He is always careful with you. Too careful, almost, as though there are lines drawn between you that only he can see. Remmick will stay, touch, even sink into you with an unrelenting hunger—but he never lets you glimpse the edges of what he really is. Not once.

Not a claw. Not a fang. Not even a fleck of blood on his mouth.

If he comes to you late, you always hear the telltale sound of water first, the splash from the basin or the sound of movement from the tub. He makes himself clean, human-shaped again, before ever lying beside you. And when you ask why—in a whisper against his chest one night—he only shakes his head, muttering that it would be rude for you to see him otherwise.

Rude, as if it were bad manners. As if baring the thing beneath the skin would somehow insult you.

So you let him keep his rituals. You let him keep the secret, because when his hands slide up your thighs and his mouth presses hot at your throat, what does it matter what shape he was in before?

Until tonight.

The bed creaks faintly, not with the slow weight of a man undressing, but with the uneven stumble of something heavy trying to right itself. The sound pulls you from sleep. Your eyelids flutter open in the dark, and what you see doesn’t belong to any dream—

Remmick, crouched in the shadows at the edge of the bed.

His claws, long and curled, drag through the sheets as though anchoring him there. His eyes, red and burning in the half-light. His jaw hangs wrong, unhinged just enough for those inhuman teeth to gleam, wet and sharp. And the blood—smeared across his face, his throat, soaking into the collar of his shirt.

He freezes the moment he realizes you’re awake.

“Fuck,” he rasps, trying to cover his mouth with the back of one shaking hand. “No—I didn’t mean for you to—”

His words tumble over each other, frantic, half-choked. “I should’ve—I wasn’t s’pose to let you—it’s not—it’s not for you to see.” His claws scrape back against the sheets as if he could shrink into them, as if he could disappear.

“I’m sorry,” he breathes, voice cracking. His throat works hard, thick with blood and guilt. “Christ, it’s filthy. I’m—look at me, I’m—” He cuts himself off, turning his head away like a dog caught in the act. His shoulders hunch, sharp and jagged beneath the bloodied shirt.

“I never wanted you to see me like this.” The words come softer now, but no less desperate. “It’s disgusting. I should’ve stayed away until it was gone. Until I was clean. You’re not s’pose to—”

He presses his clawed hand harder against his mouth, as if he could shove the fangs back inside, hide them from your eyes. His chest heaves with something close to shame, every inch of him trembling in the dim light.

You blink, stunned, heart hammering in your chest. For a moment, you think you should recoil, scream, run—but you don’t. The blood, the claws, the fangs—they aren’t repulsive. They’re raw. They’re dangerous. And something inside you aches at it.

Your gaze lingers on him, drinking in the way his jaw moves, the way the light catches the red in his eyes. His sharp teeth glint as he pants through the apology, claws flexing against the sheets. He’s trembling, ashamed, terrified you’ll hate him—but all you feel is a pulse of desire so strong it makes your toes curl under the covers.

“You’re… not gross,” you whisper, almost in disbelief at your own boldness. “Not… not to me.”

He freezes again, the panic in his eyes sharp, raw. “I—I shouldn’t be—I thought you’d—”

“I want this,” you cut in, voice shaking but firm, and your hand creeps out from under the blanket, brushing the blood-slicked edge of his forearm. “I want you like this. All of it.”

His eyes widen, panic flickering into disbelief. “You don’t—”

“I do,” you interrupt, letting your fingers trace the curve of his wrist, the sharp line of his claw. The thrill of danger makes your pulse spike, your chest tighten. “I’ve wanted it. I’ve wanted you like this the entire time you’ve kept it hidden.”

He swallows hard, fangs gleaming even more as his lips part in a shaky, disbelieving smile. The tension in his body falters, and for the first time tonight, he doesn’t pull away. Instead, he leans toward you, claws still flexing, eyes glowing red in the half-light, and you feel the charge in the air shift, thick and electric.

“I—you’re insane,” he rasps, voice rough, thick with need. “But… holy shit, I’ve never wanted anyone like this.”

You don’t wait for him to speak again. Your hands are on him, tracing the slick streaks of blood across his clothed chest, down his ribs, and even along the edge of one claw.

He gasps at your touch, low and rough, but he doesn’t pull away—not when your fingers curl around the hard line of his forearm, not when you drag your nails lightly across the wet, cold skin of his claws.

“You’re—so fuckin’ hot,” you murmur, voice trembling with need. “All of you. Every sharp, bloody part of you.”

He groans, a sound thick and primal, pressing himself closer until the heat of his body smashes against yours. “You’re insane,” he rasps, fangs flashing as he bites his bottom lip to hold back a growl.

His hands find you, gripping your hips, dragging you flush against him. The claws flex, and the edges scrape lightly against your thighs, sending shivers up your spine. You shiver, not from fear, but from raw, aching arousal.

He leans down, teeth grazing your collarbone, and you arch into him, fingers tangling in the damp hair at the nape of his neck. “D’you want me?” he growls, voice husky and dangerous. “You want me like I really am?”

“Yes,” you pant, pressing your mouth to his, tasting the metallic tang of blood. “I want all of you. Every damn part.”

That’s all it takes.

He bunches your nightgown up, dragging it over your hips until you’re fully exposed, and a low, hungry growl vibrates from his chest. His clawed fingers hover for a moment, flexing over your slick skin, and you shiver at the sharp, electric tease.

Slowly, he drags one claw along the wet, sensitive folds between your thighs, teasing the delicate edges with a scratch that makes you gasp and arch into him.

He leans down, fangs glinting in the dim light, and traces the other claw along your inner thigh, spreading you slickly for him. Each motion is careful but raw, leaving faint red lines on your skin that throb deliciously under his touch.

“You’re so… wet,” he murmurs, claws dragging lightly over your heat, teasing you. His eyes are dark, red, feral, and impossibly focused, drinking in every shiver and gasp he elicits. “So ready for me.”

He leans in closer, teeth grazing the sensitive skin of your neck, letting the vibrations of his growl roll over you as he drags his claws slowly in and out, prepping you.

Your thighs twitch, hips rising into the scraping edges, slickness slicking down over his long claws.

Every sharp stroke makes your body coil tighter around him, breath hitching, chest heaving, nipples hardening.

Finally, he withdraws his claws, leaving you spread and dripping, your skin flushed from the rough, intimate teasing.

He frees himself, long and thick, and the instant you see him fully, your breath catches. He’s bigger—far bigger than the human form you’ve been used to. The veins along his length stand out under the dim light, and your eyes widen at the sheer scale of him. The slick sheen of him gleams, glistening with his own arousal and a trace of the blood smeared across his skin.

“God…” you murmur, your fingers curling into the sheets. Your chest hitches, heat pooling between your thighs. You’ve felt him before, intimately, but never like this—not this long, thick,and raw. The claws, the fangs, the red eyes—they all make him more dangerous, more feral—but it’s that sheer size, the way he stretches out before you, that leaves your body trembling.

He swallows hard, eyes flicking to yours, and he catches the sharp inhale you can’t hide. His sharp, jagged grin twists, a little shaky, still laced with panic. “I—I shouldn’t—,” he rasps, voice rough, teeth catching on his lower lip.

“I want it,” you whisper, heat thick in your throat,

He huffs a short, shocked laugh, a little uneven and trembling, before positioning himself. Every inch of him feels impossibly large against your slick, ready body.

Your thighs part instinctively, hips rising as your hands clutch at his shoulders, tracing the tense, corded muscles that hum with power and raw need.

He presses himself fully against you, letting you feel every inch before he moves. The weight of him is impossible, hot and heavy.

Your hands clutch at his shoulders, digging in as he groans low, claws flexing against the sheets but holding back, restrained. His jaw is set, teeth glinting in the dim light, eyes dark and red as he watches every flicker of your expression.

Then he moves. Just the tip slides in at first, slow, deliberate, testing, and your breath hitches as the fullness presses against your tight walls. He stays there, letting you adjust, his chest hovering over yours, claws keeping gentle tension on the sheets beside you.

“You feel…” he rasps, voice rough but measured, a low growl curling through it, “so… so tight for me.”

You moan, hips tilting, taking him in inch by inch. Every slow thrust sends a shiver up your spine, and your hands roam over his shoulders, memorizing the heat and strength of him.

His restraint makes it almost worse—the fact that he’s holding back, letting you acclimate, every movement measured, as if he could explode at any second.

He slides in another inch. Each measured thrust presses him deeper, stretching you, filling you completely, and you cry out softly, fingers tangling in the damp hair at the nape of his neck.

His fangs catch on his lip again, jaw tight, growling softly, claws still flexing against the sheets, holding himself steady. Every pulse, every inch of movement presses his size against you, and the restraint in him makes your body coil tighter around him.

After a few slow thrusts, he begins to move more, just a fraction faster, watching your reactions, listening to the wet, slick sounds of your bodies together. Each inch presses deeper, every pulse of him stretching you, filling you completely.

He groans low, claws flexing against the sheets for leverage, restraint still humming under the surface, and your name comes out in a rough rasp. “So… fucking… perfect,” he growls, letting the pace pick up, but never losing control.

You writhe beneath him, arching your back, pressing into his chest as he buries himself deeper with each stroke. “You feel… so good,” he pants, teeth grazing your collarbone, jaw tense, eyes dark and red. “So… good… all for me.”

He leans over you, fangs glinting as he huffs, groans rolling from his throat like a low, hot rumble, and you feel every inch of him pulsing inside you.

The pace builds gradually, slow at first, then with more force, each movement filthy. Your slick coats him, the wet sounds of your bodies slapping together growing louder, more urgent, the room alive with your joined moans. Every thrust presses him fully inside you, his size stretching you, filling you, and you cry out, hips bucking instinctively to meet him.

He pauses for only a second, letting you cling to him, chest pressing against yours, before sliding back in again, faster, harder, letting the slick, wet sound of your bodies grinding together fill the room.

“Fuck… you’re mine,” he rasps, voice rough and low.

He doesn’t hold back anymore. Every thrust drives him deeper, each wet slide pushing the thick, veined length of him so that the head kisses your cervix, stretching you deliciously, drawing sharp, gasping moans from your throat.

The restraint is gone; every movement is raw, filthy, and unrelenting. The blood smeared across his skin mingles with your slick, the scent of iron and sex thick in the air, making your head spin with need.

“… you feel so good…” he repeats, fangs catching his lower lip as he hammers into you, each thrust deeper than the last.

Your hips roll up to meet him, desperate to take all of him, to feel the full scale of his monstrous form inside you. “God… yes… oh—” you cry, voice ragged, shaking, as he buries himself fully, pulsing into you with each rough, urgent stroke.

He leans over you, teeth grazing your collarbone, growling low, the hot, guttural sound vibrating through both of you. His thrusts are messy, relentless, pushing slick and thick, pounding into you with abandon.

The wet, filthy rhythm builds, your moans and his low growls echoing off the walls, every inch of him fucking you senseless.

Your walls clench around him, squeezing him, making him groan, fangs glinting, eyes red and blazing with need.

He grabs your hips, holding you steady as he fucks you harder, faster.

You cry out, slick coating both of you, the room alive with your joined gasps.

“… I’m… going to…” he rasps, voice broken, claws digging into your hips, teeth bared in a feral, raw expression of need, “so close…”

Your body shudders violently around him, slick and trembling, and the first tremors of your orgasm hit as he drives into you. The unrestrained rhythm doesn’t stop, pushing you both higher, your moans ragged, wet, and desperate as the climax coils tighter and tighter in your core.

He leans down closer, fangs grazing your shoulder, breathing hot and ragged, eyes blazing red as he grinds into you. Then, he shifts slightly, one clawed thumb brushing over your slick folds until it circles your clit with slow pressure.

Your back arches, a sharp cry ripping from your throat as your body seizes around him.

The sensation is electric, every nerve ending screaming, every slick press of him inside amplified by the claw dragging across your most sensitive spot.

You cry out, hips bucking involuntarily as he maintains his thrusts, matching the rhythm of your tightening walls.

Your body clenches, spasming around him, and the tightening of your walls drags him down with you, each thrust deepening in tandem with your orgasm.

He groans, low and feral, teeth catching his lip, eyes wild, as he rides the tremors of your climax.

Your breath comes in short, ragged gasps, moans tearing past your lips, and he continues to thrust.

“Fuck…fuck…” he rasps, voice broken as he buries himself deeper, sliding past the edge of restraint.

With a final, shuddering push, he fills you completely, groaning your name, chest heaving, letting his release wash through him.

The sensation of your walls clamping down, dragging him with you, makes it all the more explosive, every nerve ending igniting as he comes with a shuddering growl.

Slowly, he begins to soften inside you, heavy, hot, and spent. His chest presses against yours, breaths coming in ragged, shuddering gasps. Claws still flexed against your hips, he collapses fully on top of you, weight settling over you like heat and power and intimacy combined.

You feel the rise and fall of his chest, hear the rasp of his breath, smell the iron-tinged mix of blood and sex, and your own body trembles from the aftermath, slick still glistening and heart racing.

His forehead rests lightly against yours, eyes red but softer now, amber light mingling with the feral glow as he murmurs against your skin, voice husky and low.

“You… you feel… so perfect,” he whispers, one clawed hand brushing over your hip, keeping you close. “I… I’ve never… never wanted anyone like this.”

You let out a shaky laugh, leaning into him, wrapping your arms around his neck as you press your lips to his. You let your fingers trail through his hair, tugging lightly at the dark strands, brushing them back from his sweat-slicked forehead. He hums low in response, a guttural, satisfied sound that makes your pulse spike all over again.

“You’re… incredible,” you murmur, voice husky, lips brushing over the curve of his shoulder. “So… so fuckin’ perfect…”

He groans softly, teeth grazing his lip. “And you…” he rasps, voice rough, low and raw. “You take me so well… feels… so good… I could lose myself in you forever.”

You let out a shaky laugh, tugging him a little closer, feeling the slick of him against your body. “I want that,” you whisper, fingertips tracing over his spine, over the slick sheen of blood and sweat. “I want you like this… always like this.”

His fangs catch on his lip again, and his red eyes soften just slightly, though that dangerous gleam lingers. “I’m yours… all of me… every filthy, messy inch,” he growls, breath hot against your ear.

You nuzzle into him, your bodies tangled together in warmth and sticky intimacy. “Mine,” you murmur. “And I love it… all of it.”

You hear him before you see him.

The steady, deliberate thud of leather soles meeting the worn wood of your porch carries through the quiet night, cutting through the low hum of cicadas. The boards complain under his weight, each groan sharp in your ears, and you pause mid-step in the hallway. You’d been on your way to the kitchen, a glass of water in mind, but now you stay perfectly still, pulse quickening as if it already knows who waits outside.

The sound stops just shy of your front door.

For a moment, there’s nothing—just the faint shift of air through the crack at the threshold, the soft ticking of the clock on the wall behind you. Then, a low breath, drawn out as though he’s tasting the air. Your grip tightens on the hem of your robe.

You know it’s him.

Remmick.

When you reach the door and glance through the lace curtain, the sight almost steals your breath. He’s standing there, framed in the soft amber glow spilling from your porch light. His hands are at his sides, fingers flexing faintly like they’re resisting the urge to curl into fists. His chest rises and falls in a slow, controlled rhythm, but the rest of him—shoulders tense, jaw tight—is anything but calm.

And lower, beneath the line of his belt, you see it.

The clear, hard press against the fabric of his trousers. A bold, unapologetic outline that tells you just how badly he wants in.

You rest your hand on the doorframe, watching him through the thin veil of lace. He doesn’t knock. He doesn’t have to. The rule is simple, unbreakable: he can’t cross the threshold unless you invite him. That fact sits between you like a tether, binding you together and keeping you apart all at once.

You turn the knob slowly, the latch clicking loud in the stillness, and open the door just enough for the warm light from inside to brush across his face.

“Evenin’,” you say, your voice steady despite the way your stomach twists.

His eyes—dark, glassy, hungry—flick down the length of you and back up again. “Let me in.” It’s not a question. It’s a low request that thrums with restraint.

You let your gaze drop again to where he’s straining against the fabric, then drag it back up to his face. “Looks like you’ve got yourself a problem.”

The muscle in his jaw jumps. “You could fix it.”

You smile faintly, shifting your weight onto one leg, letting the robe slip just enough at your collarbone to catch his eye. “I could.” You lean against the doorframe, deliberately casual. “But then you’d be in my house. And we both know the rule.”

His breath leaves him in a quiet, frustrated sigh. He takes a step closer, stopping right at the invisible line where the porch meets the doorway. The tension in his body is palpable now, rolling off him like heat. “Please.”

The word is soft, almost dangerous in how genuine it sounds.

You tilt your head, savoring the control that’s so rarely yours when it comes to him. “You want to come in?”

“Yes.” His voice is rougher this time, like it scrapes against his throat.

You take a single step back into the house, letting the door swing open wider, but you don’t say the words he’s waiting for. Instead, you let the warm light of your hallway spill over him while you disappear down it.

The boards creak under your bare feet as you move deeper into the house, toward your bedroom. You know he’s still there, rooted to the porch, watching every flicker of movement, every sway of your robe as you go. You take your time, letting him stew in that place between want and frustration.

When you return, something dark dangles from your hand. The faint clink of a buckle fills the air as you approach the doorway again. His eyes follow it like a predator tracking prey, and for the first time tonight, you see a faint tremor in his composure.

You stop just inside the threshold, holding the strap loose at your side. “You can’t come in,” you say lightly. “But you can suck it from there.”

His pupils flare, the corner of his mouth twitching like he might speak—but instead, he swallows hard, gaze fixed on you.

He doesn’t move at first.

The night air clings to him, thick and heavy, and you can hear the faint shift of his boots against the porch wood as though he’s grounding himself there, fighting some invisible pull. His gaze flicks briefly to your face, searching for permission in the smallest crack of your expression, but you give him nothing. Only the faint lift of your chin and the slow, languid arch of your brow.

You curl a finger into the hem of your nightgown and begin to draw it upward. The thin fabric whispers over your thighs, baring more with each inch. His eyes follow, unwavering. There’s no pretense of politeness in him now, no careful restraint. He drinks you in like he’s starving.

When the nightgown clears your hips, you pause—just long enough for his gaze to register what’s underneath. Nothing. No lace, no silk. Only skin, warm from the heat of the house and now kissed by the cooler air. His nostrils flare. The faintest shift in his stance betrays the way he’s pressing himself harder against the constraint of his trousers.

You let the nightgown gather in one hand at your waist as your other brings the strap into view. It’s cool against your palm, supple yet unyielding. The faint metallic clink of the buckle cuts through the night, and his attention drops instantly.

He swallows once, the muscles in his throat moving slow and deliberate. Still, he doesn’t step forward.

You loop the first strap around your thigh, pulling it snug before securing the buckle. His eyes track every movement, unblinking, as though he’s memorizing the way the leather lies against your skin. You move to the other side, the second buckle sliding into place with a satisfying click.

Then you reach for the harness, lifting it to your hips. The motion is unhurried, almost ceremonial, the way the leather settles against you. You adjust the fit with small, practiced tugs, each one making his shoulders twitch like the sound alone is winding him tighter.

The shaft, thick and dark, hangs heavy between your thighs now, and his gaze locks onto it like it’s the only thing in the world worth looking at.

“Something you want, Remmick?” you ask, voice smooth, the faintest thread of amusement curling at the edges.

He shifts again, his hands flexing faintly at his sides. “…Yes.”

“Then take it,” you murmur, stepping closer to the doorway, stopping just shy of the threshold that holds him back. “From there.”

For a moment, he stays where he is, the weight of his hesitation as tangible as the heat rolling off his body. You can see the war behind his eyes—the instinct to lunge forward, to close the space, warring with the invisible wall the old rule holds firm. His jaw works once, twice, before his gaze finally drags up from the strap to meet yours.

It’s all the invitation you’re willing to give.

The silence stretches until you see his shoulders give the smallest tremor—submission cracking through whatever restraint he had left.

He lowers himself slowly, as if bending at the knee grinds something out of him, boots creaking against the wood in protest. His palms press flat to his thighs for balance, fingers splaying wide before one hand slips lower. He cups himself through the heavy fabric, testing the shape of his own arousal. At first the touch is tentative, almost absentminded, but soon his grip firms, dragging the thick outline against his palm. His thumb presses along the swollen ridge straining at the front of his trousers, stroking it once, then again, harder—until the fabric shifts and stretches around him. The friction draws a hiss through his teeth, hips giving the smallest forward push as if chasing more pressure.

You watch the way his lips part as he leans forward, his weight shifting until he’s braced just inches from the threshold. The porch light carves sharp lines across his face—cheekbones, jaw, the faint shadow beneath his mouth—and his eyes never leave the length hanging between your thighs.

With care, you step closer until you’re toeing that invisible line, the shaft resting heavy against your palm. Then, inch by inch, you guide the tip forward, letting it just breach the open air beyond your doorway.

The second it crosses that divide, his breathing changes—rougher, deeper—as though the mere proximity is enough to unravel him. His free hand lifts, hovering for a moment, not daring to touch without a clear sign he can.

You tilt your hips forward slightly, the tip catching the faintest glint of the porch light, and his gaze drops to it like a moth to flame.

“Go on,” you murmur.

His fingers curl briefly against his palm, and then he leans in, closing the last of the space.

His lips brush the tip first—barely there, just a ghost of contact—but even that fleeting touch makes his lashes flutter. You watch the way his mouth parts, the faint curl of his tongue as he searches for taste, tentative at first before he dares more.

Slowly, he closes his lips around you. The wet heat of his mouth is a stark contrast to the cool air between you, and you can see the subtle flex of his jaw as he draws you in far enough to seal his lips around the swollen crown. His hand on himself stills, every ounce of focus redirected to the act of taking you into his mouth.

You grant him only that much—just the tip, just enough for him to feel the heavy weight pressing against his tongue. His gaze flicks upward, catching yours, pupils blown wide and black beneath the porch light. You hold him there, grip steady at the base, offering no sign yet that you’ll allow more. He sucks gently at first, then harder, as though trying to coax the rest of you past his lips by sheer force of want.

“Patience,” you murmur, voice low, meant to carry only between the two of you.

You roll your hips forward an inch, letting the shaft glide deeper over his tongue. His throat works on instinct, but he doesn’t choke or falter—just exhales slow and hot through his nose, the sound vibrating across your skin. His hand begins moving again, slow and deliberate, stroking himself in time with the teasing rhythm of his mouth.

Another inch.

You see the strain ripple through his neck, the stretch of his lips around the thickened girth, the twitch of his fingers against his thigh as though he’s fighting the urge to grab you, to anchor himself.

“Good,” you breathe, granting him that extra space, your own chest tightening as his mouth closes further around you, the swollen head slipping past his lips completely.

The sight is intoxicating—the porch light catching the wet sheen at the corners of his mouth, the low hum spilling from his throat vibrating warmly against you. He works with shallow, savoring motions, pulling back just far enough for the tip to drag past his lips before sinking forward again, each wet slide deliberate.

His eyes stay locked on yours. Even as his lips stretch wider, even as his tongue presses and the heat of his mouth envelopes more of you, he refuses to look away. There’s something defiant in the unbroken stare—like if he holds it long enough, you’ll finally let him take it all.

His free hand never leaves his cock. The slow grind of his palm over the swollen bulge beneath the fabric is measured, matching the pace of his mouth. His fingers flex and press harder, chasing friction that doesn’t come close to what he’s craving, yet refusing to stop.

The porch light halos his head, catching the wet shine where spit slicks the corners of his mouth and glistens down his chin. Each time you pull back, the slick tip of the strap reappears—shiny, dripping from the heat of his mouth—before you push forward again and guide it back past his lips.

You let him keep that slow control for now, your breath steady as you hold the harness low against your hips. Every so often you drive just a little deeper, testing him, watching the way his throat flexes as he swallows around silicone, how his grip on himself tightens, fingers clenching over the thick bulge straining his trousers as if he can’t help but mirror the rhythm you set.

His brows draw tight, lashes fluttering as a low hum vibrates against the strap. His tongue moves beneath it, restless, pressing and curling along the underside as if he could make it pulse for him. The sound is rough, eager, and it shoots a rush of heat straight through you.

Your hand slips from the harness to his hair, threading through the thick strands at his crown. You tug just enough to make his breath hitch, his lips stretching wide around the unyielding shape you’re feeding him.

“Let me,” you murmur, giving a small pull to angle his face exactly where you want it.

He stills for a heartbeat, a shiver of surrender, then opens wider, jaw slackening as his mouth takes more. You shift your stance, planting your feet against the porch boards, and start to move your hips—slow, deliberate thrusts that press the strap deeper into his mouth than he’d dared take himself.

It isn’t rough. Not yet. Not the sharp, merciless pace you know you could drive into him. But it’s more—enough that his lips drag tight along the shaft, enough that his tongue flattens beneath it, trying to keep up with each roll of your hips.

Each thrust drags a muffled sound from him—half surprise, half need. His hand keeps moving against himself, palm grinding over the thick outline through his trousers, pressing harder now, the fabric pulling taut with strain.

Your grip in his hair stays firm, guiding him into the rhythm you’ve set. The porch light glances off the wet shine coating the shaft each time you pull back, only for it to vanish again past his lips. Spit strings from his mouth to the strap when you ease out, snapping wetly when you thrust forward again.

His eyes—dark, heavy-lidded, glazed with want—never leave yours. Even as his cheeks hollow, even as his jaw works to keep pace, he stares up at you with something raw and defiant. You feel the faint hitch of his breath each time you pause at the back of his tongue, holding there just a second too long before sliding out again.

“Good,” you murmur, your thumb pressing into the tender curve at the back of his skull. “You take what I give you.”

You step forward, closing the last sliver of distance that had kept him just shy of you. The strap pushes fully past his lips now, the flat base brushing hot against the press of your own skin through the harness. His pupils flare wide at the shift, and you feel the faint hitch of his breath against the silicone a split second before you drive your hips forward.

Your grip in his hair tightens, and you thrust with more intent—deeper, harder. The blunt head drags over his tongue before bumping the back of his throat, and the sound that spills out of him is wet and choked, raw enough to vibrate around you.

He adjusts quickly, jaw straining as his lips part wider, throat relaxing to take you in. You pull back, only to surge forward again, sharper this time. The rhythm builds—each push more forceful, each withdrawal less forgiving. Spit pours from the corners of his mouth, slicking the shaft so it glides easier with every pass, the wet sounds ringing obscene in the night air.

His hand on himself moves in ragged, uneven strokes—more reflex than control—as if he’s trying to chase the same brutal pace you’re using on his mouth. You watch the strain in his neck, the muscles flexing as he swallows frantically around the strap, his breath dragging out in hot, noisy bursts through his nose whenever you give him the barest second to breathe.

You don’t give him many.

Your hips roll forward again, grinding until his lips are crushed to the base, until the wet heat of his mouth engulfs the entire shaft. The sound is filthy—thick and slick, the obscene choke of spit being forced deeper. You hold him there, just long enough to feel the tremor ripple through his shoulders, before you yank back and drive into him again.

His eyes find yours between thrusts—glassy, dark, wide with the dizzying mix of ache and need—as if every shred of him is tethered to the power in your grip. You see the tension in his thighs, the way one hand braces desperately against the doorframe for balance while the other keeps palming himself, pressing hard through the fabric, chasing whatever friction he can get.

The porch light flickers faintly overhead, throwing broken shadows across his face, but you don’t stop. Not when the sight of him—kneeling outside your door, lips stretched wide around the strap, spit glistening down his chin—is so perfect it scorches through you.

And he’s starting to unravel.

The wet, messy sounds spilling from his mouth grow louder, more obscene, until strings of spit hang from his lips and cling to the shaft each time you pull back, snapping under the force of your next thrust. His breathing is ragged now, no longer controlled. Each time you bury deep, his throat spasms around the strap, a muffled gag catching at the back before dissolving into the desperate drag of air through his nose. The muscles of his jaw clench and release frantically, working to keep up with the relentless rhythm you’re forcing on him.

Your grip in his hair is merciless now, holding him exactly where you want him as your hips piston forward again and again. You shift your stance just enough so the thickest part of the strap drags deliberately across his tongue, the blunt head pressing to the back of his throat, making his eyes flutter shut before you yank him forward and force him to take it again.

His hand moves frantically, grinding into the swollen bulge trapped in his trousers like he’s chasing a climax he can’t quite reach. His hips give shallow, restless rolls into his own palm, desperate and uncoordinated, while his knees stay rooted to the porch. The fabric pulls taut over his cock, the thick outline straining, damp already where the friction has rubbed heat into the material.

Drool pours freely down his chin, spilling onto his shirt in spreading patches. The sight of it—shameless and ruined—makes you tighten your grip, dragging him harder onto the strap until his throat flexes and convulses around the intrusion. The muffled, needy sound he lets slip vibrates through the shaft and shoots straight into your core, making your pulse throb low in your belly.

“Messy boy,” you murmur, voice steady even as heat coils deep inside you. You punctuate the words with a brutal thrust, forcing the head of the strap flush against the back of his throat. He gags around it, eyes squeezing shut, hand jerking against himself like the sensation went straight through him.

You feel it in every twitch of his body—the tightening of his thighs, the shallow grind of his hips into his palm, the way his shoulders tremble under your hand. He’s right there, teetering on the edge, wound tight like a live wire straining to snap.

His breath comes ragged and wet, each pull catching around the slick length stretching his mouth. His eyes are glassy, unfocused, fixed on nothing but you as though the rest of the world has bled away. You drive one last deep thrust, the tip jamming flush against the back of his throat, holding him there until his muffled sound breaks high and desperate.

And then you pull out.

The slick pop of it rings sharp in the night, followed by his ragged gasp as the sudden emptiness seizes him. A string of spit stretches from his lips to the head of the strap before snapping and falling to the porch in a dark patch against the wood.

He blinks up at you, chest heaving, his hand still clamped down hard over himself.

Your gaze drifts lower, drinking in the sight of him: cock obvious, swollen, the damp patch at his fly spreading where heat and pre-come have soaked through the fabric. The corner of your mouth curves slow, deliberate, into a knowing smile.

“Were you about to come in your pants?” you ask, your voice low and edged with amusement.

His jaw works, but no words come. Only a faint, shaky exhale and the smallest shift of his hips, like his body is still chasing the release you’ve just denied him.

You let your fingers trail lazily over the slick length of the strap, making a show of wiping the spit along it with your thumb before letting it hang heavy between your thighs again.

“Not yet,” you murmur. “You’re not getting off that easy.”

“Stand up.”

Your voice is calm but carries that note that makes him obey without thinking. His hand falls from himself reluctantly, and he pushes to his feet in one smooth movement. Even standing, he doesn’t cross the threshold—doesn’t dare.

The porch light catches him fully now, and you take your time looking at him. His eyes are glassy, pupils blown wide, the kind of dazed stare that tells you his head is still swimming. His lips are swollen, slick with spit that gleams in the light, a faint sheen still clinging to the corners of his mouth.

His cheeks are flushed, the unnatural warmth in his pale skin betraying just how wound up you’ve left him. There’s a faint dampness along the seam of his trousers where he’d been grinding into his own palm, the outline beneath still straining and obvious.

You step forward until you’re just inside the frame of the doorway, close enough that you can smell him—salt, earth, the faintest trace of copper beneath it all. Your gaze drags from his mouth up to his eyes, holding there until you see the smallest flicker of awareness return.

“Look at you,” you murmur, letting the words linger between you. “A mess, and you’re still standing there like you’d do anything for more.”

His jaw tightens, but the way his fingers curl faintly at his sides tells you you’re right.

You reach out, not to touch, but to let your fingers hover just shy of his cheek, close enough that he can feel the heat of your hand without the satisfaction of contact. “You’re going to let me fix that,” you say quietly. “But on my terms.”

You let the silence hang just long enough for him to shift uneasily on his feet before you step back, opening the space between you and the threshold.

“Come in.”

The moment the words leave your mouth, he’s moving—closing the gap in two strides. His hands are on you instantly, firm but trembling, arms wrapping tight around your waist as though you might change your mind and push him back out. His mouth finds the curve of your neck, hot and open, teeth dragging lightly over skin before he seals them in a wet, urgent kiss.

You let your head tip back slightly, one hand coming up to brace against his shoulder, feeling the taut pull of muscle beneath your palm. His breath is rough against your throat, the low hum he makes vibrating through you in a way that feels almost possessive.

Your lips tilt toward his ear, your voice low enough that it brushes across the shell of it. “Do you want me to use it tonight?”

He stills just enough to lift his head, eyes darting to yours. There’s no hesitation in the way his fingers tighten at your hips, no mistaking the need in the way he breathes out, “Yes.”

You take his hand, turning away from the doorway, and lead him down the hall. His grip stays tight in yours, his steps quick to match your pace as though he’s afraid you might change your mind if he lags behind.

The bedroom is dim, lit only by the soft spill of light from the hallway. You stop beside the bed and release him, turning just enough to glance over your shoulder.

“Undress.”

The command is quiet, steady, but it leaves no room for argument.

He hesitates only a heartbeat before his hands move. Fingers fumble at the buttons of his shirt, working them open one by one. You watch the slow reveal of skin—pale, smooth, the faint line of muscle shifting beneath. The fabric parts, slipping from his shoulders to fall soundlessly at his feet.

His hands go to his belt next. The metallic clink of the buckle cuts sharp through the silence, followed by the rasp of leather sliding free. He drops it aside, then unfastens his trousers with deliberate care. The fabric loosens, sliding down his hips until it pools at his ankles, baring the hard line of his body and the straining bulge caught beneath the last layer of cloth.

Those go next.

His briefs cling damp to him, the shape of his cock outlined obscenely in the thin fabric, darkened where wetness has seeped through. He hooks his thumbs under the waistband and peels them down, the elastic dragging over his hips and thighs before slipping off. His cock springs free—thick, flushed, the head slick and glistening, veins standing rigid along the shaft.

When he’s bare, he straightens, meeting your gaze with that same glassy-eyed want you’d seen on the porch. You let the moment stretch, your eyes tracing the length of him, noting the faint twitch in his thighs, the way his fingers flex like he doesn’t know what to do with them.

Finally, you turn to the nightstand. Your fingers curl around the edge of the top drawer, sliding it open with a quiet pull. Inside, the glint of the bottle catches the low light, and you reach for it—cool, smooth plastic beneath your palm.

You tilt your chin toward the bed. “Come here.”

He steps forward without hesitation, the muscles in his stomach flexing with each measured stride until he’s close enough that the heat of his body brushes against yours.

You let your gaze linger on him for a beat, the lube still in one hand, before you lift the other. Between your fingers, something small glints in the low light—a band of smooth black silicone, the subtle stretch hinting at its purpose.

His eyes drop to it immediately. You see the flicker of recognition there, followed by the faint tightening of his jaw.

“Not just the strap tonight,” you murmur, turning the ring slowly between your fingers so he can see it from every angle. “I’m going to make sure you don’t get away with finishing before I say you can.”

The way his throat works around a swallow tells you exactly how much the idea hits him.

You step closer, the ring dangling loosely from your fingers now, and let it brush against the inside of his thigh—just enough for him to feel the coolness of it against his skin. “We’ll put this on first,” you say softly, almost like a promise.

You reach out, curling your fingers lightly around his wrist, and guide him backward until the backs of his legs meet the edge of the bed.

“Sit,” you say, your tone low but carrying that unshakable authority he never resists.

He obeys instantly, lowering himself onto the mattress, his thighs parting just enough to give you space. You stay standing between them, the bottle of lube set aside for now, the cock ring still dangling from your fingers.

The corner of your mouth curves in a slow smile as your eyes roam over him—flushed chest rising and falling, muscles taut, the heat of him radiating up at you. You let him feel the weight of your gaze before you move.

With deliberate slowness, you lower yourself to one knee before him. His breath hitches as your hand closes around the base of his cock—hot, rigid, pulsing beneath your grip. He twitches at the first contact, a sharp jolt that betrays how close he already is. You don’t rush. You drag your palm up his length in a slow stroke, then down again, just enough to smear the glistening wetness gathered at the swollen head down the thick shaft, coating him in his own slick.

His chest rises hard when you press the ring against him. The stretch is subtle but merciless as you work it over the head, the band dragging across hypersensitive skin that makes him flinch and groan in the same breath. You ease it lower, inch by inch, until it settles snug at the base, a tight, unyielding circle locking him in place.

You give him one final squeeze, savoring the weight of him straining in your hand, your thumb brushing lazily along the ridge underneath, where he’s most sensitive. His hips jerk helplessly forward into the touch before you let go, the sound of his breath ragged in the silence between you.

“There,” you murmur, a slow smile curving your lips as you rise. “Now you’re mine for as long as I want.”

“Move up,” you tell him, your tone light but leaving no room for hesitation.

He shifts back on the mattress, palms pressing into the sheets as he scoots further toward the headboard. You watch him obey, your eyes following the flex of his abdomen, the subtle stretch in his thighs as he moves.

Once he’s far enough, you reach for your robe. It slips from your shoulders, pooling at your feet in a soft heap. His eyes flicker over you quickly—hungry—but you don’t give him time to linger.

“On your knees,” you murmur.

He moves without question, the mattress dipping under his weight.

“Turn around.”

There’s a small pause before he obeys, shifting until his knees sink into the sheets, his back now to you. The pale line of his spine draws your gaze straight down to the curve of his hips, the soft dip above the swell of his ass. His shoulders rise and fall in a steady rhythm, the muscles in his back tightening with restraint.

You step closer, eyes trailing over him—bare, open, waiting—entirely at your mercy.

The cap of the lube clicks open, sharp in the quiet. The slick sound follows as you drizzle it into your palm, coolness spreading across your skin before you coat your fingers.

“Tell me if you need me to stop,” you say gently, voice slipping softer. Not because you doubt him. Not because he’s afraid. But because you want him to hear it.

“I won’t,” he murmurs, voice rough against the pillow.

“You might,” you counter, pressing a kiss against the sharp angle of his hip. “And if you do, you’ll tell me. Yeah?”

His fingers knot tighter into the sheets. “…yeah.”

You hum in approval.

Your hand trails down, fingertips brushing the crease of his ass before you find his hole. You use your dry hand to coax him open, spreading him slightly before pressing in with the first lubed finger. His breath catches sharp at the intrusion—there’s resistance, taut at first—but then it gives, yielding to you.

“Relax,” you murmur, eyes fixed on where your finger disappears into him. “Let me in.”

He exhales long and heavy, hips twitching, but he doesn’t pull away.

You ease the finger deeper, slow and patient, until you’re buried to the knuckle. His body clamps tight around you, a soft whimper breaking free of his chest, equal parts relief and need.

“Good boy,” you praise, leaning forward to kiss the dip of his lower back.

His cock jerks helplessly at the words, slapping lightly against his stomach, the flushed head leaking despite the snug ring cinched tight at the base, keeping him from spilling.

“Fuck,” he whispers hoarse.

“Mmhm. Sensitive already.” You curl your finger, dragging it slowly along the tight inner wall before circling lazy and deep. “You wanna come, don’t you?”

He groans, tossing his head back into the pillows, voice cracking. “Please—”

You slide a second finger inside him before he can finish, stretching him wider.

His back arches beautifully. Not from pain—this is different. The ache of pressure, the slow burn of being opened, the surrender of letting you in.

You lean over him, kissing the ridge of his spine as your fingers scissor wider, working his body open bit by bit. Every few strokes you nearly withdraw, leaving him empty for a heartbeat before sliding back in, slow and firm. Each time, his hole clenches around your fingers, greedy and desperate to keep you there.

“So greedy,” you murmur against his skin.

“I’m not,” he pants, voice ragged.

You click your tongue. “You’re gripping my fingers like a slut.”

His mouth falls open, ready to argue. To whine. Maybe to beg.

You don’t let him. You press a third finger in before he can speak.

His whole body jolts, hips jerking away only to rock back down against you, caught between resistance and want.

“Fuck—” he chokes, voice breaking. “Fuck, that’s—too much—”

“No, it’s not,” you whisper, dragging your tongue up the length of his spine, slow and deliberate. “You can take it. You said you wanted this.”

He squeezes tight around you, hot and twitching, every pulse of his body clenching at the stretch. Your fingers keep moving slow and steady, pressing deeper, scissoring wider, working him open until his thighs tremble against the sheets. His teeth sink into his knuckle, stifling the sounds threatening to spill.

You reach up and pull his hand away from his mouth.

“Don’t hide it,” you order. “I want to hear every bit of it.”

And he moans then—wrecked, unrestrained, the sound shivering up through his chest.

You fuck him slow on your hand, patient and thorough, until his body begins to yield. Until the tight ring of muscle softens around your fingers. Until his thighs stop shaking and start spreading wider for you. Until he’s rocking back against your hand without thinking, chasing each push deeper with breathless little gasps and whines.

“There you go,” you murmur, pulling your fingers free at last, wet and glistening in the dim light. “Think you’re ready?”

He nods, face pressed into the pillow, voice hoarse.

You reach for the strap and coat it generously in lube, smoothing the slick down the length until it gleams. The weight of it sits solid against your palm, cool and heavy.

“Last chance to back out,” you warn, your tone softer now.

He turns his head just enough to look back at you, eyes glassy, lips parted. Wrecked. Open. Wanting.

“…fuck me,” he whispers.

Your smile is slow. Dark. Tender. “Yes, sir.”

You wrap your hand around the base, step closer, and press the cool tip down against him. “Stay still,” you tell him, your voice steady but firm.

He nods once, shoulders tense, head dipping forward.

You nudge lightly, letting him feel the blunt shape, the difference from your fingers. Then you line yourself up carefully, the base snug to your hips, your other hand braced firm at his waist to steady him.

A gentle push. Just the tip parting him, stretching him around the broad crown. His breath stutters at the change—different, heavier, fuller.

“That’s it,” you murmur, your palm anchoring him still. “Breathe for me.”

He drags in a shaky breath, back rippling under your gaze, and you ease another inch inside. The glide is smooth with lube, but you don’t rush; every bit of progress is deliberate, each pause giving him time to stretch and adjust to the fullness spreading him wider than your fingers ever could.

His fingers twist hard in the sheets, knuckles whitening briefly before relaxing again. A low sound slips from him—soft, rough around the edges—as you push a little deeper, the flat base of the strap brushing warm against you where it’s snugged into the harness.

“You’re doing fine,” you murmur, leaning forward so the words graze the shell of his ear, your breath hot against his skin. “Just let me take care of you.”

Another inch, slower still. You feel his body yield around you, the tight clutch of his rim loosening, the resistance in his hips softening as he opens to you. His head dips forward, breath coming out in a ragged shudder, and you hold still once you’re halfway buried inside him, letting the weight of your presence sink deep before moving again.

When you press the last few inches in, it’s with the same unhurried care, stretching him until the base of the strap is flush against his skin. He trembles, thighs quivering under the strain, his whole body thrumming with the shock of fullness.

Your hand stays braced firm at his waist, thumb stroking idly over the ridge of bone there while you give him time to settle. The quiet between you feels thick, charged, broken only by his shallow breaths.

You wait until the tension bleeds from his hips, until the stutter in his breathing evens out again, before you shift your weight back.

The first pull is slow—agonizing—just enough to let the head drag along his inner walls before you press back in, steady and deep, careful to match the same length you’d given him before. Your hand at his waist anchors him, guiding him to stay steady beneath you.

He exhales sharply through his nose, the sound low and guttural, and you catch the faintest roll of his hips meeting your thrust halfway. It pulls a small smile to your lips.

“That’s it,” you murmur, keeping the rhythm unhurried. Out, in—each glide slick with lube, each press deep enough to seat the strap inside him fully without force.

Your eyes track the slow ripple of muscle down his back with every motion, the flex and bow of his spine, the way his fingers clutch the bedding tight when you angle just a fraction deeper. His thighs flex beneath you, steadying himself, but he doesn’t resist. The tremor in his body is pure need—he’s fighting to stay still when every part of him wants to push back, to beg for more.

The cock ring leaves him heavy and swollen, flushed dark at the tip, every vein standing out in sharp relief. The faint pulse of blood is visible even from your angle, his cock twitching helplessly against his stomach each time the strap grinds deeper inside him.

Every so often, you angle differently, letting the blunt head stroke across that hidden spot inside him. His breath stutters, catching ragged in his chest, and his fingers twist tighter in the sheets like he’s bracing against the surge.

“You take me so well,” you whisper, your voice steady though heat coils thick and low in your belly. “I could keep you like this all night—full, stretched, begging.”

His only answer is a shuddered breath, his head bowing forward, body pliant beneath your steady, claiming rhythm.

You start to drive deeper, the pace shifting from deliberate to steady, each thrust finding its mark with more certainty. The sound of your hips meeting his grows louder in the dim quiet of the room—wet, sharp.

He begins to move with you—tentative at first, just small rolls of his hips in time with yours. But as the rhythm settles in, those motions grow bolder, needier. He pushes back to meet you, grinding down on the strap, his body swallowing you deeper each time. His breath catches raggedly whenever you bottom out, chest shuddering as though the sheer fullness steals it away.

The first sound slips from him—low, broken at the edges, torn out of his throat without thought. It threads through the quiet, rising higher when your angle clips the spot that makes him jolt.

“That’s it,” you murmur, tightening your grip on his waist to hold him steady as you quicken the rhythm. The strap glides with slick resistance, each withdrawal wet with lube, each drive forward ending with the solid, blunt press of your hips slamming into his ass.

Another sound breaks from him—less restrained this time, more like a gasp—and his head tips forward, shoulders bowing under the force of it. The cock ring leaves him swollen and desperate, every thrust grinding pressure into him until it borders on unbearable, the flushed head of his cock leaking helplessly against his stomach.

You lean over him, chest brushing against his back, and let your voice slip hot against his ear. “You sound perfect like this.”

Your grip on his hips tightens, fingers digging into the flesh as you pound into him harder. The bed creaks under the relentless pace, the slap of your hips striking his body in a rhythm that’s quick, steady, merciless.

He tries to match you, but the force of it strips him of control. His back arches sharply beneath you, muscles taut as he shoves back in short, frantic bursts, desperate to meet you with every thrust.

Each deep drive drags a sound out of him—low at first, then unraveling into something rougher, more desperate, the longer you keep him pinned to your pace. The brutal thrusting and the cruel resistance of the cock ring work him into a fever pitch, every movement pushing him closer to a release you haven’t granted.

You angle your hips and slam in deeper, grinding until the head of the strap presses hard against the spot inside him that makes him seize. He gasps, head tipping back toward your shoulder, and the sound that rips out of him is half moan, half choked sob.

“Can feel you trying to hold on,” you murmur against the side of his neck, voice rough with control as you keep driving into him. “You’re not going to last like this.”

His fingers knot hard into the sheets, knuckles white as his thighs begin to tremble with the strain. His back arches deeper, his whole body stretched taut with the effort of clinging to the edge.

And you don’t let up. You hammer into him again, and again, and again, until his breath fractures into sharp, broken gasps, every thrust tearing him further apart.

He’s trembling beneath you, every thrust shoving him closer to the edge you’ve been holding him over. The sounds spilling from his mouth are uneven—half-broken moans knotted with sharp, ragged breaths he can barely catch.

When you angle deep again, grinding into the spot that makes him twitch, his head drops forward and the words spill out, broken between gasps.

“Please—” His voice cracks, rough and hoarse. “Can I—”

You don’t slow. Your hips snap forward, jolting his body and stealing the breath right out of him.

“Can I come?” The plea tears from him in a moan, his fingers clawing at the sheets, back bowing under the relentless rhythm. “Please—fuck—please.”

The cock ring keeps him swollen, flushed dark, every pulse harder, more frantic, frustration radiating off him in every twitch of his body. He’s straining against it, caught in that razor edge between unbearable need and denied release.

You keep the pace hard and deep, slamming into him until another cry rips out of his throat. Then you lean close, lips brushing his ear, voice a whisper sharpened to command.

“Not yet.”

The words slice through him, soft but absolute.

He groans, low and guttural, the sound dragging out of his chest like pain, his hips stuttering against yours. Still, he doesn’t stop moving, his body fighting itself as much as it obeys you.

You don’t ease up. If anything, your thrusts grow sharper, driving into him with a relentless pace that rocks the bed, the wet slap of the strap meeting his body mixing with his shattered breaths.

Then your hand leaves his hip.

It glides forward, tracing over the taut lines of his stomach, until your fingers wrap around the hard length kept tight and heavy by the ring. His whole body jolts at the contact, a sharp, choked gasp ripping from his lips.

You stroke him softly, cruelly slow—long, measured glides from base to tip. Your thumb drags lazily over the slick head, smearing the bead of precome, before sliding down again. The contrast is maddening: your hips pounding him deep, fast, while your hand teases light and steady, never giving him enough. His cock twitches violently against your palm, the pressure almost unbearable.

“Fuck—” The word breaks from him in a shudder, his head dropping, mouth falling open as if he’s trying to hide just how wrecked he is.

You keep the strokes feather-light, just enough to make him shiver, while your thrusts stay merciless, driving him open again and again. Every movement forces him to take you deep while your hand dances at the edge of release.

His thighs quake, breath shattering into ragged gasps, every muscle in his body taut with the effort of restraint. You can feel him tightening, teetering right on the brink where control frays apart completely.

Every thrust drives him higher, your hand anchoring him at the precipice. He bucks into your palm on instinct, chasing speed, chasing friction, chasing permission you don’t give. You keep your strokes slow, steady, cruel, holding him there in that unbearable place where every nerve screams for release but your hand denies him the fall.

A shiver racks through him, his head tipping to the side just enough for you to catch the sharp cut of his profile in the dim light. His lips hang open, breath spilling ragged and uneven, and a thin strand of drool clings to the corner of his mouth before slipping down his chin.

The sight makes your grip tighten, thumb circling over the swollen crown. He lets out a noise that’s almost a whimper—wrecked, trembling—and when his eyes drag back to yours over his shoulder, they’re dark and glassy, pupils so wide they swallow the color completely.

Then you see them: his fangs. White and sharp, peeking from behind parted lips, catching the faint glow from the hallway. His breath hitches, his mouth trembling open wider until the tip of one fang grazes his lower lip.

He quivers beneath you, every thrust and every teasing stroke unraveling him further. His gaze doesn’t leave yours—wild, unblinking—as if he needs you to see exactly how undone you’ve made him.

When your hand leaves him, even for a heartbeat, he makes a sound that borders on a sob—until your fingers hook under the band at the base of his cock. The silicone drags against hot skin as you stretch it wide enough to slip it free.

The instant it’s gone, he exhales sharp, almost keening, his hips jolting forward like his body has been starving for that freedom.

You don’t let him recover.

Your hand closes around him again, this time fast and firm, stroking with purpose from base to tip, the slick glide relentless. His head drops forward, a raw, broken moan spilling from his lips and climbing louder, unrestrained, as his hips snap into your grip.

“F-fuck—” The word cracks apart in his throat, hips thrusting helplessly in rhythm with your hand as you keep pounding into him from behind. The bed dips and creaks under both of you, your other hand locked steady on his hip to keep him pinned where you want him.

When you glance up, you catch the shimmer in his eyes—moisture gathering at the edges, threatening to spill over. His lips part again, breath breaking on every exhale, and the raw, guttural need etched into his face is almost as good as the sounds spilling out of him.

Then the words tumble free, ruined and pleading:

“Please—fuck—spill in me.” His voice cracks with the confession, shaking, desperate. “Want it—want you to fill me—please—”

The ache in his tone makes your breath catch even as your hips keep slamming forward, strap burying deep into the clutch of his body. He knows you can’t, knows the strap is unyielding, but the plea leaves him anyway—half wish, half prayer—as though the thought of being claimed like that undoes him completely.

You press closer, lips at his ear, your hand pumping him harder. “You want it so bad you’d beg for something I can’t give you?”

He moans, broken and needy, hips bucking wild into your fist. “Yes—fuck, yes—just… take it—take me—”

His body bows tight beneath you, thighs trembling violently, every line of him stretched taut. And still you don’t stop, dragging him closer and closer to the edge he’s been chasing all night.

You keep your rhythm merciless, your hand stroking him fast and firm while the strap drives into him with each sharp thrust. His cock pulses violently in your fist, the tremors in his thighs running wild as he teeters on the edge—this time with nothing to stop him.

You don’t slow. You don’t ease. Every stroke drags him tighter, every thrust forces his hips forward into your grip, like his body can’t decide whether to brace for the onslaught or surrender completely.

Then it hits. You feel the desperate pulse against your palm, the way his breath catches in his chest before breaking into a ragged cry.

Your name rips from him, half-moan, half-gasp, his voice cracking as his hips buck wildly, losing all rhythm. His release pours hot and sudden, spilling over your fist, slicking your strokes as you work him through it without pause.

His back bows sharp, head tipped back, every line of muscle straining like the sheer pleasure might tear him apart. His fingers claw at the sheets, knuckles white, while his knees quake beneath him, threatening to give way.

A low, guttural moan tears out of his throat—raw, unrestrained—his fangs flashing as his mouth drops open. The sound trails off into jagged breaths, his whole frame shuddering as the last waves break through him.

You keep your hand moving just a little longer, coaxing every last spurt from him until he finally collapses forward onto his forearms. His chest heaves against the mattress, sweat dampening the hair at the back of his neck, body trembling with the aftershocks.

You ease your hand away first, fingers tracing lightly over the tense muscle of his thigh before withdrawing completely. His breath still comes uneven, catching at the end of every exhale. You let him rest there, bowed over the sheets, giving him space to sag into the aftermath.

When you pull out, you do it slowly, careful not to jar him after how hard he’s just come. His body yields easily, slick and pliant, but your palm stays steady at his hip, grounding him until the cool air replaces your warmth.

“Easy,” you murmur, your tone gentled now.

He stays forward on his forearms, head hanging, but you can feel his breathing gradually steady. You slide your hands up his sides, smoothing over the curve of his ribs, feeling the subtle rise and fall beneath your palms.

When you guide him down onto his stomach, he goes willingly, sinking into the mattress. You climb in beside him, thigh brushing his, and settle close. One hand drifts into his damp hair, combing slowly through the strands, while the other rubs lazy circles over his back.

“You’re alright,” you whisper, voice close enough that your words are more felt against his skin than heard.

A low hum rumbles out of him—not a word, but enough to tell you he’s with you. His lashes lower, eyes half-shut, the flush still high across his cheeks. You keep stroking his hair, soft and steady, before leaning in to press a lingering kiss against his temple.

Reaching for the cloth on the nightstand, you wipe him clean with patient care, your movements slow, deliberate, like the aftershocks of him spilling across your hand are still echoing in you, too.

By the time you settle back down, the strap set aside, he’s already leaning into you—head finding its place against your shoulder like it belongs there. You ease the blanket over both of you, tucking him close, and let the silence linger. The air is heavy but not strained, filled with nothing but the rhythm of your breathing and the faint creak of the settling bed.

He stays quiet for a long time. His body, still trembling faintly, relaxes inch by inch against yours.

Then—

“I wanna do that again.”

The words are muffled against your skin, but the raw want in his voice is clear.

You laugh softly, your hand drifting through his hair. “Next time,” you murmur, pressing a kiss into his damp temple. “You’ll have to earn it.”

And he will.

You both know it.

The light came fast.

Split the sky open and poured down like judgment.

The lake boiled around him, full of screams. His brothers and sister—his kin by blood and curse—were dying beside him, bodies thrashing in the shallows, set alight by morning. He could smell the rot of old flesh, the silver still burning in his veins.

And he was afraid.

Truly afraid.

His skin peeled from his arms. His back bowed. The pain was worse than the turning. Worse than war. Worse than the hunger that used to crawl behind his ribs.

He dropped to his knees.

His chest heaved. His mouth opened—

but no scream came.

Then something broke.

Not inside him—behind him. Older than him.

He heard it.

A voice.

Not from the trees. Not from the lake.

From the space just between pain and silence.

“Remmick.”

Mara

And suddenly the fire meant nothing.

Because underneath it all… he heard the songs.

Not in English. Not in Latin.

But in the tongue he hadn’t spoken since he was still human. Still a boy. Still hers.

“Mo ghrá thú.”

You are my love.

“Come with me, a chroí.”

Come with me, heart of mine.

They weren’t words spoken aloud, but sung. Carried in the wind, threaded through the smoke. The same lullabies his mother used to hum, the same ones Mara had whispered when they curled in the hay before their wedding day was stolen from them.

The same songs they buried with her.

And then he smelled her.

Sweet tang of wild apples. Crushed moss beneath bare feet. Nettle tea and heather.

The scent cut through everything.

His chest broke open.

He saw her eyes—green like the valley after rain.

Her mouth crooked with mischief.

Her laugh, spilling like water down a cliffside.

He’d tried to forget.

It had been too long.

Too many bodies. Too much blood.

He thought time had won.

But here she was.

In the dark of his mind, in the gold of the light, waiting for him still.

The gold band had melted into his finger. But in that moment, he could feel her slipping it back on, laughing under her breath.

“You’re mine, Remmick,” she had said.

“Even if the world burns.”

It was burning now.

But the fear was gone.

“Tá tú saor.”

You are free.

That was the last thing he heard.

And so, he let go.

Not of her.

Not of the ring.

Just of the fear.

　　　.   　　˚　　 　　*　　 　　✦　　　.　　.　　　✦　˚ 　　　　 ˚　.˚　　　　✦　　　.　　. 　 ˚　.　

It’s been a couple of days since the baby shower.

A sweet afternoon. Streamers and soft music. Polaroids on string. Bowls of sugared almonds in pastel pink and blue. The kind of event that hums with gentle domesticity — safety, joy, quiet dreams about a new life on the way.

And for the most part, it was exactly that.

You hadn’t seen your friend in months, and she looked radiant. Glowing in a way that went beyond pregnancy, beyond the usual compliments.

There was something otherworldly about her — not in her features, not in the way she moved, but in the stillness around her. Her smile… there was something unreadable behind it, as if she carried a secret deeper than the child inside her.

You didn’t question it.

You were just happy for her.

You had smiled when you saw Remmick arrive, finally free to join the party now that the sun had dipped below the horizon — and after finally deciding to wear something less 1930s.

You had pulled him through the crowd by the hand, introducing him to the others with that effortless charm of yours. But something in him — subtle, almost imperceptible at first — had changed.

He’d looked in a specific direction, just over your shoulder, with an almost vacant expression. Like something had caught in his throat. When you turned to follow his gaze, you saw only your friend’s husband. Tall, calm, quiet. Kind to everyone. An ordinary man.

But Remmick seemed to keep his distance.

He didn’t say anything at first. He passed the evening in peace — but rigidly. Too rigidly. Every answer measured. Every word filtered.

He never lost control. But you noticed the way his jaw clenched just a little too often, or how his fingers tightened around his glass as if he might shatter it.

Only later — much later — while you were driving home in the quiet dark of the car, he finally spoke.

“She’s not with a human.”

You paused. “What?”

“She’s carryin' somethin' strange, y'know. Didn’t come from any human, that's for sure.” His voice was quiet, but not unsure. Not even remotely.

Your brow furrowed. “She didn’t say anything—”

“Why would she, now?” he cut in, eyes locked on yours. “I can feel it in me bones. Not vampire — somethin' else entirely. But human? No chance.”

You stared at him. Not in fear. Not even disbelief.

Just silence.

Because you know what he is. What he’s capable of sensing.

But even then, even with that revelation hanging between you, you found yourself smiling.

“She looked happy,” you said simply, curling your fingers around his. “That’s all that matters to me.”

Remmick didn’t argue.

But later that night — when the lights were off and you thought he was asleep — you felt the way he pressed closer to you. The way his hand moved down to your stomach, spreading across it with slow, deliberate pressure.

Like he was checking. Like he was counting time.

The movie flickers quietly across the TV screen, painting soft lights across the dim living room. You’re half-sprawled out the couch, one leg tucked under you, the other stretched out — and it’s under that leg that Remmick rests, head nestled against your thigh like it’s the only pillow he’ll ever want. His arm is draped lazily over your knee, fingers absently tracing slow, warm patterns against your skin. A blanket’s tossed somewhere nearby, but you don’t need it — the heat of his body, and the cozy hush of evening, are more than enough.

Your cat is curled up behind you, nestled into the small ledge of space between your head and the back cushion of the sofa. Occasionally, it flicks its tail against your hair in quiet judgment — clearly unimpressed with the movie or the company, but tolerant of both.

Your body hums in a slow, satisfied way — not exactly tired, not quite alert. The kind of stillness that only comes after a long day and a long, long shower with Remmick, where he’d had you pressed to the tile, whispering filth and adoration into your skin while the water did nothing to cool him down.

You’d expected him to be sated.

He’d even looked it, once you’d finally gotten back to the couch — hair wet, eyes soft with post-orgasm warmth. You’d thrown on a long T-shirt and dropped beside him, both of you content for a rare moment of peace. And for a little while, it had been just that: peace.

But now, that same hand tracing lazy circles on your leg has begun to drift. Not urgently. Not obviously. Just a little… lower. A little more deliberate. His fingertips start to wander the hem of your shirt — never quite slipping beneath, but close enough that your skin prickles in anticipation.

You glance down at him. His eyes are still on the TV. Pretending.

But the corner of his mouth is twitching.

“You’re doing that on purpose,” you murmur.

“I’m not doin' anythin'.” His voice sounds like false innocence.

His hand creeps higher, dragging across the soft flesh of your inner thigh. Slower now. Less tracing, more claiming.

You shift a little. Adjusting to get away from him — just a little bit. He notices so he turns his head, rests the side of his face directly over your skin and inhales — long and deep.

“Rem,” you sigh. “I’m watching the movie…”

“I know.” His lips graze the top of your thigh, his short bear tickling you. “So am I.”

But he’s not. Not really.

His hand is bolder now. Slipping under your shirt, dragging along your hips, finding that soft dip of skin just below your belly. His touch is slow, reverent — but present. Not teasing anymore. It’s filled with a gentle kind of insistence. A promise he’s building with each stroke of his palm.

And then — with a sigh too innocent to be anything but sinful — he shifts.

He sits up slowly, like a cat stretching after a nap, rising from your lap until he’s kneeling beside you on the couch, his eyes now fully focused on you.

You try to ignore it, keeping your eyes on the screen, but your heartbeat betrays you — and he knows it. He always knows it.

He leans down, kisses the curve of your neck. Light at first. Barely there.

Then again, just beneath your ear.

Again, slower, lingering.

You swallow. “Rem…”

You try to turn your head away — needing to regain control — but he follows, his hand coming up to cradle your cheek, keeping your face gently caged. Not forceful. Just enough to guide.

Then, wordlessly, he presses his lips to your neck again with a quiet, low growl, burying his mouth into the skin like he needs to drink you from the source.

You try to squirm away again, but this time his arms shift, moving you.

He lifts your legs with one hand, adjusts your hips with the other, guiding your back gently against the arm of the couch. You gasp as the soft cushions meet your shoulders, and then — he’s over you.

Not heavy, not aggressive — but surrounding.

His body fits between your thighs like he’s lived there, like this is where he was always meant to be. You’re still just wearing that long shirt, and it’s ridden up dangerously now, barely covering you.

“Remmick—” you start again, already breathless. “We already had sex in the shower like thirty minutes ago…” you sigh, turning your head to look at the screen, as if the movie might rescue you from the heat crawling through your limbs.

“Sure,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your shoulder. Then another, higher. “I remember. I remember how ye sounded.”

His lips trail up your neck again, soft and wet, voice getting lower, needier.

“Ye were so warm inside, love. Ye still are. I can smell meself on ya.”

You groan softly, dragging a hand through his damp hair.

“I’m tired,” you protest weakly. “It was a busy day at work…”

That’s when he really melts.

His voice is almost a whine when he replies. Desperate. Soft. Pathetic.

“Ya don’t have to do a thing…” he breathes, kissing your collarbone. “I’ll take care o' ya. I promise. Just let me touch ya. Let me help ya relax.”

His hips grind down, just once — gently — letting you feel the hardness pressed between your thighs, hot and growing harder by the second.

“Ya know I can make it better,” he murmurs into your skin. “Better than anythin'. Better than sleep. Better than this bleedin' film ye’ve seen a hundred times.”

You don’t even answer him with words.

You just let your body soften beneath him, let your eyes flutter shut, let your fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt. He feels it — the shift in you. And his breath catches like you just handed him something sacred.

His hands move slowly at first, dragging the hem of your shirt higher, exposing your thighs, your hips, the curve of your belly. His eyes flicker — dark and glassy with hunger — but he doesn’t pounce. He kisses his way down.

Your cat shifts behind your head, tail flicking near your face once in vague disapproval.

Remmick lowers himself onto his stomach, settling between your legs like it’s the only place he ever intends to be again. One large hand rests across your belly, keeping you grounded, the other gently easing your thighs open wider.

“Just stay right there…” he murmurs. “Don’t be movin'. Let me do everythin', me dear.”

You can barely breathe as he kisses the inside of your thigh, then the other, his stubble scraping the delicate skin as he works his way in.

Then finally, finally, his mouth finds you.

He doesn’t rush. He starts with long, slow licks — lazy and deliberate — like he’s savoring you, tasting every part of what he already owns. The flat of his tongue presses through your folds, hot and slick, and you feel your hips twitch, instinctive and immediate.

You’re already starting to melt into the couch, limbs loose, thoughts blurred from the rhythm of Remmick’s mouth working you close and you swear you can feel him smiling every time you gasp.

Then suddenly—he pauses.

You feel it before you hear it. His breath stills. His tongue withdraws.

And then he growls.

Not loud — but deep. Low in his chest. A vibrating, frustrated sound that sets off something instinctive in your core. You tense, your hand twitching in his hair.

“…Rem?”

He doesn’t answer right away. He presses a kiss just above your clit, and then inhales, slow and deliberate. Searching. Testing.

And when he exhales, the sound that escapes him is darker. Almost wounded.

He pulls back from between your legs just far enough to stare, his breath hot against your inner thigh, his eyes searching. Desperate.

“Where is it…” he whispers, almost like he’s talking to himself. His brows furrow, lips parting in disbelief. He leans in again, mouth dragging through your folds, slower this time — tasting, checking — and then again, rougher, more frantic.

And when he doesn’t find what he’s looking for…

He whines.

“No,” he murmurs. “No, no—darlin'…”

You blink, flushed and confused, chest rising and falling.You are not understanding.

“Ya scrubbed it clean.” His voice is barely more than a broken breath, trembling with devastation. “Washed me right off o' ya.”

He kisses your entrance, tongue flicking gently, like he’s begging forgiveness with every motion. He sucks your clit, hard, and you writhe beneath him, moaning his name like a warning and a surrender.

“Ah, but don’t be worrin', love” he growls, licking up your slick with renewed hunger. “I’ll fix it.”

He pushes two fingers inside you — not harsh, but firm crooking them just right, and your legs twitch around his shoulders. By now he knew the right points without even making a serious commitment.

His fingers slide in and out of you for a few more moments, wet and trembling, his mouth still pressed reverently against the inside of your thigh like he’s whispering a prayer you can’t hear.

When he finally looks up, his eyes are wild.

You barely have time to ask him anything before he’s shifting, scooping you up into his lap in one swift, desperate movement. You gasp, hands grabbing at his shoulders instinctively as he sits back into the couch, pulling you with him, positioning you so your knees straddle his hips and your body rests fully against his chest.

Your cat immediately huffs, jumps off the back of the couch with a dramatic flick of its tail, and disappears into the hallway — likely muttering curses in feline under its breath.

But Remmick doesn’t notice. Doesn’t care.

He’s already moving your panties to the side, the other one large hand sliding up your butt to keep you suspended.

“Just let me…” he pants, the head of his cock pressing against your entrance, not pushing yet — just feeling. Just existing there, trembling with the weight of what he wants.

“Swear, I’ll be gentle,” he breathes, lips brushing your cheek, your jaw. “I’ll be so good. Good as gold for ya…”

You whisper his name — not a protest, not encouragement. Just his name.

And that’s all it takes.

He grips your hips with shaking hands, slowly guiding you down onto him.

You both gasp — you from the overwhelming stretch, the still-sensitive ache of overstimulation, and him from sheer, unrelenting relief.

“Oh—fuck, yes…” he moans, his head falling forward against your shoulder, voice trembling as you sink fully onto him. “There ye are. There ye are.”

He doesn’t move right away. He just holds you there, buried to the hilt, arms wrapped around your waist like he’s afraid you’ll go away if he doesn’t hold on tight enough.

You can feel his cock twitch inside you — thick and hard and throbbing. You can feel the shake in his legs, the unspoken need in his every breath.

“Goin' slow,” he murmurs, half to you, half to himself. “I have to go slow.”

And he does — but it’s the kind of slow that’s full of tension, like he’s pulling every thread of restraint until it’s one second from snapping. He lifts your hips barely an inch, then presses you back down again with a shuddering groan, his lips catching against your neck.

“Ye’re still so tight,” he whispers. “Still so warm… like yer body wants to keep me now.”

You don’t answer — can’t — too overwhelmed by the way he moves, the way he’s not thrusting so much as rocking you back and forth, his hands gentle but gripping, grounding you to him.

“I’m gonna leave it in this time, so I am,” he breathes, mouth brushing against your ear. “Not lettin' ya wash me away again. I’ll keep fillin' ya, love— till yer body can’t forget. Till I’m still spillin' outta ya in the mornin'…”

His voice wavers. Cracks.

“Need it to stick,” he whines. “Need ya to hold me.”

He keeps rocking into you, deeper with every pass, your foreheads pressed together now, your breaths mingling. You feel every inch of him — the depth, the thickness, the weight of his want.

And beneath it all, that vulnerability: not lust, not dominance.

Just a man breaking a little more each time he feels you clench around him and knowing that he can never get close enough.

When you finally start to shake around him again, your nails dragging into his shoulders, he groans — desperate and ragged, his thrusts faltering as you flutter around him.

“Gonna come, baby,” he gasps. “Gonna fill ya again. Gonna give it all back.”

You whisper his name — broken, pleading — and he falls apart.

He buries himself deep, jerking his hips once, twice, then holds you there, pressed flush against him as he comes with a low, pathetic cry, spilling inside you in thick, pulsing waves.

His forehead is pressed against your shoulder, damp with sweat, his breathing shallow and content.

But he doesn’t soften.

You shift slightly, trying to get more comfortable, and that’s when you notice it: the pressure. He’s still hard.

You run your fingers through his hair, slow and soothing, meaning to help him relax—ground him, maybe. And he purrs.

A low, almost embarrassed sound vibrates from his chest, like something primal he didn’t mean to release. His arms tighten around you, his hips twitch just once—reflexive, almost apologetic.

You smile. “Rem… seriously?”

“Can’t help meself,” he mumbles, voice muffled against your neck.

You give a shocked laugh, barely recovered. “That wasn’t an invitation.”

But he moves again—intentionally this time. A slow, deep roll of his hips that makes you gasp and grip hard his shoulders.

“Remmick,” you breathe. “We just—”

“I know,” he says, lips brushing your throat. “But it's not enough, it's just not enough, love…”

He pulls back just far enough to kiss you, deep and slow and needy. Your fingers curl in his hair, tugging—trying to make him stop. But he moans into your mouth and presses deeper, harder. His fangs scratching your lips as a warning.

You try again, breaking the kiss. “Stop—seriously, I’m—”

He doesn’t let you finish. With a growl, he wraps his arms beneath your thighs, lifting you effortlessly, cock still inside, and carries you toward the bedroom.

“Remmick—!”

“Please, darlin’,” he mutters, pressing kisses along your jaw, barely holding back his panting. “Please, lemme give it to ya… let me give ya everythin'.”

You claw at his back in protest—halfhearted, overwhelmed—and he whines, hips jerking with each drag of your nails.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart” he pants, nuzzling into your neck. “I know yer tired… I do. I just— I need to, I have to—”

He stumbles into the bedroom, pushes the door open with his foot, and sets you down on the mattress—not gently, but not roughly either. Just… desperate. Urgent.

You try to crawl away, breathlessly, but he’s already on you, pinning you down with his weight, his cock still hard and so ready as it slides back into place like he never left.

He groans at the feeling—like he’s home again.

“Ye’re squeezin' me so tight,” he growls into your neck. “Yer body wants it. It needs me. I know how much it needs me…”

You cry out as he starts moving—no teasing, no slow build. Just deep, messy thrusts, his need spilling out of you with every roll of his hips.

Every wet smack of his hips against yours and the obscene sounds of your arousal mixed together only drive him wilder. All you can do is reach his back, your nails dragging down leaving scratched, walls fluttering around his aching length, and moan your breathless yeses into his ear.

You feel the blood and skin getting under your nails and he gasps.

“Do that again,” he begs. “My sweet girl, my sweet mama.”

You pull at his hair, with the intention of hurting him but he retreated, pushing himself against your lips for a kiss, and it’s too much. He groans into your mouth, sloppy and broken, his hips stuttering.

Your cunt clenches around him on instinct, and he loses it.

He drives in deep, burying himself to the hilt, and comes—loud and raw, his body shuddering as you scratch at his back again, as if the pain grounds him deeper into the pleasure.

Hot, pulsing ropes of cum fill you once again, and he moans your name like a prayer, like a plea, like he’s giving you everything that’s left in him.

He collapses over you, shaking, panting, his cock twitching inside you with aftershocks, finally starting to soften. His arms are around you, his face pressed into your neck like he’s afraid of being seen.

And for a moment, all you can hear is the sound of both your breathing.

But then something begins to rise in you — not pain, not anger… just something unsettled.

“Remmick,” you whisper, throat dry.

He doesn’t answer.

You shift slightly beneath him. Not to push him away, not even to leave — just move. Reclaim a sliver of yourself.

“Rem,” you repeat, a little louder and colder now. “I need you to get off me. Please.”

He freezes. Completely.

You feel his breath catch, then stutter. And then his whole body shakes.

“I’m so sorry—”

His voice is small. Broken.

“I’m sorry,” he chokes out again, voice hoarse. He lifts his head, and when you see his face, your heart clenches.

His cheeks are wet.

His eyes, completely red and glossy, desperate.

“Did I…did I hurt ya?”

He tries to sit back, tries to pull out, but his hands won’t stop shaking. He looks wrecked, ashamed, lost.

You sit up slowly, reaching for the blanket, covering yourself instinctively as he backs away onto his knees, still trembling, his breathing turning ragged.

He presses his palms into his eyes, trying to wipe away the tears, but they just keep coming.

“I’m sorry,” he chokes out again, voice hoarse. “I didn’t mean to. Got selfish. I’m so sorry, love.”

You reach out, lay a hand gently on his arm.

“Remmick,” you whisper. “You didn’t hurt me.”

He looks at you like he doesn’t believe it.

You pause.

“But you didn’t listen until now. That’s what scared me.”

He drops his head, shoulders curling inward, like your words are physically hitting him.

You speak again, softer now.

“What’s happened to you these days?” you ask, voice almost breaking. “You’re so… clingy. Obsessed. You’ve always been intense, but this? It’s not you.”

He doesn’t speak for a long moment.

And then, barely audible—

“I saw how ye looked at 'em.”

You blink. “Who?”

“At yer friend. At her belly.” His voice is strained, lips trembling. “I saw the way yer hand lingered a bit too long when she talked about kickin'. Heard yer heart flutter when I told ye her husband wasn’t human. Ye didn’t say a word, but I felt it all the same.”

You freeze.

He swallows hard, like the confession is strangling him.

“Ye want it,” he says, finally meeting your eyes. “Ye want what she has.” Tears well up again. “And I want to give it to ye.”

The room stills.

“I want to build somethin' with ye,” he says, voice cracking. “A…a family…”

He shifts closer, hesitantly, hands gentle as they reach for yours.

You stare at him, lips parted, breath caught in your chest.

You reach up slowly, brushing his cheek with your thumb. He leans into it instantly, like a starving man offered warmth and closed his eyes.

You swallow hard.

“Rem…” you begin, hesitating. “We’ve… we’ve had it thousands of times before. You and me. This. All of it.”

He doesn’t speak, but his jaw tenses slightly.

You keep going, softly.

“But nothing’s ever happened. Not even once.”

You feel his breath hitch.

You almost stop — but you don’t. He needs to hear it.

“Maybe…” Your voice falters. “Maybe he’s something different, even for reproduction. You said it yourself — he’s not a vampire like you. And you…”

You feel his body go still.

“You died, Remmick,” you whisper. “Before you became what you are. Maybe that’s what it is. Maybe you just… can’t.”

For a moment, he doesn’t move at all. Then he pulls slightly away, just enough to look up at you — and the look in his eyes breaks you.

There’s no anger there. No blame.

Just quiet devastation.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, voice raw. “I’m sorry I can’t give ya what ye want.”

The words land like a stone in the center of your chest.

Before you can even process them, he drops his head to your shoulder, wrapping both arms around your waist and holding you tight — tighter than usual. Not desperate. Not possessive.

Just… broken.

Your arms wrap around him instantly, protectively. You hold back your tears, feeling just how deeply you hurt for him. It was so clear how much he longed for a family. You’d never spoken about it, but you understood why. It was destroying him.

“Remmick, it doesn’t matter if nothing ever comes from this. You are my family. I have everything I want in my arms right now.”

You knew they were out there.

You knew it every night.

After everyone had fallen asleep, you'd go downstairs, unlock the front door and stand at the threshold. You'd see their glowing eyes in the night, in the distance. Never close enough to see them, though. Just their eyes. You'd have thought they were animals, like coyotes or something, had you not heard the stories.

Oh, you'd heard the stories. And they should've frightened you.

Operative word; should've.

But didn't.

You wanted to find out.

You open the screen door carefully, holding it tightly as you guide it back into place. You'll be damned if a creak ruined your fun.

You'd learned to play the violin at a young age. It had been a fun little talent, used for get together but now, as you bring the bow to the strings, it's being used for a far more sinister purpose. A low resonant sound drifts through the air. You aren't playing anything in particular, but hope it's seductive enough to bring him forward.

At first, there's darkness, as there always is. It looms in front of your house like a storm cloud and the overwhelming feeling is somehow inviting and ominous at the same time. The darkness encroaches. Like it's sentient and has two big arms that want to swallow you whole. You don't dare step off the front porch, though. Not yet.

You continue dragging the bow, fingering out a low, almost mournful tune. You close your eyes, feeling the melody as it resonates through your hand and up your arm. You're lost for a second, just feeling the music, but quickly regain awareness, opening your eyes. You blink and swallow, focusing on the melody that drifts out into the forest ahead.

And after a few minutes… one pair of reflective eyes blinks back in the distance. Once, twice. They bounce as he walks closer. You hear the crunch of the dirt underneath his shoes as he approaches, comes into the bright spot that your porch light emits.

You bring the violin away from your shoulder, lowering it down to your side. "I'm almost surprised you came."

"That was some mighty fine playin' there, darlin'."

"It worked well enough, I suppose."

"What — you lure me here to string me up or somethin'?"

You shake your head at him, and say: "I wanted to see ya'… I know you've been lurkin' outside my house for weeks. I hear you."

He smiles, like a man caught — but a man who isn't ashamed of being caught.

"Well, I hear you."

You shift your weight, and take a step away from the door. "Why you always out here? You ain't never come to the door, though."

He takes a step. "Your violin there ain't the only thing singin'. Damn near drove me insane how strong I could smell ya'. Just like I can now, sweet girl."

That sends a jolt of arousal directly to your core. You hum and lean back against your doorframe. Remmick takes another step forward. You're bold, standing outside like this for him to approach. So far from safe, you can't even remember the feeling.

"I know what you are."

He grins; it's a mouthful of teeth that catches you off guard. When he speaks, it sounds full, like he's fighting around the teeth. His eyes flash red, and his tongue runs along the jagged line of his fangs. "Do ya' now? Saves me some trouble, then."

Something clenches in your gut. It's hot and wet like anticipation, but clings to your insides like fear. If you're afraid, it's trumped by your unbridled, burning curiosity to taste the forbidden. You set the violin on the rocking chair on your porch. It wobbles slightly, the wood creaking underneath, and you reach out to steady it with your hand.

You stare at him.

He stares at you.

He takes another step forward, his hands in his pockets. Casual. Disarming. He's got one foot up on the porch and you know there's no turning back now. You wouldn't make it inside.

"I want to know," you murmur. Brave. Curious.

Remmick chuckles at that, looking down to the floor before his reflective eyes flit back up to you. "What, my name? It's Remmick."

You smile crookedly. "I meant… something else."

To punctuate your sentence, you run your hand down the length of your body, over your breasts, down the curve of your stomach, stopping just before you reach your cunt. Remmick's eyes follow your hand as it trails down your body, his own hunger tripling. When you stop, his gaze doesn't drift from the spot between your legs.

"I'm curious what it feels like," you say.

His jaw juts out to the side, almost cockily. He looks like he's tasting your words, and they amuse him. "Careful, now… when I come on, I come on like a fever."

"Countin' on it. C'mere," you say, taking a step and reaching your arm forward. Your fingers take a hungry fistful of his shirt, pulling him fully up onto the porch. Your chests are flush now, your breasts pushing against the hard planes of his pale body. Neither of you waste any time; you're both starved, it seems. He smears his face along yours, his breath hot and heavy over your open mouth. It's desperate and animalistic, like a hungry beast that hasn't eaten for days. He's inhaling you in lungfuls, and you can't help but moan low.

Your hand snaps to his face abruptly, your thumb pushing up into his top lip, exposing the needle-sharp fangs. A line of saliva stretches from his tongue, and Remmick relents, opening his mouth wider to let you explore his mouth with your fingers. You run your thumb along one of the points, not enough to puncture, but enough to sate your curiosity. When he finally kisses you, it isn't sweet or gentle. It's sharp and heady and leaves your knees feeling rubbery.

Something creaks in the house behind you — you don't hear it, but he does. He cranes his neck, moving his head away from yours briefly. He gazes at the house behind him with a disappointed glimmer in his eyes. You drape your arms around his neck, pulling his attention back to you. You're just as needy as he is.

"Ahhh," he breathes into your mouth. "You ain't alone."

"Aw, don't you worry 'bout that. They won't hear nothin'."

They were all asleep, and they'd stay that way, despite what you wanted to do. You knew when to keep your voice down. Keeping your arms wrapped around his neck, you walk him back towards the corner of the porch, pressing your back against the wood. Remmick reaches around his neck, grabbing one of your hands sharply. Those clawed fingers wrap around your wrist with ease as he brings it to his mouth, exhaling against the soft skin. Your blood runs just beneath the surface, and it's singing a symphony to him.

Without warning, the sharp point of his thumb nail slices just below your palm. You hiss through your teeth. There's a hot sting as the nail lacerates, then a runnel of bright, red blood hurriedly snakes down your inner arm. Remmick is quick to catch it though, laving his cool, wet tongue all over the skin. As he hungrily laps, you lean your head back against the wood, a sense of euphoria settling over you. It's not from blood loss, but an indescribable feeling of being consumed by something other than a man.

"Remmick," you whisper, reaching down to hoist your cotton nightgown up your soft thighs. You're already wet with want, you can feel it.

At first, he doesn't react, too busy squeezing your wrist and urging more blood from the wound. When you press your bare cunt against him, smearing your wetness against his slacks — the intoxicating scent of arousal hits him. He looks down between your bodies. Sees you grinding your hips against his. Something glimmers in his red eyes, something hungry.

"Whoooo," he says. It should be hollered, but instead, it's whispered. "You just waitin' to be grabbed, ain't ya'?"

His hand leaves your wrist, sliding down your body, nails first. He palms your cunt, just feeling the damp heat that radiates off of her. With a low hum, he moves over your folds, slick and warm, and spreads her open with the pads of his fingers. A thick ribbon of drool dribbles from the corner of his mouth, and you lean forward, flicking your tongue along it. Warmth erupts in your core, somehow more fiery than before. Something settles over you. Heat. Hunger. Willingness. As if you weren't before? Nonsense. You asked for this.

"Go on an' tell me you want this," he drawls. With his other hand, he frees himself, pulling his rigid cock from the confines of his trousers. You feel it bump against your stomach, which clenches in response.

"Show me," you start, walking your legs out slightly. Keeping your eyes on him, you angle your hips to give him easier access. "Show me what it feels like. I wanna' know."

He pushes himself down with one hand, lining it up. The leaking tip of his cock prods your slit a few times, pushing in gently before he pops the head in all the way, and you arch your back against the wood.

You're soaked, and already tightening around him, trying to pull him in further.

"Fuck," he says. "This here is what bein' curious will get ya', lass."

His hips buck hard once, sheathing himself inside you. You don't protest, despite the way he splits you open. His hips find an impatient, hurried rhythm of fucking up into you and your jaw drops in a silent scream, your eyes lifting to the overhang of the porch.

Remmick sates himself in you, like you exist for his pleasure and his pleasure alone. The frenzied thrusts have your breasts bouncing against your chest, and one of his hands come up to grab one, his thumb flicking over the nipple. You tangle your fingers in the hair on the back of his head, pulling hard. He snarls close to your face, and an intoxicating blend of fear and arousal shudders down your spine. This was what you wanted, after all. You silence his snarl with a brave kiss, running your tongue along his bottom lip. He reciprocates, letting his own wet muscle tangle with yours, taste every inch of your open, pleading mouth.

Your release gallops toward you, too quickly. Remmick notices this. Or maybe he can smell it in the air, feel it in the way your cunt squeezes him with every thrust, taste it in the way your short, little panting breaths come. His hand clamps down over your lips, hard, mean — like he can hear the scream inside your throat. Your eyes roll back, lids fluttering helplessly as you come, clenching around his dick in a spasming grip.

It doesn't take long for Remmick to follow you, not with the way he's thrusting into you. Seconds later, he's filling you until he leaks out the sides. He doesn't pull out, keeping himself stuffed inside you.

"You'll make a mighty fine addition, darlin'. A mighty fine addition."

Your fists ball at your sides, the first whispers of fear clouding your mind, darkening it around the edges like a vignette. You're afraid now. Afraid of the pain, of the way it'll hurt, of what you'll leave behind. You swallow hard, reminding yourself that you wanted to know, you wanted to find out, and you lured him from his hiding spot in the woods. His hold tightens on your jaw as he yanks your head to the side, exposing the sweaty column of your neck to him. He kisses the skin. Once. Twice. And then you feel his jaws part, open wide on your neck.

Curiosity really does kill the cat.

You hunch over, your fanged teeth gritted and your breath coming in shallow pants as new phantom injuries bloom along your body. You have to struggle to push through the forefront of panic in your mind, quiet the alarms so you can think rationally. You force yourself to calm, to realize you aren’t being attacked as the pain quickly dulls to nothing more than an itch beneath your skin. You understand these sensations, have felt them enough times before for there to be a sinking feeling in your gut.

You reach out towards the bond, the invisible tether that ties you directly to the beast that turned you, to Remmick. You follow it across the distance between you, the thing pulled tight like a bowstring, quivering with each other’s thoughts, emotions, and memories. Your head swims with flashes of the night through Remmick’s eyes, of unfamiliar men surrounding him, the scent of his blood thick in the air, his fear laced through it like a toxin. He struggles against the men but it’s futile in his state, his fangs flashing in attempts to fight them off. He gets punched in the jaw so hard that it snaps you back into your own body, the ache of the hit resonating in your teeth.

“Goddamnit, Rem.” You snarl under your breath, already turning on your heel and dashing upstairs. You’re quick to shed your nightgown, swapping it for your well-worn pair of work pants and a button up, then shoving your feet into your sturdy boots. You grab your cowboy hat off the hook you always put it on, securing it onto your head and snatching your hunting rifle resting just above it. You sling the strap of it across your chest because even with your claws and fangs and inhuman strength, you’ve never been able to give up your gun.

You burst out the front door of your farmhouse, immediately running towards the stables around the side. You haul the gate open, hurrying to the stall of your trusted horse, Ranger. She’s the granddaughter of the horse you’d had thirty years ago, each line of her family always being your chosen favorite. Ranger’s brown and white pelt is sleek and well groomed, her dark mane straightened, and her hazel eyes wide and alert, like she was ready for you. She huffs at you, her foot stomping once at the fact you’ve disturbed her rest. “I know baby, I know. I’ll make it up to ya, I promise.” You coo as you secure the saddle to her back with practiced ease.

As soon as you’re seated atop her, you bring her out from the stables and press your legs against her sides to urge her into a full gallop. Her hooves pound into the dirt as she breaks your property line, following your guidance towards the woods in the east. You let your bond chart your course, the rope that connects you to Remmick getting shorter and shorter by the minute. The remnants of the moon just barely illuminate the forest path, the one that’s been walked and trodden hundreds and thousands of times before. It runs miles into the untamed trees, lined with thick underbrush that rustles with the inhabitants of these woods that fall silent as your horse sprints past.

The deeper you go, the thicker the scent of panic and terror becomes. You can taste it on the roof of your mouth, can feel the way it makes your muscles tense like you’re the one being hunted. Your breath is sharp in your lungs, each one a little constricted with anxiety, not knowing what you’ll find at the end of the tether. It’s when there’s only a good fifty feet between you that you pull on Ranger’s reins, bringing her to a halt to dismount. You hide her amongst the bushes, tying her lead around a tree to keep her in place.

You soothingly run your hand along the bridge of her nose. “Be good for me, sugar. I won’t be long.” You promise, placing a kiss on her muzzle, Ranger’s head leaning up towards your touch.

Your steps are careful as you continue forward on foot, each step too light to possibly be human. You take off the strap of your rifle in a smooth motion, the weight of it familiar in your hands, loaded and ready. It feels like every part of you is on edge, your eyes wide, ears perked to any possible sound. You veer off the path to the right, concealing yourself in the underbrush, following the smell of blood and the constant, invisible tug that you accepted a long time ago.

Your grip on your gun tightens when you begin to hear snippets of conversation, of voices who aren’t concerned with disturbing the sanctity of night. They’re loud, crude, tinged with cruelty, and ones that you don’t recognize. You sneak forward until you reach a small clearing, stopping just at the edge of it, anger bubbling inside you at the sight of what’s before you.

Remmick slumped against a tree, his weakened body bound with thick rope, blood staining his torn clothes and skin, one eye swollen shut. He’s surrounded by five hunters, each of their outfits like an armory against your kind. Silver blades and bullets, wooden stakes, bits of garlic, and crosses around the necks. They laugh with each other, their faces concealed in shadow, their horses clearly uneasy.

“Can’t we talk this out, fellas?” Remmick coughs, his voice strained and cracked.

“Ain’t no talkin’ with the devil.” The man still sat on his horse sneers. You immediately connect that he’s the leader, something shiny like a badge pinned to his breast.

One of the hunters, the youngest one by the looks of him, crouches in front of Remmick. He digs his fingers into the vampire’s short black hair, his boldness near startling as he yanks Remmick’s head back. He winces at the rough motion, his fangs showing from his drawn lips. “This the one we been lookin’ for, ain’t it?” The hunter asks. With his free hand he draws a phantom line across Remmick’s neck, calculating. “Should we bring his head back for the sheriff?”

Another one scoffs. “If we can keep it from burnin’ up.”

“Easy enough. Just wrap it in one of them tarps or somethin’.” A third chimes in.

The younger man holding Remmick releases the vampire, leaving his head to fall limp with a small groan. The hunter motions to one of his companions. “Here, gimme yer knife.”

The other one, half his face covered in a thick beard and mustache, grumbles. “You ain’t bring yer own, boy?” He says while reaching back to his sheath.

“I forgot it, now just give it to me.” The other one says with an eye roll, making a grabbing motion with his hand.

The knife never gets to reach his grasp before a bullet cuts clean through his skull.

You’re quick to reload, shooting a second one dead before true chaos ensues. The hunters yell as their two buddies fall to the ground with blood splattering against the grass and horses rear up, shrieking to the skies. They search for the source of the gunfire before seeing the gleam of your eyes between the trees. “There’s another one of them monsters!” The hunter on the horse shouts, immediately aiming a pistol at you, firing without restraint while trying to keep his animal steady.

The bullets splinter the trunk you’d darted behind, following your path as you dash through the bushes. One manages to catch your arm, cutting through your shirt and burning the skin beneath with a hiss. You toss your own rifle aside, charging the clearing with sharpened teeth and extended claws. You jump up to tackle the leader off his horse, his surprised scream ringing in your ears as you both hit the ground hard. He thrashes in your hold, kneeing into your stomach, slamming the butt of his gun against you again and again in a desperate attempt to shake you off.

It doesn’t work before your fangs are digging into his neck, tearing his skin apart, letting his blood fill your mouth like it’s fresh water. It lights up your veins with a newfound strength, quieting the hunger that’d been pricking the edges of your mind. So focused on the man below you, you barely have time to react to the one that had come up behind you. You try to roll out of the way, but it doesn’t stop the knife from being buried in your side.

You screech as agony explodes through your body, your own blood pouring out around the blade as the hunter withdraws it. You attempt to lunge at him, to take him down like you did their leader, but you’re slammed into before you can. You’re shoved harshly against a tree with enough force to make something crack, the bearded man’s face a whirlwind of fury, his fists hitting your abdomen. He pulls you forward only to ram you into the trunk once again, your right shoulder dislocating with a loud pop. You see stars for a split second, your voice leaving you in a whoosh from the pain.

Remmick is fully alert now, straining against the ropes that bind him, your appearance giving him a new vigor. His red eyes are wider than the moon as he watches you, his mouth dropped open, fangs glinting and shiny with his saliva. His own thoughts are a chorus in the back of your mind, full of rage and awe:

My love. Don’t hurt her. Kill them all. My wife. So strong. Mine. Kill them, kill them-

“Shoot her!” The bearded one shouts, gritting his teeth as your claws drag along his arm.

Just beyond him you can see the other one taking aim, hoping to get you between the eyes. Right as his finger rests on the trigger, you bring your knee up into the gut of the man holding you hostage, a choked sound coming from him. You use the blaze of your pain as energy, dragging him forward as a gunshot rings in your ears. The bullet lodges into the man’s back, right above his heart, his yell being cut short. You let him fall to the ground, leaving the last one shaking in his boots, indistinguishable prayers whispered through his teeth.

His hands are quivering too much to take proper aim, so even in your bruised and bloody state you manage to dodge his bullets. You bring him down, ignoring the pain he tries to inflict with kicks and hits, your teeth opening his neck for you to drink from until he goes still.

Silence rings in the clearing as you sit up, your chest heaving, every part of you feeling like it’s covered in blood, and you have no idea what’s yours and what isn’t. You stagger to your feet, stumbling towards Remmick. You pick up your hat that had fallen off along the way, placing it safely back atop your head.

“Yer the hottest thing I’ve ever seen in my whole life.” Remmick says when you reach him.

“Will you shut your damn mouth?” You snap, in no mood for his syrupy flirting while trying to undo his ropes with your one good hand.

His response is near instant. “Yes ma’am.”

As you work, you notice the man who got shot is still twitching on the ground. You can sense the way his life is quickly thinning, his quiet gurgles a plea for death. “Go eat.” You tiredly tell Remmick as you finally get his binds undone, sicking him on the hunter like a dog. It’s not like he deserves the free meal, but it’ll keep you from having to deal with him bitching and moaning about his injuries all day long.

Remmick visibly swallows, almost in disbelief of your graciousness. “Th-thank you, baby- yer so good t’me-”

You roll your eyes, watching as he latches onto the hunter, his noises finally going quiet as Remmick finishes him off. The sloppy sounds of his eating breaks the quiet and you see the way his numerous wounds steadily begin to heal. The discoloration on his skin disappears, the worst of his cuts closing at the edges. When he’s effectively sucked the man dry, you yank him up by the collar, blood soaking his front, a new shine to his eyes.

“Let’s go.” You say, ignoring the way Remmick bristles when you sidestep his offered support, his desire to try and help you in your injured state. You’re still too pissed to take it, to let your pride fall any further.

There’s two horses that ended up sticking around for the bloodbath and with a whistle, you get them to follow you. There’s always been something about you that draws animals to you, even with your supernatural attributes. You pick up your rifle you’d tossed aside when you pass through the bushes you’d hidden in just minutes prior, securing that strap across your chest once more.

With the horses on one side and Remmick on the other, watching you carefully, you make your way back to Ranger. She’s waiting for you right where you left her, ears swiveled forward, tail swishing behind her. You pet her with your working hand. “That’s my good girl.” You coo at her, undoing her lead. You swing yourself onto her back with some effort, hissing as the wound in your side oozes more blood, healing ever so slowly.

Remmick and Ranger watch each other uneasily, neither of them ever being real fond of the other. She takes a single step away from him, a snort blowing out of her nose with a shake of her head, making him hesitate. You grit your teeth together. “Remmick, so help me God, if you don’t get your stupid ass on this horse I’ll leave you out here to burn.”

He grumbles indistinctly but he steps forward and braces his hands on the saddle, not wanting to face any more of your wrath. He tries once but between his injuries and Ranger’s shifting, his foot slips and makes him stumble. The same thing happens a second time. “It’d help if you kept this damn thing steady.” He snaps.

You scoff. “Not my fault she don’t like you.”

He finally gets up on the third try, situating himself behind you, his chest comfortably pressed to your back. His hands come to your sides, some of your blood sticking to his palms but it doesn’t bother him any. You allow yourself to relax into his touch as you nudge Ranger into a trot, the other horses following behind. Part of you is relieved to feel Remmick’s body weight against yours, his thumbs drawing gentle, apologetic circles on your hips, knowing you very well could’ve lost him tonight. His presence has become so oddly steady and important in your life, it has been for years, and you don’t quite know what you’d do without it anymore.

It was a long time ago when you first met him, found him bleeding in your barn, not looking much different than he does now.

It had been the middle of the night when you were woken by the pigs causing a racket, squealing to the high heavens. You’d jumped out of bed, not even changing out of your night gown before you were grabbing your rifle, putting on your boots, and running outside. You’d thought for sure some big bad animal had managed to weasel into the barn, had gotten past your fences and locks.

The barn door was ajar, unlocked like someone or something had slipped inside and didn’t bother closing it behind them. You’d scowled and tightened your grip on your gun, holding it steady in front of you as you stepped past the doorway. There was only one light, a dim overhead that you kept on during the night, illuminating the place in a sickly yellow glow. The first thing you noticed were the splatters of red on the concrete floor, like somebody had dragged something bleeding across it. It led all the way to a back corner, the one closest to the goats.

The pigs were still throwing a fit, running around their pen, squealing to each other. Some of the other animals had joined in; goats were bleating, chickens were clucking in their coop, and from the smaller barn outside, you could hear your two cows mooing with everything they had. It was a proper cacophony. A few of them quieted when they saw you, knowing you were here to take care of whatever threat had invaded their home, giving you a chance to think above the noise.

The closer you got to that corner, the more you could make out some kind of lump that wasn’t there before. The stench of death and blood wafted from it, making your stomach churn. At first, the lump didn’t budge… but you moved a little too loud, your boot crunching a loose clump of hay, and then there was a flash. A flash of red eyes, more animal than human with the way they reflected the light that barely reached, a flash that had you gasping and your finger flying to the trigger. The red faded into a deep blue so quickly you thought you imagined it, now left with a babbling man instead of a monster.

He shied away from your gun, backing himself up even further, shaky hands in front of his face like protection. His body was laced in wounds, beaten, bloody, and bruised, his clothing torn and soaked with red. His voice was fractured, coated in a thick southern drawl. “Please- please have mercy I- I ain’t have nowhere else to go they- they was chasin’ me I- just for the night ma’am, please-“

You nearly shoved the barrel of your gun to his forehead. “Who? Who was chasin’ you all the way onto my damn property?”

He was almost crying now, his words stumbling over one another. “Real- real bad men, ma’am- they wanted to rob me- take everything I got I- I didn’t know where else to go-“

“And you ain’t come to the house? Decided to crawl into my barn instead?” You demanded.

“I- I didn’t wanna bother ya- just needed somewhere to hide-“

You glowered. “Bothered my pigs plenty.”

“And I’m very sorry ma’am I- I promise I won’t bother ya none just- just let me stay for the night I- I’ll be gone by mornin’-“ He said, his whole body shaking like a dog left in the cold.

With the way he was bleeding, you didn’t know if he’d even last until morning. You kept staring at him, studying his dark hair, his sturdy features—he looked as if he’d known what it was like to work on a farm. “What’s your name?” You finally asked after a minute of tense silence.

He gave an uneasy smile, one that seemed too sharp instead of polite. “Remmick, ma’am. Yours?”

You hesitated before giving him your name, figuring you might as well return the pleasantry. You didn’t trust this Remmick fellow for shit but if you wanted to not deal with a dead body by sunrise and for your animals to have some peace, you needed to get him out of the barn. Regardless, your papa taught you better than to leave anyone—man or animal—to suffer. Plus, you had a gun and perfect aim and he didn’t.

You sighed, lowering the rifle by just an inch. Remmick noticed, something sparking behind his eyes like some twisted sense of hope. “C’mon then. I’ll patch you up and then send you on your way. Don’t want you ‘round here longer than you need to be.” You said, nodding towards the barn door.

His mouth dropped open just barely in disbelief, his hands coming together like he was praying. “Oh, thank you- thank you ma’am I- I owe ya my life-“

“Don’t be sayin’ that just yet.” You muttered.

You made him go ahead of you, still keeping your rifle tight against your chest as you both walked towards the farmhouse—well, more like you walked and he stumbled. You stepped into the house, expecting him to follow you, only to find he halted at the doorway, looking at it nervously. You arched a brow at the weirdo. “C’mon, what are you waitin’ for?”

You caught the subtle way his whole body seemed to react to your words, a barely there shudder and another flicker in the blue depths of his eyes. His hesitation was gone after that, immediately joining you inside with sure footsteps. You brought him into the kitchen, had him sit at your table while he looked around and you dug through a cabinet for the first aid kit. You got a bucket of water and a few rags before sitting yourself in front of him.

Remmick let you touch him without reservation, watching intently as you scrubbed the blood off his muscled arms, dabbing whatever wounds you found with antiseptic. There weren’t as many as you thought, and the ones that had seemed bad had miraculously started to close. You tried to ignore it, thinking instead that maybe he’s just a strangely fast healer.

While you were busy, his eyes had locked on to the old wedding ring on your finger, the way it caught the light drawing his attention. “Your man somewhere ‘round here?” He asked, breaking the silence so suddenly that you flinched. His voice had changed, holding more confidence, no longer a whimpering mess.

You met his gaze for just a second. “Why’re you askin’ about him? Thinkin’ of tryin’ somethin’? Think I can’t kill you myself?”

Remmick chuckled at that, a deep, throaty sound that sent a shiver up your spine. “Oh I know ya could, sweetheart. I was just wonderin’ what kinda man sends his wife into the barn alone with a gun to fend off a beast.”

You looked at him skeptically. “Yeah? And what kinda beast are you?”

He hummed low. “Maybe the worst kind, darlin’.”

You scoffed, nearly laughing in his face. “Yeah, right. You’d die to a bullet just the same.”

Before he could respond, you took his face in your hand, bringing him closer so you could wash off the dirt and blood. “My husband ain’t around anymore.” You said. “Hasn’t been for five years. Sickness took him.”

“M’sorry.” Remmick managed to say despite the way you squished his cheeks.

You shrugged. “Don’t be. I miss him every now and again but I’ve been handlin’ myself and this place just fine.”

You sat back when you deemed him clean enough, free of all the blood on his skin with a couple patches over the worst of his injuries. You gave him a pair of your husband’s old clothes, ones that fit him surprisingly well, and brought him into the living room, showed him the couch. “You can stay here for the night but if you move from here I’ll shoot you, understand? And I want you gone by morning.”

Remmick nodded earnestly. “Yes, ma’am. Thank ya for your kindness. If there’s any way I can repay ya-“

“You can repay me by bein’ gone, and not bringin’ anymore trouble ‘round here.” You said sharply, to which he just nodded again and took his place on the couch.

It was over for you after that night, because Remmick never left. You didn’t know what it was about him that made you let him stick around, to turn your home into his as well. It didn’t help that he was already enthralled with you from the first moment he saw you. With your rugged and earthy scent with a hint of something sweet beneath it like it was buried a long time ago, your complete lack of fear, and those sharp edges that he wanted to see every side of, he couldn’t get enough. It made him stay, made him watch you curiously and follow you around to see what you did.

He fit into your life like some puzzle piece you didn’t know you were missing. Though he was definitely an odd one, you didn’t question it. Didn’t question the way he never ate the meals you cooked, the way he stayed far from open windows, the way he always slipped out in the middle of the night when he thought you were sound asleep, the way his eyes caught the candlelight wrong. You didn’t question why he never stepped foot outside during the day, or why he came back smelling like rusty metal in the morning.

You two lived in easy cohabitation for close to a year, with you spending your days out in the fields with the animals while he remained safely tucked inside the farmhouse. Remmick fell into farm life easily, as if it was something he’d been doing for longer than you could understand. He eagerly helped however he could when the sun went down—hauling bags of feed into the storage shed, wheeling in bales of hay, grooming whatever animals would tolerate him. Most of them didn’t like him, didn’t trust him, like they knew something about him wasn’t right. It made you laugh harder than you had in years when one of the pigs rammed into him and knocked him over.

There was one night you were in the barn together, Remmick giving a few of the animals their dinner while you were high on a ladder, trying to fix some faulty wiring for the heater that had been acting up. You had been so focused on it that you didn’t realize how far you’d been leaning forward, or that the ladder had been resting on an uneven part of the floor.

Remmick wasn’t quick enough to catch you, to notice the way the ladder wobbled so dangerously, the thud and crack of your body making him violently sick. Bag of feed dropped and forgotten, he’d ran to your side. You’d never seen him so horrified as he fell to his knees, whispered no’s falling from his lips over and over while he cradled your broken body close, something within it shattered beyond repair. You couldn’t speak, could barely breathe, trembling hand just barely finding his sleeve to hold while you stared at the ceiling. You knew you didn’t want to die, especially not like this, but you were glad you weren’t dying alone, at least.

He couldn’t stand it—you, who had taken him in, cared for him so, who didn’t ask questions, now lying in his lap as the light visibly dimmed from your eyes. He wouldn’t let it happen, wouldn’t let you die right in front of him while there was still something he could do. He’d save you in a different way, the way he knew best, with teeth and blood and the tearing of flesh. The last thing you saw was those fangs you always tried to ignore, red eyes burning bright and fierce with desperation and need.

You woke up as something else, something new and as bloody as the day you were born. You were still you, but you knew you weren’t the same, that you never would be again. Your eyes opened to the sound of humming, a tune you didn’t recognize but felt older than the earth, a tune to lead you from death. Your breath came through your lungs in a strangled gasp, like your unfamiliar body wasn’t used to the action. You jolted harshly, your hands scrabbling at the air before a comforting, calloused hand found yours and held tight. “I got ya, baby, I’m here.” Remmick said soothingly, his other hand brushing the hair from your face. You were still in his arms, him holding you close like he was scared you’d drift away. There was nothing but relief in his crimson eyes when he saw you blink up at him, when your bones snapped back into place.

You sat up slowly, finally able to get a good look at Remmick, to see what he truly was. Blood stained his front—your blood, coating his chin and neck and the sharp teeth in his mouth. You felt your connection to him almost immediately, like the tightening of a knot, tying you to him in the deepest way possible. Every one of his memories was now yours, every thought and emotion shared between you like the flowing channel of a stream, able to flip through him like an open book.

“Re- Remmick- what-“ You tried to say, your throat struggling to remember the shape of the words or how to speak them without making them crack, like they became shredded by your new fangs on their way out.

“Easy, baby, just take it slow.” He told you, a hand gentle on your back. “Yer like me now, darlin’, hungry and wrong and violent and m’sorry- I- I just couldn’t let ya go, it was the only way. These animals need ya, I need ya. I’ll show ya everythin’ I know, I promise. You’ll always have me.”

You were slow to take to being a vampire. There was still part of you that was disgusted at having to drink blood, though you were no stranger to it because of the farm. You hated the way hunger constantly prodded at the back of your mind, you hated not being able to feel the sun on your skin anymore, not being able to sweat out in the fields with the horses.

Now unable to work during the daytime, you had to hire farmhands. Ones that didn’t question the fact they never saw you, ones that just quietly did their jobs, took their pay, and went home. You also had them take your produce into town, to sell it at the markets and bring back the profit so the townsfolk wouldn’t get too suspicious. If anybody did ask, you always said you got too busy, too caught up with caring for the farm to venture out. It made it stupidly easy for you and Remmick to slip out and find food without being discovered.

No matter what, you weren’t alone because Remmick held true to his promise, he taught you every little thing he’d learned over his impossibly long life, eager to finally be able to show you something new for once instead of the other way around. He always caught you when you stumbled, held you close when it got hard, kissed away your frustration, made all of it seem okay, made you believe in him.

It’s gotten better with time, just like it always does, and you think you’ve finally fallen into a cycle you could get used to… until there’s nights like tonight when Remmick decides to cause trouble.

You’re broken out of your thoughts as you gain view of the farmhouse, as you lead the new horses to pasture and Ranger back to her stall, freeing them of their saddles and gear. With your wounds still open and tender and closing slowly, you stagger towards the house as the sun threatens to rise over the horizon. You let the door slam shut behind you both, roughly propping your gun on the ground.

“The hell were you thinking, Remmick? The fuck did I tell you?” You demand, watching as he flinches at your raised tone, the rage simmering in your eyes.

He holds his hands up as if in surrender. “I’m sorry, darlin’, I know-“

“No, you clearly don’t know! It don’t get through that thick fucking skull of yours that you can put both of us, all of this,” you motion to the house, to the farm outside, “in jeopardy, bringing those damn hunters ‘round here, putting their bodies this close to my fucking property line. You better pray to whatever god damned you that nobody finds them before I can go back and get rid of them.”

Remmick’s face is full of regret, knowing how badly he fucked up, knowing he’s the reason you got hurt, the reason you’re so upset. “Baby please just- I didn’t mean t’bring ‘em here I- I tried to draw ‘em away but they kept chasin’ me-“

“I told you not to go east! I told you so many fucking times that there’s hunters that way, and what do you do? The fuck were you doing over there anyway, huh?” You snap, your teeth glinting with every word, your clawed hand gesturing wildly.

His body hunches in on itself like he’s trying to look smaller, more apologetic. “There wasn’t enough food ‘round here, I just-“

“God forbid you listen to me, right? I been doin’ this shit for nearly fifty years now and you still seem to think that means I don’t know what I’m talkin’ about. Why do you think I ain’t fightin’ for my life every week, huh? I ain’t runnin’ from hunters and wooden stakes and holy water, I ain’t dragging them back to my goddamn home. How d’you think I do that, Remmick? I’m quiet, I don’t bother anybody, and I stay where I’m s’posed to.” You’re inches from him now, tension sparking between you, your eyes ablaze. You flinch back when your shoulder sends a jolt of pain through your body, making you groan. “And now my shoulder is fucked—again.” It’s ironic that the one that got dislocated is the same one that’s always caused you trouble, even now in your immortal life.

Remmick reaches out towards you, but you step away from his hold, making him pause, even though his frustration is clear in his expression. “Baby, just let me help-“

“Go get some water and a rag.” You tell him sharply, already making your way upstairs without another glance.

Though Remmick would usually argue, would stake his place, he knows you better than that, knows to let you have your space when you need it. He lets you disappear upstairs while he does as you told him. It’s not unusual for you to act like this, to use your anger as some type of shield against worrying about him. The anxiety that had been clenching your lungs ever since you found him in the woods has finally let go enough to allow you to breathe. In the safety of your home, you feel like you could collapse at any second, and there’s still some guarded part of you that doesn’t want to do it in front of him.

Once in your bedroom, you allow yourself to take a deep, shaky breath. You shuck off your bloody and torn shirt—another one to throw away—leaving you in your bra and pants. The cold air kisses your skin, leaves goosebumps in its wake, and reveals the mess of your other injuries. The worst is your stab wound, though it’s nearly closed now but still pulsing beneath the surface.

You move towards your record player, putting on one of your favorites, the soothing melodies filling the room and calming the fire burning in your gut. You then stand in the doorway, bracing your shoulder against the edge, drawing breath into your lungs for some kind of courage. You hold it tight as you slam your shoulder as hard as you can into the wooden frame, a choked yell and a curse forcing its way out of your throat and a newfound pain bursting through your limbs. There’s a successful pop while your vision spins and you think you’d fall to the floor if Remmick didn’t catch you in his arms first.

“Now baby, why would you go and do that?” He demands, full of concern. “You should’ve let me do it-“

“I got it just fine on my own.” You say, though your words sound strained. You make yourself stand, pushing away from him, rolling your shoulder experimentally. The functionality is back, though you can feel the residual ache that makes you wince.

You avoid Remmick’s gaze despite how he tries so desperately to catch yours, instead pretending to be focused on your blood-stained arm and god- it breaks him. He takes your hands roughly in his, making you turn towards him. “Darlin’ please- please just look at me- I’m sorry baby, I know I messed up- yer right I- I shoulda listened to ya just please look at me-“ He begs, practically falling apart at the seams at the thought of you not gracing him with your affection. “I- I can’t live in this world if yer mad at me- you can’t do that to me, baby- we’re together in this you promised me-“

The pure desperation in his voice, the undercurrent of real fear, makes you finally meet his eyes. You reach your hands up, cradling his face between your palms, watching as he shudders at the action, a shaky sigh leaving his lips. “Damnit, Rem, you scared me.” You whisper. “You got into real trouble tonight.”

His hands eclipse yours. “I know, m’sorry-“

You break off his apology with a kiss, one fierce and bruising, relishing the way he instantly leans into it. You can feel how grateful he is for your touch, like he wouldn’t care if the entire world burned down as long as you kept holding him. Your tongues brush against each other, swiping off the last remnants of blood, tasting the iron tang that’s a constant between you. He groans appreciatively, his hands finding their place on your waist, the weight of them steady and familiar.

Remmick leads you to the bed while keeping his mouth on yours, swallowing every sound you make, drinking your spit like it’s water. He sits you down gently, nudges your legs apart with his knee before his lips are trailing down your body. “Lemme make it up to ya, baby. Lemme treat ya good.” He murmurs, kissing along your jaw and then down your neck, past where he bit you all those years ago. He cleans the blood off of you as he goes, the water and rag you’d told him to get long forgotten as he licks you like you’re his dessert. He kisses over your injuries, quietly urging them to heal faster, cursing the men that dared lay a hand on you.

He shimmies your pants down your legs so that all you’re left in is your hat and undergarments, though those don’t last long. Your bra and underwear find themselves on the floor, your nipples perked in the sudden chill. His palms smooth up your thighs as he sinks to his knees between your legs, spread wide to reveal your glistening cunt to him. His eyes gleam in the darkness, full of a different kind of hunger, drool pooling at the corners of his mouth. “My pretty girl.” Remmick tells you, kissing the insides of your thighs, steadily building up to that first lick through your folds.

As soon as his tongue is on you, your head falls back with a sound caught between a hum and a moan. With your arousal now heavy on his taste buds, he knows there’s no holding himself back. Remmick dives into your pussy like a man starved, collecting every drop that you give him with the flat of his tongue, dragging it up through your cunt and to the bundle of nerves at the top. He sucks your clit into his mouth, sending sparks of pleasure up your spine, your whines becoming louder as your hips begin to move in rhythm against his face.

Your fingers tangle in the black waves of his hair, keeping him right against your pussy—though he wasn’t going anywhere anyway. You know he loves when you pull at him, when you use him like a toy for your release. “That’s it, Rem, doin’ so good-“ you gasp, making him groan at the praise. You can feel the reverberations in your core, nothing but pure desire in them as he sucks and licks and kisses, the tips of his claws digging into the plush skin of your thighs. His cock strains painfully against his pants, and he can’t help but grind against your leg at the same time, desperate for any kind of friction.

You moan loud when he adds two fingers, stretching you open and pressing in all the right places. His tongue focuses on your clit, drawing patterns in a mixture of slick and spit while his fingers pump in and out of you with a steady pace. “Fuck- yes- such a good boy-“ You whine, Remmick shuddering from the petname, grinding his dick against you a little harder.

Remmick knows you’re close with the way your muscles tense, your pleasure becoming his pleasure between the bond that connects you, a knot forming in your lower abdomen and a fire raging beneath your skin. It only encourages him, his tongue licking across every inch of you, his fingers scissoring your plush walls, feeling the way they pulse and flutter. He whines into your cunt, humping you like an animal, chasing his own release at the same time.

With a final suck of your clit, you’re cumming around his mouth and fingers, nails digging into his scalp and your moan echoing in the room. He’s quick to follow, groaning brokenly as he soaks his boxers with his cum, the hot, wet mess pressing through to his pants, his whole body trembling. He doesn’t stop licking at you until he’s sure he got every ounce of your cum, until you have nothing left to give and you’re twitching in his grip. “Can’t get enough of ya- taste so goddamn sweet-“ Remmick pants against you when he finally pulls away to rest his head on your thigh, his chin shiny with your cum and his drool. You hum, brushing the sweat soaked curls from his forehead, his eyes closing like a content cat.

There’s a moment of pause where the room is only filled with the sounds of your shared, heavy breathing before his hand finds your knee, his thumb rubbing circles against your soft skin. “Yer still upset with me. I can feel it.” He mumbles, eyes opening again slowly so they can reach yours. One tug at your bond and he can feel the way you’re still tender from the night in more ways than one, even as you act soft with him now.

You sigh and cup his face once more, holding the weight of it in your palms. The red of his irises has begun to fade, blue beginning to poke through as his adrenaline dwindles. There’s so much emotion within them as he looks at you, silently begging you to be honest. “You almost got killed.” The words are quiet, like an admission of a fear you don’t want to speak into the world.

“And you saved me.” He responds, equally as quiet but laced with reverence.

“I might not always be here to do that.” You say bluntly, forcing yourself to speak hard truths, even despite the way they threaten to make him crumble. You can see the way alarm sparks in his eyes at the mere suggestion. Your thumbs rub against his cheeks. “Why didn’t you call for me? Why did you leave me to guess at what happened?”

Remmick’s face turns just slightly so he can kiss your palm. “Because if I was gonna go out, I wanted to go out knowing you were safe. But I shoulda known better.” He huffs a laugh. In truth, he’s still not used to having someone care for him deep enough to actually come for him, to be there when he needs it most after hundreds of years of being brutally alone. Even now, he struggles to understand why you do it, why you put yourself on the line for something like him.

You’re quiet for a moment, and then, “I could’ve lost you.”

“I ain’t goin’ anywhere, baby, I promise.” He says with nothing but earnesty. “M’sorry, please don’t be mad, darlin’. I’ll do anythin’.”

Remmick knows he probably shouldn’t have said that as soon as you get a gleam in your eye. Your smile is soft but teasing. “If you really mean it, then you can wrangle the pigs inside later tonight.” You tell him, knowing how much trouble they always give him, running circles around him like he holds no authority at all.

His head hangs dramatically with a sigh. “Fine, anythin’ for you, baby.”

“And the goats.” You add. “Oh, and collecting the chickens. The horses too.”

He immediately sits up at that, expression terrified as bad memories spring to the forefront of his mind. “Now hold on, nuh uh, I ain’t gettin’ kicked again. I’ll do everythin’ else but those beasts.”

You laugh, taking your hat and pulling it down over his eyes, making him smile. “Alright, that’s your one exception.”

He always looks good with your hat on, especially as he tilts it back up over his forehead to rest properly on his hairline. You pull him up to kiss him, a soft, loving thing between you this time. It’s broken when your right shoulder smarts, still recovering from being dislocated, making you wince. Remmick frowns, kissing your shoulder like he could make it better with just his adoration. “How ‘bout I run you a bath? Get you cleaned up?” He offers quietly.

You hum your agreement. “Only if you join me.”

He smirks. “‘Course darlin’.”

Remmick helps you up, enjoying how you finally lean your weight against him, letting him lead you to the bathroom. He runs the hot water until the tub is full, adding the soaps and oils you like the best, holding your hand as you gingerly step into the warmth and he slips in behind you. You relax into his hardened body and gentle touch as he scrubs all the grime of last night off of you, as he rubs your shoulder with experienced hands to try and get out the aches and knots.

You stay there until the water starts to run cold, until Remmick is drying you off and putting you in your softest robe and nicest pair of pajamas. “You don’t have to treat me like I’m ’bout to break, y’know.” You tell him, even though you do appreciate the extra care. Now all clean and comfortable and your wounds gone, you can finally be at ease.

He kisses your cheek as he brings you back to bed, the sheets freshly changed and smelling like soap. “I’m just treatin’ ya like the woman I love, darlin’.”

Remmick’s mouth curled into a lazy, teasing smile as you climbed onto his joined legs, fingers idly trailing over the waistband of his lounge pants. The soft golden lamp behind him cast an intimate halo around his pale frame, but his grey eyes gleamed in the half-dark. He tilted his head back against the couch, chest rising slowly, like he enjoyed being looked at. He knew you were staring. He wanted it.

“Yer after starin' at me mouth again,” he purred, voice syrup-thick and smug. “You wanna see, love?”

You nodded — maybe a bit too fast — and he laughed low in his throat. The sound was sharp and sweet, like wine poured over sugar. Then, slowly, like a gift unwrapped in reverence, he opened his mouth and let you see.

Those fangs — long, curved, pearl-white against the wet pink of his tongue — made your breath hitch. They gleamed as he let his tongue glide over them, deliberately slow, like he knew just how much it affected you. The tips were so sharp, so pristine, you could almost feel the sting of them in your imagination. He smiled wide, revealing the full set in a grin not quite human.

“Pretty, aren’t they?” he asked, breath brushing against your cheek as you leaned closer. His claws flexed against the couch cushions. “Yer always lookin' at me like I’m some specimen. You like how unnatural I am, don’t ya?”

You nodded again, this time slower, more reverent. “I could watch you forever.”

Remmick let out a pleased hum, shifting just enough to allow you to hold him tighter and closer to your body with your legs.

“You wanna touch?” he whispered.

Your hand was already rising. His mouth stayed open for you. Remmick’s hands clutched the hem of your shirt like he needed something to hold onto — something to brace him against your gaze, your touch.

Your thumb brushed over his lower lip first — soft, pink, still damp from his tongue. You eased it down just slightly, watching how obediently his mouth stayed parted. His fangs caught the light again, but now you leaned in closer.

God, they were perfect.

Longer than you expected up close. Not just the upper canines — though those were the stars, twin ivory scythes — but the bottom ones, too, subtler but just as sharp. You reached up and touched the tip of one with your index finger.

He whimpered, the danger of it making your heart race. He was so sensitive there — the vampire equivalent of a gasp against a lover’s neck. His claws clutched the sofa material, tighter, desperate.

“They—eh… they’re wired into me nerve. Not just for bitin', y'know.”

You dragged the pad of your finger along the inner curve of one fang. It was smooth, cool, hard as enamel but with an organic feel — like carved bone warmed by his body. There was a faint, almost imperceptible ridge near the gum line. His lips trembled under your touch.

Then, with slow intent, you slipped your finger along the inside of his mouth, tracing the edge of the opposite fang with the same reverence you’d use to touch a blade. He whined, barely able to sit still.

“Are you okay?” you asked, taking your fingers out of his mouth so he wouldn't bite you.

He nodded, eyes wide. “No rush, darlin'. Pretend I’m yer own private monster on display.”

You still had your thumb at the corner of his mouth when you caught it — the flicker. A shimmer under the surface of his irises, like coals catching flame.

Remmick looked wrecked already — flushed, trembling under your touch, claws curled in tightly against his own ribs like he didn’t trust himself to touch you back. But then his eyes… oh, his eyes.

You leaned closer. “Look at me.”

He obeyed — breath hitching — and that’s when you saw them fully.

The blue-grey of his human disguise had fractured. Beneath it, that deep, impossible red pulsed to the surface. Not just a glow — no, these were layered, swirling like smoke and blood beneath glass. Dark scarlet slowly taking over the entire iris.

You cupped his face, thumbing under one eye so you could study it up close, and the moment you did, he shuddered.

“Your eyes,” you murmured. “They change when you get worked up.”

“I can’t help it,” he whispered, voice raw. “Not when ya touch my fangs like that—not when ya look at me like...like this.”

You laughed softly, warm and low in your throat, dragging your nails up along Remmick’s pale chest until his breath caught. You weren't sure what look he was referring to, but you were sure the adoration you felt for the way he opened up to you was reflected well in your eyes.

“Do you have anything else to show me?” you asked, sweet and teasing.

And oh, that did something to him.

Remmick’s chest rose with a shaky inhale, and then — all excited — he moved just a little below you and held out his hands for you like a dog presenting its paws.

You took them gently in your own, watching him squirm under the weight of your stare. His claws were out — long, graceful, wicked — like delicate pearls knives at the end of his slender fingers. Each one tapered to a fine point, perfectly shaped, gleaming faintly in the low light just as his teeth.

You turned one hand palm-up, stroking down the center with your thumb. His fingers twitched in your hold, then curled — just slightly — as if they wanted to hold you back but didn't want to interrupt your in-depth study.

“You have such elegant hands,” you hummed, tracing from the base of his palm to the very tip of his middle finger.

You brought one clawed finger to your mouth, eyes never leaving his, and kissed the tip.

He whined. He, actually, whined.

His hips jerked slightly under you — not demanding, just a desperate twitch like his body wanted more of whatever this was.

And then you said it.

Soft. Unshaken. True.

“You are beautiful.”

Remmick’s breath hitched. Just a little.

You kissed the next fingertip. Then the next. Then slid one of his long, clawed fingers into your mouth and sucked, slow and hot, letting your tongue glide over the smooth underside.

He looked at you, ecstatic and confused at the same time. It was hard for him to understand how you could love such a monster.

You popped the finger out slowly, dragging your lips over the knuckle, and watched his face melt into something soft and overwhelmed.

Red eyes wide. Mouth open. Claws trembling.

And beneath it all, his cock was hardening, twitching against the fabric of his pyjama pants — aching, grateful.

A delicious thrill crawled down your spine.

“Touch yourself for me, Rem.”

Remmick’s breath caught. The glow in his eyes pulsed brighter.

His hands hovered uncertainly for a second — those long, pale fingers — and he looked up at you like he was asking permission with just his eyes.

His right hand slipped down his abdomen, past the trimmed patch of hair above his cock, and hovered over it — flushed, twitching, leaking. He was aching, and he hadn’t even wrapped his hand around it yet.

“Tease yourself like I would.”

He swallowed hard and untied the laces. You gave him a little room to let him pull his pants down below the curve of your butt, freeing his hard erection.

One claw traced down the line where thigh met groin, curving in toward the base of his cock. He shivered violently, muscles drawn tight as wire.

“Aw, look at you. Following instructions like a pro.” Your hand nestled at the base of his neck, playing with the dark hair. “What, trying to impress me?”

Without wrapping around it fully, he lets his fingertips glide along the underside — from the base, where the skin is taut and sensitive, all the way up to the tender head. The touch is featherlight, almost reverent. Just as you told him.

He lingers there for a moment, brushing side to side in slow, delicate touches. His breath hitches, then deepens — quiet but building, each inhale slightly shakier than the last.

But what really makes your breath catch is his eyes.

They’re locked on you now — riveted — his mouth slightly open, panting, but utterly entranced. His own pleasure is secondary. The true thrill is in pleasing you.

Being good.

“C'mon, stroke it.”

He did.

A long, slow pull from root to head, his breath catching, fangs bared with the effort of holding still. The red in his eyes was burning now — full-blown lust, desperation, devotion.

“Faster.”

He moaned your name and obeyed.

His hips trembled beneath the rhythm you ordered, stroking fast and tight, his abnormal fingers surrounding delightfully his shaft. You watched his stomach flutter, his thighs tense.

“Look at yourself,” you said. “Look at those deadly hands. Look what they’re doing for me.”

He glanced down at his hand wrapped around his cock, claws glinting, dripping with precome. His breath caught in his throat.

“I look—” he bit his lip, blood flowed, “—I look like a fuckin' whore.”

“You look perfect.”

He let out a strangled moan.

“Don’t come yet,” you warned, seeing his rhythm stutter.

He whined. “Please—please, I want to. Please let me come for you—please, I’ve been good—”

The wrist slows its movement, the thumb rubbing against the foreskin to hold back. His claws scratched light red marks around his thighs by accident, but he didn’t stop.

Your free hand rose to cradle his face, rubbing the blood from his chin.

His glowing red eyes are glassy now, struggling to stay open, flicking between your face and your mouth.

“Ma'am...kiss me,” he begs. “Please, need yer mouth on mine when I come. Want to fall apart in yer kiss, ma'am. Please.”

And it’s not performative. There’s no seduction in the way he says it. It’s raw.

You slid closer to his lap, giving him just enough space to continue touching himself, and leaned over his red-slicked lips.

“Fuck your hand, pet.”

When you finally press your lips to his — hot, open — he breaks for you.

He quickly regained control, squeezing and pumping himself rapidly, chasing the long-awaited orgasm and when the taste of iron blooming in his mouth as his fang accidentally nicked your tongue, he lost it.

With a loud cry, his whole body tensed, cock twitching in his own fist as he spilled across your t-shirts, thick and hot and messy. His legs shook, the free claws digging into his own thigh as aftershocks racked him.

And even after, when the tremors fade and his hand drops away, he doesn’t stop kissing you — desperate, sweet, clinging.

“Thank ya, darlin',” he purred between kisses. “Thank ya. Thank ya—”

You stroke his hair, still cradling his face.

It had been only a night ago when he first appeared—his voice low and trembling, asking for help.

Your family had long since gone to bed, their snores drifting like uneasy hymns through the cracked windowpanes. The house was still, but you weren’t. You sat outside on the front porch, shame curling in your chest like smoke from a smothered flame.

You knew the hour was wrong, that a woman had no business sitting out alone in the dark—least of all you, unwed for only a few more hours. The town would call it wanton. Your father would call it foolish. Your minister would call it sin.

And still… you could not bring yourself to sleep. Not with the knowledge that come morning, you would be passed from one man’s house to another’s. From your father’s word to your husband’s rule. Like a parcel. Like livestock.

So you sat there, clutching your shawl, listening to the night whisper things no one dared say aloud. The air was cool, damp with mist and the scent of turned soil. Your heart beat fast despite the stillness. A flickering candle burned beside you, its light throwing trembling shadows across the wood.

Dawn had just begun to break—a faint silver line easing its way across the sky—when you heard it.

Panting.

Loud and ragged.

Footsteps pounding fast across the dirt road.

You stood without thinking, fear crawling up your spine. And then you saw him.

He stumbled into view, half-collapsing near the porch steps. His shirt was torn and stained dark with dried blood, clinging to a body marked with bruises and claw-like gashes. His hair was tangled, and his eyes—wide, wild—flashed with something not quite human.

You didn’t know who he was.

You should’ve screamed.

You should’ve run back inside, locked the door, and prayed like a good daughter would.

But you didn’t.

Because there was something in his face that stopped you cold—something wounded, something pleading. And maybe… something familiar.

And in Salem, when anything unfamiliar came crawling out of the woods—wounded, bloodied, alive—you were supposed to name it devil.

But you didn’t.

Not yet.

He didn’t ask. He just moved.

One foot stepped onto the porch, the wood groaning under his weight, and you instinctively stepped back—putting distance between you and the stranger, even as your body stayed rooted to the spot.

Then came his voice—quiet, but edged with urgency.

“Please,” he said. “They almost got me before. Don’t let them hurt me no more.”

He practically begged, his voice cracked and trembling with something raw, and unfortunately… you felt it. That tug. That foolish, dangerous ache in your chest called pity.

You weren’t supposed to feel sorry for strangers. Especially not ones who came crawling from the edge of the woods with blood on their shirts and no god on their tongue.

But you did.

He didn’t give you specifics—didn’t say who had chased him or why. And perhaps it was better that way. Easier not to ask questions when you knew the answers might brand you guilty by association. Aiding a fugitive could get you hanged. Or worse—called a witch.

Still, you led him around the side of the house, past the trellis and the roots of the old pine, toward the small shed where your father kept his tools. The sun was beginning to stretch across the land, weak morning rays slipping over the fields—but he avoided them. You noticed the way he moved, trailing you with silent, frantic steps, almost like he was chasing you—not to catch, but to escape with you. From the light.

He entered the shed without hesitation, crouching in the corner like an animal that had known too many lashes.

You left the door cracked—just enough. And before you turned to go, you looked at him once more. Bruised. Silent. Eyes that glowed faint in the dim light.

“I’ll come back,” you said softly. “Later. To see if you’re alright.”

And then you left.

Just like that.

You didn’t see the way his eyes followed the curve of your back as you walked away. You didn’t see how his fingers twitched—like claws longing for flesh. You didn’t see the hunger bloom across his face, dark and ancient.

Because while you offered him mercy, 

he had looked at you like he wanted to tear you open and feast on the warmth inside you.

That same day, you were wed to Marcus.

He was older and already a man of means. He owned a wide patch of land, tilled by others and praised by men at the meetinghouse. The match had been arranged swiftly, without courtship, without affection. It was, as most unions were in your town, a transaction blessed in God’s name and bound in practicality.

Marcus was… respectful, or at least as respectful as a man could be in these times. He didn’t leer at you in church. He spoke with a steady voice. But he made one thing very clear the morning your father finalized the terms:

You were to be a good wife.

You were not to embarrass him.

You were his, and the world would see you as such.

The ceremony was plain. No flowers, no music. Just the minister’s voice echoing off wood-paneled walls and the shuffling of heavy boots on the dirt floor. Vows were spoken as if repeating scripture—cold, rehearsed, obligatory.

Afterward, you were floated back to your father’s home like a ghost caught in a current, your new husband beside you. There, supper was laid out—bread, roast root, boiled corn—and you sat stiffly at the table while the men laughed and spoke loudly around you. Their voices clanged like hammer to iron.

They spoke of the move. Of Marcus’s land. Of how you’d wake the next morning in a different bed. In a different life.

You kept your eyes on your plate, nodding when needed.

When you excused yourself—your voice soft, your tone rehearsed—no one batted an eye.

You slipped away, collecting a good portion of the food into a cloth—enough for a starving man, or something like him—and moved through the house toward the small back door. You stepped out into the evening, the warm air still touched with the scent of supper and grass.

The sun was beginning to fall. But the rays still burned bright and low across the land, stretching long shadows over everything. They painted gold across your path as you made your way back to the shed, the cloth bundle pressed tight against your chest.

You didn’t look back.

You didn’t dare to ask yourself why you were going.

Only that you were.

When you opened the shed’s door, you expected him to be slumped in the corner, half-conscious, maybe groaning from fever or starvation. His condition had been so pitiful the night before—bruised and torn, as if beaten by the Devil himself. You had imagined him weak, maybe even near death.

What you didn’t expect… was blood.

It coated his lips, slick and dark like spilled wine left too long in the cold. Feathers clung to his hands—tufts of white and rust-red, matted and stuck between his fingers like wet hay. His chest rose and fell with shallow, slow breaths, his shirt still torn but his wounds now mostly closed, like something had stitched him together in the dark.

Your eyes snapped to the corner, to where a broken chicken neck lay limp against the dirt floor—its body half-consumed.

The bundle of food in your hands dropped, thudding softly against the packed earth.

He wasn’t half-dead.

He had fed.

But not on what you’d brought.

Your stomach churned, the metallic scent of blood and feathers coating the air like incense, thick and cloying.

He didn’t speak. Not at first. He only lifted his head slowly—unnaturally slow—and locked eyes with you.

They glowed in the dark like embers in a dying fire.

Not brown. Not black. Not human.

Red.

A sound stuck in your throat as your body jerked backwards—instinct, maybe. But before your heel could find purchase in retreat, he shook his head, soft and deliberate. Not pleading. Not desperate.

Commanding.

And then, with one small motion, he beckoned you closer.

You didn’t know why your feet obeyed. Whether it was fear, or curiosity, or something stranger. But the moment you crossed the threshold of the shed—just one step, your skirts brushing the earth behind you—he was suddenly there.

In front of you.

Close.

Too close.

It was as if he moved faster than sound, faster than thought, materializing before you like a whisper you couldn’t stop hearing. You felt the air shift, felt the rush of something unnatural as your breath caught in your throat.

Your heart beat like a hammer in your chest, and yet… you didn’t scream.

Your mouth parted as your voice rose—a trembling whisper of the Lord’s Prayer crawling past your lips. You recited it like armor, each word a shaky plea. “Our Father, who art in Heaven…”

You thought, maybe, if the words were strong enough—if your faith was strong enough—this thing before you would vanish. As if God might peer into that shed and cast the demon out with a breath of wind.

But there was no wind.

Only the sound of your pulse in your ears.

Then, his hand rose—slow and soaked in dried blood—and pressed against your mouth.

The flesh of his palm was warm. Too warm. It smelled of iron and dirt, and it muffled your prayer with cruel ease. A shadow of a grin twisted on his face as he leaned in, voice a gravelly murmur that rasped through your bones.

“Ain’t no God here,” he said. “Just me.”

You inhaled sharply beneath his hand. A sob tried to rise from your chest but had nowhere to go. You turned your head, inching backward—but your spine hit something solid. The door. Closed.

You hadn’t closed it.

The summer heat still clung to the air, humid and slow, and no breeze that night could have swung the latch shut. But here you were—trapped, pressed against splintered wood.

He leaned forward again, his nose grazing your throat. Inhale. Deep. Savoring.

You flinched as the scent of him filled your nostrils—earthy like the grave, sharp like copper, and foul with sweat.

Still, you couldn’t move.

Not yet.

You were frozen—not by magic, but by something deeper. Fear. Confusion. A chilling sense that this wasn’t just a man. That you had let something into your father’s land you could no longer explain away.

And then… his tongue—unnaturally long and wet—slid across the side of your neck like a serpent tasting sin.

It broke you.

You shoved him back, hard enough to make the shed creak in protest. He let you. He stumbled backward a step and only watched with gleaming eyes as your trembling hand scrambled for the latch.

The door flung open under your weight, and you stumbled out into the falling dusk.

But you stopped.

Standing just a few feet ahead, framed in the gold-tinged light of the setting sun, was a girl no older than twelve.

Her hair was tied with a ribbon, and her bare feet were stained with soil.

She clutched something tightly in her small hand—too tightly. You couldn’t see what it was, but your heart sank.

She didn’t scream.

She didn’t speak.

But her eyes drank you in—your wrinkled dress, your flushed face, the sheen of sweat on your brow and neck.

Recognition flickered behind her gaze. No fear. No innocence. Just calculation.

She was one of them.

One of the girls who had spent the past few weeks pointing fingers at neighbors, crying “witch!” with wide eyes and voices sweet as milk.

And she had seen you.

And worse—she had seen enough.

She backed away, her eyes wide but her expression unflinching. Whatever she held in her palm vanished deeper into her fist, and her fingers curled around it as if it were a weapon forged just for this moment. You took one cautious step forward, hand lifted—gentle, pleading.

“Wait—”

But her mouth opened before your words could even finish forming.

“Witch!”

It rang out like thunder in the still evening air—shrill, terrified, and deliberate.

The word struck you like a blow to the chest.

Your mouth parted in a sharp, choked gasp, but nothing came out. You turned—heart leaping into your throat—eyes snapping back toward the shed. 

It was empty.

Utterly empty.

Not a single feather. Not a drop of blood. Not a footprint.

The man—no, the thing—was gone.

Vanished like mist at sunrise.

No trace, no sign. As if you had conjured him from madness.

But he had been there.

The back door slammed open.

The heavy sound of boots and frantic voices followed. The back porch flooded with faces—your father, your sister, and Marcus, your new husband. The light from the house spilled out behind them, casting long shadows that stretched over the garden and across the trampled dirt. The smell of roasted meat and smoke clung to their clothes, mixed now with sweat and alarm.

They all stared at you.

Your hair, disheveled. Your dress, wrinkled and half-falling from your shoulder. Your hands, streaked faintly with grease from the meat you'd carried. And your eyes—wild, startled, brimming with something they didn’t understand.

You tried to speak.

But the words caught in your throat.

Marcus stepped down first. He looked at you like a man already betrayed, though you had done nothing but breathe. The girl pointed again, her voice cracking now with false sobs and trembling hands.

“She came out of the devil’s shed!”

Your father looked at you like he no longer recognized the child he’d raised. And as your sister drew your shawl tighter around her own shoulders—protective, suspicious—you realized what had already begun.

The devil hadn’t dragged you down screaming.

He had smiled and left you in the light.

And the ones who once claimed to love you… were now your judges.

The trial was long, pitiful, and more humiliating than anything you could’ve imagined. The church where it was held—small and packed with townsfolk—felt colder than any wind you’d ever walked through. The walls creaked under the weight of God-fearing judgment, and every breath you took seemed to betray you.

You stood in the center, shaking, hands clenched so tightly at your sides they’d gone numb.

“I—I only gave shelter to a man who was hurt,” you said, voice trembling as you stepped forward. “He said someone was chasing him. I thought—he looked like he’d been mauled! I thought he might die.”

Your words were cut off by the shrill, rehearsed voice of the girl who had screamed witch.

The girl was there, tear-streaked and trembling, flanked by the others of her little group—faces innocent, pale, and hollow like porcelain dolls who whispered only lies.

“She lies!” she cried out, pointing at you with trembling fingers. “I saw her… standing outside that shed. Her hair undone, her dress wrinkled like she’d—like she’d lain with the Devil himself!”

A gasp rippled through the room like fire on dry grass.

“That’s not true—” you tried, stepping forward again, but one of the ministers slammed a hand on the bench in front of him.

“Silence!” he barked. “You will speak only when asked!”

The courtroom smelled of sweat and dust and judgment. The judges sat high above you, like they were gods on a crooked throne—old men with white hair and eyes that had stopped seeing truth long ago. 

You flinched.

“She bewitched the chicken pens,” another girl wailed. “They say a beast came in the night, and the hens were left torn apart. It was her! Her eyes were glowing!”

“I didn’t do anything,” you whispered. “Please, I didn’t—”

“You disobeyed your husband!” one of the judges interrupted, leaning forward with a slow scowl. “You walked alone at night. You disrespected your place. And now—there are witnesses to your consort with unholy things.”

A tear slipped down your cheek, but your voice cracked through the quiet.

“I helped a man who was bleeding. He said he needed shelter. That was all.”

“You opened the door to evil,” another judge said. “And you invited it in.”

Your father finally stood, slowly, his hands shaking at his sides. His voice was low, but steady enough to reach them.

“She’s young. Foolish,” he said. “Her mind’s soft like her mother’s was—always reaching to help, always trusting. I—I don’t believe she meant harm.”

You turned to him, but he wouldn’t meet your eyes.

One of the judges leaned forward, gray hair powdered and curled beneath his wide-brimmed hat.

“Would you stake your soul on her innocence, Goodman?”

Your father hesitated. Just for a second.

“I would stake only that she was misled.”

It was all they needed.

A gavel slammed against wood.

“The court finds you guilty,” the head judge said, voice like thunder. 

You were to hang.

For the crime of adultery.

For the sin of laying with the devil.

For the act of witchcraft, of plotting, of being touched and left alive by something no good soul could’ve endured.

They said the devil’s mark would be carved out of you by rope.

And the crowd applauded.

“No,” you whispered.

Two men grabbed your arms.

“No, please—!”

Your voice was buried under the sound of rising voices. The girls who had accused you fell to the floor in practiced hysterics, trembling and crying into one another’s arms.

You were thrown into the holding quarters like an animal, the heavy door slamming behind you with a finality that rang in your bones. The air was thick—of fear, of stale breath, of rot and dust.

There were others in the cell. All of them marked.

An elderly woman sat on the far end, rocking gently with her hands wrapped around her elbows. She glanced up when the door creaked shut. It took you a second, but you knew her. She used to gift your younger sister scraps of ribbon when your parents couldn’t afford cloth.

Next to her, huddled together on the damp stone floor, was a woman and a boy. The child’s cough rattled low in his chest, and his mother’s hand never left his back.

Two girls sat in the shadows near the wall. You recognized them, too. They’d dared to speak against the others—to challenge the “visions.” They were here for their defiance.

Your chest ached. They were all here to die.

You sank to your knees in the straw and grit, the weight of it all finally pressing down on you. There was no trial to wait for. No family to speak up. It had already been decided.

You would hang.

Tonight.

Your hands trembled in your lap, and for a moment, your ears rang with the memory of the judge’s voice as they dragged you from the church.

“When the moon is high,” he had said, without hesitation. “She shall meet her punishment under the Lord’s eye, and let her sins be judged in the shadows.”

You had stumbled then, your knees buckling as you were pulled out beneath a sky that hadn’t yet darkened.

Now, the minutes passed like a cruel joke. The walls didn’t move. The moon rose.

And no one came.

Not yet.

A girl’s voice broke the silence.

“They sometimes come before the hour. To ready you,” she said, her voice dry, almost gone.

You turned your head toward her.

“They’ll wash your face. Bind your hands. Tie the cloth around your mouth if you cry too loud.”

“They gag you?” you asked, surprised you still had a voice.

“If you scream scripture,” said the other, eyes staring blankly at the ceiling. “They don’t like that.”

You swallowed hard, bile rising.

You didn’t know if you should pray or beg or scream.

You didn’t do any of it.

Instead, you stared at the floor, at the ragged edge of your skirts, and waited for the man to come.

And when the door finally opened again, and the torchlight spilled into the cell, you didn’t flinch.

“Get up,” the constable grunted, stepping toward you.

Your mouth opened but no words came. Your legs shook as you rose.

You wished you had more time.

Just another hour.

Another breath of fresh air.

Another moment to tell your sister you were sorry.

That you’d done nothing wrong. That you weren’t a witch.

That you had only tried to help someone.

But they were already pulling your arms behind you.

The ropes bit at your wrists. You took one last look at the boy in the corner. At the girls. At the woman who had once tied ribbons in your sister’s hair.

And then you were led into the night.

—————

You try to drag your feet, to resist in even the smallest way—to earn yourself a few more seconds—but the constable’s grip is iron, his fingers digging deep into your arms with no mercy. He hauls you forward with a grunt, each step closer to the gallows sends panic crawling up your spine.

The tears prick at your eyes before you even reach the stairs, but once you are standing at the base of them, staring up at the wooden platform under the pale moonlight, they begin to fall. You tremble as your foot lifts for the first step, the coarse wood scrapes against your bare soles. It feels like a walk to the heavens and hell all at once—upward into judgment.

The townsfolk are there. Most of them. Hushed and unmoving in the dark. Children are not permitted out of their homes after dusk, and so it is only the adults—the elders, the watchful, the pious and proud—who stare up at you with stone faces and sharp, burning disdain.

No one meets your eyes.

Not your husband, not your father.

Not even the preacher.

You open your mouth as the rope is pulled tighter around your wrists behind your back, biting into raw skin. The man tying it doesn’t flinch at your wince, and when he steps in front of you, he wastes no time slipping the noose around your neck. The coarse rope scratches your collarbone. Your chest starts to heave.

The pressure in your throat builds until it aches.

And then it breaks.

A sob sputters out first, helpless and wet. Your shoulders tremble, and soon, it isn’t just one—it’s all of them. The kind of crying that doesn’t come from the throat, but from somewhere deeper—from marrow, from soul. Sobs rack your chest like thunder cracking through old wood. Your legs buckle slightly beneath you.

You try to speak, try to plead—anything—but all that comes out is a desperate mess of sound, unintelligible and thick with despair.

“I—please, I didn’t—God—please—”

Your cries spill over your tongue like blood. Nonsensical. Childlike. The kind of sound that makes no difference, no matter how much it begs to.

Still, you weep, your shoulders heaving as the townspeople stare.

As the hangman takes his place.

You open your mouth again, the air sharp in your lungs, and begin to pray.

Not to God alone—though His name crosses your lips first—but to anything, anything, that might hear you. Your voice is barely audible at first, your lips trembling as you mouth sacred words through gasps and salt-slick breath.

“Our Father… who art in Heaven…”

Your lashes flutter against your tear-drenched cheeks, and then slam shut, darkness pressing against your eyes as you whisper into the thick summer night. The rope scrapes the soft skin of your throat each time your chest rises. It feels like burlap and iron, like death’s fingertips pressing too gently before the squeeze.

“Please… please, please,” you murmur into the hush. “Deliver me. I don’t want to die…”

The world holds its breath with you.

Then—

A sound.

A sharp, visceral cry splits the air like lightning against a tree trunk. It doesn’t come from the gallows. It comes from the crowd—sudden and strange, high and raw, too deep to be a child’s voice and too broken to belong to someone still whole.

You freeze, breath hitching.

Another sound follows—a scream—shrill, panicked, dragged from the gut.

Your eyes remain shut, but your ears open like windows to a storm.

Feet pound the dirt—dozens. The soft thud of slippers, the frantic scrape of boots. Sandals dropping. Wood clacking. People are running, pushing, fleeing.

You don’t dare look.

The crowd has become a stampede. You hear it: the shriek of splintering wood as benches are overturned. The sharp crunch of someone stepping on a dropped lantern. The crackling roar of fire somewhere nearby. Screams build like a choir of agony—men and women alike crying out for mercy, some cursing, others weeping prayers into the earth.

“Devil—the Devil is here!”

“He’s got her—he’s come for the witch!”

“God help us—run!”

You tremble violently, lips still moving. You can’t stop praying now. You barely hear yourself over the chaos. Your voice is threadbare and tight, but it doesn’t stop.

“Lead us not into temptation… deliver us from evil…”

Your knees want to give. Your heart batters against your ribcage like it wants out.

Still, you whisper, shaking.

You feel the gallows shift beneath you—wood creaking like it’s groaning under a new weight. 

The noose loosens.

Ever so slightly.

Your chest heaves, throat raw from whispering the same half-finished prayer over and over again—words tremble and crumble as they spill from your lips. Each breath you take burns through your lungs, like they are inhaling fire and ash instead of air.

The scent hits you before anything else. Blood. Thick, coppery, and metallic—so potent it seems to crawl up your nose and nestle itself behind your eyes. 

Then the scent of something old.

Like soil soaked in centuries of rot and ruin. Like the breath of a cave that had never known light. It slides into your nose like silk and shadow, sweet and wrong all at once.

Your stomach turns, but you don’t dare open them. You stay like that, lids squeezed tight, arms trembling, begging whatever was out there to let you wake from this—if it was a dream, a nightmare, anything but real.

Then, a voice.

Low. Drawling. Drenched in something not quite human.

“Come on now, darlin’,” it murmurs. “You know it’s me.”

There is something wet in his tone, like his throat is thick with blood. Like he is gargling it between every word. Your prayers halt, lips part in disbelief, and the silence around you becomes deafening. The town square—the gallows—is still. Unnaturally so. A void, hollowed out of noise except for the faintest sound of wet, gurgled breathing nearby. You think you can hear something sliding across skin, or bone cracking like branches underfoot.

Your eyes stay shut.

“Open your eyes.”

It isn’t a question. It is a command. Tense. Sharp.

Hands touch your face—hot, trembling, and soaked. You flinch hard, trying to recoil, but his palms cradle your cheeks with a hold that tightens when you pull back. The sticky warmth of blood smears across your skin, seeping into the corners of your mouth and staining your chin.

“…Look at me.”

His voice is tightening now, and his fingers dig in, almost trembling from restrained impatience. His breath, hot and ragged, falls against your lips like steam from a boiling pot. You can hear the wet squelch of his boots in the blood pooling at his feet.

You open your eyes—slowly, like lifting a veil—and you gasp.

There he is. The man you helped that night.

The man from the shed.

But not like before.

He stands before you, soaked in death. Blood mats his shirt, his chest, his neck—his very skin seems stained with it. It clings to his cheeks and mouth like ink smeared across paper. A thick stream runs down his chin and drips onto his chest in rhythmic plops. His lips, slightly parted, reveal rows of teeth too sharp, too wrong, gleaming beneath the flickering torchlight. And those eyes… glow a vivid, haunting red that pierces through the night, brighter than any flame.

His hair is drenched, sticking to his forehead in dark, wild strands, and sweat glistens along his brow as he swallows audibly—gulping down the last remnants of blood still pooling on his tongue.

Your gasp comes like a sob, shaky and full of disbelief, and still, he only stares at you.

He just stares at you.

Silent.

Unblinking.

His eyes burn through the dark like blood-fed embers, glowing brighter each time your body jerks with a sob. There’s no remorse in them—no kindness, no understanding. Only hunger. The kind that doesn’t fade with food or flesh. The kind that settles into something deeper, darker. Eternal.

You gasp again, trembling from the inside out, your sobs tearing through your chest like splinters. You’re shaking so hard your knees threaten to buckle, the rope still loose around your neck. Your breath catches in stutters, and your body jolts with every one.

He tilts his head—slow, measured. Like a predator studying prey that won’t run.

His mouth is parted just slightly, his lips slick with blood. Some of it’s dry, but some of it still glistens, smeared thick along his jaw, dripping fresh from the corner of his mouth. He licks at it absently, as though it’s just the remnants of a meal, not the lives of half the town.

And he still says nothing.

Just watches.

The wind picks up, finally—moving through your hair, stirring the bloodstained strands on his brow. The gallows creak behind you. The ropes sway.

Then—he adjusts his hand again.

Not toward the noose.

Even though your entire body flinches, even though instinct screams to run, you don’t move. You can’t.

He brushes the back of his knuckles down your cheek, and it’s not gentle. It’s slow. Curious. His hand is cold. Slick. The blood on his skin smears across your face, and you suck in a breath like it’ll cleanse you somehow.

“You cried for God,” he murmurs, his voice low, guttural—wet with the blood still clogging his throat. “But I came.”

The sob that escapes you is ugly. Raw. You can’t stop it. You don’t even try.

“Why?” you whisper, your voice a cracked, broken thing.

His expression doesn’t change much—but something flickers. A twitch in his brow. A shift in the tightness of his jaw. Then, a breath.

“Because you showed me mercy when no one else would.”

He steps closer, the air thickening around you, colder now despite the heat radiating off the blood on his body.

He leans in, and his next words are whispered against your lips.

“And I never forget a kindness… no matter what I am.”

His teeth peek through his parted lips, stained red and jagged, not like a man’s at all. His pupils dilate, drowning out the red. And for a moment, you can see it again—that hunger.

It doesn’t matter that he spared you.

He’s still starving.

His tongue darts out again—quick and slick—and this time, you catch the shape of it.

Forked.

Split right at the end like a serpent’s, both tips twitching ever so slightly before disappearing back behind bloodstained teeth.

A gasp chokes in your throat. Your breath stutters out in one sharp hitch, and your lips part with shock you can’t swallow down.

He leans in closer, slowly—like he has all the time in the world—his eyes dragging across your face with a quiet, unnatural intensity. Not the way a man looks at a woman. No. It’s colder than that. Hungrier. As if he’s trying to read you—not your thoughts, but the stitching of your skin, the tremble of your pulse, the heat beneath your flesh.

His head tilts slightly to the side, birdlike. Curious. Unnerving.

You can feel it now, the shift in the air between you—heavy and electric. Something ancient curling at the edges of your gut. It coils tighter with every second his gaze lingers, like it knows you’re being studied not by something human, but something older. 

His lips part just slightly, and you see it again—his tongue moving behind his teeth, restless. The memory of its forked tips still dances across your skin, as though he touched you with it instead of the air.

He hums, soft and low, as if he’s decided something.

His head tilts again, eyes never leaving yours, and when he finally speaks, his voice is low and wet—slick with blood and something darker beneath.

“You saved me,” he says simply, like it’s a fact carved into stone. “Dragged me from the edge when I should’ve burned alive in that shed.”

You swallow hard, your lips trembling, but you don’t speak. You can’t. Not when the heat of his breath ghosts over your face and the blood on his skin seeps into the air like smoke.

He leans in closer—closer than he should be—and presses his brow to yours, just barely, enough that you feel the stickiness of whatever coats him.

“And I saved you,” he murmurs, tone shifting—more weight behind it now, like something owed. “Dragged you from the rope. From their fire. From their lies.”

His forked tongue flashes again between his lips as he inhales, as if tasting your skin. You feel the shiver start in your stomach and crawl up your spine.

“Now,” he says, pulling back just enough to let you see the hunger in his eyes, “that makes us even.”

A beat. Then another.

“No… no, wait.” He smiles, and it’s wrong. Sharp and gleaming and too wide. “That makes you mine, doesn’t it?”

His bloodstained fingers trail down your jaw, leaving a tacky path of red in their wake.

“You owe me now, little lamb.” His voice drops to a whisper, barely audible. “And I always come to collect.”

Your breath catches at his words—mine, owe me, collect—and the weight of them settles heavy in your chest like stones dropped into water.

“I… I don’t understand,” you whisper, voice small and thready, like it barely belongs to you.

You mean to ask him what he means—what he wants—but the look in his eyes turns your question to dust. There’s nothing kind in his gaze. Nothing human. Only want. Possession. Hunger.

Not like before.

Worse.

He moves suddenly, too fast for your eyes to follow—one moment standing inches away, the next his entire form flushes against yours, slick chest pressed to your bodice, wet blood soaking through the linen. His hips pin you to the wooden frame behind you and the shock knocks the air clean from your lungs.

You gasp, trying to recoil, but your arms are still bound tight behind your back. The coarse rope bites into your wrists as you jerk against it, panic flaring in your gut like flame to dry grass.

“Please—” you choke out, but your feet shuffle awkwardly on the gallows and you stumble.

The noose.

It pulls tight against your throat the moment your weight shifts, and a strangled cry rips from you. The rope burns across your skin, cruel and unforgiving, and the jolt sends stars bursting behind your eyes.

His hands flash out, catching you by the waist with bruising force, steadying you. His mouth splits into something almost amused—almost delighted.

“Careful now,” he murmurs, tongue flicking out across his lips. “Would hate to lose you so soon.”

His grip doesn’t loosen. If anything, he pulls you closer.

Your breath shudders in your chest as he steadies you, fingers digging into your waist like claws only just restrained. You feel the tremor running through him—not from fear, but from something deeper. Need. Desire. Like it takes effort for him not to devour you where you stand.

The rope still kisses your throat, unforgiving, and you dare not move again.

He leans in slowly, far too slow for comfort. His breath ghosts over your cheek—hot, wet, reeking of iron and rot. Your skin prickles at the sensation, and you squeeze your eyes shut against the closeness.

“Open your eyes,” he murmurs, voice low and velvet-wrapped with something darker beneath. “Don’t you want to see the man who saved your life?”

You shake your head weakly, but your body betrays you. The scent of him overwhelms your senses, and when you do open your eyes, he’s watching you with a look that isn’t kind—it’s possessive. Like you’re a thing he stole from death and now refuses to give back.

“I pulled you from the noose,” he breathes, one hand moving—slow and deliberate—up your side, knuckles grazing the swell of your breast, slow enough to feel every ragged inhale you take. “And you tremble for me now. Not Him. Not God.”

Your mouth parts but no words come. The world is quiet now, too quiet. No more screams. No footfalls. Just the creak of the rope when you breathe wrong and the press of his blood-warm body against yours.

“What… what are you?” you manage to whisper, your voice hoarse from fear and rope-burn.

He only smiles—lazily, horribly—as if the answer isn’t important. As if you’ll know soon enough.

His tongue flicks out to taste the sweat beading at your temple.

“Yours,” he says. “And you, mine. It’s simple, really.”

Then his hand comes up behind your head—not gentle, not harsh—and he leans in again, lips so close you can feel the blood-slick heat of them hover just over your own.

“But first,” he murmurs, “you need to ask me to cut you down.”

And that’s when you realize—you’re still tied. Still caught in the noose. Still held in this half-life between death and something worse.

And if you want to live, you have to ask him.

You have to choose him.

Your lips part, but for a long moment, nothing comes out.

You’re trembling. Not from the cold—it’s still a summer night, and the air clings thick with heat and blood—but from the unbearable weight of his presence, the nearness of his body, and the rope biting into your neck with every tiny movement.

He waits.

Not patiently. His fingers twitch against your skin, the tension rolling off him in waves—like an animal holding itself back from pouncing. His glowing eyes flicker between your mouth and your throat, as if he’s not sure which he wants more.

Your voice is barely above a whisper when it finally pushes past your throat:

“P–please…”

He leans in, ear tilting toward your mouth, as if he’s savoring it. As if he wants to hear every stuttered syllable spill from your lips like a prayer.

“…cut me down.”

The second the words leave you, his smile blooms—dark, wide, wrong. There’s blood in his teeth, and something older in his gaze.

“Atta girl.”

His hand disappears behind you, fingers brushing your bound wrists. The rope creaks above your head as he lifts one arm, and for a brief second you fear he’ll bite it clean through.

But instead—shnk—you hear the sound of something sharp slicing through the binds.

Your arms fall limp at your sides, aching and numb.

Then, his claws move to the noose at your neck.

The tension lifts.

And you collapse forward, into him—too weak to stand, too afraid to pull away.

His arms catch you easily, one slipping around your back, the other curling beneath your knees.

“Now,” he says softly, like a secret pressed to your temple. “You’re mine.”

He begins to walk—away from the gallows, from the moonlit square, from the blood-stained air and the silence that followed slaughter.

You press your face into the damp fabric of his shirt—what’s left of it, trying not to smell the iron-rich blood or the dirt clinging to his skin—but it clings anyway. Everything about him does.

But something tugs at you, something morbid and magnetic. You open your eyes.

And then you see.

Bodies. Dozens of them. Men you recognized from church pews, from town meetings, from your wedding just yesterday. Faces frozen in terror, mouths agape, necks torn or throats crushed in ways no human strength could manage. A few still twitch—barely alive, gasping like fish in the last gasp of a dream.

Your breath stutters.

He doesn’t look down. His eyes stay forward, unreadable, jaw locked, as if this is nothing more than a routine walk in the woods.

But you can’t stop looking. A woman lies in a heap at the edge of the square—her apron soaked with blood, hand still reaching toward something long gone. Another man, one of the judges, is propped against the gallows post. His eyes are wide open, unseeing.

Your throat tightens as nausea crawls up it.

And yet—your arms stay looped around his neck, trembling but holding on.

He carries you like something claimed.

The deeper into the night you go, the quieter it gets—until all you hear is the slow beat of his footsteps through the dirt, the whisper of leaves, and the wet shift of blood against his skin.

Your home appears at the edge of the trees. Familiar. Too familiar. The little house with the sloped roof and the white shutters.

His boots hit the porch with a dull, deliberate thud. The wood groans under his weight, the stillness of the night holding its breath around you.

But he stops.

Right at the threshold.

He doesn’t reach for the handle. Doesn’t push forward.

Instead, he turns his head toward you—slowly. His jaw is tight, eyes darker now, the red glow reduced to a simmering coal at the center of each one.

“You need to invite me in.”

The words are low and quiet, but they drag through the air like smoke, curling with something that doesn’t feel like choice.

Your lips part, the words sticking in your throat.

You hesitate—because you remember the way he looked covered in blood, the pile of bodies you just passed, the way he moved when he tore men apart like wet cloth.

But your body aches. Your wrists burn from the rope. Your neck still tingles from where the noose nearly took your breath.

And you are so tired.

Your gaze meets his, and you whisper—so softly you barely hear yourself:

“…you can come in.”

It happens instantly.

He moves with that impossible speed again, crossing the threshold like smoke funneling into a fire. The moment the house allows him in, it changes him.

The tenderness with which he once carried you drains away in an instant.

Without a word, he strides through the dark house, straight into your bedroom. You barely register the familiar surroundings before you feel it—his fingers tightening around your waist.

And then he throws you.

You hit the bed hard, the mattress creaking beneath you as you gasp, stunned.

His body looms in the doorway now, the low candlelight flickering against the blood still smeared across his skin. His shadow stretches long across the floorboards, swallowing the rug beneath your bed, crawling toward your legs.

Your breath catches as the mattress shifts beneath you. Without thinking, you scramble upright, the back of your gown twisted around your thighs. Your hands press behind you for support, trembling as you push yourself backward until—

thud.

Your spine meets the headboard. Nowhere else to go.

Your eyes never leave him.

He’s moving—slowly, purposefully. A predator that knows its prey is cornered.

The bed dips beneath his weight as he climbs onto it, one knee at a time. His movements are deliberate, like he’s enjoying the fear trembling across your skin. Like this is part of the meal.

His palms plant on the bedspread as he crawls forward, over you. You try to flatten yourself against the headboard, but it’s no use. His frame blocks the candlelight now, casting you in shadow.

He stops only once his body is hovering over yours, so close you can feel the weight of him in the air. His breath fans over your cheek—warm and thick with something metallic beneath it.

You can’t speak. Your throat tightens with fear, with the desperate, unspoken question hanging in the space between you:

What do you want from me?

He doesn’t answer it. He just stares down at you, mouth parted slightly, a drop of something red slipping from the corner of his lip to your neckline.

And then, quietly, he whispers, “You’ve got nowhere left to run, sweetheart.”

Your breath hitches—sharp and shallow—as his shadow swallows yours.

He’s not touching you, not yet. But he doesn’t have to.

The weight of him above you is crushing enough.

You press your back harder into the headboard, trying to disappear into the wood, to shrink beneath the intensity of his stare. But he only leans closer, tilting his head as if he’s studying you like a curiosity. Or prey.

A low sound hums in his throat. It isn’t a growl, not quite—but there’s something inhuman in it. Something that makes your stomach twist and your skin prickle like frost had settled there.

His hand lifts slowly, and instinct makes you flinch—but it doesn’t stop him. His fingers graze your cheek, trailing blood along your skin where his nails cut earlier. The pad of his thumb drags over your lower lip, slow and deliberate. Testing the shape of your mouth.

Your lips part on reflex, a tiny, stuttered gasp escaping. His eyes darken at the sound.

“You’re still afraid of me,” he says. It’s not a question. It’s a certainty.

And he likes it.

You try to speak, but nothing comes out at first. Your throat is too tight. Too raw. You manage, finally, to whisper, “What… do you want from me?”

He leans closer—so close now you feel the scrape of his breath along your collarbone, the damp heat of his presence like fire trapped beneath your skin.

“I told you,” he murmurs. “You saved me. I saved you. But we’re not even yet.”

He brushes his nose along your jaw, inhaling deep.

“There’s still a debt to be paid, darlin’.”

His mouth hovers just over your throat, lips parted, breath warm, and you feel the tremble work its way through your limbs. You can’t tell if it’s terror—or the slow, confusing churn of something else.

His lips finally press to your throat—wet and warm, and slick with blood not your own.

You suck in a gasp, your body tensing as the sticky smear coats your skin, seeping into the hollow beneath your jaw. The kiss is slow, deliberate. Not tender. Not loving. It’s a claim.

You try to pull away, but his hand rises—steady, unshakable—and cradles the side of your head. Fingers dig into your scalp just enough to keep you still.

“Stay,” he murmurs against your pulse, voice low and thick, tongue brushing the blood as he speaks. “You move again, I might take it as a challenge.”

You can feel his breath as he drags his mouth along your throat, smearing more blood across your skin. It’s warm. The scent of iron is sharp and cloying in your nose, filling your head with a dizzy fog.

He kisses you again, just under your jaw this time, slower, wetter. His tongue flicks out briefly, tasting your skin like it holds the answers he’s starving for.

Your hands clench the sheets beside you.

He presses his nose to your neck—just above the frantic flutter of your pulse—and inhales deep.

A low, guttural groan spills from him, hot and damp against your skin. The sound vibrates through you, setting every nerve alight.

You feel him then—his hips shifting forward, grinding into your thigh with deliberate pressure. He’s hard. You can feel it, heavy and insistent, even through the bloodied fabric of his clothes.

His breath stutters as he ruts against you once, twice, like he can’t help it. Like the scent of your fear and heat has unraveled what little restraint he had left.

“You smell like life,” he murmurs, voice husky and ragged. “Like fire beneath flesh.”

His mouth skims your jaw, sticky with blood and slick need, and his hips roll again—slow and filthy. The hand at your head tightens just slightly, not cruelly, but enough to remind you who holds you still.

“Tell me no,” he whispers, “and I’ll stop.”

But he doesn’t move.

Doesn’t pull away.

Just waits—panting and trembling against your skin—while his body thrums with monstrous want.

You’re about to shake your head—your breath trembling as it catches in your throat—but then he lifts his face from your neck.

His eyes, still glowing faintly red, lock with yours.

He stares for a moment too long, and something in you stills. Like a rabbit caught in the gaze of something far too hungry to be human.

“I’m so thankful you helped me,” he murmurs, voice low and syrup-thick with emotion. “You didn’t have to. But you did.”

His thumb brushes your cheek now, tender, as if he hadn’t just smeared blood across your skin. As if he hadn’t slaughtered the people you once knew and loved.

“And I was happy to help you,” he says. “To save you. I’d do it again. For you.”

You’re breathing harder now, chest rising in shallow waves. You don’t know what to say. You don’t know if you’re more frightened of what he’s done—or what he’s doing now.

His eyes soften, just enough to make you question the fear clawing at your ribs.

“We were meant to find each other,” he continues, his voice dropping to something more fragile, more human—though the monster still lingers in his gaze. “You feel it too, don’t you?”

He leans closer, so close his nose nearly brushes yours.

“You belong to me now. That’s what this is. You saved me, I saved you. That means something.”

Your mouth opens slightly, but no sound comes out.

His fingers slide down your neck, slow—possessive.

“This world turned on both of us,” he breathes. “Let me give you something good… something real. You don’t need to be scared anymore.”

His lips hover just above yours, and his hips shift again—subtle but weighted.

“Just let me,” he whispers. “Say yes, and I’ll be gentle.”

But the look in his eyes says he’s not asking. Not really.

You stare at him for a long time.

Too long.

The air between you thickens, weighed down by the scent of blood, sweat, and something darker—older. Your heart thuds violently behind your ribs, like it knows something your mouth hasn’t yet spoken.

The hesitation builds in your chest like a fire—flickering, choking, desperate for air. You don’t know what part of you it’s burning away: the fear, or the voice that told you to run.

He waits, unmoving.

Patient.

Predatory.

And you’re still frozen beneath him, lips parted slightly, your breath shallow and hot against the space between your bodies. His eyes don’t waver. They hold you there, like he’s already claimed you, and this—this moment—is just formality.

Slowly, your head begins to nod.

It’s barely perceptible at first, just the smallest tremble of motion. But he sees it. You know he does. The corners of his mouth twitch, something like triumph—or hunger—flickering through his expression.

Your lips part. A breath escapes you, shaky, thin.

“…Yes.”

The word barely leaves your mouth before he moves.

His mouth crashes onto yours.

There’s nothing gentle about it—no softness, no pause for breath. It’s all heat and hunger, his fangs clashing against your teeth like he’s trying to devour you whole. The taste of iron smears across your lips as his mouth moves with a desperation that feels less like a kiss and more like a claiming.

You gasp against him, and he takes it—draws it in like it belongs to him.

At first, you’re still, rigid beneath the weight of him and the overwhelming wildness of his kiss. But then—slowly, almost helplessly—your lips begin to move with his. Guided by his mouth, his hunger. His rhythm. As if something inside of you recognizes the language of his want and answers back in kind.

His hands frame your face now, blood-slicked palms holding you still as his kiss deepens, grows messier. You can feel the sharp graze of his fangs against your lip, and the heat of his breath as he exhales through his nose—shaky, trembling with need.

One of his hands drifts down from your face, gliding over the curve of your body until it finds your hip. His fingers dig in—tight, possessive—like he’s trying to mold your flesh to fit beneath his palm. You gasp at the sudden pressure, your breath hitching sharply in your throat.

And he takes it—takes you.

The moment your lips part, his tongue pushes into your mouth, slick and hot and demanding. He tastes of copper and something darker, something old. His tongue moves with purpose, curling against yours, exploring the inside of your mouth like it belongs to him.

The grip on your hip tightens as his body presses more firmly into yours. You feel the slow, grinding weight of him, the way he cages you in, the way your body responds even through the haze of fear and confusion. His kiss grows deeper—sloppier—and he groans low into your mouth, like your taste is enough to unravel him.

Teeth scrape against your lower lip, his fangs threatening to pierce as they press too close. A sound tears from his throat, something between a groan and a growl, and his hips roll hard against yours. There’s no mistaking the shape of him—thick and hard through the rough fabric of his trousers, grinding against your soft, yielding body like he can’t help himself.

His hand leaves your hip only to grab at your thigh, lifting and forcing it around his waist as he settles more fully on top of you. He feels inhuman in his strength—like bone and sinew stretched tight around something not made to be here. Something wrong.

His voice comes hot against your jaw. “you feel that?” he grinds harder. “That's all for you, little lamb. mine now.”

His fingers move up, skimming the underside of your dress. not gentle. not kind. rough hands that tremble from restraint—like he’s holding back something animal and barely leashed. The fabric tears when he grows impatient, the sound ripping through the room like a warning. He hisses in delight at the sight of your bare skin, slick with sweat, trembling beneath him.

“So warm,” he murmurs, dragging his nose along your collarbone. “like something begging to be ruined.”

Your breath catches when he bites—not hard enough to break skin, but enough to sting. To threaten.

You don’t know if your body is burning from fear or need, but your thighs part all the same when he presses between them.

His hand slides higher beneath your gown, slow like a promise or a threat—you can’t tell which. The fabric gathers at your hips, baring your thighs to the cool air and his greedy touch.

His fingers trail the soft flesh of your inner thigh, feather-light at first, but filled with purpose. A tremble rolls through your legs, and he hums at the way your body reacts—how it anticipates him now.

“So soft,” he murmurs, almost to himself, the tip of his nose brushing your cheek. “like you were made for this.”

You barely get the chance to breathe before his fingers reach the place where the ache pulses hot and steady.

A sharp gasp tears from your throat the moment he squeezes—tight, possessive—and something stings.

Pain blooms bright and sudden in your skin, not deep, but there, and your eyes snap wide as the pressure sharpens.

You glance down just as his claws—no longer fully hidden—dig gently into your thigh. not enough to draw blood… but enough to threaten it.

His smile turns wicked. “Whoops.” he doesn’t sound sorry.

The heat between your legs flares at the sound of his voice, dark and rough with desire.

“Shouldn’t be scared,” he whispers as his nose presses into the crook of your neck again, inhaling deep. “You said yes, remember? I'm just gettin’ what’s mine.”

And still—his hand doesn’t move. it lingers right there at the edge of your ruin, fingers twitching, claws grazing, daring you to beg.

His hand lingers. Unmoving. Heavy with intent.

You can feel the heat of his palm radiating just inches from where you need him most—so close it makes your thighs twitch. But he doesn’t touch you. not yet.

Instead, his claws—those wicked tips—trace slow circles along your inner thigh, a whisper of sensation that sends goosebumps skittering up your spine.

“Look at you,” he mutters, voice thick and unholy against your throat. “shakin’ like a sinner in the rain.”

His tongue darts out again—forked, you remember now, serpentine—and it licks a slow line up the column of your neck, tasting you like a promise.

You gasp, chest stuttering against his. Your hips shift upward—an unconscious plea—and he laughs, low and breathless. It’s not kind.

“You want it,” he says, and there’s no question in it. just fact. “want me to play with you… open you up real slow.”

Your lips part, a shaky breath hitching in your throat, but you can’t bring yourself to say it. You just nod—small, trembling.

“Good girl,” he breathes, and then—

His fingers move.

Slowly. Deliberately.

One clawed finger curls beneath the band of your panties, and he wastes no time—tugging them down in one slow, deliberate pull. The fabric peels away from your heat-damp skin, dragging over your thighs as he goes.

The slickness clings and catches, smearing along your inner thighs as he lowers the garment inch by inch, until it pools loosely around your ankles.

His breath brushes your bare skin as he leans in, admiring the sight of you now fully exposed, and you feel your chest rise and fall like a trembling wave.

His hand returns—slow, deliberate—settling between your thighs like a promise. One finger lingers at your entrance, hovering just long enough to make your breath hitch. And then—he slips just inside.

A slick, gliding motion up through soaked folds.

He groans.

The sound is guttural, unrestrained, like the feel of you has undone him completely. His head drops against your shoulder, his breath hot and heavy against your skin, as if the wet heat of you alone is enough to shatter his composure.

“So warm,” he murmurs, tongue flicking against your skin as he speaks. “So wet.”

He doesn’t push completely inside you—no, not yet. Instead, he drags his finger up and down your slit in torturously slow motions, letting the pads of his claws skirt over your clit without ever pressing in.

your hips jerk, breath hitching, and he chuckles darkly.

“Beg,” he whispers. “say you want it. say you want me to ruin you.”

You hesitate—just for a moment.

Your breath stutters, caught in your throat like a prayer. The weight of him, the heat of his body pressed so close, the slickness between your thighs—it’s overwhelming. Too much. Not enough.

Your fingers curl into the sheets.

“Please,” you whisper, the word barely audible—hoarse and trembling. Your voice breaks as you say it again, louder this time, needier. “Please… go further.”

His breath drags out, thick with hunger, and you feel the way his shoulders tense at your plea. A low sound escapes him, something dark and pleased—as though your begging had been what he was waiting for all along.

Without a word, he shifts, and you brace yourself as his hand moves again—broad, streaked with gore, the pads of his fingers still damp from teasing you. He drags them slowly back through your slick folds, spreading the wetness, smearing it across your skin like oil to flame.

You twitch beneath him.

He hums at that. Low. Dark. Amused.

Then he presses the tip of a single finger in.

You tense instantly.

It’s not the stretch—yet. It’s the feel of it. Cold. Smooth. Not entirely human.

His claw.

You feel the way it curves ever so slightly—natural, bone-deep—just enough to make your breath catch.

He pauses.

Not out of mercy.

Out of reverence.

Like your cunt is something sacred, and he’s been denied it for far too long.

“You’re tight,” he murmurs, voice low, like it’s for you and no one else. “Still scared?”

You don’t answer.

Your hands fist the sheets, breath coming in shallow gasps. Not from fear. Not fully. It’s something more than that—something deeper. Wound tight behind your ribs.

His clawed finger presses in farther.

A slow, deliberate thrust. Not enough to hurt, but just enough to remind you what he is. What he’s capable of. What you’ve owed him since he saved you from death.

You suck in a breath through your teeth. Your body clenches, involuntary, around the intrusion.

He groans.

Deep. Rough. Like your walls fluttering around just one finger wrecks him more than any throat he’s torn open.

“Still soft,” he says, dragging it back out with the same aching slowness. “Still warm.”

His thumb grazes your clit as he thrusts back in again—this time deeper.

You arch.

Your hips rise to meet him without meaning to.

And he stills.

“Mm.” His head tilts slightly as he watches your body respond, like he’s studying it. Studying you. “You’ll take more.”

It’s not a question.

It’s a sentence.

His voice drops lower, almost tender—almost.

“You owe me.”

Your throat tightens.

His hand is steady, patient, as his finger moves again, careful of the claw—pumping in and out at a rhythm just slow enough to drive you mad.

He leans down, lips brushing your jaw.

“I’ll take my time.”

He doesn’t move faster.

Just deeper.

The tip of his finger curves with every pump, dragging along the soft, untouched parts of you no one’s ever reached.

He watches the way your body reacts—how your thighs twitch, how your breath stumbles. How your walls keep fluttering around him, trying to draw more in, even as your shoulders tense.

His mouth brushes your ear.

“You’ll stretch for me,” he whispers.

It’s not just words—it’s a prophecy. A vow. A threat wound in velvet.

His thumb returns to your clit again, no pressure, just presence. Circling. Watching. Waiting.

“You’ll take all of me, even when it hurts,” he says, his voice hushed and rough. “Even when you’re begging me to stop.”

You flinch—whether from fear or need, you don’t know.

His finger pushes in again. Deeper this time. Firmer.

“You’ll beg again,” he murmurs, and his smile is audible now. “But not like you just did.”

Another slow curl of his knuckle, and your hips jolt.

“You’ll beg for me to finish inside you. To spill into you until it sticks.”

Your breath catches hard.

You’re trembling now—quiet, barely breathing, pinned to the bed by nothing but the pressure of his hand inside you and the sound of his voice in your ear.

He drags his mouth down your throat—presses a kiss to the skin there, where your pulse flutters wild beneath his lips.

“And when I do…” His voice is low. Hungrier. “When you’re marked on the inside… swollen from what I gave you…”

His nose brushes your cheek. Blood still streaks his mouth, dried in the corners.

“…You’ll carry it for me. Every drop.”

His finger curls again.

You moan—quiet and broken.

His lips part in a pleased sigh, like that sound was all he needed.

He doesn’t stop.

Doesn’t add another finger yet.

Just keeps working that same one inside you—slow, knowing thrusts, letting your body shape around him, letting the air grow heavy with heat and inevitability.

The promise of what’s coming.

Of what you’ll take.

Of what he’ll leave inside.

And when you clench again, when your breath slips out in a shaky sob—he moans back.

Like he feels it too.

His finger slips out of you with a soft sound—wet and obscene in the silence.

You gasp at the loss, your hips lifting slightly in a wordless plea, but he doesn’t respond. Not with touch. Not yet.

Instead, he lowers himself between your thighs.

The mattress shifts.

His breath ghosts over your inner thigh, dragging a shiver straight up your spine. He doesn’t speak this time. Just spreads you wider, his bloodstained hands pushing gently at the backs of your knees until you’re laid open for him.

You feel the air brush your slick folds. Feel the weight of his stare.

And then—

his tongue.

One long, slow lick from your entrance to your clit.

Your whole body arches.

It’s not just his mouth—it’s the groan he lets out when he tastes you. A deep, guttural sound that vibrates against your skin, like he’s been starving and you’re the only thing he’s ever wanted.

He moans again, sloppier this time, mouth dragging down to press hot kisses against the inside of your thigh—right where your blood pulses.

His fangs skim there. Light. Teasing.

But he doesn’t bite.

Instead, he spits—just a little—against your cunt, watching it drip down between your folds.

“Slick already,” he murmurs, voice reverent. “Just from a finger.”

You barely manage a sound. Just a soft whimper, desperate and unformed.

And then you feel it again.

His fingers.

Two this time.

He doesn’t warn you.

He just pushes in—slow but firm, stretching you open with more pressure, more weight, the curve of his claws dragging just right along the softest parts inside.

Your breath shatters. Your legs twitch.

He groans into the inside of your thigh as he fucks you with his fingers, the pace slow but deep, like he’s mapping you from the inside out.

“Look at that,” he breathes. “Takin’ both. Tight little thing.”

Your hips jerk. His mouth finds your clit this time, licking once—slow and lazy—while his fingers press deeper still.

“You’ll take my cock next,” he growls. “Every inch. And you won’t be able to close your legs when I’m done.”

He pumps his fingers again. Steady. Wet. Deep.

“And you’ll thank me for it.”

He groans again—quiet, but raw.

You feel it in the way his fingers curl deep inside you, pressing up until your back arches sharply off the mattress.

“There,” he says, almost gently.

“Right there.”

He finds it again, that soft, hidden place inside you, and strokes it.

Once.

Twice.

Then again.

And again.

Your legs start to tremble. Your breath shatters.

His mouth returns to your clit—hot, open-mouthed kisses, slow laps of his tongue between the pulses of his fingers working inside you.

Sloppy. Focused. Worshipful.

“Don’t fight it,” he murmurs between strokes. “Let me feel you come on my hand.”

You choke on a gasp. Your hands claw the sheets.

Your body feels stretched tight, everything burning and wet, the heat of it building in your belly, climbing with every push of his fingers and every pass of his tongue.

You whimper.

That only spurs him on.

He sucks your clit into his mouth and groans, deep and low, his tongue flattening over it just as his fingers pump harder—curling with more pressure now, more purpose.

The tension snaps.

Your orgasm hits like a wave crashing through your ribs—sharp and hot and all-consuming.

Your thighs lock around his head, hips grinding up against his mouth as you sob out something that barely sounds like his name.

He holds you there.

Lets you ride it out.

Fingers still stroking deep.

Tongue still moving, slower now, coaxing every drop of pleasure from you.

“Good girl,” he breathes, lifting his head, lips shiny with your slick.

His voice is ragged with hunger. “That’s it. That’s what I wanted.”

Your body trembles.

You’re soaked. Wide open. Panting.

And his fingers are still inside you.

You’re still trembling.

Your thighs twitch where they fall open again, slick with sweat and the mess of your climax. The air feels too thick, the bedsheets too hot. Your pulse pounds between your legs—and in your throat—and everywhere else he’s touched.

He pulls his fingers from you slow.

Your walls clench around the loss, fluttering as though they could drag him back in, and you hear the soft, wet drag of your arousal clinging to his skin.

He doesn’t wipe it away.

Instead, he brings those blood-streaked fingers to his mouth and sucks them in, slow and deep, lips wrapping around the taste of you with a low, obscene groan.

You watch. You can’t look away.

And then he moves.

Crawls up the bed until he’s over you—his body heavy, shadowed, warm despite the blood dried against his chest. His scent is thick with iron and earth and something that still smells like your cunt.

He leans down.

Mouth beside your ear. Lips nearly brushing your skin.

One hand plants beside your head. The other drops low—palm pressing over the hard shape of his cock, still trapped behind his pants.

You feel it.

The size of him. The heat.

The tension in his arm as his hips twitch, just slightly, against his own hand.

He groans again—low—like the weight of it is almost too much to hold back.

“I should make you beg again,” he whispers, voice thick, soaked in something primal. “Make you cry for it.”

His hand rubs down the length of himself, slow, deliberate. You feel the bed shift beneath the movement, the air growing warmer as he exhales into your hair.

“Should keep you like this for hours. Open. Shaking. Dripping all over my cock without ever gettin’ filled.”

You moan—quiet and aching.

His lips graze your earlobe.

“But I think I’ve waited long enough.”

He palms himself again—more pressure this time, the drag of his hand slow, teasing. You can hear it now, too. Hear how wet he is from you. How soaked the front of his pants are.

“You feel how hard I am, don’t you?” he breathes.

You nod.

His mouth trails along your jaw, lips brushing blood-streaked skin. “I’m gonna tear this cunt in half, sweetheart.”

You shudder.

He presses his hips into you—just enough for you to feel it. The length of him, thick and aching, ready to push in and ruin you.

“But not yet.”

His fingers trace your mouth, smearing a mix of your slick and his spit across your lips.

“I want you to remember every second before it happens.”

He kisses your temple once, strangely gentle.

Then he moves back.

And starts to unbuckle his belt.

The buckle clinks.

Loud in the quiet, like the toll of a warning bell. Like the sound of something final, and coming.

You watch his hands—blood-caked knuckles, the dried gore at the bend of his wrist. His fingers move unhurried, practiced.

The leather slides free from the loops, slow enough that the soft pull of it against fabric makes your stomach tighten.

He doesn’t speak.

Doesn’t have to.

The air between you says enough—thick with your scent, with blood, with the lingering weight of everything he’s already promised to do to you.

His pants hang open.

He presses his palm flat to his cock, rubbing once over the soaked front of his briefs. He hisses through his teeth—his jaw tight, head tipped back for a single breath.

Then he pushes them down.

And you see him.

All of him.

There’s no flourish. No pretense. Just heat, and want, and the slick glisten of precum painting the tip of his cock—dark and flushed and heavy, already so hard it twitches when the air hits it.

You can’t look away.

He’s thick. Long. Veined with something that looks almost wrong under the low light—like it’s alive in a different way than a man should be. 

He sees your stare.

Smirks.

“Bigger than you thought?” he asks, voice dry, rasped.

You say nothing.

You can’t.

Your mouth is dry. Your thighs wet. And your body—already open, already aching—tightens around nothing as if it can feel him there already.

He wraps a hand around the base of himself, slow, languid.

Strokes up once.

You flinch at the sight of it—not from fear, but from knowing.

He’s going to ruin you.

He leans forward, eyes never leaving yours, and murmurs—

“You sure you want this?”

It’s not a question of consent.

If anything, it’s a question that gives you a false sense of control.

And you answer the only way you can—lips parted, legs still wide, cunt fluttering from the memory of his fingers.

He doesn’t speak again.

Not when he climbs over you, the bed dipping beneath his weight.

Not when his hand slides beneath your knee, lifting your leg just enough to open you wider for him.

Only his breathing changes—

deepening.

Thickening.

Turning hungry again.

His cock presses to your entrance—hot, slick, heavy—and your breath stutters the second you feel the blunt head notch against you.

You’re still wet.

Still pulsing from the last orgasm.

Still stretched—but not enough.

Not for this.

He holds himself still for a moment, just… there—the heat of him burning against your folds.

“Relax,” he murmurs, the words barely a breath.

Then he pushes.

Just the tip.

You tense—your walls tightening reflexively as they struggle to accommodate him.

He groans through his teeth, like the squeeze of your body already has him seeing stars.

“Fuck,” he rasps, head bowing. “You’re gonna be the death of me.”

He gives you another inch.

Slow.

Measured.

Unforgiving.

Your jaw falls open, eyes fluttering.

He’s thick—every ridge, every vein dragging against your walls in slow motion. He moves like he wants you to feel it. Every inch. Every stretch.

And you do.

Your body trembles, helpless under him.

Your nails curl into the sheets.

He bottoms out on a breathless moan.

“Just like that,” he pants. “Took all of me.”

He doesn’t move.

Not yet.

You’re too full. Too stretched. Your cunt spasms around him, slick and tight and overwhelmed, and you swear you feel your heartbeat in your core.

He leans in—mouth at your ear, voice wrecked.

“Feel that?” he whispers. “That’s mine now.”

Then he rolls his hips—just once.

And your whole body shatters open.

He stays deep.

Buried to the hilt, his hips pressed flush to yours, cock pulsing inside the tight, wet clutch of your cunt.

Neither of you moves.

Your chest rises and falls in shallow, ragged breaths, sweat beading at your collar. Your thighs tremble, parted wide around his hips, your muscles strained and twitching from the stretch of him.

It’s too much.

You try to speak—but all that comes out is a shaky breath, your eyes fluttering closed, jaw slack with the effort of staying open for him.

Remmick watches you.

Eyes dark.

Mouth parted.

Throat working like he’s barely holding something back.

His body is trembling above yours. Not visibly. Not to most. But you feel it—his tension, the restraint in his muscles as your walls pulse around him.

And then—

He bucks forward.

A sudden, involuntary thrust—deep, sharp, too much—and the sound that rips from your throat is raw, startled, halfway to a sob.

But before you can speak—before you can breathe—

his mouth crashes against yours.

He kisses you hard. Not rough—but consuming.

A kiss that devours your cry, swallows the noise in your throat.

His hand cups your jaw, blood-warm and steady, as his hips hold deep inside you, pulsing, unmoving again.

When he finally pulls away—his breath stuttering across your mouth—his forehead stays pressed to yours.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, voice low.

But he isn’t.

You hear it in the curl of it.

The breathlessness.

The way his mouth twitches like he’s tasting the echo of your cry and savoring it.

He nuzzles closer, voice quiet.

“You’re just… fuck,” he breathes, cock twitching deep inside you. “You’re too tight. Too warm. I couldn’t help it.”

The words sound gentle.

But there’s no guilt in them.

Only want.

Only the promise that he’ll do it again.

And when his hips shift just the smallest bit—just enough for you to feel him still hard, still throbbing—he groans against your throat and murmurs:

“Don’t tense up now, sweetheart.”

A pause.

Then—his lips at your ear, soft and cruel:

“You’re gonna feel every inch again.”

His hips shift.

Not a thrust. Not yet. Just pressure.

The slow grind of his cock dragging along your walls, stretching you in that same unbearable fullness—but with movement now. With friction. With promise.

You gasp, the sound punched out of you before you can catch it.

He hears it. Feels it.

And he smiles.

Not soft.

Not kind.

But slow—and satisfied. The kind of smile a man wears when he knows he has time. When he knows you’re not going anywhere.

He draws his hips back.

Only an inch.

Then pushes in again.

Deep. Unhurried. Intentional.

You moan, thighs twitching around his waist.

His hands frame your hips now, holding you in place like he’s anchoring you to the bed—like he’s the only thing keeping you from floating off somewhere too bright, too much.

He leans in again, nose brushing yours, lips nearly touching.

“You feel that?” he murmurs.

Another slow thrust.

Another sharp inhale from you.

“Every inch,” he breathes. “You’re squeezin’ me like you never wanna let go.”

Your fingers claw weakly at the sheets, nerves frayed with overstimulation. He’s so deep, so full, that your body doesn’t know what to do except take it.

And he knows that.

He watches your face as he fucks you slow—eyes locked to every flicker of pain, of pleasure, of tension trying to hold on.

“You were made for this,” he says. “To be filled. To be bred.”

He thrusts again—just a little harder this time. Still slow. Still measured. But enough that it presses deep, kisses the part of you that makes your toes curl.

You cry out again—soft, desperate.

His thumb brushes your lower lip. Blood smears from his knuckle to your mouth.

“You wanna come again, don’t you?” he whispers.

Another thrust.

Long. Heavy. Grinding.

“You want me to make you soak this cock—over and over—until I’ve filled you so deep it leaks for days.”

You nod. It’s all you can do.

He moves again.

A sharper buck of his hips this time—still deep, still slow, but with weight behind it. You gasp, body jolting beneath him, fingers grasping blindly at his forearms.

He does it again.

Then again.

Each thrust steadier. Harder. Dragging the thick length of him out just enough before slamming back in, until your gasps become a rhythm of their own—soft, punched-out sounds he seems to be chasing with every movement.

You can feel him growing hungrier with it.

Not just in the way he fucks you—but in the sounds he makes. The way his breath goes ragged at your ear. The way his hands tighten on your hips. The way his cock pulses inside you like his body is starving for release.

“You hear that?” he pants, voice rough now. “That wet fuckin’ sound you’re makin’?”

Another thrust—deep, unyielding. Your back arches.

“You did that. That’s you.”

His hips snap forward again, harder.

And again.

Until there’s no mistaking what this has become.

He’s rutting into you now—thrust after thrust, the rhythm no longer gentle, no longer careful. It’s claiming. It’s brutal. It’s the kind of fucking that leaves bruises deep where no one can see.

Your breath comes in ragged whimpers, the stretch of him constant, overwhelming. Your legs shake where they wrap around his waist. He reaches down, grabs the back of your thigh, and hauls it up higher over his hip, opening you wider.

You cry out at the angle.

“That’s it,” he growls, fangs scraping your cheek now, breath hot and wet. “Take it. Let me ruin this pussy the way I was meant to.”

He slams in again, and your whole body rocks with it.

He groans—deep, guttural—and his voice slips low, almost reverent as he fucks into you, faster now, chasing something dark and inevitable.

“I’m gonna fill you up,” he pants, hips relentless. “You’ll be dripping with me for days.”

He doesn’t hold back.

His hips slam into yours with punishing force, cock driving deep again and again, the wet slap of skin on skin filling the room like thunder. Each thrust punches a sound out of you—gasps, moans, strangled cries as your body surrenders under him, trembling from the force of it.

He’s grunting above you now—low, growling sounds, rough with effort. With hunger. With something darker still.

You clutch at the sheets. At him. At anything.

But he doesn’t notice.

Or—he doesn’t care.

Something’s shifting in him.

You feel it in the way his hips move—more erratic, more brutal. There’s nothing tender left in the way he drives into you. Just raw need. Just power. Just the demand to be felt—to be remembered inside you.

He snarls suddenly, and you flinch—not from fear, but from instinct.

His head jerks back.

And that’s when you see it.

His mouth is open—lips curled, fangs fully descended, sharp and slick. Drool spills from the corners, thick and shining in the low light, trailing in slow ropes down his chin.

It drips onto you.

Hot.

Wet.

Lands on your collarbone with a soft splatter, and more follows—warm streaks of saliva painting your skin as he fucks into you like an animal in heat.

You stare up at him—chest heaving, lips parted, eyes wide.

His eyes don’t meet yours.

They’re half-lidded. Unfocused. Wild.

His tongue swipes across his bottom lip, catching the next drop of spit—but another trails right after, falling from his mouth to your throat like he’s starving and you’re the feast he doesn’t dare bite yet.

“Mine,” he snarls, voice guttural. Barely human. “You’re mine.”

His hips snap forward again—harder than before—and your whole body jerks from the force.

The mattress creaks beneath you. The headboard knocks faintly against the wall. Your nails dig into his back now, desperate for something to hold onto.

And still—he keeps going.

Cock thick and heavy inside you, drool slicking your chest, fangs glinting just inches above your skin.

There’s no man left in him now.

Only the monster.

Only the thing that waited. That hunted. That took.

He pulls back.

Not fully—not out of mercy, and not to give you any relief.

Just far enough to look.

His thrusts slow, but stay deep. He shifts his weight onto one arm and lifts his torso slightly, gaze dropping between your bodies.

And then—he groans.

Low. Heavy. Shattered.

Because he sees it.

The thick, slick mess coating his cock, shining in the dark.

Your fluids—the aftermath of your orgasm, still glistening where you’ve soaked his fingers. His own precum, smeared in milky strands along the base. And now—blood.

Bright.

Wet.

Where the relentless drag of him forced your body beyond its limits.

He watches it all—entranced.

Watches the way your cunt stretches around him, fluttering helplessly as he pushes back in. Watches how the mix of blood and slick gathers at your entrance, squelching as he thrusts.

A string of it clings to the root of his cock when he draws back again, sticking to your folds, then snapping as he drives home with another sharp thrust.

You gasp.

Your legs jerk.

And still—his eyes stay fixed on the spot where your bodies join.

“Look at this pussy,” he growls, almost to himself. “Fucking dripping for me.”

He grinds in again, slowly this time, like he wants to feel every inch drag through the mess.

Your body quakes beneath him.

Your walls tighten in pulses, trying to keep him there, milk him deeper.

Another low moan leaves his throat—wrecked, shaky, like the sight is unraveling him faster than he can control.

He rocks into you again.

Deeper.

Slower.

Until blood and slick spill from your cunt in slow drips, painting the backs of your thighs, the sheets below.

And still—he doesn’t look away.

“You see this?” he rasps, glancing up at you through his lashes. “You see what I did to you?”

You can barely nod.

He leans down then, tongue dragging up the blood-smeared column of your throat.

“I haven’t even come yet.”

He doesn’t hold back now.

His restraint breaks all at once—like something in him snaps—and suddenly, he’s slamming into you with full force, hips snapping forward in hard, merciless thrusts that make the bed frame groan beneath your bodies.

Your cry catches in your throat.

He buries himself deep, over and over, and each time the drag of his cock sends a jolt through your spine. He’s not just fucking you—he’s consuming you. Devouring every sound, every shiver, every flutter of your body trying to keep up.

You feel it again.

The pressure.

The tight, hot build of release curling deep in your belly.

Your thighs start to shake. Your nails claw into his shoulders.

And he feels it too.

Feels the way your cunt starts to flutter around him—too wet, too tight, too close to the edge.

“Fuck,” he pants, mouth at your ear. “That’s it. Just like that. Squeeze me—fuck, baby, you feel that?”

His voice is a mess now—deep, breathless, ruined.

You try to speak, but it turns into a gasp as he drives in deeper, harder, his cock punching into the softest part of you until your whole body arches.

“You gonna come for me?” he snarls. “You gonna come all over my cock? Let me feel it?”

You sob out a yes—barely a word, barely a sound—but it’s enough.

He pistons into you, chasing your climax, chasing the way you tighten around him, the way your walls start to convulse, wetter with each thrust.

And then it hits.

Your orgasm tears through you like fire—legs locking around him, body trembling as you clamp down on his cock with a slick, vice-tight grip that makes him groan loud against your neck.

“Shit—just like that—”

He keeps thrusting.

Rougher now. Harsher.

The wet sounds of your bodies slapping together are soaked and obscene, echoing off the walls as your cunt milks him through the aftermath of your release.

And he’s cursing with every thrust now.

“Fuck— so tight—fuckin’ perfect—gonna fill you up—”

His voice breaks.

His thrusts falter.

He’s right on the edge.

He doesn’t last another second.

Not with the way you’re pulsing around him, cunt still spasming from your climax. Not with the way you cry out again—soft, broken, desperate—as he thrusts through it like he’s drowning inside you.

His breath punches from his lungs.

His hips slam forward one last time—so deep you swear you feel him in your throat—and then he growls.

A vicious, guttural sound that comes from somewhere deeper than his chest. Something ancient. Something monstrous.

And then—

He sinks his teeth into your neck.

Hard.

His fangs pierce deep, past skin, past the bruises already blooming across your throat. The pain is sharp, white-hot—and then it’s drowned in heat.

Because he comes.

Hard.

His cock jerks inside you, and then he’s spilling himself—thick, endless pulses of hot cum filling your cunt, spilling past the tight clutch of your body as he holds himself buried deep, grinding through every pulse.

Your breath stutters—choked by the sting of his bite, by the warmth flooding your core.

You feel everything.

The stretch. The weight. The claiming.

His cock twitching inside you. His tongue lapping at the blood seeping from your neck. His hips rolling slowly, shallowly, wringing every last drop of release into you.

And still—he doesn’t let up.

Doesn’t pull out.

Doesn’t stop.

He growls again against your skin, quieter now, mouth still latched to the wound as he licks over it. You feel him swallow.

You feel him stay.

Even as the spasms slow. Even as your body trembles beneath him—wrecked, open, slick and full.

Even then, he stays buried to the hilt, cock slowly softening.

And then you hear him whisper—against your bloody throat, voice rough: