simphours

[simphours]

Hi, me and my misdirected resentment saw you from across the bar-

[simphours]

fahdurhood

[simphours]

sylus | 4:24 AM

“Sylus?”

You sweep your arm across his side of the bed and discover it to be empty. You squint into the darkness, your eyes scanning the room – he isn’t here. You sit up in bed, rubbing the sleep out of your eyes. You hear classical music faintly playing from somewhere down the hall. 

You gather the fur throw from the bed, wrap it around yourself and head out of the room. You pad down the hallway, your bare feet making little slapping noises on the marble as you do so. You follow the sound of the music and find yourself in one of the house’s drawing rooms. You stop at the edge of the doorway, peeking past the frame. You see Sylus, wearing his bathrobe, standing next to his vintage turntable, his fingers rifling through his collection of records. You watch as he pulls one out, then returns it, going through a few records before walking away, possibly deciding to leave the one he’s currently playing.

He comes around to the leather sofa, and takes a seat, his hand reaching for his gun on the coffee table in front of him. He starts pulling it apart, his hands deftly moving to disassemble it. He takes a small cloth from the table and begins to polish one of the smaller parts of the gun.

“Well, are you just going to hover at the doorway? Or are you going to come join me?”

His voice startles you, deep and still a little croaky – he doesn’t look up at you, his attention still on the work in his hands. You step out from the shadows into the dim light of the drawing room. Sylus glances at you sideways, and then motions at you to join him on the sofa by tilting his head. You comply, wordlessly walking towards the sofa and sitting down next to him, the throw you took from the bed still hanging around your shoulders.

“You should be asleep,” he tells you, continuing in his polishing. 

“So should you,” you counter, leaning against him. You’re not too familiar with the weapon he’s handling, but it looks to be an old-fashioned pistol. He sure does like collecting antiques. You watch him silently, entranced by the way his long, calloused fingers delicately handle the weapon. 

“So why aren’t you in bed?” you yawn, nuzzling into his shoulder. “Bad dream?”

He pauses in his work, pursing his lips before answering. “The inside of my head has been a little… noisy tonight,” he says, eyes still focused on the weapon. “But it’s fine,” he adds quickly. “I just need to… meditate a little.” He waves the gun in his hand. “This is my meditation.”

“I have another idea – this might help,” you pipe up, and he looks at you sideways again.

“Sweetie, we’ve already done that tonight. Four times for you if I recall–”

“Okay, Sylus,” you interject with a roll of your eyes. “I wasn’t talking about that.”

You take away the pieces of the gun in his hand, and lay them back on the table. He lets you take them, the corner of his lips tugging up into a subtle smirk.

You lay down on the sofa, pulling away the throw from your body. You motion at Sylus to lie down in the small space next to you, which he raises an eyebrow at. 

“Come on,” you croon, trying to make more space for him. “Don’t be shy.”

He sighs, then does as you suggest, lying down in between you and the backrest of the sofa. He squeezes in, half of his weight on top of you, his arm draping over your chest in a light embrace.

“I’m not heavy?” he asks in a murmur.

You shake your head, your arm wrapping around his broad shoulders as much as possible, pulling him into you. Your other hand takes the throw and you cover both you and Sylus with it. He nestles into you, his face nudging into the crook of your neck. 

“What now?” he whispers into your skin. His fingers go for a button on your pajamas, and he toys absentmindedly with it as you settle against him.

“Just listen,” you tell him, placing a hand in his hair. “Maybe this will help drown out the noise in your head.”

Your hand starts stroking his hair, your fingers ruffling through his silver locks. He lets out a long sigh, and you feel his body relax into yours. You start humming, a familiar melody you’ve heard from one of his records – one he puts on when he’s had a particularly rough day.

“I know this one,” he mumbles, his eyelids starting to flutter.

You continue humming, your fingers running through his hair, giving it a soft tug every so often. You listen to his breathing start to slow, his body becoming heavier. Soon, you start to hear him snore, and you finish the song with a last few quiet hums. You place a kiss onto the top of his head, into his hair, willing the voices in his head to be silent for the rest of the night.

[simphours]

I made a post joking that Remmick caused the sinking of The Titanic, and my followers decided we should blame him for other historical events.

This also doubles as a Where's Waldo game, cause you will have to look closely to find rem!

(browse on desktop for best experience)

[simphours]

open the door, kitten.

[simphours]

I'll Taste You First Then Devour You Whole Later

Remmick X Reader

Summary: You Come home late at night from a party, Unaware that a stranger is following you. Too bad he wont get a warning to what's about to happen. A creature that stalks your home and calls you "Mine" doesn't like it when people try and take what belongs to him.

A/N: It took me 4-5 Days to write this with pure determination and horniness. Thank you to my Remmick’s Freak writers room that showed me that life is truly worth living if Remmick gets to take you in the forest, added with drool and spit swapping. If you notice anything missing in the tags pls don’t be afraid to let me know! If you see grammar mistakes, no you didn't :)

Warning : MDNI, No use of name or Y/n, Reader isnt described, Blood, Slight Blood Play, slight Predator/Prey, Female Reader, Murder, slight sexual harassment (mentioned), Spit eating (with Blood), Possessive!Remmick, choking (slight), Humping if you squint, Remmick Drools as usual, Cursing, Drool Eating, Stalking (mentioned), Remmick is greedy asf (who could blame him?),

Word Count: 2.6k

⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆₊ °✦ ‧ ‧ ₊ ˚✧⁺˚⋆｡ °✩₊˖⁺‧₊˚♡˚₊‧⁺˖

 He just killed someone. 

A man who was too busy trying to take what wasn’t his.

You were walking home from a party. Having caught wind of a new Juke joint opening, it only made sense to check it out. You and your merry band of friends who were bursting with excitement got ready that same day - picking out an outfit to wear, makeup that matched. Soon the opening hour was upon you. 

The place was nice, with lights suspended on balconies and a stage filled with instruments of all kinds. The Music was felt deep into the soul and the people who got in knew how to have a grand ole time. You danced and danced until your feet hurt, until your skin got all sweaty and your voice raspy from singing and hollering all night long. Once it got too late the crowd started to die down; People running to get home so they could wake up and catch the early morning. 

Once the music finally started to slow down and the crowd got smaller, You figured it was also time for you to go. So, you bid your friends a farewell. One of them offered to walk you home but You declined. You figured since it was too late nobody would be around, wondering and lurking in the night. Well, maybe except for one but that was an entirely different thing. 

He should have known better than to mess with women walking at night, alone. 

Especially women who have guard dogs waiting for them at home. 

You’re pinned down on the floor . Remmick touching all over you, marking his territory once more because some poor old bastard couldn’t read the “do not enter” sign properly. They got what they wanted. What they deserved. Now there’s multiple large, crankled, slash's deep into their chest, blood pooling from the wound. Their neck has been completely ripped off - the large organ of skin and muscle standing a few feet away from your face but you didn’t care. Not when Remmick was too busy making sure every inch of your body smelled like you again. Like him. 

If an unsuspecting viewer were to walk by they would have thought a rabid dog was mulling you to death. The scene was chaotic and obscene. A dismembered body a few feet away and a poor victim being ravaged by a beast. They would probably scream and shout for help, Ask if you were okay but nobody was coming for you. They never did. 

Not when He was around.  

In a situation like this you would have fought him off. Maybe Use anything to your advantage, grab a rock that was wedged by the tree, take the lonely branch on the side and use it as a weapon -  Like normal people would do to fight off a normal guy but he was not normal. Something that was entirely impossible to be and yet he was. 

“Remmick slow…slow down!” You cry out, gripping Remmicks shoulders for support when he licks a long, fat, strip up against your neck. It's late in the night, nothing but the cold breeze rattling the trees and startling a few birds. The dead stranger almost got you, almost had his way with you. He grabbed you from behind while you were a few feet away from your porch, pulled you close until your body was flushed against his and touched you. Wandering hands searched your skin and mouth pressed against the back of your neck. You screamed, trying your best to pull away from him, tossing your body from side to side but it was short lived when he shoved you towards the ground. 

“Quit it bitch! There aren't anybody up at this hour.” he chuckled, getting down on his knees to forcibly turn you over to your back. 

He wanted to get a real nice look at you, too bad you were going to be the last thing he ever saw. One of the things he ever saw. The moonlight shined against his face and you noticed that he looked familiar. You've seen him before, at the juke joint. He was drowning drink after drink but was short lived when he got kicked out for touching one of your friends. You remember cursing him out, screaming and shoving him out the door along with the bouncer who took notice. He was pissed, arguing that your friend asked for it. 

How stupid can men be? 

If only he had noticed that a creature lingered in the shadows of your porch. One that didn’t take too kindly at having their property be trespassed. 

“Remmick-”

“Can’t, busy. Need you to get rid of that stench you have.” Remmick says, getting in between your legs, in that comfortable position he always liked to be in , making sure his body was close enough. Remmick moves to press his face into you, rubbing his nose against the deep hollow of your neck. Pinning his body fully against your own. You can’t help the way your body reacts, the way he’s got his full weight  on you; Like he wants to get under your skin. No, he Needs to get under your skin. His hands are everywhere - His claws scraping lightly against your arms, legs, anywhere that showed too much skin. Areas that were infected by hands that didn't deserve to touch you. 

He still wasn't satisfied. 

“Remmick you killed someone!” you shout, Shoving his chest back to get his full attention. He didn't budge, he never does.  Too strong, ancient, powerful but he did stop to take you in - leaning back on his hunches,  Eyes searching your form. You weren't sure if he was inspecting you, eyes trailing down slowly and then snapping back to your face. He was frozen, quiet until after a few minutes, When the wind stopped blowing and the cicadas went silent. 

“Does it matter?” 

Your brows raised, confused at first. “Does it matter?...” you quickly repeat after, annoyance building on your tongue, “Yes! You can't have too many people up and go missing in this area cause you get all-”

“He was gonna hurt you…” he growls, a cold bloody hand reaching out to caress your face. His hand is bigger than before ; Longer, claws sharper , Like a predator. An elongated thumb glides against your cheek bone. His hands were rough, frigid and yet he held your face so softly. Careful, like you were fragile glass. 

“He was gonna take you…take what's mine away,” the pad of his thumb rubs along the bottom line of your lips, leaving a small bloody trail, “He was gonna die anyway.”

“...How…How would you have known that?” 

He sneers at your question, Disappointed that you would ask that but most importantly question him. He sighs loudly at that. Fine, he’ll entertain you, for a bit. He doesn't say anything for a short while but he does take note of how you watch him, eyeing the way he pokes his tongue out to lick the presence of blood away on his teeth. He finally decides to speak again. 

He whispers low so only you could hear him as if someone else was among the two of you. There was, he just wasn't alive to hear it. 

 “I could smell it on him,” he says, “Death.”

 The pad of his thumb gets replaced by a long claw, slowly dragged against your lip. He was careful once more; Careful not to prick the soft skin but his eyes were sharp, Dilated until there was nothing but red.  

It sends a shiver down your spine; How sinister he could look and yet moved in a way that was gentle. Ever so considerate of how human you are but soon after he adds in, interrupting the hypnotizing hold he has on you with a hint of amusement on his breath, “I just sped up the process.” 

Then a sudden grind of his groin against your clothed bundle of nerves sends signals to your brain. A pulse that Remmick hears all too easily. 

“Fuck- darlin’, I’m gonna make sure everyone knows you belong to me.“ he mutters under his breath. Talking more to the air, a warning to the universe. A threat.  A small squeak escapes your lips when he reaches under your skirt to bunch them up against your stomach, Warmth bubbling up in your cheeks. 

“W-What… What are you doing?” You ask with a shaky breath. 

Remmick looks at you with those too bright, intense, glowing eyes. Eyes that always manage to pick you apart and somehow put you back together again. He truly did look like a beast right now; drool hanging from his chin, hair rattled, clothes battered from the stranger trying to fight him off and those razor sharp teeth open to the midnight air. He doesn't say anything but his breathing is rapid, low, inhuman sounds deep in his chest. 

He sets his eyes on you, desiring building into his chest,  deciding that what he was going to do was going to be his life's goal. You feel a cold, wet, palm glide up against your thigh and you jolt. 

“Remmick!” you gasp, your leg shifting to the side but his strong grasp holds you down. 

“Shhh, baby, almost done…Just gotta get here too.” 

Blood is dripping from the corner of his mouth, his eyes locked unto your face. Hovering over your body,  There’s so much blood and drool dripping from his mouth that it starts to pool in between the crevices of your breast. 

“I should’ve known other fools would try and take you away,” he grunts, “Look what you did - what you made me do.” 

“Remmick please…” you whine. 

He pushes up against your body. Grinding his hips down hard, making sure you can feel him through his pants. “You liked that, didn’t you? Me, ripping a man apart cause he tried to take what’s mine?”

You look over once more at the corpse a few feet away. The look of terror still glazed over the man's eyes. The scene wasn't pleasant  to watch, to see a man be torn apart right in front of your eyes but the thought of a creature like that protecting you? Watching over you. Wanted you. How could you ever be ungrateful? Sure, it scared the hell out of you but all of that was forgotten. Head filled with nothing but Remmick and how much he wanted to devour you under the stars. 

If you admit that, tell him you liked it when he killed for you, how you liked that you were the one who made him like this. Well, let's just say you wouldn't make it out alive. So you lie…or atleast try your best. 

“N-No..” You turn your head away so you won't have to look in his eyes, have him see the telltale signs of a lie forming, yearning bleeding into your soul but he pulls your face back. A smirk playing on his mouth. 

“Look at me, sugar.” he says, “Dont lie-”

“I'm not lying-”

“Yes you are.” Before you have time to form another poor, fabricated excuse, Remmick moves with precision. His entire hand wraps around your throat, His claws digging into your skin and yet it did not puncture the vitals or muscles underneath. Careful. Your body leaps, not out of fear- No, far from fear but something much more terrifying.

Excitement.

 What's even more frightening than the thought of you liking what he's done, what he's currently doing to you, is the fact that he knows. 

“Look at the way ur squirming under me,” he laughs, “I can hear your heart racing.” He sits back, watching, observing. Loving the way your body reacts to him. Only him. 

“Tell me you want this,” He demands, “Or…I'll make you beg.” 

“Yes!” You say too loudly, too proudly. Embarrassment washed away with a strong passion to please. To be pleased. There was no use in denying it anymore, Eagerness building on your skin.  Remmick nuzzles his body back onto yours, his face tucked comfortably into your breast. He hums a low sign of approval, the sound seeps through his chest like a purr. Soon after a hiss flees your mouth when You feel a warm, rough, texture lap at the forgotten pool of blood and spit in between the crevices of your breast. His teeth scraping against your skin. He leans back up suddenly, the loss of contact almost makes you cry out. Desperate to feel him once more. Desperate to be wanted. 

He tucks his hand under your chin, lifting to view your face clearer. You looked beautiful like this. Under him, completely at his mercy. Like prey trapped in a predator's teeth. He wants more of you. 

All of you. 

“Open your mouth for me darlin’...” he says softly, nothing but adoration and need in his voice. 

Your body moves on its own, all logic and reasoning thrown out the window.  You obey him so easily, your autonomy completely lost to him. Your tongue lolls out, the cool breeze shrouding  the top of the muscle, anticipation building in your gut. Fuck, you wanted it . Wanted Him. Whatever he could give you.  You watch in a daze as Remmick pulls you closer, maneuvering your mouth right under his. He ghosts his open mouth over yours, slightly open, ready to drip warm trails of the substance right down your tongue. 

He can feel your thighs move to squeeze around his waist, a strong intensity blooming where he's still connected. He makes sure that he builds the mixed fluid along his tongue and lets gravity take its place. The taste was unpleasant and yet you wanted more. It comes out in thick, heavy, globs, flowing right into your mouth. The weight of it makes you gag but the ache you feel on your nerves only grows further. 

He sweetens the deal with locking his lips against yours. No permission needed to enter his tongue into your mouth so he could savor you, relishing the moment; Tasting his own spit, tasting the blood of the poor bastard who’s life was cut short. He tilts his head so he can get in deeper, push in closer, explore further. Your entire being completely, utterly, intoxicating . He makes sure to drag his tongue against the edges of your teeth, leaving nothing in your mouth untouched. The hunger only grows the more he consumes you. 

Hunger was an understatement. 

He was starving.

He only pulls away, reluctantly, when he feels you struggle against him. Your breathing completely fucked up and yet he didnt care. He made you like this, Debauched and panting against his lips; trying your best to catch your breath. He was going to ruin you, that was a fact. 

You think he's done when you feel him shift on his knees, like he was getting ready to scurry off to hunt some poor soul in the night once more. You should have thought better, Should have known better that he was only getting stirred on with every breathless moan and whimper you released into his mouth. 

“M’gonna eat you alive…” He says, the sense of Imminence in the air. Your eyes grow wide, danger prickling the hair on your skin. You should feel afraid, flight or fight should have kicked in and yet it doesn't. There's too many emotions running through you at this very moment; Fear, Danger but worse of all joy. Remmick uses his claws to drag them down your blouse, tearing the fabric in one go. Your chest and stomach are swiftly exposed to the open air. The sense of fear only spurs you on, heat pooling at your core. 

“When I'm done,” Remmick smiles inbetween, looking like a natural predator- scratch that, he Is a predator, “Nobody else will try and take you away from me. I'll make sure of it.” 

⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆₊ °✦ ‧ ‧ ₊ ˚✧⁺˚⋆｡ °✩₊˖⁺‧₊˚♡˚₊‧⁺˖

Tag list!: @cherryxhaze

[simphours]

I'll Taste You First Then Devour You Whole Later

Remmick X Reader

Summary: You Come home late at night from a party, Unaware that a stranger is following you. Too bad he wont get a warning to what's about to happen. A creature that stalks your home and calls you "Mine" doesn't like it when people try and take what belongs to him.

A/N: It took me 4-5 Days to write this with pure determination and horniness. Thank you to my Remmick’s Freak writers room that showed me that life is truly worth living if Remmick gets to take you in the forest, added with drool and spit swapping. If you notice anything missing in the tags pls don’t be afraid to let me know! If you see grammar mistakes, no you didn't :)

Warning : MDNI, No use of name or Y/n, Reader isnt described, Blood, Slight Blood Play, slight Predator/Prey, Female Reader, Murder, slight sexual harassment (mentioned), Spit eating (with Blood), Possessive!Remmick, choking (slight), Humping if you squint, Remmick Drools as usual, Cursing, Drool Eating, Stalking (mentioned), Remmick is greedy asf (who could blame him?),

Word Count: 2.6k

⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆₊ °✦ ‧ ‧ ₊ ˚✧⁺˚⋆｡ °✩₊˖⁺‧₊˚♡˚₊‧⁺˖

 He just killed someone. 

A man who was too busy trying to take what wasn’t his.

You were walking home from a party. Having caught wind of a new Juke joint opening, it only made sense to check it out. You and your merry band of friends who were bursting with excitement got ready that same day - picking out an outfit to wear, makeup that matched. Soon the opening hour was upon you. 

The place was nice, with lights suspended on balconies and a stage filled with instruments of all kinds. The Music was felt deep into the soul and the people who got in knew how to have a grand ole time. You danced and danced until your feet hurt, until your skin got all sweaty and your voice raspy from singing and hollering all night long. Once it got too late the crowd started to die down; People running to get home so they could wake up and catch the early morning. 

Once the music finally started to slow down and the crowd got smaller, You figured it was also time for you to go. So, you bid your friends a farewell. One of them offered to walk you home but You declined. You figured since it was too late nobody would be around, wondering and lurking in the night. Well, maybe except for one but that was an entirely different thing. 

He should have known better than to mess with women walking at night, alone. 

Especially women who have guard dogs waiting for them at home. 

You’re pinned down on the floor . Remmick touching all over you, marking his territory once more because some poor old bastard couldn’t read the “do not enter” sign properly. They got what they wanted. What they deserved. Now there’s multiple large, crankled, slash's deep into their chest, blood pooling from the wound. Their neck has been completely ripped off - the large organ of skin and muscle standing a few feet away from your face but you didn’t care. Not when Remmick was too busy making sure every inch of your body smelled like you again. Like him. 

If an unsuspecting viewer were to walk by they would have thought a rabid dog was mulling you to death. The scene was chaotic and obscene. A dismembered body a few feet away and a poor victim being ravaged by a beast. They would probably scream and shout for help, Ask if you were okay but nobody was coming for you. They never did. 

Not when He was around.  

In a situation like this you would have fought him off. Maybe Use anything to your advantage, grab a rock that was wedged by the tree, take the lonely branch on the side and use it as a weapon -  Like normal people would do to fight off a normal guy but he was not normal. Something that was entirely impossible to be and yet he was. 

“Remmick slow…slow down!” You cry out, gripping Remmicks shoulders for support when he licks a long, fat, strip up against your neck. It's late in the night, nothing but the cold breeze rattling the trees and startling a few birds. The dead stranger almost got you, almost had his way with you. He grabbed you from behind while you were a few feet away from your porch, pulled you close until your body was flushed against his and touched you. Wandering hands searched your skin and mouth pressed against the back of your neck. You screamed, trying your best to pull away from him, tossing your body from side to side but it was short lived when he shoved you towards the ground. 

“Quit it bitch! There aren't anybody up at this hour.” he chuckled, getting down on his knees to forcibly turn you over to your back. 

He wanted to get a real nice look at you, too bad you were going to be the last thing he ever saw. One of the things he ever saw. The moonlight shined against his face and you noticed that he looked familiar. You've seen him before, at the juke joint. He was drowning drink after drink but was short lived when he got kicked out for touching one of your friends. You remember cursing him out, screaming and shoving him out the door along with the bouncer who took notice. He was pissed, arguing that your friend asked for it. 

How stupid can men be? 

If only he had noticed that a creature lingered in the shadows of your porch. One that didn’t take too kindly at having their property be trespassed. 

“Remmick-”

“Can’t, busy. Need you to get rid of that stench you have.” Remmick says, getting in between your legs, in that comfortable position he always liked to be in , making sure his body was close enough. Remmick moves to press his face into you, rubbing his nose against the deep hollow of your neck. Pinning his body fully against your own. You can’t help the way your body reacts, the way he’s got his full weight  on you; Like he wants to get under your skin. No, he Needs to get under your skin. His hands are everywhere - His claws scraping lightly against your arms, legs, anywhere that showed too much skin. Areas that were infected by hands that didn't deserve to touch you. 

He still wasn't satisfied. 

“Remmick you killed someone!” you shout, Shoving his chest back to get his full attention. He didn't budge, he never does.  Too strong, ancient, powerful but he did stop to take you in - leaning back on his hunches,  Eyes searching your form. You weren't sure if he was inspecting you, eyes trailing down slowly and then snapping back to your face. He was frozen, quiet until after a few minutes, When the wind stopped blowing and the cicadas went silent. 

“Does it matter?” 

Your brows raised, confused at first. “Does it matter?...” you quickly repeat after, annoyance building on your tongue, “Yes! You can't have too many people up and go missing in this area cause you get all-”

“He was gonna hurt you…” he growls, a cold bloody hand reaching out to caress your face. His hand is bigger than before ; Longer, claws sharper , Like a predator. An elongated thumb glides against your cheek bone. His hands were rough, frigid and yet he held your face so softly. Careful, like you were fragile glass. 

“He was gonna take you…take what's mine away,” the pad of his thumb rubs along the bottom line of your lips, leaving a small bloody trail, “He was gonna die anyway.”

“...How…How would you have known that?” 

He sneers at your question, Disappointed that you would ask that but most importantly question him. He sighs loudly at that. Fine, he’ll entertain you, for a bit. He doesn't say anything for a short while but he does take note of how you watch him, eyeing the way he pokes his tongue out to lick the presence of blood away on his teeth. He finally decides to speak again. 

He whispers low so only you could hear him as if someone else was among the two of you. There was, he just wasn't alive to hear it. 

 “I could smell it on him,” he says, “Death.”

 The pad of his thumb gets replaced by a long claw, slowly dragged against your lip. He was careful once more; Careful not to prick the soft skin but his eyes were sharp, Dilated until there was nothing but red.  

It sends a shiver down your spine; How sinister he could look and yet moved in a way that was gentle. Ever so considerate of how human you are but soon after he adds in, interrupting the hypnotizing hold he has on you with a hint of amusement on his breath, “I just sped up the process.” 

Then a sudden grind of his groin against your clothed bundle of nerves sends signals to your brain. A pulse that Remmick hears all too easily. 

“Fuck- darlin’, I’m gonna make sure everyone knows you belong to me.“ he mutters under his breath. Talking more to the air, a warning to the universe. A threat.  A small squeak escapes your lips when he reaches under your skirt to bunch them up against your stomach, Warmth bubbling up in your cheeks. 

“W-What… What are you doing?” You ask with a shaky breath. 

Remmick looks at you with those too bright, intense, glowing eyes. Eyes that always manage to pick you apart and somehow put you back together again. He truly did look like a beast right now; drool hanging from his chin, hair rattled, clothes battered from the stranger trying to fight him off and those razor sharp teeth open to the midnight air. He doesn't say anything but his breathing is rapid, low, inhuman sounds deep in his chest. 

He sets his eyes on you, desiring building into his chest,  deciding that what he was going to do was going to be his life's goal. You feel a cold, wet, palm glide up against your thigh and you jolt. 

“Remmick!” you gasp, your leg shifting to the side but his strong grasp holds you down. 

“Shhh, baby, almost done…Just gotta get here too.” 

Blood is dripping from the corner of his mouth, his eyes locked unto your face. Hovering over your body,  There’s so much blood and drool dripping from his mouth that it starts to pool in between the crevices of your breast. 

“I should’ve known other fools would try and take you away,” he grunts, “Look what you did - what you made me do.” 

“Remmick please…” you whine. 

He pushes up against your body. Grinding his hips down hard, making sure you can feel him through his pants. “You liked that, didn’t you? Me, ripping a man apart cause he tried to take what’s mine?”

You look over once more at the corpse a few feet away. The look of terror still glazed over the man's eyes. The scene wasn't pleasant  to watch, to see a man be torn apart right in front of your eyes but the thought of a creature like that protecting you? Watching over you. Wanted you. How could you ever be ungrateful? Sure, it scared the hell out of you but all of that was forgotten. Head filled with nothing but Remmick and how much he wanted to devour you under the stars. 

If you admit that, tell him you liked it when he killed for you, how you liked that you were the one who made him like this. Well, let's just say you wouldn't make it out alive. So you lie…or atleast try your best. 

“N-No..” You turn your head away so you won't have to look in his eyes, have him see the telltale signs of a lie forming, yearning bleeding into your soul but he pulls your face back. A smirk playing on his mouth. 

“Look at me, sugar.” he says, “Dont lie-”

“I'm not lying-”

“Yes you are.” Before you have time to form another poor, fabricated excuse, Remmick moves with precision. His entire hand wraps around your throat, His claws digging into your skin and yet it did not puncture the vitals or muscles underneath. Careful. Your body leaps, not out of fear- No, far from fear but something much more terrifying.

Excitement.

 What's even more frightening than the thought of you liking what he's done, what he's currently doing to you, is the fact that he knows. 

“Look at the way ur squirming under me,” he laughs, “I can hear your heart racing.” He sits back, watching, observing. Loving the way your body reacts to him. Only him. 

“Tell me you want this,” He demands, “Or…I'll make you beg.” 

“Yes!” You say too loudly, too proudly. Embarrassment washed away with a strong passion to please. To be pleased. There was no use in denying it anymore, Eagerness building on your skin.  Remmick nuzzles his body back onto yours, his face tucked comfortably into your breast. He hums a low sign of approval, the sound seeps through his chest like a purr. Soon after a hiss flees your mouth when You feel a warm, rough, texture lap at the forgotten pool of blood and spit in between the crevices of your breast. His teeth scraping against your skin. He leans back up suddenly, the loss of contact almost makes you cry out. Desperate to feel him once more. Desperate to be wanted. 

He tucks his hand under your chin, lifting to view your face clearer. You looked beautiful like this. Under him, completely at his mercy. Like prey trapped in a predator's teeth. He wants more of you. 

All of you. 

“Open your mouth for me darlin’...” he says softly, nothing but adoration and need in his voice. 

Your body moves on its own, all logic and reasoning thrown out the window.  You obey him so easily, your autonomy completely lost to him. Your tongue lolls out, the cool breeze shrouding  the top of the muscle, anticipation building in your gut. Fuck, you wanted it . Wanted Him. Whatever he could give you.  You watch in a daze as Remmick pulls you closer, maneuvering your mouth right under his. He ghosts his open mouth over yours, slightly open, ready to drip warm trails of the substance right down your tongue. 

He can feel your thighs move to squeeze around his waist, a strong intensity blooming where he's still connected. He makes sure that he builds the mixed fluid along his tongue and lets gravity take its place. The taste was unpleasant and yet you wanted more. It comes out in thick, heavy, globs, flowing right into your mouth. The weight of it makes you gag but the ache you feel on your nerves only grows further. 

He sweetens the deal with locking his lips against yours. No permission needed to enter his tongue into your mouth so he could savor you, relishing the moment; Tasting his own spit, tasting the blood of the poor bastard who’s life was cut short. He tilts his head so he can get in deeper, push in closer, explore further. Your entire being completely, utterly, intoxicating . He makes sure to drag his tongue against the edges of your teeth, leaving nothing in your mouth untouched. The hunger only grows the more he consumes you. 

Hunger was an understatement. 

He was starving.

He only pulls away, reluctantly, when he feels you struggle against him. Your breathing completely fucked up and yet he didnt care. He made you like this, Debauched and panting against his lips; trying your best to catch your breath. He was going to ruin you, that was a fact. 

You think he's done when you feel him shift on his knees, like he was getting ready to scurry off to hunt some poor soul in the night once more. You should have thought better, Should have known better that he was only getting stirred on with every breathless moan and whimper you released into his mouth. 

“M’gonna eat you alive…” He says, the sense of Imminence in the air. Your eyes grow wide, danger prickling the hair on your skin. You should feel afraid, flight or fight should have kicked in and yet it doesn't. There's too many emotions running through you at this very moment; Fear, Danger but worse of all joy. Remmick uses his claws to drag them down your blouse, tearing the fabric in one go. Your chest and stomach are swiftly exposed to the open air. The sense of fear only spurs you on, heat pooling at your core. 

“When I'm done,” Remmick smiles inbetween, looking like a natural predator- scratch that, he Is a predator, “Nobody else will try and take you away from me. I'll make sure of it.” 

⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆₊ °✦ ‧ ‧ ₊ ˚✧⁺˚⋆｡ °✩₊˖⁺‧₊˚♡˚₊‧⁺˖

Tag list!: @cherryxhaze

[simphours]

Distract yourself with hobbies

[simphours]

JACK O'CONNELL as Remmick Sinners (2025) dir. Ryan Coogler

[simphours]

”yeaahh” BROTHER STARVINGG

[simphours]

Right 'n Wrong

Remmick x fem! plus size! Reader

warning: smut, sexual themes, toxic dynamics, lowkey pussy whipped! fanon! Remmick, religious themes, blood kink, blood play, menstruation, cunnilingus

/\

He scratches against your window pane on the night of your twentieth birthday.

You thought it was an animal at first. An armadillo or a possum. They’re common around the summertime, wreaking havoc on people’s yards, getting into garbage cans. But the more you listened, the more you realized that it sounded like the scratch of fingernails.

You had lifted out of your bed, white nightgown falling past your shoulders. The smell of the previous baked goods you had made earlier that day was still prominent— chocolate chip cookies. Your eyes darted to the curtains on your window. Wind blew through, making the fabric look like a pair of butterfly wings.

Your window was open.

You had left it that way because it was hot. Unbearably hot, the summer air humid and sticky. You felt a breeze blow through as the scratching resumed.

Your feet touched your wooden floors. You moved over to the window, your heart pattering in your chest.

“I know you’re there.”

The air is as still as crickets. The voice flows to you in a way that’s almost musical.

“Happy birthday.”

You feel something molten course through you. Of course, he had to visit now. Of all days on the past year that you’ve known your lover, he decides to show up on the one dedicated to you.

You turn to look at your bedside table, where the hands on the clock point to twelve forty three.

“Ain’t my birthday,” you replied. “Not anymore.”

He peers in through the opening, where your curtains refuse to meet. Red eyes stare down into yours— he’s always been taller than you.

“I got you somethin’.” He said, and you swallowed.

“What is it?”

He grins. Sharp, pointed teeth. You shiver.

“Gotta’ let me in if you wanna’ see it, darlin’.”

Any person reading this— whether you’re judging, or not judging— should know that it doesn’t matter that he asked. Because he’d find his way in, regardless. He’d trick you, threaten you, or he’d wait outside every night for weeks. You learned that the hard way, when you had turned him away from your door. At the time, he was a stranger. Now, he’s as familiar to you as takin’ in a breath.

“You can come in.” you murmured. Defeat, but also something else. Anticipation. Excitement. You weren’t sure.

The man hauled one meaty leg over the entrance of your window. Ducking his head under the glass, he landed gracefully on his other foot as he stepped inside.

“Don’t know why you don’t just use the door,” you said.

“I like to watch you,” and then, “You sleep real pretty.”

He admitted this so casually that it made you shiver. Of course, when you’ve been dead as long as Remmick has, not much is deemed taboo or out of bounds. But it still never managed to shock you to your core. You were always raised right— a church going girl, sayin’ please and thank you, always hovering instead of diving right in with strangers. Until him.

He reached behind him and pulled something out of his pocket. He dangled your present in front of you, the surface of it glinting.

"Jewelry," you opined. "Which person did you kill to get it ?"

He tilted his head. His eyes glinted again, this time playful.

"Didn't," he drawled. "Check the tag."

In his clutches, you couldn't see the piece of white paper that was pinching the gold chain between it until he held it out in his palm. 20$.

So he had bought it. And spent a pretty penny on it, too. The two of you agreed never to lie to each other, and you knew Remmick was the kind of man to keep his word. There was a chance he had stolen the money required, though. Either way, it was better than something he snatched off one of his victim's necks, covered in blood and gore. Better to steal some papers than steal a life. You accepted it.

His hand pushed on your shoulder, directing you to turn around. You did, lifting your hair off the back of your neck. His cold fingers grazed your jugular, and you could feel him sharply inhale.

"Beatin' like a drum." he murmured. You stayed silent, your eyes down on the floor.

You turned back around when the necklace was fastened. It was a locket, heart shaped with hinges. Easy to handle. You flicked it open, seeing that it was empty.

"You can put whatever you wan' in it. Figured you'd like to put a picture in there, or somethin'."

It was strangely human, the way Remmick uttered the words. Not nervous, but wanting to gain your approval all the same.

"Thank you, Remmick."

"Pleasure's mine, darlin'."

When he brushed passed you to sit on the edge of your bed, your face heated. You knew what was coming, you always did. But it never ceased to exhibit a reaction from you.

He licked his lips as he looked at you. Your gown was almost sheer, your hair disheveled. He liked that.

"Come here."

His voice was low and gravelly. You swallowed.

"And if I don't?"

He shrugged. "It's your choice," was it? "But if you're doin' this to act out, sweetheart, you know damn well what's gone' happen."

Your thighs hit the front of his knees as you neared. He wrapped you up in his big arms, his embrace tight. Possessive. His face found your belly. He pressed his nose against it, grabbing the pudge of your hips in his big hands. He exhaled sharp. Shoulders relaxing. Your fingers found his hair.

"Smell's nice in here." he said.

"I made cookies."

"Mm," Remmick murmured. You'd offer him some, but you knew he couldn't eat it. You also knew that it wasn't cookies that he was smelling.

His lips found yours as he hoisted you into his lap. His hands wandered, mapping you out. He was hungry, and you both knew it.

"What do you want?" it was bold, whispering all breathy like that against his ear. It was hard for him to keep control.

He growled. Not like a human, because that wasn't what he was. "You know what I want."

"You're right," you replied. "I do."

His teeth nicked at your bottom lip. Lifting up your gown, he groaned at the sight of your body. "My girl's so damn pretty."

He kissed your stomach, tongue tracing over one of your stretch marks. You didn't know why he was so obsessed with you, or your body, but he was. Complete and utter infatuation. His fingers hooked into the waistband of your underwear. In your haste, you hadn't realized that the fabric had been stained red.

"Lay down for me, sugar" he said.

You switched positions-- you laying down, him towering over you as he slid off his suspenders. You caught a glimpse of your bloodied underwear, and felt a bit of shame. But it was outweighed by the glorious sight in front of you. When Remmick's shirt was unbuttoned, your hands found his hips. Feeling them. Moving up to his chest, and then his throat. You liked his throat.

"Gonna get my fix," he looked up at you as he held both of your thighs apart. You were making a mess all over your clean sheets, and the both of you knew it. "'S that alright?"

You nodded. Braced for the pain that would melt into something that felt good, too good, for a person who was meant to be raised Christian. Raised right.

Now came the feast. The pleasure. Remmick's tongue flicked out, just barely, to lick up your cunt. You sighed at the warm, searing heat of his tongue. "As temptin' as the fruit of the serpent," he breathed against you. "Bleedin' so pretty."

When you had first let Remmick touch you, it had been embarrassing to have him between your legs during such an intimate time. In 1930s Mississippi, it was taboo to even mention menstruation. You knew it was normal, that it was a sign of your body being healthy. However, most men didn't think that. One morning, when Remmick was a stranger, shrouded in darkness and blood, he came crawling up to your door. He had begged you to save him. You had obliged. And you gave him a feast. Suddenly, you weren't so embarrassed anymore, and those feasts began happening every month. He had freed you, really. Gave you that feeling of your wings spreading-- for dedication to his feed, or devotion for the way you held each other? Perhaps both.

He licked these thoughts off of you as his claws sunk deep into the flesh of your thighs. Your head tilted back. You saw the popcorn ceiling above you ripple in the shadows. You were almost drunk off of Remmick's worship already. When I sink in my claws, he told you one time, I can give the victim a moment of raw, achin' pleasure. Makes 'em easier to hold down... easier to tear open.

That was certainly true, because you were immobilized from the syrupy sweet cloud that wrung your brain empty. Completely spread open as his tongue slurped up your heady slick and crimson blood. You heard Remmick groan, looked down-- your eyes nearly rolled back at the sight. His hips were grinding against the air, you could see the strain of his heavy cock through his trousers-- fuck, he was pretty. Beauty incarnated into the form of a monster. Those dark eyes looked up at you, pupils tinged red. He never strayed from your gaze as his tongue flicked strategically over your swollen nub, a hum leaving him as he saw how your mouth fell open even more.

"God," you breathed. "Remmick--"

He grabbed you, yanking one leg over his shoulder, and then the other. Your fingers curled into your sheets, and you could feel that they were wet.

"Leakin' all over the place," Remmick murmured against your cunt, as if he could read your mind. And he could. "Such a good girl, ain't ya'?"

Your brain was fuzzy. You whined, nodded-- good, good, good. You wanted nothing more than to be good for him. You pressed harder against his face. Your thighs enclosed his head as his tongue fucked in and out of your sloppy, swollen hole. You felt his nose rub up against your clit. Enamored, you chanted to him like a prayer, "Yes, yes, just like that, baby--" And he found what you needed, guided his mouth up, and sucked.

You could feel your insides drawin' up. Cunt throbbing, walls swelling. A sound left your mouth that was akin to that of an animal. You heard Remmick's deep southern drawl as you twitched.

'Go on, little girl. Cum on my tongue. Give me what I need--'

He was in your head. Speaking in his ancient language. You broke him down into pieces-- even with his other branch of communication. And it made you feel special. Needed. That last thought is what had you spilling into his mouth, your spend leaking out, your walls pulsating, squeezing. It made even more of your blood stream, and Remmick groaned as he felt the metallic hit his tongue.

Your mouth left the echo of whines and moans, your lover's name a song on your lips. When you came down, shaking, he was still there, gentler now, avoiding your clitoris to prevent over stimulation (though, in other moods, he wasn't above the idea of making you cry from it). He licked all around your hole, your inner thighs, your taint. Anywhere that his dinner lay. When he was stuffed-- like you would be, soon enough-- he moved away from his altar. He was covered in your essence; His chin and lips were stained red; you could see his teeth glinting in the light. You never understood how he managed to keep those from grazing your cunt. Practice, you guessed.

Remmick's thumb came up to your mouth, his body towering over you. You wrapped your lips around it, nails and blood be damned, and suckled. He let out a tiny chuckle, swallowing down the last bits of you that remained on his tongue.

"'M all better now."

"I'd like to think so, baby."

He grinned, kissing you-- blood didn't taste that bad as a human, when you got used to it. Underneath it, you could taste his spit. He had been drooling, and you licked at it lewdly, like an animal.

"I'm filthy," you divulged against his lips. "Disgustin' for needin' you this bad.." You always ended up confessing things to him. Some part of you hoped that it was against your will, and not your true self. But you knew you'd be lying if you said that his tricks weren't the only object of your attraction.

"Is that what you think?" He wasn't angry. He was curious.

You nodded. He felt the pull of your legs under his heavy frame as he trapped you under him. "I'm a sinner," you said. "this is wrong."

Remmick felt that hunger tug in him again. He liked the depravity of it all, and you both knew it.

"Then why's it feel so right?"

Fin.

[simphours]

wip

[simphours]

he let me hit because i say stuff like "goodness gracious"

[simphours]

“Why you here?”

| fem!reader x remmick

word count : 10.9k

Synopsis :

It’s been five years since Remmick disappeared—right after he kissed reader for the first time. No goodbye, no explanation. Then one night, out of nowhere, he shows up at their door like he never left.

A/n : Y’all, please bear with me. I don’t know how to write synopses.

This is inspired by Smoke & Annie’s reunion 🫶🏾

Also, reader was an adult when she met remmick. There’s mentions of reader living in her family’s home during the time she was with Remmick, so I need to clarify that she was and still is an adult.

There is a sex scene, but it isn’t explicit.

————————————————————————

The kettle had just begun to whistle when you heard the knock.

It wasn’t loud. Barely a tap, really—like the wind brushing a loose shutter. But in the quiet hush of your cottage, nestled on the edge of a pine-wrapped clearing miles from town, it sounded louder than thunder. You stared at the door as the kettle screamed on behind you. For a moment, you wondered if you imagined it.

No one visited this late. Not in Winter. Not out here.

You slid the kettle from the stove’s flame and crossed the wooden floor with steady feet and a heart that betrayed you, thudding harder with every step. The lantern light cast long shadows behind you.

Who in their right mind would be so far out of town on a Winter night?

Your mind raced with millions of thoughts as to who could be outside of your door. A part of you said to keep from the door—whoever it was had to be out of their mind, and you wanted nothing to do with it.

But another part of you, the part deep inside, felt as if you already knew who was waiting outside that damned door. That part of you wanted so badly for reality to fall apart and rebuild itself so that he could be here.

You almost didn’t open it.

There was something in the knock—too soft, too patient—that stirred the back of your mind like a wind through old ash. The fire crackled low in the hearth, but it was your blood that warmed too quickly.

But when you did open the door, the cold evening air swept in—sharp and pine-scented. But what caught your mind wasn’t the intensity of the bite of the winter air, or the scent of the pine trees, it was the figure who stood just outside

He hadn’t changed. Not truly. Not in the way humans do. His coat was worn at the shoulders, his boots dusted with soil, his hair longer than it once was, curling slightly at the ends—but it was still him. Pale, proud, and silent as ever, standing beneath your porch light as if no time had passed.

You told yourself it wasn’t him. It couldn’t be. He was gone. Long gone. Kissed you beneath the stars and left nothing behind but silence and memory and the aching ghost of his hands at your waist. You buried him with the rest of the dreams you no longer allowed yourself to feel.

The night curled behind him, but he made the darkness look softer. His figure was cut in shadow, lit only by the warm lantern glow behind you. And still—still, somehow—he stole your breath. Not because he was beautiful, though he was, achingly so, in that still, mournful way only he could be. But because it was him.

The him you used to imagine at your doorstep, soaked in guilt and rain, whispering your name.

The him you hated for leaving.

The him you loved anyway.

Your hands didn’t tremble, but they should’ve. You held the door like it might anchor you to this moment—because your heart was already slipping, pitching between fury and longing, sorrow and disbelief. You wanted to scream at him. You wanted to cry into his coat. You wanted to ask him if he’d thought of you even once during the silence, if he’d known what it cost you to wake up alone each morning and not hate the sunrise.

He looked at you like he hadn’t breathed since he last saw you.

And you? You couldn’t even speak.

Because five years ago, you gave your first kiss to a man who didn’t age, didn’t die, and didn’t sttay. And now, standing in the doorway of your little cottage, heart caged in your throat, you were staring at the same man—unchanged, as if time itself bowed to him—while every inch of you trembled with the weight of the years he stole.

“Hey, baby.”

A breath escapes you before words can.

Your heart stops in your chest, and your eyes widen just slightly.

“You’re not supposed to be here, Remmick.”

But it didn’t sound the way you wanted it to. It cracked. Like your heart, that night you realized he wasn’t coming back.

Remmick didn’t answer. Not right away.

And you hated that he still looked at you like you were the only thing in the world that mattered.

Even after five years.

——

It was late when he took your hand and led you past the willow tree at the edge of the field.

The church bells had long stopped ringing. Most folks had gone home. The lanterns in town flickered low, their oil nearly spent, and the air had turned thick with the smell of dew and wildflowers—like the earth had just exhaled after a long, hot day. Crickets hummed somewhere in the tall grass. Your feet were bare. You’d slipped off your shoes hours ago, and now the cool, damp ground kissed your soles as Remmick walked just ahead, his grip gentle but certain.

You knew, somehow, that this would be the last night.

You knew it in the way he looked at you when he stepped onto your porch—like he was memorizing your laugh. You felt it when he lingered a little too long, standing there in the golden hush of your candlelight like a ghost waiting to be invited in. And now, under the blanket of stars, with only moonlight outlining the slope of his cheek and the quiet between you pulsing like a held breath—you knew.

You’d never see him like this again.

He stopped beside the fence. The old one by the churchyard, half-swallowed by ivy and time. You leaned against the post while he turned to face you, his features caught in fractured silver light.

“You don’t belong here,” you said quietly. Not because you wanted him gone. But because it was true.

He gave a slow nod. “I know.”

“Then why do you keep coming back?”

His jaw clenched slightly. Then softened. “Because you make me forget.”

Your heart ached. Not from hurt. From something deeper. Like he was saying goodbye in a thousand tiny ways before the words even left his lips.

“Remmick…”

He stepped forward. You didn’t move.

“I shouldn’t.” His voice was low, barely a whisper. “But I want to.”

The space between you vanished.

His hand came to your cheek, the backs of his fingers cold, but they trembled. You’d never seen him falter before—not like this. Not Remmick, who never flinched when threatened by your father, who swore Remmick was the devil. Who never stepped back when others crossed the dark streets to avoid him. Who always stood like he’d already faced the end and survived it.

Now, he looked like a boy again. A boy on the edge of something vast and fragile.

He leaned in.

You didn’t close your eyes right away. You watched his—the way they darkened, the way they flickered down to your mouth and then back to your eyes like he was asking permission with every breath. Your lips parted, and just before he kissed you, he exhaled your name.

It felt like falling.

The kiss was soft at first. Barely a press. A question in the shape of a touch. And when you kissed him back—when your fingers curled into the front of his shirt and you rose on your toes to feel more—it deepened. Became real. Became everything.

His other hand found the small of your back, pulling you gently against him. His lips were cool but slow, reverent, as if he feared you might vanish if he held you too tightly. And you kissed him like you were afraid you’d never be allowed to again.

Because somewhere in the warmth, somewhere in the sweetness—you knew.

This was not a beginning.

This was a memory being made for the ache.

When he finally pulled away, he rested his forehead against yours. His breath shuddered against your lips.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’m so sorry.”

And you barely had time to ask why before he was gone.

No footsteps. No goodbye.

Just the wind in the trees, and the taste of him still on your mouth, and the echo of a kiss that felt like a promise he was always meant to break.

——

The memory clung to you like fog.

Even as you stared at him, standing just inside your doorway, your body still remembered the shape of that kiss. The way his lips moved like he was trying not to break something. The way he whispered I’m sorry like he knew he already had.

You wondered if he remembered it the same way.

You wondered if he’d kissed anyone else since then.

Your eyes drifted to his mouth before you could stop them, and your chest ached with something old and unfair. Five years had passed. Seasons had bloomed and withered and bloomed again. And you had learned to live without him—or, at the very least, learned how to quiet the part of yourself that still waited on the porch of your family’s home.

Time passed, and you changed.

Remmick stepped forward, just slightly, enough to graze the threshold of the door.

“I thought about you every night,” he said.

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. Your throat was tight with a hundred things you hadn’t said.

“I told myself I’d forget. That it was just a kiss. That I didn’t feel what I felt.”

“And did you?” you managed to say. “Forget?”

He shook his head. Slow. Tormented. “No.”

You turned away, because his eyes were too much—too open, too full of the man who once held you like you were fragile and holy and forbidden all at once.

“I waited for you,” you said, your eyes not meeting his. “Not forever. But long enough to hate myself for it.”

“I know.”

“No. You don’t.” Your eyes flitted back to his face, hard, steam from the kettle curling behind you like breath as it began to scream. “You kissed me like I was something to hold onto. Then you vanished. Not a word. Not a sign. I used to lie in bed and wonder if you’d died. If someone had got you. If I’d made it all up. Because how could anyone love me like that ‘n leave?”

Remmick closed his eyes. Exhaustion flickered across his face like lightning behind clouds.

“I didn’t leave because I didn’t love you,” he said. “I left because I did.”

The air collapsed between you.

He stepped forward again, hands at his sides, like he could force himself through the threshold with enough pushing.

“Just let me in, darlin’. I promise to make this right—I-I’ll make it right.”

You looked at him. Really looked. He was older in the eyes now. Not physically, but in the weight of what he carried. The edges of him were more worn. Like he’d been running, but never from anything fast enough.

And still, your heart tugged toward him. Because he was Remmick. Because he was your first kiss. Your last kiss. Your undoing.

“No.”

Remmick’s eyebrows furrow slightly, and he lets out a soft sigh—his head shakes slightly as if he knew you’d say that.

“I can’t come in,” he finally said, his voice low, taut with restraint. “You know that.”

You did. Of course you did. You’d read the stories. Heard the whispered rules by the elderly women in your hometown. A vampire could never cross the threshold of a home uninvited. It was one of the last laws Remmick obeyed. Maybe the only one that mattered anymore.

You leaned your shoulder against the doorway, arms crossed tightly over your chest.

“I never told you to leave,” you murmured. “But you did anyway.”

He exhaled hard through his nose, like he’d expected this—but had hoped it would go differently. “I came back.”

“You left me in the dark.”

“I know.”

His tone sharpened, just barely, like a blade catching the edge of a stone. He stepped closer—still outside—close enough for the porch light to catch the hollow curve beneath his cheekbone, the flicker of something fierce in his eyes.

“I stood at that door for hours that night. I thought about knocking. About running. About throwing myself to the sun if it meant I wouldn’t hurt you.”

Your heart thudded, heavy and slow. But your lips stayed still.

“And now?” you asked, voice quiet.

“Now…” He clenched his fists briefly, then forced them to loosen. “Now I’m asking you to let me in. Not because i want something from you. Not because I think I deserve it. But because I can’t keep standing on the edge of your life hoping you’ll crack the door.”

You didn’t answer. You didn’t move. Part of you hated him—truly, wholly, with every piece he’d carved out of you when he vanished. But another part, deeper and crueler, still ached to pull him into your arms and ask if he ever held someone the way he once held you.

Remmick’s jaw tightened again. His voice dipped low—quieter, but not gentler.

“This is gettin’ cruel,” he muttered. “You don’t have to forgive me. You don’t even have to talk to me again. But either invite me in or shut the door.”

The words hit like ice.

You blinked, slowly.

It wasn’t that he was angry. Not truly. You could tell he was tired. Frustrated. Worn thin by guilt and hope and years of imagining this moment and how he would earn it—or fail. But something in you twisted at the audacity of it. That he could give ultimatums now.

“You don’t get to call me cruel,” you said softly. “You don’t get to stand there, after five years of nothing, and act like I owe you warmth.”

“I’m not asking for warmth,” he said. “I’m asking for a chance to explain. To exist in the same room. That’s it.”

You watched him, heart hammering, lips dry.

He took one more step toward the door—and stopped just shy of the threshold. The space between you felt sacred. A breath away. A chasm. His voice dropped again, hoarse this time.

“Please,” he said. “Let me in.”

The word please hung between you like incense.

You swore you could feel it on your skin. Heavy. Sorrowful. Like a prayer whispered too late.

But still, you didn’t speak.

You stared at him. At the man who had once kissed you like you were the last light he’d ever see. At the man who left without a goodbye. You hated how part of you still felt drawn to him—as if your soul remembered something your mind tried so hard to bury. But there he stood, outside your door, and every second you waited felt like a match burning low between your fingers.

He ran a hand through his hair, jaw tight, breath unsteady.

“Christ,” he muttered under it, almost to himself. “You really won’t make this easy, will ya?”

You didn’t flinch. “Did you expect I would?”

He let out a bitter sound—part laugh, part exhale. His eyes searched yours, dark and full of something wild, something breaking.

Then his mouth twisted, his voice low and guttural, like he couldn’t hold it in anymore.

“Fuck. Let me in.”

Your name followed, low and wrecked. His tongue curled around it like it hurt to say it. As if you were Christ, and sharing such profanity in the same breath as your name was blasphemous. And it was—the way he said it, like it bled reverence and fury all at once. Like your name tasted like guilt and godhood.

You stared at him, heart a drumbeat in your ears.

“I don’t know if I can trust you,” you whispered.

He stepped closer—still outside, still bound by the law he’d never dared break—and his voice dropped like a stone into water.

“I don’t need you to trust me. Not yet. I just need you to understand me.”

“I understand you,” you said, and you meant it. “But you’re not the same man I knew.”

Remmick’s lips parted, then closed again. He looked down—at his boots, at the floorboards, at the edge of the world he couldn’t step into.

When he looked back up, there was something raw in his eyes. Not the vampire. Not the centuries he carried like chains. Just the man from that autumn night. The one who kissed you like a confession and vanished before sunrise.

“I know I’m not him,” he said. “And I probably never will be. I just want you to understand why I did what I did.”

You didn’t speak.

The wind shifted behind him. Leaves scattered along the steps. Somewhere in the trees, an owl cried out.

And Remmick… he stood still. As if his entire eternity had come down to this moment. A doorframe. A silence. A woman deciding whether to let a ghost step inside.

You should’ve just said it.

The words hovered at the back of your throat, aching for air. Two syllables. Come in. That was all it would take—a breath, a tremble, a simple gesture of mercy. But they wouldn’t come.

Not because you wanted him to suffer.

But because you were still suffering.

The past pressed itself into the hollows of your ribs. You could still feel the version of yourself he’d left behind—the girl who had stayed up for days listening for footsteps that never came, who flinched every time the wind knocked gently on the windows. Who had kissed him under moonlight and then had to carry the weight of it alone.

She wasn’t gone.

She was you.

And that version of yourself stood now, arms crossed and voice hollow, watching the man who had hollowed her out beg for an opening.

“I used to wait,” you said quietly, eyes fixed somewhere over his shoulder, where the trees swayed in the cold. “Every night for weeks. I’d leave the window cracked open even when it rained. I thought maybe you’d come back like the stories said. Pale and sorry. With flowers, or a poem, or somethin’ stupid like that.”

Remmick flinched—barely. But you saw it. Felt the sting of it in the way his jaw shifted, how his hands curled slightly at his sides.

“I came back with nothing,” he said. “Just me. Nothing else made it through.”

A beat. The ache in your chest twisted crueler.

You looked at him again.

He wasn’t the same. He carried too much now. Too many sleepless years. Too many choices with no turning back. The man you kissed that night had disappeared—maybe the moment he stepped away from you. Maybe he’d died in the silence he left behind.

And yet�� something of him remained. The way he looked at you now, like you were the only light he remembered. Like he was terrified of what you’d say next.

You shook your head. “You can’t just show up and expect to pick up where you left off.”

“I don’t,” he said quickly. “I don’t expect anything. I just—I just wanted to see you. I didn’t even know if you were still alive.”

That did something to you.

Made something shift.

“You think I’d die before you?” you said, voice softer now. Almost bitter. “No. That’d be too easy.”

He looked at the ground again. His lips parted. But this time, he said nothing. Just stood there. So close. Yet still outside.

Your hand tightened on the doorframe.

You felt powerful and powerless all at once. He couldn’t cross unless you allowed him—and he knew it. But with every heartbeat, you realized this wasn’t just about ancient rules or myths or blood-soaked pacts.

This was about trust.

About whether you could let him near you again and survive it.

Your voice came quiet. Trembling. Unsteady.

“What if I let you in and you leave again?”

Remmick’s eyes met yours.

“I won’t,” he said.

“Promise?”

The word came out like a dare.

And his voice cracked as he answered. “Yes.”

Still—you hesitated.

The silence went on too long.

It curled around your ribs, stretched across the porch, filled every crack in the air like smoke that wouldn’t lift. And he—Remmick—just stood there in it, waiting. He didn’t speak again. Didn’t beg. His shoulders stayed tense, and his eyes, though tired, never left your face.

But you saw it now—in the tight line of his mouth, the slight tremble in his fingers.

He was afraid you wouldn’t.

And somehow, knowing that gave you back a little of your breath.

It was strange. You thought when this moment came—if it ever came—you’d slam the door in his face. Or scream. Or cry. But instead, you just felt tired. Like your heart had been holding its breath for five years and was only now remembering how to exhale.

You stepped back.

Not far. Just enough.

The invitation was wordless at first—a shift in posture, the gentlest yielding of space. But that wasn’t enough. Not for him. Not for what he was.

He still couldn’t move.

Your mouth was dry. Your tongue felt too big in your mouth. But your voice came anyway, low and almost uncertain.

“Come in.”

The wind hushed outside, as if it had been waiting too.

Remmick moved before you could second-guess yourself. One step—and then another—and then he was inside. He passed the threshold like it hurt. Like the warmth of your little home singed him where the cold of the world had frozen in. His shoulders relaxed, just barely. And for a heartbeat, he looked almost human.

He stood there in the middle of your living room, eyes wide, as if he were trying to memorize everything—the low flame in the hearth, the scent of rosemary drying on the windowsill, the chipped mug you’d left on the table.

Then his gaze returned to you.

You didn’t know what he saw. Maybe the same girl from five years ago. Maybe someone new. Maybe both. He didn’t speak. Neither did you.

But it was enough, for now, that he was in.

He closed the door gently behind him.

The sound echoed like the end of a chapter.

You stood across from him, arms still crossed, unsure what to do with the ache in your chest or the ghosts in the room. He didn’t reach for you. He didn’t ask for your hand. But his eyes—God, his eyes—still looked at you like he was waiting for the moment he could breathe again.

“Thank you,” he said, voice hoarse. “For letting me.”

You nodded once. “Don’t thank me yet.”

The kettle had gone quiet again.

You turned from him and went to the stove, reaching for it with hands steadier than they should’ve been. The heat kissed your knuckles as you moved the kettle, refilled the mug you’d left half full. You didn’t ask if he wanted tea. You weren’t ready for that.

Behind you, Remmick loitered—that was the only word for it—near the kitchen table. He didn’t sit. He hovered with his fingertips just barely grazing the back of one of the chairs, his shoulders rigid, his body angled like he still wasn’t sure if he belonged.

He didn’t know where to stand. Where to be.

You remembered that about him—even before he left. For all the quiet confidence he wore like armor, there was always something uneasy in him when he stepped too close to warmth. He didn’t know what to do with gentleness. Or with silence that wasn’t threatening.

You stirred honey into the tea. It gave you something to do with your hands. Something to focus on besides the way his presence filled the space like a second heartbeat.

“Are you going to sit?” you asked finally.

He blinked. “Should I?”

You turned, met his eyes. “You’re not just a shadow on the porch anymore.”

After a second, he pulled out the chair and sat—slowly, cautiously, like the wood might protest. His hands rested on the table, pale and long-fingered, one thumb absently rubbing over the knuckle of the other.

You set the mug down across from him. You didn’t sit. Just leaned against the counter, arms folded again, the ache in your chest blooming slow.

And then you asked it.

The question that had been pressing against your lips since the moment you opened the door.

“Why are you here, Remmick?”

Remmick didn’t answer.

Not right away.

His eyes flicked down to the grain of the table, then back to you. You saw the war inside him—the way his mouth opened and closed, the way he leaned forward like he was going to speak, then pulled back like the words were teeth.

You thought he might lie. Or say something vague. Something that would spare both of you.

But he didn’t.

“I came back for you.”

The room stopped moving.

His voice wasn’t soft, not really. It was low and certain—like a verdict handed down after years in silence. You stared at him, every part of you taut with disbelief and heat. And maybe—maybe—some part of you had longed to hear it. But it wasn’t enough. Not after all this time.

“Why’d it take you so long?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

He flinched.

A sharp fang found its way into his bottom lip. You saw it clearly—the slight glint of enamel just before it bit down, hard enough that blood might’ve bloomed if he still bled like you. Then, with enough force to give even the undead a headache, he wrenched his head away from you, eyes turned to the wall like it had something safer to offer than your face.

“I told you,” he snapped. The words came through gritted teeth, sharp, strained—not angry, but barely held together. “I had to leave.”

He didn’t look at you.

Didn’t look at anything, really, except the knots in the old table where his palms pressed flat, white and firm. He leaned forward, using it to brace himself like the truth was too heavy to hold upright on his own.

And maybe it was.

But that didn’t soften anything in you.

Your feet moved before you realized it. Across the floor. Slow, quiet steps until you were close—close enough to feel the cold that came off his skin, close enough to see the fraying thread of guilt stretching between his shoulders.

“You ain’t utter those words to me,” you said, and the tightness in your voice surprised even you. “You didn’t say nothin’. Just… left.”

He didn’t move.

Your eyes traced the curve of his neck, the tension locked in his jaw. The scent of him rushed forward unbidden—dirt, pine, and that same death-like cold that always made you shiver, even before you knew what he was. It hit you like it always did—grounding, haunting, familiar.

You hated how much it still felt like home.

“You could’ve said something,” you whispered. “Anything.”

“I know,” he said.

But it didn’t sound like surrender. It sounded like a man swallowing a knife just to prove he deserved it.

You were so close now. His body tensed with your nearness, but he still didn’t look at you. As if facing you fully would make this all too real. As if your eyes were the final punishment.

“You kissed me like you were going to stay,” you said, and it came out too soft, too bitter.

His hands curled tighter on the table.

“I wanted to.”

“Then why didn’t you?”

The question landed like a stone.

Remmick let out a breath — quiet, but jagged. For a moment, the silence thickened again. His head still bowed, his fangs still peeking out slightly from where his teeth clenched. Then, finally, he looked at you.

He didn’t answer right away.

Instead, he turned and looked down at the table, eyes flickering as if weighing whether to say what he hadn’t told anyone—maybe ever. His jaw shifted, but no words came.

You could feel something building in the silence, hot and wrong and old—not just guilt. Not just regret.

He was hiding something. Something big.

“Why’d you leave?” you pressed, your voice harder now, the hurt finally boiling over. “What were you even looking for?”

He still didn’t speak.

So you stepped closer.

Your voice dropped, sharp and low. “You said you came back for me. But that don’t mean much if you left in the first place to chase ghosts.”

That did it.

Remmick stood.

Abrupt. Tense. His chair scraped against the floor, and the sudden movement made the candlelight flicker in the glass. He walked to the other end of the table without looking at you, putting space between your bodies like he needed air—or maybe protection.

His side was to you now. One hand gripped the edge of the table, knuckles pale.

You didn’t let him off easy.

“Who did you need to find?” you asked. “What was more important than me?”

His shoulders tensed, his fingers curling tighter.

And then—suddenly, sharply—he turned.

“I had a mission long before I met you,” he snapped. “Don’t act like I was ever whole.”

You froze.

The words struck like thunder. They came from someplace deep—not just his chest, but his soul, what little of it was still tethered to this world.

“I’m not some romantic ghost story,” he said, voice thick with something between fury and despair. “I didn’t crawl out of the dark just to fall in love with a girl and settle down in some goddamn cottage. I’ve been alive for thirteen hundred years. Do you understand that? Thirteen. Hundred. Years.”

You stared at him.

His chest rose and fell—not from breath, not really. From emotion. From centuries unspoken.

“I was cut off,” he said, quieter now. “Spiritually. Whatever gave other people peace—prayer, bloodlines, death rites—it abandoned me. When I died, something severed. My people… they’re gone. And I can’t feel them. I can’t reach them.”

He looked down. His voice broke like something old inside him cracked loose.

“I had to go looking. I thought maybe, just maybe, there was someone—somewhere—who could help me reconnect. A seer, a walker-between-worlds, a blood priest who still remembered what it meant to be part of something older. I had to try.”

You didn’t speak. You couldn’t.

Because for the first time, you saw it—really saw it—the full shape of his exile. Not from the world. But from his own legacy. His ancestors. His people. His place in the story of everything.

You watched him, chest burning.

And he said, softer now, “I needed to know if I could still belong to anything.”

The silence after was unbearable.

It wasn’t just pain in his voice now. It was loneliness so ancient it smelled of blood and salt and fire.

The room felt colder now.

Not from the night air—the door was shut tight, and the fire still flickered steady in the hearth, but from the quiet. From the way his words seemed to cling to the walls, to the wood grain beneath your bare feet. They filled the space like smoke.

You didn’t move. Not toward him. Not away.

Just stood there, arms limp at your sides, fingers twitching uselessly as if they were supposed to reach for something but didn’t remember how.

He didn’t turn back to look at you.

He stood by the table, spine drawn taut, as if afraid that facing you would undo what little dignity he had left. His hand pressed flat to the table like he needed something solid to keep from breaking.

You’d never seen him like this.

Not even back then—when he kissed you like you were the first thing he’d ever wanted just because he wanted it. Back then, he was quiet, yes. Sad, sometimes. But this—this was different. This was something hollow and hurting and ancient.

You swallowed hard. Your voice didn’t come.

All you could hear was the wind outside, the slow pop of a log in the fire, and the quiet thud of your heartbeat behind your ribs.

He was thirteen hundred years old.

And for thirteen hundred years, he had walked in the skin of the forgotten—untethered, unseen, unclaimed by the very people he once bled for. That kind of grief didn’t pass. It settled in the bones. It made a home there.

And you hated him for leaving. You did.

But now, watching the rigid line of his back, hearing the strain in his voice, you realized something.

You weren’t the only thing he’d abandoned.

He’d been running from himself long before he ever touched your mouth with his.

And that was almost worse.

Your throat ached. But you said nothing.

You let the silence stretch—not as punishment, but as a kind of mourning. For what he’d lost. For what you never had a chance to hold. For what neither of you knew how to name.

And he just stood there, in the quiet, like a statue of a man still waiting for the gods to speak.

You took a breath.

Slow. Unsteady.

And then you took a step.

Just one, toward him. Toward the man who now stood by your window like he’d forgotten how to be a person. The man who had finally cracked open the vault of his silence and spilled centuries across your floor. You didn’t know what you were going to do. Touch his arm, maybe. Say his name. Sit beside him and share the weight of what he carried.

But before you could take another step, he spoke again.

“…I shouldn’t’ve said all that.”

His voice was quieter now. Tighter. A sharp turn inward.

You froze mid-step.

He shook his head, one hand dragging roughly through his hair, fingers catching at the strands like he wanted to tear the words back out of the air. “Christ. You didn’t ask for any of that. I shouldn’t’ve—” he broke off, breath catching, jaw tightening again.

“You think I came back noble and bruised with purpose, but I’m not. I’m just—” he laughed once, but it was brittle. Empty. “I’m just tired. Tired of chasing ghosts. Tired of trying to outrun what I am.”

He turned slightly, just enough for you to see his face in profile. His lips parted, his brows drawn in, the gleam of his fang still barely visible where it caught the candlelight. There was something hollow in the way he held himself now—like all the certainty he had just minutes before had collapsed beneath the weight of your silence.

“I shouldn’t’ve come here,” he muttered. “Not like this. Not after what I left you with. I-I didn’t mean to drag you back into my ruins.”

Your chest tightened.

It wasn’t that he was angry. Not really. It was shame. Pure and bitter. The kind that turns into a blade when it sits too long. You saw it in the way he curled slightly inward, like he was bracing for rejection before you could even offer it.

He thought he’d said too much. Thought you’d turn away now, disgusted, or maybe worse—pitying.

You hadn’t even opened your mouth yet, and already he was retreating.

It hit you then—a sharp, sudden ache.

He expected to be unloved.

Even now.

You took another slow step forward.

“Remmick,” you said.

And his name in your voice—spoken softly, with nothing but weight and warmth—made his shoulders flinch like a wound had reopened.

He still didn’t turn.

You moved again.

Quieter this time.

No words followed his name—not yet. You didn’t have the right ones. You didn’t know if there were right ones. But your body moved on instinct. On ache. On the pull that had never left you, not even when the pain was freshest.

The floor creaked softly beneath your weight.

He didn’t react. Not to the sound. Not to your footsteps. He stayed still, staring out the window like maybe he could find his ancestors in the dark beyond the trees—like maybe if he didn’t look at you, this would hurt less.

You reached out.

Your hand trembled as it hovered for a breath above his arm—just above the worn leather of his coat. You hesitated. Not out of fear. But out of reverence.

Then you touched him.

Just a gentle press of your fingers to his forearm, near the bend of his elbow.

It was like touching stone that had once been warm. Cold, yes—always cold—but there was tension beneath the surface, something alive. Something trying not to fall apart. You felt him flinch, barely. A tightening of the muscle. A breath that never left his lungs.

“I don’t need perfect,” you said, quietly. “I never did.”

His head turned slightly, but still not all the way. His eyes shifted toward you, not quite meeting yours, as if afraid he’d see disappointment in them.

“You think you ruined me,” you whispered, thumb gently brushing the sleeve beneath your palm. “But the truth is, you didn’t break nothin’ that wasn’t already cracked.”

That made him go still.

You stepped closer—so close now, your chest nearly touched his arm. Your voice trembled, but you didn’t pull back.

“You came back to your ruins, you said. Well, you’re lookin’ at one. I ain’t been whole since the night you left. And I hate that. I hate that you still live in me like a ghost I can’t exorcise.”

A pause.

“But I still touched you.”

Remmick finally turned.

Not fast. Not dramatic. Just a slow, tired movement of a man surrendering to gravity. His face tilted down toward yours, the candlelight catching his cheekbone, the sadness in his mouth, the storm in his eyes.

Your hand stayed on his arm.

He looked at it. Then at you.

He didn’t speak.

Didn’t have to.

Because your touch was saying everything neither of you could voice just yet—that the wound was still there. That the pain was real. But so was the longing. So was the tether that no silence, no time, no centuries of grief could quite sever.

The silence held—but it shifted.

It thickened into something breathless. Something just barely tethered to the ground. Your hand still rested on his arm, but you weren’t sure when your fingers had curled slightly, holding him now, not just touching. And he wasn’t looking at the floor anymore.

He was looking at you.

Not just your eyes—but your mouth. Your breath. Your face like it was something he’d spent a century dreaming of and wasn’t sure was real even now. His gaze moved slowly, reverently, and your heart kicked in your chest so hard it hurt.

You didn’t move.

Didn’t blink.

And then, so gently it barely registered at first, Remmick leaned in.

His head tilted slightly, the space between your bodies trembling as he moved toward you with all the hesitation of a man who’d once had this—and lost it. His brow hovered near yours, and he didn’t touch you anywhere else. Not your cheek. Not your waist. Just that one arm beneath your hand, steady like a bridge between lifetimes.

His breath ghosted over your lips.

He stopped—not even an inch away. And when he looked at you, really looked at you, you saw it.

The question.

Not in words. But in his eyes. In the tremble of his mouth. In the way he waited.

It was everything you hadn’t been able to say since he walked back into your doorway. All of the pain, the longing, the ache you’d buried in your chest and tried to forget—it was in that look.

You didn’t speak.

You just nodded.

Slow. Barely.

But enough.

And then he kissed you.

There was no rush. No hunger. No sharp edges. Just a deep, aching softness that carried five years of silence and the heavy press of what might have been. His lips were cool, as they always had been, but they warmed quickly against yours, molding with a kind of reverence that made your throat tighten.

He kissed you like a man who hadn’t touched anything real in centuries.

And you kissed him back like someone who’d waited every night for a knock that never came.

The kiss deepened slowly—his hand finally, finally lifting to your waist, careful like you were made of glass and grief. You reached up without thinking, fingers brushing along the line of his jaw, and felt the shiver that ran through him at your touch.

It wasn’t just want.

It was remembrance.

And surrender.

And hope.

And the question that pulsed between both of your mouths as you breathed each other in:

Can this still be ours?

When the kiss broke, it was slow, like neither of you wanted to part—just enough to draw breath. His forehead rested lightly against yours. His hand stayed at your waist.

The silence after the kiss wasn’t empty.

It buzzed.

Low and hot, like a wire pulled tight between your bodies. You could feel the echo of his mouth on yours, the cold of his lips warming against you, the tremor in his breath where it touched your cheek. And you knew—without words, without doubt—that he felt it too.

He didn’t speak.

He didn’t ask.

But his hand stayed at your waist, and when his forehead slipped gently against yours again, the smallest sigh escaped him—something between relief and admiration.

Then he kissed you again.

Softer this time. Slower. A question with a fuller answer.

Your hands found their way to his chest, feeling the stillness beneath. No heartbeat. No rise or fall of breath the way a human’s would move. But he felt alive all the same—alive in the way he touched you now, in the way his other hand slipped up along your spine, fingers splaying wide at the middle of your back to draw you closer.

You let him.

You melted into the cold of him like it had never left you. Like it had always been yours to return to.

He pulled you tighter, and his kiss deepened—not urgent, not rushed. Just full. Like a long drink after drought. Like he was afraid of overwhelming you but hungrier than he’d ever admit.

You didn’t realize you were moving until your back touched the edge of the kitchen table.

His body had pressed yours backward, his steps slow, deliberate, until the wood met your spine. You gasped softly into his mouth at the contact—not from pain, but from the thrill of knowing he was still following you. Still wanting you. Still choosing this, after all the years lost.

Remmick’s hand slid down to your hip, firm but careful, like he still feared you might vanish if he held you too hard. His other hand brushed along your jaw, thumb stroking just beneath your ear as he pulled back just enough to look at you.

His eyes flicked between yours and your mouth, lips parted, fangs just barely visible now.

“You’re still warm,” he whispered, voice rough with ache.

You swallowed, heart thudding. “You’re still cold.”

A flicker of something passed through his expression—pain, longing, devotion all tangled together.

But then you wrapped your arms around his neck and pulled him down again.

And this time, when your mouths met, it wasn’t just a kiss.

It was reclamation.

It was every unfinished second. Every breathless night. Every aching dream you’d forced yourself to forget.

His hands roamed now—not frantic, not wild— just slow, admiring. He touched your waist, your ribs, the dip of your spine as if relearning a place he thought he’d never feel again. You clutched at his coat, fingers curling into the fabric, anchoring him to you.

His hips pressed closer, and you felt it—the tension he carried, the restraint he held onto with every ounce of control he had. He could’ve taken more. But he didn’t. He waited.

Letting you decide how far this went.

His breath shuddered against your throat as he kissed along the edge of your jaw, your neck, pausing just above the pulse point, fangs hovering—not touching, not daring.

“Tell me to stop,” he whispered, voice hoarse, barely more than breath. “Tell me now, an’ I will.”

But you didn’t.

You tilted your head back, eyes closed, hands tightening around his shoulders, and your body answered for you.

You didn’t tell him to stop.

And that silence—that permission—made something shift in him.

He kissed you deeper now, fuller, his hand sliding beneath the hem of your dress, fingers tracing the warmth of your waist like he was trying to map what had changed in five years… and what hadn’t. You weren’t sure when your breathing had quickened, only that it matched his now—uneven, shallow, as if the two of you were speaking in rhythm without words.

His coat rustled softly as your fingers pushed it from his shoulders, and he let it fall, never once breaking the kiss. The chill of his skin bled through his shirt, but you didn’t care. You wanted him closer. You pulled at him. Needed more of him, not just the memory, not just the ache.

His mouth left yours briefly, trailing along your jaw, your neck, the hollow of your throat. He moved slow—as if he were reminding himself this wasn’t a dream. That this was now. You felt the press of his lips where your pulse beat hard, and though his fangs hovered, they never broke the skin.

“I missed this,” he whispered into your neck. “I missed you.”

The way he said it—strained and quiet, almost broken—made your fingers tighten at the nape of his neck. You guided his mouth back to yours, and this time the kiss was hungrier. Not rushed, but desperate in a way that only years of loneliness could explain.

Then he reached down.

His hands slid beneath your thighs.

Your breath caught.

And with a strength that made you feel small in the safest way, he lifted you.

You gasped softly into his mouth, hands clinging to his shoulders, and before you could say a word, your back met the cool wood of the kitchen table. His body stood between your legs, eyes hooded, breath shaking, the tension in him almost unbearable.

But he paused again.

Always waiting for you.

His hands pressed to your hips, thumbs brushing small circles there, grounding himself.

“Is this alright?” he asked, voice low, almost lost.

You looked at him and there was no monster before you. No ghost. No predator. Just Remmick. Cold and trembling and human in all the ways that mattered.

And you nodded.

“Yes,” you whispered. “It’s alright.”

He leaned forward again, and when his lips found yours this time, there was no more hesitation.

Only the steady unraveling of everything you’d both buried, finally rising to the surface—breath by breath, touch by touch.

His hands never rushed.

Even now, with your body perched on the edge of the kitchen table and your breath coming in soft, uneven bursts, Remmick touched you like you were still something holy. Like each part of you had to be reacquainted with his palms, his mouth, his memory. His fingers splayed wide along your hips, thumbs grazing bare skin, cool and steady as he stood between your legs.

You drew him closer with your thighs, wrapping around his waist without needing to ask. He came willingly—as if that was where he’d always belonged. His mouth found yours again, slower this time. No longer asking. Simply being.

The kiss was deeper now—mouths open, breath shared, the weight of his body pressing gently between your knees as he leaned in. You tilted your head to meet him, hands sliding beneath his shirt to find the skin of his back. Cold, yes—but firm, strong. Familiar. You mapped each line with your palms like a song you never forgot how to hum.

When he pressed forward, you arched to meet him.

Your bodies fit in a way that felt fated—not perfect, but true. Like two lives made jagged by time and grief finally finding alignment again.

Clothes slipped away slowly, piece by piece, not in a frenzy but with reverence. You felt his hesitation every step of the way—not from doubt, but from awe. As if he still couldn’t believe you were here. That you were letting him stay. Letting him have this.

And yet you were.

Because your fingers trembled as they undid the buttons of his shirt. Each one undone slowly, like he was afraid to rush the moment. Like he needed to memorize every inch of you he uncovered.

You watched him.

The way his eyes drank you in, like you were light after centuries in shadow. The way his lips parted with something like awe when your bare skin was revealed to him. And still, he moved carefully, never all at once. His hands slid up your ribs, along your waist, grounding himself in the warmth he could never possess fully, but still longed for.

And when he leaned down again, pressing kisses to your collarbone, to your sternum, to the top of your stomach, he sighed against your skin like he had finally found his way home.

You arched into him.

Not to provoke, but to be nearer. To give him more.

His hands curled beneath your thighs again, lifting you further onto the table, angling your hips with the slow precision of someone not rushing toward lust but toward remembrance. His forehead pressed to yours again, and his lips hovered over your mouth as your fingers pushed his shirt aside, revealing the cool, unchanging skin beneath.

“Are you sure?” he whispered, his hands gathering up your dress so that it hiked up to your waist.

It wasn’t lust that cracked his voice.

It was the weight of everything he was, everything he carried, terrified that this was just one more dream he would wake from.

You nodded. Slow. Sure.

And then his body met yours—fully, completely—a slow, reverent joining. Not fast. Not rough. But steady and aching and real. His lips found your mouth again, and this time there was no space between you.

The table creaked gently beneath the shift of bodies. Your breath mingled with his. His hands moved beneath your thighs and along your waist with worshipful care, every touch a vow. Every press of skin a memory rewritten. His fangs, now elongated and aching, ghosted over your flushed skin.

The rhythm built gradually—not frantic, but inevitable. Like tides returning to shore. His eyes stayed on yours, even as pleasure pulled at his features, even as your hand tangled in his hair and your hips met his with slow, desperate need. You felt the tremble in him. The restraint. The sorrow and relief wrapped around every motion.

It wasn’t about hunger.

It was about returning.

It was about touching someone who was gone for too long, and finding they still lived in the same rhythm as your heart.

You gasped his name once—broken, breathless—and he kissed the sound from your mouth like it was sacred.

And when it ended, you didn’t move right away.

You stayed wrapped in him, arms around his shoulders, his forehead pressed to your temple, both of you breathing the same air like it would keep the world from spinning too fast.

The world was still spinning when you exhaled.

Your body felt heavy and soft all at once, your skin flushed with the afterglow of everything he gave you—and everything you gave him in return. Remmick’s weight rested against you, not crushing but grounding, his chest pressed to yours, his arms still curled tightly around your back like he couldn’t bear to let you go.

You were still joined.

Still breathing him in.

And for a moment, everything felt… quiet.

Then you felt his mouth against your neck.

Not kissing. Not gentle.

Just resting there. Fangs pressing against your skin.

At first, you thought it was comfort. Some strange kind of closeness. But then his grip shifted—tighter. His breath warmed your throat. His jaw twitched.

And then he whispered.

“I’m not leaving without you again.”

The words made your breath catch.

“What…?” you murmured, dazed, unsure what he meant. Your fingers twitched against his shoulders , mind still hazy from the rush of it all.

Then you felt it.

A shift in his mouth.

A pressure.

His fangs, barely-there at first, began to press in.

Slow. Deliberate.

The pain didn’t come immediately. It was the realization first. The sickening clarity. The way your body tensed in warning before your mind could even process the threat.

“No,” you breathed.

You pushed at his chest.

He didn’t move.

“Remmick,” you said louder, urgency breaking through your haze. “No.”

But he growled.

Low. Deep. From somewhere far older than the man you knew. It vibrated through his chest, into your ribs. And his grip tightened.

Your spine arched slightly under the pressure as he pressed closer, mouth still hovering at your neck, fangs teasing the edge of skin. You felt the warm slide of drool—thick, inhuman—spill from his mouth onto the curve of your collarbone.

He wasn’t biting.

Not fully.

Not yet.

But he was on the edge.

You shoved harder against him, eyes wide. “Remmick—!”

You felt the tremor in his body—not weakness, but restraint beginning to fray.

He wasn’t speaking now. Just breathing—shallow, irregular, mouth still pressed to your neck like he could already feel your blood humming beneath the skin.

“Remmick,” you whispered again, this time not just with fear, but with sorrow.

And still, he didn’t move.

His arms locked tighter around your waist, not crushing, but binding. His chest rose and fell against yours, colder than it should be, but shaking like a man on the edge of breaking.

You tried again, pressing harder at his chest. “Let go.”

But his growl deepened.

It wasn’t rage.

It was need.

Low and guttural and mournful—like something ancient had cracked open in him and was spilling out.

His breath dragged heavily along your neck, lips trembling now as his fangs hovered just above your skin. Not plunging in. Just pressing. Threatening. Tasting what could be his.

And then—a whisper.

Hoarse. Barely spoken.

“I can’t lose you again.”

You froze.

He wasn’t talking to you like a lover now. He was talking to you like a man speaking to a god. Or a ghost. Or the last fragment of a life he never got to keep.

His grip trembled, but he didn’t let go.

“You don’t understand,” he murmured, his voice cracking. “You’ll die. You’ll leave me. You’ll vanish like the rest. And I-I can’t—”

His words broke apart.

And you realized then: he didn’t just want to taste you.

He wanted to turn you.

His desperation wasn’t about blood.

It was about keeping you. Binding you to him. Forever.

As one of his own.

As something that could never slip away in the passage of time.

His fangs pressed in again, slower this time. As if this act would save him. As if you could be his answer, his redemption, his final tether to something real.

You pushed harder, panic flaring, voice trembling. “Remmick—no. Not like this.”

But he didn’t pull away.

His jaw twitched.

His breath stuttered against your skin.

He was close.

So close.

And still, somewhere in his silence—you felt the war inside him.

Because he didn’t want to hurt you.

He wanted to keep you.

But keeping you meant crossing a line he had vowed never to cross. A line soaked in blood. A line he had watched destroy love before.

You were right there—body against his, heartbeat beneath his lips—and still, he hesitated.

Your heart was pounding loud enough for him to feel it. You knew he could—the way his body stayed pressed to yours, the way his mouth hovered at the pulse in your neck like it called to him. Your blood wasn’t just scent anymore—it was music, and he was being dragged into it note by note.

You felt it.

In his breath.

In the tremble of his lips.

In the restraint that was fracturing.

You were losing him.

Not Remmick the man. The lover. The ghost that came back through your door.

But Remmick the thing beneath.

And still—even through your fear—you knew this wasn’t cruelty.

It was longing. It was need. It was the desperate, cloying ache to keep you forever, wrapped in the only kind of permanence he understood. You weren’t dying—not yet—but you could, and that was unbearable to him.

So you did the only thing you could.

You reached up—slowly, deliberately—and you cupped his face.

Your hand shook.

But your touch was sure.

Your fingers pressed into his jaw, your thumb brushing the corner of his mouth, right where the fang pressed against his lip. “Look at me,” you whispered, voice thick. “Remmick, look at me.”

He stiffened.

Your voice cracked.

“Don’t do this. Please. Not like this.”

And for a moment—for a terrifying, suspended second, nothing happened.

Then, with a sound halfway between a growl and a gasp, Remmick ripped his head back.

A jagged sound tore from his throat—part growl, part cry, as if he hated himself for what he almost did. His chest heaved even though he didn’t need the air. His fangs glinted in the low firelight. His eyes glowed red—sharp and unnatural, too ancient for the face that had once looked at you like you were soft and holy.

But he didn’t run.

He stood there, trembling.

And then… slowly… he stepped forward again.

Not to take. Not to finish what he started.

But to ground himself.

he pressed his forehead to yours.

Your breath hitched, hands gripping the fabrics of your dress that you pushed back down over your knees.

You could still feel the heat where he had nearly sunk into you. Still feel the weight of his body, the tremble in his arms. And yet here he was now—no longer devouring, no longer pressing. Just holding. Just… there.

And for a moment, you were both still.

Two bodies suspended in silence.

Your hand found his jaw again, gently, thumb brushing across the cool skin beneath the gleam of his eye. The red began to fade. Slowly. Dimly. Like the storm had passed, but not far enough to forget.

“I can’t stay,” he whispered.

The words cracked open something in your chest.

They weren’t harsh. They weren’t cold.

They were broken.

He was broken.

You closed your eyes. Tears burned at the edges, rising fast—not just from fear, or heartbreak, but from the awful understanding of what he meant. Why he meant it.

He was still dangerous.

Still not safe.

Not for you. Not for anyone. Especially when he wanted so much to love you the right way—but didn’t always know how to stop himself when the old hunger rose.

Your breath shook as you nodded.

Slow. Barely.

But enough.

Remmick pulled back just enough to look at you. Your eyes were glassy now, tears slipping quietly down your cheeks. He reached up to wipe one with the back of his hand—his touch featherlight, reverent.

“I’m sorry,” he said again, voice hoarse.

You gave a tiny shake of your head. “I know.”

And though nothing else passed between you in that moment—not words, not promises—the ache that filled the space said everything.

He couldn’t stay.

But he didn’t want to go.

And you?

You would’ve let him in again, even knowing it would hurt like this.

Because it was Remmick.

Because he’d always been the wound you never wanted to heal.

The silence hadn’t left.

It stayed between you, softer now, but heavier somehow—like dust settling after a storm. The fire in the hearth had burned low, casting long, flickering shadows against the kitchen walls. The kettle had gone cold.

You moved slowly, almost without thought, fingers trembling slightly as you tugged your dress down further and smoothed the wrinkles at your waist. Your legs still felt unsteady beneath you. You could feel where his hands had held you, where your bodies had fit together like they’d never stopped.

But all you could hear was the echo of his voice.

I can’t stay.

Remmick sat on the edge of a kitchen chair now, elbows on his knees, head bowed as he wiped his mouth and jaw with a clean rag you’d handed him. His shirt lay discarded beside him, crumpled and forgotten, its buttons undone, its sleeves twisted from where you’d pushed them aside in the heat of need.

Now, you lifted it with careful hands.

You didn’t speak. Neither did he.

You moved in front of him, the fabric trembling in your grip. He didn’t stop you when you stepped between his knees. He didn’t protest when you helped him slip his arms back through the sleeves, didn’t flinch as you began to rebutton the front of his shirt one small piece at a time.

Your fingers brushed his chest. Light. Steady.

Button by button.

And all the while, your mind wouldn’t stop echoing the same thing:

I can’t stay.

The words looped behind your ribs, behind your eyes, over the rhythm of your breath. You tried to swallow them down, to focus on the simple motion of fastening each button. But they came back, over and over again, louder in your bones than in the air.

I can’t stay.

He hadn’t said it like a man who wanted to go.

He’d said it like a man damning himself for having to.

Your fingers slowed near the middle of his chest. You lingered on the fourth button. Not because it was hard to fasten—but because your hands didn’t want to finish.

Didn’t want to reach the end of this moment.

Didn’t want to let it become past tense.

He looked up then.

His eyes weren’t glowing anymore. But the red still lingered at the edges, like the ghost of a fire that refused to die. He didn’t say anything. Just watched you.

And still, the words repeated in your head, cruel and unyielding.

I can’t stay.

You finished the last button.

And let your hand rest against his chest, just over where a heart would beat if it could.

You didn’t follow him to the door right away.

You stood in the kitchen, fingers still curled around the front of his shirt. He hadn’t moved since you’d finished dressing him—like he was waiting for the moment to change, for time to bend backward and offer something kinder.

But it didn’t.

So eventually, he stood.

His movements were slow, precise—like he feared if he moved too fast, something inside him might splinter. His coat was draped over the chair. He lifted it in silence, shaking the folds loose, slipping it back over his shoulders like armor.

You followed.

Each step toward the door felt heavier than the last.

Outside, the wind had died down. The moon was low. The trees stood like sentinels, dark and unmoved, watching the threshold where you stood with him one final time.

He opened the door slowly.

The air outside was cold, but not cruel. It whispered through the open frame, brushing against your face like breath. And still, neither of you spoke.

He stepped out onto the porch, boots creaking on the worn wood.

Then he paused.

He turned—just slightly—his profile bathed in moonlight, casting his cheekbone and jaw in pale silver.

And he looked at you.

There was something sharp in his eyes, even now. Not hunger. Not danger.

Just grief.

You saw the way he hesitated—the way his body leaned slightly toward you, the way his mouth parted, and his gaze dropped once, just once, to your lips. You saw the way he almost stepped forward.

But then his shoulders pulled back.

And his eyes closed.

“I want to kiss you,” he said, voice barely a whisper. “Gods, I want to.”

You didn’t speak. Your breath hitched.

“But if I do…” he opened his eyes again, gaze full of something raw, unnameable, “I won’t leave.”

A pause.

“And I have to.”

Your throat burned.

Your chest ached.

But you nodded.

Slow. Hollow.

Because you understood.

If he kissed you again, it would unmake him.

So instead, he just looked at you—like he was memorizing your face. Like he was taking your breath with him. Like he’d already begun to turn into a ghost again.

Then he stepped back into the night.

The wind pulled at the hem of his coat.

He didn’t look back.

He didn’t need to.

And you didn’t move.

You stayed in the doorway long after he disappeared into the dark, eyes burning, breath held—listening for the sound of his footsteps in the leaves, already knowing you wouldn’t hear them.

He was gone.

Again.

And this time, he didn’t even take your kiss.

Only your heart.

[simphours]

JACK O'CONNELL as WALTER "LION" KAMINSKI in JUNGLELAND (2019). [my edit gif, feel free to use :]

[simphours]

what do you think about Oliver taking readers virginity? Like obviously Connie fucked people before so with her he didn’t have to hold back too much but there’s poor little innocent reader basically begging him to fuck her and he has to be gentle. He won’t allow himself to be rough. Not that reader would mind because yeah they’re inexperienced but have you seen him? Virgins can be horny too, Oliver!

first of many

PAIRING: oliver mellors x innocent!reader

WARNINGS: mention of parental death, secret relationship, smut (18+), making out, p in v, oral (f receiving), fingering, belly bulge, creampie, almost corruption kink?, innocence, dirty talk, oliver is so sweet

WC: 2.1k

A/N: this ask just made my entire week, i will NEVER stop thinking about oliver mellors. this ending feels rushed but gawdddd i need that man

It was your third night at the gamekeeper’s cottage when you quietly let out, “I’ve never done anything like this before.”

Oliver was nearly completely taken by surprise. His frame already hovered over you, his fingers digging into your hips like no man had before. Sure, you’d kissed one before—one. He was a young boy from Tevershall who gave you a quick peck and nothing else.

You were older now, and Oliver wasn’t like the other boy at all. Whenever he kissed you, he did it with a fire that roared like the hearth of his cottage. It was warm and strong and powerful. He wasn’t afraid. You liked it. It’s why you almost pouted when he pulled away from you at the sound of your words.

He sat on his knees, his chest bare for you to place your hands on it, something you’d come to learn he liked. But you didn’t move to touch him, instead pulling his sheets up to your frame, suddenly cold without him. He looked away in thought. You mistook it for regret. “Oliver?” You blinked up at him.

After the war, it was crucial that you find a well-paying job to support your mother who’d been left lifeless in the absence of your father. The Chatterley’s had owned the mines in your town for your entire life, and Lady Chatterley was incredibly gracious hiring you as another maid. But the best part of your job wasn’t shopping for groceries or scrubbing linens in the wash room—it was the man you met while running your fingers in the creek one warm afternoon.

“Got himself in a predicament, I’d say,” one of the maids had said in the kitchen. “What, with Bertha Coutts running around with other men while he’s out at war?” The other women murmured and shook their heads in disapproval.

You knew he carried a great weight on his shoulders from his previous marriage—current marriage since she still hadn’t given Oliver the divorce he deserved. But whenever he was with you, that weight seemed to lift itself. He’d managed to sneak you around the Chatterley grounds, hidden in the woods and

“Oliver?” You said again, reaching for his hand and covering it with your palm.

He blinked at you with an expression you couldn’t read—lust, restraint, or confusion. Then, he looked down at your hand over his. When he turned it over, returning the gesture, you noticed his touch was softer than it had been on your hips just moments ago.

You leaned forward and sat up close to him so his nose brushed yours, guiding his hand to your waist just to feel something from him. You weren’t stupid just because you were a young woman—you knew that sex was more than a transaction of wealth like your mother and friends made it out to be. You wanted Oliver, you needed him in a depth of yourself that you didn’t know existed.

“It’s okay, Oliver,” you said sweetly. Oliver didn’t know there were still women in the world as sweet as you, and you were the only one he needed. His other hand cupped your cheek almost instinctively. “You don’t have to be afraid.”

A darkness overcame his eyes, but it wasn’t necessarily frightening. If anything, it consumed you with comfort. “Oh, I’m not afraid, love.”

Without a moment to waste—because he only got you for so long before you ran back to the manor—Oliver pressed your lips to his again. He immediately pushed you back onto the bed, but not roughly or sharply. It was a gentle nudge and he went down with you, the weight of him pressing against your chest and core. His hand moved from your hips to your belly to your chest.

He squeezed the flesh of your tit, eliciting a quiet gasp from your lips that disappeared into his. Other than the soft sounds of the sheets moving, the birds singing outside, and the occasional moan from you, the air was pleasantly silent. The moment was for the two of you and no one else.

With your eyes closed in ecstasy, you felt his lips leave yours only to feel them again your neck, trailing across your collar bone to where his hand kneaded your breast. “I’ve barely touched you,” he said against your skin. You writhed under his touch with desperation.

You’d never been one to be desperate.

“Oliver,” you breathed his name like a song. He didn’t care about anything else then.

“You need me, love?” Oliver didn’t look up at you. He replaces his hands with his lips and latches onto the small bud on your breast, rolling the other one between his fingers. Your back arches into him, only feeling his warmth even more, as you nod with a whine. “Where?”

Oliver, a married man aged by the war, had experience. He knew exactly where you needed him, and the fucker was teasing you for it. “You know where.” You said, cut off by a moan as he presses himself close to your core. Just the simple pressure on your brag that was aching for him was enough to practically feel your skin blooming.

“Right here?” He asked cheekily. Curse the small grin he gave you.

The air was cold on the spot where his mouth was as he moved further down your body. He didn’t waste a single space of you without placing a kiss so that his touch is never gone for too long. He didn’t stop lowering himself until his head hangs above your mound, and when he saw your most vulnerable spot, he moaned.

“You’re beautiful, (y/n),” Oliver praises you like you’re a painting in the Louvre or a flower in the field outside his cottage.

“What’re you doing?” You asked suddenly.

His hands rubbed over your soft thighs, falling a little bit in love with how they felt in his hands. He knew right there and then that this was one of his favorite places in the world. “Don’t think about it, darling,” Oliver said tenderly. “I can love you in more ways than one.”

Once you nod and lay yourself back down, he exhales a warm breath against you. You shudder. “Easy, lass,” he called you. You didn’t know what to expect, but it definitely wasn’t the feeling of his tongue flat against your folds. They didn’t necessarily need the wetness, but it was oh so beautiful to feel against you.

You could feel his tongue sharpen and soften against the right spots. Your hips and legs squirmed at the feeling of Oliver’s mouth essentially feeding off of you. His tongue moved mercilessly against the most important part of you.

Then, you suddenly felt something tracing the outline of your opening before slowly plunging itself inside of you. You’d never known what it’s like to be opened. To be spread apart and picked open like a ripened fruit.

“Oh,” you let out softly as if there was anyone nearby to hear you.

He pulled his finger away before sliding it in again, soon creating a gentle rhythm that leaves your pulse racing. “Feel nice?” He whispered, slightly muffled from leaning his head into your leg. You nodded rapidly, unable to form words. “Breathe, darling.” Oliver told you before he slowly added another finger.

Two of them now stretched you open. His arms wrapped themselves around your thighs to still your ragged movements. Your knuckles turned white as you clenched the sheets in your hand.

And despite the uncontrollable fever rising in your core, you thought to yourself, I could stay here for the rest of my life.

But the moment is cut short when Oliver pulled himself away. You let out an unexpected cry at the loss of contact, mainly because you felt like you were on fire. Oliver moved towards you and kissed you again, but this time, there was a strange taste on his lips.

“What is that?” You pulled away to ask.

His brows furrowed. “What?” But he could smell it from his own breath. The man fucking laughs, “It’s you.”

It isn’t the most pleasant thing in the world to you, though it was also the first time you experienced it. “And you enjoy it?”

Oliver’s fingers fumbled the slide off his trousers, leaving himself in nothing but his trunks. You’d never seen a man so exposed like this. Your eyes lingered over his frame, taking in the image of him like it would make it last longer.

“It’s the best fuckin’ thing I’ve ever tasted.” He took your hand and guided it to the last piece of clothing on his body. He nodded when you looked up at him, and you slowly pulled them down. You stopped at his knees from the sight of his length.

He was hard and smooth, apart from the small bump of a swollen vein on the side. Oliver watched as you gazed at him. He would’ve been lying if he said he didn’t enjoy it. He slowly moved himself over you, and placed your hand over him. It was heavy in your palm. “Oliver, I- I don’t think it’ll fit.” You said almost in exasperation.

A gentle hand rested the back of your head on his pillows as he took his own length and slid it through your slick. The tip rubbed against your already sensitive pearl, and you moaned from the pleasure shooting up your spine directly to your heart.

“It will, darling,” he pressed a kiss against your forehead before you felt that same stretch from earlier, only it was stronger.

A shiver racked through your spine as your eyes fluttered shut, gulping down a small, “Oh, my god.” Your hands flew to his shoulders, sliding down his back to feel the way his body flexed and released with every movement he made. He entered you so slowly but so perfectly.

“Atta girl,” he whispered into your ear with only the slightest bit of restraint in his voice. “Take it just like that, (y/n), that’s it.” He could’ve fucked you to sleep right there. He could’ve twisted your hair in his fist and pulled your hips to his so you felt him right in the center of you, but he didn’t.

Because, unlike most men and many of the gentleman you’d encountered, Oliver had a heart.

You could feel it beating against your own, two unsteady rhythms somehow matching to create melody only you could hear. He continued to push himself inside until you could feel the base flat against you, allowing for the perfect amount of pressure on your most sensitive spot.

“Feel alright, love?” He asked, gently brushing loose strands of hair stuck to your face from the thin sheet of sweat on your skin. Oliver took your hand from his shoulder and placed it over your lower belly.

With one swift move, he retracted his hips so you felt nearly entirely empty before pushing himself into you again. Your mouth parted open, followed shortly by a delayed gasp at how euphoric something could feel. “Feel me right there,” he practically instructed you. And you could feel him. Just the slightest bulge with every thrust he gave you.

He didn’t quicken his movements any more, though if you could scramble to form words, you’d be begging for it. You only nodded in response, small whimpers falling from your mouth as Oliver’s hips began staggering. “Don’t stop,” you managed to say.

You could feel him shake his head against you. His chest rose with heavy breaths. “I won’t stop,” he said, partially to you and to himself. Feeling you clench around him everytime he fully covered himself again in your warmth was maybe the best thing he’d ever known.

And he didn’t stop. Not even when you felt his release shooting inside you, moaning into his hair as that euphoric feeling coursed through your body again. He felt it coat him in a hot slick.

Once he pulled himself away, the mixture from both of your climaxes dripped out of you. You sat up curiously and looked down only to feel a slight burn around where he’d stretched you. You gave a small wince and nothing else; it was slowly becoming a pleasurable pain.

“Now here, love,” he said. You looked up to see him leaning back on his arm, and in between his legs, his cock was still a solid weight in his lap. He stroked it lazily as if he was waiting for something better. “We’re not finished yet.”

[simphours]

SAS: Rogue Heroes | 2.02