and the rest is rust and stardust

August 3rd, 1972

The night we met

She made her way to me like she was rushing to embrace a friend she’d not seen in a lifetime. A smile spread across her mouth, softening the edges all around her eyes and cheeks. She sat beside me on that bench in North Carolina. In the summer. In the heart of night. She sat beside me on that bench, panting as her rollerblades still spun on her feet. She asked me if I was homeless, in which I laughed. Genuinely and warmly laughed.

'I can head to Tom’s Diner and see if he has any leftovers I can grab for you.' She told me, kindly, respectfully.

I was starved, having not eaten in three days. She was the first human I’d seen since getting off the train. She had no idea how much trouble she was in. But as she looked at me, really, genuinely looked at me she wasn’t scared. She looked me in the eye with a full heart and open mind – not fear. I was no monster to her, no, I was simply a man.

August 14th, 1972

She met me at the bench every night after that, just to talk. No further intentions, no further expectations. She never asked where I’d come from or where I’m going. She’d just offer me a warm meal from Tom’s, and chat about her day. She was the essence of Summer. Her skin had soaked in the sun and glowed like the rays. It always had a whisper of coconut oil layered over, enough to smell when the wind moved just right. I always knew when she was returning from the beach, because that scent mixed with sea salt and ocean foam. I told her she smelled like the heat of summer, the crisp of salt water and sand.

August 15th, 1972

She got me a candle scented like the beach. She wrapped it in a plain paper box that had become soggy from the edges of her swim suit being pressed against it on the trip to me. She apologized when the box wrinkled in my hands, blushed even when I insured her it was fine. The candle smelled nice, but nothing like her, nothing was like her.

I have that candle on my dining table, keeping it in enough reach to smell when I miss her, but never enough to tempt me to light it.

Never. Light. The. Candle.

September 19th 1972

It was a smothering hot day today. She offered to take me to the beach the previous night, I told her I couldn’t swim. There was only so many excuses I could think of to not go in the sun, especially to someone who thrives in heat and sunlight. I can’t forget the brief look of disappointment on her face when I told her no. That look provoked sickness in my stomach. I cannot see that look again.

September 21st 1972

I’ve never been at peace with myself, not when the guilt of killing someone just to nourish my body is always in my mind, right behind my eyes. I’ve always been at war, flinching at the explosions, shaking with the dreams. But mine are inflicted by myself, only myself. No tanks or boats. No guns or bombs. Just me. I have no grasp of what peace could possibly feel like, but I think it could feel a lot like her.

September 25th, 1972

She told me today I’m not like other men. That I don’t stare down her bathing top when we sit close together in Tom’s diner. Or take a sneak peek at her ass under that swim shawl when she rushes off to the washroom. I had no heart to tell her I do. I fucking do. She was perfection wrapped tight and kissed in fragility. Just for me.

September 27th, 1972

Its been weeks since we met and she’s made me feel more alive in these passing days than I ever had in the hundreds of years I’d been on this earth – that I remember, at least. For the whole of my life since I turned, I only saw myself as bad. She didn’t know how much it meant to me when she looked at me and only saw the good man underneath, even if he's buried deep now. I never told her how she made me feel.

I never fucking told her.

October 1st, 1972

We made love tonight for the first time. She cried after, not because she was scared or hurt, but because that’s all she’d ever known. She never cried after that night, not with me. I made her feel safe, protected, worshipped. Her body was my temple and I planned to worship it every second I could.

October 5th, 1972

Daytime is fucking miserable now without her. It’s becoming more and more complicated to come up with excuses that I cannot go out with her during the day. That’s when she’s most alive, most her, lit in yellow and glowing. I was the darkness and I held her back.

October 10th, 1972

We saw a drive-in movie tonight – The Godfather. She didn’t seem interested in the gangster movie, so she turned her attention to me. She told me drive-in sex was the best form. Shrouded by darkness. Lit only by the line of film casted from the projector behind the car. She smelled like cream tonight, a different scent than normal. It felt familiar, but I couldn’t place if she’d worn it before. Her scent lingered on my skin for hours after that movie.

October 20th, 1972

We fought tonight. We didn’t raise our voices or curse. But we fought. She wanted me to come visit her family with her, to come to a wedding down on the coast.

‘It will be stunning! I know you don’t go out much, but I’d love to have you with me. Please? You bring me comfort. We can visit my brothers grave while we are there, he died in the winter of last year. I hate the winter, but I’d love to see him with you, just quick.’

I left in the winter, because I didn’t remember how much she said the cold hurt her.

November 3rd, 1972

Light and dark. Two separations that can never meld. Not safely, not without sacrifice. That’s what ripped us apart, my inked, shrouded black. And her bright, stunning light.

She started not trusting me, asking why I couldn’t go out with her during the day. I told her it’s more complicated than she could ever know. She left the house tonight with tears in her eyes. I said I’d never let her cry and I fucking did just that.

December 7th, 1972

I left on a train. Or was it a boat? It couldn’t have been a boat, I hate the water. Though I did have a candle on my table scented like the ocean – like water. Why the fuck would I have a candle scented like something I despised?

February 18th, 1973

As the weeks passed, I fought to remember her. Scraps of her are being shredded apart. Each day clouds further, each moment rips a different piece of her away from me. Sometimes I forget her entirely. But during the day, when my hunger is muted and my thoughts are hushed - I dream. She’s there, she feels familiar and always radiated sunshine. Fuck, it’s her. I have to see her again.

May 12th, 1973

Its been months, feels like years. I can’t tell you what color her hair was, or if she preferred dresses or slacks. But I remember she made me smile and that I haven’t smiled since.

July 24th, 1973

Somehow, I remembered what her house looked like. It was more worn now, than the last I’d seen it. How long had it really been? The white paint is sunburnt tan, the windows sparkle in the evening light – freshly washed. I had no memory of the home, only the carnations she planted in her garden out front.

August 1st, 1973

Some days, when I’ve rested well, I’ll travel out. Only in the dead of evening, when the sun is just setting – just so I can see her tend her garden. So I can smell the flowers, so I can take in her beauty when she’s happy. The burns when I return home are easily remedied, and the pain is wanted because it reminds me just how much I loved her.

August 7th, 1973

His name is Dawson – the man who holds her every night. He makes her laugh, riddles her with warmth that I can only now remember in split fragments. I made her smile like that once – I had to have.

August 14th, 1973

She’s pregnant with Dawson’s kid. Months ago I watched as she squealed and rushed into his arms after telling him the news. He smiled, but it wasn’t true. Even as I watch them each night outside the window, I know he’s panicked to be a father. I smell it in him. I could take him away.

September 3rd, 1973

She has taken up crocheting these past few months. As her bump grows, so does her knowledge of the craft. She loves sitting on the front porch, rocking in the stained chair on the edge. Tonight she got frustrated with the blanket, tossing the unfinished product over the banister and going inside.

I finished the blanket that night, only from watching her work on it. It turned out the way she wanted – it was pink. When I lifted it to my nose, it smelled like cream. She never smelled like cream before - did she?

September 4th, 1973

She found the finished blanket outside the following morning, and as my skin blistered up from the sun cutting through the trees above me, I got to watch her excitement.

‘Did you finish this?’ she asked Dawson as he left the front door.

He told her yes, he finished it the night before, because he knew she’d love it. He got the kiss that I deserved.

September 16th, 1973

I woke up this morning in the woods. With black charred skin sloughing off my arms in ribbons. The burn was excruciating. I knew better than to be outside in the sun, why the fuck would I let myself be burned like this?

September 19th, 1973

It took me three days to remember why I was in the forest and by that time, the baby was born. She was beautiful, sunshine and silk – just like her mom.

November 5th, 1973

I’m in a field, past a ditch separating properties. Cows stand around me, watching me with studied eyes. My body felt like it was covered in acid and left to dry in the summer heat. There’s a house in the distance, it's quaint and lit. A man and women sing to the radio inside, they look happy. A baby sits in her arms, swaddled in a pink knit blanket. What a happy family.

November 6th, 1973

The husband tasted like rotten meat and Sulphur. He fought me as I drug him to the shed and ripped his neck apart. The guns trigger rested under his pointer finger but he never shot at me. I drank from him with no remorse. His taste melted into an aching pain in my throat as his eyes rolled back.

November 7th, 1973

The wife said my name. She knew my name. She cried, holding her hand out to me. She wasn’t crying because she was scared – it was something else. She didn’t beg for her life, not even as I had her pinned under me with fangs bared. She just kept saying my name. The hunger was too strong to ask her any questions.

She tasted like fresh baked pie. Her skin was layered in coconut oil and cream. She smelled so good. She smiled at me when I pulled away.

‘I missed you’ were her last words before she died.

November 7th, 1973

I took the baby with me. I named her Summer, judging by her age, she seems to have been born around then. Someone else I knew reminded me of summer. I wish I could remember who.

𝖎.

ʏᴏᴜ ᴡᴇʀᴇ ʙᴇᴀᴜᴛɪғᴜʟ. A pretty, little thing padding through the moonlit copse, a defiance rose beneath each step you left in the grass tufts—barefooted, soft skin, delicate. Curious by your intention, careful, so careful, you moved. What else was there to do other than be captured by you? I've always been drawn to what burns. And you, my darling, were a lit pyre in the dark.

A reminder of Sadhbh, deer-like, as you pattered down an unworn path, further than someone like you should have ever ventured. Did you listen to what your elders taught you? There are some things in the depths that would destroy themselves just to drag you deeper.

I followed in your wake.

You were beautiful. Even from a distance. It seemed the surroundings softened just so, revealed to be an angel in that dreamlike blue hour before dawn.

You tended to the goats, your hands grasping to quell their bleating cries. And when a kid screamed unruly for their meal, annoyance flared in my chest. What an ugly, grating sound. Imagine—squeezing that furred neck, thumb level on its fleshy windpipe, until the telltale crack of breaking bones turned noise into meat.

If you held any ire brought upon by your daily toil, you hid it well. Instead, you handled it the same way you handled the thorny brush of the woods: quietly, without complaint.

But you stumbled. Hands crushed beneath your own weight, trying to catch the fall. Your knee caught on splintered wood, causing the thin skin to split open.

Oh.

You smelled sweet—strong.

But you did not moan in pain or shout in surprise. Rather, you searched for witnesses as if you were going to be seen committing a terrible crime. What, pray tell, were you hiding from, little fawn?

Sunrise forced me away. The prickle on my skin a warning for lingering too long. But, it's fine; I've long since learned to be patient.

ɪ ᴀʟᴍᴏsᴛ ᴋɪʟʟᴇᴅ ʏᴏᴜ ᴛᴏᴅᴀʏ.

Another night in the woods. I remembered you, here, near the copse. A pretty face and a tendency to be alone. Did you think yourself above danger, then? Or did you just not mind inviting it? You had been lucky the first time with my hunger sated. Not so, now. And I never minded accepting an invitation freely given.

I let the steady pulse of your heart guide me. Your scent close, so. Reminded of how sweet you were that day in the village; oh, how much sweeter you would be when I finally got my teeth into you.

I could have closed the gap, would have, if I had gone a few more days without or if I were still the impulsive man of my youth. But you seemed determined to reach the furthest depths of the forest, and I would be lying to say if I wasn't curious why. No rush, lass; there wasn't a place you could go now where I couldn't reach.

You stopped at a clearing, opening up to a lake that spanned the tree line.

Waters still and quiet, like. A peaceful place to die.

You would be scared, yes. You, with a sensitive heart. Perhaps I would let you see your reflection on the surface, not to break you, but to show you that death doesn't have to be a violent thing.

And I almost ended it there, but then you fell to your knees and sang.

Sang like it was all you could do. Quietly, but it echoed clear over the waters. The type of sorrowful tune that only came from a lifetime of experience.

More than just a lovely voice, I felt the song reach in and pull at something weary and cracked in my ancient body. Something true. Something I believed to be lost. And I smiled.

I've been searching for someone like you.

And to think, I was this close to stealing that voice straight out of your tender throat.

I watched you go home safe that night. You, none the wiser, but me? I saw you, as if for the first time.

You were beautiful. And when one evening turned into two, turned into more, I could feel myself becoming attached; but I couldn't stop—couldn't stop the urge to trace the path back to the edge of your village to watch you live.

At first, I only wished to hear you sing again, and every once in a while, you visited the lake to air out that sorrow that seemed etched into your bones.

But more often than not, you were quiet. And strangely, I came to enjoy that too. Silent, perhaps for hours, where it was just you and me—it felt intimate somehow. Calming in a way my restless nature was unused to. I started to think of those moments as ours. And that felt right; the idea of someone else interrupting our time squeezed my dead heart to stillness in my chest.

The days turned into a week, and the week turned into a routine. You must think me passive, but truthfully I just wanted to be careful. It has been countless years since I last heard a voice like yours, and I swore this time would not be like the last time. And maybe, I could admit, a part of me wanted the company, too.

I grew dissatisfied, though, not with you, of course—never you—but because it wasn't enough.

You were beautiful. And they were ungrateful. The people of your village did not look you in the eye. ‘Cursed,’ they whispered in hushed dialogues. Hidden from your face, not from your ears. Those who pretended to care said, ‘unfortunate,' like it made it hurt any less. From the spring months to the end of summer, I overheard enough to fill out the story of you.

Misfortune clung to you like a tick on a dog. Your mother was killed in labor. And just when the village finished mourning her, then came the drought of your birth year. The resulting pitiful harvest, of course, was your fault as well. An earthquake hit during your ninth sun cycle, a year supposed to represent completeness torn apart instead. Soon it was just assumed you were born to carry bad omens: an accident when you're near, the death of a pet, the cause of an argument, a slip, spoilage, the thunder in a storm; for God's sake, it was laughable. Eventually anything could be pinned on you. You were the village's beloved scapegoat.

Were you not tired?

Your father, the only skilled carpenter in the village, bore the brunt of those apologizing for your existence.

“Don't you feel bad for him? Only a single daughter and it's her."

“He's got the heart of a saint, to feed and put a roof over her head like that."

“It must get exhausting. Maybe if he had a son, he wouldn't be so lonely at home."

To his credit, the only credit I felt compelled to give, is that he did not respond to this talk with any kind of assent. In fact, he did not respond at all. A stoic man who did his work, did it well, and spoke rarely a word. He could only offer you empty platitudes in the end; he loved you, yes, but it was not enough. For he believed that if you ignored the hateful, you would be taking the moral road and surely, surely, God would reward your humility.

You still cried at night, so.

But there was more to you than the opinions of those—meaningless, thoughtless, ugly—curs. During the afternoons (and cloudy enough to watch), you taught those younger than fifteen; it was the only time the air of misery did not follow you. Careful hands. Weaving, skinning, discerning the edible berries from the poisonous ones. You did this with skill, with practice, correcting mistakes with a gentle and firm disposition.

Oh yes, you were skilled with a blade. Taught by your father and knowing not the ease of riches, you've been doing men's work since you were a child.

I was after watching you wield the skinning knife just past sunset. You were alone. Focused. Engrossed in the act of paring a butchered hog, slicing skin off meat like a scythe through barley. Pig's blood on your hands—Oh, god—those beautiful hands, covered in the most vibrant red. Digging in. Curling into entrails.

I wanted them.

I wanted them badly.

In less than a second, my mind conjured images that had me more feverish than I cared for. Face flushing with the closest thing I could call warmth. This separation was killing me. I needed to be close enough to touch. To feel how real you were. Was it not fair? Look at what you've done to me—my mind riddled with thoughts of you, where every moment away is a burden. This all-consuming, irrational urge to be known, to be seen, to hear my name uttered by that lovely, lovely voice of yours—and we haven't even spoken a word. I haven't felt this way since… well, for a very long time. I wished you needed me as much as I have come to need you.

They didn't deserve you. What has your community ever done but throw you aside like trash? I would never abandon you like that. I would take care of you. I would love you the way that you're desperate for, the way you've always wanted to be loved. And you would love me in return. I would carve the world up if you wanted it, serve anything you desired on a silver platter—even if it burned. I just needed to be closer. Close enough to hold you.

I've come to a decision. And really, after all this time, there was only one option.

Do you believe in fate, lass?

You were beautiful—God, you were beautiful—I couldn't stop thinking about you. In those private hours of twilight, my thoughts grew sinful. I thought of the dresses you wore, billowing in the summer breeze. Your hair, always clean, framing your face perfectly.

Fuck—I thought of your plush thighs under that skirt, practically begging for my fingers to mark them. The curve of your neck. The slope of your breasts made to be held by my hands.

How would you sound being opened up? Played with or teased? Would you moan, long and throaty? Or would you whimper high as a sparrow? Would you shudder under the flick of my tongue, sweet and dripping like an apple core? Or would your hips grind back? Greedy, greedy little thing.

“Master," you would say. And oh, oh darling—I had to hear that again. Need your wrists in my hand as I sink into that heat from behind. You would cry, hot tears rolling down your face, trying your best to stifle the sobs and you'd fail. I couldn't deny that I craved the sound. So sweet, so lovely, so soft. So mine. Nobody else would touch you, nobody else would dare. You'd break just for me until you needed nothing else. You didn't need anything else anyway.

I'd fuck you deep, just the way your sweet pussy begged for it, and you'd do your best to take all of me, trying your damnedest to be good. My good girl, my darling fawn.

“I love you,” I would hear you say, eyes red and puffy. It echoed in my head I love you, I love you, I love you and that was enough to pull me over the edge, breaking the fantasy as I spilled into my hand with a sharp cry.

The tension drained out. But the thought of you lingered, the thought of if it were real. Everything else in comparison just seemed… dull.

Soon.

You were beautiful. Caught in Caer's arms, the goddess of dreams, you looked untroubled; expression mellowed in the hazy catch of sleep. More so, it was warm tonight, filled with the heat of summer's last dying cry. Despite the sweat slicked to my collar or every exhale of heavy, humid breath, I could not be more thankful, for it allowed me to watch the way you bared your skin to me. The way your hand curled upon your chest—steady with each rise and fall—almost seemed intentional. You, an artist's masterwork brought to life. Did you cry tonight? Your cheeks were mottled in red and pink; all that hurt lingering like how dirt sticks to nails. Something for your body to remember. Something for you, in the morning, to feel in your eyes and push away when the calling sun makes.

For several long minutes, I stared transfixed. You were still, save for periodic twitches—of which I catalogued each one.

I should've been hunting; my blood had run stale, veins darkening as it died and grew chilled in my body. It's been days and I was consumed by this terrible thirst, practically to the point of pain. But instead I was here—tracing the edges of the small hole in your hovel you called a window and wishing you were sleeping in my arms instead. It was the closest I could get with your lack of permission. Barely three feet away, and it still felt like a wall fifty inches thick.

I could smell you. Smell your pulse—under the sweat, under the blanket of heat. Far more tantalizing than the scent of your father nearby whose arrhythmic heart limped with each beat.

Just a moment of indulgence, debating on where you'd bleed the most. Neck. Wrist. Thigh, with my teeth closing into the soft muscle. Inside, with your legs hiked over my shoulders. Shaking from fear. Shuddering with desire. Oh, I'd make a feast out of you, darling.

The thought of it was almost too much, so. I caught myself. Panting… Salivating…

You shifted. I bit my lip—hard. And when that wasn't enough, I sunk my teeth into my forearm to—what? Muffle the sound, muffle the lust, muffle the hunger, all of them, none of them, I didn't know. Control. Control was what I was after but whenever it came to you I always found myself lacking.

You sighed a soft sound. Settled. Then turned. Exposing the curves of your back.

A strangled noise crept out from beneath my throat. My gaze trailed the line of your shoulder blade up to the nape of your neck, the lovely dip of your waist gently flowing into the rise of your hips, the mark of your spine down the expanse of your back ending at divots barely covered by the thin sheet draping off your form.

My grip dragged down those wooden walls. Phantom pain shooting up my fingers at the fact I could not have you right now.

I could not have you.

I could not have you.

I could not have you.

Not for the first time, I found myself maddened by the limits of my nature. You were right there and nothing was stopping me except for my own biology and restraint. A normal man could reach through this gap without bounds; he could enter and leave any place just as he pleased; he could greet you under the light of the midday sun and go about his day, not wondering for a second about how good he has it.

But a normal man could not give you eternity.

I tempered my growing impatience. If allowed, it would mark me a beast. Not when I'm this close.

The true purpose of this visit, lassie, more than any other, is that I came to tell you I found a home for us.

“It's a snug little cottage,” I spoke, barely above a whisper’s breath. “The couple there was so kind to let us have it. It’s a bit far, I know. But we’ll have all the time in the world after that, darling.”

I smiled, as gentle as I could manage. Like you were really listening. “There’s a piano for me and a pond for you and a hearth for the both of us. Oh, it’ll be perfect. You won’t have to lift a finger on that pretty hand of yours. Just promise me, you’ll sing, won’t you?”

And as if you knew, as if there were some subconscious part of you desperate to answer, you breathed another soft sigh. I couldn’t help but take it as a, ‘Yes.’

Ah lassie, your body already knew how to agree.

ᴛʜᴇʀᴇ ᴡᴀs sᴏ ᴍᴜᴄʜ ᴛᴏ learn about you.

Which of your things did you cherish the most? What would you miss if left behind?

Your home became intimately familiar to me. It took nine—no—ten paces to cross your room heel-to-toe. Knife left by your bedside as assurance in the night. There was only one exit; the front door had been expertly carved from sessile oak—seemingly a favorite of your father's. His portable bath near the fire must have cost something handsome. A necessary expense, then, bothered by the filth that comes from his labor like he was. There, a hand’s length down under the roof, belied a weak spot in the wattle and daub. Not serious enough to fix quite yet but would certainly need attention by next spring. And out front near the entrance laid forty-six stones arranged into neat lines, smooth enough for bare feet to cross without pain.

For whatever reason, your house was set quite far from the others. Sound would still travel, sure. But even still, it would take three minutes—perhaps two if they ran—for the neighbors to reach your home properly.

The passing days carved every little detail of your life into shape. I learned which path you took to the byre, grass sun-kissed and well worn into familiarity. I learned the small rituals you kept for yourself; how you paused for peace in the morning, how you did the same before an animal's slaughter. I learned which clothes you reached for first after a wash. And I loved them on you, I did. But you were not meant for the practical colors of whites, browns, and blacks—thick, easy to clean, coarse textiles, no—you deserved far better, lass. Red, I already imagined, would fit so lovely.

Your tools, too, were reliable but crude, wholly unfit for hands like yours; I’ve already decided to find you a better knife after we settle in. Something with a blade that glints as you showed me the proper way to bleed.

Bit by bit our life came together. I could barely settle the buzz underneath my skin at the prospect of taking you home. Every day, every minute of waiting and dedication would all be worth it when I finally got you nestled safe in my arms.

But then he ruined everything.

Oh, he made me hateful.

He was a boy. Some shepherd's son—hailing from a riverside town north-west of your village—had come stumbling into your life like he was deserving of it.

I remember it vividly. It was autumn, two days after the sun’s equinox, and you were trading in the night market at the churchyard. Goats trailing a pace behind as you pulled them by the leads.

The crowd made it safe to get close; and I couldn’t deny I reveled at seeming unremarkable: browsing the stalls of pastries and fruits and fish, paying the vintner a grout and three farthings for a bottle of wine, offering an apologetic smile for bumping into a young lady looking to get home. I hummed a pleasant tune with hands in my pockets as I walked along. It was a familiar place for me to be—lost in a sea of pulses and searching for an evening’s dinner. But I liked the noise too, that organized chaos that could only come from bustling life. Where else could you hear young boys and shopkeepers shouting over each other, vying for the attention of any who would glance their way? Where else could you enjoy the smell of iron metal that lay thick near the blacksmith who forged locks and keys for the church? It was endearing, this place where life was more vibrant.

However, when I approached the livestock stalls my good mood turned sour. All because I spotted you talking to that boy.

I knew he was smitten from the first eager-eyed look he gave you, all hope and young innocence. He smiled dumbly like he couldn’t believe that you were talking to him.

And it would’ve been fine, except I saw you smile back. When you bashfully turned away and laughed behind your hand at some joke he made, I could hardly contain the primal urge to crush his windpipe right then and there.

He stumbled over his words and chortled like a pig, but somehow he had charmed you.

Him?

The following days proved his affection more than fleeting. Every night, after the working hour and before your father returned home, he came to visit you. Waltzing up to your door step with gifts and food and flowers. He got you all the wrong things. You preferred primrose over cowslips. Honey over jam. But you accepted his gifts giddily all the same.

Was it the attention, lass? Is that what made you fond of him, so?

He even attended a few of your afternoon lessons—sitting awkwardly next to the teens to learn which plants were fine to eat and which were not. When he tried to offer you bright red yew berries, you still corrected him with a smile.

A week in and you two met by the river basin near his home. He braided your hair, filled it with flowers, and turned bright red when he asked if he could kiss you for the first time. You nodded, shyly pecking him on the lips ever so chastely. Oh, my darling, you were so dear to me. I imagined how you would kiss me like that, so tenderly, like heaven.

But it wasn’t. The reminder that it was him you wanted turned every precious moment bitter. Like tar on the tongue.

I hated the way he looked at you. Hated how he stole our time for his own. Hated his bleeding heart.

What gave him the right to your affection? A few sweet words and flowers, then? Oh lassie, he didn’t care. All he saw was a pretty face and a notch in his belt. We’re going to be family, sweet girl, and that’s more than he could ever give you in his short, pathetic life. I’d almost be disappointed but I cannot blame you for the wanting of appreciation.

He was at your home now, making you believe he loved you. And I was here—seething. Slicing open the soft belly of a fox to drink of its insides.

I imagined pinning him like this. The fox, writhing and pulling hard to try and escape; throwing itself back and forth for one last frenzied chance at life. But my grip was iron and my anger, exacting. So, there was nothing it could do except whine as it stilled into death.

Soft fur. Bloodied red. A creature undeserving of such cruelty. But I thought of that boy taking you from me. His lips on your neck. Humping you like a fucking dog. And I couldn’t help but bite down harder, blinded by nothing but red. You were mine. MINE.

I was going to gut him. He did not get to touch you. He did not get to fuck you. And he certainly did not get to live. He’d eat his pride and suffer twice over because I wanted it. I wanted to see him regret and plead and beg me to spare his worthless life before I ended it. I wanted him to admit, before I punctured his lungs, that he was never going to be good enough for you.

With each gulp I fantasized until the hate tightened and smoldered in my chest. Pressing it inside until I could breathe again. The rage only lessened as I drained the last drops of blood from the fox—mauled, cut to bone. It wasn’t enough; hunger still plagued me like rot.

But as I kneeled there, covered in the consequences of jealousy, there was one thing that kept me sane. A storm was coming, a big one. The air was pregnant with the promise of it. And so, maybe, after all this time I could finally take you home.

The next day when the sun had once again set, I was beyond starving. For something filling, of course, but also to soothe the ache of coveting, so. There was no greater relief than slaking a burning thirst and for that I should thank the boy. I was especially lucky tonight. No need to be charming for an invitation when the food came to you.

The night was beautiful in waiting. The kind that made you think of the past—darkness that bordered on unnatural, mist steeped in petrichor. The only act of mercy I could offer, perhaps, was for one to die at their happiest on a night like this.

That's when the door swung open.

There he was.

And there you were, holding his cheeks in your hands as you bid him farewell. I watched him kiss your forehead, eyes fluttering closed with a smile. Then your thumb brushed over his cheekbone, gently. I watched as you stepped in closer to pull him into a hug, burying yourself into his chest. I didn’t mind, I really didn’t. Say your goodbyes, lass, it’s alright.

But all goodbyes have to end eventually and, well, that was my cue to intervene.

I stalked him north as he set off home.

Now this was a language I was well-versed in. Tracking with quiet feet and a singular focus. It was comfortable, meditative almost, as I trailed him deep into the woods. Eager, I was, to share in this language with him.

He smelled overbearing and pungent, any trace of your sweet scent smothered underneath the rest. It was hardly a challenge to keep close.

But, I was after being cocky; too excited at the prospect of culmination, so I wasn’t careful enough with the noise. He stopped. Turned. Slow at first and then recoiled back with a shock.

He saw me. Saw my eyes staring right back.

Scrambling backwards, he rushed to his feet. Picking himself off the ground to sprint in the other direction as fast as he could.

I couldn’t help the grin that grew wide. The thrill of it! That rush of life! I steadied myself. Giving him just a moment’s chance before I gave chase.

…

Now.

I took off after him into the dark.

His pulse thumped hard with every footfall, crashing down on leaves and mud and fallen branches.

I followed that beat, beat, beating past each tree and down the trail. My claws dug into the ground, feet pushing me forward faster and faster as I pursued his flustered heart. Vision narrowing down to the blood in his veins and the scent of his fear.

Wet soil. Breathing. Gasping. The Earth again a witness to this ritual between predator and prey, born of her own design.

It could only be natural, this need to carve, rip, and mangle.

It could only be right, this desire to gorge myself on his blood until I was sick and heavy with it.

I closed in.

Lunging, I caught the boy up against a tree. He groaned in pain as his head slammed back against the sturdy trunk.

Curled over him, I pinned his arms up against the oak, signaling the end of our little chase. He couldn’t help it; he trembled. Tears welling up in his eyes from fright or confusion. But not hopelessness, not yet.

“Good…” He flinched away at how I tried to wipe his tears, eyes wide at the sight of hands shaped into something sharper. “Good… but it’s over now. Don't cry. ”

“What—Who?” He rasped. “I don’t understand.”

“Of course not. You won’t need to,” I crooned. My mouth burned. Full with teeth and hunger and spit overflowing until it dripped low onto his chest. Hahh, blood warm and pumping fresh and fast just under the surface. An unabated promise of a hot meal.

The boy looked up at me, breathless. “You—You’re a monster.”

Amusement and irritation burned all at once. I squeezed his wrists in my hands until he winced, until it hurt.

“Monster?” Thu-thump, thu-thump “I’ve been called that before.”

I leaned in. “But the ones who cast that name always deserved their end.”

He struggled. Writhed. I thought of the fox, then. The gash in its soft belly torn from throat to stomach, thick copper blood dripping just for me. I thought of you. I thought of him on you. And I knew I did not have it in me to be gentle.

“I’m going to carve the tally of your sins into you. One for each time you touched her like you were worthy of it.”

“Don't be quiet now.”

ᴡʜᴀᴛ ᴡᴀs ʟᴇғᴛ ᴏғ ʜɪs ʙᴏᴅʏ was found a quarter mile from the river basin. Mauled by a wild animal—mutilated, even. That was the consensus of the shocked public when they found his corpse, picked apart and disfigured like it was. No man could have done this kind of damage, no, but what kind of animal could either? Something fearsome, indeed. It was fortunate his face was intact enough to identify and tell his family. Oh, how his father cried at the news, broken-like.

But interest for me was in what he left behind. A bag with a journal that detailed his life, parents, and all the various little things that caught his eye. Underwhelming, mostly. Though towards the end he did talk a lot about you. No, it wasn’t what it contained that mattered. It was the sentiment; that was my way in. The only thing left to be gotten was the rope.

ɪ ᴄᴏᴜʟᴅ ɴᴏᴛ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ᴀsᴋᴇᴅ for a more perfect storm. A ruthless downpour. It swallowed any noise under her clouds, swept away by strong gale and current.

You were home. You had not left since the news broke, everything else be damned. And I knew you well enough by now to picture exactly how you would grieve.

I’m sorry.

I knew it would devastate you, so. Planned on it even. But still, I didn’t wish to see you mourn. I only wished for you to understand—to know I was sincere. I will be making it up to you, I promise.

But not now. This moment was mine.

The rain battered down in thick, relentless waves as I knocked on your door, soaking my clothes 'til they stuck tight to the skin. And when, predictably, you did not come, I knocked again, harder.

“Hello?” I called, unsure if you could hear me under the deafening rain. Thunder cried out. “I—I’m looking for someone. Please, can you answer?—” I banged again.

When the door opened, I should’ve braced myself better. But to see you there—looking like Deirdre of the Sorrows on her death day—I could not have desired anything more intensely.

Focus.

You looked at me expectantly, impatient and so so tired.

I spoke with a bit of desperation, a tinge of distress. “My brother passed on last night. I believe you knew him?”

Your eyebrows shot up in surprise. “You’re related to Aeden? He never mentioned a brother to me.”

“He never mentioned you either,” I responded—quick, easy. “I found out through his journal. I came here to give it to you. I… I believe he would’ve wanted you to have it.” I paused, shaking hands moving to unclasp the buckle on the bag. I rifled through, pushing through layers of rope until I found the small leather booklet. Covering it as best as I could to keep it dry as I handed it to you.

You took it cautiously, thumbing through the pages to see line after line of handwritten notes. Your lip trembled. Turning from hesitance to heartbreak.

You looked up at me, and then to the rain pounding on my back, something like pity in your eyes.

You said, “you can wait out the rain in here if you’d like. Come in. I have rags for drying.”

I smiled.

Stepping inside felt like sanctuary; that dry warmth wrapping around me and my cold, sodden clothes as comfortably as sheep’s wool. Your home smelt of resin and wood-shavings; all of it heated up cozily by the flickering hearth. And although I had never been inside it felt as familiar to me as an old friend.

You were diligent; accepting your caring hands was easy, handing me a cloth to dry with, offering an extra set of your father’s clothes, setting me by the fire. It was domestic, this casual attending to.

I changed by the settee, finding it endearing how you blushed and politely turned when I drew my shirt over my head. I didn’t tease you—though the urge was there. I just kindly put on the new set and draped the old over a chair.

“Done,” I said, sitting down. “You can look.”

You shuffled, almost unsure of what to do with yourself and this stranger who came in the rain.

“Would you take water?” you asked, almost automatic.

“No, no. I’m grand, miss. You’ve given me so much already…” It was greedy the way I let my gaze linger and I could tell you noticed. But I’ve been waiting so long to see you close before me. Real and solid and the whole of you within reach. How could I deny myself the small theft of looking? “Be still. Come have yourself by the fire.”

You sat down hesitantly, leaving a polite gap. Holding the journal close like it was the only thing keeping you tethered. Your eyes were dark. Distant. It was a gap I was eager to close, to bring you back to the present until your focus was only on me.

I turned to you. The fire bathed your face in a warm glow and you lifted those doe eyes of yours to mine, uncertain.

Ah… This was why I called you beautiful, lass.

You broke the tension. “I… I’m sorry I haven’t even gotten your name.”

“Remmick,” I offered with a welcoming smile.

“Remmick,” you repeated, lips forming carefully over it. I hope you kept it—my name on your tongue.

“Yes, that's right," I breathed. Taking a risk, I gently set aside the journal from your tight grip to cover my hand over yours—small, gentle. You stiffened, but didn’t pull away. “It’s a cruel thing, isn’t it? How the world chooses what to give and what to take.”

“I can’t imagine how it feels, him being your brother and all,” you said. “He was kind to me and I—” You pulled away, covering your mouth mournfully.

“You?”

“Forget it. It’s only superstition.”

“Please,” I urged, “tell me.”

You paused, but soon the words started to flow out raw and fast, the way it sometimes does when shame drags it to the surface.

“It’s only that… I think I did this. Somehow. Me and my cursed luck. I should've known something like this was going to happen sooner or later because nothing good ever stays with me. Ever. I was careless. I should’ve sent him home sooner, or better yet, told him not to visit at all. I knew there were beasts in those woods and I still made him go out there. But I wasn’t thinking and I was just so happy that I thought maybe—” You choked. Breath hitching painfully.

Such sadness in you. Deep and harrowing, eating you all up like death. A vicious thing, guilt is.

“…Nothing good ever stays,” you murmured.

“Don’t fret now.” I drew you in close against my chest, stroking your hair as you took in those slow, shuddering breaths. You accepted the touch, or rather, you didn't reject it, caught up in your own thoughts like you were.

“Hush, lass." Quiet, against the crown of your head. "Hush now.”

I waited until your breathing steadied before I spoke again. My one offer.

“You think yourself hopeless,” I said, hand a light touch against your back. “I see it clear, how completely you've given up on yourself. But it doesn’t have to be that way."

“What do you mean?” you questioned, pulling away just enough to meet my eyes.

“Have you ever heard of the phrase, ‘Is ferr fer a chiniud?’”

You shook your head.

“It’s an old maxim from Brehon law that I find still holds. A man is better than his birth. A phrase so important we wrote it into the very rules of our land.” I gazed deeply into you; the dancing fire reflected in your eyes—wide and unsure but still so curious. “Do you believe it to be true?”

You frowned. “Sure, that’s a nice thought, but it doesn’t change anything.”

“Oh, it can change everything. Your life can be better. You can be better.” I said.

My grip grew rigid.

“I came here to give that to you. I came here to save you, darling.”

And there it was, all out in the open now.

“What? What are you…?” You winced. “Ah, that hurts.”

You squirmed, but I held fast. Taking your chin under my forefinger, I kept you steady as I tilted my head to press my lips to yours. Soft. Breathless. Oh, how you’ve destroyed me and left nothing but a wanting thing.

You made a muffled sound of protest, or maybe shock. Pushing on my chest until you gained some semblance of space, of sanity.

“Have you gone mad? You’re his brother! What are you doing?” you cried.

Stunned as you were, I took your wrists in each of my hands, shifting slow to straddle your waist over you. You looked up at me—parted mouth, furrowed brow—confusion morphing into fear as you realized what exactly you had let in.

“I am no brother of that boy. Never was. You must forgive me for my lie; for it was only to get you here. Perfect under me, so.”

You pulled by the wrists, trying to shift even a little, but found my grasp impossible. That’s when the panic started to set in.

“Yo—Your eyes, they're wrong—”

I couldn't help but grin.

You struggled, jerking hard and fast against me. But when you realized it was of no use, you hollered—screamed—so terribly frightened. And I couldn’t deny that hit of excitement that ran through me at the sound, satisfying that dark thing inside that considered fear the same as ecstasy.

I let go of one of your wrists to cradle the back of your head, pulling you into another kiss. Hungrier this time. Carnal. I devoured your cries with each pulse of breath, lips slotting against yours perfectly as if we were made to be fitted together like this. Hot for me. Mouthwateringly sweet. So much drool it escaped down your chin in gossamer trails. I craved you. More than anything.

“Hmph!” Your knees kicked, still fighting me all the way. With your hand free, you tried to pull me off and I decided perhaps it was time for you to understand what you’re dealing with here.

With your incessant thrashing you rolled us onto the floor with a loud thud. You yelped but I steadied us there. Laid flat against your body to keep you down.

You tried to scream again, but I covered it with a hand. Tears welled up in your eyes like you didn’t know what else to do, overwhelmed-like.

Gentle, gentle, I reminded myself.

I had forgotten in the heat of the moment that you needed to be caged delicately. Forgot how fragile of a thing you were.

“Hush, little fawn… You're gonna ruin your voice keeping on like this. Listen, listen. Nothing but the pouring rain outside. No one can hear you through that, darling.”

You hiccuped under my hand, breath stuttering into a sob.

“It’s alright. Breathe. You’ve gotten yourself all worked up, so.” I stroked your cheek lightly under my thumb. “Your father’s got a big project tonight. A dresser for the Mason’s it seems. He’s gonna be in his shop for at least three, maybe two, more hours. That gives us plenty of time together, hm?”

You looked up at me, not just fear now but pure horror.

“And, your knife is over there by your bedside, left of the candle, isn’t it? Where you set it down after you get home? I don’t mind a bit of pain, but I think we should leave it out this time. I wouldn’t want you to hurt yourself now.”

Your eyes flashed to your room where the knife would be; the possibility taken before you could even try.

With all your options carefully mentioned and gone, the fight drained out of you just like I knew it would. I smiled, pressing a light kiss to the back of my hand over your mouth. When you were calm, I let you have your voice again.

You didn’t make a sound.

“That’s it. Let us not fight now; that’s not what this is about.” I traced the line of your jaw, memorizing the way your throat bobbed when you swallowed. “I want this to be a sweet thing for you. You have no idea how long I’ve waited for this. How I’ve imagined this exact moment for months. You are beautiful, sweetheart. So, so beautiful.”

“Who are you?” you whispered.

I loved that look on you. Your hair sprawled out like a halo, mouth wet and glistening, cheeks flushed warm with pulsing blood.

“I’m yours.”

I leaned down, lightly nibbling on your ear until you gasped.

“And I intend to make you mine tonight.”

I reached down, pulling up your skirt until I found that soft, heated center of yours. Cupping your cunt gently as your thighs squeezed around my hand, inadvertently pressing it further in.

“I ask for nothing but your pleasure, sweetheart; is it really such an awful thing to let yourself enjoy these soft touches of mine?” I tongued the shell of your ear, feeling you flinch and shiver against me, feeling the way you warmed my cool hand between your thighs. “Let me soothe that ache inside. I’ll lick you open, slow and thorough. Fill you on myself ‘til you’re dripping and mewling with need like a good lass.”

You shook your head. “I can’t,” you whined. “I can’t do it, please—”

I chuckled, breath hot against your ear. “You know you can. Here, feel it with me.”

I wedged my knee in between yours, parting those stubborn legs open and open. I took your trembling hand, guiding you down to your own sex, my fingers sure and steady covering yours. It was undeniable. Slick had already started to coat your entrance, growing wetter with each filthy promise. Intoxicating, it was, to feel your body ready itself for me.

“Imagine,” I whispered, pressing our hands firm into your folds, “my cock buried in her. Deep enough to kiss your womb and claim you whole. You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Letting out all those pretty little noises like music as I pushed in.”

“Stop,” you pleaded, but it was weak. Without conviction.

“Stop?” I shifted to be able to see your eyes, tears clearly beading and trailing down your cheeks just how I imagined they would. “Oh no, there’s no stopping this, my sweet fawn. This was always going to happen.”

I brought our hands higher to that sensitive bud, played with it until it was engorged and puffy with arousal. I made your fingers rub fast, tiny circles there—mimicking the way you'd pleasure yourself alone. You gasped, head tilting back. Unconsciously letting your legs fall open ever so slightly, your breath growing staggered as I puppeted you.

I kissed your panting mouth—swollen and spit-slicked. Slower this time, sure, but not any less hungry. Filling you on my tongue while you worked our fingers on your cunt.

I wanted nothing but to have you brimming with me.

“Oh—oh fuck.” Your hips pulled low, legs starting to tremble with surmounting pleasure.

Ah, but we couldn't have that; not when I haven't even had a taste of you yet.

I took our hands away, delighted at the fact you groaned and jerked at the loss—searching for friction despite all of those hasty objections you insisted on.

I laughed low. “Patience, little fawn. I have plenty of time to satisfy you…”

And I intended on doing so; unhurriedly, I trailed open-mouthed kisses down your jaw, along your neck, over those tracks of salty tears that curled dark heat low in my stomach. No marks, not yet. But it was a special thing to explore your body for the first time, learning which nooks made you squirm, which rendered you docile.

Lower. I held you flat against the floor—holding down your ribs, your waist, your hips—sinking lower and lower until I reached the waistband of your skirt. Without hesitance, I hooked my fingers in. Your small feet tangled in it before I slipped it all the way off, crumpling it and throwing it aside to leave you bare.

You tried to curl in on yourself, but I would not have you embarrassed. So, I nudged you back open, sliding my arms under your thighs to pull you down to meet me. My mouth settling above your mound with your legs thrown over my shoulders. Like a gift.

“No, please, I didn’t—I don’t want…” you babbled, fingernails scratching at the floor, trying to pull yourself from my hold.

But all those protests meant nothing compared to the way your cunt pulsed loud and rhythmic in my ear. Radiating heat beneath my dripping mouth just begging me to partake.

And I wanted nothing but to partake and take and take.

Nosing your folds, I licked a slow stripe up the length of your slit, feeling the rumble of your muffled moan through the skin. It was hot and yielding and wonderful. That heady musk flooding my senses like a whirlwind, leaving me starving at your feet. I lapped greedily at your hole—sweet as sin—coaxing her to leak more and more ‘til it came in a steady drip. I drank from her, kissed her—euphoric at how she flexed with each pass.

It made me feel oh so close to you. How your heartbeat pounded hard; my tongue buried deep inside to feel it.

You clawed at my hair. Whining. Pushing. Driving me feverish—

I shifted to mouth over your clit, enveloping it whole and sucking gently to make your back arch. Lightly rubbing at your entrance, I dipped a finger in, then two. Your walls suckling and coating my fingers up to the knuckle as I dragged the pads along the muscle, thrusting them in and out. You took me so well, writhing and panting as I opened you up bit by bit.

“Remmick, please—” you said, “please—”

Yes, say my name, darling! Give it to me; I pumped my fingers faster, curling and twisting. Let me have you completely; sucking your clit hard, drool flowing down your folds. Shaking and lifting your hips to chase that high that beckoned closer, closer...

My cock twitched with heavy need. A need to see you molded by overwhelming desire.

“Hahn—oh Christ—” Your brows furrowed, arching into my touch as if to present yourself to me. Accepting what I gave even as you burned with shame.

Take it, sweetheart, take it take it take it. Moaning so beautifully. Your flesh pulled taut over your body. And then—

You broke. A flood of slick drenching my hand as I pulled out. I was after having it—my lips sealing over your hole to swallow down each wave. My hand on your stomach to hold you still. You cried out, convulsing over and over as you dug your heels painfully into my back. Gasping with quiet sobs as you came so prettily.

It was better than I imagined, more than that, it was real. Finally, finally.

The pressure in my trousers stirred me on; I needed you. Needed you to say my name and beg so softly for my cock in you. Impatient for it, I rose to my knees, pressing my hips slow and firmly down, your cunt staining the fabric where we met.

“Tell me,” I said, undoing my belt, “tell me how much you need me, lassie.”

You froze, eyes wide and bloodshot, lips pursed closed.

“Be convincing,” I purred, rubbing soothing circles along your ribs. But when you insisted on staying silent I took your jaw in my hand and squeezed.

Don't deny me.

“I-I need you, need this—Ah!”

I pinched harder, wanting more. Freeing my cock fully to rest against your cunt. Warming and covering me in slick as I grinded back and forth.

“Ta-Take me” you said. “Take me gently, please just… please—Remmick.” You couldn’t look me in the eye, face turned while you forced out the words.

“There you go,” I cooed, letting go, swiping your damp hair behind your ear. “You’ll come to like it in time, sweetheart.”

I lined myself up. Pushing in slow, feeling that resistance as I slid in. Heavenly. Feeling nothing but euphoria as your walls fluttered desperately around my cock. It took everything in me to not break you in right then and there. Contenting myself with shallow thrusts inching deeper and deeper while you slowly stretched.

Ever so slightly you relaxed, allowing me to slip in all the way—enveloping me whole. I let out a satisfied sigh, perfectly fitted together now—reaching deep enough to graze your tender womb. I curled over you, guiding your thighs to rest around my waist.

You squirmed, but I rolled my hips forward to keep us flush, relishing those pretty little sounds that escaped you. So achingly wet and open…

You looked up at me heartbroken.

Pleading but with no more words left to say.

Oh, it made me delirious.

“I love you,” I murmured, leaning down to press our lips together, starting a light rhythm. “I love you.”

I panted—licking into your slack mouth to share the taste of you. I fucked you deep, slow; steady thrusts making you whine and clamp down sweetly. Your little fingers grasped at my shoulders, for comfort, or stability, maybe. Seeking it in the same embrace that meant to consume you, dear.

“You’ve made an addict out of me,” I muttered into your mouth, your breath hot and alive. “It’s not enough... I want everything—everything you are.”

The words caused another wrack of sobs to run through you but there was no fight in it, just quiet despair.

“Hush,” I whispered, “it's true, lassie, it’s true” I kissed the tears that beaded in the corner of your eye, cradling your cheek. And to my surprise you leaned in to the touch.

My poor broken darling.

I took you in my arms, so close now. Your blood thrummed just below the skin, teasing me, so. But I couldn't—no marks, no marks. So, I swallowed down the saliva building quick and plenty, choosing instead to focus on that blessed friction. Clutching me nice and tight while I snapped my hips in hard, harder. My hand reached down to the small of your back, angling you up—

“Hahh,” you gasped when I brushed that sensitive spot inside, eyes lidded as you arched and came undone.

“Let it feel good, darling.” I shifted to hit it proper, your whole body constricting like a vice. “Give in—fuck—give in to me.”

I sped up, your soft walls gripping me deep inside—clenching my cock like you couldn’t bear to let go. Good and lovely and mine, mine, mine.

It wasn’t long before I could feel another orgasm well up in you. Your moans growing desperate, abdomen tensing erratically, and, most tellingly, you rolled your hips back to meet me—the way they only did when you’ve forgotten you’re supposed to hate this.

“Ah, will you come for me, lassie?” Rhythm growing frantic, my own release wasn’t far behind. I imagined how I would embed my cock as far as it could go, filling that most private place of you with myself. “One more. Just one more. Let me have it now—”

You shook your head like you could stave it off if you just tried. Repeating over and over “not inside, I can’t have it inside.”

But I couldn’t listen. Your body curled and seized—tightening up around me beautifully, twitching, grasping. So good my hips stuttered, forcing me over the edge with you. My fingers dug in hard, threatening to grow as I spilled within your soft walls.

A moan forced its way past my throat, guttural. I fucked my spend in deep, packing your womb full. My control taken when all I could think about was claiming you so fully you could never erase the mark. And your cunt squeezed over and over, begging for it even as it spilled out where we met.

It felt like ages before the bliss ran its course, leaving us breathing in tandem. My hips still grinding despite being completely spent. You, exhausted and heavy with your eyes fluttering closed.

“…There won’t be a child,” I told you, quiet. “Although I wish there would be.”

You didn't respond. Didn't even react, just breathed.

Holding your waist, I rubbed my thumbs over your stomach, pulling out of you slowly. “It would be a beautiful thing y'know. A real family, us three. But fate's got different plans for you and I, see.”

I settled between your legs once more, watching my spend drip down the cleft of your body, mesmerized. Indulging the urge, I pressed it back inside to keep you full. You frowned at that—my first reaction out of you since you went silent.

“No more, please… ‘m sore” you muttered, but you didn’t move or even flinch.

“No more,” I agreed, bending down to your cunt. Kissing her one last time while she was still warm.

And then I turned my focus to your inner thigh. And it was like the air itself held its breath.

Oh, how I’ve longed for this moment.

I held your body steady, rubbing soothingly over the skin to coax blood fast to the surface. It rushed through your veins, pounding unbearably loud. Thu-thump, thu-thump, thu-thump. Growing loud, louder, in my ear. Driving me mad—

So sweet! So achingly tempting that the smell pierced into my pores and dug under my tongue until it hurt. Until I needed it.

You craned your head, confused, trying to pull yourself from me. You could tell something was wrong. Terribly wrong. But I held fast.

You were not to move.

Something ancient and primal pried its way to the surface. The knuckles in my hands popped and grew. Skin distending tight over the bone.

Curling over your thigh to stop your incessant tugging.

Starving, starving! For just a bite. Teeth pushing out and through bloody gums, stretching painful, painful until I relieved them the only way I knew how. I sank deep into the skin—breaking it. Boring down and in to close around the soft muscle.

Screaming.

Rich blood flooded my mouth as I drank and swallowed over and over. Like the first taste of fresh spring water in a blazing heat. I needed,

More, more—

I had to have it all.

Blindingly good—oh, my perfect, beautiful darling, it was better than I ever could have imagined. It could only mean this was meant to happen. Of course. This was always meant to happen.

Harder. Screamed harder.

Bit down harder.

For more. Wanting it to flow like a rushing river.

So much blood I could drown in my gluttonous haste.

You thrashed but I didn’t care, it was too good. Slicing through skin and fat and vessel after vessel to pour into my mouth until I drained you dry.

It was everything I was promised.

Swallow after swallow until you stopped fighting, or rather, there was no more fight left to give. Twitching in the embrace of death. Close now, so.

I was proud of you. You did try so very hard.

I paused in my ecstasy, bringing my gore-laced lips up to kiss the crown of your head—something to take with you as you drifted off to sleep. Soaking the strands in red. Your eyes, vacant.

“Thank you,” I whispered, “thank you for this gift, lass.”

The only indication you heard at all being your twitching hand. Until that too stopped.

The stream thinned. Your body gave.

And the taste of you lingered.

I sat for a moment in a quiet, dead house. The rain still beating down outside like the world was too busy to care.

But here, there was still work to do.

So, calmly, I got dressed—doing up my belt, straightening your father’s shirt, running a hand through my hair—although the clothes were thoroughly ruined by now. I scooped you up, careful careful, and cradled you against my chest, precious so. Easy, with how light you were now. I carried you over to the bath, sitting you up against the side and closing your glazed-over eyes to rest while I sorted the house.

Peaceful, it was, to take care of you. I filled the bath with soap and water from rain buckets, rolling up my sleeves, and undoing your blouse to leave you fully bare. Innocent, this time. An angel in waiting.

I set you down in the water, the last vestiges of your blood blooming it red. It was a soothing, caring act: wiping down your tear-stained face, washing down your chest, back, and legs, and cleaning the bite mark as best as I could. After all, your blood was only for me. It wasn’t for others to ogle at. I rubbed the soap into your body with even circles, washing away any grime that still clung to you. And as much as it pained my heart, I flushed out the result of our coupling too. Making sure there was no trace left. In this final part of your life, I attended to you in this way.

After a thorough wash and dry, I set about my final tasks. Draining the tub, cleaning the floor of blood, and dressing you in your old clothes. I smoothed down your crinkled blouse and arranged your skirt to sit straight and modest again—covering the bite mark fully. I folded your hands in your lap to wait as I finished the final thing left to do.

The rope.

I’ve thought about how you would go about this, how familiar you would be with the knot. But you were not careless or sloppy, so it only made sense to tie it cleanly.

A loop, down and then up again, wrapping around and around and around ‘til it was snug and pulled tight. Draping it over a beam and dragging over something to stand on. The noose, now fully tied, hung high above your bedroom chair. Waiting. For you.

I picked you up like a bride, kissing your forehead one last time as an apology. An apology for how much your broken neck will hurt when you wake, but you had to understand this was a necessary precaution.

No one goes searching for the dead after all.

I hefted you up, resting the loop around your tender throat—the one I’ve loved since I first saw you.

And I kicked out the chair.

ᴇɴᴅ ᴏꜰ ᴀᴄᴛ ᴏɴᴇ

Inspirations / Further Reading: On a Mountain by artificine 𝔗𝔥𝔢 𝔡𝔢𝔳𝔦𝔩'𝔰 𝔤𝔯𝔬𝔬𝔪 by lefteagleblizzard RECORD, RUIN, REPEAT by spikedfearn going public from Let Me Be Your Dog by scannainscanrula

You’ve been home from uni for a little over three weeks, long enough for the house to fall into a familiar rhythm again, though nothing about Remmick’s presence in it feels familiar in any harmless way. 

Your mother moves around the kitchen with the radio playing low, humming while she rinses vegetables and talks about grilling later, and Remmick keeps himself out on the covered porch where the sun cannot quite get to him.

There’s always been something wrong with the way bright light bothers him, something about the glare that makes him squint and retreat into shade with his sunglasses low on his nose and a beer sweating in his hand. 

From where he sits, he has a perfect view of the yard, the pool, the lounge chair, and you.

His beer runs empty sometime after your mother disappears back inside to check on the food, and you notice it before he says a word.

The can hangs loose between his fingers, condensation dripping down to the porch boards, his gaze still fixed somewhere near the pool even though you know he is watching you from the corner of his eye.

You push yourself up from the lounge chair and cross the patio barefoot, letting the heat of the stone bite at your soles as you pass him without asking what he wants.

When you come back out, you don’t hand it to him right away.

You hook your nail beneath the tab and crack it open yourself, the sharp hiss cutting through the air. Foam gathers at the lip, and before it can spill over, you lift the can to your mouth and take a small sip.

It’s bitter and cold on your tongue, not really what you want, but Remmick’s eyes drop to your mouth so quickly that it is worth it.

You swallow, wipe a bead of beer from your lower lip with your thumb, and only then hold it out to him.

“Thought you might need another,” you say, sweet as anything.

Remmick takes the can from you slowly. “You always this helpful?”

You smile and turn away before he can see too much of it. “Only when I feel like it.”

You had chosen the red bikini because you knew exactly what it did to him. 

Therems no innocence in it, not with how little the top covers and how the bottoms keep riding up whenever you move, the thin fabric slipping between your cheeks.

The first time you stepped outside, towel tucked under one arm and sunglasses pushed into your hair, Remmick’s conversation with your mother had gone quiet for half a second too long. 

Your mother had not noticed, too busy fussing with a pitcher of sweet tea through the open sliding door, but you had.

You caught the pause, the slight lift of his chin, the slow drag of his eyes down your body before he forced them away and took a long pull from his beer.

And that was all the encouragement you needed. 

You spread your towel across the lounge chair with unnecessary care, bending at the waist instead of crouching, letting the bikini top gape just enough that you felt the warm brush of air against your tits. You stretched out beneath the sun with one knee bent, then rolled onto your stomach after a few minutes, propping yourself on your elbows while the bottoms rode higher. 

Every motion became performance because his attention made you bold.

You fixed your towel; you adjusted the tie at your hip; you reached behind yourself to tug at the fabric, only to let it snap back into place a little worse than before. 

Each time, Remmick stayed silent…

By the time you rise to go run back inside for a drink, your skin is glossy with sun and sweat, and you know without looking that he’s watching the swing of your hips. 

You pass close enough to his chair that your thigh nearly brushes his knee, and the scent of him reaches you through the summer air… beer, smoke, soap.

His fingers drift toward your hip as you pass, slow enough that you could let him catch you, but you slip away at the last second and glance back over your shoulder with a smile that’s too sweet to be believed.

“Need something?” you ask, voice light.

Remmick’s jaw tightens, and his gaze flicks once toward the kitchen before settling back on you. “You know what you’re doing.”

You only smile wider and slide through the door, leaving him with the view of your ass as the red fabric disappears inside.

When you come back a minute later, you have a cherry popsicle in your hand. 

You settle on the porch step beside his chair as though you have simply chosen the nearest bit of shade, knees drawn loosely together. 

The popsicle’s already beginning to melt in the heat, red syrup gathering along the edge of your fingers, and you bring it to your mouth with all the patience in the world. 

You lick up the side first, slow and flat-tongued, tasting sugar and artificial cherry while your eyes drift toward the yard as if Remmick is not sitting so close that you can feel the tension coming off him. Then you wrap your lips around the tip and suck, letting your mouth hollow around it, letting the wet little sound linger between you.

His hand flexes around the beer can.

You do it again, slower.

“Careful,” he mutters, so low that your mother wouldn’t hear him even if she stepped out onto the porch.

You turn your head slightly, popsicle still between your lips, and blink at him with open, false innocence. “Careful with what?”

Remmick’s eyes drop to your mouth, sunglasses gone now, pushed up into his hair, and without them there’s nowhere for his hunger to hide. 

He looks tired from fighting it, annoyed with you for knowing that, and unbearably handsome with the porch shade cutting sharp along his cheekbones. He lowers the beer can, his thumb rubbing slowly through the condensation as his stare drags over your lips, your chin, the thin red line of syrup that’s escaped and started down your skin.

“You’re gonna get yourself in trouble,” he says.

You swallow around nothing, then take the popsicle from your mouth and lick the drip before it can reach your chin. “Maybe I’m bored.”

His laugh doest sound amused. “That what this is? You bored?”

“Maybe.” You lean your shoulder more firmly against him, close enough to feel the heat of him through his shorts. “Maybe you’re just easy.”

The look he gives you makes your pulse kick, though he does nothing, and somehow that’s worse than if he grabbed you outright.

His eyes move over your face with a slow, punishing focus, as if he is deciding which part of your attitude he wants to break first.

Then the corner of his mouth lifts just slightly.

“You been acting like a spoiled thing since breakfast,” he says, voice quiet enough to stay private. “Bending over in that suit, looking back every time you know I’m watching. Now you’re sittin’ here with that in your mouth, makin’ a mess on purpose.”

Your thighs press together, but you keep your expression sweet. “It’s hot outside.”

“It’s about to be hotter inside if you keep it up.”

You glance down and see the thick shape of him straining against his shorts, half-hidden beneath the loose fall of fabric, though not nearly well enough.

The sight makes your stomach dip. 

Yesterday, you let him corner you in the laundry room while your mother was out getting groceries, let his hands skim your waist and dip under the hem of your shirt before you slipped away laughing at the last second. 

Two nights before that, you knelt for him on the rug beside your bed, taking his cock into your mouth with your fingers twisted in his shirt while he kept one hand braced against the mattress, hips thrusting up into the warmth, and tried not to make too much noise. 

Later, alone under your covers, you touched yourself until your wrist ached, replaying the sound of him losing control, the rough praise he tried to swallow, the way he looked at you afterward.

You drag the popsicle over your tongue again, slower this time, and Remmick’s hand moves.

His fingers find the back of your neck beneath your hair, resting there with enough pressure to make a warning out of the touch.

“You got something real nasty coming the second I get you inside,” he murmurs.

Heat pulses between your legs, slick and immediate. You tip your head back just enough to look at him through your lashes. “What, Daddy’s mad?”

It’s not the first time you’ve called him that, but it still does something to him every time, especially here, with your mother moving somewhere behind the kitchen wall and his beer sweating onto the porch boards and you sitting at his knee in a bikini that barely covers anything. 

His hand slides lower, thumb brushing the side of your throat in a touch that feels almost tender until his mouth moves closer to your ear.

“You keep saying it like that,” he says, “and I’m gonna make you say it with tears in your eyes.”

Your breath catches, and the sound gives you away.

He reaches for your ass, palm sliding over the curve of it, but you slap his hand away with a sharp little laugh and rise before he can catch you. “Pervert.”

For a second, he looks almost still enough to be calm. Then his tongue presses against the inside of his cheek, his gaze dropping to where your bikini bottoms have ridden up again. “Yeah,” he says softly, “keep laughing.”

You should stop there, but stopping would mean admitting he’s gotten to you, and you have spent too many days enjoying the game to fold just because he finally sounds dangerous. 

So you make him wait. 

You stretch out beneath the sun again, roll onto your stomach, let your legs part just enough to make him shift in his chair, then rise to dip your feet in the pool and glance back at him each time you feel his eyes burn across your skin. You tease from a distance because distance makes you brave. You bend over to look for sunscreen in your bag. You let syrup from the last of the popsicle stain your lips and smile when he stares. 

The afternoon stretches long and gold, the heat softening at the edges only when the sun begins to sink behind the trees, but Remmick’s patience does not soften with it. If anything, he grows quieter as the day goes on, and the quiet has your pulse fluttering with a nervousness you refuse to show.

Inside, the house smells like chlorine, warm skin, cut tomatoes, and something salty your mother has started on the stove. She’s put out a tray of hamburgers and salads for later, moving between the counter and the fridge while she talks about a coworker who called in sick and a neighbor who borrowed a serving bowl and never returned it. 

You sit at the kitchen table across from Remmick, damp hair sticking slightly to the back of your neck, one of his old shirts thrown over your bikini because your mother told you not to drip on the floor. The thin cotton clings to the wet fabric beneath, and every time Remmick looks at you, you remember exactly how little separates his gaze from your skin.

Your mother pours herself a glass of wine and leans against the counter, still talking. “I’m gonna shower before I eat. Don’t let the buns sit out too long, alright? And don’t pick at everything before I get back.”

You nod quickly, too quickly, and Remmick leans back in his chair with his beer to his lips, watching you over the rim of it.

Your mother pauses in the doorway. “You two want anything before I go?” She glances to you first before turning to Remmick. “Baby?”

“No, I’m alright. Go take your shower, we’ll be here when you’re done,” Remmick answers, polite as anything, and the smoothness of it makes your toes curl under the table.

The second her footsteps fade down the hall, the whole kitchen seems to hold its breath.

Water pipes groan somewhere behind the walls. A door shuts. 

You look at Remmick, and he looks back with all the patience gone from his face.

The chair scrapes the tile from how fast you stand.

You only make it halfway to the guest bathroom before his hand catches the back of the shirt and pulls you in against him. 

A breathless laugh escapes you, more panic than humor, but he crowds you forward with his body, his mouth close to your ear while his hand slips around your waist and presses low on your stomach.

“Runnin’ now?” he murmurs. “You weren’t shy outside.”

“Remmick,” you whisper, glancing toward the hallway.

“That ain’t what you called me on the porch.”

He pushes you into the bathroom and kicks the door shut behind him. 

Before you can turn fully around, Remmick has you backed against the sink, one hand at your jaw and the other bunching the damp shirt up over your ribs.

“You had a lot to say when you were out there showing off,” he says, thumb pressing lightly at the corner of your mouth. “Where’d all that mouth go?”

You try to answer, but his grip makes the words come out soft and useless. “I was just teasing.”

“Just teasin’,” he repeats, dragging the phrase out as if it offends him. 

His eyes lower to your chest as he hooks two fingers under the bikini top and tugs until the cups shift, baring one breast, then the other.

The air hits your nipples and makes them tighten into stiff peaks, and Remmick’s expression changes with open satisfaction. “That what you call it when you spend all afternoon trying to make me hard while your mama’s ten feet away?”

You swallow, cheeks burning. “You could’ve looked somewhere else.”

His mouth curves enough to make you wet. “I did. Then you bent over again.”

The laugh that leaves you is thin, unsteady, and it breaks when he leans in to bite gently at the underside of your jaw.

His stubble scrapes your skin. His teeth press without quite hurting, and his hand slides down to your hip, fingers spreading over the damp red fabric that has tormented him all afternoon. 

When he touches you there, he feels how soaked you already are, the bikini bottoms clinging slick and hot to your swollen cunt. His fingers still for a second, then press harder, rubbing the wet fabric right against your dripping slit until your knees nearly dip.

“Look at that,” he murmurs against your neck. “All this attitude, and you’re already messy for me.”

You try to turn your face away, embarrassed by how wet you are, but he keeps your jaw in his hand and forces you to look at him.

“I’m sorry.” Your breath trembles, though your hips move into his hand.

Remmick gives a soft, breathless laugh and lifts his head to look at you. “Too late for sorry now, girl.”

He reaches behind you and turns the sink on just enough for the faucet to run, giving the room another layer of noise. Then he turns you around with a firm hand at your waist, bending you over the counter until your palms land on either side of the basin and your tits press against the cool porcelain.

The mirror catches your face, flushed and wide-eyed, lips parted around shallow breaths. Remmick stands behind you, broad and sun-warmed, hair slightly damp at his temples, his expression sharpened by everything you’ve done to him. 

He looks at your reflection, not your body first, but your face, watching embarrassment spread across it as he drags the shirt up your back and shoves the bikini bottoms down just far enough to expose you. They catch around your thighs, tight and indecent, while he nudges your feet wider with his.

“There she is,” he says, voice dropping. “There’s my spoiled girl that wants me to fuck the attitude outta her,” he breathes.

You grip the sink. “Remmick…”

“Huh?” His hand comes down on your ass hard enough to leave a sting and sharp enough that your breath breaks. “You worried now?”

“Remmick—”

Another smack lands lower this time, followed by his palm smoothing over the heat he has left behind. “Try again.”

The correction makes your eyes flutter.

You look at him in the mirror, pride and need tangling so tightly in your chest that you can barely breathe through either one. “Daddy,” you whisper.

His expression changes, hunger pulling tight across his face. “Better.”

He unzips his shorts behind you, the sound small under the running faucet and distant shower, but it still makes your whole body tense in anticipation. 

When he frees himself, heavy and hard in his hand, he doesn’t push in right away.

He makes you watch his face in the mirror while he rubs the thick, flushed head of his cock through your wet folds, dragging it slowly from your swollen clit up to your entrance, gathering slick until both of you are glistening. 

The first touch makes you whimper, the second makes you push back on instinct, needy enough to forget yourself, and he clicks his tongue.

“Now you wanna be eager,” he mutters. “Out there, you kept moving away every time I touched you.”

“You were on the porch.”

“And you were in my face,” he says, pressing against you just enough to make your body clench around nothing. “Lickin’ that damn thing, looking at me like you wanted me to drag you inside by your hair.”

Your face burns hotter because some part of you has wanted exactly that. 

Remmick must see the truth of it in your reflection, because his mouth brushes your shoulder in a kiss that feels almost affectionate before his teeth graze the same spot.

“You get so embarrassed when I say it plain,” he murmurs.

“Please,” you breathe, the word slipping out before you can dress it up as anything else.

He stills. “Please what?”

You press your forehead closer to the mirror, eyes half-lidded, voice trembling under the weight of his stare. “Please fuck me.”

His reflection in the mirrors shows you that it pleases him; in the way his mouth curves and his eyes darken. 

He drags the head of his cock through your slick again, then higher, pressing right against your tight little asshole and circling until your whole body tenses, the flutter of panicked want moving through you before you can hide it. 

Remmick laughs low, gives one more firm nudge, then pulls back.

“Maybe next time,” he promises, voice dripping with filthy intent.

Your stomach flips at the words, cunt throbbing harder, and he sees that—sees everything when he has you like this, bent over and bare for him, all your teasing turned into wet need and shaky knees. 

He lines up again, this time at your soaked entrance, and pushes in slow, stretching your pussy lips wide around the blunt head, feeding you inch after thick inch until your walls grip every veiny ridge and you’re white-knuckling the sink edge.

“There you go,” he mutters, watching your face in the mirror. “That’s what you spent all day asking for.”

The stretch is thick and immediate, your body slick enough to take him but still overwhelmed by the size of him, every inch forcing you open while your fingers curl against the porcelain and a low, broken moan slips from your throat.

Remmick watches your face the entire time, jaw slackening slightly as your mouth falls open and your eyes water.

“Mm,” he breathes, hips pressing forward another inch. “That’s what all that teasing was for, huh? You fuckin’ tease. Wanted me so bad you couldn’t act right.”

You try to answer, but he sinks deeper, and the words dissolve into a broken sound.

He feeds himself into you with patience, letting you feel everything, the heat of him, the drag, the fullness that makes your thighs shake. When he finally bottoms out, balls flush against your clit, he stays there and bends over you, one forearm braced beside your hand on the counter.

“You feel that?” he whispers, mouth at your ear. “All the way in, baby. That’s what you were asking for.”

Your eyes slip shut, tears gathering from the stretch and the pressure. “Yes.”

“Yes what?”

“Yes, Daddy.”

His groan is soft, almost unwilling, and then he pulls back and snaps his hips forward hard enough to jolt you against the sink.

You choke on a gasp, but his hand comes up quickly, palm covering your mouth while his other arm wraps around your waist to hold you in place.

“Quiet,” he says against your temple. “Unless you want your mama asking why you’re moaning with her boyfriend in here.”

The threat makes your cunt clench around him. 

His eyes meet yours in the mirror, dark with triumph. He starts fucking you then, not slow anymore, not gentle enough to let you pretend this is only another stolen touch. His hips drive into you in deep, rushed strokes, each one rocking you into the counter while the faucet runs and the shower hisses upstairs. 

The room fills with the wet, filthy smack of his hips against your ass, the loud, sloppy squelch of your cunt taking every thick inch of his cock, his breathing rough at your ear and your muffled cries trapped beneath his hand.

He knows exactly how to angle himself, how to hit the place inside you that makes your legs threaten to give out, how to keep you pinned open.

“You spent all day acting like a brat. Now look at you,” he mutters, voice fraying as he thrusts into you, bending over you so his chest presses hot to your back, lips brushing your tear-streaked cheeks in mocking little kisses. “Gonna cry for me, baby?”

You whimper against his palm, tears spilling over now, hot tracks down your cheeks that embarrass you as much as they thrill you. 

Remmick’s gaze flicks to them in the mirror, and something pleased and possessive moves across his face. He uncovers your mouth only to grip your jaw instead, forcing your chin up so you have to look at yourself.

“Look at you,” he says, softer now, mean threaded through praise. “We both know you’re just gonna do it all over again tomorrow, aren’t you? So you gotta learn the lesson now.”

“I can’t,” you whisper, though your hips push back into him in helpless little movements.

“You can.” His mouth brushes your cheek. “You’re gonna take it. You made me wait all afternoon, didn’t you? You can take a little more.”

The words loosen your pride, melt the last of your performance, and leave you trembling beneath him with your cheek near the mirror and your body taking every thrust he gives. 

When his hand slips between your thighs and finds your clit, your whole spine arches. He rubs you in tight, firm circles, still driving into you from behind, and the combination makes your breath scatter.

“Please,” you gasp, too loud.

His hand returns to your mouth at once, and his hips never slow. “You wanna get caught that bad?”

You shake your head quickly, but your body betrays you again, clenching hard around him while your eyes roll half-shut.

“No?” he murmurs. “Then keep that mouth quiet for me.”

You nod against his palm, crying harder now from the pressure building too fast, too deep, too much after an entire afternoon of teasing yourself with the thought of him.

“Please, I’m gonna—” Your words break off on a mewl.

“I know,” he says, stubble scraping against your cheek as he nods. “I can feel it. Poor baby’s not so mouthy now, is she?”

He rubs your clit faster, his cock dragging heavy through your cunt, and when your orgasm hits, it takes you with a helpless, silent sob. 

Your body locks around him, thighs shaking, nails scraping uselessly against the sink while Remmick holds you up and fucks you through it, the wet sounds of your pulsing pussy growing even louder around his thrusting cock.

“There you go,” he whispers.

You’re still pulsing around him when the shower shuts off, and both of you freeze for half a second. 

Then Remmick’s hand tightens on your hip, and he buries a groan against your shoulder, his restraint snapping under the risk. He fucks you harder, shorter strokes now, chasing his release while you tremble oversensitive around him. 

You bite down on your own wrist to stay quiet, tears still wet on your cheeks, and he watches the motion in the mirror as if it might finish him all on its own.

“Fuck,” he breathes, low and ragged. “That’s it. Hold still. Let me have it.”

His hips drive deep once, twice, then press flush as he comes inside you with a thick, shuddering groan that he barely manages to swallow. 

You feel every pulse of him, hot and deep, your body milking him while footsteps sound faintly upstairs.

He stays there for one dangerous second too long, forehead dropping to your shoulder, breath shaking against your skin. Then he pulls out slowly, and the sudden emptiness makes you wince. 

Warmth spills down your inner thigh almost at once, and Remmick watches it with a dazed, hungry look before tugging your bikini bottoms back into place, trapping the mess against you.

Your reflection looks wrecked—lips swollen, eyes wet, chest still heaving.

Remmick turns off the faucet, then catches your chin and kisses you, stealing the little sound you make before it can become anything louder. When he steps back, he tucks himself back into his briefs, zipping himself up.

From the upstairs hallway, your mother calls, “You two still in the kitchen?”

Remmick’s eyes stay on you. “Yeah,” he answers, voice almost normal. “She was looking for a towel.”

Your mouth falls open slightly at how easy the lie comes, and he gives you a warning look that makes your thighs squeeze together.

“Found one,” you call, voice thin but steady enough to pass.

Your mother says something about the burgers getting cold, her footsteps moving away, and only then does Remmick turn the sink on and wet his thumb, wiping under your eyes just enough to make you presentable without erasing all the evidence. “Fix your face, baby,” he murmurs, mouth nearly touching yours. “And don’t walk too fast.”

The rest of the evening stretches around the secret in a haze.

You sit at the table with your mother and Remmick, eating too little, nodding when spoken to, hyper aware of the damp heat between your thighs and the places where his hands have gripped you. 

Remmick plays polite beautifully; he passes your mother the mustard, asks about her morning shift, laughs at one of her stories with that easy, low charm that makes her smile without knowing he has just had you bent over the bathroom sink while her shower ran. 

Every so often, his knee brushes yours under the table, or his eyes find you over the rim of his glass, and your body answers with a pulse so strong you have to shift in your chair.

Then your mother’s called in not long after dinner.

The hospital has some emergency, the sort that makes her sigh while tying her shoes and mutter about being too old to keep running out at night. 

Remmick walks her to the door, kisses her cheek, tells her to drive safe, and stands on the porch until her car disappears down the road. 

You watch from the hallway, clean from a shower that hasn’t managed to rinse him out of your head. 

When he comes back inside, the house seems larger around the two of you, every room gone quiet except for the ceiling fan and the faint buzz of insects against the screens.

He doesn’t come to you, because maybe he thinks one stolen, rushed, filthy mistake is enough for the day, or maybe he likes making you wait as punishment. 

He goes to your mother’s room, changes into boxers, and leaves the door partly open like a dare. 

You stay in your room for almost an hour, pretending to scroll on your phone while the memory of him keeps sliding through you: his hand over your mouth, his voice at your ear, the way he said baby—the term of endearment your mother called him—when you were shaking around him. Your thighs still ache. Your skin feels too sensitive under your nightshirt. 

You try to ignore it until your own restlessness turns unbearable, until your fingers slip beneath the hem and find yourself wet again.

That’s what finally makes you get up.

The hallway is dark except for the warm bar of light from the bathroom nightlight. 

Remmick’s asleep when you reach the bedroom, or close enough to it, sprawled on his back with one arm tucked behind his head and the sheet low over his hips. Moonlight and porch light cut soft lines across his chest, showing the rise and fall of his breathing, the dark hair trailing beneath the waistband of his boxers, the relaxed heaviness of him in sleep. 

He looks less mean like this, younger almost, though there is nothing harmless in the memory of his hands.

You crawl onto the mattress carefully, and it dips under your weight. 

Remmick stirs but doesn’t wake fully until your mouth touches the line of his jaw. His lashes lift, eyes unfocused for a moment, then sharpen as you kiss along his stubble, soft and open-mouthed, tasting soap and salt on his skin.

“What’re you doing?” he rasps, voice rough with sleep.

You kiss the corner of his mouth. “Couldn’t sleep.”

His hand finds your waist beneath the nightshirt. “That so?”

You nod, though your hand has already slid down his stomach, fingers tracing the waistband of his boxers. 

He lets out a quiet breath, watching through half-lidded eyes as you move lower. 

The sheet shifts around you when you slip beneath it, the space under the covers warm and close, filled with the scent of him.

You tug his boxers down just enough to free him, already half-hard, heavy against his lower stomach. He twitches when your fingers wrap around the thick base, and the low, pleased sound he makes goes straight to your cunt.

“Still needy?” he murmurs from above the sheet.

You press a kiss to the swollen head of his cock instead of answering, lips brushing the sensitive skin before your tongue follows, licking slow and filthy over the slit to taste the first salt-warm bead of him.

He hardens fast in your grip, thickening until the veiny shaft fills your palm completely, the flushed tip already leaking more for you.

A soft groan leaves him, his fingers sliding behind your neck under the covers.

“Girl,” he breathes. “... been trouble all day.”

You smile against him, then take him between your lips. Slowly at first, just the head, letting your tongue swirl the way it did around the popsicle on the porch, letting him feel the echo of what started all this. 

Remmick’s hips shift, his hand holding onto the nape of your neck, and he lets you make a mess of him.

You suck him deeper, your lips stretching wide around his girth, spit gathering quick and slick as you work him with eager, wet pulls of your mouth.

The slurping sounds fill the dark room under the sheet—loud, messy—and it makes your face burn as if anyone else could hear.

You love him like this—breathing harder because of your tongue, his thighs tensing when you take him too deep and swallow around him.

Your eyes water from the stretch, but you keep going, moaning softly around his cock when his fingers tighten on you. The vibration makes him groan again, louder this time, and he quickly presses his mouth shut as if remembering the empty house still has neighbors close enough for sound to carry through thin summer walls.

“Baby,” he warns, though his voice has no real warning left in it. “You keep doing that, I’m not gonna last.”

You pull back just enough to kiss down the slick length of him, then lick back up with slow devotion, taking the head into your mouth again and sucking until his hips jerk. 

His hand guides you then, setting a rhythm that makes your jaw ache and your thighs press together beneath the covers. His fingers tighten on your nape, holding you right where he wants you, and then he starts fucking up into your mouth in short, greedy thrusts. 

You gag around the thick length when he pushes too deep, throat tightening hard around the swollen tip, the sudden squeeze pulling a ragged groan from his chest.

He pants above you, breath coming faster, hips rolling again so the head nudges against the back of your throat and your eyes water instantly.

Remmick watches the shape of your head bobbing beneath the sheet like it’s the only thing in the world worth staying awake for, his groans turning into low, broken pants that he tries to swallow down.

“That’s my girl,” he whispers, voice rough and full of sleep-warmed hunger. “Knew you were done being a little brat.”

You hum around him, and his breath catches hard. He fucks into your mouth a little faster, hand firm on your nape, using you just enough to make your throat spasm and squeeze around him again and again.

The wet, choking sounds growing louder as your spit coats every thick inch until his cock is glistening and your chin is soaked. His thighs tense under your palms, muscles jumping each time your throat tightens and milks the head.

He comes with his grip tight on your neck, hips lifting once, twice, burying himself deep as he spills hot and thick across your tongue and straight down your throat.

You swallow him eagerly, throat working around every heavy pulse while his body goes tense beneath you, then softens all at once, a final shaky groan rattling out of him.

Even after he’s done, you keep your mouth on him, gentle now, licking him clean with slow strokes of your tongue that make his hand tremble against the back of your head.

You suckle softly at the sensitive tip until he twitches one last time, then finally pull off with a wet pop, lips shiny and swollen.

When you finally crawl back up beside him, he catches you by the jaw and kisses you. 

He tastes himself on your tongue and groans softly into your mouth, pulling you close until your bare legs tangle with his under the sheet.

Outside, the night presses hot against the windows, cicadas still screaming from the trees as the fan turns lazy circles overhead.

Remmick’s thumb moves over your cheek in a slow, absent stroke, and when you tuck yourself against his side, he lets you, his arm heavy around your waist.

“You’re gonna start up again tomorrow, aren’t you?” he murmurs.

You smile against his chest, too pleased with yourself to lie well. “Maybe.”

His hand slides lower, resting over your hip. “Then I guess I’ll have to teach you again.” 

Then he leans in closer to your ear. You assume he’s going to say what he’d plan to do, how’d he plan to get get you alone again. Instead, his voice drops to that low, gravel-rough drawl and his lips part on words that make your eyes widen.

“Dirty slut, fuckin’ your mama’s boyfriend and then crawlin’ in here ‘cause you couldn’t settle without a taste of daddy’s cock. You should be ashamed of yourself.”

Shame rushes hot through your chest at the words, burning up your neck and flooding your face until you feel stripped bare in a whole new way, but anger twists right alongside it—sharp and sudden, at him for saying it out loud, at yourself for how badly your body still aches for him even now. 

You shift like you might pull away, ready to slide out of the bed and disappear back down the hall. But Remmick’s fingers close tight around your wrist, stopping you cold. 

He tugs you right back down against his chest, voice low. “C’mere,” he murmurs, urging your mouth to his.

You resist at first, turning your face just enough that his lips catch the corner of yours instead, a small, stubborn sound of protest slipping out even as heat coils tighter in your belly. 

He doesn’t let you go, thumb stroking slow over your pulse until you finally give in, mouth softening, parting under the insistent press of his.

The second your lips meet—soft and hesitant at first, then melting open—his free hand lowers, sliding down your side and slipping just beneath the waistband of your shorts, brushing warm skin and the damp edge of your panties with a stroke that makes your breath hitch against his mouth.

And from the way those fingers linger, tracing lazy circles right where you’re already wet, his lesson for tomorrow might not even wait that long.

it’s hot, too hot. you have the window open as you keep turning in bed, sweating. the cool spring air helps a bit, but not enough.

then it hits you. you don’t have any heat suppressants.

fuck.

you’re supposed to go to a concert tomorrow, and you have a lecture in the morning. you surely couldn’t go outside without them, not while you’re in heat.

you quickly dress yourself and take a deep breath. it’s fine, it’s only a few blocks. and you’re familiar with the neighborhood, it’s only nice people. your neighbors are mostly other omegas or betas.

you light yourself a cigarette as you walk towards the pharmacy.

then you spot him. a blonde man, wearing a white tank and blue jeans. he’s staring at you. he has golden jewelry hanging from his neck, and rings on each finger.

he can surely smell you, so you quickly rush past him, not making eye-contact.

that’s when he grabs you, forcing you into a dark alleyway. he pushes you face-first against a tile wall, positioning himself behind you.

”hel-” you try to scream, but he quickly covers your mouth. he reeks of metal and smoke.

”shh, wee thing”, he coos. ”no screamin’”, he says. ”no screamin’ unless ye want me tae take ye with me”, he says.

”so how’s it gonna be? here or at my place?” he whispers, slowly withdrawing his hand from in front of your mouth.

”p-please…” you whimper, some tears starting to roll down your cheeks.

”shh, cutie”, the man purrs, wiping your tears.

”wee bunny’s in heat? all alone? no one tae make ye feel better”, he murmurs.

”i have- i have a boyfriend, he’s an alpha”, you lie.

the man chuckles. ”liar”, he says. ”why’s he not here with ye, hm?” he asks.

he gently kisses your temple, wiping more of your tears. then he smells your hair. he moans.

"mmh, fuck. ye smell like cherries and lavender, like summer", he coos.

”ye’re gonna be nice an’ quiet fer me an’ maybe i won’t take ye”, he says. ”can ye do that?” he asks.

you nod, sniffing.

”that’s a good lass”, the man says. ”name’s jimmy, baby”, he adds. ”ye oughta know the man that’s boutta fuck the shite out of ye”, he chuckles.

you start sobbing.

”shh, shh”, jimmy coos, slowly sliding his hand under your shirt. his hand feels cold against your skin.

”aww, ye’re all sweaty an’ tremblin’”, jimmy says. ”let ole jimmy make it all betta”, he coos.

”p-please stop, i won’t tell anyone, please…” you cry.

”i can smell ye want this, bunny”, jimmy says.

he starts kissing on your neck while fondling your breasts with one hand, while the other one slides under your skirt, feeling the dampness in your underwear.

”aww, wee bunny’s soaked, i haveaned even smooched ye yet”, jimmy chuckles. ”plenty o’ time fer that”, he murmurs.

”if you’re gonna do it, then please, just get along with it, no kissing!” you cry.

”where’s the fun in that?” jimmy asks. he grabs your face so that you’re facing him, then he forces his lips on yours. he tastes like cigars and liquor.

he’s sloppy with it, drool pouring from the corners of his mouth, smacking his lips loudly against yours. you shudder and try squirming off, but he only tightens his grip.

he deepens the kiss, shoving his slimy tongue inside your mouth. he eagerly twirls it against your teeth and gums, then your tongue.

he’s moaning into the kiss, all the while you’re crying and whimpering.

as he kisses you he pulls down your underwear. ”spread ’em”, he whispers against your lips.

you sob and spread your legs, trembling. jimmy hums, pleased. ”good bunny”

your panties drop at your knee. jimmy continues kissing you as he roughly spreads your cunt open, fingers working on your sensitive folds. you mewl.

his thumb finds your clit as he starts rubbing it. not gentle, not soft. hard, brutal, like he wants to hurt you.

”me wee slut, aren’t ye?” he coos, softly kissing your earlobe. then he bites it, hard enough to leave a mark. you cry out in pain. he quickly covers your mouth. "shh, bunny, be quiet now", he purrs.

you’re dripping on his fingers as he violates your clit, whispering filth into your ear.

"lovin’ this, aren’t ye, slut? so wet fer me, me wee slag", he murmurs. "yer wee pussy needs more, aye?" he whispers. he teases your entrance with two ringed fingers before shoving them inside you.

you mewl and squirt on his fingers. wet squelching sounds echo in the alleyway as jimmy fingers you, knuckle-deep inside your pussy. he hooks his fingers inside you, making you let out a messy whimper.

"ye’re gonna come fer me, aren’t ye, slut?" jimmy murmurs.

you shake your head violently, tears spilling from your now red eyes. but you’re getting closer, you can feel it.

jimmy presses hard on your clit, and you cry as you come on his ringed fingers.

he chuckles and pops his wet fingers inside his mouth, moaning around them. he licks his fingers clean and starts unzipping his jeans.

his cock slaps your ass. you turn around, and are terrified to see that it’s absolutely massive. long and thick, already weeping precum at the tip.

"ye look scared, bunny. don’t be. it’ll slide right in", jimmy tries to comfort you. he takes your wrist, gently kissing it. then he sniffs your hair again. "i jus’ love the way ye smell, an’ yer hair is so smooth", he coos.

he rubs the broad tip on your entrance, precum sticking to your folds. he spits on your cunt, spreading it with his fingers. his spit mixes with your squirt. then he pushes inside in one, brutal thrust. he bottoms out instantly. you cry out, while jimmy lets out a loud moan.

your belly bulges. jimmy puts his hand on the bulge and lets out a satisfied chuckle. "that’s where i’ll breed ye", he says.

you hear cars passing as jimmy pants behind you, staying still. then he almost pulls out, your fluids dripping everywhere. he slams back inside, hips crashing against your ass.

he starts thrusting, brutal and rough, wet smacks echoing in the dark alleyway.

he slaps your ass once, twice. the third time hard enough to bruise. you whimper.

"shut up, slut", jimmy hisses, spanking you again. you bite your lip.

he smushes his face against your neck, starting to kiss on it loudly. then come the teeth as he starts biting you, leaving behind red teeth marks. you try not to scream again. his teeth dig into your sensitive skin, bruising. it’s like he wants to eat you alive.

his ringed fingers are digging into your hips, surely bruising as he guides you. his cock throbs inside you, precum leaking inside.

you cry as he fucks into you, thinking about how all this wouldn’t have happened if you just stayed at home. if you just went to the pharmacy in the morning.

you freeze as you feel it. the tip of his cock swelling inside you, locking in place. you sob and try pulling away, but it hurts.

"shh, bunny, no need tae wander now", jimmy coos.

the knot swells more, your walls clenching around it. a few more slow thrusts and that’s when he spills inside you. a hot load of cum pours inside.

your legs are shaking. you desperately try to crawl away, not wanting to become pregnant, but the knot has locked inside you.

"shh, we’ll be here a while", jimmy purrs, kissing the back of your head.

he starts petting you. stroking your ass, your hips, your back. he places slow, sloppy kisses on your shoulder and neck.

he stays buried inside you for about 10 minutes, then the knot starts to disappear. he pulls out, and most of the cum spills right out of you.

"can i- can i go home now", you whine, sniffing.

jimmy sighs. "poor lass", he coos. "so eager tae leave", he says. "but i’m not done with ye jus’ yet", he says.

that’s when he knock you out.

you wake up in a dark, small space. you quickly realize that it’s a trunk of a car. you start screaming your lungs out, banging on the walls. the drive feels like forever, your throat is burning once the car finally stops somewhere.

jimmy opens the trunk, picking you up into his arms. you start squirming and screaming, but he just chuckles.

you see a huge mansion in front of you, that’s where he’s taking you.

There's a beat of dead air before Paddy shakes his head. Out of everyone else, he can't believe he has to be lumbered with Remmick. "Have you been sent here to personally test my mental resolve or somethin'?"

Remmick can only roll his eyes as he stands up with a practised shrug. "Do you think I'd be wastin' time with you if I had the option?" Internally, he knows that perhaps he would.

Paddy steps forward to him, unrelenting on the matter. "I am swiftly runnin' out of patience for you."

"That's a laugh." Remmick actually does; it's a scoff under his breath at how difficult Paddy is being.

"Sorry?" Paddy blinks at him, challenging and leaning forward like he hasn't heard him correctly.

"Reckon you haven't got 'patience' for anyone." Remmick's voice fades into a mumble. "I can't stand you."

Paddy's hands land at his hips, knowing exactly what he muttered. "Want to speak up, tick?"

"I said I can't stand you." Remmick lets a growl slip by mistake, and the way his top lip curls around his snarl catches Paddy's attention.

"Don't growl at me like that, fuckin' parasite. This entire situation is 'cause of you."

The bossy tone and insults drain Remmick of his patience. "Shut it."

The defiance tears away Paddy's. "Make me."

Remmick acts before he thinks, already shoving Paddy into a small table before he realises what he's done. It's enough that Paddy actually stumbles, causing clutter tumbling off the table in the process. "Shit… Paddy, I-I didn't-"

Paddy's eyes go wild as he retaliates, pushing off from the table to swing at Remmick. The vampire dodges the first blow, but not the second one, as Paddy's fist connects with his face. A grunt punches out of Remmick as he pushes back, and in a matter of moments, both men are grappling in a flurry of blows and near misses of bites from both parties.

When Paddy sweeps the back of Remmick's leg, he drops to the floor, pulling Paddy down with him with a harsh thud. Paddy lands with his legs straddling Remmick's waist, his hands immediately finding the vampire's throat to tightly wrap his fingers around it. They glare at each other, marked and scuffed; Remmick's nostrils flare with the sudden scent of iron in the air from the other's nose.

Stealthy asset that the SAS had found or some sideshow pet be damned, Paddy had had enough of him. His fingers tighten enough to bruise, and Remmick can only thrash back as Paddy actively tries to choke him out.

Remmick's breath would have hitched at the contact if he could get any air. The unfamiliar feeling of skin against his makes him shiver. He doesn't need as much oxygen as Paddy does, but the sudden withdrawal makes him feel floaty all the same. Remmick fights to keep the air in his lungs, but the way he struggles against Paddy makes him painfully aware of how the other's ass is rubbing against him. His eyes flicker with panic as he feels his cock start to stir, and he grits his teeth as long as he can, until a faint moan slips out of him without his permission.

Paddy knows that look; it isn't a look of something that's hurt, it's the look of someone, or something, that's scared to get caught. When Remmick moans, Paddy thinks he mishears him at first, but the unmistakable feeling of twitching against his ass makes his brows crease.

"Little freak..." His own voice sounds thinner in the air. The slow jerk against his ass completely takes him off guard, enough to let up on Remmick's throat.

Remmick swallows air the moment he's given the chance. "Piss off." He cringes at the way he sounds; his weak response couldn't sound less intimidating if he had actually tried.

A taunting smirk tugs at Paddy's mouth as he leans down to Remmick. "You like that? Did I finally find a way to shut you up?" As if testing it, Paddy's fingers tighten around him again as he slowly grinds his ass against Remmick. His own breath catches as he feels Remmick's length stiffen underneath him, and he watches as the other's eyes become half-lidded in response.

Something shifts inside Paddy then; still full to the brim with what he labelled early on as loathing for Remmick, but an unwelcome heat stirs in his stomach in response. Whether shame or the pressure on Remmick's neck causes a red to sweep over his face, Paddy watches with intrigue.

The other finally manages to yank at Paddy's wrists, hard enough to rip them away from his neck. The air rushes back into Remmick's lungs fully with a sharp inhale. Even if he knows he doesn't need much air, it still hurts all the same.

Remmick shoves at Paddy, but instead of getting him to fall off, the other remains firmly planted in Remmick's lap. He tries to sound stern more than just embarrassed, but he was already so touch-starved that his need is bleeding into his words. "Ain't funny, Paddy."

"You're so fuckin' pent up. Is that why you're constantly makin' messes?" Paddy's voice lowers, and Remmick can't take how close he is to Paddy, particularly as Paddy grinds slow circles into his erection. "'Cause you just need someone to make one outta you?"

Remmick doesn't mean to writhe underneath him, but it feels good. He's not oblivious to the fact that Paddy is handsome; he's caught glimpses of him around camp or on missions, ones that perhaps lasted a little too long. But this is different; it's reciprocated attention, even if it's only a cruel joke.

Paddy's voice is lower, more suggestive, and with the promise to back up whatever comes next. "Look at you, desperate little thing…"

A groan cracks in the back of Remmick's throat at the way the words hold a husky edge. His clothed erection jerks until the outline is straining against the fabric, and he has to look away because he knows that Paddy is right. He can't remember the last time anyone touched him, not just in an intimate setting, but in any real regard. The refusal to verbally acknowledge it has Remmick glare at nothing in particular as he tries to shove Paddy again, weaker this time and to no avail.

Paddy's hands grab Remmick's wrists, pinning them to the ground on either side of his head as his smirk grows. Ordinarily, Remmick would be able to stop it, but not regularly feeding has really put a damper on his strength, and Paddy knows it. If he had to wager, it's likely what caused Remmick to fumble his way into exploding resources in the first instance.

He gets in Remmick's face, who's obviously struggling to get his breathing under control even after Paddy let go of his throat. He tilts his head mockingly, and when he presses his fingers into Remmick's palms, he thinks he spies the nails begin to grow in response.

Paddy doesn't stop grinding down against Remmick, who, no matter what he tries to distract himself with, can't stop thinking about the heavy stiffness between his legs. Remmick's teeth clench as he bucks his hips up against Paddy, who only holds the same arrogant look as he leans down. A tickle of air rolls over Remmick's lips, and he closes his eyes instinctively when he expects Paddy to kiss him.

Nothing comes into contact with his lips, and Remmick peeks, unsure whether to be disappointed. There's only a soft taunt he can taste less than an inch over his mouth. "What, no comeback? Did you really think I was about to kiss you?" He doesn't question why it makes him whine with desperation, only that it makes him hot all over until he can feel the slick of pre-cum gather in his boxers.

Remmick's brows knit together as he forces himself to shake his head 'no'. A mortified feeling drops in his stomach as he realises that he's already seconds away from toppling over the edge. "S-Shit… I'm.." His eyes snap shut again as he stifles his moans, getting ready for the brutal words that are bound to come after. But they don't. Remmick's orgasm is cut short when Paddy's hips lift off him altogether, quick enough to make a whine fall out of his parted mouth in protest.

His eyes shoot back open to see Paddy raised onto his knees to stop giving Remmick's cock any attention. The twitch of Paddy's length against the confines of his trousers has Remmick's jaw go slack.

"Were you about to come?" Paddy's brow is raised with accusation, amused as the confusion spreads over Remmick's features. His mouth presses into a thin line as he swallows. He wants to lie and shake his head so badly, but the small wet spot on the front of his trousers proves otherwise. His stomach lurches as he nods, unable to look Paddy in the eye.

There's a light huff from the man above, and Remmick expects that to be the end of whatever this is. But instead, a hand lets go of his wrist to unbutton the fly to his trousers.

Paddy's eyes narrow, seeing the wet patch as he moves his hand. "God, you're pathetic." Something in him takes great delight in watching Remmick struggle like this. At least, that's what he tells himself; that's all it is, some sadistic itch being scratched.

"Fuck you." Remmick feels his hackles rise when he bites back defensively, regardless of whether he believes the words. He pretends like he hates the way the insult makes his cock jump in Paddy's hand. For now, Remmick can find escape by lying to himself; it's just the attention doing it to him, nothing more.

"Would you like that, little bat?" There's a lilt to Paddy's question as he lets go to push two fingers up into Remmick's mouth. His lips, swollen from biting them in an effort to stay quiet, part obediently for Paddy. A muffled noise sounds out around his fingers, and the suckling against them makes Paddy's cock strain in his underwear. "Want me to fuck myself on your cock?"

Remmick's ears burn at how freely the question enters the space between them. He stares blankly until he can get his neck to work, nodding with a muffled 'mhmph' against Paddy's tongue at the thought.

Paddy smirks, thrusting the coated digits in and out of Remmick's lips as though it were his hole. He sighs gently at the way Remmick coats his fingers without needing to be told, using little kitten licks in between. "Who knew you could be a good pet?"

With his hands free, Remmick's hand grasps Paddy's knees, and they both glance down at the tips of his claws that have made an appearance. Paddy's gaze lingers on them as he begins to remove his trousers with his other hand. "I heard other parts pop out when your kind get pent up enough…"

The response is so thin that Paddy almost misses it. "…Breedin'." Remmick doesn't elaborate, and there's only a hesitant nod.

Paddy pulls his coated digits from Remmick's mouth, noting the way his lips try to follow for a moment. His eyes slip shut as he brushes the wet fingers over his own puckered hole. Taking no time to tease himself, he leans forward to rest a hand on Remmick's chest as he eases himself open. Remmick's jaw goes slack again as he watches, his own hand moving to idly wrap around his length at the sight. There's a soft noise from Paddy as he finds a spot along his walls that makes his cock jump in response, and Remmick can feel drool beginning to gather at the corners of his mouth. "You think I haven't noticed you lookin' at me around camp?" Never mind all the times Paddy has been glancing enough to notice in the first place.

Remmick has the gall to deny it without a second thought. "I-I haven't-"

Paddy is in Remmick's face straight away, teeth fierce and gritted with challenge. "No? No sly glances while you're out countin' stock? When I'm tryin' to read?" His voice lowers as he presses his lips to the shell of Remmick's ear, really wanting the vampire to take note of how aware he is. "No spyin' when I'm bathin'?" He grunts when he feels ready to remove his fingers, unable to admit out loud that he's gone too long without having someone inside him.

Remmick's words get stuck in his throat, unable to escape the awful reality that he's been caught. He hadn't even realised that he had made watching Paddy such a habit, and a cold feeling rushes behind his knees, trapped under the smug leer of Paddy Mayne. Despite the shock, Remmick's hand glides quicker over his cock until he's weeping from the tip again. Something about Paddy knowing about all the stolen glances and using it against him, lights a fire in his belly.

When Remmick's brows tightly gather, Paddy is quick to grab his wrist and wrench it away. It tears a frustrated growl from Remmick's throat, and before he knows what stops him from hitting his peak for a second time, Paddy has both his wrists firmly pinned above his head again.

With Remmick restrained, Paddy nips the shell of his ear, hard. "Told you not to growl at me." The sudden pain and the threat of it go straight to Remmick's cock. To his own shame, it jerks against Paddy's so much that he can't stop himself from rolling his hips up for any sort of friction.

Remmick's voice becomes frayed with impatience, and when Paddy moves back away from his ear, he's met with a pair of red eyes. "Then fuck me already."

The hungry stare strokes Paddy's ego and dares him to push the other even more. His eyes watch Remmick's face, giving an experimental grind of his hips so that their cocks drag across one another. "Think I'll hold off a little longer."

There's a bite to Remmick's voice at the movement, and he's clearly trying to hold back any semblance of another growl. "Paddy…"

"Tell me how much you want it." It's clear it isn't up for discussion.

Yet Remmick still avoids it, knowing he won't be able to stop if pushed. "You can see I-."

As if reading his mind, Paddy's words are against Remmick's lips, hot and heavy as he enunciates each one with a meaningful thrust of his twitching cock against Remmick's. "Fuckin'. Beg. For it."

Remmick whines. The sound parts his mouth open completely, enough for Paddy to see the fangs that have slipped out now. Those words do a number on him, and he struggles against Paddy's grip as he feels himself unable to keep his claws in check as they grow. Finally, he relents to it, submitting to what he wants over any humiliation. His face burns as he pleads; wet in his mouth, drooling and unable to think of anything else at all. "Please. I- I need to be inside you. I can't… Gods, I can't think- Need to feel how tight you are. Please, Paddy-" He hiccups through his panting, frustrated to the point where he squeezes his eyes shut in fear that he'll cry.

Paddy watches him as heat sweeps under his skin, satisfied with the way Remmick sounds. He momentarily takes pity on him enough to capture his lips with his own with a light grunt. It's been so long since Remmick has had anyone do it that his voice cracks with a whimper.

The kiss ends before Remmick's brain thinks to even reciprocate it, and Paddy's teeth only scrape his bottom lip for a second before they're gone again. There's a quick swipe of Paddy's fingers to gather the drool clinging to Remmick's chin, followed by a wet feeling coating over his length. "Y'always this fuckin' needy?" Remmick's eyes crack open at the loss, and then he's watching Paddy grin as he lines himself up with the flushed tip of Remmick's cock.

Any fragment of a snarky reply disappears from Remmick's head, nodding dumbly instead.

Remmick's brow draws up together, unaware for a beat longer than he should have been that Paddy isn't even holding his wrists anymore. When Paddy sighs softly with the immediate stretch, Remmick is trembling underneath him. It takes everything in him not to lift his hips up in response to the tight heat sinking onto his cock. Instead, Remmick grips onto Paddy's hips. He doesn't mean for his claws to nip at the skin, but at this point, he's so worked up that he doesn't have it in him to care.

The way Paddy stuffs Remmick inside him shakes a breath loose from them both, already feeling the thickness knock against delicate parts of him until he's right up to the hilt. He doesn't have it in him to admit how good it feels or how much he needed it, stubborn enough not to let Remmick have the satisfaction. Not while he adjusts to the size of him; it's more than Paddy expected.

When Remmick is flush to Paddy's ass, his eyes roll up in his head. From the way he can hear the other's pulse race, he knows how much he's enjoying it already, even if he isn't saying it. That pulls a grin from Remmick for the first time in a while, and he decides to lean into the way Paddy puts on a front. "C'mon, then. Fuck me like you hate me."

Paddy's expression falters with that as he raises his hips to set up a slow rhythm. The response is so abrupt that he surprises himself. "Course I hate you." Though the second he glances down to Remmick, he isn't entirely certain if he means it in the moment. A shiver runs through Paddy at the fullness as he moves, and he takes his own throbbing cock into his hands as he rides Remmick at a faster pace.

The cracks in Paddy's facade begin to chip away with every knock searching for his prostate, unknowingly revealing more of his pleasure to Remmick. When he finds it, Paddy's gasp lets him know where to hit each time.

Remmick's eyes glint with something caught between mischief and awe, feeling himself jerk inside and using his grip on Paddy's hips to help bounce him on his cock. "Shit- There we go, use me."

Paddy does exactly that; he moves his hips so that every snap of them forces Remmick's leaking tip into the same spot each time, until his own breaths unravel into panting. He spots the way Remmick watches him; colour heavy in his face and seemingly unable to take his eyes off him, his jaw twitching in time with his cock. Hungry.

A string of moans works their way out of Remmick, not concerned at how loud he may be getting as he feels his climax building with each flex of his stomach. Paddy licks his lips as he spots it, selfishly not wanting Remmick to go soft before he can reach his own release. He strokes himself desperately in the hope of finishing before facing disappointment. "Don't come."

Remmick's eyes narrow to Paddy, running his tongue over his fangs at the sight in front of him and the thin line of blood that's still below his nose. "Lemme bite you." He offers up the impish compromise as if a taste of blood could slow him down.

Paddy shakes his head with a scoff; the way lust fogs up his mind prevents any clever retort. "Fuck off, bat."

A sharp laugh punches out of Remmick's throat as he grips Paddy's hips harder, forcing him to stop altogether as he wills his own hips to stop grinding up. "Let me." He's almost surprised by his ability to pause, but the potential for blood gives him the power to ignore the angry whine from Paddy. "Or I'll-" He twists his expression to make a show of it how close he is, anything for an opportunity to get a taste.

There's a twitch inside Paddy, and between the need to feel more and the thought of losing some blood to keep it going is enough to sway him. Without thinking, Paddy's eyes glance away as he tilts his head, extending his neck for the other's fangs.

Remmick's fangs drip at the sight of it; he hadn't thought he would get the reaction, and he takes advantage of the silent invitation without question. He makes Paddy sink back down onto him as he sits up, and a clawed hand seizes the back of Paddy's hair to keep him locked in that position. In an instant, Remmick's teeth slip into Paddy's neck with a wet crunch.

The other gasps through his teeth at the cold sting, slowly relaxing into it as he continues to move his hips. Remmick's gurgled sound rings in Paddy's ears; it shouldn't make his cock jump, but the raw edge of it does. Especially as Remmick's hands move down Paddy's back until both slide over his ass, pressing his fingers to squeeze the muscle there. Remmick's muffled chuckle is dark as he feeds, light-headed at the taste gushing into his mouth. Through a mix of rolling Paddy down onto his cock and matching with sharper, heavier thrusts up that he can manage. He doesn't unlatch his fangs even as he finally hits his climax, spilling into Paddy with a long, drawn-out moan.

Air is forced into Paddy's lungs from the sudden feeling of Remmick hitting his peak minutes before he can reach his own. He's betrayed and angry for believing giving him some blood would stave it off for longer. But when Remmick's hands don't stop him from moving on his cock, his brows pinch with confusion. Remmick is still rock-hard inside him, and if anything, he might be more so.

There are small gulps in Paddy's ear until Remmick slowly retracts his bloodied fangs from his neck. Once he's dragged his tongue over the fresh wound, his whisper is more menacing. "All that teasin' of me… Did you have your fun, dove?" A harsh slap to Paddy's ass, followed by a slow massage of Remmick's hand that makes him keen. His cock pulses at Remmick's breathy voice in his ear. "Ready for mine?" Panic isn't often something Paddy is faced with, but he feels it then, trying to crawl up his spine. By the time it reaches his skull, his mind is too fuzzy to recognise it as anything other than excitement.

Paddy can't help it; the constant press of Remmick's head against his sensitive walls, pushing him closer to the edge and making him more pliant than he wants to be. A rush of arousal hits Paddy in the gut, and he only nods, half-lidded instead of anything verbal as he begins to lose his control.

There's a dark snap inside of Remmick, and a surge of something cruel and possessive sweeps through him when he feels Paddy clench around him. Before Paddy can protest, Remmick is moving him onto his back without pulling out, still hard and throbbing inside for more.

"I'm close." Paddy manages to rasp out, still stroking himself until Remmick grabs his wrist to stop it.

It gets an annoyed huff, but Remmick is bringing Paddy's fingers coated in pre-cum to slide his tongue over them, as he grinds his hips down. "So come then." Paddy's eyes widen at the command, watching the way Remmick sucks his fingers dry with a smirk. He has no idea where this side to Remmick pounced from, unaware that it was lurking somewhere to begin with, but with the last of his resilience crumbling away, he doesn't care.

Paddy's back arches as Remmick thrusts relentlessly into him, and he matches every one of them until he at last hits his peak with a repressed cry. There's a pleased rumble in Remmick's chest as Paddy's cock jumps, then releases hard over his stomach and chest. His cock twitches wildly when Remmick doesn't slow down. If anything, he plunges into Paddy quicker than before, excitement alive in his veins at getting to see Paddy come undone.

Paddy's wrist is dropped so that Remmick can grab each of Paddy's thighs, pushing them up to his chest with a feral sound. A strained noise leaks out of Paddy at the way Remmick's claws grip him, and each brush of the vampire's cock against him feels like too much. He gasps loudly at how hard he pounds into him, feeling each full thrust in his lungs and hovering on the edge of pleasure-pain with it.

Remmick still needs to be closer. He moves Paddy's legs to sit them both on his shoulders without stopping. Without the capacity to think, he nips roughly at Paddy's inner thigh, right next to his knee. It's not enough to break skin, but he bruises him intentionally before resting his lips there. "Is this what you're after? Gettin' me all whipped up." Paddy's breath rushes out unevenly as he feels his cock try to harden again, but it only makes it halfway, having already released. The stare he gives Remmick completely glazes over, head swimming with a drunk feeling from being forced into overstimulation.

He loves it.

"Y-Yes-" Paddy nods feverishly, face burning and not bothering to stop the helpless sounds that drip out of his lips. "S'good- It.. S'too much-" The words are slurred, and he can't resist touching himself again every time Remmick stuffs himself back into his greedy hole. The barely-there hiccups Paddy gives when he sounds as though he's being pushed to tears pluck a sadistic string inside Remmick.

Remmick looks like a man possessed as he sweeps his tongue over the mark he knows will turn purple. "Go on and cry for it. Love seein' that my cock's just too much for you." He says it like he isn't moments away from spilling into Paddy again; his tone stretched with a desperate need to fill him up completely until he's heavy with it.

Remmick leans forward, down enough so that he can drag his lips along the nape of Paddy's neck, tongue sweeping over the thin sheen of sweat that's formed. "C'mon, you can gimme one more, can't you?" The slow bite of his fangs against Paddy's earlobe wrenches a whine out of him. "Come on my cock- One more and I'll stop it."

Paddy sees stars as his cock gives a last twitch, then his fist stops as his second orgasm hits him, milking the come out of him until it drips down his fingers. He's silent this time, barring a single, hitched choke; tears prick in his eyes as he struggles to catch his breath.

That's when Remmick knows. He can feel a rapid swell at the base of him, and he knows he's going to knot inside of Paddy. "Wanna fill you- I-I'm gonna knot- Oh fuck."

Before Paddy can even register what Remmick said, he feels it; Remmick buries himself into his walls all the way and stays there as a sudden pressure stretches his hole significantly more than before. His fingers ball into fists at the rush of warmth flooding him, alongside Remmick's strangled moans above. He lets his head roll back on the ground, as a low, possessive growl rolls out from above with a heavy, "Mine." Paddy expects it to be quick, but the sensation of being filled doesn’t let up as each press of Remmick’s hips sends a new wave of release pouring into him. Until he’s impossibly full, and Remmick is staring, glassy-eyed at the gentle swell of Paddy’s stomach.

Finally, Remmick's sounds slow to a complete stop, still deep and locked in place by the knot. He's panting wildly between the light nibbles he gives to Paddy's neck and collarbone, before resting his forehead there. The two of them remain like that until Remmick is blinking, his thoughts sifting back into the room. His breath catches in his throat when he realises what he's done, and fear creeps up inside him. "S-Sorry. I didn't mean to.." It trails off as he tries to collect his thoughts, but he's distracted by the scent of blood and the fact that he doesn't know how long they'll both be like this.

Paddy's voice sounds raspy when he tries it, trying to get a footing on the situation after letting go of control of it to begin with. "That's enough." He tries to sound annoyed, but it doesn't quite grasp the edges. It reaches Remmick's ears and there's a pull of guilt in him, concerned that he's hurt Paddy. "I said let go." When Paddy tries to move away, Remmick moves with him, and the air hisses past his teeth with a sharp inhale.

His claws are quick to grab Paddy's hips to get him to stop before he hurts either of them. "I can't- It don't work like that…"

As Paddy's mind begins to clear, the heat burns his face as he glares up. "What the hell are you talkin' about?"

Remmick's brows furrow up with the sensitive pulse of his knot, not remotely thinking about what he's saying. "I… Oh gods, Paddy, it feels good like this." His eyes drop to where they're connected, and a quiet sob falls out of him at the sight of it.

Paddy's breath catches gently in his throat at the way he hears his name. "Have you completely lost it?"

It forces Remmick's eyes shut, suddenly quieter with being faced with reality. "I told you, it's a… breedin' thing."

"Pardon?" Paddy blinks, staring daggers up at him as he forces a pointed laugh. "You think I want to be your little mate?"

The thought of it makes Remmick's knot visibly pulse, and he swallows thickly. He knows Paddy felt it, too. "No- You just… pushed my buttons and my body reacted."

Paddy touches the wound on his neck with the reminder, undecided if he regrets letting Remmick do it in the heat of the moment. "You bit me."

It's so matter-of-fact that Remmick mirrors the tone of it instead of apologising. He decides that he isn't sorry for it. "Not hard enough to turn you."

A silence settles over the two men until Paddy works the tension in his jaw before addressing the more pressing issue of Remmick's knot. "How long?"

"Depends." Remmick tries to answer flatly to counteract how concerned he feels internally. It was one thing being intimate with someone again; it was another to let himself get so worked up that he would actually lose enough control to knot.

Paddy's eyes narrow in response, waiting for more than just 'depends' as anything acceptable. It's only then that Remmick continues, trying to recall anything he knows about it after so long. "-On pheromones? I don't know." He offers up a forced half-laugh. "If you hate me, it shouldn't be more than ten… maybe twenty minutes, at most." It wasn't a complete lie; usually, an unsuited pair might only be joined for less than ten minutes, especially if there were negative feelings between them already.

Not that Remmick ever understood why that might happen in the first place, until now.

An hour later, and Remmick is still swollen when he tries to pull away from Paddy. His cheeks have a heavy blush to them, and he hasn't been able to look Paddy in the face for the last fifteen minutes. Not that he needs to. He knows Paddy is glaring up at the top of the tent so intensely, he can think of at least three jokes relating to it catching fire from the staring. He wishes it were any other position they were stuck in, or rather, none at all, if he was actually wishing for things.

They're just lucky that the tent is far enough away that the noises never seemed to draw attention; both of them being missing, however, might eventually do it.

Eventually, Remmick gently shifts his hips back to see if anything has changed, and only breathes a hushed 'fuck' when it moves Paddy with him. He ignores the way the pulse dances in the man beneath him with the movement. Remmick still can't look him in the face, but he attempts to break the silence by addressing the elephant in the room. "…Paddy…"

"Don't." It's immediate. Gritted. Paddy already knows what he's going to say. He doesn't want to talk about it, certainly not like this. Not just because he's annoyed with being forced to stay put, but because he isn't willing to be faced with any more complicated feelings beyond anger or lust.

Instead of listening, Remmick points out the obvious. It takes most of his concentration to remain calm about it, thankful that Paddy hasn't taken to more extreme measures to be free. "We're still-"

"I am not your fuckin' mate." He's flustered when he snaps back at Remmick. It's mostly under his breath, though he nearly fails to keep his voice down alongside an unhealthy dose of anger.

The tone has Remmick's eyes narrow, irritated with his attitude over something he's already apologised for. "I know." Remmick can't help but snarl back, his upper lip curling with exasperation as he reaches down to take Paddy's jaw with his claws. He finally looks down at him despite his own shame, leaning down to tut in his face. "My mate, wouldn't be such a brat." His voice curls around the last word in a way that has Paddy's spent cock twitch.

He can't get a read on Remmick at all; it's dizzying as he presses his mouth into a flat line.

He isn't attracted to Remmick.

It's hate that makes his stomach drop at the thought of him.

Even if the prominent knot and the state of his own cock scream otherwise.

Remmick's head tilts, just so, examining Paddy's features and the way his heartbeat jumps under his intense watch. He creeps forward, breathy words tickling Paddy's ear enough to make arousal pool in his stomach again. "Or would they?" Paddy keeps a stern face; the stubborn parts of him are unrelenting. The way his breath catches betrays him, and when Remmick gives a not-so-subtle shift of his hips so that Paddy feels his knot everywhere, a smugness takes over.

The only clear response Remmick gets is a scowl, and while he lets go of Paddy, his own eyes drift down to the base of him. Finally. A wash of relief filters through him as he realises that his knot is receding at last. Paddy seems to catch on as well, and after a few long minutes, Remmick knocks against sensitive parts of the human while he slides himself free.

It's enough to keep Paddy's arousal stoked, annoyed that he can't stop his cock from jerking against Remmick as he moves away.

Those red eyes don't move from the way Paddy twitches, even after they're free. Remmick hasn't moved far, only enough that he can watch his cum begin to drip down Paddy's thighs. There's a barely-there moan uttered below him that catches his attention. Remmick wets his lips before he states so nonchalantly, it isn't clear what he's thinking. "You're hard again."

To a frustrated Paddy, that doesn't matter. After so long with Remmick inside him, pressing against his sensitive parts every time one of them moves, he can't think clearly enough to say anything clever and not aggressive. "Shut up."

Remmick's echoed retort drips with a single laugh as he flashes his brows to Paddy. "Make me." The irony exchanged is palpable.

It's a direct challenge, and Paddy doesn't have it in him to back down. His hands reach up to Remmick's shirt, fingers gripping the fabric to yank him down. It forces Remmick to fall forward, hands landing on either side of Paddy to cage him as their mouths meet.

This time, Remmick moves against him in a crushing kiss. Paddy's breath staggers around it as Remmick moans into him, and he tries to remind himself that it doesn't mean anything. He's simply showing the other that he isn't one to back down from a challenge, that's all.

Remmick's hand moves down Paddy's side, brushing over the exposed skin of his thigh and back up until his fingers can palm his erection. It throbs in his hand, and Paddy breaks the kiss to pant with how sensitive he feels. Remmick chases his throat with his lips, pressing them to his flesh and muttering just enough for Paddy to hear. "Turn over."

Paddy's brows furrow despite the clear arousal in his features, and Remmick makes note of exactly how he looks for later. "What?"

Remmick's greed whisks another lie from the ether with sly ease. "Turn over. Might not be my mate, but it ain't proper leavin' you like that." He leans back to watch Paddy as he waits, knowing he won't get another chance for this if he leaves it. Words of protest die in Paddy's throat, no doubt concerned about Remmick knotting again. "I ain't fuckin' you, Paddy. Do as you're told." He gives a light slap to Paddy's thigh to compel him to move, noting that his claws have retracted nicely again. That, and the way Paddy's eyes seemed to jolt at the slap.

Paddy's cock jerks at the feeling, and he's suddenly feeling a little more pliable than before. It's most likely the tiredness beginning to set in, nothing more.

When Paddy begrudgingly turns over to sit on his knees with some 'help', Remmick's hand shoves in between his shoulder blades. There's a quick grunt from Paddy as he's forced onto all fours, and before he can raise his voice to Remmick, there's a sharp crack of a palm against his ass that cuts it dead in its tracks. It forces Paddy's cock to jump with the contact, and a lengthy moan to fall out of him before he can stop it.

"So fuckin' stubborn…" Remmick's eyelids get heavy as he does it again, and again, immediately following it up each time by palming the muscle slowly until eventually, Paddy's chest slowly sinks to the ground without being told to do it. All the while, Remmick's eyes are trained on the way the rest of his cum is spilling out of Paddy, dripping down his balls and onto the ground. He swallows at the sight, salivating again while his fingers skim over to softly tap at his soaked hole.

Paddy's body flinches slightly, and Remmick sees his hands clench into fists when he slips a finger past the ring of muscle to slide some of the spend back into him. "-Oh god-" Remmick's ears twitch at the way Paddy's voice cries out: hoarse and wanting as he pushes back against the intrusion.

When Remmick thrusts in search of the spot that he hopes to make Paddy see stars, the way he's met with a set of rocking hips makes his voice drop with pleasure. "That's it, take what you need, dove." He's not entirely sure where it comes from, but he doesn't push away the sense of pride when Paddy's moans become muffled against his forearms.

Paddy can't stop moving against Remmick's hand as a second finger joins, and he can't deny the way it feels much better than his own. Especially with each curl of the pads as they search for his prostate; when Remmick finds it, Paddy's cock is already leaking and flushed red with need. It has him gasping and panting for 'more' under his breath, to which Remmick gladly obliges.

When he feels a wet, slow stripe glide up from his sack to join the fingers, Paddy pushes his forehead against his crossed arms. His jaw loosens, and his brows furrow up as he realises it's Remmick's tongue licking into him, likely coated in his own release that had dripped down to his balls. "Filthy fuckin'- O-Oh-"

Remmick's tongue makes quick work of Paddy, moving alongside his fingers as he lets out a darker chuckle at his reaction. Remmick watches for the ways Paddy reacts to his touch, and it isn't long after taking note that he has Paddy's legs shaking like he's about to spill. Conscious that it already looked sensitive, Remmick's free hand moves to cup Paddy's cock, playing with his dripping head enough to know that he's close.

What he doesn't expect, is for Paddy the moment finally snaps; seconds before he's coming, his breathy moans are worked out of him and woven with Remmick's name. "-Fuck- R-Remmick- I..I'm- Don't stop- Don't you fuckin' stop-" Remmick groans into his hole as keeps up his pace, eager to see Paddy finish after hearing his name. If Remmick had anything left to give, he'd have come again right there on the spot.

Finally, the heat crashes through Paddy's body as he hits his climax, and he has to bite into his fist to muffle any noise. It draws a quiet, sated growl from Remmick as he slows his movements. He stays there as he watches Paddy catch his breath, unable to help himself from smiling at the thought of the mess they've both made. When Paddy's hips stop twitching with the aftermath, it's only then that Remmick retracts from him completely.

There's a soft whine from Paddy at the loss, and Remmick can't help but think the way he slumps afterwards makes him look particularly boneless.

When Paddy eventually sits up to get his bearings, he looks back to see Remmick resting back on his hands. He isn't the least bit sure how to address any of what's transpired, or even if he wants to. All he knows is that tiredness is seeping into his bones and that he needs to sleep it off. When he's ready, Paddy gathers his clothes to silently put them back on.

Remmick, predictably, is the one to break the silence as he stands. "So, can I stay?"

Paddy sits on his cot, taking a glance at Remmick before giving a weak nod. "If you shut up."

Remmick lowers himself onto his own cot; he won't sleep, but he could do with the rest. "Only if you make me."

The two of them share a grin, and for the first time since Paddy got to camp, he gives a genuine, soft laugh at the cheek of it as he lies down for the night. "Aye, I might."

“Look up now, ya hear?”

The wooden floorboards of the shed bit harsh into the bare skin of your knees, but it was nothing compared to the rope wound tight around your wrists and thighs—pulling your hands behind your back and chafing the skin if you so much as twitched. Roy yanked your chin up, forcing you eye-to-eye. Oh, he was furious.

“Ain’t polite to go day-dreamin’ when a man’s tryin’ to teach ya something important,” he said, his voice a low rumble that ran straight down your spine.

“Roy, honey, I’m sorry. You know I didn’t mean it baby,” you pleaded—hoping for the mercy of the sweet man you knew he was deep down, but right now all you could see in him was lust and punishment.

Crack. He slapped you across the face, not brutally, but hard enough to leave you shocked and whining.

He gripped your jaw firm, running his grit-rough thumb over where your cheek burned. Soothingly, like he wasn’t the one who just hit you.

“A whore and a liar, huh? Don’t go runnin’ your mouth when all I’m askin’ is for you to listen, sweetheart.” With his free hand he tugged at his belt, fast and practiced. “Now, I’m gonna make this real simple for ya, darling. I’m gonna do the talkin’ and you’re gonna do the apologizin’. Starting with that filthy mouth o’ yours.” Tapping on your jaw twice to get you to open.

You scowled.

“Now, now. Don’t give me that look. It’s your own fault for bein’ so much trouble in the first place,” he said.

It really wasn’t.

Roy was just so damn jealous. It was some nowhere bar in the middle of a nowhere town and you were just trying to see if you could snag some free drinks from the bartender. From the way he was looking at you, it was almost a sure thing. Yes, you made some flirty comments and showed a bit of skin but that was it!

Roy had come in quiet—dangerous. Putting his hand around your waist in a way that said, ‘we’ll talk about this later.’ You didn’t even get your free drink before he was pulling you outside and back onto his horse. Scowlin’. Commanding you to ‘stay’ like he owned you, like you were no better than one of his mares. The bastard.

It wasn’t until the next town over you got the consequences of it.

Frank’s gang had gone off to terrorize some poor tavern for their beer, but when Frank asked Roy to come with, Roy just said, “Can’t. Busy.” Pulling his hat low and dragging you off to an abandoned shed that told everyone exactly what he was busy with—catching whistles and hoot hollarin’ as Roy shepherded you away like a damn Border Collie.

Now you were here: bound in his expert ropework and cursin’ the fact he was so good at it.

It coiled around your wrists, up your arms, and around your breasts. Keeping your shoulders high and pulled back to accommodate the rope binding your hands tight. Your thighs were tied to your calves, keeping them bent and useless as you were forced to sit on your knees. He ruined your good clothes too. After he got you all tied up, he ripped your blouse and skirt off, all torn and hanging off you now—loose fabric only kept on by how snug the rope was against your skin. You were gonna make him cough up a pretty penny for that after he was done. You’d be damned if you were gonna leave this shed naked.

He snapped in front of your eyes. “Hey, what did I say about day-dreamin’? I should be the only thing you’re thinkin’ about in that pretty head o’ yours.”

“You are,” you said, “I was thinkin’ about how the Roy I know is gentler than this.”

“Yeah?” He grinned mockingly, moving aside his belt to take his cock in hand, already flushed red and swollen with lust at the sight of you bound in his handiwork. He stroked himself slow. Precum beading at the tip in a way that made your mouth water.

“Yeah,” you said weakly, confidence already starting to wane.

“No gentleness here, honey. You’re gonna take it rough, or not at all. Your pick. But ya better choose fast ‘cause I am not a patient man.”

Bastard.

You parted your mouth.

“Oh, that’s good. Cute little slut tryin’ to make amends, huh? Wider, now. Open for me, yeah—hmm—love it when you listen proper…”

He rubbed himself on your tongue, rolling forward while your lips wrapped around him.

You sucked lightly down the shaft—salt and sweat filling up all your senses in a dizzying rush. Teasingly, you pulled back, dipping into the slit to make him shudder and groan above you as you tongued that sensitive spot.

“Fuck, sweetheart. That’s right, get it all wet,” he said, curling his fingers into your hair and bobbing you on his cock.

He took control. Starting steady but then thrusting something fast and mean into your mouth. Fucking your face hard while he kept your head locked tight exactly where he wanted it.

“Always actin’ like a damn brothel girl. Wanderin’ eyes—God—flirtin’ with other fuckin’ men. You’re just beggin’ to be tamed, huh? You wanna act like a whore? Shit, I can treat you like a whore, sweetheart.”

You whined as he reached deeper, high and keen. Splitting you open. He didn’t slow—not even a little.

You gagged. Spit pushing out and down your chin in thick trails—coating his cock ‘til it was shiny and slick with it.

“Open that throat up for me, honey—that’s right. I know you can take it good and deep…”

He pushed you down all the way, determined to make you take it all. Your nose sitting right up against the hair at the base, his balls resting on your chin. You screwed your eyes shut, working your throat around him, muscles involuntarily contracting and squeezing his length to make him moan. He pulled your hair—

You wished you could say you hated it entirely; but admittedly the pain made heat curl something fierce between your legs.

Abruptly, he pulled out, letting you cough and sputter and gasp for air. Grinding his spit-soaked dick against your cheek humiliating-like.

You worked your jaw to try and lesson the ache.

“No, don’t close up on me now. Open, open…” he urged.

And just to add fuel to the fire, he spat right there on your offered tongue. Viscous and bubbly.

Roy caressed your jaw, forced it closed, and stared something intense. A look commanding you to ‘swallow.’ He only eased up when he saw your throat bob. A groan on his lips at the sight.

He kneeled down to your level, “That’s it. Good fuckin’ girl. How are ya feelin’ honey?”

You glared. “…mad.”

He chuckled, low and mean. “Oh, yeah? Is that what this is?” His hand reached low, sliding down to your cunt.

“Goddamn…” he whispered, almost in awe at the glide of it.

You whimpered, his calloused fingers grinding where you needed it the most. Hot and swollen and begging for friction.

Your hands tugged at their binds, legs squirming in place. It was guaranteed that your skin would be rubbed raw and sore come morning.

“Please, Roy, please please stop teasin’ me already,” you begged. You felt so empty, wanting something to ease that burning need inside.

He slapped your slack-jawed face and you cried out. Your cheek smarting and burning with the force of it. Embarrassingly, another gush of wetness spilled out of you and onto his hand. Roy laughing in disbelief when he realized what just happened.

He leaned in close, his breath warm on your skin. “Ya like being smacked, honey? Does it make your pretty pussy drip? Let it sting, baby, let me give you what you want.”

He got up. Hands settling below your thighs and hoisting you off the ground and against the wall with a strength that left you breathless. You crashed into it with a yelp; your bound arms getting crushed by your own weight while he settled between your spread legs, folded and open like a present just for him. Ropes pulling and digging hard into your heated flesh.

“Love ya when you're helpless like this. All roughed up and pretty. Keep struggling while I set ya on my cock, huh? Can you do that for me?” he breathed. Lining up and keeping you as still as possible while you squirmed.

And then he pushed. Hilting all the way in with one thrust.

You couldn't help the sounds that escaped you, almost feral with the way he filled you so completely.

He held you flat against the wall. Hands digging into your ass to hold you up, using your weight as leverage while he drove into your drenched heat.

His arms flexed, veins visible, as he kept you nice and open. Immediately, his rhythm was merciless—fast and desperate and cruel.

“Sweet cunt gripping me like she don't wanna let go. Ya sure you're still mad, sweetheart?” He groaned, lost in the hot clench of you. Snapping his hips up into your cunt good and hard, until each breath felt like it was being pushed out of you.

He leaned forward, closing in around your neck and jaw—sucking bruising kisses high enough to be impossible to hide.

“Roy!—Ah, fuh—uck,” you cried, voice cracking. Unsure if you needed him to slow down or go harder. Cunt gushing at the way his fingers bruised your thighs.

And like the damn sadist he was, Roy smacked your ass. Hard. You tightened so completely around him you could feel the shudder run through his body.

“Shit. You're my filthy little pain slut, aren't ya baby? Dirty fuckin’ girl. Are ya feelin’ sorry? Care to deign me with some fuckin’ respect yet?” Smacking your ass again just to feel you tense around his cock—the sound loud and filthy in your ear.

His assault was ruthless. Laying you into the wall like he was trying to drive you through it. Licking and nipping the sides of your throat, the hollow of your neck. Hitting all the spots inside that made you thoughtless. It was maddening how painfully good it felt, how easily he claimed every inch of you.

“I'm sorry, Roy” you babbled. “I'm so sorry, baby. Only yours, okay? I'm yours. I'm sorry, I'll never do it again.”

“That's right. Mine. You’re my whore, honey. Only I can satisfy this cunt, huh? This greedy fuckin’ hole—Oh, fuck.” He shifted, pressing you into the wall and holding you up with one arm as he took out his knife. Reaching behind to cut the rope binding your hands in one swift movement before letting the knife clatter to the floor.

“Touch yourself baby, get yourself off on my cock. Come on now, let me feel it—” he said, both hands back on your hips and pulling you down hard with each thrust.

Your arms hurt; they were stiff and sore after being held taut for so long. But you listened, stretching out your hand and rubbing your clit in fast hard circles. So close…

You gasped, that release seizing your whole body stiff. Your cunt spasmed and clenched hard in quick bursts as it rolled through you, making Roy speed up and bear down.

“Good... So goddamn sweet, squirting all over me. Fuckin’ perfect little pussy.” He fucked you through it, whisperin’ about how tight you were squeezing him, how good you felt, how sweet you were when you were moanin’. All the while he dragged out your orgasm—pulling you through each convulsing twitch just to do it again.

“Cummin’ so beautiful for me, honey. Ain’t never seen a prettier sight than this. Keep milkin’ me baby, you’re gonna make me cum—”

“Roy, please.”

Sensitivity bordering on too much, you shook. With your hands free you gripped his shoulders, your rubbed-raw fingers holding on for dear life.

“Hold out for me—Let me use you, sweet thing—Oh, God—” He pumped in and out, finally losing his rhythm. Burying into you over and over until he reached that edge, gripping your hips hard and spilling his cum deep inside. You felt him throb and twitch, hot ropes filling you up with each pulse of his cock.

The aftermath hit you both hard. Panting. Hearts beating quick. Just staying still for one long moment before, eventually, Roy pulled out. His softening cock messy and dripping with you. Tucking himself back in with a sigh.

He lowered you slowly to the floor gentler than a baby lamb. Too tired to undo each knot, he grabbed the fallen knife to cut you loose. Stretching and soothing each mark as he let you free.

Your throat was too raspy to talk, your mind too tired to think, but when you looked up at Roy with your sweet eyes he knew exactly what you wanted.

“C’mere, sugar.” He beckoned, all softness and quiet words now, taking you into his arms and leaning back.