《𝙹𝚊𝚌𝚔𝚒𝚎》

You swung your legs over the side of the bed.

The floor was cold. Your nightgown thin. The air sharper than you expected, but it felt grounding, real in a way nothing else had all evening.

You paced once. Twice. Hands dragging through your hair, breath uneven.

It was ridiculous.

You were a princess. You knew your duty. You had been raised on it, shaped by it, praised for how well you carried it.

So why did it feel like you were being quietly erased?

Your gaze drifted to the door, where you knew he'd be.

He was always there at this hour. Posted outside your chambers, silent as stone, watching the corridor while the rest of the world slept.

The thought came before you could stop it.

He would listen.

Not like the advisors. Not like the maids. Not like the prince.

Just… listen.

You crossed the room before you could talk yourself out of it and pulled the door open.

And there he stood. Remmick.

He was a pillar of dark iron and silent menace, his back against the wall opposite of your door. He didn’t move as you stepped out, the silk of your nightgown whispering against your ankles—a sound that felt like a scream in the dead of night.

He didn't even turn his head, but you saw the muscle in his jaw jump. He knew exactly who was standing there, and he wasn't going to give you the satisfaction you desired.

“You stand outside my door every night,” you said softly. “You watch over me while I sleep.”

Your fingers curled in the thin fabric of your nightgown.

“Tell me, Sir Remmick… when you hear me pacing like this, do you tell yourself it’s only duty that keeps you there?”

Finally, he turned. Slowly. Deliberately. The flickering torchlight caught the hard planes of his face, the scars that told stories of wars you’d only read about.

His throat worked before he spoke. A thick swallow. Controlled, but not enough.

He stepped into your space, the scent of rain and cold steel hitting you like a physical blow. He was so close you could feel the radiating heat of his body through his leather gambeson.

“I am but your shade, Princess,” he rasped, the words rough, dragged from somewhere deep and unwilling. His gaze dropped, betraying him for a heartbeat as it lingered on your mouth before snapping back to your eyes.

He did not touch you. He wouldn’t.

“And shades have no say in the iron that binds you,” he continued, quieter now. “They follow. They endure.”

A breath passed between you, sharp and unsteady.

“So go back inside.”

It wasn’t a request. It was a warning—the kind a predator gives before patience runs out. His voice scraped low and rough through the corridor, flint striking steel in the dark.

Your heart hammered against your ribs, a frantic bird seeking escape. But you didn’t retreat.

You took one step. Then another. Until the heat radiating from his broad frame chased the cold from your skin, until the space between you felt charged, fragile.

“Don’t,” you said softly, shaking your head. Not refusal. Not obedience. Just… disbelief. “You look at me like I matter,” you continued, voice tightening. “Like I’m more than the crown. More than the bargain.”

Another step. Close enough now to feel his breath.

“And then the next moment, you stand there and pretend I’m nothing but a duty you’re forced to endure.” Your gaze searched his, sharp and unflinching. “Doesn’t it ever exhaust you?” you asked. “Pretending you don’t feel it?”

Silence stretched, taut as a drawn bow.

“I’ve seen the way you watch me, Remmick. I’m not blind. So tell me…” Your voice dropped, barely more than breath. “Why is it that one moment you’re right here—”

You lifted a hand, hovering near his chest but not touching.

“—and the next, you act like I’m already gone?”

For a moment, something dangerous flickered in his eyes. Not anger. Not frustration. But want.

Your name almost left his mouth.

Instead, he inhaled slowly through his nose, like a man steadying himself before stepping back into battle.

“Do not do this,” he said, low and strained. Not harsh. Not yet. His hand twitched at his side, as if it wanted to reach for you and thought better of it. “You think I don’t feel it?” His voice dropped further, roughened by the admission. “You think I have not spent every night outside that door convincing myself I am stone?”

A beat.

“I am not blind. And I am not immune.”

There it was. The truth. Bare and dangerous.

Then he straightened.

“But I swore an oath,” he continued, steel creeping back into his tone. “To protect you. To protect this crown. That oath does not bend because I…” He stopped himself.

Because I want you.

He swallowed.

“So go back inside,” he finished, firmer now. “Before we both forget what we are.”

His words settled between you like iron.

Duty. Oath. Crown.

All the things meant to stand taller than either of you.

You searched his face, looking for the wall he kept rebuilding between you. It was there. It always was. But now you could see the cracks in it. The strain in his jaw. The careful distance he forced into his stance.

You hated it.

Hated the way he could stand inches from you and still pretend this was nothing. That you were nothing more than another post to guard.

“Before we both forget what we are,” you repeated quietly. Your hand lifted before you could think better of it. Not touching. Just hovering near his chest, close enough to feel the warmth of him, the rise and fall of his breathing. “What are we, then?” you asked.

Not princess. Not knight.

Just two people standing too close in the dark.

His breath hitched. Subtle. Barely there. But you felt it.

He didn’t step back.

He should have.

Instead, his hand came up, stopping just short of your wrist, like he meant to push you away and couldn’t quite bring himself to make contact.

“Go inside,” he said again, quieter now. Rougher. Less command, more plea.

Your heart pounded so loudly you were sure he could hear it.

He wouldn’t touch you. He wouldn’t cross the line. Which meant the choice… was yours. You leaned in just enough that your voice brushed his throat.

“Make me,” you whispered.

The words were a spark in a room full of gunpowder.

Remmick went still. Not relaxed. Not calm. Still in the way a drawn blade holds still before it strikes.

His pupils widened, swallowing the color from his eyes until they were almost black, reflecting torchlight and the defiance burning across your face.

For a heartbeat, he didn’t breathe.

Then his hand moved faster than your eyes could follow.

In an instant, his gloved fingers twisted into the silk at your waist, anchoring you in place, his other hand slamming against the stone beside your head with a bone-jarring crack. He leaned in, close enough that your breath tangled together, the scent of cedar, cold rain, and steel filling your lungs.

“You think this is a game,” he growled, voice raw, fraying at the edges. “To see how far you can push me?”

His gaze dropped to your mouth, then dragged back up like it burned.

“I have spent years learning how not to touch you,” he said, quieter now, the admission almost breaking. “Years pretending I do not hear your heartbeat through those walls.”

He pressed closer, not crushing, but close enough that the heat of him chased away every trace of cold.

“If I cross this line…” His voice faltered, the first true crack. “There is no going back for me. Not to duty. Not to restraint.” A breath. Heavy. Uneven. “I would tear this kingdom apart before I let them give you to someone who sees you as nothing.”

You didn’t pull away.

Your back pressed to the cold stone, his body heat wrapping around you like a second skin, your pulse racing so hard it made your ribs ache. For a moment, the world narrowed to the sound of his breathing, the tension in his grip, the war written plainly across his face.

Years. He said years.

All that time you thought you imagined it. The glances. The silence. The way he always seemed to appear before you even called.

Your hand lifted, slower than his had been, giving him time to stop you.

He didn’t.

Your fingers settled against his chest, feeling the frantic rhythm beneath leather and discipline.

"Let it burn, then," you whispered, the words raw against his mouth. “Let the stone crumble. Let the crown roll into the dirt.” Your grip tightened.“I am being sold, Sir Remmick. Auctioned like a prize mare to a man who will not even bother to learn the color of my eyes before he lays claim to me.”

A low, guttural sound—half-growl, half-shuddering groan—vibrated through Remmick’s chest, rattling the very steel he wore. His restraint didn't just crack; it vanished. His gauntleted hand at your waist tightened, the cold metal anchoring you to him with a territorial force that lifted you slightly until your toes barely grazed the floor. He dropped his head into the crook of your neck, inhaling sharply as if the scent of you was the only thing keeping him tethered to the earth.

“You have no idea,” he rasped, voice frayed raw, “how many times I’ve imagined tearing apart the men who speak of you like you are something to be traded.”

His breath burned against your throat.

“How many nights I’ve stood outside this door reminding myself I am meant to guard you… not want you.”

He pulled back then, eyes blazing, not claiming but unraveling.

Then, with sudden, decisive movement, he reached past you.

The heavy iron handle of your bedchamber door turned with a click that echoed down the corridor like a judge’s gavel.

He didn't say another word. He simply steered you back into the darkness of your room, his massive, armored frame silhouetted against the guttering torchlight of the hall for one final heartbeat. Then, he reached back and shut the door.

The heavy iron bolt slid home with a resonant, bone-deep thud—a sound of finality that signaled the end of the Princess, the end of the vow, and the beginning of whatever was about to happen between these four walls.

But as the silence of the room swallowed them, Remmick didn't just move; he came undone.

The sound of his armor hitting the floor was deafening—a chaotic symphony of clattering plates and heavy leather. He tore at the buckles with a frantic, predatory energy, his gauntlets thudding onto the rug, followed by the heavy weight of his breastplate. He was shedding his skin, discarding the King’s colors until he was nothing but a man—a man who had been starving for the woman standing in the center of the shadows.

He crossed the remaining distance in a single, prowling stride.

“You want the ruin?” he growled, voice low and dangerous, vibrating through the air between you.

He didn’t wait for an answer. His hands found you — not frantic, not fumbling — but decisive. One at your waist. The other braced against the bedpost beside your head as he backed you toward it, until polished wood pressed firm against your spine.

“You think I do not know what I am risking?” His breath was hot against your cheek. “You think I have not measured this fall a thousand times?”

His thumb flexed at your hip, barely there, barely restrained.

“You asked me to burn,” he said, softer now, more dangerous for it. “So understand this.” He leaned closer, close enough that your mouths almost touched. “If I touch you the way I have dreamed of touching you… there will be no knight left in this room.”

With a slow, decisive tug, he hiked the fabric up, his knuckles grazing the sensitive skin of your thighs. The contrast was a shock to the system: the cool night air hitting your skin, followed immediately by the searing, possessive heat of his palms that stole your breath.

He leaned in, his nose brushing against yours, his breath coming in ragged, uneven hitches. His fingers moved with a deliberate, torturous slowness, tracing the line where your stockings met your skin, teasing the edge of your resolve.

"Tell me," he rasped, his thumb circling a spot that made your vision blur. His dark eyes were fixed on yours, demanding every ounce of your surrender. "Tell me what you want, Princess. I want to hear you break. I want to hear you beg for the man you chose over your crown."

The air in the room was thick, charged with the scent of discarded iron and the raw, heavy musk of a man who had finally stopped pretending.

"I want you," you breathed, the words a jagged confession that had been clawing at your throat for years. Your hands, trembling but certain, found the damp cotton of his tunic. "I have only ever wanted you. To hell with the crown. To hell with the King."

Remmick paused, his large, callous-roughened hands still gripping your thighs, his knuckles white against your skin. He looked up at you, his steal blue eyes searching yours with a searing intensity that felt like it was stripping your soul bare.

"Are you sure, Princess?" he exhailed, his voice a low, warning growl. "Because once I start, I’m not stopping. There will be nothing left of that girl they're trying to sell."

You didn't answer with words. You curled your fingers into the front of his tunic and hauled him toward you, a silent command for him to shut up and take what was already his.

When the kiss broke and finally looked at you, there was no knight left in his eyes. Only a man who had chosen you.

A wicked, predatory smile pulled at the corner of Remmick’s mouth—a look of pure, unadulterated triumph. He wouldn't hesitate again.

He drove two fingers inside you with a sharp, possessive depth that stole the air from your lungs. Your head hit the bedpost with a soft thud as your back arched, a broken sound escaping your lips. Before you could even find your rhythm, he added a third, his hand moving with a ruthless, expert precision that made your vision spark white.

The friction was relentless. He began to pump his fingers in and out in a steady, demanding cadence, the thick muscles of his forearm flexing with every thrust. You could feel the deliberate stretch of your walls, the slick, tight heat of your body struggling to accommodate the invasive breadth of him. Each time he withdrew almost to the entrance before plunging back in to the hilt, it felt like he was re-mapping your very anatomy, claiming every inch of the "ruin" he had promised.

"Remm—"

"Yes princess?" He looked up at you, and the sheer force of his gaze was enough to pin you to the headboard.

His eyes were a devastating, crystalline blue—the color of a frozen lake just before the ice cracks, or the heart of a lightning storm trapped in a human skull. They were terrifyingly bright against the dark, jagged scars on his face and the charcoal smudge of his lashes. In the guttering torchlight, they seemed to glow with a predatory intelligence, tracking every flinch of your muscles, every frantic hitch in your breathing.

"Fuck—I—" You couldn't speak even if you wanted to. The world was narrowing down to the rhythmic, heavy stretch of his three fingers and the icy fire in those eyes.

He chuckled, a low, dark vibration that rumbled in his chest and echoed in your own. He didn't look away, not for a second. He watched the way your pupils dilated until the gold of your own eyes was nearly swallowed by the black, his blue gaze burning with a terrifying, triumphant heat. He was memorizing you—shattering the Princess and worshiping the woman beneath, all while his hand continued its ruthless, expert work.

"Will he ever make you lose control the way you are right now?" Remmick rumbled against the sensitive skin of your neck. He felt the frantic pulse of your body against his hand, the way you were already melting for him. "I've barely touched you, and you're already mewling my name into the dark."

He shifted, his thumb finding the center of the storm and pressing with a rhythmic, devastating pressure that made your knees finally give out. The smile on his face turned into something darker, something that promised you would never be the same again.

But when he withdrew his hand, the sudden absence made you whimper—a small, broken sound of loss that seemed to echo in the hollow silence of the room. You reached for him, your fingers curling into the rough fabric of his tunic, pulling him back toward the bed.

"Don't stop," you gasped, your voice trembling with a raw, jagged hunger. "Remmick, please... I want more. I want everything. I don't care about the crown. I just want you."

The admission was the final spark in the room full of gunpowder. Remmick let out a predatory growl, his crystalline blue eyes flashing with a sudden, violent intent. He didn't make you wait.

He hooked his arms under your knees and tossed you back onto the center of the bed. You hit the silk sheets with a soft thud, your hair fanning out like a dark halo against the pillows.

Remmick stood at the edge of the mattress for a heartbeat, his massive frame silhouetted against the moonlight. His hands went to the fly of his breeches, and as he began to stroke himself, his gaze raked over you with a terrifying, reverent hunger.

"Gods, you’re beautiful," he rasped, the words sounding like a prayer and a curse. His eyes lingered on the frantic rise and fall of your breasts, the flush creeping up your neck, and the sheer, undone desperation on your face. "So hauntingly beautiful, and not a single inch of it belongs to that Prince."

He lunged forward then, his large, calloused hand snapping around your ankle like a brand. With a single, effortless tug, he hauled you to the edge of the bed and hoisted your leg over his broad shoulder.

The position was raw, exposing you completely to the cool night air and the scorching, sapphire heat of his gaze. He didn't say another word. He was done worshiping from afar. He was moving in for the kill.

"Look at me," he commanded, his voice thick with a hunger that could level cities. "I want you to remember this when you're standing at that altar. I want you to feel me in your bones every time that man looks at you."

Then, he drove into you.

It was a devastating, soul-cleaving slide that filled the aching void you’d been carrying for years. You let out a strangled cry, your head snapping back against the wood of the bedpost, your fingers clenching the fur sheets beneath you. He didn't hold back; he fucked you with a desperate, untamed ferocity, his body a heavy, rhythmic weight of muscle and heat.

The sound of his skin hitting yours and the ragged, animalistic gasps for air were the only things filling the room. He was a force of nature, a storm that was tearing through everything you were supposed to be, leaving only what you truly were: his.

"Tell me," he rasped, his pace turning ruthless, his hand coming up to cup your jaw, his thumb forcing your chin up so you had no choice but to meet his gaze. "Whose are you?"

"Yours," you sobbed, the word breaking over the frantic rhythm of his heart. You arched your back, your nails drawing shallow red lines down his shoulders as you surrendered every ounce of your pride to the man who was currently dismantling your world. "I'm yours, Remmick. Only yours."

The admission seemed to fuel the fire in his veins. He didn't just hear the words; he devoured them.

"Good girl," he growled, the praise low and dark, vibrating through your entire body. It was the only reward you needed, a verbal brand that felt just as heavy as the weight of him.

He didn't stop there. As the peak of the storm finally gathered, a tidal wave of sensation that threatened to pull you under, Remmick leaned down. His hand gripped the back of your hair, tilting your head back to expose the delicate line of your throat to the moonlight.

You shut your eyes and tilted your head, giving him access.

His teeth sank into the tender skin where your neck met your shoulder, a sharp, possessive claim that made you cry out in a mix of pain and pure, unadulterated pleasure. It was a mark that would bloom into a dark bruise by morning—a jagged purple shadow that no silk collar or royal jewels could ever truly hide.

But Remmick wasn't finished. He didn’t pull away entirely; instead, the relentless pace of his hips slowed, shifting into a torturous, grinding friction that made your breath hitch in a new kind of agony. He stayed buried deep within you, his weight a heavy, grounding comfort, while his hand slid down between your bodies, his fingers sure and steady.

His thumb found you again, moving in slow, agonizingly perfect circles. It wasn't the predatory aggression from before; this was deliberate. Calculated. He was watching your face in the moonlight, tracking the way your eyes rolled back and your lips parted in a silent plea.

"Please," you whined, your fingers tightening in his hair, pulling his head back down to you. "Remmick, I—I can’t. I’m right there. Please let me."

"Let you what, baby?" he murmured, his voice a low, gravelly vibration that felt like velvet against your skin. He didn't stop the circles; if anything, he made them smaller, more focused, driving the sensation straight to your marrow. "Tell me exactly what you need."

"I need to cum. Please."

"Then do it," he commanded, his thumb increasing the pressure just enough to make your vision blur. "Do it for me. Just feel my hand. Feel how much I have you."

He talked you through it, his voice a steady, dark anchor as the tension in your lower belly coiled into a tight, vibrating wire. "That's it, sweetheart. Give it all to me. Break for me. Let me feel every bit of it."

When you finally shattered, it was a physical collapse—a blinding, white-hot release that had you sobbing his name into the crook of his neck. Your muscles clamped around him in tight, rhythmic waves, and the sound of your undone, messy breathing filled the room.

Remmick didn't wait for the tremors to fade. The sound of your surrender was the final blow to his own restraint. He let out a low, guttural growl, his fingers digging into your hips—marking your skin there, too—as he drove into you one last time, deeper than he had all night. He held himself there, his forehead pressed against yours, his teeth bared as he came inside of you with a force that made his entire muscular frame shudder.

Still he didn't pull back. He wanted to feel every part of you as you shook beneath him, so he stayed anchored within you, his breath hot and ragged against your skin, while the heavy silence of the room settled over the discarded armor and the beautiful, scorched-earth ruin you had both embraced.

The quiet was heavy, thick with the scent of salt and the iron of his discarded suit. Slowly, Remmick withdrew, the loss of his heat leaving you shivering against the damp sheets.

He didn't say a word as he crossed to the washstand, his movements still possessing that predatory grace even without the steel. He returned with a damp cloth, and with a tenderness that felt almost more dangerous than his ferocity, he began to clean you. His large, calloused hands moved over your skin with reverent care, lingering on the curves he had just claimed as his own.

When he finished, he turned to the heap of black plate on the floor. You watched from the tangle of furs as he began the grim task of putting the Knight back on. It was a slow, rhythmic ritual—the clink of the greaves, the snap of the leather straps.

Driven by a sudden, desperate need to be near him, you tried to slide off the bed. You wanted to help him with the heavy buckles of his breastplate, to feel the heat of his skin one last time before it was encased in ice.

But the moment your feet hit the rug, your knees gave way.

A soft, startled gasp escaped you as you gripped the bedpost to keep from collapsing, your legs feeling like water, trembling and utterly spent. Remmick was there in a heartbeat, catching you around the waist before you could fall. A dark, wicked glint returned to his eyes as he took in your disheveled state and your shaking limbs.

A slow, triumphant smile spread across his face—the look of a man who took immense joy in the physical evidence of your undoing.

"Going somewhere, princess?" he rasped, his voice a low, vibrating purr of satisfaction. He didn't just help you up; he held you against his chest, letting you feel the renewed strength in him. "You aren't going anywhere tonight. Not with those legs."

He easily swept you back into the center of the bed, tucking the heavy furs around you as if you were a precious, stolen treasure. He finished cinching his armor, the familiar, cold silhouette of the "silent protector" returning with every piece of metal. Once the last plate was locked, he leaned over the bed, his shadow looming large and lethal in the moonlight.

He reached out, his thumb grazing the dark, angry bite mark on your shoulder—the mark that would serve as your true crown from now on.

"Remember my promise," he whispered, his eyes obsidian and territorial through the darkness. "No one else touches this. You are mine, and I will burn this entire kingdom to ash before I let that Prince claim a single inch of what I’ve marked. Rest now."

He stepped back, his presence once again a pillar of iron. With one final, soul-searing look, he slipped out of the room. The bolt slid back into place from the outside, and as you lay there in the dark, the only sound was the rhythmic, heavy tread of your shadow returning to his post.

You lay there in the dark, the bite at your neck throbbing in time with your pulse, the sheets twisted around your legs like the wreckage of something sacred.

He would burn the kingdom for you.

You knew it.

And as you pressed your fingers to the mark he left behind, feeling the heat of it beneath your skin, a strange calm settled over you.

If the world demanded you choose—Crown or him. Duty or ruin.

Ignoring the outstretched hand, you continue to scramble past him. No matter how friendly, you can't look him in the face. Not while you can remember hearing the moans coming through the ceiling at two in the morning, not even a few nights ago. You never saw anyone enter the building or leave with him, but you just assume that he's gay or has a preference, based on the male ring to the moans that tend to drift down into your bedroom.

You imagine the eye roll he pulls when you hear the 'pft' sound behind you. "Well damn. Rude." Despite the heavy bags hanging from your arms, the spike of irritation makes you backtrack and step to him.

"Yeah? You know what else is rude?" He only blinks at your raised tone, clearly not expecting the quick outburst. "Playing your dumb music in the dead of night with no concern for your neighbour." The sudden rush of anger with his ignorance grips you, and the otherwise blank reaction only spurs you on. "And. Do you have to be so loud when you fuck someone?"

He scoffs back at you, not entirely sure what you mean, though a faint pink flushes over his cheeks before he hits back defensively. "Aw, well I am sorry, Princess."

His feigned sincerity and hand over his heart causes you to glower. "Is someone just upset that they're not gettin' any?" It's not wrong for a shot in the dark, you can't remember the last time you got lucky with anything other than your rose toy. "Jealous. maybe?"

Remmick grins when he watches you get uncomfortable on the spot, and he knows he's guessed correctly. Though he can't stop his face from heating at the fact that you seem to have heard him late into the night. He didn't think he was that loud.

"I'm not jealous, your boyfriend makes it sound like you're an awful lay." Your teeth grit but you manage to smirk beyond the lie. It didn't remotely sound that way to you. It makes you ashamed that on more than one occasion, you found your hand drifting to your clit at the noises and wonder what he was doing to pull them from someone.

When Remmick stares back, an uncertainty surges through you. His brow furrows, a quizzical look sweeping over his features as he tries to work out what you mean. "Boyfriend? I don't have a boyfriend."

Your throat feels dry, and you regret saying anything just to be wrong. "Whoever you're fucking, then. I'm tired of it waking me up all of the time."

Were you mixing him up with another tenant? "I don't- Not that it's yer concern, but I haven't been 'seein' to' anyone. What are ya talkin' about?" He wouldn't usually be so open, but the genuine confusion you've caused for him makes him think out loud.

You can only stare at Remmick, until you realise that if he really hasn't had anyone else over then… The moans you've heard through the ceiling must have been his. He must realise it too, because when you turn on your heels to practically run up the stairs, he doesn't protest.

Remmick is left in the lobby, unable to say anything after it dawns on him that he's definitely been too loud through the night. His fingers tighten and unfurl a few times as he waits for the quick rush of being caught fade away from him, thankful that you already scurried off when you had.

The next time you leave for a quick errand, it's after your landlord updated you that the lift has been fixed. About time. The thing has been out for half the year; something about a werewolf forgetting to take her suppressants and going on a rampage. In any case, you're glad that you can finally stop bumping into Remmick on the stairs. Luckily, you haven't seen him since the awkward encounter last week. The music has still continued to be loud, but you haven't heard any moaning from him. That made you anxious; if you could hear him, then you wondered if he could hear you using your toy, it wasn't exactly quiet. In any case, it made you too self-aware to relieve yourself since you saw him, just in case.

You wait for the lift to come down, pleased to hear the familiar 'ding' when it reaches your floor. As it opens, you check your phone as you step inside, hitting the button for the ground level like it's second nature. As the doors close, you don't notice that Remmick is stood in here with you until you glance over, and your stomach lurches when your surprised eyes meet his.

As quick as you spot each other, you tear your eyes away, gluing them to your phone screen instead. Even as you pretend to look through apps you don't think you've ever opened before, you can feel Remmick's eyes on you. Your chest is too tight to breathe in fully as you wait for the doors to open again.

Except that isn't what happens.

The lift suddenly lurches and creaks as both you and Remmick get shunted. You gasp and drop your phone with the movement, then can only stare at the ground as the lift screeches to a halt. At some point in between, you hear a crunch under your foot just as the lights cut out.

Panic fills you during the moments it takes for the backup lights flicker to life. When it all seems still, you realise Remmick is talking to you.

"-ay? Hey. Are you alright?" Remmick clicks his fingers in front of your face; you might have taken offence if it hadn't worked to snap you out of it.

"Huh? Yeah… It just spooked me." You reach out to press the ground button again, but nothing lights up. "Shit." An awkward feeling washes over you upon learning that you're stuck in here with Remmick.

Your brows knit together as you mutter to yourself, clutching at the metal railing under the cracked mirror behind you. "Fuck. Not you."

Remmick lets out a small huff as he tries, and fails, to pry open the doors, not sounding thrilled either. "Yeah, me."

The silence between you is palpable as you reach down to pick up your phone. As you slowly turn it over, you wince, bracing for a shattered screen. Nothing could have prepared you for how the glass looks like someone took a hammer to it, and you can only assume you stepped on it as the lights cut out.

With a groan, your hands find your face, pressing into it as you try to think. You're hesitant when you finally inhale to acknowledge Remmick as you pocket the remains of your phone. "My phone's broke, does yours work?"

Remmick raises his brows, staring at you as if he didn't fully understand the question. "I don't have a phone."

His words are unbelievably casual that it makes a nervous laugh punch out of you. "As in… with you, right?"

"At all. Never needed one." His shrug would have you baffled if this weren't such a frightening concept, and the walls begin to feel closer in here.

You stare at him, mouth ajar at the idea that Remmick could possible be going around without a phone. "Right… It sure would suck if you were suddenly in a situation where you needed to call someone." You squint at him as if he's stupid, which, you can't figure out if that is this case or not.

Remmick's grin catches your attention as he flashes his brows. "Could do, or just-" Your breath hitches as he leans over you to press the yellow button with a faded icon of a bell on it, and after a short wait, there's a voice from the intercom. Remmick stays there, body too close to yours while he mentions that the lift has broken again. Before the muffled voice cuts out, they mention getting a repairman on the way. Not that you're really paying attention, you're more concerned at the close proximity of Remmick's body making you nervous.

Even after Remmick moves away, you cross your arms at the silence. The quicker speed of your heartbeat is all you can hear alongside the hum of the backup lights, and you hate that the anxiousness is taking over you so quickly.

Remmick leans against the other wall away from you, and you close your eyes to try and ignore him and the embarrassed tension you can feel creeping through you.

"Can ya settle down? Yer pulse is… distractin'…" His eyes avoid yours as he mutters it, not that it does anything for your nerves in the slightest. It isn't even two minutes of uneasy silence before he speaks up again.

"So…" His playful voice cuts through the silence like an out of place knife. "Get lucky yet~?"

Immediately, you can only feel offended that he would bring it up again, you don't care if it's him trying to make conversation. "That's none of your damn business." The irony of it isn't lost on you; you shouldn't have brought his own sex life up with him to begin with.

A quick laugh escapes him as you hear him cross his arms in response. "When y'er yellin' at me in the hall 'cause of it, it sorta is."

You can only ignore him and the uncomfortable feeling of your own doing.

There's a sigh that makes you crack open your eyes to glance over. "Ya goin' t'apologise for that display?"

You want the floor to open up and swallow you whole. "Why would I ever do that?"

Remmick gestures to you with his palm up, trying to reason with you. "Cause I was only tryin' to help ya out."

The walls must be getting closer in here, and your voice cracks a little with the unsure reply. "I didn't need it."

Remmick's eyes look you over, narrowed and searching. "Ya didn't want it, but ya needed it." The way he says that unnerves you a tad, worried that he's hiding a double meaning. Though it could just be the natural distrust towards his vampiric nature. Then his head tilts as though he's figured something out. "Ya that panicked about the space, darlin'?"

You think you say 'No' but nothing comes out, and you notice Remmick closer to you than before, inspecting you for something. "Just think of somethin' else, it's not that bad."

You go to open your mouth but instead of words, something that sounds more like faint hiccups leave you, and Remmick tuts somewhere next to you. "Poor thing, probably wound up tighter than a damn banjo string."

His face comes into your view and you try to look away, mortified that he's able to see you fight off a panic attack over something that feels so trivial. His eyes seem to scan yours, then his voice goes quieter with a teasing edge. "Haven't heard that toy in a while. Ya need someone to… pluck a few nice sounds outta ya?"

The mention of your toy has your face go warm. "I don't-" Gasp. "-know what you're-" Gasp. "-talking about." The panic from the enclosed space rapidly festers in you, and you can hear it in your breaths between the words. The closeness of Remmick doesn't remotely help, and your attention is forced onto him when he's inches from you.

"I bet ya make pretty noises, hm?" He already knows that you do. Any time the buzzing of a toy could be heard through the floor, his hand was already wrapped around his hard cock as he listens out for your wanton moans, forearm pressed over his dripping fangs. "Ya need somethin' to take yer mind off of this?"

"Damn-" Gasp. "-blood sucker." You'd hoped your apparent need to lash out would make him lose interest, or at the very least, sound remotely threatening. He only gives a soft laugh at the insult.

His quiet retort is a gentle purr, but so swift that you're lost for words. "Stupid human." Even though you worry for your blood, when he slides closer, you're keening for his touch. It's been so long since you've felt anyone else. "So easy to distract." The soft chuckle against your ear makes a tiny whine leave you, and you can feel the smugness radiating off of him.

With a whisper like velvet sweeping over your ears, you only hear him utter one word. "Pleasure."

The word rings out through your senses, through your body like a wave. It's quickly getting warm in the lift, stiflingly so, until your panicked hiccups are slowed right down to the odd gasp, then drawn-out sound. You clamp your hand over your mouth as your entire body is flooded with something molten, and you try hard not to whine into your palm. The noise leaves you regardless as your thighs press together, unwelcome heat quickly building there and you feel mortified at the way your clit is starting to throb with need you didn't have moments ago. Your mind gets foggy, confused about what's going on and unable to hide it.

The back of his fingers brush over your side and you flinch as he brings his lips to the side of your neck. You brace for pain, but Remmick's fangs only lightly graze your skin, followed by his tongue in a way that makes you squirm for more against your will. Remmick's grin curls around his breath as you squirm, and his hands run up your sides at a leisurely pace. "That feel good, sugar?"

His touch is scorching and you aren't sure why you need more of it. You can only nod as you peer up at him, half-lidded as your thighs tremble with his touch. It isn't clear to you how vampires work, only the basics and that occasionally, some develop abilities. This has to be one. Every other thought dissipates from your body, and you take Remmick's hand to lead to your ass. There's a sound from him stuck somewhere between a soft laugh and a semblance of a moan as he kneads the plush of it through your clothes. The realisation of that noise hits you, even through the dizziness you've heard that moan before.

It's without a doubt his moans that you've been hearing from his apartment.

His brows knit as he slowly inhales against your skin through his nose. "Fuuuck, I can smell how wet'cha are already." The feeling has your head spinning, and you're surprised that you don't want him to stop. Instead, you pull him into a desperate, open kiss that he happily reciprocates; a needy clack of fangs on teeth and occasional nibble of your lower lip.

His fingers skirt along to the buttons of your jeans, tugging them open and forcing the zipper down as his hand snakes under the denim. As Remmick's fingers thread underneath your underwear, both your breaths hitch at the slick that's already dripping through the material.

"I-I'm- Please-" You squeak out to him, needing anything more than just fingers exploring you as the impossible heat consumes your body. He turns you so that you're facing the back wall, face-to-face with your own reflection in the broken mirror. Remmick's wanton expression makes your breath catch in your throat, and his free hand comes up to grip your chin and force you to watch his hand slip back inside.

"Can ya hear that? How soaked ya got before I'd even touched ya." The smug buzz of his voice sits heavy in your stomach, and you can't stop fidgeting underneath his touch. The warmth, the closeness, it's all overwhelming for you. When your cunt aches for more, you press your hips back against his.

Remmick's eyes catch yours in the mirror; it's the first time you've watched them turn red. "Feel what y'er doin' t'me?" His voice is thick with a lust to add weight behind the way his cock stiffens behind you. "Writhin' around like a slut. Tell me what you need." Remmick doesn't care if it's fake, he needs a distraction too right now. Every now and then he would use the ability to flood himself with pleasure, but using it on someone else never gets old.

"I-I…" The burning inside you is almost unbearable, and you can't stop yourself from rocking your clit against the small circles Remmick's fingers are making. "-Your cock. Need it inside, please." You aren't sure how much longer you can hold out for, the rush through you is already pulsing through your veins and making you clench around nothing like you're about to come.

Remmick smirks at your pulse and the thin sheen of sweat forming on your skin. "Yeah? How many times d'ya want me to make you come then, eh?"

You whine at the question, face flushed with the foreign heat and need pooling in your stomach.

He doesn't let you get away without answering him. "Give me a number."

The fog in your mind prohibits any sense from you. "Three." It's the first number you can think of, you don't actually expect anything of it. Remmick's smirk tells you that assumption was wrong without even needing to say it out loud.

"Look at ya, usin' yer words like a clever girl." His teeth catch the ridge of your ear, the sensation of his breath against you is cold enough to make you shiver. With a slow drag of Remmick's hand, he eases two fingers to your entrance. The feeling makes you choke on nothing, and there's a dark, amused hum in your ear when he shoves them inside. Immediately, your breaths are cut shorter at the thickness of the digits, sliding all the way up to the knuckle as you moan freely for him.

"So feckin' tight. Definitely been a while for ya…" The pang of shame you feel is melted away in the next breath. "…We'll fix that soon, dove. Gonna stretch ya out on this cock." Your eyelids flutter when you feel the thick outline of his erection thrust once against you. You swear you're about to drool over the anticipation for him.

Your hands grip the railing as Remmick thrusts his fingers into you, curling the pads into your walls like he's reaching for something. Any awkward feeling dissolves away completely, replaced with the white-hot need as he reaches the spongy part of you that has your jaw go slack with thin whines.

When he deems you prepped enough, you want to sob at the loss as his coated fingers make short work of finding your clit again. "Shh… just take yer pleasure." Remmick mouths at your neck as his fingers make tight little circles over the bundle of nerves. If it weren't so good, you would question how he plays with you like he already knows the exact way you like it.

No guesswork, just less than a few minutes and your breaths are already fraying at the edges for his name. "Rem- Oh god- Remmick I'm coming!" He's watching with half lidded eyes as your entire consciousness shrinks down to his fingers on you, and the heat thrumming inside you throbs deliciously until you're seeing white around your vision. His fingers slow down until he plunges them back inside your cunt, and he whines under his breath with the way your walls clench around him.

The pulse of heat doesn't leave you; if anything, you only need more in a way you haven't felt before. "Suckin' me back in, ya greedy little thing." You hear the sound of his zipper behind you moments before he tugs your jeans down to your knees. "Let's give her somethin' to squeeze onto." Remmick's fingers slowly draw out from you, only to take your jaw in his hand and turn your head towards him.

He drags his tongue over your bottom lip, and the gasp you let out is enough for him to use as leverage to push inside. There's a few teases to your palette, then the tip is making languid swirls over your tongue that pull breathless moans from you. The jerk of his freed cock against you makes you think they're the noises Remmick was looking for.

When he breaks the kiss to bend you forward, you don't have time to think before the thick head of him is brushing over your soaked underwear. He doesn't bother removing them, he only hooks a finger under the flimsy material to yank it to the side. Your fingers tighten on the railing to steady yourself as he lines himself up with your entrance, and the first press of him alone is enough to have your groan break as it leaves your throat.

Remmick leans over you, grabbing your chin to force you to make eye contact with him as he pushes up into you. "Watch me stuff ya full, darlin'…" Your eyes go wide, and his go slack at the way your walls indeed stretch open for him as he stuffs his cock deeper into you. He doesn't stop until he's completely bottomed out inside, deep enough that you both gasp at the effort.

Your thighs tremble as your slick leaks out around him; there's so much of him that it feels like you can't breathe properly. Both of you pant hard as Remmick pulls out almost all of the way, before he's bullying his way back into your walls and setting a harsh pace. Every thrust of him has you unable to hide your sounds, and with a quick tug at the front of your shirt, you watch as Remmick's fingers grab at the top buttons. They're ripped apart, your shirt falling open for him to tug at your exposed bra until your breasts slide out from underneath.

"There we go. Feckin' look at'cha." Remmick grunts out as one of his hand palms at one of your breasts, nipples already stiff before he's rolling them between his slick-coated fingers. His other hand settles on your hips, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise and pulling you back onto his cock with every sharp thrust of his hips that shoves you forwards.

The closeness of it is stifling, raw, and everything you've needed for far too long.

You lose track of time completely, lost to the sound of panting layered over each other and the echoed slap of Remmick's balls against your skin every time he's in deep. He leans forward to lick a stripe up the sheen of sweat coating your skin; it's too hot to think of anything, you couldn't if you tried. You're left with no option other than to just feel the way he fits you perfectly, taking each harsh thrust like you've been doing it forever.

The head of his cock keeps hitting the needy parts inside better than his fingers could, and your moans are forced out of you the same time his thrusts force a second climax out of you with a wail of his name.

"That's it, dove." Remmick's grunts ring in your ear when you cry out for him. "Let the whole feckin' building know-" The thought of being heard doesn't even cross your mind until Remmick brings it up, and your face burns of the distant thought. His hand shoots from playing with your breast to steady himself on the mirror, and the press of his chest on the curve of your spine feels right. "One more. Ya wanted one more? Take it from me."

Not a single thought crosses your mind, only a want for Remmick as he twitches inside you with each shove. The throaty moans of his mix with yours as they bounce off of the the metal walls; no part of you could escape any of this if you wanted to.

The need for him to fill you completely takes over, until you're incapable of even remembering where you are in this moment. Remmick's assault on your cunt doesn't ease up, and the pressure building inside you for a third time is better than any toy you've felt. When that tightly-wound coil inside you fractures again, your walls rhythmically snap around his cock hard. Without warning, there's a wet feeling you haven't experienced before as you squirt over him.

"Oh shit-" Remmick's breathless moans are torn at the edges, desperate for you as he clings to your hip. You feel a shiver run through him as his thrusts become sloppy, then with one final plunge of his hips, Remmick is emptying himself completely into you. His panting is ragged as his arms grip you anywhere they can, completely unravelled behind you as he continues to give little thrusts that get shallower with ever push.

It becomes all too much for you; overstimulating as you cry out, actual tears fall with the high of it. Your eyes clasp shut as you ride out the waves of your climax, reduced to nothing but a whimpering mess underneath Remmick.

You expect the warm afterglow of sex, but instead, you notice the burning inside you finally slipping away. It drains out of you, not too dissimilar to how it began. Until it's completely gone, not with a sated feeling, just gone.

When you open your eyes, Remmick isn't inside you. He's not even touching you.

Confused at what's going on, you slowly peer over to the side as you try to catch your breath as you recall where you are. Remmick is sat with his back up against the lift wall, watching you with parted lips.

You stammer a little, unsure what it is exactly that's happening until you rack your brain for an answer. If you peer down, your clothes aren't any different to when you first walked in here. Your reflection shows that your hair is practically untouched, and stranger, you can't see Remmick's reflection at all anymore. Bizarrely, you sense the definitive wetness soaking your underwear and an unfamiliar feeling rolling down your thighs. "Wh-What's… Did-"

When Remmick swallows thickly, you get the impression he's been practising what to say. "…Sorry, but I couldn't spend an entire hour listenin' to ya freak out. Ya needed a distraction." Remmick's words air on blasé, even if his eyes have drifted away from you to the door. His head cocks like he hears something outside, and you think you spy him trying to hide the tent in the front of his jeans when he stands up. "Pretty sure the repair guy just got here."

You're completely lost for words. Fake. It was all fake, and you had fallen for it without a second thought.

After a short exchange with the person on the other side and a quick turnaround, the lift budges just enough for you both to leave. You don't hear anything about how long it's going to be out of order again, the ringing in your ears is far too loud for you to pay attention.

With a quick nod goodbye, Remmick leaves through the front door of the lobby to head off to whatever his plans were for the evening.

He's completely floored you, and it takes far longer to compose yourself than you would care to admit. Eventually, you head outside for the entire reason you left your apartment in the first place. You had only left to post a letter.

When you get to the nearest postbox, you scoop out the small notebook in your bag that's kept the envelope in pristine condition. After dropping the letter into the metal box, you notice something when you go to put the notebook back into your bag. It's writing on one of the pages that isn't your own handwriting.

'If you ever feel like trying the real thing, I'm pretty sure you know which apartment is mine. Bring your favourite toy.

~Remmick'

Born in a time when legacy was the spine of aristocracy and names were currency in parlours far removed from mud and soot. You came into the world in an estate nursemaid’s room, not in any shameful hidden affair but during the naive bloom of affection between Constance Reid and Clifford Chatterley.

Young love and already rusting before your first cry rang through Wragby Hall. They weren’t yet married and in the eyes of English law and high society, you were born a bastard.

That word stuck like a thorn, dulled by time but never pulled.

Clifford never gave that much importance to your existence. After all, why would a noble waste time and energy for someone who won’t inherit anything from him?

Connie instead, even from your earliest memory, always balanced the lack of attention from your father, kissing your hair each night as though you were proof that love once burned in her. Even if Clifford distanced himself, Connie never let you feel the ache of absence.

She taught you French lullabies and Shakespeare, wrapped your frozen fingers in her shawl when the halls of Wragby grew bitter in winter. Your childhood was a dream stitched together with moments she wove just for you, secret little joys in the a house that never gave to you much importance.

Before the war, Clifford watched you like one might watch a questionable servant, useful in some capacity but not to be indulged. He never raised a hand but his disappointment hung in every clipped instruction, tolerating your presence only when it suited him.

Then came the war and he returned paralyzed from the waist down, his pride gutted. The war had taken much between his legs, brother and father, giving back only a title, a sprawling estate and an infernal desperation for an heir that could be paraded through county luncheons and between pages of many books he owned.

He could not stomach the idea that the only thing he’d sired was a child conceived before wedlock, a son legally and socially unfit to inherit.

It gnawed and drove him to the edge of civility.

He despised needing anyone and yet, he needed you. To fetch things, be the legs he no longer had control over. Every day you became less his son and more an attendant.

Correct your speech even when it was fine, sneer when you dared express opinion about books, politics or the village nearby.

Even by the time you became a man, you were treated not as kin but as a half-shaped servant with an education that cost him more than it was worth from the lack of Chatterley’s stoicism, as he liked to say.

That’s where you first saw Mellors.

You’d heard of the gamekeeper, veteran like Clifford, but nothing like him.

The cold wood against your belly was the least of your concerns now, though the bite of it contrasted deliciously with the heat radiating off Oliver Mellors’ body behind.

Polished grain of your father’s desk groaning faintly beneath your weight with each brutal thrust, even that furniture of your father knew the indignity taking place upon it of the bastard son bent over the symbol of his impotent pride, being pounded into by the rugged gamekeeper he barely acknowledged beyond clipped orders and superior indifference.

A deep moan slipped from your throat, face pressed down into ledger paper and ink stains, breath fogging the gloss of old oak. Oliver had you pinned there and not just by the hand fisted in your hair, thick fingers tangled at the base of your skull, holding your face down as if to remind you where you belonged.

That other hand gripped your hips, knuckles pale with how hard he anchored you in place, muscles in his forearm tightening with each surge of his hips.

Such a brutal strength from the ex soldier, not just the width of his cock filling your clenching hole.

“Aye, tha’s it, lad,” he grunted, voice rough, “fuckin’ hell, yer tight—‘s like ye were made fer me.”

Your legs trembled as his cock drove deeper, thick and unrelenting, head kissing deep inside, tip nudging that aching place that made your back arch and mouth fall open in a broken whimper.

“Uhn—nnnnghh—! F–fuck, Oliver—” The slap of flesh echoed, lewd and rhythmic every time he withdrew, body clenching down as if desperate to keep the girth of him, walls fluttering around the vein-ridged shaft that split you open so perfectly.

All the times he buried back in, your cock dragged along the cold surface of the desk, a friction so agonizing and sweet you felt yourself already teetering close to the edge. Precum smeared the wood in sticky trails, body betraying how much you loved being used like this.

“Look at ye so desperate fer me cock—” He bit at your shoulder, lips dragging against sweat-slick skin, beard rough and maddening. You could feel his balls slap against your ass with every thrust, heavy and hot, pace feral now like the control he’d tried to maintain when he stepped into the estate had completely unraveled.

Good. You needed that.

Bent and moaning for a working man, a bastard by blood and now by choice too, nothing noble in the way your body trembled or the way you keened with every thrust into your aching guts.

You’d pay to see Clifford’s face, truly. That tight-lipped disappointment that used to stare at you across family dinners, correcting posture, grammar or even the books you read.

What would he do if he saw his son bent like a whore over the very desk where he’d work, fucked by the working-class man he’d hired for his fields and pheasants?

Your moan broke on a hitch, high and near-pathetic because Oliver’s cock just slammed in deeper, nudging some devastating bundle of nerves that made stars burst behind your eyes.

“God—f-fuck me—harder, Oliver—don’t stop—don’t—!” His hips snapped harder, ass catching each punishing slap of him while his breath ghosted over your neck in short and ragged grunts from his throat growing hungrier while splitting you on is cock like the pretty lil’ brat ye are.

Pressing your forehead down harder into the grain while emitting a low groan, hands scrambling at the wood for purchase as your thighs quivered, hole spasming around the older man’s length with every damn thrust.

It hadn’t even started like this.

You’d had to work to get him here considering he hadn’t been keen at all.

The mere mention of this idea you had—had made him snort with amusement and shake his head.

“In the bloody house? Yer da’s house? What’re ye thinkin’, lad?” he’d said, arms folded, standing in the doorframe of his hut.

Clifford, your father, always participated at whatever events he was invited to more than likely let others see that he was so strong and proud despite his current state.

He was so proud of himself, yet he never made you come along in any circumstances or even invite you.

Connie had little to no say to what he decided despite her proposing of you to come along as well but he declined the offer.

In seconds he had you in his arms, back against his chest anf lips dragging lazy kisses down your neck, barely clothed, already hard.

“Ju’ let me fuck ye here,” he’d muttered, hand sliding up the shirt, rough fingers against your stomach. “I’ll make ye forget yer bloody surname by morning.”

He’d whispered it into the crook of your neck as he rubbed slow circles into your hips and pressed his tent against your backside.

You managed to win only by making use of the best puppy eyes you could master, the purest form possible despite the achievement that you wanted to reach so undeniably…. dirty, to not say vulgar terms.

Promising him that he could do anything he wanted to you.

That had gotten him.

Seen it in the way his jaw had ticked and felt how his cock throbbed against your back.

“…and I’ve a few Byron books you haven’t got. The real editions.”

You knew he’d come, he always gave in eventually.

So when the night came and Wragby Hall was empty of your parents, Mellors moved through the corridors like a soldier stepping in the enemy’s territory. He didn’t like it, that much was clear, grimacing at every creak of the old wooden floor, muttering curses under his breath.

“Scared of the dark?” you had teased him with a grin, loud enough to echo, arms spread as you ran through the empty hall.

“Shut yer bloody mouth, brat,” he hissed, but you caught the flicker of a smile.

Color seeped from his face at your loud words but he seemed to calm down a bit when no one, in fact, came to check on the bratty behavior of the young nobleman in front of him.

It took so little as well for him to go from tense to the same man pounding into your bent form on your father’s desk, the weight of him behind had stopped feeling real ages ago.

Somewhere between the third or fourth time Oliver’d slammed that thick cock in so deep it split your soul from your body, you stopped trying to keep any dignity and just moaned, broken and pinned down, cheek against the paper.

The edge of the oak dug into your pelvis, but all that mattered was the sound of skin against skin and the blistering heat of your stretched hole clenching.

“Aye, fuck… this s’wha’ ye wanted, isn’t it?” Mellors growled, breath hot and sour-sweet against your nape, beard scraping as he leaned in, hips pistoning harder and faster, thick hand braced over your hip. “Takin’ cock like a proper slag, ahhh fuck, ye feel s’fuckin’ good—”

Words searing into your skull as every inch of him was detected by your nerves deep inside you as he bottomed out again with a bruising thrust that sent the edge of the table scraping forward a few inches on the floor.

“Ahhh—fuck—! O-Oliver—‘s s’big—can’t—nghh—!” Another punishing snap of his hips that forced a strangled cry from your throat.

He bent over your back more now, the warmth of his chest through that simple shirt, soaked cotton from sweat sticking to your skin. Hands gripping you harder, palm digging so deep into your side that bruises would be inevitable. One hand slid forward now, thumb wet with spit as he reached under and dragged it rough over your cock, smearing your own leaking mess up the shaft.

Now the only thing you were capable of producing were babble nonsense and sobbed whines, every jolt of his hips sending your whole body lurching forward, pinned, helpless, and so desperately willing.

“Didn’t know I’d find meself such a good cocksleeve when signin’ up fer the job,” he chuckled darkly, low and guttural, voice a gravelled purr as he rocked forward again, hilting balls-deep and staying there a moment just to feel your body clench and spasm helpless around him.

He drew back again and drove in with a wet slap that made your eyes roll back. “C’mon, love,” he rasped, breath fanning your ear as he leaned lower. “Give it up fer me an’ lemme see ye cum fro’ this cock alone.”

With a loud, broken sob, you shattered, cock twitching and painting the polished wood below you in thick white ropes, body wrecking in spasms as every nerve screaming as your hole clamped down in a vise grip around the thickness still fucking into you. The friction of your own body pinned against the table had been too much and Oliver’s cock pushing deep against your prostate had been the killing blow.

He lost it then, the rhythm of his thrusts stuttered, hips jerking erratically as he buried himself one last time to the root, balls flush against you and soon after a pulse erupted inside your stretched wall, thick spurts of cum shooting deep, painting your insides of a pure white with each twitch.

“Mmmmn—fuckin’ ‘ell—take it all, lad…” voice a husky murmur now, barely audible through the haze of your post-orgasm panting, but still that same gruff affection curling around every slurred syllable.

He nosed against your cheek, nuzzling slow and spent.

“This weren’t such a bad idea after all,” he muttered, pressing a soft kiss to your jaw, the intimacy jarring after what he’d just done to your body.

You made a weak noise of half a laugh, half a broken moan and shifted under him, still impaled anf full of him.

“Mmh. Fuck, Ollie…” He chuckled low in your ear and with one last lazy grind of his hips, groaned again at the squelch of his cum leaking out around the base of his cock, a mess of it trickling down your thighs.

“Better get cleaned up quick, love,” he murmured, that teasing smirk audible in his voice. “Ye made one hell of a fuckin’ mess… an’ I’d hate fer yer da to find out what a good little slut ye turned out to be.”

Then he pulled out slow, cock sliding free with a wet drag that left you gasping, hole fluttering and ruined, twitching open in the cool air. He stepped back to admire the sight of your ass slick and trembling legs,.

“Fuckin’ gorgeous, ye are.”

Then a slap on your ass, hard enough to sting.

Near enough scrambling, breath still shiverin’ in your chest as ye yanked your trousers up, fingers fumblin’ wi’ the buttons still slick from where they’d been holdin’ the desk while Oliver fucked ye into it like.

Quick, frantic swipes of a kerchief cleaned up the white-spilled pride smeared across the oak, warm and lewd and damn incriminatin’.

Oliver stood a pace off now, thick fingers slidin’ his cock back into his trousers, shirt half-undone, flushed neck glistenin’ wi’ sweat and a lazy smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth as he glanced ‘round the study.

One of his suspenders hung low off that broad shoulder, slippin’ down from the rough poundin’ he’d delivered. He gave a low grunt as he adjusted it back into place, not botherin’ to hide how his eyes still lingered on your frame, trousers barely fastened.

“Yer da keeps a hell of a library for a man wi’ a stick up ‘is arse.” He muttered under his breath, hand sweepin’ back through his sweat-damp hair.

And you snorted, still buzzin’ from the high of it, barely able t’ breathe deep without feelin’ how much your hole ached. Grabbin’ his hand in yer own to tug at him through the halls, stiflin’ laughter as he muttered about how your “horny arse was gonna be the end o’ ‘is damn job,” teeth flashin’ in that crooked grin, voice husky and playful all at once.

“Promises, promises,” ye hummed, draggin’ him along by the wrist, feelin’ the calluses of his palm rub warm against yours.

In your room, Oliver let himself down onto the foot o’ the bed, legs spread wide as the springs groaned while he leaned back slightly. His eyes tracked ye lazily as you searched the shelves, bent forward just a little more than needed, reachin’ high like ye were stretchin’ fer the stars and he chuckle rolled low.

“Yer such a fuckin’ tease,” he muttered, shakin’ his head, one arm slung over his thigh.

“‘m lookin’ fer them Byron editions I promised,” ye said, glancin’ over yer shoulder with a smirk, lip caught in yer teeth as ye bent again, slower this time.

“Strip, lad.” Gravel-wrapped and thick, heat in every syllable.

Ye froze, lip still caught between teeth, eyes half-lidded as ye turned t’ glance at ‘im. He was watchin’ ye dead on, hunger coiled in his gaze.

“Strip fer me. Slow.”

There was no softness in it or room for misinterpretation.

You arched a brow but heat flushed through your belly, low and curling. “Didn’t think ye’d be up fer more so quick,” you teased, cockin’ your hip, arms crossed as you leaned slightly back against the shelves. “Ain’t ye pushin’ thirty-five, old man?”

He laughed, sharp and’ barkin’, head shakin’ with a smirk. “Cheeky little shit. Keep talkin’ like tha’ an’ ye’ll see what happens.” He leaned forward then, elbows restin’ on his knees, palms spread between his thighs, starin’ up at you with that look that had your cock twitchin’ again.

“Ye said I could do anythin’ I wanted t’ ye,” he murmured. “An’ right now, I want ye bare an’ on yer fuckin’ knees.”

Breath catchin’, slowin’ your movements as the shirt came first, fingers workin’ each button open one by one till the cloth peeled off your shoulders and’ slipped down your back, revealin’ the marks he’d already left between the bitten bruises and flushed skin.

Next, the trousers as you took your time with ‘em, thumbs slidin’ slow down to the sides as you pushed the waistband over your hips, dick already hardenin’ back up as you dragged it down. Your breath hitched just a little when it brushed your sensitive head still aching from bein’ rubbed against hard wood not half an hour ago.

Oliver’s eyes were dark now, hand sliddin’ over his thigh like he was holdin’ himself back.

“Come here.” He breathed low and you stepped forward, trousers dropped to your ankles, cock bobbin’ with each slow stride until you dropped on your knees and positioned your head right between the thick muscles of his thighs irradiating warmth.

His big hand came down, cradlin’ your jaw like it were precious, thumb swept over yer lower lip, pressin’ kindly.

“Do yer thin’, pet,” he said, low and soft.

Your hands worked his trousers open quick since you knew he didn’t like to be teased too long when he was already hardenin’. The bulge pressed eager against his boxers, large and already stretchin’ the fabric, a very high pressure that you felt while mouthing at it first, draggin’ your lips along the curve as his hips gave just a twitch forward, thighs tensing under your palms.

“Ffffuckin’ hell, you cockdrunk little brat,” he hissed, voice sweet with heat and affection both. “Get t’ work already. Or ye want me t’ fuck yer throat the way I just did yer arse?”

And with that, ye dragged his boxers down, cock slapping out against your cheek, fuckin’ heavy thing, flushed and fat, still glistenin’ a bit with the slick left from earlier.

Both lips parted around the head, tongue lappin’ up that fresh bit o’ precum like it was a cream and Oliver hissed while you sucked in just the head first, tongue flickin’ underneath the crown where ye knew he liked it, then let spit run down the shaft as ye worked lower, hand wrappin’ round the base to stroke what couldn’t fit yet.

Drooling on it, lettin’ spit coat his cock, makin’ obscene slurpin’ sounds as you bobbed your head, each slow descent pushin’ further down till the blunt head kissed the back o’ your throat. His hand found your hair, not guidin’, just restin’, heavy and hot as he groaned low.

Oliver grunted, breath stutterin’. “Thaaat’s it… throat’s fuckin’ tight, christ.” And he started movin’, hips rollin’ in shallow thrusts first, then deep, lettin’ his cock slide wet through your lips again an’ again, balls pressin’ soft to yer chin.

“G’luck speakin’ tomorrow, love,” he muttered, sweat shinin’ on his forehead as he used you slow, then fast, deep fuckin’ thrusts into your mouth that made you drool and choke.

“On the bed. Now.”

A command that you obeyed immediately, knees creaking as you rose, still dizzy from havin’ your throat stretched full, lips tinglin’ and chin glazed in spit, bits o’ his precum smeared along your cheek where he’d slapped it earlier.

You climbed up the mattress, crawlin’ backwards with your knees splayed open wide, legs fallin’ to either side as you laid back, lettin’ your shoulders sink into the mattress and then tilted your hips, showin’ him cum still trailin’ down the curve of your arse.

Oliver made a low, feral thing, hands movinh to his belt again, undoing it with none o’ the urgency from earlier as he took his time this go.

“Spread ‘em more,” he said, noddin’ toward yer legs, voice thick. “Wider.”

Letting your knees fall open shameless, cock bouncin’ soft against your belly with the movement, hole still twitchin’ around nothin’ and achin’ from how he’d used it earlier.

He climbed onto the bed wi’ little grace, weight dipping the mattress while those thick, furred thighs parted your legs further as he knelt between ‘em. The hair on his calves brushed soft up the backs o’ your thighs and it tickled.

He leaned in slow, his big hands grippin’ under your knees and you felt him lower himself right over you, chest to chest. His forehead rested just briefly against yours before he tilted and pressed his face into your neck.

Then the blunt head of his girth kissed at your entrance again and the stretch was easier this time but no less intense.

“Aaahhh fuckin’ ‘ell,” he moaned against yer throat, hips pressin’ forward steady, slow. “Still warm.”

And ye whimpered beneath him, clingin’ to his arms, legs quiverin’ as he sank deeper, inch by inch. You could feel every goddamn ridge and pulse of his cock as it slid past your rim, crown nudgin’ up into that sweet bundle o’ nerves that made your back arch and your fingers scrabble at his biceps.

“Uhhhn—ahh—O-Oliver—!”

He grunted when he bottomed out, hips flush to your arse, heavy balls restin’ warm against the fluffy flesh of your arse as he ground his hips down and you could feel his heartbeat thumpin’ erratic where his sternum pressed to yours.

“Shhh,” he whispered, lips grazin’ yer ear. “Ain’t done wi’ you yet, lad.”

He pulled out slow until just the tip held the seal and then slammed back in with a groan as your legs jerked with the force, knees pulled high now beside your ribs as he set his pace.

The sound of skin smackin’ skin filled the room, lube o’ his first load inside you makin’ every thrust slick and deep. His pubes scratched rough where they dragged over the ones in your groin, thighs rubbin’ up against your ass every time he bottomed out.

“Ahhh—fuck, tha’s it—so good f’me—“ His voice was wrecked, half moan and whimpers.

You looked up at him, eyes half-lidded, mouth slack as his cock drilled deeper, hittin’ the same spot over and over till stars burst behind your eyes. You wrapped your arms ‘round his back, feelin’ the slick heat of his sweat and the twitch of muscles beneath skin as he moved, as he pounded into your body deep.

He reached down, hand slidin’ between your bodies, grabbin’ your softening cock now sticky with sweat, and started jerkin’ you in time to his thrusts, balls clappin’ lewdly against your skin, cock drillin’ up into your guts until you were babblin’, tears pricking your eyes.

Slamming in deep, hard, stayin’ pressed to the hilt as he spilled inside you again, cock twitchin’ with each thick spurt, flooding you full of him while his mouth pressed open and pantin’ against your neck, low moans rumblin’ like thunder from his chest.

“Fuckin’—unhhhn—jesus fuck—yer mine, lad” He stayed inside ye, tremblin’, arms wrapped tight ‘round your back as if he needed the anchor. You could feel the aftershock rollin’ through him, every twitch of his cock makin’ your spent hole flutter.

Now there was just the sound of him breathin’ in that slow, post-fuck haze like he was savorin’ somethin’ he’d not thought he’d get to have again. He’d eased most of his weight off you, careful-like, propped up on one forearm, fingers draggin’ idle over the curve of your waist, then up to rest along yer ribs.

“Anythin’ goin’ on at home?” He didn’t say it like someone diggin’ for gossip, more like someone who already suspected the answer.

You snorted, pressing a bit closer into his chest and lettin’ your cheek nestle right over one firm pec where the hair was still damp.

“If I hear that squeak again from his wheelchair,” you muttered, brows raisin’, “I’m puttin’ a damn hole through both tires.”

That got him as he chuckled low in his throat, body shakin’ just enough t’ make the muscles in his chest shift under your cheek.

“Fuckin’ ‘ell,” he grinned, kissin’ the top of yer head without thinkin’. “Best not say that too loud or yer old man’d have me shot… and that’s before he finds out ye’re sat here full o’ me.” His hand slid slow down yer spine, palm hot where it pressed between yer shoulder blades.

You laughed, shakin’ against him as you tightened your arms ‘round his middle, breath catchin’ on the tail end of the sound as the warmth inside ye pressed in heavy.

A minute passed, maybe more. His lips skimmed yer hair again.

“Could head back t’ me hut.”

You blinked, lifted your head a touch enough t’ look up at ‘im, mouth curlin’ in that same crooked smirk o’ his. “Or the cottage, if ye prefer the table there.”