. “I just like their custards, Mr. Alden.”

“Mhm.” He nods slowly, far too knowing. “And I like the Braves when they’re winnin’. Don’t mean I’m watchin’ every game for the score.”

Your mouth goes dry. He’s smiling wide now, the kind only older men can get away with—affectionate, teasing, harmless. He lowers his voice like he’s sharing a secret.

“Boy near dropped that whole crate of beans when he saw you comin’. Just ’bout had a heart attack tryin’ to stand up straight, too.” He chuckles, shaking his head. “Ain’t seen a young man so nervous around a pretty girl since the Kennedy administration.”

Heat pulses up your neck, quick and embarrassing. “Mr. Alden—”

“I ain’t sayin’ nothin’, I ain’t sayin’ nothin’.” He lifts his hands in surrender even though he’s absolutely saying something. “Just enjoyin’ the view of young folks bein’ shy again. World’s too loud these days. Nice to see two people who don’t rush.”

You mutter a polite goodbye before you combust right there in front of the okra crates. His laughter follows you like a warm breeze as you weave through the crowd, heart tripping all over itself.

You’d thought you were being subtle. Clearly, you were not.

By the time you reach your car, the heat hasn’t faded.

The drive home is soft, radio buzzing low with static and gospel, windows down to pull in whatever breeze the late afternoon might spare. The peaches shift in their basket every time you turn, faintly perfumed and warm from the walk.

You can still feel the ghost of Remmick’s fingertips where they brushed yours, see the pink at the tips of his ears, hear the quiet apology he whispered like it mattered not to offend the very air around you.

You don’t know what to do with any of it, so you tuck the feelings somewhere behind your ribs and focus on the road.

When you pull into your driveway, your mama is already on the front porch snapping beans into a metal bowl, her housedress fluttering with the small wind. She eyes the basket in your hands and smiles.

“You went to the market?” she asks without looking up from her work—she always knows. “Good. We needed something sweet for after supper.”

You step up onto the porch, sinking into the creak of the old boards, and set the peaches beside her. The screen door bangs lightly as you open it, letting the swirl of cooler indoor air brush against your ankles.

Mama calls after you, “Wash your hands, baby. Then help me with this chicken.”

The kitchen smells like onions softening in butter, the beginning of something good. You roll up your sleeves, rinsing your hands under the faucet.

There’s a peace to this routine—helping your mama prepare dinner, moving around each other in a quiet rhythm built over years.

But your mind keeps drifting back to the market, back to the sunlight on Remmick’s hair, to the soft way he said “mornin’,” to the way he couldn’t quite look at you but somehow saw everything anyway.

You chop, stir, season, letting your thoughts settle somewhere between the comfort of home and the warm, trembling curiosity beginning to bloom in your chest.

By the time dusk starts painting the kitchen windows pink and gold, you realize something with a small, private shock:

You’re going to the market again next week.

And the week after that.

And every week, until you can look him in the eyes without forgetting your own name.

Dinner is quiet in the way your family’s evenings usually are—soft clinking, slow conversation, the whirr of the kitchen fan pushing warm air in lazy circles overhead. 

Your mama sets the skillet on the trivet in the center of the table, steam curling toward the ceiling, and your father folds the newspaper in half without really putting it down. He never eats without it nearby, ink smudging the pads of his fingers, thumb idly tapping the corner like a metronome.

You take your seat across from him, smoothing your napkin into your lap. He hasn’t looked up yet, eyes scanning whatever column has his attention this hour, but he still asks, “Your day alright?”

“Yes, sir,” you say, passing the bowl of green beans to your mama. “Went to the market earlier.”

He hums—an absent, distracted sound—before taking a bite of chicken. “Hot one out there.”

“It was,” you agree, though your mind isn’t on the heat. It’s on the pecan shade and the way Remmick kept ducking his head like looking at you too long might set off some quiet alarm inside him.

Your mama talks for a bit about Mrs. Douglas stopping by the house, about needing to drop off some quilting squares next week, about your aunt calling to complain about her tomato vines again. Your father adds the occasional grunt of acknowledgment, never quite looking up from the bold header stretched across the page. 

The house smells like butter and roasted chicken and peaches ripening in the bowl on the counter, sweeter as the evening breeze slips through the cracked kitchen window.

By dessert, your mama has sliced the peaches with practiced hands, spooning them over chilled cream in three glass dishes. The fruit is soft, bright, dripping. You’re halfway through yours when your father finally glances up from his paper, one brow lifting.

“You got those from the market today?”

“Yes, sir,” you say, trying not to let your voice betray anything more than simple confirmation.

Your father wipes his mouth with his napkin, folding it precisely before setting it beside his plate. “Good peaches this time of year. O’Connor farm grows ‘em right.”

Your spoon pauses mid-stir through the cream. “Yes, sir.”

“Mm.” He taps the newspaper against the table, a thoughtful little rhythm. “Thomas’s always lookin’ for helpers out there. Good man. Hard worker. Knows his soil.” He turns a page but speaks on, not missing a beat. “He lets folks come out sometimes, watch how the farm runs. Learn something worthwhile about where their food comes from.”

Your stomach does a strange, small flip.

“He does?” you ask carefully, trying not to sound too interested. Or too cautious.

“Of course he does.” Your father doesn’t look at you; he’s too busy narrowing his eyes at a headline. “Good opportunity for anyone wantin’ insight into agricultural work. Might even be helpful if you’re still set on this… journalism idea.”

Your mama shoots you a quiet smile across the table, the kind that knows more than she says. The kind that sees the way your breath shifts, even when your father doesn’t.

You stir your peaches again, the motion slow, thoughtful. “It could be,” you say softly.

“Tommy would show you around,” your father continues, oblivious to the warmth creeping up your neck. “He’s always been generous with that sort of thing. Teaches folks about the equipment, the cattle, even the orchard sometimes.”

You nod, trying to look composed, trying to look like your mind isn’t suddenly full of Remmick standing somewhere between rows of peach trees with sunlight tangled in his curls.

Your father flips another page, completely unaware of the tiny earthquake he’s just set off. “If you’re serious about that future job up north,” he adds, “you ought to learn every part of this work. Not just the parts you can read in a book.”

You swallow. “Yes, sir,” you whisper, focusing on your dessert.

Your mama notices everything. She reaches over and pats your hand, subtle, reassuring, a silent don’t worry, sweetheart tucked into her touch.

The conversation drifts elsewhere soon enough—politics, weather, a bit about the church fundraiser next month—but you barely hear any of it. The peaches are sweet, the cream soft, and your thoughts are miles away.

Tuesday morning arrives soft and slow. morning light seeping in like warm honey rather than pouring through the windows in sharp blades. 

The house is quiet—your father already gone to work, your mama humming somewhere in the back room as she folds laundry—and the air still smells faintly of last night’s peaches, the sweetness lingering in the kitchen like an afterthought.

You’re padding around barefoot when you hear the gravel crunch beneath truck tires.

You know that sound. Everyone in town does. The O’Connors have had that same faded blue delivery truck for years, its engine a little louder on cold mornings, its bed rattling faintly with every turn. You freeze where you stand, hand hovering above the coffee tin on the counter.

He’s here.

The floor creaks softly under your feet as you step to the window beside the sink, peeking through the thin curtain. The truck is parked at the edge of the driveway, sun catching on the old bumper sticker half peeled off the back. The passenger window is rolled down. And there he is—Remmick—sliding out of the driver’s seat with a careful sort of steadiness, like he doesn’t want to disturb even the dust under his boots.

He’s wearing a plain button-down tucked neatly into his jeans. His sleeves are rolled to his elbows, and the early morning light makes him look softer than you remembered—outlined in pale gold, hair brushing his forehead, cheeks faintly pink from the drive.

He picks up the wooden crate of milk bottles from the truck bed.

You watch, breath held, as he adjusts his grip, hesitating for a moment before he walks toward your front steps. His shoulders are squared, but you can see it: the little bracing breath he takes, the way he glances toward the door like he’s hoping it won’t actually be him who has to knock.

Your heart thumps, loud enough that you swear your mama might hear it from the other room.

You set down the coffee tin, wipe your palms on your nightshirt even though you’re not sweating, and step quietly to the door. You open it just as he lifts his hand to knock.

Both of you stop.

For a heartbeat, neither of you move, caught in a silence so delicate it feels like a held breath.

He recovers first—barely—straightening his posture as though being caught off guard is somehow impolite in itself.

“Good… good morning,” he says softly, voice warm but shy, almost cautious. His eyes flicker up to yours, then drop just as quickly to the porch boards. “Your daddy usually handles the deliveries.”

“I know,” you say, fingers curling lightly around the edge of the door. “He left early today.”

“Oh.” He swallows, shifting the crate slightly in his hands. “I… I didn’t mean to disturb y’all.”

“You’re not,” you assure him, stepping onto the threshold. “We’ve been expectin’ you.”

His gaze lifts again, slower this time, lingering for a brief, suspended moment. The curls around your face catch the sunlight, and you see the way his breath catches—not dramatically, not obviously, but enough that something warm flares low in your chest.

You hold out the money, folded neatly in your palm. He hesitates before reaching for it, as though he’s afraid his fingers might brush yours again. When they do, it’s like the porch brightens a shade without either of you moving.

His hand is warm. Yours is warm. Both of you pull away too gently, too politely.

“Thank you,” he murmurs, tucking the bills into the pocket of his jeans with careful precision.

“Of course,” you say, shifting your weight to your other foot. “Do you want me to take the crate inside?”

“Oh—no, ma’am,” he says quickly. “I mean—no, I can do it. Wouldn’t feel right just handin’ it over.”

You step back to let him in. He hesitates on the threshold like he’s stepping into someplace holy, eyes flicking over the doorway, your shoes by the mat, the corner of a quilted wall hanging your mama made last winter. 

When he finally crosses into the kitchen, he moves slow, like he’s afraid of knocking something over just by breathing.

You watch him set the bottles gently on the counter, arranging them in a neat line without being asked. His sleeves are rolled up slightly, showing the warm tan of his forearms, and something about the sight makes your stomach flutter in an embarrassingly earnest way.

He stands there for a moment after he’s done, hands hovering like he’s not sure what to do with them now.

“I, um…” His voice is quieter than before, dipping low. “Your peaches from Saturday. Did you—were they alright?”

“They were perfect,” you say, and you mean it far more heavily than he’ll ever realize.

His shoulders ease. A small, relieved smile tugs at the corner of his mouth, barely-there but warm enough to soften something inside you.

“That’s good,” he murmurs. “Mama’ll be glad to hear it.”

Silence drapes around you again. It’s not uncomfortable, just full. Full of all the things neither of you know how to say yet. Full of the kind of gentle possibility that settles into the space between two people who are still learning each other’s shapes.

You clear your throat lightly. “You, um… want some water? It’s a long drive this early.”

He startles at the offer, shaking his head with quick politeness. “Oh—no, thank you. I should get back. Still got the Thompsons’ and the Clarks’ to deliver.”

You nod, even though part of you wishes he’d stay longer, wishes you could ask something else, wishes you weren’t both so hopelessly shy.

He steps back toward the door. Pauses. Looks at you again.

“I’ll… see you on Saturday?” he asks softly.

The answer comes without thinking, without hesitation.

“Yes,” you say, and your smile is small and warm. “You will.”

He flushes again—pink across his cheeks, down his throat—and you swear he smiles into the collar of his shirt before ducking his head.

“Alright,” he whispers. “Alright then.”

He’s nearly off the porch when you realize your fingertips are still tingling from where they brushed his.

And he’s barely reached the truck when he realizes his hands are shaking just a little.

The days slip by—slow and ordinary on the surface but threaded through with a quiet anticipation you can’t quite shake. Tuesday folds into Wednesday, Wednesday into Thursday, each day shaped around your usual routines, yet softened at the edges by the memory of Remmick standing in your kitchen, sleeves rolled, eyes gentle, voice barely above a whisper.

By Wednesday afternoon, the heat settles heavy over the yard. You sit on the porch swing with your notebook balanced on your knees, pen tapping absentmindedly against the margin. 

You’re supposed to be drafting an article for your sample portfolio—an analysis of crop rotation patterns used by small southern farms—something polished, something serious, something your father can send north with pride.

You try to focus, truly you do, but your eyes keep drifting toward the road.

Your father’s words from dinner echo in your mind like a slow-turning wheel:

Thomas’s always lookin’ for helpers out there.

A good insight into farm-life.

Might even be helpful for your journalism.

You imagine standing in an orchard, notebook tucked beneath your arm, Remmick a few feet away showing you soil or branches or equipment. You imagine him talking with that soft, earnest voice he uses when he’s not nervous. You imagine listening—really listening—not only because of the work, but because it’s him.

Your pen hovers uselessly above the page.

You finally write a sentence. Then cross it out.

A breeze brushes through your hair, catching the curls at your temples, and you sigh, flipping the notebook closed.

You’ll try again tomorrow.

Thursday morning is better. You claim your usual seat at the dining table, notebooks spread out, coffee cooling beside your elbow. This time the words come easier—slow, but steady, like water easing down a hillside. You manage three full paragraphs before you pause to stretch your fingers.

And still, he’s there.

Not distracting you in a loud way—no, nothing about Remmick is loud. It’s more that you keep remembering the way his eyes flicked up when you said the peaches were perfect. How his whole posture eased, as if your approval meant something to him.

You press your pencil to your lips, heart warm.

Maybe going to the farm wouldn’t be such a bad idea. Maybe you could learn something useful.

Maybe you could learn something about him.

You force your attention back to the page, cheeks warm for reasons unrelated to the temperature.

Friday is restless.

Your mama sends you to fetch herbs from the garden, and you do, but you linger among the rows longer than necessary, sun on your shoulders, the scent of basil and clay reminding you of the market. 

You help her prep supper, your hands moving automatically through familiar motions—peeling, chopping, stirring.

Later, while you fold laundry with your mama humming beside you, a little thrill goes through you when she mentions, casually, that the weather is supposed to be clear tomorrow.

You pretend not to care.

You fail.

And when you go to bed that night, hair tied loosely up, the window cracked to let in the chirping crickets, you stare at the ceiling long after the house has gone silent.

You tell yourself it’s silly to be this nervous over a boy who barely knows you. You tell yourself it’s just the sweetness of something new—a soft unfolding.

But when sleep finally comes, you drift into it smiling.

Saturday morning arrives with air cooler than the days before—an early sign of fall inching its way in.

You wake with a flutter under your ribs. It feels like opening a letter addressed to you alone.

Your mama is already in the kitchen humming at the stove. Your father is in the yard tightening something on the fence. The world feels ordinary.

But everything inside you feels quietly, impossibly changed.

You dress with care but not intention—light cotton, comfortable shoes. You check your reflection once, twice, then tell yourself you’re being ridiculous.

You’re just going to the farmer’s market.

Just like every Saturday.

And for the first time, you don’t look away from your own smile in the mirror.

The market is already alive when you arrive, sunlight filtering through the thin morning haze, warming the dust kicked up by the first round of shoppers. The cicadas haven’t quite woken yet, leaving the early hours quieter than usual, softened by murmured greetings and the gentle thud of crates being set down.

Your heart pulls you toward the pecan tree immediately—instinct, habit, something warmer than either—but you force yourself to slow down, breath measured, steps steady. You can’t just march up to the O’Connor stand like you’ve been waiting all week. Even if you have.

So you browse.

Or at least pretend to.

You drift from table to table, pausing to admire jars of honey you don’t need, goat soap carved into little flower shapes, hand-sewn aprons you’d never wear. A woman from church waves at you from behind her preserves, and you wave back, trying your best to look casual, like your gaze isn’t constantly tugged sideways toward the far corner of the row where you know—know—he’s standing.

You pick up a jar of pickles, glance at the label, set it down. Pick up a bundle of herbs, smell them, pretend to consider. Your eyes slide again. This time, you catch a glimpse of him through a space between two canopies.

Remmick.

He’s arranging peaches, brow furrowed in concentration. The curls on his forehead fall forward as he leans over the table, and your stomach does a ridiculous little flip that you absolutely did not give permission for.

You inhale.

You’re here for your journalism aspirations, you remind yourself.

You’re here to maybe… ask about the farm. Maybe.

It’s not unreasonable. Not strange. Your father said so himself. You’re not scheming. You’re not flirting with the idea of spending time with a boy who blushes when you hand him money for milk.

You’re being responsible.

Mostly.

You run your fingers along a row of embroidered linens as you mentally walk through how you might ask.

Mr. O’Connor, would it be alright if I visited sometimes? I’m hoping to write about farm practices—

No, too formal.

I’m trying to build a portfolio—

No, too stiff.

I was wondering if I could learn more about orchard management—

No, too obvious you rehearsed it.

And then the harder question blooms:

Do I ask his father or do I ask him?

The thought sends a flutter through your chest that nearly knocks the air from your lungs.

You glance over your shoulder again and stop mid-step.

His mama is there.

Clara stands beside him behind the table, her apron dusted with flour, curls pinned back with the same neat care she gives her pies.

She’s talking to a customer with that easy, open warmth everyone in town knows her for. And next to her, Remmick stands slightly angled, hands folded.

You stare a moment too long, caught between nerves and the tug of something sweeter.

Okay, you decide, smoothing down your dress, breath gathering in your chest. You should go now. Before you lose your nerve.

You move toward the stand, each step grounding and unsteady all at once. The closer you get, the more your pulse picks up—soft and frantic, like a lightning bug trapped gently between cupped hands.

Clara spots you first.

“Well, good mornin’, sweetheart!” she calls, her whole face brightening. “Ain’t you look just lovely today.”

You flush, smiling. “Morning, Mrs. O’Connor.”

Remmick turns at the sound of his mama’s voice, and freezes for the barest beat when he sees you. Something flickers across his expression. Surprise, warmth, a sudden shyness so tender you feel it like warm air against your cheek.

He drops his gaze to the table but not fast enough to hide the small smile tugging at his mouth.

“Mornin’,” he murmurs, voice softer than the peach fuzz beneath your fingers as you reach out to inspect the fruit.

Clara nudges him with her elbow—light, playful—and he straightens, ears turning the faintest shade of pink.

You pretend not to notice.

You pretend your heart isn’t doing the same thing.

Clara moves on to another customer after a moment, leaving the two of you in a small, sun-lit pocket of space behind the table. 

The pecan tree above you rattles lightly, scattering dappled shade across the crates and your hands, soft patterns that shift whenever the breeze stirs.

You try to act like you’re deciding between peaches—lifting one, turning it in your palm—but your pulse is steady in your throat, steady in your wrists, steady where your fingers brush the warm fruit.

Remmick stands a careful distance away, close enough that you can feel the quiet of him, but far enough that he’s not crowding you. He never would.

He wipes his palms on his jeans—once, twice—before he says gently, “The, uh… the peaches are good again this week. Cooler nights help.”

You smile without looking up. “I trust your judgment.”

He flushes. You see it from the corner of your eye, the pink rising from his neck like warmth traveling upward.

You pick another peach, humming thoughtfully, letting the silence rest for a long, comfortable breath. Your mind keeps circling the words you practiced all week, reshaping them, trying to find the version that won’t sound foolish.

When you finally speak, your voice is soft, almost too casual.

“So… I was wonderin’ about somethin’.”

His head slowly lifts a little, as though your wondering is something precious. “Yes?”

You bite your bottom lip gently, pretending to compare two nearly identical peaches. “My daddy mentioned… that your farm sometimes lets people visit. To, um… learn things. About the work. About farm-life.”

Remmick freezes.

Not dramatically. In a quiet, startled way, like a deer lifting its head mid-graze. His hands still on the crate edge. His breath catches. His lashes lower, then lift again.

“Oh,” he says, soft as cotton. “He—he did?”

“He did.” You nod, still looking at the fruit, hands moving to hide your nerves. “And I thought… maybe it’d be helpful for me. You know. For journalism.”

You glance up just as his eyes dart away.

The pink in his cheeks deepens, blooming toward the tips of his ears. He shifts his weight, fingers brushing the wooden crate as if searching for something to hold onto.

“That’s—well, I mean—” He swallows, voice nearly a whisper. “That’d be fine. I’m sure it would. Daddy always likes teachin’ folk. He likes showin’ how things work.”

You nod slowly. “I’d like to learn. If it’s not too much trouble.”

He finally meets your eyes.

Really meets them.

It’s a moment that hangs whole and fragile between you—his gaze warm and uncertain, your breath thinning in your chest, the sound of Clara’s laughter soft somewhere behind you.

“Wouldn’t be any trouble,” he says quietly. “Not at all.”

You grip the peach a little too tightly to keep from smiling too wide. “I can talk to your father, if you prefer.”

He hesitates. Then, lowering his voice slightly, he murmurs,

“You can talk to me. If you want.”

Your heart knocks against your ribs.

“Alright,” you say gently. “I’d like that.”

His chest rises with a breath that looks almost relieved. Almost proud. Almost nervous enough to undo you completely.

Clara returns at that moment, sliding in beside him with a soft grin that suggests she saw more than either of you wanted her to.

“So,” she chirps, “you pick out what you want, honey?”

You nod, handing her the small basket. But your eyes don’t leave Remmick’s.

The drive home feels different this time—lighter somehow, like the air itself has shifted. The windows are down, warm wind tugging gently at your hair as you pull onto the road leading out of town. 

Your basket rests in the passenger seat, peaches bumping softly with each turn, but your attention drifts far from the fruit.

You replay the moment over and over: Remmick’s voice, soft and steady, saying you can talk to me… if you want.

Then the way he straightened a little, gathering his courage, before adding that you could come tomorrow after church.

That he’d tell his father you were interested.

That it was no trouble.

None at all.

Your fingers fiddle with the edge of your sleeve, a small smile tugging at your lips that you don’t even try to fight. It’s not a big smile—nothing broad or foolish. Just a little curve, warm and private, blooming and fading and blooming again as you think of him standing there under the tree, pink-eared and earnest.

It shouldn’t make you this giddy.

But it does.

When you pull into the driveway, your mama is hanging laundry on the line, clipped skirts and sheets waving like slow-moving sails. She glances over her shoulder.

“You’re home early,” she says, pegging a pillowcase with two practiced snaps. “Find what you needed?”

You nod quickly, trying to school your expression into something that isn’t dangerously close to beaming. “Mm-hm. Got a few things.”

“Good.” She squints at you. “You’re smilin’ awful wide for peaches.”

You duck your head. “It was just a nice morning.”

“Mhm,” she says, and you don’t need to look to know she’s smiling like she already knows the story without hearing a word of it.

Inside, you set the peaches on the kitchen counter, your fingers lingering on the fruit longer than necessary.

The house is warm—summer warm. But beneath it, beneath everything, is a ribbon of anticipation coiled deep inside you.

You drift toward your room under the pretense of putting things away, but the moment your door closes behind you, you let yourself flop onto your bed with an ungraceful exhale, face buried in the soft cotton of your pillow.

You try to calm down.

You fail almost immediately.

Tomorrow.

Tomorrow after church, you’ll step onto O’Connor land—not as a stranger, not as a customer, but because he said you could. Because he wants you there. Because he’ll tell his father about you, and that small fact alone feels like something wild and delicate blooming beneath your ribs.

You roll onto your back, staring at the ceiling fan turning its slow, lazy circles, your hair spilling around you in a halo of soft spirals.

The farm flickers through your mind—rows of peach trees, the big barn, the house you’ve only ever seen from a distance, and Remmick somewhere in the middle of it all, sleeves rolled, voice gentle, waiting for you.

Your heart turns over.

And… you remember how that same man did something that silenced the gaggle of frat guys who’d whistled in your direction. How he’d caught you by the elbow before you tripped on an upturned sewer grate. How he led you to your porch without you having to tell him the house number.

At your door, it was impossible to miss the look of devastating and unabashed want that passed over his handsome face, the shiver it sent across your skin. Part of you wondered just what kind of want it was. (The other shouted RUN.)

You could've invited him in. (You didn’t.) He could’ve killed you. (He didn’t.)

All good stories have to start somewhere.

-

It began, as everything does, with blood.

A night out with a few girls from your program. One too many cosmos. Your half-drunken insistence of it’s fine, really, I’m just around the corner. Heels low enough to be walkable but high enough to make the busier sidewalks a challenge. That little voice in your head whispering that drunk cigarettes never count.

So you’d stopped, feet aching, and lingered a moment in the back alley behind some dive bar.

There’s - thank God - that loose cig at the bottom of your bag, the novelty four-leaf clover lighter you got as a gag gift last Christmas. You exhaled, slowly, pushing the smoke out in a tight ring, idly thumbing at the blistered ink of a new tattoo.

The dark city hummed with life.

Just a few feet away, you watched as students lumbered up and down the street, some red in the face and some too wasted to get one foot in front of the other. Someone blaring dance music from a car window. Honking and sirens. A drunken shouting match.

And behind you, a faint cry followed by the crash of a metal trash can.

You turned.

You shouldn’t have.

The ground was wet, though it hadn’t rained in days. The light from the road - the streetlamps, the passing headlights - couldn’t quite penetrate the shadows beyond, nothing at all past the milk crates and overflowing dumpsters.

The glowing red eyes were, however, quite visible.

Your stomach dropped.

The man stepped forward. You couldn’t see all of him, not yet, but the crimson of blood and the ivory of too-large teeth were unmistakable.

“Shit,” he drawled. Everything about him rang false. “You weren’t meant to see that.”

But you were too drunk and confused to manage a coherent reply. He took that as some kind of permission and inched closer, reeking of iron and wet earth. Still, you stood your ground.

“S’pose that puts us at an impasse.”

“Why’d you sound like that?” is all you could think to say, your gaze flitting between pointed teeth and burning irises.

“Like what?”

“Like a… like John Wayne. I don’t know.”

He cocked his head. “Ain’t that somethin’.”

“You some kinda vampire?”

“Shit, what gave it away?”

You nodded over to the limp pair of legs still twitching behind him.

“That was rhetorical, sweetheart.”

“Oh.” Your cheeks flushed.

“You gon’ run?”

“No.”

“Shame. I like to chase.”

“I wouldn’t get far in these shoes.”

And the vampire actually laughed - full-throated, good-natured.

“Oh, you liked that…” you mumbled, straightening, leaning against the bricks for more support. By some miracle, you hadn't dropped the cigarette and so you permitted yourself another drag. You blew it at him. His eyes flitted shut.

The thing about academia is that once you’ve devoted your life to eating, sleeping, and breathing your chosen discipline, it’s just about impossible to ever really stop. Those questions are always working in the background, a hum so quiet you can sometimes forget it’s even there.

But it is. It always is.

And your chosen discipline just so happens to be folklore.

Now, there was no way to outrun this guy, nor were you even getting a punch in before he drained you dry. Not many options on the table, not unless you could summon a silver dagger out of thin air. So fuck it: if all you could do was talk, maybe you’d survive the night.

And… well, some research for your monograph couldn't hurt either, could it?

“Let me ask you something.”

“Why should I?”

“You’re enjoying yourself.”

“That right?” he laughed, eyes crinkling with something almost fond in them.

“Sure seems it. Be a shame to kill me just yet.”

“Alright,” he grinned, and the teeth were wrong. “I’ll bite. What’d you wanna know?”

06/09/95 : #001

The vampire lounges across from you on a dark velour couch that probably cost more than a year’s rent. His thighs are splayed wide, one ankle resting easily over the opposite knee.

He’s dressed better than he was the other night: a pricey leather jacket that seems softened from years of wear. Faded white t-shirt. Jeans. Loafers. (No more bloodstains, in any case.)

All the light in his home is artificial. No overheads - nothing so tacky - just a few candles and low-hanging lamps that cast a golden hue over the room. A dozen false suns to make up for the one he can’t have. The windows are tightly sealed with blackout blinds. There’s a scent like incense in the air, an old one… something that recalls prayer and antiquity. (That, and Drakkar Noir.)

“Can I start?”

“By all means.”

“Alright.” You hit the button on the tape deck and it starts to whir. “9 June 1995, session one. Please state your name.”

“Remmick.”

“Your full name.”

“Only name that matters.”

You roll your eyes, only briefly and not even a full rotation - but he catches it. Cocks his head.

“Somethin’ funny?”

“Nothing. One name, you’re like Madonna.”

He laughs, teeth flashing white.

You clear your throat. “Where were you born?”

“North of Ireland. Town ain’t there no more.”

“Alright. So how old are you?”

“Very.”

This, really, is the question you’ve been dying to have answered.

The idea of living long enough to see empires rise and fall, to see wars started and ended, to see the world move through its infinite many stages… For a historian like you, there’s no greater fantasy nor sharper jealousy.

But when he finally mutters “Must be comin’ up on a thousand,” you nearly drop your pen.

“One thousand?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he smiles, slowly, like the sudden shock on your face is feeding him. “Don’t believe me?”

“No, I do, I - but, that’s just a very big number.”

“As I said.”

“Can I ask…”

“Ain’t nothin’ out of bounds, sweetheart.”

“Do you remember it all?”

“Broad strokes, big things - y’know, Easter Rising, Napoleon, Al Capone. The rest, it's just bits n’ pieces.”

“And ho-”

“My turn. Question for a question.”

You swallow your retort. “Alright. Sure.”

“What is it you're lookin’ for?”

“What do you mean?”

Remmick leans forward, both feet planted on the soft Persian rug underfoot, leans in so close that you catch the glints of red buried in the soft blue of his human eyes.

From a distance, he’s handsome. Up close, he’s a vision. There’s a dusting of reddish stubble across the expanse of his sharp jaw. A tiny gold ring in his ear. Eyelashes nearly as long as yours.

“I mean, what is it that possessed you t’come after me, honey, askin’ all these questions?”

“Curiosity.”

“What, you gon’ take what I give you and pen a bestseller? You fixin’ to be the next Anne Rice?”

“No.”

“No? Really? Just… curiosity.”

“I write about folklore.”

“Yeah?” His voice hangs, soft. It envelops you. “What kind?”

“Vampirism as metaphor.”

He barks a laugh.

“Metaphor? Baby, I’m sittin’ here plain as day.”

“And… as a moralizing tool, a holdover from pre-Christian society. Make girls behave, make ‘em too scared to leave the house, fraternize with strange men.”

“That what I am? A strange man?”

“Well. I wouldn’t exactly call you normal.”

He lets that sit for a moment, potent and hungry.

“Nah, y’ain’t wrong,” he speaks suddenly, leaning back. His arms stretch lazily across the seat of the couch. “But I don’t know who’d be stupid enough to fraternize w’the likes of me, anyway.”

“Is that a threat, Remmick?”

“No threat,” he says, and it’s so casual you nearly believe him. “Just fact.”

“Alright. Fine.” You decide to shift gears. “That accent doesn't seem very Irish.”

“Been here a while. Comin’ up on, oh, I don't know, ‘bout a hundred years?”

“Here as in New Orleans?”

“All over. Came through Ellis Island n’just… followed the wind ‘ever it took me.”

“But why here? Why Louisiana?”

He taps a finger against the velour. “I like it.”

“That’s all?”

“Couldn't say. Just feels right. Feels old.”

“And -”

“Ah. My turn.”

You sigh. “Go on.”

“No boyfriend?”

“What?”

He lifts his palms to you. “Or girlfriend. I don't judge.”

“No. Neither. And how would you know that, anyway?”

“Well, I been watching you since that night and I ain't seen no one comin’ or goin’ - no one you been fixin’ to fuck, anyhow, if you'll pardon my French.”

You eye him.

It’s obvious the man's looking for a rise: he wants you flustered, blushing, or else angry, off-kilter. But you know men, even ancient ones, and this is the oldest trick in their book.

“Maybe I fuck with the curtains closed,” you offer, voice neutral.

“Maybe.” He smiles like he doesn't believe a word of it.

“Why does it matter?”

He shrugs, unaffected. “S'pose it don't.”

The standoff is interrupted by the beeping of your watch. You hit STOP on the tape deck.

“Y’got somewhere t’be, sugar?”

“Seminar. I’m giving a lecture.”

He sniffs. Nods slowly. “You’ll be back?”

“Maybe.”

“Yeah. You will.”

06/12/95 : #002

“How do you hunt?”

Remmick’s eyes go wide.

Today is grey. Overcast skies. Intermittent roiling thunder. It’s so gloomy that he’s actually left the curtains open a fraction of the way, cracked the window onto the stormy street below.

You sit across from him in the plush chair you’ve come to think of as yours. A half-empty bottle of vintage cabernet sits between the two of you.

“Ah, darlin’, now that’s some nasty work, what I do in the dark. You really wanna know?”

“Yes. Do you pick your targets beforehand or is it opportunistic? How do you lure them in? What is it that excites you, exactly: the hunt, the kill, the blood…?”

“Christ, Dr. Scully,” he laughs, incredulous. “Make it sound like yer huntin’ down the damn Son of Sam.”

“Well, you are a serial killer. No?”

“Alright,” he says, tight. “Sure. I kill.”

“So-”

“Nah, one question at a time. Makes you seem bloodthirsty, otherwise.”

“Fine.” You bite the inside of your cheek. “How do you choose them?”

“Stragglers. Tourists. Assholes. Anyone not liable to trigger a manhunt.”

“Alright. And then how do you get them alone?”

“Well,” Remmick says, “I can be very persuasive.”

He leans forward.

The room tilts.

There’s something all-encompassing in the way he watches you, the way he traces the veins in your neck with his eyes, drags that same gaze up and across your collarbone. It’s as though he’s seeing through your skin, right down to the bones and marrow.

He eyes you like a meal.

The cast of his skin is warmer in this light, not quite as pallid as last time. There's a gold to it, bouncing through the red and brown of his stubble, of his brows, of his disheveled hair. His teeth, when human, are a bit crooked, a bit sharp. Something low and awful hums in your belly.

You can’t find it in yourself to panic.

The rational half of your mind is sounding the alarm, pumping adrenaline through your system in an attempt to force an escape. But… it isn’t enough, not against this. And as he sits there eyeing you, enjoying you, you think back to the manuscript you found in the university archives last fall, some supposed firsthand encounter back in 1931:

It was the strange magic of what he was, that’s what called to me. He was a creature designed for seduction, for the gentle erosion of boundaries. That’s how he lives. That’s how he hunts.

Thank God for the tattoo on your hip.

That little patch of ink stands like a dam between you and the vampire making your blood sing. It’d been the product of another one of your drunken escapades last month, a little five-pointed star that kept coming up in the literature as a sigil of protection. Better safe than sorry, you’d thought, sitting in that tattoo parlour three martinis deep while some girl from your methodology class rubbed soothing circles into the palm of your hand.

You’ve never placed much faith in it - it’s not like you’d actually believed in any of this stuff - but right now, it grounds you like a cold glass of water in the middle of a bender.

Remmick’s breath fans across your cheek - sweet, minty. His gaze is fixed on your mouth, the way you nibble at your lip like a nervous tic, how you hitch a little breath when his pupils blow.

“Seduction.”

You mumble it like an accusation, but there's no real weight to it.

“Could call it that. Yeah.”

“What is it, then, pheromones? Mind control? Black magic?”

He laughs a little. Pulls back, like the show's over. “Why does it matter how I do it? Call it whatever you like. All I know’s that it works and it works pretty damn well, don’t it?”

“I wouldn’t know.”

“No?” His brows go wide. “Sugar, if I hadn’t stopped when I did, you’d be slidin’ clean off that damn chair.”

Your cheeks burn with the shame of the truth. “Well. I guess we’ll never know.”

“Shame.”

“Okay.” You straighten your spine - shake it off, settle back into your body. “What is it about the hunt that excites you? You told me the first night that you enjoy the chase. Is that what it is?”

“Sure. I like that part. Little too much, maybe,” he begins, cat eyeing mouse. “But it ain’t only about the excitement, darlin’, not really. It’s more about… the satiation. Yeah.”

You nod up at him, a silent plea to continue.

He takes a swig of wine. Gestures to it.

“You know I cain’t eat? Not food. Lil’ liquor here n’there, but no meals. And sometimes I sleep, sometimes I don’t. Some days, all I wanna do is lay out in the sun like one of them cats you used to find hiding way up in the parapets.” He pauses, as though he hadn’t meant to reveal quite that much. “So, see, I ain’t got much to keep me satisfied.”

“And it’s the blood that does it?”

“That and the performance, baby. Followin’ folk down them alleyways, choosin’ the right things to say, readin’ their bodies, what makes ‘em tick. Gets electric when I turn it on - but then, you already knew that.”

You ignore the taunt. “It’s sexual, then?”

Remmick whistles low, rubs at his jaw. “Shit, darlin’, you call ‘em like you see ‘em.”

“Nothing’s out of bounds. That’s what you said.”

“Oh, sure. But I’m an old-fashioned man, see, and I’m wonderin’ whether it’d be decent of me to share those particulars with an impressionable young lady like yerself.”

“It’s just research.”

“Oh, it’s a lot more n’that.”

“I’m not a virgin, if that’s what’s bothering you.”

“Don’t bother me none.”

“So tell me.”

“Alright. D’you know that I’m about as hard as a fuckin’ rock by the time I’m done drinkin’?”

Your stomach drops. He doesn't stop.

“Wanna hear how sometimes I gotta toss ‘em aside, limp as a doll, and take care a myself right there in whatever fuckin’ hovel I’ve found myself in? See, it’s an excess of blood darlin’, hot blood, and I am but a man.”

“A-alright. That makes sense.”

He sits forward on the divan, quick and bold. Leans across the table and in towards you.

“No. It don’t. None of it does. ‘Cause I cain’t enjoy life in half-measures, baby, not like you with yer two cosmos - three if you’re feelin’ naughty - or whatever toy I’m sure you got hidden under your pillow. An abomination like me’s got two options: suffering or ecstasy. And, as you can imagine, I do tend to lean towards the latter.”

“It’s an addiction, then.”

“It’s a mode de vie, baby. I am what I am.”

As if on cue, your watch beeps.

“Thank you for all that detail.”

“Anytime.”

“I’ll see you next week, Remmick.”

The vampire is still as a statue as you rise, as you collect the writing materials scattered across the dark oak coffee table. You drop them all into your satchel without ceremony, without rush but without delay. You’ve revealed too much of yourself today. Shown too many weaknesses where propriety is concerned. He got to you.

And worst of all, he knows it, too.

“Bet you’ll be thinkin’ about this one all night,” he taunts.

“Probably,” you admit, tone flat. “You’ve given me a lot to think about.”

“You’re welcome.”

“But it’s…”

“It’s…?”

“It’s in my nightstand. Not under my pillow.”

“Alright.” He rubs at his jaw. “Yeah.”

07/08/95 : #006

“Do you mind if I…?”

“Please.”

You take a heaping bite from the apple and set it down in your lap. He watches as you chew, the grinding of your jaw, the way you lick up the sweet juice collecting at the corners of your mouth.

“Couldn’t stop for lunch. Sorry.”

“Don’t be.”

“What would happen if you took a bite?”

“Of you?”

“Ha ha.”

“Ah, nothing. Just tastes bad.”

“Huh.” You grab another bite, scanning quickly over your notes. “Okay. So…”

“Why don’t you let me ask a few, just for now? Finish yer lil’ snack.”

You nod your consent, eyes narrowing in curiosity. He runs with it.

“You ain’t been afraid of me since the first night. Why’s that?”

“Who says I haven’t?”

He points to your heart. “Her. Too steady. Always has been.”

You shrug as you chew.

“And since I’ve spent the last two weeks detailin’ all the nasty shit I’m liable to do,” he continues, “I know you know I ain’t exactly safe t’be around. So… what? You think you ain’t in danger? Think you’re special?”

“I think,” you say, wiping away the last of the juice and setting the core onto a spare notepad, “that you find me interesting. Or entertaining, anyway.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. And I think you’re lonely. By your own admission, you’ve got no coven. You’re alone in the world. So… I imagine it feels good to share these things with someone, to think you’re impressing a pretty girl who can’t do anything but sit here and play nice. That’s what I think. Am I close?”

“Ain’t you bold.”

“I am.”

“Silly me. Here I was, thinkin’ maybe it was somethin’ to do with the pentagram on your ass. Am I close?”

You freeze.

“What, you thought I didn’t know?”

“I didn’t care if you knew.”

And he can hear your heart, hear the way it stutters, so he knows it’s a lie but all he says is: “Hm.”

“Can’t blame a girl for using protection.”

“No. I cain’t.”

“You’re wrong, though. It's my hip, not my ass.”

“My apologies, angel. Why don't you bend over, show me just how wrong I am?”

You roll your eyes.

“Tell me, though, what exactly you think that lil’ ink is doin’ for ya.”

“I…”

“’Cause sure,” he starts, “I can feel it in the room w’me and, sure, maybe my charm ain't hittin’ quite as strong as it's meant to, but I could rip your throat out before you even open that pretty mouth to scream. Ain’t no ink could stop me. You get that?”

You swallow. “I’m aware.”

“So… why the hell d’you keep coming?”

“Because I want to know things. And… well, everyone dies eventually. If I die here, then that’s just how it is.”

“Everyone, huh?”

You sit in the silence a moment. No one blinks.

Your gaze flits down to his mouth, to the pink of his lips and the crooked smile just barely visible. He isn’t even doing his witchy thing and yet all you can think about is crawling into his lap.

“In the end,” you manage. “Yes. Everyone.”

He nods.

“Come with me next time.”

“Where?”

“Hunting.”

He says it like that, like it’s a totally reasonable thing to offer.

“You’d let me?”

“Yeah. I want you to.”

“Alright.”

“Good.”

07/15/95 : #009

“ - and you gotta bite down hard, ‘cause if you don’t, if you mess around in there, well, then, now you’ve got yerself a stain too big to write off when the cops spot ya. You gotta move in the shadows. Y’ain’t meant to be noticed, y’understand? Visibility, that’s what gets you killed. Ain’t garlic. Ain’t silver. Visibility. Now, you see this, sugar?”

Remmick holds the thrashing out-of-towner by the collar, digging a knuckle into the exact part of the neck that protects the carotid. He brings his free hand up to cradle the base of your skull, directing your gaze. You peer down at the man’s shoulder, pointedly ignoring the tears in his wet eyes.

“Yeah. So it’s gotta be right there or else you’ll make a big mess of it?”

“Exactly,” he coos, rubbing a soft thumb over the nape of your neck. “Smart girl. Right here.”

And then he bites.

The man tries to scream but it’s too late, too wet, too gargled. You avert your eyes. The guilt in your stomach roils. Are you an accomplice now?

You tell yourself that your presence changes nothing. You tell yourself that Remmick would be out to kill tonight regardless of whether or not you joined him. That this poor tourist would still be dead.

The only difference between action and inaction is a clear conscience.

The vampire sucks at the man’s neck with a bacchic, frenzied hunger. The blood dribbles from the corners of his mouth, victim of his own animalistic greed. He takes it all at once: no hesitation, no moderation. It’s awfully gory. The wet tear of flesh, the squirt of red…

You’re too horrified to really process anything except the strange rush of want bubbling low in your stomach. It’s the only emotion that manages to cut through the fear, through the shame and guilt of participating in what you’ve witnessed here.

The body is drained. It hits the concrete with a thump. Remmick wipes his mouth.

“Just like that,” he breathes. “Ain’t nothin’ to it.”

And then you notice he’s hard.

You don’t mean to look down. It’s just - well, it's not exactly inconspicuous.

He follows your gaze. It’s visible even in the shadows, the tenting under his leather belt. He grins slowly, fangs gleaming in the low lamplight.

“Ah. Well, I told you, didn’t I?”

“You gonna take care of that?” you ask, voice just a little too high. “Or are we done here?”

“What, baby, you don’t wanna?”

“No.”

“Alright, sweet girl,” he laughs. “G’on, then. I’ll see you in a bit.”

You nod, turning on a heel, careful not to step in any of the pools of blood.

From behind, there’s the unmistakable sound of a belt buckle hitting the ground.

-

Remmick reemerges in a collared shirt you’ve never seen before, the ends of his hair dripping with water. When you crook a brow in confusion, he nods over to the little pond by the edge of the woods.

“Ew. Really?”

“Well, I ain't about to walk around all painted like a Jackson Pollock. Visibility, remember?”

And then he wraps an arm around your waist, drawing you into him. His body is cold - though from the water or the vampirism, you aren’t quite sure.

“Please tell me you washed those hands.”

He tosses you the little bottle of sanitizer gel from his jeans pocket. Before you can stifle it, you’re laughing. That draws a smile from him - not a teasing one, not a smirk, but something much warmer. More honest. He looks down at you like he’s pleased.

“You're ridiculous.”

“Good hygiene’s my utmost priority, angel.”

He pulls you in closer, pressing a long kiss to the top of your head.

“You’re so touchy. I thought you took care of your little problem.”

“Little? You wound me.”

You roll your eyes.

“Nah, alright, it’s just that it’s always the lone men that catch people’s attention. Makes ‘em jumpy. Better t’have a pretty girl at my side after the cops get here. No one’ll suspect a thing.”

“What does it feel like?”

“What?”

“The blood. Does it make you stronger? Give you superpowers?”

“Nah,” he chuckles. “Only, I’m feelin’ real good, like I wanna do something stupid.”

“Like what?”

“Like taste you.” You stiffen. He sighs. “Relax, darlin’, I didn’t say kill.”

“Sorry Nosferatu, I can’t justify a turtleneck in July.”

“Why should you? F’anyone comes at you sideways, just tell ‘em your boyfriend’s a real freak.”

That elicits another laugh from you, real and loud and clear. It’s got him preening.

“How long did it take you to get used to it?”

“Drinkin’ blood?”

“Killing.”

He slows a little. You wonder if you’ve toed the line too far.

“My life ain’t like yours,” he says, finally. “Never was. Didn’t take me turnin’ into… this to kill a man.”

“No?”

Remmick clicks his teeth. “Baby. I was born in the Dark Ages. Death’s always been nippin’ at my heels, just waitin’ for me to trip up.”

“Oh. I… Sorry. Didn’t mean to bring up bad memories.”

“Ain’t all bad.”

“Good.” You hesitate a moment. “So, what now? We just stand around, waiting for the police?”

“Nah. Now, we go find ourselves a real drink.” He beams as your brows furrow. “Lucky for you, I got the best joint in town.”

It’s field work. Participant observation. Ethnography, even.

You run through the list of anthropological buzzwords like you’re trying them on for size, contorting them until they fit the situation you now find yourself in.

The music in here is very loud, so loud it rings in your ears, so loud it catches in the hollows of your throat.

And Remmick’s got you by the waist from behind, rubbing heavy thumbs into your hips, gripping tightly at them like he thinks you’re about to bolt. Bodies are everywhere. You’re pressed into him, drink in hand, trying very hard not to spill it.

His hand crawls up your forearm, completely covers your own, and brings the glass of gin to your lips.

“Drink up, baby,” he says into your ear. “Need ya to feel how I feel.”

“Blood gets you drunk?” you shout back.

“Somethin’ like that.”

So you down the drink and swear it’s your last of the night.

He wasn’t lying - this really is the best joint in town.

It’s not one of those yuppie gastropubs that the New York Times writes about where the drinks cost more than the minimum wage. It’s also not like the dive bars you and your peers frequent, those little holes in the wall where the booze is cheap and the floor is sticky with unidentifiable liquid.

No, this place is a living, breathing thing.

Remmick moves you like water. Guides you right and left, nudges you where your feet need to go. You like it like this, like not overthinking it. No thinking at all, really.

He spins you like it’s second nature to him. That’s a thousand years, you suppose, one thousand years of finessing every possible social skill. How many girls has he spun like this? How many has he fucked? And how many has he drained dry?

Then he digs his hands into the flesh of your hips, just over the hidden tattoo.

“I like this lil’ thing. I’ve decided.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“How’s that?”

“’Cause I feel you drippin’ all over me and I know it ain’t ‘cause you been compelled.”

You stumble on the beat, trip a little into him. He steadies you.

“Remmick.”

“I mean that. Ain’t gotta run circles in my head, ain’t gotta wonder if it’s me or the magic: I know you want it.” His hand comes to rest on your lower stomach. “I’m a very bad man and you want me anyway. Bet you’d let me do it right here, huh?”

And maybe it’s idiotic but you arch into him anyway, letting the curve of your spine melt into the broad expanse of his chest. He brings his arms over yours, hugging you from behind, holding you where he needs you to stay.

“You would. I know it. And if you weren’t so drunk - fuck, I’d do it. Let all these freaks watch.”

“That’s not fair.”

“Nah, we ain’t talkin’ about fair. Not like this, not when your body’s singin’ like she needs me to shut her up.”

“Fuck you.”

“Eventually. But… shit, I think I like this better, knowin’ you’ll be up all night with an ache so deep you cain’t even name the place it’s hidin’.”

“Bring me home, then. I’ll find that toy.”

He laughs against your neck, pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses down the length of it. “Oh, now that, I’d like to see.”

“Too bad. You can’t come in, can you?”

“Not yet.”

“Boo hoo.”

He nips at your ear and you squeal. “Don’t tempt me, baby.”

“Hm. You really won’t fuck me tonight?”

“Not a chance.”

“Then go get me another drink, would you?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

07/19/95 : #010

The air is heavy today.

A sudden chill hangs over the city. It might rain, it might not, but the humidity’s so high it hardly matters. This day wasn’t made for hard work or expending energy.

And yet…

One step through his door and you’re already struck by the supercharged air between you, something like voltage - sizzling and humming just below the visible. He sits across from you, nearly unblinking.

You drink the wine, slow, like the heat in your cheeks could possibly be attributed to the alcohol. To warm you up, he’d said, eyeing the way you shivered in your sundress.

The interview is a short one.

Neither one of you can concentrate. No one addresses what happened at the club.

“Man on the news said there’s a storm on the way.” You offer it like an olive branch, some boring factoid to distract from the way his eyes wander. “Said it's a big one.”

“Hm.”

“Can't believe I walked here.”

“Shit.”

“You aren’t worried?”

“Not in the least.”

Silence.

You flick off the recorder.

“I can’t use of any this.”

He shrugs. “Just makin’ some small talk.”

“I probably should’ve stayed home.”

“How’s that?” He seems almost offended.

“If there’s a… storm.”

“I got candles.”

“You got food?”

“Not unless you don’t mind joinin’ me for eternity.”

“So no.”

You nod. Outside, a crack of thunder rings out.

“Alright. I’ll drive you home, angel.”

“What about the sun?”

He casts a glance up at the slate-grey sky as if to say, what sun?

“Right. Okay. Thank you.”

Remmick watches you.

You know that look, know what it means. You’ve been on the receiving end of it a hundred times in your life, both wanted and not.

It’s not the way a vampire eyes a meal, but… more like the way a man eyes someone he wants to taste, something he wants to devour.

You know he can hear the erratic beat in your chest. You know he can tell from all the way over there how wired you are. You know he’s picking up and cataloguing every hitch in breath, every tiny shift in your thighs, every time your eyes dart to his mouth.

You can’t take it anymore.

-

The rain comes down as a sheet just as you reach the top step of your porch. Fumbling around for your keys, you momentarily forget there’s an apex predator just over your shoulder with his hands dug into his pockets like there’s nothing strange about any of it.

The lock gives with a click and you swing open the door. “Thanks again for the ride,” you call over one shoulder, dumping your work bag by the welcome mat.

“No sweat, sugar.”

“D’you wanna…?”

Remmick stills. “Wanna what?”

“You know.” It just slipped out - but you realize, quite immediately, that you really do mean it.

“That’s so sweet of you, angel,” he says. “But...”

“What?”

“Your name ain’t on the deed. Is it?”

Something cold shoots down your spine.

And then he walks in.

You step back.

“That’s my bad, sugar. I didn’t even think to check. Who owns it, then?” He shuts the door behind him - slow, easy, like nothing’s gone terribly wrong.

“The university.”

He crooks a brow.

Nods.

“So. What d’you want me to do, then? Want me to go?”

“No.”

“You’re shakin’.”

“No - yes, I don’t know, I… But I don’t want you to leave.”

“Alright. Won’t budge.”

“Just… You can follow me.”

It’s like a twisted reimagining of that first night, how you led him through the streets of the dark city praying he wouldn’t snap and rip your throat out. You hear his steps behind you, measured and even, the creak of him on the stairs. The lamps flicker as the rain hits the roof.

But you wonder something.

It’s true you don't own the place. Technically, you’re just renting. And technically… the only place in this house that could kind of be considered yours is the bedroom, the bright one with the bay window overlooking the tree-lined street below.

Now here's a research opportunity.

With a few feet to go, you dash through the door to your room and stumble over the threshold.

Remmick growls, not far behind and -

Nothing.

You wait a beat. Two.

He hasn’t followed because he’s still in the doorway, his figure backlit by the lamps downstairs and casting a long, black shadow onto your carpet.

“Sorry, Rem. Just wanted to test something.”

“I see that.”

“You really can’t…?”

“I cain’t.”

“You’d need me to say it, then.”

“I would.”

You nod.

And reach over to your nightstand.

A flick of the switch and the toy buzzes to life. Remmick bangs his forehead into the doorframe. “You gotta be fuckin’ kidding me.”

“Nope. Just wanna see you sweat a little.”

You settle just in front of the doorway, shift your legs apart, letting them fall open from the knee. Slowly, you move the toy up and down your thigh. You’re soaked. He can see it.

He snarls, nails biting into the wood of the frame.

“What? Think you could do better?”

“I get it,” he grits out. “I teased you - I'm sorry, alright? You want me to fuckin’ beg?”

“As a matter of fact, I do.”

“Please, alright? Please, I’m - sugar, I need you. I need you t’let me make it up to you. Cain’t do that from all the way out here, can I?” He presses forward, as far as he can get, straining the barrier between you.

Your hand hovers over your core, just inches from where you need it most. “How long’s it been since you had to beg for something? Since you couldn’t just take it?”

“Sweetheart, I - please, I can smell it on ya, it’s all over you n’I - I need it.”

“You’re so pretty when you whine, baby.”

“That’s sick.”

“So are you.” You can’t hide the crack in your voice when the toy makes contact. “Shit, Rem - I wish it were you. Bet it’s big. Bet it’d fit just right.”

“Please.” He falls to his knees, holds up his hands in a mockery of holy prayer. “Anything you want, angel, anything. Just put that fuckin’ thing down and lemme in.”

All he can do is watch as you writhe, still clothed, chasing the feeling as you teeter on the edge.

“Feels so good,” you whine.

“I cain’t fuckin’ watch this. Please.”

One flick of the wrist - you know it - and you’ll come. Just one. It’s now or never.

“You gonna eat it, Rem?”

“Yes. Jesus fuckin’ Christ, I’m gonna eat it.”

“And then you’ll fuck me good?”

“So good you won’t walk for days.”

“Come in, then.”

And the space between you closes.

The toy is on the other side of the room before you can even switch it off. His mouth is on yours, licking into you like the flavour is what he craves. One hand comes to squeeze at your tit, sharp and possessive. You gasp into him.

“Don’t you ever do that again, baby,” he spits against your teeth. “Y’understand?”

“Won’t,” you manage. “Just get to work.”

It’s another minute before his mouth finally leaves yours, before he’s ripping the dress clean in two and letting the pieces fall unceremoniously to the floor. He kisses down the length of your cheek, your jaw, your collarbone, the valley of your breasts, all the way down to your core.

You half-expect him to tease you right back, to draw the whole thing out - bt he doesn’t.

He eats it in a fury, like he’s exacting a punishment. Your fingers weave into his soft, ruddy hair, start tugging at the roots like you could possibly control his motions. Remmick hasn’t even bothered to drag you to the bed, to find you a pillow, to even angle you over the plush carpet just over to the right - no.

You’re doing this right here… and you wouldn’t have it any other way.

The dig of his hands into the flesh of your thighs, the way he's got one arm locked across your stomach so tight you can't even buck your hips, the wet sounds barely audible over the crackling thunder and howling wind -

Between all of that and the half-abandoned orgasm you nearly achieved, it takes no time at all for him to shove you over the edge into ecstasy.

You scream. He laughs.

“Ain’t no fuckin’ toy could do that,” he mutters into your thigh, pressing wet kisses into the soft skin of it.

“I need more, Rem, I need - holy shit.”

“I got you, sugar. Lie back, now, lemme do what needs doin’.”

Remmick crawls up over you. There’s a surprising tenderness in how he moves, a distinct attention to keeping his weight even, to giving you enough space to breathe.

“What’d you think, baby, think it’s big?” he mutters between kisses, between the wet stripes he licks across the flushed skin of your neck. “Think y’can take it?”

“Y-yes, I - shit - I can.”

“That’s good, sweet thing, ‘cause I’m gonna make it fit, n’you’re gonna lay right there and you’re gonna thank me for it. Ain’t that right?”

You nod furiously, whining at the feel of canines scraping at your skin. He nips at your breast - not enough to break the skin, but enough to make you keen into him. All the while, his hands roam the length of your bare body.

“Speak up.”

“Yes.”

“Smart girl.” He nuzzles into the slope of your neck, inhaling deep. You claw at his shirt, some faded old band thing that smells of expensive aftershave and iron-rich rot. He understands, pauses his attack, peels it off and over his head.

And then he’s right back where he was, colder than the night and far more beautiful. His skin burns with a strange ice, overwhelms the sticky humidity of the room and the flushed heat emanating from your every pore. The world is made perfect in his expert, ancient hands.

“You let me in.” He mumbles it into the flesh of your stomach - an accusation, yes, but laced with adoration. “You didn’t have to. I didn’t make you. Nah, you did it ‘cause you wanted it. Wanted me.”

“Obviously,” you gasp. “Fucking obviously I wanted this.”

He laughs, soft and airy.

“I know, baby. She -” he runs a finger against your core and you keen - “has made that very clear.”

“Please, Remmick, would you just - I can take it, I’m ready, just - fuck, please…”

“Yeah?” He chuckles, even now, even as he’s rocking back and forth over your bare body, grinding his clothed self into you. “What, y’ain’t so bold now that y’need some cock, huh?”

His blunt words leave you clenching around nothing.

You swallow. “Fuck you.”

“You can, if you ask real nice.”

“I got mine already, Rem.” Your voice cracks as the head of him catches against you. “You gave it to me, remember? And if you want yours, you’d better get on it.”

“Aw, there she is,” he coos, grinning against your mouth. “Dirty girl. Silly girl, playin’ with fire, survival instinct of a fuckin’ pebble.”

“Shut up.”

Remmick reaches down to undo his zip. Tosses his belt aside, the leather sliding through the loops and the buckle meeting the hardwood with a heavy clank. You lower a hand to feel him and he slaps it away.

And then he’s moving against you again, feeling his way through the combined wetness between your bodies without ever breaching it.

“Tell me, sweetheart,” he starts. “Is this what you been hopin’ for? Whole time, sittin’ there across from me all pretty n’breakable, pokin’ and proddin’ at a thing so old it cain’t hardly remember what it means to say please… What, you kept comin’ back just hopin’ I’d get you under me? Get you squirmin’, just like this?”

“No.”

“I don’t believe you,” he says simply, and then buries himself to the hilt. You scream. He makes a sound like choking.

“Rem, you’re so - fuck, just slow down -”

“Nah, baby,” he counters, pulling himself out just to push in again. “I can take it, Rem, I’m ready - ain’t that what you said? Ain’t that how you begged? See, I’m just givin’ my girl what she wants.”

My girl.

You whine at that, clench down around him, and he groans.

“Oh,” he spits. “Y’like that? Like bein’ mine?”

“Yes,” you sob. “Yes, I-”

“Good, ‘cause that’s what you are.” He hisses it, his hands coming to land on either side of your face, digging into your cheeks, forcing your gaze. “You been mine, sugar, since the first night, since them college boys looked at you like a meal n’got their throats ripped out for their trouble.”

Your eyes go wide.

“Aw, you don’t even remember, huh?” He laughs in your face. “Poor baby’s just lucky was me that found her in that alley and not one of them.”

“Rem-”

“Mine.” He hits you with a cant of his hips that shoves you forward. “Say it.”

You drag your hand from its resting place on his bicep, from the five little indents in his pallid skin, and bring it to rest in his hair. You tug. He snarls.

“Yours,” you whisper, drawing his lips down to meet your own.

“Goddamn right.”

“Because you’re mine.”

“Fuck.” It’s almost a whine. “Oh, angel - fuck, that’s right, just like that - so fuckin’ perfect, so fuckin’ - “

He reaches down to the nub between your legs, chases that same pattern with his thumb as he had with his tongue. You cry out, grip on his shoulders so tight that the tips of your fingers start to tingle.

“Just like that, baby, go on - one more. Know y’can, know y’wanna.”

“Don’t stop.”

“Shit, angel, could be fuckin’ armageddon outside and I wouldn’t stop. Not when I got you like this. Not when you’re cryin’ all over me like a fuckin’ whore.”

All you can babble is his name, rising and falling, swelling and bursting.

“I’m gonna - “

“Oh, you goddamn better.”

So you do.

Remmick doesn’t let up, doesn’t give you the briefest second to acclimate, to ride it out, to come down from the peak. He’s still bucking and moving, still chasing his own high.

What can you do but lie there and take it? What can you do but grab at his mussed hair, coo soft words of praise in his ear, tell him how good he is to you?

“Sweet girl,” he pants, pressing wet kisses across your face, down your neck, in your hair - anywhere his animal body takes him. “You let me in. Let me… let me in again. Ins - lemme come inside, yeah?”

“Inside,” you whine, eyes screwed shut. “Yeah.”

“Yeah?”

“Please.”

So he does.

“You’re mine, baby,” he groans, kissing softly at the corners of your mouth. “Fuck. All mine.”

“I’m yours.” You brush a loose lock of hair from his eye. Drag him down again for a deep kiss - slow, filthy, indulgent. “You know that.”

“And I ain’t talkin’ about a fling, angel, ain’t talkin’ about you’re mine up ‘til you get your degree n’get the hell on outta Louisiana. Nah, this here’s forever, sugar, for life. Get that?”

“Your life or mine?”

“Why not both?”

You both look at each other, then, properly. The red’s almost dissolved from his iris. If you squint, he might just be a handsome man like any other, all hungry hands and slick words. You wonder what he sees in you - something fragile to cradle, some sweetness to indulge in.

There's something very human in the way he watches you, how he hangs on whatever words might next leave your lips. Like he knows what he wants to hear. Like he's terrified he won't. Like any of it matters to a creature older than God.

“Bring me to bed, please.”

With a kiss to your forehead, he’s pulling himself from your body, shushing you as you wince. Wordlessly, he lifts your sore frame from the floor as if you weigh nothing, carrying you up and over to the king-size mattress laying unused only feet away.

“I mean it,” he says, drawing your body up against him. His fingers play in your hair, scratch at your scalp. “I could give you forever.”

“I know.”

“You don’t want it?”

“I don’t know. Did you choose this?”

“No. But you could.”

“You think I’d be happy?”

“Think I could make you. Yeah?”

“You’re probably right.”

“Yeah.”

“D’you think I’d also get horny after drinking blood?”

“Goddamn, I hope so.”

“Pervert.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Y’know, I’d like to turn thirty first, I think.”

“What’s so great about thirty?”

You laugh. “I don’t know. I just want to.”

“Alright,” he mumbles into your hair. “When’s your birthday?”

“Fuck off.”

“Nah.”

“I told you, there was nothing but trees and cow pastures for almost two hours,” you said, settling deeper against the hotel pillows with your phone propped beside your bare thigh.

The thin camisole had ridden up just enough to bare the soft curve of your lower stomach, and the cotton panties between your legs already felt a little too warm, the crotch clinging faintly to the slick heat that had been building ever since Remmick’s hand brushed the small of your back in the lobby. “I couldn’t even get Spotify to load, and my mom kept trying to make conversation like trapping me in a car with her boyfriend was supposed to heal our relationship.”

The so-called family trip had been her idea, though Remmick had done most of the convincing after you refused twice.

He had leaned against the kitchen counter wearing the patient expression he used whenever your mother was watching, telling you in his slow drawl that spending a weekend together might do everyone some good.

The entire time, his eyes had followed the hem of your shorts whenever you moved, lingering with enough familiarity to remind you of every evening he had found an excuse to slip into your bedroom or pull you into the garage after your mother went upstairs—his big hands shoving your shorts down just far enough to get at the wet cunt he’d already trained to clench at the sound of his boots on the stairs.

Now she was asleep in the room across the hall, blissfully unaware that her boyfriend had been fucking her daughter behind her back for nearly three months.

Your friend was midway through telling you about some man she had met at work when three measured knocks landed against your door, loud enough to pull your attention toward the entryway.

“At one in the morning?” she asked as you carried the phone with you, angling the camera toward the carpet. “Girl, do not open that door unless you know who it is.”

Through the peephole, Remmick stood beneath the yellow hallway lights in a faded T-shirt stretched tight across the broad plane of his chest and loose sleep pants that hung low enough on his hips for your imagination to conjure up something below. An empty ice bucket hung from one hand. His dark hair was mussed from bed, several strands falling over his forehead, the shadow of stubble rough along his jaw. Nothing about his posture suggested he had wandered out looking for the ice machine by accident—the soft gray cotton of his pants did a poor job of hiding the heavy shape of his cock along his thigh.

“I’ll call you tomorrow,” you said, already ending the call despite your friend’s immediate protests.

When you opened the door, Remmick’s gaze dropped from your face to the thin camisole stretched over your breasts and continued down to the panties sitting low across your hips, the waistband dipping just enough to expose the smooth skin below your navel.

The hallway remained quiet around him, but his jaw shifted as though he were biting back something considerably less polite than a greeting.

“What do you want?” you asked, leaning against the frame without making any effort to cover yourself.

Remmick lifted the bucket slightly, the harmless prop looking almost ridiculous in his hand. “Your mama woke up askin’ why I was gettin’ dressed,” he murmured, glancing toward the other room before returning his attention to you. “Told her I was goin’ after ice.”

“That doesn’t explain why you’re at my door,” you replied, although the smile pulling at your mouth ruined whatever innocence you meant to imitate.

His eyes narrowed with quiet amusement as he stepped close enough for his chest to brush yours, the warm skin radiating through the thin cotton of his shirt. “Reckon you already know the answer to that, don’t you?”

You let him inside and barely managed to lock the door before his hand closed around the back of your neck, fingers spanning wide. The ice bucket landed on the dresser with a hollow plastic thud, forgotten as Remmick turned you against the door and kissed you with all the restraint he had been forced to show downstairs.

His mouth tasted faintly of toothpaste, his stubble scraping your chin while his free hand slid beneath your cami and squeezed your breast hard enough to draw a muffled sound into his mouth. The full, soft weight of it filled his palm, flesh yielding and spilling slightly between his rough fingers as he kneaded, thumb dragging over the stiff nipple until it throbbed.

“Paradin’ around in this with me right across the hall,” he muttered against your lips, pinching your nipple between his fingers until your back arched. “Then you wanna stand there and ask what I came for like you ain’t been waitin’ on me.”

“I wasn’t waiting,” you lied, winding your arms around his shoulders as he dragged his mouth down your neck, the heat of his body pressed you harder into the door.

Remmick caught the skin between his teeth before soothing the bite with his tongue, careful to keep the mark low enough that your mother would never see it. “That why you answered the door with your ass hangin’ out?”

His palm cracked across it before you could respond, the sharp sound filling the room as your hips jolted against him. The plump cheek bounced under the impact, heat blooming instantly across the smooth skin in the shape of his hand. The sleep pants did little to hide how hard he already was, his cock pressing heavily against your stomach while he kissed you again and ground into you without shame, letting you feel every thick inch.

“You came over here carrying an empty bucket like a pervert,” you whispered, fingers slipping beneath his shirt to rake across the firm plane of his stomach and the dark trail of hair leading lower.

The insult changed something in his expression, soft amusement giving way to a darker hunger as his hand tightened around your throat. He didn’t squeeze hard enough to steal your breath, only held you there while his thumb pressed beneath your jaw, feeling the frantic flutter of your pulse.

“Keep runnin’ that mouth,” Remmick warned, his voice lowering until his tone grew rough around every word.

You smiled because provoking him was easier than admitting how thoroughly he had gotten under your skin, although your confidence began to slip when Remmick turned you away from the door and crowded close behind you. One broad hand settled at your waist while the other pressed between your shoulder blades, guiding you backward across the room as his body remained flush against yours. He pushed you onto the mattress, pulled your panties down with one impatient tug and shoved your knees apart.

The bedside lamp threw warm light over his face as he looked between your legs, watching the slick shine across your cunt before dragging two fingers through it. Your folds were puffy, swollen with arousal, and his touch remained teasingly shallow, spreading you open rather than giving you enough pressure to satisfy anything, thick fingers shining with your wetness.

“All this from watchin’ your mama’s boyfriend stand in a hallway?” he asked, rubbing your clit with the wet pads of his fingers.

Your answer broke apart when he pushed both fingers inside you, curling them until your hips lifted from the bed. Two thick digits buried knuckle-deep in the hot, velvety grip of your cunt, your walls fluttering greedily around them as he worked them slowly despite the urgency written across his face.

Slick sounds filled the room every time he pumped them, your juices coating his fingers while Remmick studied every clench around his knuckles as though he had nowhere else to be and no sleeping girlfriend waiting across the hall.

“Quit teasing,” you complained, reaching down to grab his wrist when he deliberately slowed, your pussy visibly pulsing around his fingers.

“Thought you weren’t waitin’ for me,” he reminded you, withdrawing his fingers and wiping your slick across your lower lip. “Open.” You sucked them into your mouth, tasting yourself as Remmick watched with his lips parted.

His cock jerk visibly beneath the soft fabric of his pants at the sight, and whatever patience he had left disappeared as he pulled his hand free and stripped off his shirt. The broad expanse of his chest was flushed, a light sheen of sweat already gathering along his collarbones and the dark hair scattered across his pecs.

The condom came from his pocket rather than the ice bucket, proof that the visit had been planned long before he left your mother’s bed.

You laughed at him for it until he caught your hips and rolled you onto your stomach, forcing the laughter into a breathless moan when his palm landed against your ass again. The impact made the soft flesh ripple, the sting from earlier reigniting.

“Real funny,” he said, pushing your cami up around your ribs and pressing your cheek into the pillows. “You’ll be laughin’ when she asks why you can’t sit through breakfast tomorrow.”

The foil tore behind you, followed by the slick sound of Remmick rolling the condom over himself. He rubbed the covered head of his cock through your folds, coating it in your arousal before pressing against your entrance. The first thrust forced you farther up the mattress, his girth stretching you gradually despite how wet he had made you. Your pussy lips spread wide around the thick head, then clenched tight as inch after inch sank in, the condom shiny with your slick by the time he bottomed out. He groaned into the back of your neck when your body finally took him to the base, his heavy balls nestled against the curve of your cunt,warm and full and pressing firmly against you.

“Goddamn,” he breathed, holding himself deep as your walls fluttered around him. “Always actin’ spoiled when this is all it takes to shut you up.”

Remmick drew almost entirely out before driving back inside, quickly abandoning any attempt to keep the bed quiet.

The headboard knocked softly against the wall as he fucked you into the mattress, one hand gripping your hip while the other remained planted beside your face.

Each thrust pushed the air from your lungs and made the cheap bedframe squeak beneath you, the wet, rhythmic sound of his cock driving into your soaked cunt loud in the quiet room. Although the risk of someone hearing only made you push backward harder, your ass meeting every stroke.

“You’re gonna wake her up,” you gasped, turning your head enough to look at him over your shoulder.

“Then quit makin’ so much noise,” Remmick replied, even as he caught both your wrists and pinned them behind your back. His hips struck your ass harder, the rough slap of skin joining every broken sound you failed to swallow. The force made your cheeks bounce and jiggle with every impact, his balls swinging and striking wetly against you. “Anybody hears us, they’re gonna know exactly what a homewrecker you are.”

The words sank straight into your stomach, tightening something hot and humiliating until you clenched around him. Remmick felt it immediately, laughing under his breath as he bent over you and drove his cock into the sensitive place that made your thighs tremble.

“Damn, you liked that,” he rasped beside your ear. “Daddy’s nasty girl likes bein’ reminded she’s spread out for her mama’s man.”

You twisted against his hold, trying to free one hand so you could touch yourself, but Remmick kept your wrists trapped and pulled you back onto every thrust. “You’re the one cheating on h-her,” you managed, the accusation weakened by the moan following it.

“And you’re the one beggin’ me to do it,” he said, releasing your arms.

He pulled out of you with a wet drag, the sudden emptiness making your cunt clench around nothing, then turned you onto your back. The mattress bounced beneath you as he settled between your thighs and pressed the thick head of his cock back against your entrance before sinking in again, the stretch returning all at once while he hooked one leg over his shoulder.

The new angle pushed him deeper, every rough stroke making the condom drag audibly through the mess coating both of you. Your other leg was spread wide, knee bent, the position leaving you completely open to the heavy, punishing rhythm of his hips. Remmick watched your face as he fucked you, sweat gathering at his temples, his chest heaving.

His rhythm faltered when you reached between your bodies and touched the edge of the condom at his base. Remmick caught your wrist before you could tug at it, his expression turning serious despite the way his chest heaved.

You answered by tightening your leg around his shoulder.

Remmick withdrew with a low groan, stripped the condom from his cock and tossed it toward the wastebasket. He was back between your legs before you could complain about the emptiness, rubbing his bare tip over your entrance as his thumb spread your swollen folds apart. The flushed head looked even thicker without the latex, shiny with your arousal and his own leaking precum.

“This what you wanted?” he asked, pushing the head inside and pausing there, making you feel every warm inch he had denied you. “Wanted your mama’s boyfriend fuckin’ you raw in a hotel she paid for?”

“Ye-Yes!” you moaned, digging your nails into his forearm.

The sound that left him sounded almost cruel as he sank back inside, bare skin gliding through the slick mess gathered between your thighs. The difference was immediate—hotter, every ridge and vein dragging along your sensitive walls as your cunt stretched wide around him again. The coarse hair at the base of his cock pressed and brushed against your swollen pussylips with every deep thrust, the wiry dark texture a stark, intimate contrast to the smooth, wet glide of his shaft buried inside you.

Remmick cursed and dropped his forehead against yours, his composure breaking when your cunt tightened around him without the thin barrier separating you.

“Greedy fuckin’ pussy,” he groaned, pulling your other leg around his waist before pounding into you. “Been squeezin’ me through that rubber when you knew this was what you needed.”

You held onto him as the bed rocked beneath you, kissing him messily whenever his mouth found yours. Saliva shone across your lips, his hand bruised your hip, and every thrust pushed wetness farther down onto the sheets. Remmick kept whispering reminders about who was sleeping across the hall, calling you spoiled and shameless while his voice grew strained enough to reveal how close he was getting.

Your orgasm rose too quickly to hide, your thighs closing around his waist as pleasure tightened through your stomach. Remmick slipped one hand between you and rubbed your clit with rough, hurried circles, refusing to slow even when your heels dug into his back. Your pussy was fluttering wildly around him, walls rippling and clenching in desperate pulses.

“Come on, brat,” he demanded, pressing his mouth against your ear as your body began to shake. “Come on Daddy’s cock before I make you spend the rest of the night tryin’.”

The threat pushed you over, your cunt clenching around him as the room blurred behind your closed eyes.

Remmick covered your mouth when your cry grew too loud, fucking you through every trembling pulse until overstimulation made you squirm beneath him, your thighs twitching and your cunt still spasming greedily around his bare cock. His balls drew up tighter against his body as he kept thrusting, the heavy weight of them still pressing into you with every stroke.

His own release followed with a hoarse curse. Remmick pulled out at the last possible instant, wrapping one hand around his slick cock while thick streaks of cum spilled across your stomach and the bunched fabric of your camisole. Warm, heavy ropes painted the soft skin in messy white lines, some reaching as high as the underside of your tits, the rest splattering lower across your belly.

He stroked himself through the last twitch, then smeared the mess lower with the head of his cock, watching it spread across your skin with an exhausted, crooked smile. A few drops had already begun to slide toward the swollen, well-fucked lips of your cunt.

“Look at you,” he murmured, running his thumb through the cum before pressing it against your tongue. “Mama’s right across the hall, and you’re laid out covered in her boyfriend.”

You sucked his thumb clean before biting it lightly, earning another sharp slap against your thigh.

Remmick remained between your legs until his breathing settled, his softened cock resting against the wet mess at your thigh he had left behind while the hotel air conditioner rattled beneath the window.

A muffled vibration eventually came from his abandoned sleep pants. Remmick reached down, checked the message from your mother and muttered a curse when he saw her asking whether he had found the ice machine.

“You’d better fill that bucket,” you whispered, smiling as he reached down with one hand, tucking the warm, damp length of his cock into his pants.

Remmick leaned over the bed to kiss you, his fingers briefly tightening around your jaw. “Stay awake,” he murmured against your swollen mouth, glancing at the ruined sheets before giving your bare thigh a possessive squeeze.

© 2026 all rights reserved — flixpii.

The heavy wood of the door, slots carefully into it's worn, splintered frame as Remmick steps over the threshold. He tries to be quiet as he makes his way through the kitchen, taking extra care not to wake you, who he thought was upstairs fast asleep. Tucked into bed just like he had left you.

Tracking blood down the hallway and towards the stairs.

The light at the bottom of the stairs flicks on, and highlights his guilt in it's spotlight.

His eyes close in defeat, and he huffs in realization that he's been caught, "Shit."

Your sleep soft voice meets his ears and his guilt multiplies as you make your way down the staircase, "Rem, what have I told you about leavin' your boots at the door. You're trackin' blood and dirt through the house an- oh." You stop in your tracks, bare feet halting on the hardwood floor, hand not left the railing yet, eyes darting from the mess he's made in the kitchen to the mess that stains his clothes and pale skin.

In the time that you had been with him, Remmick had been extra careful as to make sure that you didn't see him like this. Covered in blood and viscera. The spoils of his hunt painting his skin a different shade altogether. He had made sure you didn't see the way his fangs filled his mouth, taking up too much space to be human, or the way his digits grew like long talons rather than fingers. He hadn't wanted you to see all of that. See what a monster he turned into when you laid your head on your pillow at night to rest. You were too sweet. Too pure. Hadn't been exposed to the horrors the world had hid away from you the way that he had. He wanted to keep it that way. Make sure you weren't tainted by him.

"Darlin', I don't want you seein' me like this." His words come out muffled by the teeth that push against his gums and crowd his mouth. His hands fumble to clasp behind his back, like you hadn't just seen the way they stretched longer than their last knuckle.

"Oh Rem, I ain't a 'fraidy cat like you are." you yawned and chuckled, taking a step closer to him. He meets your step forwards with a step back of his own, trying his best to distance himself from you in this form.

"I know you ain't darlin', I just.. there's some things a lady shouldn't see." A clawed hand comes up to shield his mouth from you, drool beginning to collect at the corners of his lips like a dog.

You give him one last look before closing the distance and taking his blood coated hand in yours, not even flinching at the slick feel of it against your palm, "C'mon, let's getcha cleaned up so you can get some beauty sleep. Lord knows you'll need the rest when it comes time for your punishment for this damned mess."

He snorted and smiled as you lead him to the kitchen, urging him to take a seat at the table while you filled a bowl with warm water and grab a clean dish rag. You set it on the table beside him, and stand between his spread legs, wetting the corner of the cloth and bringing it up to his stained cheek. His big, clawed hands came up to gently rest on your hips as you work. Red iridescence lingers in his irises, his gaze slowly roaming over your features that focus on cleaning up his mess, while your fingers gently swipe the warm rag at the congealed blood on his chin, softly wiping at his neck and down the line of his throat.

"'Yer real pretty, ya know that?" he murmurs through the barrier of his fangs and past his pink, swollen lips.

You smile, just a twitch at the corner of your mouth, focus never straying from the work at hand.

"You never let me forget it." you say, just as quietly. Your fingers stop their cleaning, and your eyes meet his. You take in his features. The way his eyes glow slightly, like a wild animal. The way the points of his fangs peek from between his lips. Feel the way his claws dig just a little bit into the meat of your hips whether he means for them to or not.

You should be afraid of him. Afraid of the fact he could tear you apart with just his bare hands and teeth. The thought of getting as far away from him as you possibly can, sits at the back of your mind, but that self preservation instinct has yet to truly kick in when it comes to your Remmick. You still didn’t see him as the predator he so very clearly is.

His tongue darts out, swipes across his bottom lip, as his eyes land on your mouth.

Before he can lean up to kiss you, you speak, "Wanna look at your fangs. Really look at em'. Never really got to see em' like this." A fingertip drags lightly across his lip, urging him to open his mouth.

He hesitates, but ultimately obliges, jaw slowly opening to reveal the fangs crowding his mouth.

You don't realize the quiet gasp that leaves you. The sight of just how sharp his teeth are shocks you for a moment, a chill running down your spine at the thought of the damage they could truly inflict. He could so easily kill you. Tear you to absolute shreds... yet he doesn't. For some reason, he has restraint when it comes to you.

Your thumb prods gently at the sharp point of one of his incisors, making sure not to nick yourself, before running the tips of your fore and middle fingers upwards, pushing his lip up. You rub along his gumline, his eyes closing as he inhales deeply through his nose.

"Hmmm, are they sensitive?" you ask even though you can already guess the answer, opposite hand coming up to rest on his stubbly cheek that’s now flushed red.

Remmick sits transfixed by your touch. He nods, drool gathering at his bottom lip and spilling over, a whine catches in his throat when you rub at the gum of his incisor.

You pull your hand away slowly, "Do you want me to stop?" You ask him so sweetly. So innocently. Like you have no idea what it’s doing to him.

It makes him groan.

Low and throaty and desperate.

He shakes his head, eyes shut, and when he opens them to look at you, they’re glossy with need.

“Please darlin’, don’t stop.” He mumbles, clawed hand gently grabbing your wrist and lifting your fingers to his mouth.

You nearly choke on a breath when he takes your middle and forefingers between his lips and sucks, forked tongue swirling around the digits lewdly, drool coating them.

Your gaze doesn’t miss the obvious strain of his hard cock against the stiff fabric of his pants as he moans around your fingers.

"Awww," you coo, fingers pressing down on his tongue, "Are you getting hard just from this?"

He nods, a muffled sound leaving him as you inch your fingers towards the back of his throat. Drool pools from the corners of his mouth, dripping down the sides of his chin.

You pull your wet fingers from his throat and tilt his chin up, his wet eyes locking on yours, "Want you to take your cock out, can you do that for me?"

His hands are at his belt buckle, unfastening and unzipping his pants before he could properly answer with a mumbled, "Mmmhmm."

Remmick's cock slaps against his belly as he shuffles his pants just enough past his hips. The tip flushed red and angry, already leaking precum at the slit and dripping down the shaft. He takes himself in his palm, fingers wrapping in a tight grip as he spread the wetness over the length.

You run the pad of your thumb along his swollen bottom lip, before pushing it forwards into his mouth. The sound of him eagerly sucking on the digit, tongue lathing up the skin, pairs filthily with the symphony of slick that comes from his hand languidly jerking up and down his cock.

"That's it Rem, get it nice and wet." you praise him, moving to rub at his gums again, thumb rubbing right where the incisor met the soft pink tissue.

His eyes close, jaw going slack, hand faltering a bit.

"Right there." he whines, hand twisting a bit when it reaches the head.

Your thumb rubs back and forth, matching the rhythm of his hand.

You see the way his thighs tense with each upstroke, the way his chest catches at each sensitive touch.

Spit continues to travel down his chin in rivulets, catching in his collarbones and further wetting the collar of his blood soiled shirt. He's an absolute wreck, and putty in your hands.

"Want you to come for me, you can do that, can't you Rem?" you bring up your other hand, rubbing at the opposite incisor in tandem.

He tries to nod against your hold, eyes squeezing shut in pleasured agony, and he picks up his pace, chasing his end.

With one last swipe to his gumline, the muscles in his abdomen tense, and a breath he doesn't need catches in his chest, cum painting his stomach with every twitch of his oversensitive cock.

You wipe the drool from his chin with your thumbs and press a kiss to his cleaned cheek as he collects himself and grabs the rag you were cleaning him off with.

"Now don't go using this information against me." Remmick jokes, cleaning himself off and resituating his pants.

"You seemed to enjoy it too much for it to be a punishment." you quip back. "Your real punishment for makin' such a mess, is gonna be all the wash you're gonna have to do without my help."

"And what are you gonna be doing while I'm doing all that?" he asked, brow raised.

"I'll be planning the ways to use this newfound information against you."

Berlin, Germany, 1869. After the events of The North Water.

Patrick stepped out onto the cobbled pathway, seeing his breath in the air as he pulled his gloves on. You stepped out next to him, dressed in your warmest skirts and coat. He peered down at you in his peripheral but was displeased to find your face was obstructed by your hat.

He had insisted on you staying home while he ran his errands, but you were far more insistent, going on about how you “needed the air” and “wanted to spend time with him.” With one more glance at you when you took his arm, he led you down the dampened pathway.

The two of you had been married for two years now, rounding on your third, and Patrick was a quiet lover. Despite the years knowing him, he was still quite stiff and reserved when it came to speaking about himself or showing affection. Still, he had his ways of showing he cared. Even if that was by minute squeezes he gave your arm before you crossed a road or leaving an extra strudel for you at breakfast.

The only thing you couldn’t crack about him was his past. You were both two of few English speaking people in your town, though Patrick was decent in Deutsch, so you figured he had come from elsewhere.

“Just down here,” he tugged your arm gently, leading you to what looked like an apothecary. He didn’t see the way your brow lifted, removing his hat as you both stepped into the building.

You let go of his arm to give him room to roam but still stayed close by. The owner of the apothecary was an old man who eyed you suspiciously to which you lowered your head, choosing to stay close to your husband.

Patrick looked around on the shelves before addressing the owner, “four ounces of the laudanum, please.”

You watched as his hand clenched into a fist on the counter, bouncing it absentmindedly. You were well aware of his indulgence and you also may have snooped around in his study, finding many empty vials of the substance.

He looked over at you as the owner riffled through the supply, smiling shyly as if you had caught him red-handed.

The owner wrapped the bottle up while Patrick paid for it, offering his arm once more as you both left the apothecary. The cold bit at your nose once you stepped out and you wished you had brought a scarf. You squeezed your husband’s arm lightly, letting him guide you to where else he needs to go.

“You should’ve brought a scarf,” he murmured as if sensing your discomfort. “It’s awfully cold out.” He steered you around for quite some time, buying a couple things for his studies as well as some ingredients for the house. Despite your protests, he even bought you a fresh new pair of slippers as your old ones had started to fray.

As soon as you both arrived home he had you sit down so he could unlace your boots—just one of the many ways he showed his affection.

While he quietly undid the laces of your boots, your mind began to wander over to the paper bag which contained the laudanum, and how much time he spent in that study of his. You knew he must’ve had some medical background since there were many anatomical texts in his study, and not to mention how trivial he was about your health.

“What did you do before coming to Germany?” You asked tentatively, noticing the way his fingers paused for just a second.

Patrick was always honest with you, but it was rather he held information back. He sucked in a breath before continuing his ministrations, “must you be so curious?”

“Well, sometimes I feel you know me better than I know you.”

He hummed quietly at that. It wasn’t a jab at him and he knew it. It was simply a fact, one that he felt bad about constantly. He slipped your last boot off before rubbing your ankle, his thumb smoothening over your stocking. He stood before you, picking up the paper bag which held his personal purchases. “Come.”

You watched him walk off for a moment before rising to follow, placing the bag of groceries on the counter on your way. He led you into his study. You’d been in here countless times before, most of which you had snuck in to ponder about his texts. You rounded his desk to take a seat while he looked around on his bookshelf before meeting your curious gaze.

“I was an army surgeon back when I lived in London,” he explained slowly, as if debating whether or not to tell you the full story. When your curiosity remained unwavering, he resumed, but not before staring at your fingers as you shed your gloves. “I was stationed in Delhi, but to spare you the details, I was soon cashiered and left with nothing but a limp…”

His eyes flicked back up to yours but quickly avoided your sympathetic look and reached for a worn journal on the shelf, fingering through the pages. “I eventually boarded a ship, the uh- The Volunteer. Horrid things, horrid times.” He practically shuddered as he recalled the events. His gaze returned to you with a deeply furrowed brow, “the things that happened were much too vile for a lady like you to hear.”

“Why haven’t you told me about this?” You frowned not out of contempt, but sadness for making him feel like he should withdraw this information from you.

“It’s not that simple,” he sighed before pushing the journal back onto the shelf, “I had done things and well, I had to flee London essentially.” He looked at you nervously, frowning back at you. “I had to make sure I could trust you.”

“Patrick…” your shoulders slumped. You had figured he was hiding things from you for good reason, but you hadn’t expected him to assume you’d rat him out on whatever it was he did.

“I know,” he sighed and walked over to where you were sitting, dropping down onto his knees and lying his head down on your lap. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. Another part of me also wanted to leave my past behind and start anew.”

You weren’t upset by his admission, just sad he had kept it hidden for so long. His head remained in your lap, only turning slightly once your fingers started through his hair.

“An army surgeon, hm?” You started more lightly, “much more qualified than I thought.”

He froze slightly, lifting his head to glare at you in mock offence. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“Here I thought you were just a physician, turns out you served as a surgeon.” A grin tugged at your lips upon seeing him pout, “what else have you been hiding from me?”

Patrick couldn’t keep his sulking up for long, not when his beautiful wife was getting a kick out of teasing him. His hands rubbed at the sides of your hips, shaking his head. “Nothing you need to worry about.”

He rose to his feet with an audible grunt, turning to put his earlier purchases away. But you weren’t quite done, still wanting to know more.

“You know a lot then?” You hummed softly, trying to sound casual as you leaned forward in the chair with a hand on your chin, playing with a pen.

“You could say that,” he rumbled absentmindedly.

“So, you could give me checkups?”

He looked over his shoulder with a furrowed brow, “that, I could… why?”

You leaned back in the chair, stretching out with a cheeky grin. “Just wondering. It’s always good to go to the doctor’s, and seeing as you were one, it’s more convenient.”

“I suppose you’re right…” he squinted at you suspiciously before returning to his organizing. Just as you had composed yourself, he murmured, “what are you getting at, honey?”

The endearment sent a pang of warmth to your chest. It wasn’t often that he used them on you, but each time was a pleasant surprise. You offered a gentle hum in wonderment, shrugging even though he couldn’t see it. “Nothing, just making sure you’re alright with me asking.”

“Are you hoping for a more… confidential checkup?” The way the question came out, you wondered if he meant to say it aloud, due to the way his shoulders tensed and his ears reddened. You also froze at the implication and didn’t respond save for a small gasp. “Sorry- That wasn’t what I-”

“What would that entail?” You asked despite yourself, somewhat curious as to what a ‘confidential checkup’ looks like.

Patrick said nothing for a long while, staring off into the abyss as he struggled to find an excuse to his unintentional innuendo. “It’s not inherently sexual,” his eyes darted over to you for a split second before looking back at the wall, “but it may involve… intimate procedures.”

“Oh,” was all you could say. The room quickly filled with tension, the awkwardness was suffocating. Intimacy was never an issue for you two but perhaps one was more shy than the other. And you weren’t the one. “We could do a confidential checkup, make sure nothing is wrong with me, yes?”

Patrick fidgeted with his hands, pursing his lips to the side until his eyes met yours. “Of course, it would warrant that there are no issues.”

“Shall we do it after dinner?” He answered with a slight nod and kept his head bowed as you got up to leave the room.

As soon as the door shut Patrick finally let his shoulders relax. Unbeknownst to you, he was being driven crazy. He let out a deep sigh and ran his fingers through his hair, doing his best to compose himself. He’d been doing his best to keep his needs tame throughout his time with you. You, his poor, dear wife had no idea how much he wanted you.

The floorboards creaked under his feet as he walked towards his desk, picking up your discarded gloves. He thumbed over the fabric, letting himself feel the softness that enveloped your hands everyday. He imagined the warmth and possibly even sweat that seeped into the gloves.

Before he knew it, he lifted the gloves up to his nose, closing his eyes to inhale your scent deeply. Something sweet, a tinge of musk, and irrevocably you filled his senses. And now, all he could think about was where else smelled like that.

“Over here, honey.” Patrick guided you over to the chaise with a hand on your lower back, not fully pressing, but enough for you to feel the heat seep through.

You sat down tentatively and watched him carefully as he walked around to grab his dog-eared journal. He took a seat across from you and slipped his reading glasses on before draping his stethoscope around his broad shoulders. You’ve seen his medical instruments before, some of which he let you tinker around with.

He looked so focused in his seat—glasses framing those ice blue eyes as they squinted at his notes, suspenders sitting pretty on his shoulders, and fingers lightly tapping a pen against the leather journal. The journal was soon abandoned as he rolled his seat closer to you, taking the stethoscope into his hands.

“Undo your bodice, please.” His voice was a low murmur, as if embarrassed to ask it. Your hands moved delicately to unlace the front of your bodice to create enough space for him to perform his procedures. Patrick took a sparing glance at you but just as quickly looked away, “actually, remove your bodice completely.”

Your cheeks warmed immediately upon his request but did so without a word, leaving yourself in your skirts and a thin chemise. Despite being married and having had seen you in far less clothing, he kept his gaze respectful as he put the eartips of the stethoscope into his ears.

The cool metal pressed over your chemise which sent a shiver down your spine from unexpectedness. Patrick leaned a bit closer but still had his eyes averted to keep your modesty. He dragged the chestpiece over your heart and paused for a moment to listen to your pulse. He hummed in satisfaction before moving it down to your sternum, sliding his free hand onto your back.

“Breathe in for me, slowly.” He rumbled, listening as you did. “And out.” He moved the chestpiece around a couple times—just underneath your breasts and back.

He pulled away with an approving nod which could only mean that your lungs and pulse were in good shape. You sat awkwardly as he wrote in his journal, still improper in just your chemise and skirts.

The checkup resumed in bashful silence. Patrick moved about doing the necessary routine checkups—blood pressure, reflexes, and strength tests. You saw how relieved he seemed to be after seeing no abnormalities in your results. Patrick often worried about you, though he didn’t show it as to not worry or annoy you.

“Perfect,” he murmured as he looked over his notes and scribbled more onto the worn paper. You smiled triumphantly and reached for your bodice, wanting nothing more than to cover up. “Hold on,” he stopped you with a raised hand, “not quite done yet.”

“Oh?” You almost pressed on why you were not done, but then remembered his earlier words—how it may involve intimate procedures. “Oh.”

Patrick allowed himself to take a gander at you, shamefully dragging his gaze down your half-clothed body. His ears warmed and he cleared his throat before snapping up to look into your eyes. “It won’t take long, much of it is just to determine there’s no cancers and that your… receptors are in working condition.” He stumbled over his words as he fought to maintain eye contact, overcompensating by adjusting his glasses multiple times. You weren’t sure what he meant by receptors, but you had a feeling you’d be well aware soon.

He got up to grab gloves before returning at your side, snapping the latex against his wrists. Patrick was internally fighting himself to be respectful. Throughout your marriage he remained nothing but sweet and respectful, always making sure you were comfortable. The fact that he still had to proceed with these routines made it so much harder for him, and he wished he kept this side of him hidden from you a while longer.

“For this examination, you’ll have to remove your chemise.” He murmured as calmly as possible. He observed the way you perked up in shock but moved without a word, like always. He admired your resilience and how despite the awkwardness, you followed his commands without complaints. He wondered what else he could make you do. As you undressed further, he turned away to give you privacy, though it wouldn’t matter much sooner.

You murmured a soft confirmation for him to turn back around and the sight almost ended him as he faced you once more. You were sat straight and proper, skirts tousled and breasts out for his eyes only. The standard procedure would usually involve feeling the breasts under a fabric to keep propriety, but of course Patrick took advantage of your home examination to see your body in all its naked glory.

“I’ll just be feeling for any abnormal bumps or lumps,” he explained while fixing his gloves, mentally thanking the latex for hiding the sweat gathering on his palms. He knew this was an innocent procedure. It was checking for breast cancer for god’s sake, but he couldn’t deny the stirring in his gut as he began to reach for your breast.

Your breath hitched as his hand cupped the swell of your breast, holding the tissue for a moment. A slight shiver ran through you which resulted in your skin pebbling, and your nipples hardening. It had been a while since Patrick had touched you and even though this was strictly medical, his fingers sent a little flutter in your lower stomach.

His fingers started groping and feeling around, squeezing and prodding. You felt as though these gestures were beginning to feel less innocent once he kept it up for longer than you assumed it’d take. Your breathing became laboured in turn, your skin warming as the heat bloomed deeper.

Patrick suddenly switched to the other breast, giving a not so unintentional swipe over the peak which punched out a moan from your mouth. His hand stilled as he realized what he had just done.

Neither of you verbally acknowledged what just happened and Patrick continued the examination with more careful hands. It was hard not to squirm and even harder to keep your hands to yourself. You wished you could touch him the way he was touching you, but you didn’t want to scare him after he was vulnerable enough to share his past, and again, this was a medical exam.

He released your breast and turned to his journal to jot down some notes before clearing his throat gruffly, “no issues there.” His hands were tingling, warm from touching your skin and sweaty under the gloves from how flustered he was getting. Without missing a beat—and without looking up—he ordered, “remove the rest of your clothes.”

“What?” If you could feel any more humiliation, you’d combust, but something in your gut made you want it. “Is that necessary?”

Patrick snapped his head up, seemingly realizing his rashness. “I- Well- Uh- Yes, it’s extremely important you’re bare for the next examination.” He stumbled over his words, wiping his gloved hands on his trousers as if that could remove the sweat clinging to his palms.

With a moment’s hesitation, you removed your skirts and petticoats, and finally, your drawers. Patrick held his breath as he watched you, hiding the way his eyes darkened by pretending to fix his gloves and glasses. You laid down on the chaise and placed your hands over your stomach in an attempt to retain the propriety you carried.

“Part your legs for me,” he placed his hand on your knee gently. He caught the way your eyes widened in horrified shock and explained, “it’s to ensure your pleasure receptors are responding.” Patrick knew he was making things up, there were no such things, but he did not have the guts to admit he just wanted to touch you.

“I’m sure I have no issues there,” you attempted to get out of the situation, but to no avail as he tugged your knees apart. It wasn’t that you didn’t want to go through with the examination, the issue was that you were absolutely soaked.

He gave you no reaction as he eyed your moist center, but a twitch at the corner of his lips gave him away.

“Stop it,” you scolded bashfully, “it is perfectly normal, a woman’s body will do many things.”

“Oh, I know.” He allowed himself a bit of smugness into his tone, proud that his plan was working. His stool slid along so he was positioned by your legs, dragging a finger up your calf and admiring the way your skin pebbled so easily. “Your body is responding. A good sign.”

He bit the inside of his cheek to stop himself from smirking. Judging by your lack of questioning, he knew you believed him in performing this pseudo-examination. His fingers continued their path up your leg, tracing over your knee, and then your inner thigh. He could see the hair on your legs stick up and the pulse between them.

You let out a shuddering breath as the tip of his finger met your puffy clit. It didn’t move or even push, it just rested over the needy thing. Patrick’s eyes gazed intensely as your walls clenched around nothing. All attempts at propriety were thrown out the window as you squirmed in frustration, bucking your hips to feel something more than just pressure.

He awarded you with gentle circles over your clit, two fingers swirling in tandem with each other. His eyes flicked up to your face, observing the way your eyes fluttered shut and the way your lips parted. “Now, your body is definitely responding.” Before you could snap at him, the pads of his fingers pressed down harder, tracing harsh circles now.

“Patrick,” you couldn’t help but moan, “is this really an examination you’ve done with other patients?”

“No,” he admitted, no longer ashamed now that you were unravelling. “This is just for us.”

The usually quiet office was now filled with the obscene sounds of your slick and breathy moans. Patrick was breathing almost as heavy as you were, lips parted while his tongue darted out every so often to wet them.

You bit your lip as you watched his dark, hungry eyes, his glasses had slipped down his nose a bit. He’d never looked at you this way before—so irrevocably infatuated with how wrecked you’d become. Your clit was pulsing with need as his fingers rubbed back and forth over it, the sensation burning down your calves. Moans wretched themselves from your throat and your hips bucked in an embarrassing cry for more and less at the same time. Patrick was glaring down at your center, blue-grey pupils barely noticeable. Your legs shifted in an attempt to hide yourself from him, but his other gloved hand reached up to pry a leg away.

A wet whine left your mouth as he suddenly pulled away. You’d fallen out of the daze to realize that your eyes were wet with unshed tears, the pleasure was overwhelming. Your husband looked down at you with a tinge of guilt, his hardened features softening.

“Oh, honey.” He whispered, leaning down to nuzzle along your hair line, pressing kisses there. “You okay? I’m sorry.” You responded with a meek nod, nuzzling back against his face. He shifted in his chair, no doubt adjusting himself. His warmth left you once he leant back on the stool, “for the next examination, I’ll have to remove these, is that okay?”

You looked to him after blinking back your tears, his hands were gesturing to his gloves. Your mind was still swimming somewhere high above you which made you unable to think for a moment. You almost forgot that this was a checkup, an examination of your responses. Beneath the softness however, there was hunger in his gaze. And yet, you nodded.

“I’m afraid I’ll need verbal confirmation.” He suddenly switched back to that authoritative “doctor” voice he had on before, all the tenderness he just showed was gone.

Your cunt clenched around nothing, mouth opening and croaked, “yes.”

He efficiently discarded the gloves before moving closer once more, positioned side by side with your hip before moving his hand over your core. His middle finger gathered the slick that dripped from your hole, lubing the digit up before pressing in slowly. A low groan left his lips as he felt you contract around the thick finger, rubbing against your walls. Your eyes rolled back as he explored you with little shame, the pad of his finger rubbing hard against the ridges inside of you.

“Nothing unusual,” he rasped, very clearly trying to stay composed but failing. His finger prodded around a bit more, not yet thrusting, just wiggling around and rubbing. He made a face of disapproval and your heart lurched, “but very tight.”

A cry tore out as he shoved a second finger into you without warning. No gentle, slow press like he did with the first. Just a dull pain as your hole stretched to fit his fingers. They twitched as he heard your cry, but didn’t pull them out. The digits rested and let you adjust.

His tenderness returned as he planted a soothing kiss on your jaw, the scratchiness of his facial hair distracting you from the throb down below. His fingers drew back slowly, your hole instinctively closing around them. “Shh, relax sweetheart.” He cooed into your ear while his free hand stroked your knee.

You turned your head to rub your head against his cheek, like a cat seeking warmth from its owner. The soft praises and encouragements helped you relax and his fingers began moving, slowly. In and out the two thick digits went, a sticky sound escaping every time they withdrew. Your legs grew less tense as he worked you slowly and you could feel the knot in your gut grow tighter.

“Patrick— I’ll—” Your back arched off the chaise as you warned him of your incoming release. Much to your displeasure, he removed his fingers with an audible ‘shlick.’ His brow twitched as you let out a soft keening sound before bringing his soaked fingers up to his lips.

“Not yet,” he chastised, licking your slick off his flesh. You watched with hunger and a tinge of disgust as he savoured your taste, wondering if he liked it or if it was horrible. A groan escaped him as he licked more and more off his fingers, eyes fluttering shut as he cleaned them off. “Good, your pH balances are perfect.”

His eyes blinked open and you could now see how wide his pupils were blown. You swallowed thickly, both eager and nervous to see what the next examination would be. His eyes bored into yours to the point you felt almost bashful to be looking at him directly. You could tell he was still holding back by the way his fingers clenched into his trousers and how he shifted in his seat to relieve the aching bulge that was hidden beneath them.

It was getting hard not to just take you as he pleased, but Patrick was a gentleman, and he knew you were fragile. If he were to act without thinking he knew he’d break you. As much as he’d like to see that, he knew he had to tread lightly, take it one step at a time. Which is why he chose his next words carefully.

“Our final examination is to make sure you can reach your peak,” his voice was getting rougher by the second, the lust coursing through his veins as his eyes wandered in places that would have him shanked if you were not his wife. “While I don’t doubt that you can, you’ve almost proved it just now, I must find a specific spot to help bring you there.” You watched him lick his lips as he zeroed in on the tuff of hair between your legs, “I would use my fingers, but I have something better.”

Your skin was already plastered in a sheen of sweat, your baby-hairs sticking to your forehead. The implication was made clear once his hands moved to his belt, those thick fingers that were once in you were now moving to reveal something even thicker.

A lump formed in your throat as his hands pushed down his trousers. His cock sprung out, thick and flushed at the tip. He ran a palm up the length of it, brushing over the head to wipe away precum. Patrick sucked in a breath at the way you ogled him. The sight wasn’t new to you, but the nature of this encounter was.

It was confusing in all the right ways—an innocent doctor’s checkup turning into something so vile and lewd, wrong but right.

The chaise groaned under his weight as he climbed on, pulling your legs around his hips. He lowered himself over your body, hands on either side of your face as he rested his forehead against yours.

For a moment you two just breathed each other in, lips parted and brushing. He reached up and removed his frames, tossing them aside where they clattered somewhere on the floor. His lashes dusted your cheeks as he leaned down while his thumbs came up to rub along your jaw. While the moment was lovely, all you could focus on was the heavy weight resting on your lower stomach.

Patrick knew it too, you could tell by the way it twitched against you. He tugged your bottom lip down before kissing your firmly, moaning lowly into the kiss. It broke off with a loud smacking sound and his hands crawled down your sides until they reached your hips, squeezing once. His eyes flicked between yours and where his cock rested against your belly.

His panting was barely audible as one hand left your hip to grab his cock, thumb rubbing along the base. You shifted your hips in quiet impatience to which he tutted and slapped his shaft on your stomach gently. “Patience,” he rumbled, “it’ll come soon.”

Your head fell back in frustration and you huffed at the ceiling. He watched you in this small act of defiance, admiring the arch of your neck as you exposed your throat to him—bare and sticky with sweat. Before you knew it, his nose was prodding along your neck, his sniffs tickling you just the slightest bit. He took one long inhale and groaned, twitching his hips. With a final kiss to your throat, he leaned back to look down between you two again.

“Beautiful,” he murmured. “The female body—your body—was always fascinating to me.” He dragged a large palm from your chest down to your waist. “Your reactions especially. You’ve always wanted me, no doubt about that, but seeing you, so raw, so… so vulnerable…”

He shook his head and reached down to position himself properly. He pushed forward without warning, making your breath catch as he sheathed himself inside in one go.

The pain was immediate—burning through your hips and locking up your legs. You jolted as your core clenched around him tightly. It felt like an electric shock and you hissed through your teeth.

Patrick leaned down upon seeing your discomfort, peppering kisses on your face while rubbing your thigh in an attempt to soothe. “Shh,” he hushed before kissing you firmly, “it’ll be alright. The pain is just as important for the examination.”

A tear slipped down to your temple, but his lips quickly found it and pecked along your sweaty hairline. For a moment, you just laid there panting while your body adjusted to the feeling of him inside. It had been a while since the last time you both coupled, so it was almost as if your body forgot how it felt. Almost.

As soon as you began to loosen up was when he started to move. It started off with short, shallow jerks, moving just enough that you could feel it. Nothing pleasurable yet, just the feeling of being full. His thumb pressed into the side of your jaw so he could force you to look at him. You were letting out soft puffs of air, legs trembling where they rested over his thighs. His hands pressed into the soft cushion beneath you, being very conscious not to crush you.

After ensuring you were no longer in pain, his thrusts became more deliberate and drawn out. A slow press in until he was seated fully, and then a slow pull back—not all the way, no, just enough to watch the way your hips chased after him. He repeated the motion a couple times, observing your reactions closely. However, it was hard to when you were throbbing around his length and whimpering like a pup.

The soft, breathy whimpers that left your lips had him straining. He was already pushing himself throughout this entire checkup that he had to keep his hands clenched by your sides in order not to grip bruises onto you. He ducked his head down to rub his nose into your cheek, panting hotly as he slammed his hips harder.

The room filled with the sounds of your panting, his groans, and the wet slap of his balls against your ass. He moved his hips in a way that let you feel every inch of his cock, scooping upwards in search of something. Your walls constricted in response, throbbing like you wanted to swallow him whole.

“Perfect,” he groaned, his head now resting against your collarbone. “Your body is responding excellently.” Another hard thrust and a moan slipped out, earning you a soft bite.

Patrick’s attempts at keeping his hands off your body proved unsuccessful once the passion burned hotter. He cupped your ass in both hands and squeezed as he pulled you in in tandem with his thrusts, the head of his cock hitting even deeper than before.

He could tell he was getting closer to that spot by the way your moans turned needy and breathier, so he honed in on that spot and went harder.

You clenched around him as your back arched, pushing your breasts into his chest. He sighed softly at the contact and almost melted, rubbing his head against yours like a cat wanting attention. His cock was relentless, pulsing into you at such a fast pace that you could hear the slosh of your shared fluids.

It was then that you felt it—the rush of pleasure and the settling of this inner ache as he finally found that spot. Your eyes rolled back into your head and your moan was cut off, leaving your mind reeling in pure bliss.

Above you, Patrick watched in a mix of awe and affection. He licked his parted cracked lips, wanting to let you feel out this moment for yourself, but also wanting to ruin you further. Instead, he maintained his speed and pressure and brought his hands up to your ribcage.

“Good,” he whispered once you could see again, grunting a little as he snapped his hips. “That proves the spot does exist.” He said that mostly to himself, but even in your blissed out daze did you pick up on it.

You moaned out again as he hit the spot over and over again. The beginning of your end was soon arriving as the tension in your belly grew tighter.

Your hands didn't know what to do. You’d been as modest as you could be throughout the encounter but now you were completely debauched—hands scrambling over his back and into his hair, tugging enough to send the man above you whimpering into your shoulder. The sweat in his hair coated your fingers which slid down to his neck, pressing into his skin as you pulled him into a heated kiss.

He groaned into the kiss, his teeth and tongue clashing with yours. His own hands slid under your head and into your hair, holding you still unlike his hips moving below.

The heat was reaching an all time high. Every part of your body was dripping with some sort of fluid—sweat, slick, and saliva. You were burning all over, deliciously so. The ache in your cunt was starting to feel almost uncomfortable and you broke the kiss to let out a soft keening noise. Patrick’s eyes widened immediately and his first instinct was to peck your cheeks.

“’m okay,” you mumbled hoarsely, throat sore from all your cries. “Just so… close…”

“I know,” he cooed, licking the sweat off your neck. His pace didn’t change, maintaining those steady, deep thrusts. “You feel perfect… so pretty…” His praises egged you on, making your walls throb and close around him rhythmically.

You weren’t the only one close to your breaking point. It was evident in his actions that Patrick was there too. His hips stuttered every so often, his cock pulsing angrily at the sound of your moans and the feeling of your warm flesh. He panted heavily into the crook of your neck and let his whole body sink down onto yours, ensuring you were flush against him.

“You’re still… wearing all your clothes,” the revelation came to you as soon as you felt him all over. He had removed his waistcoat earlier so his shirt had since been wrinkled and damp, and his trousers hung loosely around his thighs.

“Taking them off would be…” his voice came out as a whisper. He was straining to hold off his release, wanting to come with you. “…well, it’d be unprofessional. Wouldn’t it?”

You felt the cheeky grin against your collarbone and clenched around him in revenge, “you’re ridiculous.”

He shuddered in response and nibbled your neck, “your cunt seems to like it.”

Before you could snap at him for being so vulgar, the head of his cock punched your sweet spot, knocking a loud cry out of you. He didn’t tease, too busy trying to make you both come to make fun of your attempts at propriety.

“There you go…” he whispered as a hand slid down to the curve of your ass, “take it, sweetheart.”

You were uncomfortably hot—feeling the sweat drip down your temples and pool between your breasts, but the pleasure just kept building. You were beginning to lock up and tighten around him, bucking yourself up to chase that friction.

With a few more pumps, you were sent over the edge. Your thighs trembled with the shock of overwhelming pleasure coursing through you. Your eyes rolled back into your head as a shaky cry escaped you, grasping onto his shoulders while he kept moving to coax you through it.

Patrick pushed himself up to gape down at you, bringing a hand up to brush away your sweaty hair from your face. He liked seeing you like this, fully debauched and wrecked. The sight—along with the way your walls fluttered—had his hips stuttering and he soon followed you over. You felt his head drop and the warmth flood your insides.

The moment you came back to earth, you went limp. Patrick’s lips grazed your shoulders while his fingers traced gentle shapes into your skin. He let you bask in the silence and bliss, pecking the softness of your jaw.

The tension still hung in the air, the room heavy with the scent of sweat and sex. You blinked away the haziness and caught your breath, feeling lighter than you had before.

Patrick withdrew from you with a slick sound and sat back to button his trousers. You just laid there and watched him with half-lidded eyes, no longer worried about covering up. He turned to look at you and his eyes landed right between your thighs where the evidence of his release leaked from your cunt.

“Christ almighty,” he shuddered and turned away to rub his eyes as if that could wipe away the sight of that. He rose with a grunt and walked out, leaving you completely bare and lewd in his home office. You didn’t make any attempt to move since the tremble in your legs was still very relevant, and because you knew he’d return soon.

A soft sigh left your lips as you closed your eyes, feeling that post-coital drowsiness that always took over. It wasn’t until you felt the warm press of a wet rag did you realize Patrick was back, but you didn’t open your eyes. Instead, you let him wipe you down, feeling the wet washcloth slide from your neck, between your breasts, and then between your legs.

He pressed a soft kiss on your closed eyelids after he was done pampering you, coaxing your eyes open with a gentle nudge of his head. “Are you feeling alright?”

You met his tender gaze with a yawn, earning a squeeze to the thigh. “Feeling really good.”

“Yeah?” He chuckled softly and covered you with a thin blanket, “that wasn’t too much for you?”

“Not at all…” you smiled sleepily, still feeling light and dazed. “I think we should make these checkups weekly.”

Patrick barked out a laugh before kissing your cheek, shaking his head. “Weekly might be much… but I won’t turn down any requests for an intimate checkup.”

“I’ll hold you to that.”

He smiled at you and then stood to gather his things, flipping through his journal. “Safe to say you have no issues or complications. Everything is in order, now get some rest.”

You watched his back as he walked to his desk, blinking drowsily as the feeling of sleep slowly took over. “Yes, doctor.”