bitter-post-millennial

[bitter-post-millennial]

NANA WHITTY

The Farm Boi Series: Virtue - Dennis Whitaker x Reader

Tagging: @kmc1989 @cosmic-psychickitty @sargeant-sad-eyes @caffeinatedwoman @hooks-martin

Summary: Dennis's mom makes her distaste for you known.

Companion piece to:

Peppermint - The taste of peppermint will always have a special place in Dennis’s heart.

The Morgue Thing - A miscommunication between you and Dennis almost ends things before they begin.

Written In The Stars - Your first date with Dennis takes place underneath the stars.

In The Park - Dennis reveals a secret after the two of you spend the night together in the park.

Virgin - There’s a rumour going around about Dennis.

Debauched (NSFW) - Karaoke night ends a lot differently than it did the first time around.

Symphony (NSFW) - Dennis has never eaten pussy before…

Pretty Boy (NSFW) - You and Dennis take the next step in your relationship.

Firsts (NSFW) - Dennis experiances alot of firsts during your first night together.

Permanent Marker - You find out about the betting pool.

Denny’s To Do List - Dennis realises he’s in the midst of a sexual awakening.

The Porn Boom (NSFW) - Dennis isn’t like the other man you’ve been with.

Bite (NSFW) - Dennis doesn’t mean to edge you.

Wild Flowers - A crown of wildflowers leads you and Dennis to discuss the issues he has with his family.

A Friend of Denny’s - Your relationship with Dennis takes a turn when his parents come to town.

A Cold Day In Hell - Dennis tries to make amends for his actions.

Gardens of Babylon - Dennis has made his choice, now it's time for you to make yours.

My Future Wife - Dennis makes a promise to you at Jana's celebration of life event.

Dennis’s mom hates you.

It’s abundantly clear from the way her face falls when you step into the arrivals lounge alongside Dennis. The ‘Doctor Denny’ sign lowers and her eyes narrow as her gaze falls down to your entwined fingers. The thing is you know that Dennis has told her that you were accompanying him on this trip, the evidence is standing right next to her in the form of Nana Whitty who is holding her own sign with your name written on it, decorated with hearts and sparkles.

You’ve been here a grand total of 30 seconds and already you want her to adopt you.

“It’s lovely to finally meet you Lola.” She says gathering you up into a hug that makes your bones creak. She’s a strong little thing at 5’2, she clasps you to her like you’re a long lost family member. “The screen on my phone doesn’t do you justice.”

There is no such greeting from Mrs Whitaker. She embraces Dennis and ignores you completely before taking off towards the parking lot, expecting the three of you to follow. Nana Whitty rolls her eyes before linking her arm through yours and telling you about the new baby bison that’s just been born named Phyllis.

You’ve been driving through town for ten minutes when Mrs Whitaker pulls the truck over outside the Charles Wesley Motor Lodge. You can see Dennis’s confusion as he looks up at the building from the backseat. The place has an old highway motel feel and outside décor that’s not been updated since the sixties. You shudder to think about what the rooms must be like inside.

“Lola will have to stay here.” Mrs Whitaker informs the both of you. “There isn’t enough room at the house with the wedding and everything.”

“She can stay in my room-” Dennis protests but his mom is already raising her hand cutting him off.

“I know the two of you are living in sin back in Pittsburgh but that’s not the way we conduct ourselves out here Dennis, you know that.” She rebukes him with a harshness that’s unwarranted.

“Alright.” Dennis says unfastening his seat belt. “Then I guess I’m staying here too.”

“Dennis, you’re being a child.” His mom tells him. “We need you at the house for the wedding prep-”

“No mom, I’m being an adult.” He responds his hand coming to rest on the door handle, gripping it so hard his knuckles turn white. “I’m making my own choices and my choice is her, you really need to come to terms with that.”

Mrs Whitaker tuts as she twists around in the front seat to face him.

“You’ve turned into a very rude young man Dennis.” She snaps at him. “You used to be such a good boy. Before you left Nebraska you wouldn’t have dreamed of giving up your virtue to the first pretty young thing that came along.”

It occurs to you then that Mrs Whitaker thinks you stole Dennis’s virginity, that her farm boy came to the big city and was seduced by some harlot with a nipple piercing, that likes to sing Joan Jett on karaoke nights. It must dawn on Nana Whitty too because she throws back her head and cackles like a witch as you try to hide a smile.

“I hate to break it to you Shirley but there is not a single one of your boys that remain pure. I caught Lowell in the basement at church when he was eighteen teaching Sally McNamara how to hit the high notes during choir practice. At least these two are in a committed relationship.” Nana Whitty jerks her thumb at the both of you in the back seat. “I thought you’d be a shrew about this so I’ve set up the guest room at my farmhouse. They are welcome to stay there so long as Dennis promises to fix up the shit that Charlie’s been too henpecked to do since all this wedding nonsense started.”

“I would be happy to do that Nana.” Dennis says, removing his palm from the door handle. “And thank you for being so supportive to both me and the love of my life.”

You see Mrs Whitaker rile at that, her eyebrows shoot up into her bangs before she turns off the engine of the truck, undoes her seatbelt and shoves open the driver’s side door.  

“Don’t bother coming back to the farm.” She snarls as she hops out the front seat, leaving the keys dangling in the ignition. “As long as you’re with her you aren’t welcome there.”

“Don’t worry they won’t.” Nana Whitty calls after her through the open window as she slips into the driver's seat. “I’ll host all the boys at mine instead, they’re dying to meet their brother’s girlfriend.”

She turns the key in the ignition and the engine revs to life as you watch Mrs Whitaker storm off towards the centre of town.

“Oh man, she’s gonna put a pillow over my face while I sleep isn’t she?” You mutter as Nana Whitty skids away from the curb, directing the vehicle towards the outskirts of town.

“Yeah.” Dennis sighs, turning around in his seat to watch his mother’s retreating form. “But at least I’ll be sleeping next to you, ready to fend her off.”

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Like My Work? - Why Not Buy Me A Coffee

[bitter-post-millennial]

Prim likes to catch Katniss up on all the gossip she missed while away on her hunting trips

[bitter-post-millennial]

Make him suffer

You dream of a man with rough hands.

They move over your skin with the certainty of someone who’s done it a thousand times—someone who’s bled for the right. His palms are wide and calloused, like he’s spent whole lifetimes carving out places for you in the dark. He doesn’t touch you like a stranger. He touches you like a man who built you up, broke you, buried you—and never stopped coming back.

You don't know his name. But in the dream, he says yours like it’s sacred. Like it’s the only thing keeping him tethered to whatever soul he still has left.

He kneels between your legs, jaw tight, eyes darker than sin. His mouth is hot against the inside of your knee—soft, reverent. Your stomach pulls tight, breath catching in your throat.

“Mine,” he whispers into your skin. “Always been. Always will be.”

There’s a scar on his collarbone. Fresh, jagged. You don’t know how you know, but you gave it to him. A mark left in another life. One where you wore knives the way other women wore perfume.

You don’t know this man.

But in the dream, you know how he sounds when he’s falling apart.

He mouths down your thigh, murmuring filth like prayer, eyes half-lidded like this is the end of the world and he’s choosing to spend it between your legs. You should be afraid, you think you were, once—but all you feel now is heat and grief.

His hands tighten on your hips. His tongue moves like he remembers every time you've ever broke, just like this.

“Still taste like sin,” he growls, mouth full of you. “Still so fuckin’ mean.”

You writhe beneath him. You don’t know why you're crying. You don’t know why it hurts.

There’s a weight to it. A mourning. This isn’t the first time. This is never the first time.

“Don’t leave me again,” he says.

And it’s that line—that broken, gutted plea—that shatters the dream.

You wake gasping. Sheets twisted around you like chains. The room is cold but your body is slick with sweat, skin flushed and humming like a fever’s still clinging to you. Your heart hammers in your throat. Thighs aching.

You stare at the ceiling, blank-eyed, trembling. Hands no longer feeling like your own.

You've had dreams before. Vivid ones. Strange ones. But this—this was different. This felt real.

Like a life lost. Like a man you buried.

You don’t know him.

And still, you're sure—he’s looking for you.

a snippet of a fic im working on for remmick, its total au - remmick x reincarnated!reader bcuz i fell in love with the trope. its actually CRIMINAL. im thinking slowburn, angsty, smutty, pathetic remmick. obviously tf. comeing when? who knows omfg. but leave ur thoughts. working on my lion requests for this weekend but i had to share some of this with u guys <33

#NAV.ᐟ jack o'connell mlist. revenant mlist, au!remmick x reincarnated wife!reader

[bitter-post-millennial]

Holy shit

REVENANT MLIST.ᐟ

au!remmick x reincarnated!wife!reader

THERE ARE SOULS, ANCIENT AND RESTLESS, THAT REFUSE TO BE SILENCED BY DEATH'S COLD HAND.

They wander through time, shed like worn skin, slipping from one life into the next, tethered to a fate older than memory itself. These souls carry scars not just in flesh, but in the very fabric of their being — invisible threads that bind them to others, to places, to stories left unfinished. Reincarnation is no gentle cycle of rebirth, but a cruel inheritance. It’s the echo of a love that burned too bright to die quietly, the shadow of a betrayal never forgiven, the whisper of a promise broken across centuries. For some, it is a chance to heal. For others, a sentence — an unending dance of reunion and rupture, hope and despair.

For the cursed, the damned — those who walk between worlds— reincarnation twists even deeper. Creatures such as a vampire’s immortality is a cage of endless nights, but the human soul, bound by reincarnation, carries a weight that neither blood nor time can erase. When two souls are bound by unfinished business, no force can sever the tie. Neither death nor darkness can erase what time itself could not. They are doomed to meet, to clash, to crave, to resist, forever locked in the cruel beauty of a love that defies endings.

Reincarnation is not salvation—it is a promise and a curse. A promise that even across centuries, across lifetimes, some souls find each other again. A curse that until the final debt is paid, the cycle will never end. There is a cruel magic to the way the universe binds things that were never meant to die clean. Souls with unfinished business—souls caught mid-promise, mid-betrayal, mid-love—they do not rest. They are not allowed the mercy of forgetting. The world turns, yes, but it does not erase. It simply recycles.

And some of those souls come back. In different bodies. Different towns. Different decades. But they come back.

Vampirism is a curse of memory. Reincarnation is the curse of almost remembering.

And so they dance, century after century: She returns with dreams she cannot explain. And he waits, starved and reverent and wrong. Never able to touch her without bleeding. Never able to stop following the scent of her soul.

Because love—when cursed—does not fade. It rots slow. It burns gentle. It waits.

And Remmick has nothing but time.

INDEX. #NAV.ᐟ jack o’connell mlist

angel's note(s) - read before starting teaser (total chpts. ; UNDECIDED)

┌────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──────┐

visuals彡

remmick reincarnated!reader til death do us part

INDIVIDUAL WARNINGS WILL BE ADDED TO EACH PART. OVERALL WARNING LIST ; PENDING.

⋆｡°✩ i’ve decided i will be adding a tag list! comment on my teaser post to be added to it. *:・ﾟ

[bitter-post-millennial]

✷ PADDY X READER

⊹ A/N; just a quick something while i study,, nothing but filthy thoughts about paddy this is really just jack as paddy in general (looks/personality-wise he grabs me so hard by the balls every time he's on my screen i couldn't resist) but i feel the need to make it clear that i respect the character's queerness and acknowledge it 24/7 padoin come back to me - a gay person jump scare

⊹ WARNINGS; nsfw. AFAB reader. not proofread at all,, as always lazy bit-

⊹ MASTERLIST

=͟͟͞͞ ✧

“christ above- keep those legs open f’r me. don’t make me tell ye again.”

his voice was low, rough, the Irish thick in his throat from both whiskey and the way he was watching you- spread out, flushed and shaking, thighs trembling already after he’d dragged two orgasms out of you with nothing but his tongue and fingers. you couldn’t answer- not with how you were sobbing, chest heaving, slick pouring out of your spent cunt and onto the sheets.

and then came the first slap. directly to your soaked, swollen folds. that was enough to draw a scream from you, full throated and high pitched.

“oh, i fuckin’ knew ye’d like that,” he growled, grinning down at your ruined body. his palm came down again, another wet crack across your clit and lips, the sound obscene in the quiet room. louder still because of how squelchy you were- slick everywhere, thighs shiny, cunt weeping around nothing.

“look at ye,” paddy rasped, voice hoarse with want. another slap. another sob. you clawed at the sheets first, then at your own shirt. then his wrist when he pressed your thighs wide again, keeping you spread even as you tried to squirm away. your legs kept jerking, desperate to close, but he was stronger- far stronger- and you weren't going anywhere. “stay open f’r me,” he said again, tone sharper this time. “or i’ll start countin’.” another sharp smack to your cunt- right on the clit this time. you howled, hips jolting, hands flying to his forearm, trying to push him back but it was useless. his weight was pinning you down, and he was grinning like a madman now, drunk on the sight of you falling apart on his fingers.

“ye'r a fuckin’ mess,” he crooned, dragging his soaked fingers through your folds, pulling them apart to watch you fluttering. “poor thing can’t even take a wee slap without crying” you sobbed even louder, head tossing side to side, hips bucking helplessly when he landed another soft wet slap. the sound was filthy, so dirty... cunt squelching, slick dripping down your ass, mixing with the lewd slap-slap-slap of his palm. It made your humiliation worse, face burning as the tears came faster, your nails now dragging uselessly over your own belly, clutching at your shirt, at anything. “fuckin’ love this,” paddy groaned, his voice ragged. “are ye shy now? after the way ye soaked m’fuckin’ hand?” he murmured, tongue running over his bottom lip.

he dragged his fingers slow through your folds, spreading you apart again but this time with a filthy sort of reverence. “pretty thing ye are,” he breathed, thumb circling lazy over your soaked, twitching clit. “can’t stop flutterin’, can ye?” he kept you open. pressed your thighs wider with his other hand, letting you feel every brutal, overstimulated spank right on your clit, your slit, till your whole body was a quivering mess beneath him. “don’t hide from me now,” he rasped, thumb teasing down to your entrance. “ye were beggin’ f’r me, remember?” he pushed one finger in slow- just the tip- then dragged it back out, watching the way your pussy practically clung to it as if it were some lifeline, sucking at the retreating touch like it couldn’t bear to be empty. “ye want me t’fill ye again, yeah?” another slow drag through your folds. he leaned in close, breath hot over your slick cunt as he spoke against it, voice low and wrecked:

“might fuck ye on m’fingers like this… ‘til ye’re cryin’ f’r cock.”

and just for the fuck of it- he spat, right over your fluttering entrance- no quick little drop- slow, thick from his throat, a wet hawking sound first that made your whole body tense, knowing what was coming. it hit right on your entrance- hot and wet, landing with a filthy, audible splat. the glob of spit sat there a second- thick and milky, glistening in the dim light- pooled right against your flushed, swollen cunt. your hole twitched beneath it, fluttering from the raw overstimulation, the skin flushed red from the spanking, glistening from slick and spit alike. for a breathless second it hung there- sticky between your parted folds, clinging to the tender skin-before it began to ooze. he pushed two thick fingers in again, spreading you wide, the mix of spit and slick coating everything, making you squelch so loud it echoed through the room. he twisted, dragging his fingers back, spreading your folds apart again- just to watch the whole mess drip out.

he could get off on this alone. didn’t even need to sink his cock in. just this- watching you drip and twitch for him was enough to have him ready to blow.

[bitter-post-millennial]

I need to go on a walk

phantom of delight — joseph liebgott x fem! OC

Part VIII

title: You two are like Frick and Frack all a’ the sudden.

summary: Eleanor Verbeken had no qualms about jumping headfirst into a war zone— hell no, anything to escape malvern and her pa. Living a life dictated by the ghost of a woman and the troubled, perpetual soldier left behind, her fate was written the moment the planes graced the skies above pearl harbour. An experimental woman for an experimental division, seems only fitting; it’s a pity others don’t seem to agree.

warnings/disclaimer: I have the utmost respect for veterans, and anyone who has served their country in any capacity. with that being said, this work is solely reflecting the characters as portrayed by hbo and their respective actors, and not in anyway connected to or meant to disrespect the real men whose stories influenced band of brothers. this part contains swearing, smoking, era typical misogyny, and violence. Y’ALL NOT SMUT BUT POST-SMUT IF YOU WILL so proceed with caution for that ig.

word count: 20.5K (INSANITY, BUT A PRESENT FOR MAKING YOU ALL WAIT ALMOST TWO MONTHS)

taglist: @fromjupitertocentauri @lanadelray1989 @bridgertonbee1814 @chanshugsaretherapy @pansexualwitchwhoneedstherapy @nothing----personal @torchbearerkyle @sxalbatf @nancynancydrewdrewdrew

•••

July-August 1944

Joe exhaled harshly, his breath fanning against red hair and her sweat slicked, freckled shoulder. The air in the room was hot, the open window doing little to quell summer’s relentless heat. At least it wasn’t rainy— well, not like it had been in Normandy. Beads of sweat clung to his skin slightly reminiscent of the cold pellets that seemed to characterize their later weeks on the line.

But a quick fuck was incomparable to what existed outside a broads tight embrace. Nothing mattered here; only panting breaths, rough touches, and a blank slate to take without feeling guilt. How could he feel guilty when for as good as he was at taking pleasure, he was just as good at giving it? Joe’s hand kneaded harshly at the soft skin of her thigh beneath him.

He’d take damp skin for this reason over that any day. Joe unhooked his chin from the nurse’s shoulder, a low moan leaving his swollen lips as Janice turned over to face him from where he lay above her, his arms propped up to keep from crushing the woman against her bed. The action separated them, in more ways than one, and Joe smirked at the sight of her flushed cheeks, and the quick, languid rise and fall of the woman’s ample chest.

His hand snaked towards her on instinct, rough fingers grabbing harshly at pebbled skin as the nurse caught her bottom lip between her teeth, back arched and willing. Fuck— he’d missed this. Janice’s painted nails dug harsh lines into his shoulders as he caught his breath, mind irresistibly blank as he sat back on his haunches above her.

She sat up, Joe’s eyes following the bounce of her goose-fleshed tits as she did, a lazy smile stretching her painted lips as he cocked his head. He craved that, eyes instinctively searching for the slightest signs of satisfaction.

“Miss me?” He asked, voice hoarse. She giggled, the trill of her voice echoing in his ears so addictively— an expressive confirmation of his well learned and practiced prowess.

“Of course love, how could I not?” She cooed, “So animalistic, you yanks.”

Joe stilled.

“Pity you stroll back just as I’m leaving.. you’ll ha— hey, darling, what’s wrong?”

He hopped off the bed, rubber discarded in the trash next to the woman’s nightstand. Joe’s fingers dug into his legs as he dragged his boxers up and on. Then his pants. His fingers fumbled with the belt as Janice leapt up to meet him, her front pressed against his back as her no longer soothing voice met his ears. She ran her fingernails against his biceps. He shuddered.

“You don’t want to stay?” She asked, and Joe blinked, hands succeeding in clasping his buckle.

“Can’t.” He spoke, voice rough as he turned around to face her. Her brows furrowed, as though she could read him like a damn book. Unlikely. Yet she looked at him as though his expression spoke louder than his answer. He didn’t like that, not one bit.

He surged forward, capturing the redhead’s lips with his own as his hands met her blushed cheeks, a slow messy kiss that sent her stumbling backwards, thighs against the mussed sheets of the bed. She smiled when he pulled away, teeth on display and the skin between her eyebrows suddenly smooth and non-prying.

Much fuckin’ better.

His undershirt and jacket were hastily thrown on after that, her giggles and the sound of her lying back onto the creaky bed a muffled background noise as Joe slipped his boots back on. His skin felt warm where she’d kissed him, the ghostly sting of her sharp nails against his back a comforting feeling as he ran a hand through his messy hair, pushing the too long strands out of his eyes.

He had to get out of there.

So animalistic, you yanks.

His boots pounded against the gravel outside the small duplex that housed the nurses corps stationed in the village. Joe could be called rough, sure— he wouldn’t deny it. There was nothing better in his mind than a quick rough fuck where both parties got what they wanted and an empty, dazed mind for the briefest of seconds. But her words, the coo of her voice as she’d said it with fucked out eyes, it made him sick to his stomach.

Joe cleared his throat as he walked past the quaint homes that seemed to litter the small village, fingers reaching into his front pocket for the small paper box he knew all too well. That was another favoured pursuit. He stuck the Lucky Strike between his swollen lips and lit it, exhaling in an effort to calm the fuck down. Animal. Animal. Animal. God fucking dammit, couldn’t she have said it before he fucked her? At least then he could have shut her up with a kiss and lost himself in her tits.

Animal. He scoffed, taking another drag of the cigarette gripped between his fingers. Being back in England felt fucking weird. Too still. The fact that he’d seen the adrenaline induced mayhem of Normandy as somewhat relaxing made his brows furrow, the cigarette abandoned as he flicked it into the grass. Animal. Aggression had always come easy to him, sure. It had to at first. But he’d come to depend on it like a crutch, in more ways than fucking one, and the realization of that was not what he needed shoved in his fuckin’ face by painted lips and a soft, sickly sweet voice.

He shot a weak wave to Pat as he passed the man’s billet, Christenson sitting on the porch with his own cigarette dangling from his lips.

Animal. Joe wished he hadn’t tossed the cigarette before he’d finished it. But he didn’t reach for another— the hazy smoke still lingered in his throat, the cling of tobacco still on his teeth. He didn’t know what to do with his hands as he continued walking towards Greenwell Lane.

He wasn’t a fucking animal. He knew so, shit, even Verbeken had said so. Sort of. His jaw clenched as her face entered his mind. They were good now, his biggest sin— lately, rectified. Joe didn’t pray much, but that had to be some sort of good karma, right? He wished he could a’ seen her face when she said it. It’d left her lips all quiet like, his back against the dirt wall of the trench while her boots swung above him. Maybe if he could’ve watched her say it he’d be able to know if she meant it.

Joe ran a hand through his hair, the small sign for the Hughes’ street suddenly in view. He shouldn’t be thinkin about her after leaving Janice’s. Even if it made sense— Janice pissed him off but Eleanor’d refuted her words. Kind of. Not really— that actually made no fuckin sense since Verbeken had said it first. And that wasn’t right, was it? You can’t disprove somethin that hasn’t happened yet. Whatever. It made him feel a bit better. He didn’t even know why he felt all shitty, now that he really thought about it. Janice’d looked at him with her big blue eyes and said those words and he’d frozen like a sissy who didn’t have a naked broad with gorgeous tits underneath him.

Verbeken came to his mind again and he sighed, fists clenched as his boots crunched against the gravel underneath them. Chuck and Tab— had to be. They’d gone and shot the shit and ruined his fucking head and the one thing he liked doing. That was why he kept thinkin about her, and tryin’ to see her face and her words and—

“Lieb! Nice to see ya buddy.”

He paused, looking up from the ground with pursed lips as Joe Toye sauntered towards him. Well that couldn’t be right— the Irishman got himself evacuated for a bad scrape. Then again, how long did somethin like that take to fix up?

“How’s the arm and leg?” Joe asked, stuffing his hands in his pocket. Toye rolled his eyes, a huff of air leaving his rounded lips as he kicked at the gravel. They stood in front of the two homes. Joe figured he was probably there for Eleanor.

“Fuckin bullshit, can you believe they made me leave for that?” The taller man scoffed, and Joe shrugged. “Hey, ya only missed a week, nothin’ too crazy except a German patrol that got too close to the line.”

“You’d think it would a’ been the grenades that got me, not a damn busted rope.”

“Beggars can’t be choosers Toye.” Joe teased, “Or so my ma says.”

“Yeah yeah.” Toye chuckled, his lips pulled. Joe didn’t say anything, his eyes flitting towards his billet.

“She pissed at me?” Toye continued, head cocked towards the neighbouring house. Joe rolled his eyes, “When ain’t she pissed?”

He continued, “Shit, I dunno— she was, but I haven’t seen her since we got here three days ago.”

Toye nodded. “Alright, good luck Lieb, you got your own surprise.”

“The fuck is that supposed to mean?” He snorted, and Toye shook his head, “Go see for yourself, Lip and I had a stowaway.”

The other Joe didn’t give him a chance to answer, a smirk on his face as he headed for the gate that began the path to Verbeken’s billet. He whistled as he went, and Joe shook his head before doing the same to his own assigned housing, an annoyed, but curious, itch at the back of his mind.

He opened the front door, unlocked as it always was. He hadn’t been lying, he really hadn’t seen Verbeken since they’d boarded that crowded LST back to England. Not for a lack of trying, sort of. Joe wasn’t some clingy bastard— not that there was shit to get clingy over, but he’d been tryna help her out since Carentan.

Not that she needed help. Hell no, her and Roe were freaks a’ nature Joe would never understand. But little shit here and there to show her that he really could be a nice guy. It was for him more than anything, probably. He was shit with his words anyways, but spare cigarettes and K rations seemed to speak clearer. Joe was good at scrounging shit up. Always had been, being the oldest of six. Huh, he wondered if Mary’d had her baby yet. He hadn’t heard from his oldest sister since she’d written him to tell her she was knocked up again and that had been when, February? He buried the thought.

Joe shrugged his boots off in the Hughes’ front room, the lack of such an action a frequent complaint of the woman of the house since he and Tab had first been posted there nearly a year earlier. Fuck— he still couldn’t believe Tab had gone and gotten himself stabbed over a poncho. An ugly poncho. A Kraut poncho. Fuckin idiot, Tab could really be one sometimes. Yet somehow the man was so damn tactical and soldier-like in the important moments it was no wonder he was Winters’ (unspoken, the stoic man would never) unofficial favourite among the NCO’s. Joe shook his head as he walked further in the house, though he stilled when he could a’ sworn he heard the man in question.

Upstairs. There were definitely people upstairs. But the only rooms on the measly second floor of the cottage were his and a small bathroom. Joe’s brows furrowed as he lumbered up the stairs, his suspicions that the voices were centred in his bedroom only confirmed more with each wooden step his socked foot pattered against.

“It isn’t a trouble to me sir, I’m home and do little else.” Mrs. Hughes said, her words slightly muffled by the closed door. Joe walked towards it, their commanding officer’s voice sounding as he did,

“I appreciate that mam, but Sergeant Talbert will need medical attention tha—“

“— I got Birdie next door sir!”

“Mr. Talbert! You are certainly not helping your case young man.” Mrs. Hughes chastised, and Joe narrowed his eyes as his hand twisted the brass doorknob, convinced he had heard incorrectly.

He opened it, and his eyes widened as he took in the scene in front of him. Mrs. Hughes with her hands on her hips, a scowl on her face. Captain Winters didn’t reveal much from his expression, though Joe could tell from the twitch in the uptight man’s shoulders that he was fuckin’ annoyed. What really stunned Joe and convinced him he was makin things up was Tab in between them, lying on his bed with a ball of gauze held to his stomach. Joe blinked.

“The fuck are you doing here?” He asked, mouth open.

“Mr. Liebgott!” Mrs. Hughes gasped, and her reaction made him remember who was in the room. For fuck sake. Joe stood at attention, cheeks reddened as he looked sheepishly towards his commanding officer, “My bad, sir.”

“At ease Joe.” Winters sighed, and Joe relaxed. Which was pretty hard to fucking so when his buddy who last he checked— got stabbed, was sittin in their shared room and not in a hospital.

Jesus Christ.

•••

Eleanor smiled softly, tugging George by the sleeve as they exited the projector tent where they’d gone to watch Stagecoach. Watch was generous, as Nora didn’t think Luz was capable of sitting still long enough to simply watch a film without causing a ruckus.

They hadn’t been kicked out, persay, though after the chocolate bar he’d been trying to smear against her cheek had flown from his grasp and knocked Martin in the back of the head she figured they’d better make themselves scarce.

She’d seen the Western before anyways, though she was looking forward to watching it again. Even after it’d taken considerable convincing on George’s end to even get her to go. She suspected he didn’t give a rats ass about the flick, and was merely trying to draw her out of the house.

“Y’know Birdie,” He began, and Eleanor preemptively rolled her eyes, “I betcha I could give Ringo a run for his money.”

“Oh really?”

“Yeah really.” He huffed, a smirk on his face as they strolled through the village.

“What would you do if tomorrow you woke up an outlaw from a Western?” Eleanor asked, a grin tugging at her lips as George looped his arm with hers. “Hmm, well first I’d give ya all my shit I couldn’t take on the road with me— cut loose a bit, yknow?”

“Me? I’m honoured.” She teased.

“I know you’d guard it for me, I got a lot a’ valuables.”

“Hmm, you never know, I might sell it all and go on the run myself.”

George paused his steps with a huff, the action bringing Eleanor to an abrupt stop due to their linked arms.

“First of all, how dare you,” He shook his head, “But you can’t— we got those matching tattoos… I get caught I’m ratting your ass out as my accomplice.”

“How does a tattoo make me your accomplice!” Eleanor sputtered, “I got it under duress, than—“

“—Eh eh eh!” George tutted, cutting her off with a finger against her lips, “I won that bet fair and square.”

Eleanor sighed, and George continued.

“Those eagles look pretty scary, they’ll think we’re part of some outlaw gang.”

“Outlaws are typically solitary people, hence the outlaw thing.” She quipped, and George groaned, “You’re really pokin’ holes in my plan here.”

“It isn’t that good of a plan if so many holes can be poked.” She teased.

“You’re lucky you’re pretty and ya saved my life.” He wagged his finger, and Eleanor rolled her eyes.

“And you put up with my shit even when I’m an ass.” He continued, his words sounding a bit more strained. They resumed walking in the direction of Eleanor’s billet, an awkward silence enveloping them for a few moments while Nora thought over her words.

“I thi—“

“—I was such a prick Birdie, an absolute yuck, and I feel like you ain’t really been listenin’ when I’ve been trying to say so an—“

“— George.” She cut him off, “Just, breathe for a sec, Jesus.”

George had a point. Eleanor had dropped it without actually listening to what any of them had to say. They had been in Normandy, on the line. The last thing on Eleanor’s mind amid artillery fire and wounds to treat was her friends insulting her. But that didn’t mean she hadn’t been stewing over it. She’d stewed a whole lot, whenever her body found time to rest and her mind decided to prevent her from doing so. It still tugged at her. Not only the conversation George had started that day in Carentan, but the little things her addled, insecure mind had picked up on over the month they spent in occupied France.

Nora knew it was stupid. All of it was. At the end of the day others opinions mattered little in the grand scheme of her purpose in the company. Other’s opinions seldom bothered her when she’d joined, fresh out of Oglethorpe and expecting to be harassed, belittled, doubted. She didn’t know when exactly she’d lost her edge, but Eleanor suspected that it had happened because she’d somehow actually befriended a lot of the men she’d steeled herself to ignore and distrust. She’d been hiding out at Flo’s since they returned, wasting the few spare days they’d been allotted before daily training resumed. She was damned if she did and damned if she didn’t, she supposed.

“I’m breathin’ perfectly fine,” George huffed, “I just want you to actually be listening when you nod your head at me.”

“Well alright.” Nora spoke, and George scratched his mouth, “So we’ve covered that I’m an idiot.”

“Yes, you said that.” She confirmed, kicking a stray pebble away from their path as they walked.

“But I really am sorry, especially after all y’did for us out there, I don’t want you thinkin that I think you can only do certain things cause of whatever and whichever and I thought it was a joke and we were laughing and then—“

“— I promise I’m not mad at you.” Eleanor cut him off again, though this time George looked almost thankful. She wasn’t lying, she hadn’t been mad. moreso annoyed, and incredibly defensive, though a large part of that had already been itching up her throat before George and the others had opened their mouths, “I was just already feeling weird about my place here and I think it made me snap like that.”

George’s eyes widened at her words, though she kept speaking before he could open his mouth,

“And I kinda wanna apologize to Frank, yknow? He was all excited about his baby and I ruined it.”

“Honey, the second you left he gave us all a dressing down about what pricks we were, trust me, he ain’t mad at you.” George shook his head, “You should a’ seen him, his bushy little brows all screwed together— and I love the guy, but he looks so harmless, Birdie, if he could a’ spit fire he would’ve.”

“Now that I think about it, don’t he kinda remind you of a squirrel? They’re cute, right, but those things can attack, jheez.” He whistled, a far away look in his eyes as though he had first hand experience with being attacked by one. Eleanor didn’t ask him to elaborate.

“But we’re good?” He asked, and Eleanor nodded, slinging her arm around the slightly taller man’s shoulder, “Don’t worry about little old me George, you got an outlaw plan to rethink.”

They’d split up after passing George’s street, and Eleanor walked up the path to Flo’s. She had to write Liz back, though she wasn’t planning to leave the house again that day so perhaps the letter could wait. In all honestly she was avoiding it, Liz’s had obviously been written before their jump, since her sister’s words carried no mention of it. Or, what happened afterwards. Nora wasn’t sure if Joey’s injury even warranted a telegram home, but she felt guilty writing Liz like all was well when Joey had hid he was hurt and gotten himself evacuated to the hospital in the process.

She sighed, pushing open the door and barrelling inside. “Flo?” She called out, but the woman didn’t answer. Huh. Then again, they’d both been cooped up in the small cottage for much of the weekend.

“She’s out back gardening.”

Eleanor flinched, her hand flying to her heart at the voice’s intrusion. She spun around, eyes wide as she spotted Joey on the couch, fiddling with his knife. He had a lazy, sheepish grin on his face, and before she could stop herself Eleanor rushed at him. He’d barely tucked away his knife when Nora wrapped her arms around him, effectively pinning him to the couch. He reciprocated the bone-crushing hug in earnest.

“What the—“ She punched his shoulder, not hard enough to hurt but harsh enough to make a point, “— Hell is the matter with you!”

“Getoffme!” He groaned, shoving her away and standing up from the sofa, “Jesus, I thought you’d be happy to see me.”

Eleanor stilled, her pulse ringing in her ears as she looked at him. Studied him really, eyes scanning the man’s body for any other injuries being hidden right under her nose. “I’m happy alright, but I still think you’re an ass for hiding it.”

“I didn’t hide shit,” He scoffed, “It was a scrape.”

Eleanor pinched the bridge of her nose to quell the tension headache she felt forming as Joey spoke, “A scrape? The rope practically skinned you, flayed, whichever you prefer.”

“I’m fine ain’t I? Now I know.”

“Yeah,” She nodded, “Now you know.”

Eleanor itched to tell him he already knew, cause they’d only been taught since basic that any flesh wound left to fester in a dirty environment without being cleaned would cause a goddamn infection.

“It wasn’t even gangrene.” He shrugged

“Yet.” Nora scoffed, and she moved back out to the front room to take off her boots, “If you would’ve told me I’d have bandaged it at least.”

A small part of her really thought he should have known better. The thought was a brief one, a phantom pain erupting from the faded discolouration near her ribs. He knew. Eleanor ran a hand through her hair before letting her fingers trail down to her side, rubbing at the spot through her cotton T shirt as though to will the reminder away. Granted, she hadn’t gotten gangrene, but the angry red gash near her ribs had taken an excruciatingly long time to heal.

“Well next time I won’t play the martyr,” He reasoned, “I’ll come to ya for all my bumps and scrapes.”

Eleanor sighed, “I’m just saying, infections aren’t a laughing matter, we both know that.”

It’d been what exposed her, after all. Sore head from when she hit the tiled ground? No problem, she’d iced it with snow from the yard. The bruising she felt with each deep inhale would have ceased after a few days, had she noticed the glass that had cut through her dress — the source of the argument, if she could call it that, when she’d hit the mirrored cabinet and it imbedded itself in her skin. She’d never forget how it ached, her skin feverish and her limbs heavy once she’d removed the bandage a week later and noticed the red and purple streaked skin.

“Hey..” Joey said softly, and Eleanor bristled. She hadn’t meant to remind him of that day. Not now. It was bad enough she’d been thinking it. She didn’t want to hear it voiced aloud.

“Because I’m a medic,“ She cut in, and Eleanor hoped her blue eyes conveyed the desperation with which she spoke to drop it where it was— on his tongue and unreleased, “Just come to me next time, or Roe.”

“I will.” He nodded, eyes flicking towards the ground, “Hey, you wanna go to the pub tonight? I wanna scope out these replacements.”

Eleanor shook her head, the angry bartender flashing to her mind. “Uh-uh, no thank you.”

“Cmon, why not?” He grinned, and Eleanor looked away, embarrassed. “I don’t think the bartender likes me all that much.”

“Who, the short n’ round one?”

She nodded, and Joey snorted. “I’m serious, I got kicked out for fighting, he’ll probably throw me out the second he sees me.”

“Fighting?” He blinked, “Wait a minute, did you and Lieb get into an actual scrap, is that what that whole thing was about?”

“What? No! He never.. he’d never put his hands on me.” Eleanor stuttered. Liebgott was many things— scrappy being one. Which, in hindsight was definitely why Joey’s mind had gone there, but he’d never, and would never. That much she knew. “He dragged me away from the fight actually, then we fought— but not fucking physically, Jesus.”

“For fucks sake,” He exhaled, “I thought I was gonna have to go drag him away from Tab n’ bash his head in.”

Eleanor rolled her eyes, and Joey continued, “Then again, you’re both scrawny fucks, I’m sure you could take him if it really came down to it, never know with you two.” He shook his head slowly, a teasing grin on his face.

“Yeah don’t worry, I’m sure I..” Eleanor cut herself off, Joey’s words registering in her brain, “Wait a minute, did you just say Tab? He’s here?”

“Shit, I probably should’ve led with that, huh?” Joe stifled a grin, wiping his hand over his face, “So Lip and I get discharged with Boyle, right? And we’re leaving when Tab shows up, claiming they let him go too— we were already past Swindon when Lip noticed he was clutching’ his stomach.”

Eleanor nodded, encouraging Toye to continue.

“So turns out, Tab not only went AWOL, but he did so cause he was screwin’ one of the nurses and tore a stitch, no big deal, right? Except the nurse had a fella, and he was there, so Tab ripped a few other stitches gettin’ away from him.”

“He’s walking around with torn sitches?” Eleanor bristled, her fingers itching. Where the hell was her med pack? She instinctively patted against her belt, though she hadn’t kept it fastened to her since they’d left the troop ship.

“Well I doubt the kid’s doin’ much walking,” Joe snorted, though his face sobered when he noticed Eleanor wasn’t laughing, “Huh, probably a bad time to tell ya all the nurses started calling him Bunny, yeah?”

Eleanor groaned.

“Cause he fucks like a—“

“— Trust me, I understood.” She rolled her eyes, and disappeared up the stairs to find her side pouch. Jesus Christ.

Eleanor stormed out of the house, not bothering to shut the gate behind her as she rounded onto the one next door, hopping onto the small porch and knocking furiously. The door opened, and Liebgott’s face morphed from agitated to relieved.

“Shit, I was just about to come grab you.”

“Where is he?” Nora asked, brushing past Joe and into the house. Liebgott snorted, “He ain’t dying, he just fucked his stitches loose.”

“Ha-ha.”

“Cmon, he’s upstairs.” Joe cackled, a hand on Eleanor’s shoulder as he pushed her towards the staircase. She could feel him behind her, inching her tense frame forwards. She assumed it was meant to be comforting, though the blasé attitudes of both men only agitated her further. But, Liebgott was rubbing a tense knot out of her shoulder as he followed her that certainly helped.

“Sir.” Eleanor nodded, offering her commanding officer a salute as Winter’s appeared in the doorway to the men’s shared bedroom. Gosh, she hadn’t been there since the night Flo met Speirs.. and to think he was out procuring a ring for her at that very moment.

“Eleanor, I take it Liebgott told you what happened?” He asked, an unamused look on his face. Yet Eleanor swore she saw his eyes twinkle with mirth. “Toye did sir.” She sighed, and Winters beckoned her in, Joe still hot on her heels.

“Look who came to fix ya up Tab.” Joe whistled, “Better be on your best behaviour.”

“This is not a laughing matter,” Mrs. Hughes sighed, and Eleanor noticed the frazzled woman sitting against Liebgott’s bed, “Hello Miss Verbeken.”

“Hi Mrs. Hughes.” She smiled softly, the grin leaving her face as she approached Floyd’s bed, “Are you kidding me Tab, really?”

“Birdie, have I ever told you how great I think ya are?” Tab tried to sweeten her annoyance, and Eleanor rolled her eyes as Joe barked out a laugh.

“Alright, let me see.” She tutted, snatching the bloodied bandage out of Floyd’s hand and lifting his stained shirt, “Okay, it’s actually not that bad.”

Nora swung her pack from her side so that it sat under her belt buckle, and she poured a small vial of iodine onto the torn wound as Tab hissed.

“I was discussing Sergeant Talbert’s circumstances with Mrs. Hughes,” Captain Winters spoke as Eleanor yanked the last half dissolved stitch from Floyd’s abdomen, a packet of sulfa quickly replacing it, “And we agreed that at this point it’s probably best Talbert finishes his recovery here, under supervision.”

“That’s probably a good idea sir.” Eleanor bit out, and she could see Joe cover his face in an attempt not to laugh out of the corner of her eye. She willed her eyes back to Floyd, lest she laugh as well, pursing her lips into a thin line.

“I suggested that since you’re next door, perhaps you could be the one to keep an eye on him, rather than, say, one of the nurses in the village.”

Floyd swore as Eleanor’s needle pierced his skin, and Liebgott snickered, “Hey, Verbeken ain’t that bad of company Tab, cmon.”

“Thank you Liebgott.” Eleanor hummed, ears pricked at the semi-compliment, though she grinned as she said it, falling into step with his teasing of the writhing man beneath her.

“Lieb, I swear to God.” Tab huffed, Eleanor’s fingers yanking on the surgical thread as she held her hand against his stomach to steady him, “Don’t get smart about nurses.”

“Hm, that’s a fair point.” Eleanor mused, looking up to smirk at Liebgott, but the man visibly soured. Eleanor blinked, her teasing grin dropping from her face at his sudden morose expression. It tugged at her, and she turned back to Tab, her ears burning.

“Only one more Tab.” She said softly, before tying off the knot and grabbing her scissors from her lap. “I’m gonna wrap it, so try not to fiddle with it too much, I’ll come change it tomorrow.”

The man huffed in response, though thanked Eleanor softly once she’d finished bandaging his freshly-stitched wound. The whole thing was ridiculous, in Nora’s opinion. He’d gone and extended his healing time.

Winters went downstairs with Mrs. Hughes on the promise of a cup of tea, and Joe stood up, stretching his arms above his head with a groan. Eleanor’s eyes flitted to the pale skin of his toned abdomen, his T shirt lifted by the action. She looked away, packing her spare supplies back into her side bag. She hadn’t seen much of him the last few days, though that was to be expected staying within the four walls of Flo’s cottage, with whiskeys over ice and the radiogram for company.

“Cmon Verbeken, I’ll walk ya back.” He tutted, and Eleanor scowled, “The two steps to my own gate?”

Joe shrugged, “Yeah, why not.”

“You guys are leavin’ me?” Tab asked, and Eleanor pouted, “I’ll be back tomorrow to check your stitches, by the end of the week you’ll be sick of me.”

Eleanor followed Joe out of the room and down the stairs, the muffled sound of Winters and Mrs. Hughes conversing in the kitchen faintly audible. Joe raised his eyebrows at her, and Eleanor rolled her eyes, pushing him forward softly and towards the door.

“I can’t believe him.” Eleanor huffed as the early evening air hit her face, and Liebgott snorted, brushing past her, “I can.”

She sighed, abandoning the porch for the path as Joe sauntered ahead of her. It felt strange, but nice, to be friendly with him again. Though, there was still a sense of apprehension that hung between them Eleanor’d first noticed a week after they left Carentan. It was like they were dancing around each other, testing limits while simultaneously shrinking away. Like now, where Liebgott offered to walk her home— next door, yet walked several steps ahead of her.

“Are you gonna slow down?” Eleanor huffed, and Joe’s strides paused, his shoulders rounded as he turned back to look at her. “I got long legs Verbeken, keep up.”

Eleanor shook her head, but didn’t make any effort to speed up her steps. Their destination was literally right next to their starting point, so he didn’t win by much. If it was a game. Nora suspected that to him it might be.

“Congratulations, you beat me to my own porch.” Eleanor drawled, approaching his tall figure, standing aimlessly at the foot of the path. The ghost of a smile etched his lips, one side upturned, until it was quickly placated with a cigarette. Joe lit it, exhaling without removing the stick from his lips. “Want one?” He mumbled, the cigarette dangling as his hands were shoved back into his pockets.

Eleanor nodded, and he repeated the process for her, both of them shuffling to perch on the edge of Florence’s small porch. Eleanor took a long drag, savouring the smoke as it coated her throat.

“You alright?” She asked, twisting the lit cigarette between her pointer and index fingers. He looked deep in thought. She could see the clench of his jaw as he stared down at the gravel.

“What?” He asked, eyes on her own, as though she’d knocked him out of whatever thought had his face screwed all tight.

“I asked if you were alright,” Eleanor paused, “Seems like you’re thinking real hard about something.”

“Nah, I ain’t thinkin’ about shit.” He scoffed, and if it were possible for his brows to furrow further than Nora supposed they did. His words left his mouth with a bite that made her falter. The hell was he snapping at her for?

“Well okay then.” She quipped back, bringing the cigarette back to her lips to quell whatever irritated words dared to spill out. Eleanor didn’t want to fight. Not with him, not now. She was too tired to have to match his barbs, but her dismissal wasn’t passive. She saw his lips screw together before she looked away, irritated. They sat in silence for a few moments, their Lucky Strikes dwindling.

“I think it’s gonna rain.” Liebgott said, cocking his head up to look at the sky, and the clouds that seemed to be moving in ever so slowly.

Eleanor followed his actions, looking up through squinted eyes before letting her head fall back down to face him. He hadn’t moved, chin up towards the clouds and his Adams-apple bobbing slightly with each crane of his neck.

“Is that a good or bad thing?” She asked, ashing the end of the cigarette between her feet. Joe tutted.

“Bad, obviously, who likes the rain?”

Eleanor shrugged, “I dunno, I don’t mind it.”

Joe hummed, tapping his hands against his knees as he shifted in his seat, “This is a real interesting conversation Verbeken; rain, good or bad.”

Nora scoffed, taking another hit of her dwindling cigarette, “You’re the one who brought it up.”

“Yeah, but, the way conversations normally work is the other person keeps it goin’.” He teased, and Eleanor rolled her eyes. “I started talkin about the weather, so now you gotta come up with somethin else, it’s basic math.”

Eleanor questioned his calculations, though she didn’t voice it, brows raising as she turned to look away from him. One moment he was snapping at her, and the next he seemed to demand her attention. “Alright, have you met any of the replacements yet?”

“Nah, I haven’t,” He paused, “But it doesn’t have to be about this— yknow, here.” He raised his hands for emphasis.

Eleanor sighed, flicking the end of her cigarette onto the path and resting her head in her hand, elbow supported against her bent knee. “This is pretty much all there is at the moment.”

“Well I ain’t talkin about current affairs,” He huffed, “But hey, see any good movies lately? What’s your favourite colour? When’d you realize Santa Claus wasn’t real? Shit like that. Now that last one, I knew from the jump, personally, yknow, not celebrating Christmas n’ all.” He clicked his teeth before finishing his cigarette, tossing it to join Eleanor’s on the gravel.

“Same as you, didn’t celebrate Christmas.” Eleanor hummed. In all honesty Nora had depressingly believed in Santa a lot longer than she should have for a girl who never received gifts from the round man in his customary red and white garb. She wouldn’t divulge that, however, as the last thing a dying conversation needed was “Hey, I used to write him letters asking why he never visited me or wrote back, why my pa was so angry and why my mum was dead. By the way, if you decide to start answering, can I get one of those pretty rag dolls all the other girls at school have?”

For what it was worth, it seemed Liebgott got the memo, as despite the briefest frown that etched his face he didn’t push for her to elaborate further, once again tapping his hands against his knees in an awkward rhythm.

“But I think blue is my favourite colour.” She offered, “And I watched half of Stagecoach with Luz today.”

“Why only half?” He snorted, and Nora smirked, “What do you think? George can’t sit still for the life of him.”

“Ah I get it though, feels stuffy sittin’ in that tent.” Joe shook his head, “That’s why I don’t go.”

“Hey, that’s not true.” Eleanor spoke, and Joe stiffened. She didn’t know why she’d said that. It was true, he had been to the makeshift cinema. With her and Tab. The day they’d gotten into an explosive argument at the pub.. speaking of which,

“You comin out for drinks tonight? Joe asked, and Eleanor pursed her lips. He’d pointedly ignored her observation about the cinema, probably for the best. Though his change in conversation wasn’t much better.

“Not likely, I don’t feel like getting thrown out.” She exhaled. Joe scoffed. “Cmon, you ain’t gonna be thrown out, I was there the night we got in and he clapped me on the back.”

She shook her head, wiping her brow with the back of her hand, “I’m the only woman not in civilian or nurses clothing Liebgott.”

“I think you’re paranoid.” He teased, knees still bouncing. Eleanor wondered how his leg hadn’t cramped yet, his boot making small pattering noises against the gravel path.

“I’d rather be safe than sorry.”

“For a pint?” He whistled, “I’d be takin my chances.”

“You do that.” Eleanor said softly, a huff leaving her lips as she pushed herself back to her feet. She cocked her head to look down at him, “Thanks for walking me back, don’t know how I would’ve gotten home by myself.”

He snorted, dimples on display as his lips tugged into a smirk. “All in a day’s work.”

Liebgott stood, dusting off his pants as he did, and Eleanor made for the door, her hand clasped around the brass knob.

“Have fun at the pub.” She called back, “I’ll see you tomorrow then.”

“Always do, see ya Verbeken.” He said, turning back to look at her, before leaving down the path.

•••

Eleanor slept in the next day, much to her annoyance. Her PT kit had been hastily thrown on, breakfast abandoned as she ran her fingers through her short hair (in need of a trim, though) in a feeble attempt to cut corners as she raced out of the house and towards the field where Welsh was running calisthenics. Eleanor thought it’d burn, her muscles no longer used to the vigorous stretch after almost two months away from said routine, though she found herself enjoying the brutal pace the Lieutenant coached them through. Normandy had been messy, and unorganized, though the physical aspect was still as heavy— heavier if anything, than the meticulous training the company was put through off the line.

Eleanor breathed through her nose as she supported herself on her elbows and toes, her waist squeezed tight and teeth clenched as Welsh called out the seconds as they ticked by on his watch.

“And that’s time!” He barked, a chorus of groans sounding across the field being quickly followed by the sounds of bodies hitting the grass. Eleanor fell more elegantly, not burdened by the heavy drinking it seemed many of them had partaken in to celebrate their last free night— if their sallow faces and heavy complaints were any indication.

“Alright, it’s nearly 900, I want you changed and in the weapons range by half past.” Welsh spoke.

Eleanor lifted herself up to rest on her elbows, exhaling through rounded lips to blow her overgrown bangs away from her eyes. A large number of the men that surrounded her were strangers, and the realization had settled deep in her chest like an anchor once she’d first noticed it. Hoobler was next to her, Shifty to his left, and Mal was on her right. She’d shuffled in amidst familiar faces.. but the sight of just how many replacements dotted Easy Company after their month in combat was a glaring reminder of the brutality they’d jumped in to. It wasn’t their fault, not at all, but each new face left a sour taste in Eleanor’s mouth when she remembered a man, boy, more likely, from Toccoa whose shoes they’d been sent to fill.

“You should’ve came last night,” Hoobler laughed beside her, “Buck n’ Luz wiped the floor with half the new guys in darts.”

“Did they now?” She hummed, turning to face him. Her elbows dug into the grass harshly, the morning dew clinging to her skin and no doubt leaving it stained. “Not exactly a warm welcome now is it?”

Hoobler snorted as he sat up, Malarkey copying his movements before clearing his throat, “They had it coming’, don’t tell me you’ve pulled a Shift n’ don’t gamble all of the sudden.”

“Hey..” Shifty trailed off, and Eleanor hid her grin in her palm as she scooted up onto her knees.

“I’m not opposed to it,” She huffed, “But I’ve seen Compton’s wrong hand con enough times to stop falling for it.”

“You’re a smart woman Verbeken.” Hoobler saluted as she rolled her eyes.

“Hey Birdie, how’s Tab doin?” Shifty asked, and Eleanor hummed.

“I gotta run back and check his bandages before I head to the aid station, but as good as he can be for an idiot who broke himself outta the hospital and tore his stitches.” She shook her head, shifting against her knees in the grass. She may as well locate Liebgott, if he hadn’t already left without her.

“Skip bet me a year ago some shmuck would end up outta commission gettin’ lucky,” Malarkey whistled, “But I didn’t bet it’d be Tab, and I sure as hell didn’t think a stab wound’d be involved, now I’m out a few bucks.”

“Well, the nurse didn’t stab him.” Shifty pointed out, and Eleanor chuckled,

“Mal, who’d you bet?”

“Are you kidding me? Sisk screwed his girlfriend on live train tracks in Toccoa, I figured it’d be him.”

Eleanor snorted, yeah fair point. She wondered if Skinny was even still seeing that girl from Georgia. Hoobler’s outstretched hand in front of her dragged her from those thoughts as she let him hoist her up from the grass.

“Lieb’s over there,” He noted, nodding past her. Eleanor bristled, but Hoobler only looked at her with furrowed brows, “Aren’t you heading back to his?”

“Oh,” She said blankly, “Yeah, thanks Hoob.”

She walked off the field they’d co-opted for calisthenics, eyes trained on the head of messy hair she knew belonged to the Californian. His back was to her’s, his white cotton shirt snug against his back as he chatted with Skinny. She was surprised no one had made any real effort to head back into town, since Welsh had only given them just over half an hour to report to the weapons range that’d been set up on its other side.

Not that that included her. Though she did have to attend a lecture with Roe after their short shift about the more intricate aspects of field treating. It felt a little silly, after having actually done it. But she understood the need, it wouldn’t do them any good to get too comfortable.

“Did he eat this morning?” She asked as she came within hearing distance of the pair. Eleanor could see the way Liebgott’s muscles tensed as she snuck up on them, Skinny’s eyes lighting up as Joe bristled, turning towards her, “Jesus Christ Verbeken.”

“Sorry.” She mumbled, scooting past him as Sisk nudged her shoulder, “Haven’t seen ya in a few days, you too good to party with us all the sudden?”

“Forgive me if I wanted to relax.” She teased, and Skinny rolled his eyes as Joe cleared his throat, “I dunno, probably.”

“Who’s this, Bunny?” Skinny asked, his lips tugged back into a smirk.

Eleanor’s nose scrunched in disgust at the use of the nickname Floyd had apparently acquired from the nursing corps, “The one and only, apparently.”

“What do they call you Lieb?” Skinny egged, and Joe bristled, “Shut up, that’s what.”

“Are we going or what?” Eleanor cut in, hands on her hips. They only had so much time and Greenwell Lane was an annoyingly just too long walk to the aid station. She had to shower, the damp residue of the grass clinging to her skin.

“Yeah, cmon Verbeken.” He answered, his hand on her shoulder as they left Skinny standing there. Eleanor waved at him as they went, though the man’s smirk was centred on Liebgott,

“Well it definitely ain’t Mr. Merry and Bright!” He called out, “Maybe Fat head, or hornet— those are the pissy ones aren’t they?”

“Go shower Sisk, I can smell ya from here for fucks sake.” Liebgott called back, and Eleanor rolled her eyes as the field gave way to the gravel road.

As they walked back into the center of town the few men who’d left the field the second they’d been released became visible, along with many locals who dotted the small sidewalks and blocked their path.

“What the hell?” Eleanor mumbled to no one in particular, though she could feel Joe turn to eye her nonetheless. She spotted Chuck’s tall frame immediately, and Nora followed Liebgott as he walked ahead of her and tapped the man’s shoulder.

Closer to the road, Eleanor could finally see what everyone had gathered for, the British nursing unit was walking down the street in their dress wear, their belongings behind them and the faintest sound of drummers in the distance.

“They’re leaving?” She asked, and Grant nodded, “Moving further south, where the infantry division got moved.”

Eleanor shuffled closer, her shoulder’s brushing against Grant’s as she craned her neck to watch the procession. She heard Chuck scoff beside her, and she turned to watch as Joe stopped dead in his tracks at the chastisement. He’d been trying to leave.

“What?” He asked.

Chuck tutted, “Hey, they came out to watch us leave, at least show them the same respect.”

“Chuck’s got a point you know.” She affirmed, and Liebgott huffed before turning back towards them, “Aren’t you gonna check Tab’s stomach?”

“It won’t take too long.” She shrugged, turning back towards the parade.

She recognized one of them, past the vague familiarity she regarded the other British women with after spending months billeted in the same village as them. She’s very pretty, with bright eyes and auburn hair waved in much the same way Florence wore her own. She’s curvy too, in a way that always used to make Eleanor falter about her own proportions as she reached adulthood and didn’t seem to fill out in the “right” places.

It’s when the beautiful nurse turns towards the group of them assembled and shoots a toothy, lipstick painted grin and wink towards Liebgott that Eleanor remembered why the women felt familiar. She was the nurse that Joe left with that night at the bar, before he came back and took her home with him and Floyd. Based on their conversation in the following days, and the charged look sent towards the man beside her, Eleanor knows without a doubt that they’d been sleeping together. A strange feeling settled in her gut at the thought, and when her eyes flickered to the right she saw Joe look away, his eyes downcast instead of forward at the procession of British nurses. His brows were furrowed, yet his lips were twisted into that smirk of his she’d become so familiar with. It seared itself into her head.

“Maybe.. maybe we should go.” Eleanor said suddenly, and she stepped back before Grant could attempt to convince her otherwise, “Liebgott’s right, I have to check on Tab before my shift.”

“Voice of fuckin’ reason, thank you Verbeken.” He quipped, and Eleanor let him lead her out of the crowd until they were back on the walking path. He didn’t grab at her harshly, but his face was screwed tightly, similar to how it had been the day before when he’d gone all quiet after walking her home.

They walked in silence for a few minutes until she wondered if perhaps his more-morose than usual mood had anything to do with that nurse. She couldn’t leave well enough alone, despite the nagging voice in the back of her mind begging her not to engage with him. Especially about the pretty nurse, whose smile seemed unable to vacate her head.

“Sorry if we made you stay,” She started, as Greenwell Lane came into view, “I dunno if you two are still going together with her leaving, or..”

“Huh?” He asked, and Eleanor swore as she nearly walked into him. He’d stopped to stare at her, his brows furrowed.

“The nurse, she was the one you were seeing right?”

“Nah, I wasn’t seein’ any nurse.” He shook his head, though the preoccupied look on his face didn’t relent. Eleanor shrugged before resuming her steps,

“Alright.”

“Why are you fucking worryin’ about it anyways?” He asked, and once again her feet were rooted to the path. His voice sounded defensive, and the very notion left an embarrassing heat rising up the back of Nora’s throat. She wasn’t worrying. They were friendly, were they not? Maybe she’d misread him, it wouldn’t be the first time she’d done so.

“I’m not worrying about anything, I was trying to be friendly— isn’t that you wanted?” She quipped, tone a little harsh, “Or should we just not fucking talk at all?”

“Real nice.” He sneered, and Eleanor clenched her teeth as he brushed past her. She watched as he stalked away before turning the corner and she followed after him, annoyance sitting heavy against her shoulders as the morning sun grew hotter.

He was on his porch, an aggravated look on his otherwise pleasing face. Nora walked past the house, marching through her own gate. She felt embarrassed, but couldn’t exactly place why. It gnawed at her, nearly as bad as the dew clinging to her skin.

“Are you coming or what?” He called out, and Eleanor paused, turning to face the Hughes’ yard.

“I have to shower” She replied. Joe didn’t move, his hand gripping the doorknob as he shifted on his feet.

“So?” He called again, his tone a bit softer.

“So I’ll come by later.” Nora shrugged, her ears burning. She was starving, and the sweat on her skin and grass stained PT kit seemed to weigh her down heavier with each charged look he shot across the lawn.

“What’ll I tell him?” He asked, voice rather dejected. He’d suddenly begun speaking solely in questions. Eleanor faltered, guilt seeping in behind her tired eyes and food deprived mind. Floyd likely wouldn’t even notice if she came later than she’d promised. If he were anything like her, he was most likely still out cold— the break from training a chance to catch up on sleep. Yet, the frown on Joe’s face made her stutter as she pursed her lips in thought.

“I… I dunno, just tell him I’ll be by after my lecture.” She offered, before twisting the knob between her fingers and entering the house. She didn’t wait for Liebgott’s response. Tab was hardly even critical, he’d survive a few hours of boredom. Since, if anything, being confined to his bed probably bothered the Sergeant more than his torn stitches did.

She’d cleaned herself off and managed to shovel a few pieces of toast in her mouth before journeying back across the village, though the gnawing pit in Eleanor’s stomach didn’t leave. It’d increased after she’d stepped out of the shower, skin goose-fleshed and damp, staring back at her through Florence’s small bathroom mirror. She’d spared a moment, eyes roaming over the harsh jutting of bones and small curves of her own frame. Eleanor had frowned, pensive as she let her hands ghost over the swell of her chest before locating her brassiere. They weren’t ample, but they were there. That was something.

Nora chastised her own thoughts as she crossed the threshold of Easy’s aid station fifteen minutes later, her feet quick as the anagram clock on the wall read quarter to. She was late, though, Eugene seldom minded. If anything the quiet man would likely tease her for not leaving the PT field earlier as he had done.

The head medic was rather good at that; sneaking away unsuspected. Now he looked at her expectantly as Eleanor entered the small room, his hands fiddling with a box of bandages.

“Sorry Gene, got stuck in the procession.” She offered sheepishly, “You know how far my billet is, I had to shower.. but I forgot to eat breakfast this morning, so—“

“Eleanor, you know I don’t give a damn.” He cut her off, a deadpan expression on his pale face. He nodded to the side, and Eleanor’s eyes followed, “Just start unboxing all this conneries.”

She nodded, smiling triumphantly until she noticed the man near said boxes of crap. He was sneaking glances at her, and Eleanor snuck a look at Eugene before the unfamiliar man cleared his throat.

“Ralph Spina,” He introduced himself, moving forward with his hand outstretched, “I’m your new third.”

Nora shook his hand, “Eleanor.”

A chill passed through her, though it wasn’t the man’s fault, not really. Eleanor had only just gotten used to Jansen’s absence, and the flow of her and Gene on their own. A replacement just reiterated the blatantly obvious— he was a replacement, for Ken, who died in a flaming C-47 in a flame filled sky above Normandy.

“Where’d you get transferred from, Ralph?” She asked, her hands grasping one of the boxes perched behind him. He stepped out of the way for her.

“Able.”

Eleanor paused, the heaviness in her shoulders dissipating at Spina’s words. “Oh, you jumped then.”

The words had left her mouth in a tone of relief. Somehow the man not coming straight from a training depot back home made Eleanor feel less guilty about him taking Jansen’s place. Even though the very notion was ridiculous, of that she was aware— but still. Spina knew what it was like; he wasn’t green and overly eager for action. It also meant he’d already had plenty of time to get over the fact he’d be serving with a woman, well aware of the fact that Nightingale had shipped her off with the 101st. If he minded, he had yet to make his opinion known.

“That I did.” He whistled, leaning against the countertop opposite her and Roe, “By the skin of my goddamned teeth, I was last man out and a piece of flak burst the engine soon as my chute opened.”

“Christ.” Nora blanched, and Eugene tutted, “He ain’t need no extra training, if that’s what you were getting at.”

“Just a bit,” She admitted, shooting Spina a half-apologetic glance, “No offence, but I already got my hands full.”

Literally and figuratively, as she sat down to pry open the box and began sorting through the vials within.

Spina chuckled, “You’re stuck takin’ care of that Sergeant who went awol, aren’t ya?”

“You’ve barely unpacked your bags and you already know about it?” She teased, shaking her head, “Floyd’ll be pleased he’s turned into a celebrity.”

“Heard about you before I heard about him.” Spina tutted, transferring his own box of supplies to the table before sitting next to her, “Sergeant Grant and Bunny’s— that’s what they’re calling him, ain’t it?— roommate were talking about ya at the pub last night.”

Eleanor stilled, her lips pursed as she abandoned the vial of iodine in her hands on the table top, “Oh really? And what exactly were they saying?”

“Fuck if I know, just caught your name and the tail end of it; that you were the poor medic suckered into babysitting the bastard.”

“That I am.” Eleanor huffed jokingly. She didn’t mind it actually, Tab’s billet only being next door. If anything she’d rather take care of a wound he’d both gotten and worsened in the most ridiculous (but non-fatal) ways than have him actually be in any danger. Tab was younger than her, not by much, but he was easily one of her favourites among the men. Not that she’d ever admit that.

What she did mind however was the fact that Chuck and Liebgott were apparently talking about her long enough for it not to be only about Floyd. The notion made her uncomfortable, squirmy in her seat like she was a girl again, the kids at school shooting her shitty looks that told her they were snickering about her and she couldn’t do anything about it. God, what the hell did they have to say about her?

“Spina’s from Philadelphia.” Roe pointed out in the silence, and Eleanor’s anxious thoughts dissipated, “Are you really? I’m from Chester County.”

“No shit, we’re basically neighbours.”

Eleanor rolled her eyes, though she grinned as she questioned him further, “You met Joey and Bill yet? I used to live near Joey up in Hughestown, but Guarnere’s from South Philly, never shuts up about it really.”

“Huh, I know a few Guarnere’s..“ Spina trailed off, and the small talk continued in the small room until they’d catalogued whatever supplies battalion had refitted them with. No men came in while they worked, the weapons range training proving to be relatively harmless that afternoon.

Eleanor’s mind replayed Spina’s words as the time passed, thoughts of Chuck and Liebgott talking about her replaying in her mind on a sick loop. She burned with curiosity, more than that— her shoulders felt permanently tensed in agitation the more she worried over it, until Eugene was beside her, his rough hand at the base of her neck.

“Y’alright?” He asked, the drawl of his voice breaking Nora from her internal battle. Her muscles relaxed, head swivelling to meet her friend’s eyes.

“Course I am, why do you ask?”

He didn’t answer her for a moment, shifting on his feet before he spoke.

“You been hidin’ away in that house, and now Talbert—“

“—Gene, you know I don’t mind taking care of Floyd.” She cut him off, “Besides, you hide away just as much, I can’t think of a time you came out to the pub with any of us, not here, not back in the state—“

“—He’s too busy with that wife a’ his.” Spina’s voice rang through the room like a cannon firing, and Eleanor was struck by two things. First, that their new medic had been listening to them, and second, that he’d said Eugene had a wife.

Eleanor sputtered, spinning around to look at Roe as the man’s eyes widened. “Wife?”

“I—“

“What do you mean you’ve got a wife?” Eleanor repeated, her eyes flitting between an uncomfortable Eugene and an embarrassed, though entirely too pleased, Spina.

“Try living with them.” Ralph pointed out, and Eugene shot him an aggravated look, “You got a damn big mouth.”

“Aren’t you billeted with a family?” Eleanor asked, her brows furrowed as her mind raced to remember the home that Eugene and Ken— well, now Ralph, had been living in since they’d crossed the Atlantic. The family had a daughter near their age, if Nora was remembering correctly. She’d only gone over once or twice, Eugene entirely content to be left alone more often than not.

“Wait a minute, did you marry the Newman’s daughter? Without telling me?” She further sputtered, slightly hurt that Eugene hadn’t said a word. He still didn’t, his face screwed together tightly as though he was ready to combust.

“I didn’t not tell ya on purpose.. Rita didn’t want a fuss about it, y’know how the parish is.” He finally muttered, a pained look on his face as he did, and most of the hurt fell away from Eleanor’s shoulders at the mortified expression on her friend’s face.

Out of any of them, Roe was the last she’d have expected to find an English girl. He always seemed so reserved, and the thought of him courting the (very pretty, from what she remembered) girl without anyone knowing left a devilish amusement surging through Eleanor at Roe’s uncomfortable sputtering.

“Gene, don’t tell me you were..”

“I ain’t having this conversation with you.” His cheeks were red, and Nora guffawed, “Oh my god, D’you know I’ve been bullying the rest of them for being deviants? And the whole time you’ve been shacking up with your billet?”

“She’s a real nice girl,” He defended, and Eleanor shook her head, grinning, “I’d hope so, since you married her— without telling me or anyone else for that matter.”

The latter words still contained a bite as they left her lips. She was somewhat hurt, even if her and Gene’s friendship did lie on a foundation of mutual introversion and comfortable silence. She didn’t think that their dynamic would result in a marriage left unshared and unspoken. It tugged at her, though Nora’s feelings of delight over Roe’s mortification won out. Slightly. Ever so slightly.

He picked up on it, though Gene always did.

“I’m sorry Eleanor,” He said, quieter— so Spina’d stop listening in, “I was gonna tell ya, but we almost didn’t— get hitched, I mean.. I dunno, it was gonna be in June, the sixth if you can believe it.”

“You’re shitting me.” She huffed, her words breathy as the reminder of their first jump left the hairs on the back of her neck prickled.

“She.. I was gonna leave it be, wait to see if I came back, I didn’t wanna put her through hell if I didn’t.” He muttered, and Eleanor’s brows furrowed at his words.

“Are you an idiot?” She asked, Roe’s words settling uncomfortably over her. Even she, as closed off to intimacy as she was, knew that a ring meant little in determining how upset Rita Newman, well, now Rita Roe apparently, would have been if Eugene didn’t come back to Aldbourne.

Eleanor couldn’t off and marry a civilian even if she wished to, being a man’s wife automatically disqualifying her for Nightingale, but she’d spent the last month and a half worrying over the enlisted men she’d been deployed with. None of them were her husbands, hell, Joey was the closest to family she had, and the thought of him dying was enough to haunt her dreams and make her chest heave. She’d have to find Joey at some point that day— having missed him in PT. Mal had said something about him and Bill adopting some replacement in Bull’s squad. The thought made her a little envious, though she hadn’t exactly helped her own case by hiding away at Flo’s for the better part of their first week back.

“Yeah, she said as much.” Eugene scoffed, his lips quirked in a smile as though he was replaying said moment. Eleanor didn’t know the Newman’s eldest daughter all that well despite them being around the same age, but she did see the blonde cuff a Fox company man in the ear once for no doubt saying something unsavoury their first few months in the village. She only wondered how she and Gene got on, how they began— God, Nora was no better than a nosy gossip.

“She yelled at me somethin’ fierce, then dragged me down to that church by the diner the day before we left Aldbourne.” He continued, and Eleanor snorted, “You got her a ring though, right?”

Eugene looked offended. “‘Course I did.”

“It’s a nice ring, real big.” Spina cut in from the other side of the room, sneaking a glance at them. Eleanor rolled her eyes, her hands at her hips as she looked between the pair of them.

“I can’t believe he knew before I did, you owe me Gene.” She pointed a finger at him, and now it was Roe’s turn to roll his eyes.

A thought passed over her, “Wait, did Ken know?”

The room got quiet. Ralph knew better than to show his eavesdropping any longer, turning away from them and busying himself with something on one of the shelves.

“Well, we shared a room.” Roe admitted, and Eleanor nodded, a small smile inching on her face as she thought about Jansen and his lack of filter or care for anything.

“Good, I bet he was real happy for you.”

Eugene snorted, and Eleanor imagined the stoic man in front of her was probably remembering some uncouth acknowledgement from their lost third medic, though Eugene didn’t share it.

“Yeah, he was.”

“I am too, in case you thought I wasn’t,” She grinned, “But you’ve gotta let me meet her properly, so we can talk about how much of an idiot you can be sometimes.”

“A’ course, why wouldn’t I want that?” Eugene drawled, sarcasm tinging his words as he turned away from her with a smirk.

•••

Mr. Hughes, or Victor— as he’d demanded she call him, let her in at the door. Eleanor walked lazily up the wooden staircase with her med bag on her hip, the voices from within the room she walked towards growing more discernible as she went. Nora stilled just as her hand reached the brass doorknob.

“But was the fuck worth it? Look at ya.”

“Oh fuck off Lieb— she wasn’t complaining when my face was under her skirt.”

Eleanor pushed open the door with a wrinkled nose, Liebgott tutting as she did,

“‘Least ya can say you hurt yourself in the service, maybe then they’ll give your dumbass a medal.”

If Tab was going to retort, his mouth shut as Eleanor entered the room, his cheeks red.

“Nice conversation.” She mused, shutting the door behind her and swinging her med pack off of her shoulder, “What’re you two playing?”

They each held cards, and it was Liebgott who spoke first.

“Cribbage.” His shoulders were hunched forward, voice tense.

“Holy shit, and I was worried Lieb scared ya off.” Tab grinned from his spot on the bed. Not much had changed, relatively speaking, since Eleanor had seen to him the day before, “Could a’ sworn you’d forgot about me Birdie.”

Joe was looking at her from over his cards, sneaking glances as she walked further into the shared bedroom. “As if I’m scared of him.” She bit out, an attempt to escape whatever awkward back and forth their walk back that morning had ended on. It worked, as Joe’s face morphed from amusement to faux-agitation from where he sat on the rug next to Floyd’s bed.

“Real confidence booster, thanks Verbeken,” He snorted, “Tell that to the Krauts.”

“Good thing I’m not a German soldier.” She shot back, moving to swat at Tab’s legs so he’d shift them and make room for her. He did, and her ass hit the man’s bed just as a cocky laugh left Liebgott’s mouth.

“Well ya are a broad, and a Jew,” He tutted, “Two obvious things to rule that out pretty quickly.”

“She also ain’t fucking German,” Floyd rolled his eyes, “Shit, they’d probably be more scared a’ you than you’d be a’ them.”

Eleanor furrowed her brows, “What am I, a bear?”

“Could be, w— Ow!” Eleanor’s fingers pressed through Tab’s sleep shirt as he spoke, and she nodded at the feeling of the stitches holding.

“A little warning could be nice.” He huffed, lifting his shirt up to his chest as Eleanor smirked.

“Don’t tear your stitches next time.” She could practically hear Joe’s leer in Tab’s direction at her words.

“You heard the woman.” He quipped, and Eleanor looked over at him as he abandoned his cards in his lap. His hair was longer, brown locks falling further into his eyes than they normally would. She wondered who cut his hair, seeing as though he practically cut everyone else’s. did he do his own?

Tab’s pronounced exhale broke her from her thoughts, his stomach flexing beneath her touch. Nora turned back towards him, peeling the used bandage from its place above his belly button and tearing open a sulfa packet with her teeth to clean the fresh stitches. They looked good. They’d continue to look good, so long as the Sergeant beneath her remained stationary.

“Your hair’s gettin’ long.” It seemed Eleanor’s observations about the Californian went both ways. She shrugged, not bothering to look at him as she placed fresh gauze over the now thoroughly sterile wound. He spoke again, a teasing glint in his raspy voice,

“You’re startin’ to look like a ruffian.”

“I like it.” Floyd cut in, reaching over to tug at a dark strand that hung at her shoulder. Eleanor rolled her eyes, turning— both out of Tab’s grasp and to face Joe and his mocking smile.

“George and I got this whole plan to be outlaws together, I’m getting ready.” She shot back, the corners of her mouth tugging upwards as his dimples quirked in response. He tutted.

“You want me to cut it?”

“God no,” Eleanor shuddered, “And have you cut me again?”

“Verbeken, you knocked the damn bucket and you know it.” He defended.

“So, you told me you don’t cut girls hair anyways.” Eleanor raised her brows. Tab shifted beside her, sitting up on his pillow now that Eleanor was finished prodding at him.

“But I got four sisters.” He shrugged. Eleanor’s ears pricked at that. Two years and the man before her had never spoken about his family, at least, not to her. She knew Tab had all brothers, and that a few of them were serving in other regiments. Still, the casual slip of personal information intrigued her. What was life like for him at home? She didn’t ask.

“And they won’t let you touch their hair?” She asked, “I can’t say I blame them.”

He snorted at that, shaking his head. “Are you gonna stick around just to shit on me? Or do ya wanna play a round with us at least?”

Eleanor hummed. “Well, we can’t play cribbage, but I’m game for a round of rummy.”

“Alright, sure— just shut your fuckin’ yap for once.”

•••

Eleanor found herself spending an awful amount of time next door for the rest of the week— a perk, or consequence, of being designated Sergeant Floyd Talbert’s keeper. It’s surely extra work on top of their rigorous return to training, though Nora had no wish to complain. Not really. Tab let her change his bandages and bark orders at him with only the slightest scowl, and a small part of her found the sudden authority over her friend (and Sergeant) somewhat amusing. She wouldn’t say she’s drunk on power, though bossing Floyd around was certainly an entertaining break to the physically demanding monotony their return to Aldbourne signified.

Eleanor was not the only one who found joy in it, though. Liebgott— or her co-torturer, as Tab had said once or twice now, was just as entertained by the injured man’s boredom. The man’s taunting laugh seemed permanently stuck in her head, buzzing behind her ears at each scowl that graced Tab’s face. It was a nice laugh, she thought. She’d thought that before, though their lapse into unlikely friendship had left her far more observant.

It is a friendship, even though the notion feels foreign and wasn’t one she’d willingly address. They hadn’t ever not been friends, since Toccoa. Sort of. There were moments where the thought of him made her blood boil, and she was just as certain he would say the same, yet his presence was unavoidable. Not in the sense that they belonged to the same company, but that somehow her eyes and mind always sought him out, regardless of their tenuous standing. The man endlessly confused her, though she couldn’t pretend she wasn’t equally as intrigued.

He was laughing at her now.

Not maliciously, she didn’t think, and not alone. But he was laughing nonetheless, his mouth tugged into a smirk at her expense while Eleanor squirmed uncomfortably on the carpet of his and Floyd’s bedroom.

“Chuck, tell her she’s being an asshole.” He leered. He sat back against the side of his own bed, head tipped towards her as he fiddled with the razor in his lap.

“I’m not being an asshole.” She rolled her eyes as Floyd’s socked foot left the bed to nudge her arm. She ducked, a grimace on her lips as he spoke,

“She ain’t the only one you’ve sliced— remember how good you got my ear at Bragg?”

“I didn’t slice either of ya,” He huffed, “See the hole in your stomach, that’s a goddamn slice.”

“Slice or not, I dunno if I trust a barber whose sisters won’t even let him cut their hair.” Eleanor tutted, “Chuck?”

Grant was watching the back-and-forth with a smirk, his lips pressed tight into a quirked line despite both of their attempts to include him in the conversation.

Tab’s isolation had seen a few guests make their way through the Hughes’ front door that week. Chuck was a frequent flyer, Perco and Alley had come by the day before, and even Skinny managed to pop in once or twice. Needless to say, the man huddled underneath his blankets was not short for company.

“Don’t involve me in this.” Chuck finally grumbled, tossing his cards onto the carpet, “I’m sick a’ fuckin’ gin rummy, I ain’t playin’ anymore.”

“Oh come on!” Floyd whined as Grant stood up on shaky legs, dusting off his pants before shooting Tab a leer, “Buddy, the platoon’s down a Sergeant, I gotta help Compton set up for the march.”

“I’m gonna be all alone..” Tab lamented, lying back onto his pillow as Nora snorted.

“I’m sure any of us would switch places with you to get outta the march Tab, it’s supposed to rain.”

“It rained all the time in France.” Liebgott cut in, and the look on his face suggested he’d only pointed it out to contradict her. She’d know, there wasn’t a single person on the line in Normandy who actually enjoyed a rained-out trench.

“Yeah and you bitched every damn time.” Grant scoffed as he shrugged on his jacket. A-ha! Case in point. Eleanor smirked, “Anyways, I guess we’ll see you in an hour Chuck.”

“Yeah yeah,” He waved off, nodding in Tab’s direction, “Rinse the shmuck of all his cash for me.”

“Aye-aye Sergeant.” Liebgott teased, the room falling into a comfortable silence once the blond man made himself scarce.

“Another round of rummy?” Eleanor asked, and Floyd groaned.

“Chuck’s right, I’m fuckin’ sick of rummy.”

Eleanor sighed, dropping her cards to her lap to tuck her hair behind her ears. It was getting long, and as much as she’d been enjoying teasing the man across from her she wouldn’t mind getting it cut.

“Liebgott, do you wanna cut my hair before the march?” She asked tentatively, and the Californian’s smirk etched up his face, dimples pulled back.

“I dunno, feels like I ain’t appreciated enough around here.” He teased, and Nora rolled her eyes before pushing herself up to her feet.

“But if you insist…” He stretched out the words, a lazy grin on his face as he copied her movements.

“What, now you two are fuckin’ leaving me?” Floyd whined, and Liebgott tutted.

“I ain’t gettin’ hair all over the wood, I’m cuttin’ it in the garden.” As though it were obvious. Eleanor shot Floyd an apologetic smile before following Joe out of the room and done the stairs, his hand twisting the scissors around his fingers as they went.

“Better not make me regret this.” She said as they stepped out onto the back porch. Eleanor sat on the lowest step as Liebgott made a noise of indignation. It only served to spur her on further.

“At least tell me your sisters names.” Eleanor huffed, her shoulders tensed as she felt Liebgott settle behind her.

“Why?” His voice dripped with agitation.

“So I can send them each a letter confirming their fears if you cut me again.” She quipped, smirking as she heard him still.

“Do you want me to cut your damn hair or what Verbeken?” He snapped, and Nora’s smile fell slightly at realization she’d pissed him off.

“Yeah, you can cut it.” She said softly, resisting the urge to shudder as his hands ran through her hair. The sound of his scissors moving was the only one to be heard for the few minutes it took him to trim Eleanor’s hair back to her preferred length just below her chin.

She blinked as Liebgott stood from the step, moving around to crouch in front of her.

“Mary’s two years younger than me, then there’s Elizabeth— but we call her Beth,” He spoke, “Then Anna and Barbara.”

He timed his words with the first brush of his fingers against Nora’s forehead, her mind blank for a moment as his hands met her skin.

“Huh?” She asked.

“My sisters.” He shrugged, and before Eleanor could speak he grinned, “I got a brother too— Stephen, since you’re so fuckin’ nosey.”

Eleanor hummed, though the noise was strangled as Joe snipped away at her overgrown bangs, her breath in her throat as the scissors ghosted her furrowed brows.

“There, was it that hard?” He finished, hand swiping across her forehead with his breath as he blew away the excess hair. She flinched, “Well, my letters can be nice ones I guess.”

“Oh so now you’re nice.” He grunted, and Eleanor yelped as he grabbed her by the arms to pull her to her feet. She steadied herself, hands instinctually going to her dark hair, mussing it a bit.

“Thanks Liebgott.”

“Well, don’t ever say I didn’t do anything nice for ya.”

His words contained a bite that made her falter, though Eleanor didn’t acknowledge it. Joe had already walked halfway to the door, his hand on the brass knob before he turned back to spare her a glance.

She blinked, forcing a smile as he turned back around and pushed through the door. Maybe she’d imagined it, or maybe he hadn’t meant for it to come out that way, but his dejected, almost irritated tone kept replaying in her head as she walked out through the side gate and towards her own cottage to change into her full OD’s.

Thankfully, it hadn’t rained. Eleanor thought it still might, given the grey, wispy clouds that seemed to littler the night sky— though for the two hours Easy had been made to march through the English countryside in full equipment the sky hadn’t opened to rain down on them. The air was thick, though in a way it only ever was when rain was imminent. She looked up, tipping her helmet back to glance up at what little light she could see through the clouds, taking a deep breath. She hoped that if the weather did sour it’d be once she was back at Flo’s in the comfort of her bed. The rain pattering against the cottage’s old windows was perhaps her favourite sound aside from whatever Flo played on the radiogram.

“Hey.”

Joey’s gruff voice broke her from her musings. She turned towards him, her helmet tipping back over her brows as she did.

“You got your hair cut,” He acknowledged, “Thought you’d start pullin’ out the braids again.”

Eleanor snorted, the memory of her one and only hairstyle in their youth a somewhat comforting one.

“Yeah I let Lieb cut it.” She said.

“You two are like Frick and Frack all a’ the sudden.” Joey teased, and Eleanor shot him an irritated glance, “He happens to live with my pet-Sergeant.”

“Oh yeah, how is Tab doin?” The teasing glint never left his voice, and Eleanor rolled her eyes.

“He’s doing just fine, bored mostly,” She muttered, “Come visit him, to spare me if anything.”

Joey opened his mouth to answer, though Bill sauntered up to the pair of them and clapped Toye on the shoulder before the man could get a word out. “D’you give her shit for ditchin’ us?”

Eleanor laughed, shooting Bill a dirty look as Joey chuckled, “Ditch you? Do you know how much shit I’ve had to put up with this week?”

“Yeah yeah, that’s what they all say.” Guarnere teased, “Don’t roll your eyes at me— it’s alright, I get it, you’re too cool to hang out with your old pals Joey and Bill—“

“— Oh really?” Eleanor played along, crossing her arms over her chest and tipping her chin up and away from the pair of them, “Cause I heard you aren’t bothered at all, in fact… you seem pretty busy with that replacement of yours.”

“Oh shut up.” Joey teased, bumping her shoulder, “You both sound like little girls.. go get fuckin’ Heffron.”

Bill shot Eleanor a wink as she huffed, turning to Joey as Bill walked away, “You know I’m only joking right? I couldn’t care less that you two have found some other poor dope to annoy.”

“You callin’ yourself a dope?” He grinned, and Eleanor rolled her eyes. Bill reappeared, a red haired young man (she only knew that because the grinning man had his helmet balanced against his hip) beside him. Luz made up the rear, hands on both of their shoulders, and Eleanor shot him a wave.

“This here’s Babe.”

Eleanor thought he’d heard him wrong, Bill’s gruff voice suffering a mistranslation amid the cool air and chatter around them while they shed unnecessary gear.

She furrowed her brows, head cocked to ask as much before George clapped her on the shoulder,

“Jheez Birdie, I know English ain’t your first language but did you forget it all together?”

“George, shut up,” She teased, shoving him back, “Babe, really?”

“Yeah— real helpful, ain’t it?”

“Alright Casanova.” Toye cut in, an incredulous look on his face. Eleanor snorted as so-called-Babe shifted on his feet.

“Birdie n’ Babe, it’s got a nice ring to it.” He grinned, and Eleanor couldn’t help the blush crawling its way to her cheeks as she rolled her eyes. The new kid was fucking with her, and Bill and Joe looked far too amused by it.

“Did you two stooges put him up to this?” She asked, a grin tugging at her lips as she looked the redhead up and down in disbelief.

“Oh cmon, I’m a charmin’ fella,” Babe teased, grinning, “I’m butterin’ up all the medics, thinkin’ ahead.”

“You think I’d encourage this?” Joey asked in faux-offence, shaking his head as he slung an arm over Eleanor’s shoulder. Eleanor let him lead them away, not before he called out, “Kid thinks he’s hilarious, you got your own bird at home Heffron— go write your Doris some love letters.”

Eleanor grinned, laughing as they left the field and began to walk back into town. She’d meant to wait for Liebgott, as they’d been walking home together from most training exercises all week, though she didn’t spot him amidst the platoons huddled together after their march.

Then again, she’d spent most of the week with him. And Tab of course, though Tab didn’t leave the four walls of their bedroom unless it was to use the bathroom. She really had been spending most of her time with him, ‘ditching’ Joey and Bill.

Joey didn’t take it personally, he told her as much when she asked him as they reached the first few shops that signalled their return to the village. It was just past midnight, if her watch had the correct time, and Eleanor wanted nothing more than to collapse in bed. It was Friday, which meant she could sleep in, though she hadn’t been able to lately, her body seeming to rise with the sun no matter how sleep-deprived her mind felt.

They passed the pub when Joey’s arm left her shoulder, and her closest friend shot her a grin and asked if she was sure she didn’t want to come in for a pint.

“Just one,” He reasoned, “Most a’ the guys’ll be coming straight here.”

Eleanor shook her head, “I’m gonna head to bed, but I’ll come out with you tomorrow.”

Joey had expected her denial, though her promise of next time made his brows raise. She scoffed, “Don’t give me that look— it’s not like I swore the pub off completely.”

“Alright, I’ll see ya tomorrow then.” He hummed, ruffling her hair before heading towards the entrance.

Eleanor couldn’t avoid a night out tomorrow even if she wished too, but she didn’t. In all honesty she missed the raucousness of a good night out with the rest of them. But, as she’d been half out the door a few hours earlier Speirs had pulled her aside. He’d scared the fucking shit out of her when he’d done it, sneaking around like that in Flo’s kitchen, but he’d basically ordered her to find a different home to crash at on Saturday night. He’d been allusive when she asked, but Nora would bet money that he’d be asking her billet to marry him.

She walked down the dark main road that Greenwell Lane hinged off of, and turned onto the street with a sigh. She itched for a cigarette, and let her hands fumble against her pockets in the dark as she approached the house, her fingers curling around her pack of Lucky Strikes just as a voice rang out, sending her jumping.

“Hey, you got a lighter?”

“Jesus Christ.” She spat, turning to the house next door where Liebgott sat on the porch, an unlit cigarette between his lips. “Don’t— don’t fucking do that.”

He apologized, though the amused smirk on his face told Eleanor he didn’t really mean it. She shook her head, agitated, as she turned away from her gate and made her way through the Hughes’, her lighter in her hands.

She lit her own first, inhaling and letting the cigarette sit between her fingers as she handed Joe the brass box. The flame lit his features, obscured by the dark, and he patted the stoop next to him before handing her back the lighter.

Eleanor sat down, her arm brushing against his.

“Surprised you’re not down at the pub with the rest of them.” She mused, sneaking a glance towards the older man. Joe tutted, the cigarette hanging from his mouth swaying slightly as he did.

“Too tired for that tonight, maybe tomorrow.”

Eleanor didn’t know why she asked, as she could have asked Joey and Bill while they were still on the field, but the words had slipped past her mouth before she could take them back, “Think I could crash with you and Floyd tomorrow?” exhaling the Lucky Strike between her lips.

Joe looked at her from over his own, brows furrowed for a moment. He took the cigarette away from his mouth just as the creases in his face dissipated.

“Sure, but I ain’t taking the couch again, shit hurts,” He complained, “Why?”

“Can you keep a secret?” She asked.

“Sure I can.”

“I think Speirs is gonna ask Flo to marry him.”

“You don’t say,” He whistled, “You seem excited about that.”

“Why wouldn’t I be?” Her brows furrowed.

“Thought you weren’t the marriage type,” He shrugged, “That whole thing with whatshisname.”

“Oh, Peter.”

“The asshole.” He corrected, and Eleanor squirmed in her seat. He’d said it almost ferociously, nostrils flared. It stung her, slightly. Then again, Eleanor didn’t want to think about that day. She doubted her and Liebgott would have a pleasant conversation if she did. Then again, she wasn’t sure if their current conversation was pleasant.

“I dunno,” Eleanor paused, “Thats different.”

“How’s it different?” He challenged, tossing the cigarette onto the gravel.

“He wanted to marry me to keep me in one place,” She took a drag, frowning as she felt the cigarette hit filter, “Wasn’t cause he loved me, or wanted us to be in one place together, yknow?”

Liebgott nodded, but didn’t say anything.

“Besides I barely knew him— and not like Flo and Speirs, they.. they fit together somehow, Peter didn’t know anything about me really, nothing important anyways.”

Joe hummed. “Like what?”

“Huh?”

“Like, what’s the important shit?”

“I.. I don’t know.” She shook her head, flustered. She hadn’t expected him to press her on it, and in all honesty didn’t have an answer. She could feel his stare boring into the side of her face.

“Anyways— it doesn’t matter. It was fun till it wasn’t, yknow?” She huffed, itching under the older man’s stare. She hated when he did that, she could never read him when he did that.

“Yeah, fun till it wasn’t.” He affirmed, and Eleanor exhaled once he looked away, eyes back on the road ahead of them. He would know, being as familiar as half the other men when it came to unserious flings. It’d get him off her back.

“I’m uh..” She began, shuffling up and off of the step, “I’m gonna head in, I’ll see you tomorrow then?”

“Yeah,” He nodded, standing up after her, “See you tomorrow Verbeken.”

•••

The pub was loud, and Skinny was mumbling in her ear as she took a sip of her second whiskey. Eleanor flinched as his breath tickled her neck, and she sat back, nudging the man on the shoulder, “Jesus Skinny, you’re breathing down my neck.”

“Leave ‘er alone Sisk.” Johnny teased from his other side.

“I’m only askin’ her about Tab!” He reasoned, leaning over to bother Martin, “You haven’t even been over to see him once, I’d know— he won’t shut the fuck up about it.”

“All anyone seems to ask me lately is about Tab.” Eleanor rolled her eyes, though accepted the lit cigarette Wayne handed her as a peace offering, “But Sisk has got a point Johnny.”

“Yeah yeah, I’ll go see him when I see him.” The Sergeant acquiesced. Just then George reappeared, plopping himself back into his seat on Eleanor’s right. The drink he’d gone to fetch for her was slid over, knocking against the half filled one she was currently nursing.

“Your highness.” George said with a flourish, and Eleanor rolled her eyes, taking a drag of her cigarette as Skinny whistled.

“Malark are you seein’ this?” He called out, and Don and Skip’s animated conversation across the table was cut short as the two men looked over.

“Oh-ho-ho, we havin’ a good night tonight Corporal Verbeken?” Skip cheered, “You wanna grab me a drink Luz?”

“Aye, me too.” Don teased, and George grinned.

“Gentlemen, when one a’ you gets a matching tattoo with me I’ll do whatever the hell you want, until then, it’s Birdie and I against the world.”

“Exactly.” Eleanor affirmed, raising her now-finished second glass in their direction as she took a last hit of the Lucky Strike, flicking it into the ash tray at the table’s center.

“I dunno how Faye would feel if I came home with an Eagle on my ass.” Muck tutted, and Eleanor beamed, “Did you tell her I liked her new hairdo?”

“Of course I did, she knows I been showin’ her off to anyone who’ll listen.”

“Ugh, love.” George faux-groaned, and Eleanor giggled at his forlorn expression as she reached for her glass, taking a sip as she felt a hand drape itself against her head.

“You behavin?” Joey slurred, and Eleanor grimaced as she felt him lean against her chair, nearly toppling it forward and into the table. “Don’t you think I should be asking you that?”

“Here ya go Birdie.” Babe grinned, and another glass was placed in front of her. Eleanor laughed as Don’s eyes widened, “Are you fucking kiddin’ me?”

“Don’t get mad at me you aren’t being resourceful Malarkey.” She hummed, and the new arrivals to the table quickly found seats. Eleanor spared a glance at her brother as Joey seemed to flop into the one Bill shoved him towards, “Besides, Babe said he’s butterin’ up all the medics, so now if one of you needs extra bandages, I know who I’m giving ‘em too.”

“That is cruel, Corporal.” Don teased, enunciating each word as Skip flicked him in the ear, “Ow— watch it!”

Eleanor rolled her eyes as she quickly downed the drink George had given her. As she did, she spotted Liebgott enter the pub and noticed their table, as close to the door as it was. She swallowed with difficulty, once his eyes met hers, and coughed as George slapped her against the back. “Y’alright Birdie?”

She hadn’t been sure if he was coming, really. Eleanor had been waiting for the perfect moment to beg Joey and Bill to let her crash with them given that most of them had been at the pub nearly an hour now; and that the man now pulling up a chair wasn’t home when she’d gone to check on Tab before she left.

“You fellas just don’t get it, Birdie knows where her loyalties lie— we’re a regular Pennsylvania quartet.” Bill said, slamming his hand against the table with a grin. “Hey Liebgott, nice a’ ya to join us.”

Joe nodded, accepting the pint Chuck seemed to have waiting for him. Eleanor waved at him in greeting, too engrossed in her drink and Bill’s absurd declaration to do much else. Still, her ears pricked when he waved halfheartedly back, his brows furrowed and lips upturned as he noticed the glass-graveyard in front of her.

“What the fuck’s a quartet?” Joey murmured, his head leaning against his arm on the table as Nora laughed, ��Hey, Spina’s from Pennsylvania too, and Winters, we can’t just be a quartet.”

“‘Sides, I don’t need to butter up Spina, look at ‘em over there.” Babe reasoned, gesturing to where Ralph was ‘butterin up’ one of the American nurses still in the village.

“Absolutely not, we gotta be selective here, you think I can let in any Joe and Harry who says they’re from Pennsylvania? There’d be too many a’ us.” Bill quipped, just as Joey once again asked what a quartet was.

“You idiots already got a Joe,” Malarkey pointed out, gesturing to the inebriated man, “It’s a singin’ group by the way, ya drunk.”

“We’re singin? Since when?” Joey mumbled, and Eleanor grinned as he sat up straight, clearing his throat, “Hey Malark, I know you know this one.”

“Buddy, what the—“ Bill began, though Joe’s deep voice cut him off, “In Dublin's fair city…Where the girls are so pretty, I first set my eyes on sweet Molly Malone…”

“Are you fucking kidding me right now?” Bill howled as Joey’s singing tapered out, and Malarkey’s eyes lit up as he slammed his fist against the table,

“As she wheeled her wheel-barrow, Through streets broad and narrow, Crying, "Cockles and mussels, alive, alive, oh!"”

“Oh my god! I remember this one!” Eleanor shrieked, and she felt George snatch the half-filled glass from her hands as she practically vibrated in her seat, “Alive, alive, oh, Alive, alive, oh!—“

“—Crying "Cockles and mussels, alive, alive, oh!” Both Joey and Malarkey cut her off, as George wrapped his free arm around the side of Eleanor’s head to press it against the side of his own.

“Jesus Christ Birdie, leave the singin’ to the real damn birds.” He moaned, and Eleanor wrestled herself from his hold as the men around the table shook with laughter, and pouted.

“I used to like that one.” She reasoned, looking around at the shocked faces as her fingers curled around her glass. She took a heavy sip, just as Don stopped laughing enough to clear his throat.

“How the hell do you know Molly Malone?”

“S’how we taught ‘er English.” Joey answered for her, and Eleanor rolled her eyes, “Don’t lie.”

“I ain’t a liar,” He shook his head, “You and Liz used to sing it up n’down the street!”

“I knew what I was singing.” Nora asserted, raising her glass in his direction and smirking as the drunk man once again began to refute her words.

It was a half truth, as Eleanor’s English had certainly improved under the Toye’s tutelage. Then again, the man across the table also had a proclivity for teaching her curse words, but she didn’t bring that up.

“But did ya know how you were singin’?” George nudged her side, “My poor fuckin’ ears, Toye’s the only one outta the three of yous who can carry a note.”

“Nuh-uh, I got the voice of a damn angel.” Don shook his finger from across the table. Eleanor snorted, finishing her drink and letting her head rest against her hand in much the same fashion as Joey’s was. What a pair, the two of them were. She missed Liz, the old Irish tune reminding her suddenly of happier times.

Then again, she’d still come home to a tense house that seemed far too big for the two people living within its walls. Except for once, when she was ten— pa had gone home to tie loose ends and she’d spent almost two months well fed with both warm meals and warm faces. In a way she felt similar, now. No matter where she went Eleanor constantly teetered between feeling happiest surrounded by smiling faces and desperately hoping eyes didn’t linger too long.

But adrenaline was adrenaline no matter the circumstances, she supposed. They were off the line, back in England and surrounded by peace, quiet, and routine. Her revelling in it made her feel somewhat guilty, considering her real purpose and how comfort wasn’t supposed to factor into it. Then again, Nora wasn’t entirely sure she was capable of feeling comfort. Not wholly or deeply.

She watched as Joe and Chuck stood, the sound of their chairs scraping against the wood tingling down her spine as she flinched ever so slightly. She didn’t turn her head fully, instead looking down at the empty glasses bracketing her arms. It looked as though they were heading to the bar.

“You know any more Irish songs?” Heffron quirked, and Eleanor looked up, noticing the redhead was speaking to her. She liked him, and his lopsided boyish grin. He seemed nice enough, but his charm sat in her stomach funny. He didn’t know her, not really— and he seemed to warm to the fact that she didn’t have a cock between her legs far too easily. She wondered if the two men that flanked him had something. They must have, because she couldn’t understand Babe’s behaviour otherwise.

Spina had transferred from a company within the regiment, but the young man Joey and Bill seemed to have adopted came straight from a training depot back home. He was too nice, and Eleanor was waiting for the foot to drop.. the other new faces had made sure to steer clear of her thus far.

Except for Peacock, but he had been another 101 transfer and even then she wished he would. The man had in only a week proved to be a horrible nag, to all of them.

“Mhm,” She muttered, “Joey’s family’s very patriotic.” Smirking as the man in question heard his name,

“Want me to sing another?”

“Toye, if I wanted a show I would a’ gone to a fucking show you Mick.” Martin whined.

Babe grinned again, laughing at the irritated look on Joey’s face. Bill clapped his hand over her brother’s neck, and Nora smiled as the two began to squabble.

“What language did ya speak?” Babe nodded towards her, and Eleanor was interrupted from her observations, “Huh?”

“What’d you speak at home?” He repeated, and Skinny threw an arm around her before she could answer,

“Her and doc are always speakin’ French, wait, you met Roe yet?”

Heffron shook his head, “Nah I haven’t— French?”

“It was Dutch, we called her Dutchie.” Joey interrupted, and Eleanor wrinkled her nose, “Stop telling people that!”

“But it’s true!” He reasoned, raising his arms in surrender as Eleanor shook her head.

“How many fuckin’ languages do you speak? You sure you ain’t in intelligence? Jesus Christ.” Skip whistled, “We gotta send your ass to Nixon.”

“Three,” She shrugged, stealing a cigarette from the carton on the table, she lit it and brought it to her lips before continuing, “But not really, my French is horrible.”

“She’s a real genius boys.” George drawled, and Eleanor elbowed him in the ribs as he cackled.

“Je bent een eikel.” She hissed, and George whistled, “What the hell’d you call me?”

Eleanor was about to tell the man to her left that she’d called him an angel, really, when Malarkey guffawed,

“Jesus Christ, that for the table?”

“Get your own Malark.” Liebgott quipped, and Eleanor’s lips quirked as he and Chuck deposited their bounty on the wood— several pints.

Eleanor took a drag of the Lucky Strike perched between her lips and giggled, “They’ve gotta catch up Don.”

“Speakin a’ which, I’m gettin’ another, you want one?” George sighed, and Eleanor nodded as he stood from the table. Eleanor took the opportunity to slide over and steal his seat, now directly next to Joe and Chuck.

“Where were you today?” She asked, her voice quieter as she let her eyes meet the side of Liebgott’s face. He took a swig of his drink before turning towards her, “Playin’ soccer with F company.”

She took another drag, “Really? Never took you for the type.”

“The hell is that supposed to mean?” He teased, his dimples pulled back as Eleanor fought the urge to smirk, “I dunno, you seem like a baseball guy.”

Joe tutted, “Guess you don’t know me then.”

Nora didn’t respond to that, her head fuzzy as she sat back with a shrug. She took a last drag of her cigarette before depositing it in the ash tray.

“Anymore sports up your sleeve?” She offered as Joe took an especially long swig of his drink.

“I used to box,” He shrugged, and Eleanor snorted, “That I can see.”

It seemed to have been the wrong thing to say, at least in her whiskey-addled mind, as a heat crawled up the back of her neck and wrapped itself around to cradle her jaw the second the words had left Nora’s mouth. Liebgott bristled slightly, his brows furrowed. She looked away from him, just as he shifted beside her and brushed his arm against her own.

“You buildin’ up a collection over there or what?” He asked, and Nora’s eyes met his again after flickering towards the short glasses in front of her now empty seat. “First time back, had to make it count I guess.”

“Heard you got Luz and the new one waiting on ya hand and feet.” His voice had an edge to it that made her falter, and Eleanor suddenly felt the urge to explain herself. Why, she wasn’t sure.

“Y’know George.. and well Babe said he’s tryna get on all the medics’ good sides— so the drinks don’t hurt.”

“And is he?” Liebgott asked, his stare holding her own, “Gettin’ on your good side I mean?”

Eleanor opened her mouth to respond when George plopped into her previous seat, sliding a fresh glass over towards her, “We playin musical chairs now?” He chuckled, “What’re you two whisperin’ about?”

Eleanor brought the glass to her lips as she felt Liebgott swing his arm over her shoulder almost mockingly, choking as the man squeezed and shook her ever so slightly.

“Oh ya know, just the sorry son of a bitch I left back at home.” He forced a teasing smile, his arm not budging against her.

“S’that why you look like you’re drinkin’ for two?” George grinned, and Liebgott raised his second glass in response and took a swig.

“Hey, we’re leavin’ before he spews, Y’alright?” Bill had made his way around the table, Joey leaning against him precariously.

“Huh?— Oh, yeah I’m good..” Eleanor spoke, nodding her head towards Liebgott, whose arm was still around her, and Bill’s brows furrowed ever so slightly. He didn’t say anything else, not to her at least, telling Chuck he’d see him back at the house before dragging Toye out of the pub.

“Nice singin’ by the way,” Liebgott’s teasing voice was in her ear, and she shuddered before turning her head to meet his mocking expression, “You could give those USO girls a run for their money.”

“Shut up, smart ass.” She shook her head, taking another sip of her drink. She felt him chuckle beside her, or above her. He was still holding onto her, and the notion made her lightheaded. Though, that could have been the drinks. She wondered if the Californian even realized he’d left his arm draped over her shoulder, long after the joke of it— as that must be the reason, had landed.

“Hey miss Molly Malone, come dance.” Babe called across the table as the slower music playing in the pub changed to one more upbeat.

Eleanor sputtered, pointing to herself as Heffron rolled his eyes, “Who else would I be talkin’ to? You think I’m asking Luz to Lindy Hop?”

“Shit, maybe I’d let ya!” George whistled as Eleanor laughed, shaking her head, “Take him, he’s willing.”

“Oh come on.. I been itchin’ to dance and I need a partner.” He begged, and Liebgott snorted.

“Tough break kid, Verbeken don’t dance.”

“When you meet Sergeant Talbert you can blame him for that, one time he spun me so hard I thought he broke my ankle..” Eleanor shook her head, attempting a a serious expression.

“Lieb— since when are you her keeper?” Mal guffawed, and Muck shook his head beside him, “They been babysittin’ Tab— he’s probably got them playing ma and pa, who woulda thought, these two suddenly thick as thieves?”

Liebgott’s arm left her shoulders as the eyes around the table suddenly seemed to focus on them. The sudden lack of contact left her feeling uncomfortably bare and Eleanor cleared her throat, “Y’know what, maybe I will dance, just this once.”

“Hey!” Heffron cheered as George and Skip pounded their fists against the table, and Nora slipped out of her chair, bracing against George’s for support. The empty glasses that littered the table seemed to stare at her mockingly.

Babe jumped up far too quickly for her brain to register, and suddenly the redhead was dragging her out into the crowd of soldiers, nurses, and Aldbourne locals just as The Andrews Sisters began to blare from the pub’s battered jukebox.

He spun her around, and Eleanor shrieked as he led them through a rather energetic jitterbug. Her head was spinning midway through the second song when she finally tripped over her own feet, Babe catching her before she fell forward.

“Christ—“

“—I told you I don’t dance!” She laughed, her hand clutching the sleeve of his jacket as she righted herself. She smoothed down her skirt once the room stopped spinning, Heffron grinning as she shook her head and pushed him forward and back towards the table.

Liebgott had a sour look on his face, and George had reclaimed his seat, talking the man’s ear off about God knows what when Eleanor slinked her way back into her original chair, heartily accepting the lit cigarette Skinny thrust towards her.

“Who would a’ thunk it, new kid’s made a dancer outta you.” He teased, and Eleanor let the smoke coat her throat before blowing it out in the man’s face, “I’m spinning, Wayne, shut up.”

Malarkey and Skip had left while she’d been away from the table, and a quick look to the left told her Johnny had snuck out as well. The table was dwindling, the hours on the clock growing later and later. She was tired, her feet aching and head suddenly far too heavy.

“Alright I’m leavin, anyone else?” Luz cut out once Eleanor smoked through her cigarette. Skinny and Heffron— Eleanor’s current enemy for making her dance, left with him.

“As fun as this is I’m missin’ my bed.” Chuck drawled not long after, and Liebgott grunted in response, finishing his last pint. Eleanor watched as he tipped his head back, his Adams-apple bobbing as the amber liquid slowly left the glass.

“Yeah, me too.” She muttered, pushing away from the table. Liebgott had been quiet since she’d gone to dance, avoiding her eye. She wondered if he even remembered she was staying with him and Tab tonight, and a part of her was scared to ask.

She finally cleared her throat a few minutes after Grant had taken a left turn down his own street, the pair of them silently tugging along until the sign for Greenwell Lane came into view. It was cold, and Eleanor pulled her jacket closer to her as she turned towards Liebgott, his brows furrowed and footsteps jumbled.

“I can still stay at yours, right?” She asked, and it was as though her voice had reminded him she was there. The creases between his brows straightened out, and he huffed,

“Nah, I’m gonna let ya sleep in the garden.”

Eleanor rolled her eyes, “Get me a blanket at least? Maybe a pillow, if you’ve got any to spare.”

He answered with another amused huff, his eyes trailing his feet as they reached the Hughes’ gate. Eleanor faltered as he held the gate open for her ever so slightly, reaching forward to catch it before it closed and follow him up the path. His hair looked nice, and shorter. She’d meant to tell him that when he’d first sat down at the pub but she’d forgotten. She wondered again if he cut it himself, or if he got one of the other guys to do it for him.

Her limbs felt heavy as she followed him up the porch, though something was off, had been since he’d taken his arm off of her. Maybe it shouldn’t have been there in the first place, but the whiskeys made Nora think it felt rather nice. But he was being weird now, like he often did, and Eleanor followed him up the stairs with bated breath, her neck tense as the tension in the air (or was it all in her head?) settled further and further over the pair of them.

“I’ll bring you a change a’ clothes.”

He was talking to her again, his voice slightly slurred as his arm guided her by the small of her back towards the bathroom door. She could feel the heat of his fingers through her blazer and dress shirt, burning her skin and radiating up her spine.

Eleanor walked into the small bathroom and caught her reflection. Her hair was mussed, and she instinctively ran her hands through it, the flush of her cheeks the only colour to be found on her face. Any lipstick Florence had forced on her earlier was likely littered against the many empty glasses she’d left at the pub, a faint stain in its place.

She heard footsteps, and Liebgott stood in the doorway, his jaw still clenched like it had been since they left the bar. She itched to smooth the muscles, though the intrusive thought remained buried in her head as she took the plaid pyjamas from him and moved to close the door. She paused at the last moment.

He didn’t look right when he frowned, though she only thought so now because she’d seen him so amused that week, instigating the Sergeant whose snoring in the room next door could be heard through the walls.

“Why are you lookin’ at me like that?” His voice reflected the strained look on his face, gruff and stiff as his stare bored into her own. She opened her mouth, though his hand reached out to push the door the rest of the way shut,

“Change your clothes Verbeken.” He said, softer this time, though the bathroom door was closed before she could read his face.

Eleanor left her dress uniform in a pile on the floor, her heels buried beneath them as she fiddled with the men’s pyjamas that hung too loose on her frame. She’d finished buttoning the shirt when Liebgott knocked on the door, “You done?”

“Yeah.” She muttered, opening the door to see he had also changed. His dog tags sat starkly against the clean white of his undershirt, the shining pendant catching in the dim light of the hallway.

Maybe he was angry with her again. She didn’t know, but she didn’t want to look at his face and find out. Or maybe she did, the past week had been a rather nice one. She pushed past him and headed for the stairs as his arm reached out to grab her own, stopping her in place.

“What are you doing?” He asked, and Eleanor faltered, “Going downstairs, you said I had the couch this time.”

She heard him scoff, and suddenly he was pulling her back towards the bathroom and his bedroom.

“I was just— just go to bed, I’ll take the couch.” He muttered, and suddenly his clipped tone was too much for her. Eleanor turned around, slipping her arm from his hold.

“Why are you being so weird all of the sudden, did I do something?” She asked, a familiar warmth in her chest awaiting the inevitable; confirmation she’d somehow done something to sow discord.

“What the hell are you talking about?” His voice was softer, almost intentional, like he’d caught himself and slipped on a mask. It still felt wrong, like he was only trying to get her off his back.

“You’re like, fucking mad at me for some reason,” She bristled, “I didn’t do shit to you, you’re the one who..” She trailed off, unsure of what it was she even wanted to say. They’d been good lately. The thought of ruining that and rehashing what she’d rather banish to obscurity made bile rise to her throat and threaten to smother her on the spot.

“You called me pretty,” She brought up, voice unsure as though she’d imagined it, “In Normandy.”

He didn’t say anything for a moment, his eyes widening in the dim light. Eleanor felt just as surprised as his expression suggested, unsure why that of all things had been what her mind had conjured.

“Yeah well, seemed like the type a’ shit he’d respond to.” He bit out, voice hoarse.

“Yeah,” She nodded, forcing a small laugh that sounded more like a choke, “He would I guess.” She was choking, under his gaze and the weight of her embarrassment on her shoulders. Somehow his response made her feel worse than no response at all would have.

His eyes flashed with something, or maybe it was the way Joe’s subtle step forward made the light catch them ever so slightly. She stepped back, almost outside of herself, his face so close to hers before suddenly it was Joe stepping back, his brows furrowed and jaw tense.

“Are you going to let me through?” She asked barely above a whisper, afraid that if she spoke any louder the words would leave strained, her voice threatening to crack and splinter the longer he stared at her.

“I’ll just..” She began, her eyes downcast and heavy as she moved to brush past him, when suddenly his warm hands were on her shoulders, pushing her backwards until her back met the bathroom door they’d left ajar, and the sound of it creaking on its hinges was the only sound Eleanor’s brain registered before his lips were on hers’ and any coherent thought rushed out of her like a dam breaking.

If Joe wasn’t gripping her so tightly Eleanor might have fallen, her knees weak as his mouth hungrily moved against her own, and Eleanor gasped into his mouth as his arms moved to drag her chest flush against his own.

Her mind had slipped into a frantic numbness as she lifted her arms to drag her shaking hands through his hair, tugging against him as she let him push her backwards until her back hit the countertop and all she could taste was the beer on his mouth and God, his mouth.

This was wrong. So incredibly wrong— and yet the thought of him stopping was borderline sickening.

“We shouldn’t do this,” She begged, though for a moment it hadn’t even sounded like her own voice, “Please.”

His grip on her didn’t loosen, and Eleanor’s chest heaved as his rough hands found her face, pulling her back towards him and reconnecting their mouths sloppily, almost angrily. She melted into it, his mouth on hers so foreign, yet as addicting as the calming smoke of a cigarette that promised to linger long after it had been smoked through. She pulled at him, her fingernails dragging against the cotton of his undershirt so tight she thought she’d ripped it.

A desperate noise escaped her as he practically rutted against her, their skin fusing despite the fabric that separated them. Nothing about he man devouring her was gentle, but for the briefest moment she thought she'd let him devour her whole if it meant he'd continue.

"Shouldn't or can't?" He panted, and Eleanor's mouth hung open as she drank in the way he stared at her with blown out puils. “Shouldn’t or can’t?”

Eleanor couldn’t breathe, not while he looked so, lewd. His chest heaved against her own as his eyes scanned her face, and when a moan escaped her mouth at the drag of his dog tags against her chest, Eleanor lets him lift her with strong arms until was practically seated in the sink, her back folded against the mirror.

his teeth dragged across her exposed neck, a well placed and breath-stealing distraction from the way his hands made quick work of the buttons on her— his, shirt. It was a tantalizing distraction, though it’d be better if Eleanor’s mind wasn’t aflame with the screaming thought that it was his teeth. On her neck. Somehow she couldn’t bring herself to care, at least enough to throw him off of her.

How could she? When for as touch-starved as she was his lips left a hot trail across the expanse of her neck, collarbones, and Eleanor gasped as his lips found her breast, his tongue swirling and nipping at her pebbled skin while his hand made quick work of the other, all the while his body flush against hers left Eleanor unable to think about anything other than the fact that it was him— his mouth, his hands, his hips flush against hers as they seemed to melt together in a desperate depiction of panting, frantic animals.

She tugged at his hair, his lips back on her neck before her pants were smothered once more, until they weren’t, his lips leaving her skin as footsteps padded down the hallway. Joe reached out and connected his hand with the doorknob just as it twisted, a pounding rocking the door.

Eleanor felt as though she’d been thrown into freezing water, any warmth evaporated as Floyd Talbert’s annoyed voice cut through air.

“Lieb, I gotta fucking piss.” He hissed, and Eleanor’s eyes widened as Joe’s panting ceased. Both of them held their breath, and Eleanor wished the ground would swallow her whole.

Lips swollen, his hair looked as though she’d tried to rip it from his scalp, undershirt stretched where her hands had grabbed at him like an animal. She swallowed harshly.

With a mortifying start, Eleanor realized that her tits were out, wet patches chilled by the air now that his lips and hands had ceased their commitment to stripping her bare.

“Give me a sec.” He spat, fingers turning the lock on the door before suddenly they couldn’t look at each other, Eleanor’s ears ringing as his eyes settled on her exposed chest. He shuddered as though he’d been slapped.

“What the fuck are you doing in there?” Tab knocked on the door again, and suddenly Joe’s hands were back on her, though this time he was redoing the buttons of her— his shirt, his fingers shaking against her ribs as she jumped from the counter, landing practically on top of him.

Her nose brushed his, and Eleanor felt sick.

“D’you have a bird in there?” Floyd huffed in disbelief, his knocking increasing in fervor as the doorknob rattled, “Joe—“

“—Give me a goddamn second!” He snapped, and Eleanor felt as though she was outside herself, watching in horror as Tab’s knocking relented.

Joe tried to reach for her, but the window opposite the door was suddenly the only thing Nora was able to focus on. She wretched it open, looking down.

“Don’t you dare.” Joe hissed from behind her, and Eleanor swallowed harshly, “Give me my clothes.”

“Are you fucking nuts?” He whispered, and Eleanor pushed past him to grab her uniform and throw it out of the window before he could stop her.

It wasn’t far— and maybe it was the state of her mind but a part of Eleanor itched to jump and roll like they’d been taught since Fort Bragg.

A window was not a plane, and the man behind hers pyjamas were not a parachute, though the longer she stayed trapped in that room with the evidence of what they’d done smothering her the closer she’d come to having to look at him.

The Hughes’ gutter was supported by white wainscotting that in that moment may as well have been a ladder, and before Joe could reach for her again Eleanor swung her bare foot through the window.

•••

luvrottt speaks— Y’ALL LMFAOOO this fic is at almost 90K words already…

anywho pls welcome @pansexualwitchwhoneedstherapy to the phantom cinematic universe ‼️‼️‼️

I do not even know where to begin, with this chapter, so I will let y’all discuss in the replies… however I’m so sorry I took such a long time between updates, I hope both the insanity of this chapter & it’s equally insane word count make up for it, we’re officially in phase two of joenora 💀

since I’ve last posted I left the continent for the first time and travelled, earned my degree AND turned a whole year older, so I’ve been very busy but know that phantom is my baby & I hopefully won’t take that long again.

[bitter-post-millennial]

Chapter 7

link to ao3 !

word count : 4.7k

A/n : I've been so busy 😭 I'm sorry that the chapter is late 💔

tags : @bitter-post-millennial

--

The morning light poured through the narrow gap in the curtains like honey—thick, slow, and golden. It painted soft strokes across the floorboards, warmed the edges of the faded rug near the bed, and kissed the wooden furniture in glowing halos. It was the kind of light that once might’ve stirred Ella-Mae from sleep with a gentle nudge, urging her toward the day with promise and warmth.

But not this morning.

Mae lay still beneath the covers, eyes wide open, unmoving. The ceiling above her was the only thing she stared at, its pale, familiar texture offering no comfort. Her breath was shallow, nearly silent. She hadn’t slept—not really. Only drifted in and out of something that didn’t feel quite like sleep or dreaming, but more like falling. Again and again.

Fragments of dreams clung to her like wet leaves. The sharp slam against the bathroom window. The cold grip around her throat. The birds. Always the birds. Their small, broken bodies. Their eyes dull and empty. The soft cloths she wrapped them in. The drawer that now held them like an altar.

She blinked slowly.

The room smelled of old lavender and timeworn wood—once familiar comforts, now pressed too heavy against her chest, like something was trying to smother her.

A breath in.

And there it was again.

That soft, persistent tug in her belly.

Not pain. Not exactly.

It was a pull. Like a magnet hidden deep inside her, drawing her toward something she didn’t want to name. Something that whispered just beneath her skin.

Her hand moved under the quilt before she could stop it—clutching the edge, fingers tightening.

She knew what it wanted.

It wanted her to rise. Move. Cross the room. Peer through the curtains. Look down at the yard just below her window. To see if another offering had been left.

And what disturbed her more than the birds themselves was what stirred inside her each time she found one.

That flash of revulsion—yes.

But also...

That flicker of something else.

Something eager.

She hated it. She cried over it. Swore she’d never do it again.

And yet, each time, her hands reached before her mind could catch them.

She shut her eyes tighter, curling her knees up.

Not today, she told herself.

But already, the familiar tingling had spread across her arms and spine. Her skin, hypersensitive. Her nerves humming like wires strung too tight.

She kicked the covers off in one motion.

The floor bit at her feet—cold, even in the thick air.

She walked toward the window, slowly, as if pulled by invisible threads. Her reflection blinked back at her in the long mirror on the wall. She barely recognized herself. Hair wild and knotted around her face, cheeks hollowed slightly, the delicate skin under her eyes shadowed and bruised with sleeplessness. Her nightgown clung to her like damp gauze, pale and wrinkled, hanging too loose over her frame.

She looked like a girl haunted.

And in truth, she was.

Mae hesitated at the window, fingers brushing the curtain.

She didn’t want to look.

She had to.

She peeked between the folds of fabric.

And stopped.

There was nothing.

No red feathered shape in the grass. No twisted wing or scattered down. No flash of that particular red—Isaiah’s red—waiting like it had every morning before.

The yard was empty.

Still.

The wind played softly with the fallen leaves, tossing them like coins. Sunlight glanced off the top of the fence. A few sparrows twittered in the trees.

Mae released a breath.

But it wasn’t relief she felt.

It was something far colder.

A strange emptiness bloomed in her chest, growing like frost across glass.

Why did it stop?

Her fingers found the small, healing scar at the inside of her finger. A ghost of a cut. The bird from before had done that. The one she had cradled like it mattered. The one she snapped its neck to spare. The one she still kept, wrapped and hidden.

Her hand dropped from the curtain as Remmick’s voice echoed in her memory, low and unnerving:

I felt your pain.

She shivered, stepping back from the window like it had turned hot.

And still, the question nagged at her: If something—someone—had been leaving those birds… why had they stopped?

She dressed with mechanical care, braiding her hair loosely and tying it back. Each movement felt like a ritual, a way to anchor herself to reality. But the deeper she pushed her unease, the more it pulsed.

She pulled on her shoes and slung her satchel over her shoulder with trembling fingers.

Maybe she needed air.

Maybe she needed to move.

Mae slipped out the front door with barely a word to anyone in the house. The sun had climbed higher now, its light slicing clean between the trees. Shadows scattered at her feet as she walked, her stride purposeful even as her thoughts tumbled.

Past the quiet porches of neighbors who rarely spoke. Past homes with bright shutters and still lawns. Past the imaginary boundary that separated one part of town from the other.

She didn’t glance at the storefronts today. Didn’t wave. Didn’t nod.

She just walked.

And before she realized it, her feet had taken her back to the place her mind avoided:

The church.

The one she and her family once belonged to. The one she had entered just yesterday.

The tall, whitewashed building stood in the sunlight like a relic, its stained glass gleaming faintly. The steeple reached skyward like it always had, but something about it now felt… off. Like the edges had grown sharper.

Mae crossed the road.

Climbed the steps.

And entered.

The congregation sat scattered in the pews like stitches in a worn quilt—some upright, backs rigid with attention, others bent forward in prayer or rest. Their Sunday bests gleamed under the warm hue of stained glass: pressed suits, wide-brimmed hats pinned with velvet bows, little girls with white gloves and too-tight shoes swinging their feet just above the floorboards. Dust floated gently in the shafts of colored light that pierced the windows like watchful eyes, catching in the halos of powdered necks and polished brogues.

The choir sat behind the pulpit, still as statues for now, their robes dark as ink. A few fanned themselves slowly, mouthing silent prayers, but their eyes stayed trained forward—unmoving, obedient. Everything in the room bent toward the man in the center, as if the building itself leaned into his words.

Pastor Ward.

He stood tall and assured behind the podium, wrapped in black like a shadow in motion. His suit was sharp, ironed to perfection, and the gold trim on his Bible caught the light each time he raised his hand, casting a glint that flickered like a flame across the walls. His jaw was squared, lips pulled thin in concentration, and his eyes gleamed beneath the brim of the pulpit’s low lamp—fixed and sweeping, like searchlights in the night.

His voice rolled through the sanctuary like a storm gaining speed. Deep. Thick. Final.

“—and when the Lord places you in a trial, do you fold, or do you fight? Do you flee like the world, or do you stand like a child of the kingdom?”

The crowd answered in soft waves. Amens. Yes, Lord. Mmm-hmm.

Mae slipped in unnoticed, her entrance quieter than the shuffle of hymnals or the creak of a kneeler. She hesitated just beyond the arch, swallowed by the scent of wax and sweat and the weight of memory. Then she moved, slow and careful, like she was walking into a dream she didn’t trust.

She chose the last pew.

The wood groaned gently beneath her as she sat, but it wasn’t loud enough to draw eyes. She placed her satchel beside her with trembling fingers, then folded her hands in her lap, pressing her knuckles together to still their shaking.

From this far back, the pastor looked small—just another figure on a raised platform. But his voice… his voice made the distance collapse. Each word ricocheted off the rafters and stained glass, chasing itself through the air until it landed, sharp and deliberate, on her chest.

“And the Lord said unto them, I see your sacrifice. I see your blood. I see your pain. And it is not in vain.”

Mae’s breath caught.

Her shoulders curled inward slightly, her body folding like she could make herself smaller.

Her pain.

That same phrase.

I see your pain.

She’d heard it before. But not from a pulpit.

Remmick.

Last night on the porch. The way he’d said it, unprompted. The way it had made her feel exposed—bare-skinned and turned inside out.

Her fingers dug into her skirt.

A chill swept down her spine, despite the humid air. Her eyes remained fixed on the pulpit, but she was no longer watching the sermon—she was watching him.

And she noticed it now.

Pastor Ward, pacing slightly as he preached, let his eyes roll over the room in waves of theatrics and discipline. But when they passed over Mae’s section—he paused.

For just a second too long.

His gaze didn’t flick. It rested.

Right on her.

As if he’d known she was there the moment she stepped through the door.

As if he’d been waiting.

Her lungs drew in tight. Her mouth went dry.

She sat still, stone-still, even as her instincts screamed at her to move.

Pastor Ward’s voice softened, dipping into something quieter—but far more unsettling.

“And some of us walk among wolves, not knowing which beast comes in sheep’s skin... But the Lord knows.”

Mae flinched.

Her hands curled into fists, nails biting into her palms.

She didn’t dare look away.

She couldn’t.

A wave of nausea crawled up her throat as the memory—no, the impression—of something half-buried swam up from the depths of her mind. A feeling she couldn’t name. Something sharp pressing at the edges of her recall.

She was younger.

Standing in this very church.

Not sitting. Standing.

Alone. Afraid.

Someone—someone near—watching her too closely. A voice at her back. A hand near her shoulder.

The sensation vanished just as it came, leaving a hollow ache in its place.

Her heart raced.

The sanctuary had turned cold.

The pew suddenly felt too narrow for her shoulders. The ceiling too low. The air too stale.

She stood, careful not to draw attention, but still unable to shake the feeling of a hundred unseen eyes fixed on her back.

Pastor Ward lifted his hand then—his voice rising with ritual, the cadence of a sermon nearing its end, the power behind his tone swelling like floodwaters behind a dam.

Mae didn’t wait for the final verse.

She slipped out.

Her steps were quick, but not loud.

The doors behind her moaned closed, and she blinked against the sun. The light outside was warm, but it felt artificial—like something borrowed, something false.

She stepped off the church steps, her boots crunching on gravel. The sermon still buzzed in her ears, each word echoing longer than it should.

She didn’t look back.

But her skin crawled.

The windows were open just enough to let the breeze drift in, heavy with the sweet, earthy scent of wet leaves and wood smoke. The light from outside flickered like candlelight across the dining room, shifting and dappled with every movement of the trees. The table was laid with parchment scraps, small clippings from dress patterns, and a shallow bowl of pecans that Grace had been cracking between her palms.

Mae sat across from her sister, her hands folded neatly in her lap, her back straight the way Mama always taught. A soft smile tugged at her lips, patient and pleasant—the kind of smile that said, I’m listening. I care. But her eyes… they never quite matched.

“Now, if we go with an outdoor ceremony,” Florence was saying, tapping a folded piece of paper with one dark finger, “we need to consider the weather. You remember how it was last September. It rained for two weeks straight before cooling off.”

Grace leaned her cheek into her hand, her eyes dancing as she laughed. “It’ll be clear. I’m manifestin’ that. I told Levi, and he said the Lord already cleared it for us.”

Florence scoffed, but there was affection behind it. “The Lord gone do His part, sure. But you know better than to leave a wedding to wishin’. You’ll need a backup tent.”

Mae let out a soft laugh. Natural enough to pass.

Grace glanced over at her with a grin. “Mae, what you think? That clearing behind the church with the willow trees? Or the hill near Cousin Alma’s?”

Mae blinked and realized too late she’d been drifting—her thoughts pulled somewhere far, where names and wedding decorations didn’t matter. But she nodded quickly, recovering. “The hill’s prettier this time of year. The trees get that rust-gold color by September.”

Grace beamed, satisfied. “See? I told Levi you had taste.”

“Mm-hm,” Florence hummed, pushing a strand of silver hair back into her scarf. “That boy’ll be lucky to have you, long as he keep his hands out the potato salad.”

Laughter spilled from the women around the table, easy and warm.

And Mae laughed too.

But it felt like she was doing it through glass.

Like her voice didn’t reach all the way out of her.

She twisted the silver ring around her pinky as she watched her mother and sister talk over color schemes and how early to send out letters to kin. She leaned in. She nodded. She cracked a pecan shell and set the meat gently on a napkin.

But something inside her throbbed with a quiet ache. A deep, gnawing kind of ache that pulsed every time she caught the edge of Grace’s glowing eyes or the way Florence’s lips pressed together in a proud smile.

Because they didn’t see it.

Not a bit of it.

They didn’t see the way Mae’s breath had been short for weeks now. The way her body flinched when she heard something creak at night, or how her eyes stayed open in the dark, searching for figures at her window.

They didn’t feel the cold sweat on the back of her neck. The lingering weight on her chest. The pounding memory of the birds—the red, torn birds—and the quiet pull that twisted inside her like a vine growing through her ribs.

And they hadn’t seen Remmick.

Not really.

They hadn’t heard the way he said her name. Like it meant something. Like she meant something.

He saw it. Saw her.

The part of her that didn’t make sense to herself anymore. The part she didn’t want to look at but couldn’t stop feeling. He looked at her like he’d been looking for her. And when he spoke… it was like he knew.

And what did that say about her? That a stranger—an odd, eerie stranger—had noticed her unraveling better than the women who helped raise her?

Mae swallowed the thought and focused on her hands.

“Mae?” Grace was looking at her, her brows lifting.

“Hm?” Mae blinked.

“I was askin’ if you’d help me write out the invites this week.”

“Oh. Yes. Of course.”

Florence gave her a soft, approving smile. “You been quiet today.”

Mae shrugged. “Just tired, Mama. Is all.”

She offered it with that same smile, and Florence nodded, seemingly content.

And just like that, the moment passed.

The laughter returned, and Grace lit up again, babbling about fabrics and Levi’s idea for matching handkerchiefs for the groomsmen. Florence told her not to let that man design nothing.

But Mae faded again.

Even as she sat there, she faded.

All her focus narrowed to the weight inside her chest, the little scrape of something ancient and quiet pulling at her bones. She felt like she was splitting down the middle—one part Ella-Mae De Pointe du Lac, the smiling, helpful little sister. And the other part… the one Remmick saw. The one who stood outside at night and watched the woods. The one who kept birds like tokens in a drawer and didn't know why.

She reached for another pecan, her fingers trembling just slightly.

If anyone noticed, they didn’t say.

And for that, Mae wasn’t sure if she felt relief…

…or grief.

-----

Mae stood at the sink after dinner, the kitchen quiet save for the soft clink of dishes and the murmured thanks of the hired hands moving beside her. The polished bowls and knives made soft rhythms under her fingers, and the steam rose slow enough to blur the edges of the lamp light. She moved with purpose—warm water on her skin—grateful for something tangible, something that didn’t knot her chest with silence.

“Thank you, Miss Mae,” the young woman with neat braids said with a small bow. Another whispered, “We get too spoiled with helpin’ hands,” and gave Mae an apologetic smile.

Mae nodded, her own smile light but genuine. “You’re welcome. I’m glad to help.”

She rinsed the last plate and set it gently in the rack before letting the heat swirl around her once more—and then she slipped away. No one else asked for help; the kitchen had shifted back into routine.

By the time Mae reached her doorway upstairs, her palms felt soft and her mind felt a little less sharp—but only for a moment. Night was settling around the house. The corridors were hushed, but her heart still hammered loud enough that she could hear it behind her ribs.

Inside her room, she let her shawl fall to the floor, unpinned her hair, and twisted out the knots until curls pooled over her shoulders. They felt tangled and heavy—like they’d carried her mysteries while she slept.

She changed into a thin cotton nightgown, the fabric whisper-soft against her skin. It was pale rose, nearly white, and light enough to catch any sudden breeze. She reached for the lamp and gently eased its light lower before slipping out of the glow.

Her bed waited, covered with the old quilt and more pillows than she needed—but she didn’t go to it. Instead, she turned her steps toward the drawer.

Her heart caught.

She crouched beside it and pulled the drawer open just enough to peek inside.

Wrapped in cloth, the small bird lay there. The body looked smaller now. The feathers were brittle. The wound had darkened in the warmth of the room. A faint smell—musty, damp—rose to her nose as she reached to cradle it in her palms.

This one’s rotten, she thought. Time enough to bury it.

The thought shocked her—like kindness tangled with necessity. She brushed her thumb across the cloth, whispered, “I’m sorry.”

Holding the bird close, she made her way across the room and down the stairs—bare feet pressing into the cool wood.

The back door waited, just slightly ajar. She slipped through it.

The cold night air hit her chest first—damp and sharp, like inhaling glass shards. She paused on the porch, feeling the breath leave her lungs.

Everything was silver-blue in the night light.

She stepped slowly down the porch steps, each one creaking softly beneath her weight. Damp grass swallowed the warmth of her feet. The wind picked her curls and brushed their waves into her face, cool and trembling.

Mae started walking toward the edge of the yard. Her steps were quiet—slow—each one carrying her toward that uneasy patch of dirt behind the tool shed.

The place where she’d buried the other birds.

Leaf litter crackled beneath her feet. The trees gathered close in dark silhouettes. The woods beyond looked still and patient—waiting.

She knelt beside the ground that had settled over old burials, dug gently with her hands that still smelled faintly of dish soap and caution. Her fingers broke the soil, cool and yielding, as she pressed it aside.

Each scoop felt alive, pulsing in her palms like it remembered its place.

When the hole was ready, she laid the bird down gently, smoothing the cloth across its form. She said nothing—no words. Just a soft release. A small offering. A goodbye.

Slow tears slid down her cheeks—not grief, but something heavier. Something… relentless.

Mae pressed her palms into the earth, sealing the makeshift burial. The cold soil stuck beneath her nails, damp and raw, and the cloth-wrapped bird rested beneath, unseen but heavy on her conscience. She lingered there, kneeling, eyes stinging in the sharp wind. She whispered something—maybe a prayer, maybe nothing at all—before brushing her hands together and placing them over the mound once more, as if it might offer comfort.

She touched the spot gently. “Rest.”

The wind sighed in response.

Then—

A crack. Sharp and sudden.

It came from the trees ahead, like a branch being stepped on by something heavy.

Mae froze, shoulders rising in a slow curve. Her breath hitched as her head turned, eyes narrowing at the thick shadows beyond the tree line. She strained to see through the veil of dark, but the wind had stilled and the air pressed down, heavy like held breath.

Then—again.

Another sound, this time softer but closer. A shuffle. A drag. Something moving just out of reach.

Mae stood in a slow, deliberate motion. Her nightgown rustled around her legs. She took one trembling step back and turned to glance over her shoulder toward the soft amber glow of home, where the back porch light barely kissed the tips of the grass. Her heart longed to be there—to step onto the wooden boards and be wrapped in warmth and light. But she was still too far. And the woods behind her felt like they had teeth.

And then—a snap.

Louder than before.

A shriek caught in her throat as her body jolted and instinct took over. She turned and ran.

The ground thudded beneath her feet. Her shoes caught in the soft grass and snapped twigs. The cold wind lashed at her skin and her breath came in frantic bursts—short, desperate gasps like she was running underwater.

She didn’t dare look back.

But she felt it.

Something behind her—close. Closer.

Each time her foot struck the earth, she swore she heard something else striking just behind her. The rhythm wasn’t her own. The breath chasing her wasn’t hers. Her legs screamed to go faster.

The wind roared past her ears, muffling everything but the pounding of her blood.

And then—

A sharp, stinging burn tore across her back.

Mae screamed.

The pain licked up her spine like fire. Her hands flailed behind her instinctively, clawing at nothing. She turned her head, but there was no one.

Nothing.

Only trees.

And then—

She collided into something solid.

The impact knocked the air from her lungs with a violent huff. Her vision blurred. The world tilted sideways, but firm hands caught her before she could hit the ground.

Her head snapped upward, breath ragged, and her eyes locked onto a face.

Remmick.

He stood before her like stone—eyes wide but calm, lips parted slightly in surprise, or maybe concern. His chest rose and fell rapidly, pressed firmly against hers.

He stood before her like a wall—broad, unmoving, as if he’d been waiting for her.

His chest heaved softly, but his expression was calm. His hand held her waist, grounding her in place, steadying her like a man who had done nothing but appear at the right moment.

Mae’s vision blurred from panic, from pain, from confusion. Her ears still rang from the chaos of the woods, so she didn’t register his voice until he leaned closer and said her name—firmly, deliberately.

“Ella-Mae.”

She blinked, stunned. Only then did she notice how close they were. Chest to chest. His fingers were warm even through the fabric of her dress, curled just slightly into her waist. It was a gesture meant to hold her steady, though it did so much more than that. Her trembling fingers resting against the edge of his coat. Their breath mingled in the space between.

Her thoughts spun, but her body stayed still.

She was trembling. Her back ached. She wanted to collapse, but didn’t dare. His eyes bore into her—not with concern, not with confusion, but with knowing.

Something tightened in her stomach—not from fear, but something stranger. Something she couldn’t name.

She tried to step back, but his grip at her waist momentarily tightened—not possessive, not forceful, but lingering. As if reluctant. As if he’d caught something in her panic that made him want to keep her there, just a moment longer.

Then he let go.

Mae staggered back a step. She looked behind her again. Still nothing. The woods lay quiet and undisturbed, like they hadn’t just chased her out of their belly with fangs and claws.

She turned back to Remmick, her breath still jagged, her thoughts scrambled.

“How…?” she started, but didn’t finish the question.

Remmick tilted his head, a small furrow between his brows. “Are you alright?” he asked softly.

The concern in his voice was smooth. Almost too smooth.

Mae nodded, though her throat was dry. She tried to shake the trembling from her limbs. “I… I thought I saw something.”

Remmick’s gaze didn’t waver. He didn’t look back toward the woods. He didn’t ask what. He only said, “You’re safe now.”

And maybe it was the cold. Maybe it was the adrenaline still crashing through her system. But something about the way he said it didn’t feel like comfort. It felt like possession.

Like he knew exactly what had chased her.

Mae stood there, still heaving, the sting on her back pulsing in waves. Her wide eyes stayed fixed on Remmick as she struggled to piece together what had just happened. His face held concern—deep, unreadable, and carefully composed. The hand that had been on her waist now hung loosely at his side, but the memory of its weight still lingered.

She blinked once, then again, trying to anchor herself, but her mind raced. Her throat burned from the scream she’d let out in the woods, and the air between them now felt impossibly thick.

“Why’re you out here?” Her voice came low, suspicious—not yet accusatory, but not far from it either.

Remmick’s eyes held hers, calm in a way that made her more uneasy than comforted. “I was walkin’ home,” he said. His voice was even, like it wasn’t strange at all for a white man to be near the woods that surrounded her family’s home. “I heard you scream.”

His words hovered in the night air, as if waiting for her to pluck truth or lie from them. Mae’s brows pinched, her lips parted, ready to say more—but nothing came. Her chest still rose and fell rapidly. She didn’t know what answer she’d been expecting, only that something in her gut stirred. A tension she couldn’t name. Something that told her she shouldn’t believe him, but with no proof… what did she really have?

And so she didn’t say anything more. Just stared.

Remmick’s head tilted slightly, studying her the same way someone might study a puzzle with a missing piece. His lips parted like he meant to say something else, but Mae was already moving. Her body finally seemed to remember the house behind her—her safety. Her family. Her world.

She took a step to the side, feet brushing against the grass as she rounded him. Her eyes stayed trained on the porch stairs ahead, but she didn’t miss the slow turn of his head, the way his gaze followed her, silent and steady like the moon overhead.

She could feel it—the way he watched her walk. Not like a man ogling a woman. But like a hunter watching prey return to its den.

The wood creaked beneath her feet as she took the porch steps, and she didn’t look back, not even once. Only when the door clicked shut behind her did Mae allow herself to exhale.

But even then, that feeling stayed—just beneath the surface of her skin. That something wasn’t right. That he wasn’t right.

She placed her hand on the door, fingers splayed out, pressing against the grain. She didn’t know what frightened her more—what chased her through those woods, or how gentle the thing sounded when it finally caught her.

[bitter-post-millennial]

Two opposite sides of the pathetic spectrum

Hear me out rq ok? Just… Just listen…

[bitter-post-millennial]

How Often Do You Feel Lonely? (Remmick x F!Reader)

summary: you live alone in the middle of the woods, just how you like it. at least that’s what you tell yourself. your peaceful night in is interrupted by a knock at the door. a man, pleading to be let inside just to catch his breath… but of course, that’s not all he’s after.

wc: 14.5k

warnings: 18+ MDNI, explicit depictions of sexual acts! little plot mostly smut, vampire sex, p in v, oral (both giving and receiving), lots of drooling, spit drinking, face fucking, mutual masturbation, creampie(s), face down ass up, hair pulling, claws and teeth drawing blood/leaving marks, blood tasting (he’s a vampire… duh), fingering, multiple orgasms, threats of violence, manipulation, mentions of voyeurism, abandonment and death.

A/N: special thanks to @eternalstrigoii for beta reading, @spikedfearn for inspiring me to get back into writing smut, and of course everyone in the remmick discord for cheering me on and filling my head with wonderful filthy ideas <3 love u guys | translations for gaeilge provided at the end.

The sun had finally set, nestling itself amidst the spiraling, twisted trees. The sky shifted from a crisp orange to a comforting blanket of dark purple, the stars winking from a distance. Clouds hung lazily, dotting the starlit night with blots of grey. The moon, half-full, occupied the sun’s empty throne. 

Although the sun drifted to its nightly embrace, the air still hangs heavy with the humid summer heat. You kept the windows open, though it wasn’t much help. Even keeping the door open a crack didn’t aid in letting air into the stuffy house. 

The dark, empty house - lit only by the soft moonlight and a few candles scattered on the mantle and other various surfaces - creaked. Not unusual for the old place you call home. You live alone, but the creaks and groans didn’t bother you much. Not anymore, at least. You’ve grown used to it, the sounds kept you company, especially at night. A delightful symphony in comparison to the deafening silence that surrounded you most days. 

Sometimes that’s all you need. The familiar creaking of the house, the serene night sky, a good book, a myriad of flickering candles, and some refreshing tea - iced or hot, depending on the weather and your mood. Tonight it was iced, on account of the sticky summer heat. 

Despite having what you need for a peaceful night, you knew deep down in your heart that something was missing. It troubled you to ponder what exactly left you so empty inside, but you regularly stifle that feeling. 

No use thinking about that. No use at all.

You grab your freshly brewed tea, take a sip and set it down on the nearby coaster. You snatch the most recent book you’ve started digging into from the shelf and sit in your typical spot by the window. It was the perfect spot. You could see the moon and stars coalescing in the clouds, their soothing light shining just bright enough through the window for you to read peacefully. Your chair was wooden, but the throw pillow on the seat made it perfectly comfortable.

You curl open the book, a classic Bram Stoker novel, right where you left off. You slide the bookmark from its place and set it down on the table in front of you. Taking another hearty sip from your glass, you begin reading to yourself: 

“I pray to you, be seated and sup how you please. You will, I trust, excuse me that I do not join you; but I have dined already, and I do not sup.”

A shadow, swift and sudden, passes by the window. You barely spot it out of the corner of your eye. You twist your head to catch a better glimpse, but the presence went as fast as it came. 

It was probably just an animal. A wolf or a vulture, maybe even a bear. It’s hard to say. Plenty of animals congregate around your humble abode. Living in the middle of nowhere meant that any movement outside was normally a woodland creature just drifting through on their way back to their family or catching their prey… or running from a predator. Nothing more. Except for the occasional birds flocking to your outdoor feeder, they stick around longer than most animals - longer than any guest you’ve ever had, really. 

However you couldn’t shake the feeling that the passing shadow might have been something different. A stillness sets in, yet the candles continue to dance in the darkness, the blazing waltz reflecting in your eyes.

You inhale a sharp breath and try to perish the thought. The loneliness is really getting to you tonight. You shift your eyes back onto the page but a sound startles you before you can begin reading again. 

Your ajar front door creaked. A different creak than you’re used to. There was no wind, not tonight, yet something caused the door to sway and moan. Something was lurking out in the woods. Or worse, someone.

An unfamiliar chill runs down your spine. An animal… that’s all it is. A hungry animal. A scared animal. Reluctantly, you leave your perch once more to shut the door, setting the book page down in your chair. You were determined to not let these noises get under your skin. Not while you’re trying to enjoy a quiet night of reading. You could do without the willies tonight. 

You press one hand on the rustic wooden door frame, the other on the knob. Your eyes travel to the crack, peering out into the darkness. Nobody was there. Nothing was there. Just your overactive imagination getting the best of you. A wave of relief washes over you. 

The door shuts with a groan. Finally… back to peace. You take a step to the side, primed to dive into your reading and enjoy a relaxing night without distraction. Without issue. Peace and quiet, just how you like it.  

Right as you’re about to settle in your chair, you hear a loud knock.

KNOCK KNOCK

Your heart thuds in your chest - it was an unusual sound for you. Nobody comes to visit, not very often. Certainly not at this hour. Fear ripples in your throat as you take in a gulp of air. You just checked outside with no sight or feeling of a presence on your doorstep. How is that possible?

The moisture from the summer heat mingles with the nervous sweat on your forehead. Your heart thrums faster as the rapping on the door continues.

KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK

“Hello? Hey, is-is anyone home?” The choked voice of a man breaks through the barrier of your door. A southern twang riddled the man’s gravelly inflection. It didn’t sound natural though, more like someone mimicking an accent they’d heard once before. “Hello? Please, I need some help.”

The begging stranger continues knocking at the door, his pleas growing louder. His pounding grows more urgent. You didn’t want to answer. Anxiety claws at your chest. A man? Here? At this hour? I didn’t see him when I peeked outside. I was sure there was no one there.  

“Please, p-please,” The man’s voice is desperate, calling to you like a siren. Your breath trembles as he cries out. “I know you’re in there. I can see your shadow movin’ around.”

You inhale a deep, staggered breath and inch closer to the door, the heavy wood shifting with the man’s incessant knocking. Your hands shake as you slowly open the door - just a hair, to get a look at the man at your doorstep. 

His eyes, a soft but wild blue, meet yours. He wasn’t as imposing as you imagined. Far from it, actually. 

Dark hair sits messy on his sweat-slicked head. He sports a sleeveless, collarless white shirt that clings to his broad shoulders - drenched in what looks like perspiration and god knows what else. A golden chain drapes around his thick neck. His dirty, torn work pants are accentuated by undone suspenders that hang loosely around his sides, as well as a worn out leather belt with a metal buckle - suspenders and a belt? Strange fashion sense, you think to yourself. 

A pungent odor wafted from him - you aren’t able to make out what the exact scent is. A mix of body odor, singed flesh, old blood and pure death. Unpleasant, to put it lightly. 

“Oh, miss. I am terribly sorry to bother you this time of night but I-I’ve been runnin’ for what feels like hours,” he speaks, his voice a low rumble, cracking between every word. Running for hours… that would explain the copious amount of sweat beading on his forehead… and the smell. “I didn’t mean to frighten ya. I-I saw your house in the distance and thought you might be able to help me out of a pinch.” 

“Why were you running?” You ask. A man running in the woods, in the dark, didn’t bode well. Something about this stranger strikes you as suspicious. His stammering and disheveled appearance didn’t help much. ”Mighty strange for a man to be running around the woods at night.”

“I was bein’ chased,” he huffs. “I-I was hopin’… well I was hopin’ I might be able to catch my breath at this quaint little house here.”

“Chased? By who?” Your curiosity piqued. 

“That don’t really matter,” his voice a hushed rasp. His eyes focus on yours, their blue sheen flickers with the dancing candlelight on your mantle. “M-may I come in? Only for a moment. I just. I need a second to breathe, maybe somethin’ to drink, and I’ll be on my way. I swear it.”

“It’s not very smart to let strangers in, you know,” your eyebrows furrow, concern scribbled on your face. Not just any stranger, but a man. Not only a bad decision but potentially a dangerous one. Surely he’d understand your hesitation. “Especially at night.”

“I know, miss,” he whimpers, his eyes glistening with despair. He seems desperate to get inside. Whoever, or whatever, he was running from must have really shaken him. “I-I know. I know, and I empathize. Letting a stranger in… never a good idea, no ma’am. I know. I don’t mean to be a burden, but I just… oh, I just need a quick respite. Please, I’m beggin’ ya.”

“Why should I?” You hiss, your hand faltering on the door knob. He notices the way your body is shaking, the door trembling with you. A pout forms on his plush, pink lips. He falls to his knees with a hopeless sigh. The shredded holes of his pants force his bare legs to scrape against the hard wood of your porch. You almost feel bad for him. Almost.

“Oh… I know you don’t got a reason to let a strange man like me in, but I will do anything,” he puts his veined, calloused hands together in a weak prayer. “Anything at all.”

You didn’t respond. You watch his lips quiver as he bows his head - you could see how soaked his unkempt hair was with sweat. Little strands of his dark locks spiked out towards the back of his neck. You feel a bizarre sense of power watching a man crumble like this at your doorstep. You were used to men making you crumble. 

“I-I can give you money,” he falters, scrambling his hand down into his front pocket. He pulls out two sparkling coins - from what you could tell, they didn’t look like any sort of money you were used to seeing. They looked like solid gold. Ancient. The coins shake in his palm, clinking together. ”It’s not much but it’s all I got. You can have it. I don’t want nothin’ from you other than a place to stay for just a moment… somethin’ to drink. Then I’ll get outta your hair. I swear to you that’s all I ask. Please.”

He shuffles near the crack in the door, his hand rattling the coins for you to get a closer look. They were definitely real and you weren’t the type to deny money. Not like you needed it that much beyond grocery trips and occasional house repairs. Still, you can’t help but find yourself enticed by the shining currency and the man’s choked pleas. He’s easy on the eyes too - an added bonus. 

“You sure that’s all you want?” You ask, still suspicious of the strange man kneeling before you. Out of everything you’ve learned in life - men only ever want is one thing - has rang true the most. 

“I promise,” he croaks. His body trembles on the floorboards of the porch, the old wood squeaking beneath his weight. He looks up at you, his gaze wet with distress and yearning. You’d never seen a man look so… pathetic. Weak. His promise feels sincere - he didn’t seem so dangerous to you anymore. 

You sigh and open the door all the way, pulling the ample wood inward and fully revealing yourself to the stranger. He looks you over, darting eyes studying you up and down. A pleasant expression washes over his angular features, almost like he was amazed that you accepted his offer… and all it took was a bribe and some begging for you to fold. His smile is as soft as his eyes, with imperfect teeth lining his gums. His canines glint in the candlelight as his grin widens at the sight of you. 

Something about him charms you. Maybe it was his blue-eyed gaze filled with wonder and a touch of sorrow or maybe that cute, crooked smile. The way his voice cracks desperately while he pleads. The way his body trembles and prays at your doorstep as if you were a goddess made flesh. The way the candlelight dances around his handsome face. Maybe it was the money… no, no… there was something else. Something more carnal. It’s not entirely clear to you, but whatever it is, he charmed his way inside your house. 

“Alright, you can come in,” you exhale, beckoning the stranger into your home. What am I thinking? What am I DOING? Oh god, oh GOD… Your mind races as you watch the man lift himself off the porch. His heavy boots carefully take a step forward through the entryway, hesitant to fully stride in. 

“Oh, oh thank you. Thank you, miss. Thank you,” he repeats his gratitude over and over again, nodding his head continuously like an overzealous puppy. His hands snap back into a prayer position to further emphasize his appreciation. He takes another step, broad shoulders pushing past the threshold of your home. His awestruck eyes never leave you. “Thank you.”

“Don’t make me regret it,” you smirk, shutting the door behind him. It’s too late to turn back now. “You have a name, stranger?“

“You can call me Remmick,” he murmurs, setting the two gold coins in your open palm as he continues his voyage into your personal space. His hand is drenched with sweat. You recoil as the moisture coating the coins kisses your skin. The coins are heavy, definitely real gold. You place them down on a nearby console table by the door and wipe your hand on your pants while his back is turned. 

Definitely an unusual currency for someone to be carrying along with them. The name Remmick… also unusual. You’ve never heard a name like that before. It was different, but you like the ring of it. Remmick. 

“Alright, uh. Remmick,” you nod. “Take a seat, I’ll get you somethin’ to drink. Water or iced tea?”

“Thank you, again, miss,” Remmick’s grin hadn’t faded. If anything, it grows wider as he continues to speak with you. “Water’s fine. I ain’t too picky.” 

“Comin’ right up,” you smile back at him. The stranger takes a seat in your reading spot after moving your book onto the table. He gives you a friendly nod. Great. He’s gonna stank up my favorite chair. You try to shake the thought of your peace being disrupted as you stride to the kitchen. It’s only for a moment, then he’ll be on his way. 

You reach into the cupboard and snatch the closest glass. Did I make the right decision letting this guy in? You can’t help but ponder the outcome of your choice as you let water fill the cup. What if he IS dangerous? What if he just tricked me by acting helpless and scared? Am I going to regret this? What am I thinking…? Why did I let him in?

Water overflowed onto your hand while you were musing. Maybe you’re just overthinking things. Not all men are bad, surely. Maybe he is just passing by. Maybe he was getting chased by something in the woods. What are the odds that a good man just randomly shows up on your doorstep…? Give him a chance. You dry your hand off and try to clear your head. A chance… Everyone deserves a chance. Even smelly weirdos carrying gold coins.

As you make your way back into the living room, you see Remmick holding your book, his eyes scanning the sentences. He hears the creak of your footsteps and turns his attention to you. He’s sitting lax in your chair, making himself right at home. His legs are crossed and propped up on the nearby table. The candlelight accentuates the veins in his hands and the furrow of his brow. A sly smirk creeps across his face.

“Dracula, huh?” He scoffs, flicking his wrist so that the cover of the book faces you. He lets out a little chuckle and cocks an eyebrow as he reads a passage out loud. “Listen to them - the children of the night. What music they make!”

“What’s the problem?” You bark, unamused by his seemingly mocking tone. He quickly reels back.

“Oh, I didn’t mean nothin’ by it,” he pauses. “I just hear it’s… a little scary, is all. You ain’t scared?”

“Hard to be scared of somethin’ that’s not real,” you sneer, inching closer to the strange man in your chair. You hand him the glass of water. Instead of taking a swig like you’d expect a parched man to do, he places it down next to your iced tea - the collected condensation dripping onto the wooden coaster. “Besides, I like a good monster story. I recently read through Frankenstein and it was a hoot!”

“Oh?” Remmick grins, tilting his head to the side. “What makes you think monsters ain’t real?”

“The only monster I know is men,” you snap back. “Vampires, werewolves, stitched together abominations - they’re just fairy tales. Fiction.”

Remmick contemplates for a moment, his fingers still curled around the book’s spine. He looks back at you, his eyes gleaming in the light. They almost looked like they were shining a different color - crimson. But it was nothing more than a trick of the light. 

“Hey now, fairy tales ain’t always fiction. Always a little truth to ‘em,” he teases. He sets the book down pages first on the table, making sure you didn’t lose your place. “‘sides, if you ever met a real monster… oh, I guarantee you wouldn’t be leavin’ your door open or your windows cracked. I wager the heat is safer than the possibility of somethin’ evil creepin’ down the hall.”

Something about the way Remmick spoke of monsters troubles you. His eyelids drooped halfway, hiding his intentions under their shadow. He stares at you, his gaze never wandering from your trembling body, burning into your core and twisting your stomach in knots. Your eyes drift to his left finger - the light of the candles drawing attention to a ring. A wedding ring?

“You married?” You change the subject as quickly as possible, the less talk about monsters the better. His eyelids perk back up. He looks directly at his ring, almost as if it’s the first time he’s noticed it’s there for quite some time.

“Once,” he murmurs quietly. A somber expression plastered on his face, his eyes shying away from you. He didn’t seem to want to talk about it further. “You?”

“Once,” you reply. You lied. You were never married. You were engaged once - but the man you once considered your life. Your soul. Your very home. He has long since abandoned you. All alone in this empty house. Remmick didn’t prod.

“Do you live alone, miss?” Remmick inquires. His tongue licks his front teeth before he shuts his mouth. He still hadn’t taken a sip from his glass of water. You weren’t sure what to say. You didn’t want this stranger to know that you did, in fact, live alone. Better make something up. 

“No, but… I am alone for the night,” you continue to lie. You weren’t always the best liar, and you were almost positive Remmick could tell, but you carry on. “My sister is out in town with her fiancé. They won’t be back for a few hours.”

Remmick nods, sinking into your chair with a hearty sigh. He looks over at you, studying you once again. His eyes pierced through your skin, as if he was looking directly at your soul. Even from a distance his gaze gives you goosebumps.

“But you ain’t alone right now, are ya darlin’?” his eyes soften as he speaks. The polite southern cadence sung through his charming smile. He swapped his gracious honorific for an informal term of endearment. You feel your gut clench when this stranger refers to you by a pet name, followed by a fluttering sensation in your chest. It’s been awhile since someone spoke to you like that. “How often do you feel lonely?”

What a strange question, but one you think about more than you’d care to admit. It’s like he was digging into your brain with a venom-encrusted shovel, asking just the right things to make you squirm.

“Not too often. I don’t mind being by my lonesome. I think I’m good company,” you laugh awkwardly. “Why do you ask?”

Remmick pauses for a moment. You couldn’t pinpoint the expression on his face, but you could see him turn to the window. He stared at it longingly, still silent, still thinking. You could slice the silence in the room with a knife. 

He begins to sift in the chair, uncrossing his legs and setting his boots down on the floor with a heavy thud. Remmick’s head swivels back towards you. 

“I ask because,” he starts, standing up. His shadow flickers on the floor with the dancing candlelight, enveloping you in shifting darkness. “Well… I sure don’t like bein’ lonely.”

Remmick’s voice falters, his words stricken with a hint of sorrow. Your brows knit together. Concern and fear pool in the pit of your stomach as he slowly approaches you.

“And I been lonely for a very, very long time,” his voice cracks slightly. A low growl rumbling deep in his throat. “It’s hard to find good company for someone like me.”

“Someone like you?” Your eyebrow cocks upward, concern simmering into curiosity. Be careful. Curiosity never fails to kill the cat. 

“A monster,” Remmick exhales. He marches forward, his head bowed down to the floor. The air grew heavier the closer he lurched. You wanted to back up, but something was stopping you. An invisible force holds you in place as this stranger continues his pace forward. This stranger, that you let in, stomps closer and closer. Your entire body tenses with every step he takes. “And I ain’t good enough company for myself. Never have been.”

By the time his feet meet yours, you could feel a yelp blossoming beneath your breath. You stifle it the best you can, gulping it down with a hard swallow. Your heart hammers in your chest and your hands grow clammy. He lifts his head, ever so slightly - a droplet of sweat dribbles from his glistening forehead. His eyes flicker maniacally in the candlelight. 

“I’ve seen so much death. War. Famine. Lost so many loved ones. My wife… killed right in front of me,” he rasps. “I can still hear her screams in the silence… echoin’ in my head.”

You didn’t know how to respond to that. How COULD you respond to that? This stranger who went from imposing, to pathetic, to sincere, right back to imposing - unloading his trauma on you completely indiscriminately, completely out of nowhere. What was he expecting from you? What exactly does he want?

You remain silent. Silent enough that you could hear the candle wicks crackle. This seems to agitate Remmick, the corner of his upper lip twitching. 

He looks deep into your eyes, his pupils dilating like a wild animal. His eyes shift violently between blue and crimson. You weren’t so sure if it was a trick of the light anymore or if his eyes were literally changing. Either way, it was unnerving. 

He reels himself back a bit, a sharp inhale filling his nose as he lifts his head up to meet your eyes. Your body shudders with anticipation for whatever comes next. 

“I’m so sorry, darlin’. I’m bein’ a real wet blanket, ain’t I?” He chuckles a little, realizing his emotional outburst might have been a bit too intense. “Forgive me. I just uh. I get a little emotional when I take in the sight of a pretty thing like you. You… you remind me of her, is all.”

He gently reaches a hand out and cups your cheek. The sudden touch, chilling and coarse, makes a tingle twist down your spine. He caresses your face softly. The rough pad of his thumb traces circles on your lips. He stares deeply into your eyes again, honing in on the emptiness in your heart - something the two of you seem to share.

Your eyes twinkle in the candlelight as you gaze back at him. You could sense a deep pain buried underneath his rough and tumble exterior. You weren’t entirely sure how to feel in this moment… on one hand, you missed the touch of another human on your skin. On the other, your sneaking suspicion was starting to rear its ugly head. This guy might be dangerous, or worse - he might want something more than he let on. 

Something in your mind pleaded with you to let it happen, begging for the attention you’ve denied yourself. The need for connection. The need for embrace. 

You decide to welcome Remmick’s touch. You raise a hand and plant it firmly over his. A smile forms on his roguish face, those crooked teeth baring themselves. His hand was unnaturally cold, but the feel of it against your face brings you a sense of comfort you’ve long since missed. 

His intense eyes burned into your very being, hypnotically enticing you to stare back. That odor you whiffed before letting him in washed away with his touch, now all you could smell was the burning wicks of the candles and the night air rolling in from the open window.

“Her eyes sparkled exactly like yours in the right light,” he speaks tenderly, musing on his lost love while delicately stroking your face. “Her lips pursed in a way I’d never forget, either.”

He leans in close, his hand never leaving your face. You could feel his hot breath on your skin, his lips nearly brushing yours. 

“May I kiss you?” He whispers, polite as ever. He hovered close enough to your lips that he could lay one on you if he really wanted to. He at least had the courtesy to ask permission. You pull away briefly, contemplating whether or not allowing yourself the embrace would be worth it. But nothing was worse than the fear — what happens if I DON’T? 

You nod, but before you can open your mouth to say anything, his lips crash into yours. His warm mouth covers yours with a searing sweetness. You could feel the stubble on his chin rub against you.

A flurry of emotions caught in your chest. The cold caress of his palm on your face coupled with the warmth of his lips coalesced into a strange sensation, but you weren’t complaining. 

He lets out a soft purr as you purse your lips to return the same fervor, matching his passion. Your eyelids flutter closed as you lean deeper into the kiss. His other hand reaches behind you, splaying ever so gently on the curve of your back. His fingers languidly stroke your back. Without warning, you feel his tongue slither between your lips. You exclaim softly, feeling Remmick’s lips twist into a satisfied smirk as he delves his long, flat tongue deep into your mouth. 

It flicks at the back of your teeth, as if he were tasting your last meal. You let out a breathy, unprovoked moan as his tongue completely wraps around yours in a wet, slimy embrace. He chuckles, thrilled that you’re enjoying this, even a little bit. His hand that cupped your face shifts up into your hair. He takes hold of you gently, pulling you even deeper into the kiss. His fingers knot into your hair as he continues his relentless exploration of your mouth.

A tight, swelling warmth pools in your stomach. This man, this stranger - kissing you with a passion you hadn’t felt in so long, if ever. You were right about one thing. Men only want one thing, but maybe… just maybe, you did too. You allow your tongue to coil with his, melding together in a glorious harmony.

“Santaíonn mé thú…” Remmick whispers into your mouth in a language you’ve never heard before. His tongue hadn’t ceased moving along yours, saliva mixing together with a furious momentum. The hand caressing your back slides further down, nearly grazing your rear.

Your senses begin to come back to you, causing you to pull away - a strand of spit still connecting your lips. He looks at you, eyelids half shut, lips still pursed together.

“My sister and her husband will be home soon,” you say with a hush. He shoots you a look, his hands still gripping you. His lips curve into a devilish sneer.

“Thought you said your sister had a fiancé?” His grasp tightens in your hair. He gives a wicked chuckle that bellows deep from the confines of his throat. “‘sides, I ain’t worried. Your sister don’t live with ya. And she ain’t comin’, not tonight.”

A chill shivers down your spine. You were right again, Remmick could tell you were lying. 

He leans in close, his burning gaze paralyzing you.

“I’ve been watchin’ you for a while now, darlin’,” he growls. “You ain’t ever felt these eyes on you? Heard noises at night outside your window? That was me. Keepin’ ya company when no one else would.”

Panic swirls in your mind. You’d never felt his gaze before today. Not that you could recall. Was he just messing with you? Or was he actually watching you… waiting for the perfect moment to strike… when the loneliness of this empty house had finally caught up to you? 

“Don’t you worry, sweet thing,” he coos, his gaze and his grip softening. His hand trails back up and massages small circles on your back to put you at ease. “Ain’t gonna hurt ya. Don’t wanna hurt ya. I sensed how alone you were. Could sense the hurt in your soul. Thought maybe you needed someone. Needed me.”

His lips peck your cheek, planting a soft kiss. His lips travel further, kissing down to your slender neck. 

He remains there, perfectly still. You could feel him deeply inhale, breathing in your scent like a beast teasing its prey before the kill. Before you could react, his tongue juts out, licking your neck. You shudder as the slimy appendage leaves a trail of spit on your exposed neck. He sighs at the taste of your skin. 

“You know, I wanna thank you,” he mutters. His hot breath weighs heavy on your throat. “I want to thank you for letting me in. Thank you for indulgin’ me. Quenchin’ me.”

“Quenching you?” Your eyes dart to his full glass of water, the condensation nearly soaking the table it sat on. “B-but you didn’t even drink the water I gave you.”

He let out a dark, foreboding laugh. He met his eyes to yours, the blue color you recognized had been completely usurped by a reflective crimson. Your heart thuds ferociously beneath your breast as his grin grows wide, damn near ear to ear - but it was different this time. 

Instead of crooked, imperfect human teeth was a row of pointed, twisted canines. Fangs. 

His fangs glint in the candlelight, sharp and horrific. Saliva began forming from the corners of his mouth, dribbling down to his scruffy chin. Thick and viscous like a snake’s venom. 

“Aw, you sweet girl,” he takes a breath in, the clamp of his fingers in your hair and on your back growing tighter again. Constricting you and forcing you close against his body. So close you could feel something thick and warm twitching against your groin. Close enough to feel the faint, slow beat of his heart. “I don’t got a need for water, as kind as it was for you to bring it to me. My tastes are more refined. I can lie too darlin’, I am picky and I wasn’t runnin’ from anythin’… I was runnin’ to you.”

His lips meet your throat, fangs grazing delicately along your sensitive skin. You could feel his tongue slither down your neck like a mindless slug. You couldn’t move, paralyzed by fear. 

“I wanna taste you. Just a taste. I ain’t gonna bite too hard… not yet,” he mumbles into your flesh. A sharp prick digs into you before you even have a chance to protest or process what was happening. It doesn’t hurt, but it definitely stings. A warm drop of blood drizzles down your neck. Remmick’s tongue is quick to lap up your essence as it trickles out of your fresh puncture wound. He moans into your throat, hands still gripping onto you as if you’d vanish the second he lets go. “Mmm, like heaven.”

His face journeys upward, his nose sniffing you deeply as he kisses you. Tiny little pecks peppered up your neck, to your cheek, and all the way back home. His lips meet yours once again, the coppery taste of your own blood bitter on his tongue. 

Your mind races. Afraid, aroused - all at once.

He lied to you, he lied to get inside, betrayed your already fragile trust… and yet, the thrill is utterly insatiable. You were petrified but you didn’t want him to stop. The conflicting emotions subdue you, giving into the sweet surrender this monster, this man, was lulling you into. You couldn’t speak, could barely think straight. 

“God… you taste… exquisite,” Remmick licks his lips after leaving yours. He sniffs at the air, his nose working overtime as if tracking the scent of something stronger. Something even more delicious. His hand slides from your back and slides its way to your stomach leaving goosebumps in their wake. It splays wide, the length of his fingers enveloping your womb. “Mm. I wanna taste all of ya.”

With a sudden movement, Remmick scoops you up into his arms, cradling you tight against his chest. He picked you up as if you were weightless. His chin nuzzles your head as you sink into his arms. You don’t try to fight it. It’s not like you had much choice. 

This man that you let into your home was dangerous, you were right to be suspicious. Your intuition rarely fails you. You let your guard down and now you’re being whisked away, carried like a sack of potatoes in your own home. 

The worst part is… you didn’t hate it. In fact, you like it. 

“Which way to the bedroom, darlin’?” His voice a low, husky rasp. You knew exactly what he wanted, and if you didn’t give in, it’s likely something horrible was going to happen to you. A part of you wanted it too… desperately. 

You bite your lip, your body shuddering in his strong arms as you point in the direction of your bedroom. Right down the hall. The loneliest, darkest room in the house.

He strides towards it, not skipping a beat as he kicks the door open, no longer in need of an invitation. The musty smell of old furniture fills your nostrils as he places you gently on the bed. His red eyes shine faintly in the dark. Still hungry. Starved, even. 

“Stay put,” he says, exiting the room for a moment. Remmick’s brief moment of absence, this little moment of peace, left you feeling that empty pit in your stomach again. Perhaps you really were more lonely than you thought. More empty, more longing. It was a feeling you shoved deep down, in hopes that keeping to yourself and enjoying your own company was enough for you. 

But in reality, it wasn’t. 

You see two orbs of orange light bob down the hallway. Remmick, carrying two of the candles from the living room, makes his way back through the door. He sets one candle down on the left night stand, the other on the right. 

“I want you to see me,” he croons, kneeling down onto the bed. His lean, muscular frame canvases you as you decline further into the bed. His broad shoulders cast a mountainous shadow. The light of the candles prance around his features - his soft, wicked smile a ballet across his face. The light bounces off of the gold chain dangling helplessly from his neck. “I want you to see all of me. Every emotion on my face. Every drop of ya on my lips.” 

Your heart fluttered at the last sentence. He lowers his face down to you, mapping kisses along your cheeks, down to your neck where the puncture wound was still fresh. He kisses your wound delicately. 

His cold hand creeps underneath your blouse, navigating up to your sensitive breastd. You let out a surprised breath as his hand caresses the supple mound. His other hand lifts your shirt upward and over your head, revealing your naked torso. He inhales sharply as he soaks you in. 

“Faith and begorrah…” he mutters under his breath, his southern cadence cracking into something more foreign. Brogueish, if you had to guess. His hand is still clutching desperately at your breast, fingers kneading it gently. Drool trickles from his open mouth, his hand picking up the pace. He catches your rigid nipple between his fingers, pulling it forward. 

You let out a whimper, a pleasurable little sound, as he continues to play with your breast. The heat of the summer and the heat of your pleasure started to swelter, sweat causing your hair to stick to your forehead and your breath to develop into a pant. 

Remmick shoves his lips onto yours, his hand rhythmically circling the sensitive skin around your nipple. His other hand raises to your neck, gently wrapping around it to deepen the kiss. His tongue matches the beat of his hand, swirling around yours in a duet of pure bliss.

He inhales deeply again, his nose twitching. He smelled something on you. Something sweet. Something intoxicating. Something delicious. His lips leave yours, his hand not far behind. The strand of spit connecting your coupling breaks apart as he opens his mouth to speak. 

“You smell that?” he asks, his nose huffing the air like a hungry dog. His face travels down your body before finally reaching the apex of your thighs. He takes a mighty whiff again before letting out a sharp whine. “Ohhh, darlin’ you smell divine. You smell like nectar. Warm, exquisite nectar. A sweet honey the bees could only dream of producin’.”

Remmick’s fingers curl around the hem of your pants, pulling them down in one swift succession. His hand finds your panties - a pool of warmth already seeping through the thin layer of cotton. You feel a sense of shame thinking about how much you were enjoying this. His eyes widen as he traces a finger along the lines of your folds through the sopping fabric. 

“Mm. I knew I smelled somethin’ sweet,” he giggles, bringing his dampened finger to his mouth. His tongue wraps around the length of his digit, swirling around the coat of fluids. He moans, the taste of you washing a current of ecstasy over his face. “Ohhh. Wow. Even better than blood, baby. Heavens above, I need more. May I? May I taste you?”

You nod, your body quaking underneath him. Was this really happening? You could feel your cheeks burn hot with anticipation. 

His veined hand tears your panties away in one hurried motion. You let out a wince of surprise as he exposes your sex to the open air. He quickly lowers himself, his face eye-level with your lower half, eager to plunge himself into you. 

“I want you to look at me,” he demands. His hands possessively grip the outside of your thighs. His eyes blazing wildly in the light as he stares up at you. “Watch me, like I’ve watched you, sweet thing.”

When your eyes draw to him, his grin widens as he licks his lips. With no more hesitation, his mouth encloses around your cunt. A jolt of electricity hits your body as the warmth of his mouth encases you. His nose sat comfortably on your clit while his tongue playfully twists at your folds. You could hear him moan into you, tasting every inch of your tender entrance. His tongue pushes forward through the threshold, lapping up all of the juices that flowed from you. 

You shudder. No man has ever done this for you. No man has ever tried to make you feel this way before. It wasn’t a feeling you were used to but, by god, could you get used to it. You let out a moan of your own as he pushes onward, letting yourself fully succumb to the pleasure. 

Remmick’s grip on your thighs tighten, his nails digging red crescent shapes into your skin. His tongue dove as deep as possible into you, circling your walls with an intense dedication. His fangs tease the curve of your cunt, not enough to hurt but you could feel the sharpness graze you. 

You look at him, as he wished. His eyes were shut, mouth working over time solely to please you. You take the reins, reaching down to grab onto his messy dark hair. The greasy strands tangle around your fingers as you pull his face deeper into your heat, anchoring yourself to him. The two of you moan in tandem as you hold on for dear life. He shifts beneath you, digging his hips into the bed as he ground his sopping face against you, licking with all of the power he could muster. 

One hand slips from your thigh and onto your sensitive clit, rubbing delicate circles as he continues his feast. His tongue snaking faster into your walls, keeping up the pace of his thumb on your little bundle of nerves.

You could feel an intense, broiling heat swell deep in your groin. The pace of his thumb and his tongue rapidly increase along with the grind of his hips. The old bed creaks beneath the two of you. You could feel the warmth of his breath as he pants heavily against your entrance. 

“That’s it, baby,” he groans inside you, the tips of his fangs poking at your flesh as he speaks, his voice a low growl. He could feel your release coming, the way your walls fluttered against his tongue. “Sing for me.”

As if spurred on by his words, you feel the tension of your climax overwhelm you. An explosion of pleasure unleashes from you, your body spasming from the intensity. You scream as your walls clamp and contract around Remmick’s tongue. 

He lets out a triumphant grumble as his tongue wiggles furiously inside you, lapping up every drop of your essence as if it was his sustenance. The fuel for his undying fire. 

As your climax ebbs out, Remmick lifts his head, fixating his sights on you. His mouth, wet with your slick, hangs open. Your juices and his saliva dribble down his chin, licking his lips to savor the flavor. He slides two of his long fingers into your dripping, sensitive cunt. He brings his face up close to yours. 

“I want you to taste yourself,” he says, his fingers sliding in and out of you with a similar pace to his tongue. Your body ripples with delight, still recovering from your overwhelming climax. “Taste this delicacy.” 

He crashes his slathered face into yours, his tongue finding itself back home inside the pillowy warmth of your mouth. You have trouble describing the taste, but it was uniquely yours. You’ve never felt anything quite like that, not from any of your partners. No one else has made you feel like that. Remmick was different, really different. Eager to please.

Your heart pounds in your chest - but not from fear anymore. From pure, unmitigated pleasure.

The pace of his fingers falters before he fully removes them, the sloppy sound echoing in the room. You felt something heavier grinding at your groin. Remmick, still fully clothed but baked in sweat, grinds his hips against your quivering cunt. You could feel his pants grow tight against his body, constricting his throbbing girth. His pants are swiftly soaked with you as he continues to rub on you, slowly and meticulously. 

“Mm… feel that?” he moans into your mouth. “Do ya feel what you’re doing to me?”

He snatches your hand and cups it on his clothed length. You could feel it writhe in your grasp. It was big, bigger than you’re used to. You squeeze it, causing Remmick to let out a breathy groan. 

“Oh… le do thoil… let me free,” he rasps, his southern drawl once again breached by a melodic lilt, the heavy brogueish accent riddling his growling voice. You like how it rang in your ears, how desperate he sounded. You oblige him, his needy and wistful eyes piercing into yours as he watches you undo his belt with a metal CLICK.

In a rush to release his throbbing arousal from its clothed prison, he unzips himself. He pulls his pants down past his ankles and onto the floor, slipping his boots off in the process. He wasn’t wearing any undergarments. 

You could see it amidst the dark and unruly public hair - his weeping, twitching cock springing free, bobbing up and down. Thick, blue veins bulged on his thick shaft. The slit on his crown leaks, excited to meet you. Your mouth starts to salivate as you gawk at the massive girth before you.

He swiftly removes his shirt, only opting to keep the chain around his collarbone. His chest was bare, not a single hair or scar to be found other than a large cross tattoo etched into his left side. Ironic, you think to yourself. A sinning saint. 

He leans into you, his body looming on top of yours. His crimson eyes, glowing with desire, lock onto you. His mouth dangles open, sharp teeth peeking out. A thick strand of pearlescent drool trickles from the corner of his mouth. The sweat on his skin glistens in the candlelight. 

He maneuvers the head of his cock to your entrance. It twitches and leaks as it sits gently between your folds. He teases it against you, using your combined slick to rub it up and down, kissing your sensitive clit with every stroke. He bends his head down, his slimy drool dribbling carelessly onto your lips. 

In the heat of the moment, you stick your tongue out and lick the viscous slobber pooling onto your lips. Remmick lets out a surprised gasp. 

“God damn,” he mutters, a dumbstruck smile worming across his face. “Shit darlin’, you want some more?” 

With your eyelids half-lidded, gazing at him seductively, you open your mouth wide. He’s taken aback by this, but more than happy to fulfill your twisted desire. He puckers his lips and allows a controlled stream of saliva to cascade from his maw. The slow, painfully slow, drip of his thick spittle eventually finds its way onto your tongue. 

You swirl it around as it flows into your mouth. The taste is oddly sweet, combined with the taste of your own juices and a slight hint of coppery blood still lingering. It was warm, syrupy, and you hate to admit it, but you fucking loved it. 

He lets the last drops of his drool hang from his chin before wiping it off, only for you to grab his hand and lick the excess smear from his palm. You utter a soft moan, making sure you swallow every last morsel. He smiles a wide, sinful grin. His cock twitching even more violently against you.

“Christ,” he laughs, elated by your lewd gesture. “Fuck, you’re perfect. Ohhh I knew I liked you.”

He leans in for another open-mouthed kiss, mixing more of his saliva deep down your throat. His cock still nipping at your entrance, but not pushing forward. As if an invisible barrier stopped him from penetrating you.  

“Tell me I’m allowed in,” he whimpers into the kiss, sweat sprinkling onto you as the sticking heat of his forehead touches yours. “Invite me into you, baby. I need to hear you say it. You gotta let me in.”

This plea gives you the same sense of power you felt the first time he begged at your door. He wasn’t allowed to fuck you until you gave him the power to do so. He had permission to walk inside your house, permission to kiss and devour you, but fucking you was an entirely different boundary he needed access to. 

You let him linger there, staring up at him with doe-like eyes as he shudders and shakes. He breathes a heavy pant as he sits there idly, cock leaking on your folds. You feel it throb and writhe. He wanted this more than anything.

You remain silent. The silence was agonizing for him. Desperation painted on his face. Just waiting for you to give the word. He balls his fists and grips onto the sheets, anchoring himself to the bed. 

“Please baby, please don’t leave me hangin’ like this,” he whines, the despondent cry of his voice choked from his lips. His eyes began to water, starved by desire and longing. “You want me to beg again? You want me on my knees, prayin’ to the heavens? Prayin’ to you?  ’Cause I’ll do anything, sugar. Anything you want.”

He bites himself with his fangs, a trickle of his blood beginning to flow from his lower lip. He lets out tiny whimpers as he trembles above you, his cock impatiently yearning to claim you. His brows knit and his lips shape into a pout.

“Please, please, please,” he begs, his cock driving onto your clit, nowhere else for it to go. He rocks back and forth. His engorged head smooches your little bundle of nerves over and over as he incessantly repeats his begging, sounding more desperate by the syllable. He glides on your slick folds errantly. “Please, ohhh please. Please, please please. Please. Please. Pleeeeaaaase.”

His pathetic, needy whines awakened something in you. The thought of bringing a man to this state of desperation spurred on your own desire. His whines and whimpers, pleading just for you. The thrum of his cock against your sensitive nub marching onward. His damp crimson eyes flutter open and closed, tears starting to form on his eyelashes. You could feel both of your fluids mingling together as he leaks helplessly against your folds. You love every second of it.

Finally, you say it.

“Come on in.” 

Those three little words were all Remmick needed. He wipes away the desperate tears and looks down at you, smile growing wide enough that you could see the gleam of his mouthful of fangs in the warm candlelight. A fiery, emboldened glint flickers in his crimson eyes.  

He got exactly what he wanted, and now? He could enter you as many times as he pleased. There was no going back. And you were more than okay with that. 

With no further delay, he guides the head of his cock into your entrance. A quiet, staggered breath escapes your lips as the crown stretches you open. The gripping, wet heat welcomes him inside.

“Fuuuck,” Remmick moans, his voice a low grumble. His eyes roll back into his head as he slowly begins to drag his girth deeper. He stops for a moment once his cock is shallow in you - halfway inserted and yet the stretch of him was beyond your usual capacity. It twitches eagerly between the tight cushiony enclosure. Every vein and ripple caressing your insides. “You feel like home.”

He sheaths the rest of his arousal into your warmth with a single, powerful thrust. A hoarse cry escapes his throat once he completely buried himself to the hilt. Your soft, slick walls squeeze and flutter around him as you let out a squeal of your own. His girth fills you completely. Fills that emptiness in your core. It feels good. Real good. 

He remains still, taking in the heat of you around him. Taking in every inch of your body. The curve of your hips, the shape of your breasts. The way your eyes flirt with the candlelight. The sounds of pleasure squeaking from your lips. He commits it all to memory. 

“Beautiful,” he whispers. One hand taut around your thigh, the other reaching out to touch your face. His head lolls to the side, eyes closed and lips pursed. He pulls back ever so slightly only to smother his cock in you again. He splays his hand across your womb so you could see the bump of his cock buried deep inside you. “Ya see that? See how deep I am?”

The obscene sound of flesh meeting flesh echoes in the room when he begins to pick up his pace. His thrusts slamming waves of pleasure into you, the friction driving you further into a blissful abyss. 

Remmick drags his cock out to get a look at the fruits of his labor, his tip still hitched in your entrance. The shine of your juices coat his shaft. He grunts, almost inhuman, before snapping his hips back into you. 

A guttural noise escapes your throat. With every roll of his hips, brutal thrust after brutal thrust, you could feel the tension begin to spin deep within your body. Your steady moans in sync with his ceaseless rhythm. 

He pants heavily, tongue drooping from his mouth like a ravenous mutt. Drool continues to cascade from him. He lets it fall onto his pistoning cock, lubricating it even more as it continues plowing into you. You could see the immense pleasure plastered on his face - eyelids fluttering, jaw hung open, lips curved into an expression of pure, unbridled ecstasy. 

He lifts up your leg to push himself as deep as he could possibly go, this new position allowing him to plunge into that perfect hidden place inside you. The swollen head of his cock kisses your sweet spot with every swing of his hips, bringing you closer and closer to your peak.

Your chest tightens, heart rabbiting in your ribs. Your insides stretched and pulled. A burning, boiling heat brewing deep in your chest, rippling throughout your entire body. It coils in your groin, every nerve ending set alight and ready to burst. 

“Fuck,” you mutter under your breath. Remmick hears you and slams into you harder. Faster. The intensity of him hitting your sweet spot, more and more, over and over, was unbearable. Your fingers clench onto the bedsheets. The headboard of the bed rocking into the wall with each roll of his hips. 

“Don’t fight it, sweet thing,” he coos, the relentless drag of his cock pushing you further and further over the edge. He circles his hips, making sure he hits every nook and cranny within you. “I wanna feel you squeezin’ ‘round me. I wanna feel you close in. Your body seizin’. Ohhh, I can feel it comin’. Come on, baby. Come on and come for me.”

In an instant, a rush of ecstasy flows through you. You let out a loud, gasping sob as your climax crashes into you like a tsunami. Your hips buck and wince. Your walls clamp around Remmick’s cock. He sits idle, his eyes watching your body seize around him, convulsing like a live wire. A devilish, satisfied sneer spreads across his face. He was loving this, but he wasn’t done with you yet. Not even a little bit. 

As your climax starts to dwindle, your body still involuntarily jerking, Remmick continues to drive his hips forward. The sounds were messy. Filthy. The wet, sloppy sounds of his skin slapping against yours, indulging in the mess you made, filled the air. 

His breath grows ragged, his chest heaving. He was close. You could feel it. 

“So warm… so wet… tá tú chomh tais… fuck,” he moans through gritted teeth, brogue accent and foreign words slipping out of his lips. His eyes roll back into his head again, his pace otherworldly fast, growing erratic and uncontrolled. Hitting your perfect spot hard enough to spur on another mini-climax of your own. “Fuck, fuck, FUCK!”

With a final, brutal thrust - he buries himself entirely, howling louder than a wolf, as he forces himself deep enough to reach your cervix. You feel an overwhelming heat flooding deep inside you. His cock pulsates and his hips buck, filling you to the brim with the molten flood of his passion. 

His body tremors, folding over you like origami. His head rests between your breasts. You could feel the wetness of his mouth as he moaned on your skin. Cock still sheathed, still pumping its thick essence into you. It leaks down your ass crack onto the sheets. It seemed endless. His cock continues pushing, instinctually prodding his seed even deeper. 

A sharp pain in your thighs causes you to wince. You peer down to see Remmick’s fingernails - once human and crescent-shaped, were now sharp. Ferocious. Monstrous. Digging deep enough to make you bleed. He gripped you tight, holding you in place to make sure not a single drop of him was wasted. 

“God… damn,” he murmurs, his face still planted in your chest, his breath heavy on your skin. “Holy shit, that was… god damn.”

He kisses your chest before lifting himself off of you. He noticed how deep his claws were digging into you. A look of surprise washes over his sweat-bleached face. He removes his claws - his fingers had grown long and gnarled, dripping with fresh blood. He sticks his bloody fingers in his mouth, tasting your divine essence, quietly moaning as he licks himself clean.

“I’m so sorry darlin’, didn’t realize what I was doin’ to ya. Got carried away. You’re just so… mm. Intoxicatin’,” he sighs, mouth still red with blood and moist with saliva. 

You hear the wet sound of his still-erect girth slithering out of you with a squelching snap. You could feel the excess releases seep out of you, warm against your skin. 

He climbs his way closer to you on all fours until he straddles your chest with his chiseled thighs. His aching, dripping cock twitching over your naked body, leaving a trail of your combined fluids in its wake. 

”Open wide for me, sweet thing.” He nudges the drenched tip of his cock to your lips. The salty mess smears a thin, slimy layer on your mouth. His slender claws tangle in your hair. “Go on and clean me up now.”

Delirious, you follow his directions and open your mouth, your tongue laying flat on the tip. He bares a toothy grin, slowly pushing himself into the warmth of your mouth. He lets out a soft moan as he feels the wet embrace of your tongue wrap around him.

“I’d say watch the teeth, but… well, that’d make me a hypocrite wouldn’t it?” he chuckles, shoving himself deeper until you could feel him teasing the back end of your tongue, a drawn out rasp ripping through his throat. He holds you in place, sharp tendons clawing at your scalp. 

You taste the bitter, savory flavor of your combined excretions as he ruts his cock back and forth on your tongue, slathering it deeper. His cock continues to twitch and throb with each thrust. You could feel every ripple, vein and texture of his skin on your tongue as it glided itself in and out of you effortlessly. 

“Mm. Fuck. I wanna feel my cock in your throat,” he growls, his pace increasing and the grip on your hair tightening, animalistic urges overtaking him. His voice became harsh and cruel, like gravel underneath a steel-toed boot. You look up at him with watering eyes, streams of saliva dribbling down your chin. His red eyes sear back into you with a needy and insatiable glow. “I wanna feel your pretty little throat constrictin‘ me.”

With a sudden movement, he thrust himself deep down your throat. You gag the moment the crown of his cock hammers into the back of your esophagus. A surplus of spit leaks out of the corners of your stretched mouth, coating his balls with a frothy sheen. All you could do is breathe out of your nose and wait for it to end.

He stalls there briefly. Completely still besides his quivering cock. It trembles wildly against your tongue. His claws tighten in your hair, keeping you trapped close to him - your nose squashed against his pelvis. His girth damn near choking you to death.

“Ohhh, fuck, you fit me like a glove. My sweet, filthy girl,” Remmick croaks. He begins to rock his hips slowly at first, each thrust touching the very depths of your throat.  “It’s like you were made for me.”

Your mind starts to blur, the intensity of his strokes making you dizzy with lust and lack of proper oxygen. The corners of your vision grow dark as you swallow him whole.

“Just like that,” he snarls, losing himself with every deep stroke of his cock. Your throat expands and massages him as he smothers himself in you. Your mouth wrapped taut around his length, breath coming in hot, quick puffs against his skin. “Juuust like that, sweetheart.”

His hips continue to rock, a little bit faster with every roll, your moans and muffled sounds reverberating along his shaft. Puddles of your saliva pool onto your skin and down to your breasts. His sounds of pure euphoria were all you could hear amidst the wet sounds of his cock slamming into you and his balls smacking your chin with every stroke.

“We taste good together, don’t we?” He moans. You feel his cock twitch and squirm on your tongue, the swollen crown leaking salty precum down your throat, ready to explode at any moment. His claws tighten their grip in your hair, keeping you steady against his gyrating groin. 

With a thunderous, beastial roar, he heaves himself deep into your mouth one final time - the pulsing head of his cock spewing thick, hot waves of his desire down your throat. His body shudders as he holds you close against his hips. You feel the never-ending eruption pulsating and painting your throat a shade of white. 

As if nature itself told you to, you swallow down his release, swirling your tongue around him as he continues pumping his essence into you. He lets out a squealing moan as you work your magic, cupping and massaging his balls with your hand, coaxing every last drop out of him. Frothy saliva oozing out of your mouth - snot bubbling from your nose as you struggle to breathe through it. You feel the thrashing of his cock slow down, his own breath steadying.

His grip on you finally loosens. He slowly pulls himself out of you, inch by excruciating inch, until the swollen head of his cock escapes your lips with a loud pop. You cough and gasp for air before one last weak spurt of his pearly white passion pumps onto your face. The warm, salty taste of it coats your lips. 

“Oops,” he chuckles, clawed fingers pressed to his mouth, a playful smile hiding behind it. He bends down until his face is eye level with yours, one hand still clutching your hair - much more softly now. 

His tongue presses flat on your lips, lapping up the light layer of his own release, moaning as it glides between them. He weasels his way back into the warmth of your mouth, pushing and swirling his remaining spillage onto your tongue and down your raw throat. 

You could feel the twisted fingers of his free hand reach back down to your dripping heat, cupping it gently. One finger presses onto the swollen nub of your clit, rubbing small circles until a familiar jolt of electricity surges through your body. The claws retract so they wouldn’t scrape you too harshly. 

“Mmm, darlin’,” he mumbles into your mouth, his finger still tracing sensual rings on your devil’s doorbell. He pulls his face away from you, a strand of spit still connected on your bottom lip.

His hand frees your hair from its grasp before slowly and intimately grabbing hold of your hand. He keeps it there for a moment, interlocking your fingers together. His hand is large, even larger with the gangly claws. He sighs longingly. A sweet, soothing sound after the chaos he just put you through. 

“Darlin’… oh, you sweet, sweet girl,” he coos, his eyes meeting yours. The harsh red tint glowing in the candlelight, searing deep into your soul. He looked like he wanted to kiss you again. Instead, he places your hand on his still-throbbing length. It’s still hard, still aching for your touch. “I know how bad you been wantin’ this. Almost as bad as me.”

One hand wraps around yours, guiding you up and down his length. It dribbles more precum, allowing your entangled hands to slide smoothly around the throbbing shaft. The other hand continuously presses your button, two fingers slipping in and out of your slick entrance. Your body tingles from the dual sensations.

“I know how you been hurt," he whispers, his grip around your hand tightening as he jerks himself with your palm. “I know how many sleepless, lonely nights you been dreamin’ of someone there with ya. Nights where you pleasure yourself, all by your lonesome. But you weren’t alone - not really. I was there, outside, waitin’. Waitin’ for the perfect night.”

Your hips buck in tandem, waves of pleasure uniting the two of you. His cock twitches in your grip, the friction from your movements causing his breath to catch in his throat. The rubbing on your clit and fingers in your depths picking up speed. His words are a blur as your focus narrows onto the way you’re feeling in the moment. The feeling of pure, unmatched ecstasy - the heights of which you’ve never climbed before.

“Waitin’ for the perfect night where your loneliness was at its worst,” he groans, feeling his climax building with every stroke of your hand on him. “Ohhh, I been waitin’ ever so patiently for you. I’ve dreamt of ya. I could sense your achin’ heart, sweet thing. Your achin’ cunt. I know you were dreamin’ of me too.”

Drool drips from the corner of his lips as he speaks. Your mind in a haze of lust, the unbearable intensity of pleasure consuming your every thought. Maybe you have dreamt this stranger before. His glowing, red eyes lurking in the shadows of your brain. His sharp, hungry smile just itching to sink into your memories. Haunting you from the inside-out. Deadly desire that woke you up, soaking and aching. Aching for him. 

Maybe he was always there in the back of your mind, and now? He’s here with you. In your bed, by your side. His cock in your hand. You always knew, deep down, that you wanted something like this, but never allowed yourself to let it in. Until now. 

“Achin’ for someone like me,” Remmick continues, his breath faltering. He releases his hand from yours, allowing you to tug on him at your own pace. His tongue lolls from his mouth, the coupled pleasure at the mercy of each other’s hands bringing you both to the brink of another release. “I’m here now, darlin’. I’m here to give you the lovin’ you deserve. Make ya feel whole. Make ya feel complete. Loved.”

With one last buck of his hips, another round of hot release spills onto you. It pumps into your hand. Warm, sticky seed drenching your fingers and your breasts, splattering on them like paint on a blank canvas. He plunges his fingers deep into you, adding a third and hitting that sweet spot hard enough to make you surge upward. Your own climax sweeps over you. You writhe and convulse on his spindly digits, feeling the gush of your fluids careening onto the sheets. Both of your mouths gape open, synchronized moans flooding the room. His fingers slip out of you as both of your orgasms fizzle out. 

The room reeked like sweat, sex, and the faint earthy scent of the burning candles. His hand cups your cheek, lightly petting you with his thumb. He twists your head to the side, showing him your slender neck - open, tantalizing, irresistible. Blood pumping through your veins with the thud of your heart. 

“Grá mo chroí… love of my heart,” he purrs, voice low and sultry. “You ain’t my long lost love, no, but… oh, you make me feel the same way. Make me feel things I ain’t felt since I was human.”

“What… are you, exactly?” you weakly pant, your glazed-over eyes gazing desperately into his. Your body trembles a bit. You already know the answer but you want to hear him say it.

“I told ya, sweet thing,” he laughs, baring his fangs at you. The candlelight only serves to make them look sharper, even more dangerous. And yet? You weren’t scared of him. Not entirely. “I’m a fuckin’ monster, baby. A creature of the night. A creature of desire, a cold-blooded killer. Blood-hungry beast. That book you were readin’? Well, consider it research.”

In a single, swift movement, he flips you onto your hands and knees. He shoves your head down into the pillow, arching your back and presenting your ass like a freshly cooked meal. The surprise of the sudden shift startles you, causing you to stumble - but he catches you. His hands wrap around your stomach, holding you close to him. 

You could feel his hips pressing up against you. His still-hard, still-weeping cock twitching against the meat of your flushed backside. The ridges of his girth rolled against you, smearing his leaking head all over your ass. 

“The things you do to me, darlin’,” he whispers, sweet words pouring into your ears like honey. “Never felt a cunt so perfect in my life.”

He maneuvers the head of his cock towards your glistening folds. It nudged insistently - prodding you, begging to be welcomed back and embraced into your gripping heat. His other hand sits firmly on your ass, the claws digging into your flesh as he teases you - gliding his engorged crown across your glistening folds with ease and precision. 

“I don’t need an invite anymore,” he rumbles, his voice low and coarse. You feel him pumping his cock with his hand - it brushes against your entrance with every movement of his fist. The slick head helplessly sobbing. “I can come in… anytime I want. Your home, your mind, your mouth, your perfect cunt. You’re mine now, sugar. All of ya. And I don’t think you mind one bit, do ya?”

His hips buck, plunging the head of his cock into you. You let out a gasp as he slides the rest of him as deep as possible, sheathing himself to the hilt. Your body adapted so easily to his size. It molded itself to him, gripping him like a vice that didn’t want to let go. Holding onto him like he was always meant to be there.

“Aw, look at ya,” he jeers, pulling himself all the way out of you. “Look at her. I leave her for one second and she’s already quiverin’ for more.” 

Was he… talking about your pussy? Your hazy mind thought for a moment, only to be overtaken by a searing pleasure when he slams himself back into you with a wicked snap of his hips. A guttural noise escapes your throat as he continues this teasing motion.

All the way out. All the way in.

Out.

In.

The rhythmic rolling of his hips punctuated by obscene smacking sounds. His claws grip onto your ass, pulling you into him with every deep thrust. You didn’t mind the pain anymore - the pleasure was all-consuming, encompassing your entire being with electric energy.

You were under his spell. 

“Mm, that's a good girl,” he coos. Drool continues to drip from his mouth, falling carelessly onto your bare cheeks. He wipes it off and smears it onto his cock for additional lubricant, not like he needed it. His praise and his drool only amplifies the pleasure he was already pumping you with. You couldn’t remember the last time someone praised you. “Takin’ me so good. Takin’ me so deep.”

One hand detaches from your reddened ass and tangles itself in your hair. He pulls your head from the pillows, arching your back even further. A choked groan escapes from your lips as his thrusts only grow more rapid, slamming deeper into you. You could feel the head of his cock kissing your cervix, nearly deep enough to break through the sensitive barrier and into your womb. 

The tension in your loins begins building again. Sweat pouring from both of your pores as he relentlessly fucks into you, the smack of his balls on your clit only ramping up the heat broiling in your core. Moans and filthy sounds of coupling flesh flooded the room. 

“Say my name, baby,” he leans into you, his voice a gentle whisper. He flicks his tongue out, licking the shell of your ear as he speaks. “Scream it to the heavens when you come undone. I know it’ll sound real pretty comin’ outta yer lips.” 

“R-Remmick,” you whimper. He thrusts into you - HARD. The sudden, powerful motion makes you hiss out of clenched teeth.

“Pretty, but you can do better,”  he demands, the grip on your hair and ass tightening. “Louder.” 

“Remmick,” you moan, almost teasingly. Another brutal thrust. 

“I said louder,” his voice shifting to a hoarse growl. He puts his mouth to your neck, his fangs making contact with your skin. If you don’t scream his name, he was going to rip your fucking throat out. “Louder or I’m gonna shred this pretty little neck of yours to pieces. Gonna drink my fill of you. Drain ya dry. Make ya scream my name one way or another.”

The pressure rose to unparalleled heights. He continues  relentlessly pounding into you as hard as he could without completely splitting you apart. His fangs poke at your neck, raking against you as he moves. His hot, broken breath puffing onto your skin. Tongue pressing flat against you. 

You could feel his mouth start to close in, sharp teeth ready to rip you open. Shivers spark down your spine. There was a chance he was bluffing, teasing you into submission, but you weren’t willing to take that risk. 

Your body tenses, tingling with that familiar sensation. You feel your walls close in, squeezing his cock as it rams into you with no sign of stopping. He unclaws his hand from your ass and slides it down to your clit. His gnarled finger twirling rigorously around your swollen nub.

The pain of his claws poking at your sensitive nerves and his fangs fixed at your throat paired deliciously with the pleasure of the drawn out circles being drawn on your clit and his cock furiously driving deeper and deeper into your sweet spot. It’s unbearable. It’s searing. It’s fucking bliss.

In the heat of the moment, when the tension swells to its highest possible peak, your floodgate bursts open.

“REMMICK!” 

A mischievous smile stretches across his face against your throat at the cry of his name out of your lips. Bursts of color and light flash in your eyes as your entire body convulses on him. A powerful gush of arousal rushes out of you, coating Remmick and the already soaked sheets below in a glossy, sopping wave of relief.

“Ohhhh, fuck yes, sweet thing,” he rasps, leaning back from your neck, holding himself steady inside you. He watches as your release completely unravels you, taking in the beauty of the rapture he unleashed. He absolutely loved watching you wriggle and writhe underneath him. He slowly pulls his cock out just enough to see how drenched you left him. “That’s what I’m talkin’ about. Like music to my ears, baby.”

He hilts himself back into your spasming warmth, the sloppy squelch as he reimmersed himself tears a breathless moan from his heaving chest. Both of his hands mindlessly slide back to your hips, pulling you tight against his pelvis. The swollen head of his cock twitches against your battered cervix, as if begging to push past it. 

“You’re mine, now, sugar,” he rumbles, punctuating his words with every deep, passionate roll of his hips. “I ain’t ever lettin’ you go. Gonna visit you every time you’re feelin’ lonely. Every time you’re scared. Gonna keep you close to me, darlin’. Ain’t—ever—gonna—let—you—go.”

The movement of his hips grows erratic, uncontrollably plunging into your still-fluttering depths with animalistic abandon. The sound of his rasping moans mingle with the wet, obscene sounds of his thrusts. 

You’re still dizzy from the throes of your multiple climaxes. Your face flops back into the pillows, eyes glazed-over and drool all over your face. Usually, the only person who could do that to you was yourself. Your own hands, your own tools. Rarely ever has a man been gracious enough to send you into such a euphoric state of bliss - let alone more than once in a single night. 

“You’re so fuckin’ beautiful, ya know that?” He says through ragged breaths, his own climax gearing up. His voice shifts back and forth between that southern drawl and melodic lilt. “Perfect. Perfect body. Perfect face. Perfect… so perfect. Tá tú ar foirfe. Perfect.”

He pulls out of you almost entirely before hilting his entire length into you one last time. He lets out a deep, bellowing roar of pleasure as his cock throbs violently within your core. His entire body shakes and shudders above you. His claws hook deep into your skin. 

You were enraptured, captivated by the way his body tremors against you. The way his moans fill your ears like a symphony, a song meant to serenade only you. The way the scalding splatter of his release floods every ridge, every crook of your depths. His cock pumps endlessly, stirring his seed as deep as he could with every weak jerk of his hips. You feel as if your belly is swelling with how much of his thick essence spills into you. 

When the aftershocks of his climax finally begin to fade, he collapses onto you. He releases his grip on your flushed ass and wraps his arms around your waist. He pulls you down onto the sheets with him, laying you down on your side. His softening cock still buried in you, plugging you up so none of his pearly white proof of passion would dare to escape.

He nuzzles into the nape of your neck. His sweat-soaked forehead rubbing gently on the back of your head. Soft purrs of satisfaction slip through his closed, smiling mouth. 

He starts leaving gentle trails of kisses along your neck, stopping at the knicks he left with his fangs. He kisses them even softer, apologizing for the damage he inflicted on you. 

“I could get used to this,” he sighs. His arms caressing your naked body as the two of you lie side by side, still conjoined at the groin. His hot breath brushes against your shoulders.

“Me too,” you hum. You turn your neck to face him, gazing longingly into his crimson eyes. This sets his undead heart aflutter. You feel it beat gently beneath his chest. Your own heart thuds wildly against your rib cage.

The quiet was palpable for a moment. The chaos of your coupling had finally settled. The candles continue their dance around the room, illuminating the curves of your entwined bodies.  

“You mean it?” He murmurs. A soft smile melts onto his face, eyes twinkling with awe. He sounds stunned by your words. Surprised that you’d reciprocate. “You really mean it, darlin’?”

“Remmick,” you start, fully twisting your body to face him, careful not to let his softened cock slip out of you. His arms are still wrapped around you in a warm embrace, eagerly waiting to hear what you were going to say. “I can’t remember the last time I’ve had this much fun. I’ll be honest… you terrified me at first. You terrified me every time you had your fangs in my throat. But I don’t know... it… it thrilled me. I liked the danger. I’ve spent so long cooped up alone to protect my peace that I started to miss spending time with another person... thank you.”

He looks at you, a shimmer of what you could only describe as longing glistening in his eyes. His wide, crooked smile radiates a sense of comfort. Despite the danger, the fear he caused you, you feel safe in his arms.

“Oh, sugar,” he whispers, one hand freeing itself from your waist to cup your cheek. His thumb lovingly brushes over your lips as he stares deep into your eyes. “How sweet of ya. I do apologize for frightenin’ ya. It’s in my nature, y’know. But… oh, it warms my cold dead heart to hear that comin’ from you. Thank you.” 

He captures your lips in a searing, passionate kiss before reluctantly sliding himself out of you. You feel his absence instantly, already missing the way his rigid girth perfectly squeezes into your walls. The remains of his essence drip down onto the drenched sheets. 

“I should get goin’, the sun’ll be up in a few ticks,” Remmick sighs with a hint of uncertainty. He didn’t seem to want to leave your side, but he starts to unhook himself from your waist in an effort to get up. You grab his retreating arm before he can completely let go.

“Stay. Please,” you beg. You caress his arm, soft hands kneading small circles across his skin. He studies your face with wistful, misty eyes. He didn’t want to leave, even if he felt like some kind of invisible force was pressuring him to. As if nature itself called for him to scurry off into the night and hide from the dawning sun. “I have a cellar you can stay in. No windows, so light won’t touch you. There’s even a little cot in there for you to sleep on… big enough for two.” 

Silence permeates the room between you. That emptiness you felt, the lonely feeling you tried so hard to shove deep down, vanishes with his touch. It disappears with him by your side. 

You didn’t care that he was a monster. You saw past that. He brought you back from the depths of isolation, and you knew, in your heart, you did the same for him. 

“Ohh, darlin’, I’d love to, I really would, b-but,” he stammers, desperately trying to fight against nature pulling him away from you. “I still gotta feed before the sun comes up, can’t go to bed on an empty stomach. I’ll be back tomorrow night, I promise. I promise you I will. Cross my heart and hope to die. No more lyin’.”

You gaze at Remmick as he slowly lifts himself from the bed. He picks his clothes up from the floor and starts to dress himself, his eyes refusing to leave you, as if he wanted to commit every ridge of your face to memory in case he’d never see you again. As if your body was a beautiful, one-of-a-kind painting that he wanted to soak in for hours.

He ties up his boots and zips his pants back up, fully prepared to head back out into the fray of the night. Before he finishes fixing his suspenders, you climb to the foot of the bed and reach for his hand.

You interlock your fingers with his. The gentle thrum of your heartbeat pulsing underneath your ribs. You slowly tilt your head, presenting your neck to him. His eyes widen with surprise and his mouth starts to salivate. He quietly descends, kneeling down to face you. He presses his lips against your supple flesh. Instead of sinking his fangs into you, he simply peppers your throat with delicate little kisses.

“No,” Remmick whispers into the crook of your neck. “Not tonight, sweet thing. When I drink from you, I wanna make it special. I don’t wanna turn ya on our first meetin’ like this, as much as I’d love to. It just don’t feel right.”

Despite saying he wouldn’t bite you, he takes your finger to his mouth and pricks it on his fangs ever so slightly. He puts your finger between his lips, suckling on the tiny droplets of blood that trickle from the small puncture. He lets out a broken moan from the flavor of your sweet scarlet nectar before releasing your finger, wet with his saliva. His eyes glow a blazing red, the fires of his feral hunger stoked from the mere taste of you. 

“Exquisite, simply exquisite,” he gently strokes your face with his calloused hand. “I swear to you, darlin’, I’ll be back tomorrow. And even though I don’t need it anymore, I’ll still beg for ya to let me in. I’ll beg like it’s the first time I’ve ever laid eyes on a beauty like you.”

With that, Remmick plants one long, tender kiss on your lips. He holds your head in both of his hands, pushing his mouth closer into the intimate embrace. He pulls away slowly, his eyes burning into yours. A touch of sorrow gleams in his crimson gaze. His hand takes yours to guide you out of the room with him.

The two of you make your way down the dark hallway. The darkness starts to embrace you, knowing that once he walks out that door, its over-encompassing reach will consume you as it always does. Your heart sinks to your stomach at the thought. 

Remmick stands at the door, his free hand twisting the knob. You take a good look around your living room. Your private little space, your personal sanctuary. Your tea and his untouched glass of water completely soaked your coasters with their condensation. Your book sitting idle in the same position Remmick left it. The candles had burnt nearly down to the holster, the dying flames petering out, their dance coming to an end. 

The night air is still humid, but a crisp breeze wafts through the opening door. Remmick stands still for a moment. His clammy hand is still firmly, possessively gripping onto yours, afraid to let go. 

He turns to you, hungry eyes gazing into yours. His hand slowly starts to release from your grasp, pulling your heart along with it. The stars twinkle dimly in the sky behind him. The crickets chirp, the nocturnal animals chitter and howl, and your old house… your old, soon-to-be-empty house creaks and groans as it always has. As it always will. 

“Until tomorrow?” 

“Until tomorrow.”

Remmick walks back out into the night, his body fully enveloped by the darkness. He leaves you, for now. But he left with a promise, something no man has ever followed through with. You were confident that this time, this man - this vampire - would come back. Tomorrow. 

Tomorrow. You’ll see him again tomorrow. 

translations provided by both google and @fuckoffbard ------------------------------- Santaíonn mé thú - I want you Faith and begorrah - by god / expression of surprise le do thoil - please / "with your will" tá tú chomh tais - you're so wet for me Grá mo chroí - love of my heart Tá tú ar foirfe - you are perfect

[bitter-post-millennial]

Fantastic imagery as always. It really feels like you’re there when you write

That being said: I loved the name motif used in this chapter. With hyphenated names, for me at least, I feel like you have to say the whole thing. Maybe it’s a southern thing but I grew up hearing names like “Lou-Ann” “Lee/leigh- and then what ever the other name of the week was” “Sarah- may”. There’s always either two or three beats. Now when you’re FAMILY, that can be shifted. So when remmick pops up with “Mae” ooh it sent chills down my spine. She should start spraying him with the garden hose. I know they have one.

Also the birds. It’s starting to feel less like a threat and more like a cat leaving gifts for its owner.

I also like that Isaiah while not here in the physical sense, still haunts the narrative. Or at the very least haunts Ella-Mae and it echoes throughout the story. Poor Isaiah- it actually feels like a light has been snuffed out.

Sorry last one- I grew up catholic. Not the same as southern Baptist or Pentecostal but there’s a part about the church that set off alarm bells in my head: the candle. I have no idea if other denominations do this but theres one red candle lit constantly. It’s a very big no no if it goes out. The only time it’s snuffed is when Jesus is dead for three days (which isn’t exactly three days. It always pissed me off it wasn’t exactly 72 hours). It’s called the paschal candle. Anyways, my first thought was “why would a candle be lit and not flicker,” and once I thought past the obvious time stopped idea, I came to the paschal candle. So then the question becomes, “why is there a paschal candle lit in a southern Baptist or Pentecostal church?” I looked it up to double check and I can’t see any wide culture of southern Baptist or Pentecostal churches using it. I could always be wrong though and please correct me if I am. Then I thought to remmick. He would know about the candle. I have no idea if you meant this and I could be completely wrong about the intent of the scene but I thought it was interesting to note.

Chapter 6

link to ao3 !

word count : 5.7k

tags : @endofradio @bitter-post-millennial

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November, 1909

By the time November arrived, the air had thinned.

It no longer clung to the skin like a second layer, no longer hummed with the heat that made porch-sitting a luxury and cooking near impossible. The trees had begun their slow, aching change—rich greens bleeding into gold and rust and brown, their leaves drifting down like prayers too heavy for heaven. The cicadas were gone. The air carried a softness now, brittle at the edges, smelling of smoke and turned soil.

And just like the trees outside their windows, the de Pointe du Lac family had changed, too.

Mae, though… Mae hadn’t so much changed as she had learned how to endure.

It had been months since the first morning she found them—the birds.

That day felt like a fever dream now, though the memory lived behind her ribs like a tight fist. For a while after, they stopped. The birds. There were no more sudden piles. No red feathers painting the grass. Just quiet.

Then, two weeks later, one showed up again.

Then another.

And another, the week after that.

Not in droves like before, no. Just one each time. Always near the base of the house. Always beneath her window.

They were still red. And they were still torn.

Something—someone—was still sending her messages.

At first, Mae screamed. Then she cried. Then she tried to tell Grace, but the words never came out the way she meant. Now, she said nothing. She simply buried the bodies.

Some nights, she’d find them early—just before dawn, when the world was still blue and soft and the house still slept. She would lift the broken things gently, wrap them in cloth, and walk barefoot to the grove behind the house, where the trees grew thick and no one ever thought to wander.

She’d dig small graves with her hands.

Say nothing.

Leave nothing.

Just press the dirt back down and return to bed, hands trembling beneath her quilt.

And somehow… that became her ritual.

Her burden. Her secret.

The rest of the house went on.

Louis’s business in the Quarter had taken root like a weed—fast, profitable, and not without whispers. But no one dared ask too many questions. Not in the neighborhood. And certainly not in the house. He dressed sharp now, his suits tailored, his cologne subtle but firm in the hallways when he left in the mornings. His name was beginning to mean something beyond their corner of Louisiana.

Grace, on the other hand, was glowing.

The wedding had been set for next September, and with every passing week, the house brimmed with new fabrics, lace swatches, and a running list of who’d be invited, who wouldn’t, and what colors would make her skin look like satin under candlelight. She hummed more now, and though the loss of Isaiah still lingered in their silences, she poured her joy into something real. Something sacred. Mae clung to that joy when her own light flickered too dim.

Paul was—well, Paul.

He still walked the house with a holy fire in his eyes, talking to himself, or maybe to God, or maybe to something else entirely. He watched birds out the window in ways that made Mae’s chest tighten. Sometimes she wondered if he knew about the bodies. If he sensed it. But if he did, he never said. Never looked at her too long. He just watched. And waited.

Florence had settled into this new house like a queen who didn’t ask for the crown. She had long resisted the presence of hired hands, but now, she allowed it. She would still check every dish that passed her kitchen. Still inspect the linens with a finger’s grace. But she had learned to let go of the need to do it all. Perhaps the world had tired her, too.

The house itself breathed easier now.

It had learned the weight of its new owners. Learned their rhythm, their softness, their ghosts.

But for Mae, the stillness was never full.

The leaves fell.

The air cooled.

But every time she passed her window, her eyes drifted downward.

And she wondered when the next one would come.

Because it always did.

The sky was the color of a bruised peach as Mae stepped out of the grocer’s with a paper sack tucked in one arm.

The bell above the door gave a half-hearted jingle behind her, too tired to ring with any real cheer. She stood there a moment on the wooden stoop, watching the golden-orange sun begin its lazy descent behind the rooftops of the town she knew so well. Even the air had changed since the last time she’d really paid it mind—cooler, sharper, carrying the scent of burnt sugar cane and chimney smoke.

She adjusted her shawl and stepped down onto the dirt road, her boots brushing through brittle leaves that scurried across the ground like nervous mice. The sack in her arm held a handful of sweet potatoes, some green beans, a sprig of rosemary for Mama, and a pear she’d picked up for herself, already softening at the top.

It was quieter in town than it used to be.

The crowds were thinner now that the days got shorter. Folks finished their errands before the sun even thought to dip, as if the dusk brought with it something they didn’t want to name. The few remaining folks shuffled out of shops with quick steps and drawn collars, not stopping to chat the way they might’ve in the summer.

But Mae moved slower.

Not because she wasn’t wary. But because something in her had settled into this pace. Like she was always listening now—for footsteps behind her, for birds above her, for the wind’s whisper through alleyways. Even now, as she strolled past Miss Evangeline’s dress shop and tipped her chin at the window just in case, her eyes scanned more than they used to.

Still, it wasn’t all bad.

She passed by Henri’s barber shop and caught the warm glow of lamplight spilling out into the street, the silhouette of two men playing cards near the chairs. One of them noticed her and tipped his head, and Mae gave a polite wave before tucking a stray curl behind her ear.

The rhythm was different, but it hadn’t vanished.

Just shifted.

Just aged with the season.

She walked toward the corner where the road forked—one path curving back toward the house, and the other stretching down toward the little white church with the chipping paint and crooked steeple.

Mae paused at the edge where the dirt split, her boots sinking slightly in the soft earth.

The air felt colder here. Not wind, not chill—just emptier.

She stood there, caught in a quiet tug. One side meant warmth, supper, the familiar hush of her mother humming somewhere in the house. But the other held something else. A memory. A shape in the dark. A boy with careful hands and a crooked smile, who always met her halfway with a bouquet of something wild and simple—flowers that looked like weeds until he handed them to her, grinning like he’d stolen them from heaven itself.

Mae’s fingers tightened around the top of the paper sack, crinkling the brown with soft snaps. Her breath misted faintly in the light, and for a moment, she didn’t know why her feet moved.

But they did.

Toward the church.

Down the path Isaiah used to walk, slow and steady, like he belonged to it.

The street narrowed as she passed the hardware store, then the old lamppost where the glass was always crooked. A dog barked in the distance. A door slammed far off. But Mae walked slow. Steady. Not in a rush to get there. Just… drawn.

When the church came into view, it looked smaller than she remembered.

The white boards dulled to ivory in the dying light. A few leaves clung to the steps like they were mourning the season, or maybe something deeper. The windows were dark, though she knew Pastor Ward kept a candle burning inside his office even when he wasn’t there.

Mae stopped at the gate and rested her hand on the iron latch.

She didn’t open it.

She just stood there, staring up at that familiar porch, that worn wooden door.

“I miss you,” she whispered, so soft she wasn’t sure if the wind carried it or swallowed it whole.

The sack in her arm felt heavier now.

And her shadow stretched long across the gravel behind her.

Longer than it should’ve been.

Mae stood at the iron gate a long while.

She didn’t know how long, only that her hand had begun to cramp where it held the sack of vegetables and her fingers had grown numb around the gate’s latch. The wind had changed—sharper now, and carrying with it the scent of old wood and something faintly sweet, like dried lilies long past their bloom.

Her thumb brushed against the iron latch again.

It wasn’t that she feared churches. That wasn’t it at all. Mae had been raised in the rhythm of them—Sunday mornings with her hair oiled and pressed, her shoes polished to shine, her mother’s voice like warm honey beside her as hymns filled the pews. They had always gone. Even when Louis began finding excuses not to. Even when Paul grew louder in spirit than scripture.

She believed in faith.

She believed in the comfort it could bring.

But this church…

This place held her unease like water in cupped hands.

It was the silence. The kind that pressed in behind your ears. And the way the steps creaked before you stepped. And the way Pastor Ward’s eyes always landed on her and stayed there too long—warm on the surface, but never quite reaching his pupils, like the flame didn’t know where to settle.

Still, her fingers moved.

She unlatched the gate.

The rusted hinges gave a soft whine as she slipped through and walked up the short, sloped path to the stairs. She kept her breath low, measured, as she mounted each one, her boots clicking softly against the wood. The door, worn but solid, loomed in front of her like the mouth of a cave. The kind that promised something ancient behind its darkness.

She reached for the handle.

It was unlocked.

The door gave easily under her touch, swinging open with the faintest moan of age.

Inside, the air changed.

Cooler. Still.

She stepped into the narrow foyer where the collection baskets and hymnals were kept. The smell was familiar—old cedar, beeswax polish, the faint ghost of burning candles—but underneath that was something sharper. Something metallic. Almost like rust.

Mae’s steps echoed softly as she moved down the aisle, rows of empty pews rising around her like teeth. Her fingers traced the edges of the wooden pew backs as she passed, and though the church was lit only by what the setting sun could pour through the stained-glass windows, it was enough to see the altar up ahead.

And the single candle still burning there.

As always.

Pastor Ward wasn’t there—or at least, she didn’t see him—but somehow that didn’t ease the weight off her chest. Her heartbeat drummed gently behind her ribs, steady and deep, like it was tapping on something inside her memory. Something she hadn’t opened in years. Or maybe never.

She walked slower now. Half her wanted to turn back. The other half pulled her forward.

She passed the third pew on the left, and her eyes flicked downward.

There was a scuff mark there. A faint one. Old, but familiar.

That’s where Isaiah always sat.

She paused, her thumb grazing the top of the wooden seat.

A flicker. Not a memory—something less. A feeling.

Her skin prickled.

And somewhere behind her, near the church doors, a quiet floorboard creaked.

Mae turned sharply—but saw nothing.

Just the empty light of the fading day, and the long stretch of pews.

Still… she didn’t feel alone.

Her voice caught in her throat, but she didn’t speak. She just turned back toward the altar and took one final step forward. The closer she got to that single candle, the more she realized that flame wasn’t flickering.

It stood still.

Perfectly upright. Undisturbed by draft or breath or time.

Something in her belly turned.

She reached out—almost without thinking—and then stopped.

Something was wrong here. Not just in her gut. Not just in the feeling that had shadowed her since Isaiah’s funeral. This place… it remembered something.

And Mae felt like it was waiting on her to remember it too.

But she couldn’t.

Or maybe she wouldn’t.

The floor creaked again. This time, closer.

Mae took a slow, careful breath, then turned around.

Still no one.

Just the heavy, humming quiet.

And the sharp, low ringing in her ears that started again, like it did that morning they buried Isaiah.

She took a step back from the altar.

And then another.

The moment she crossed the threshold of the nave back into the foyer, it was like something loosened in her lungs.

Mae didn’t look back again.

She slipped out of the church as the sun dipped fully past the treetops, casting long, dark shadows across the yard.

The sack in her arm felt heavy once more.

She didn’t stop walking until the steeple was behind her.

The trees behind her still whispered, but Mae’s eyes were locked on the glow of home ahead.

The house stood tall against the orange-pink wash of dusk, its newness dulled slightly by the season. There was comfort in its silhouette—the soft lights in the windows, the curl of chimney smoke, the familiar outline of the porch. Her shoes crunched softly over the gravel path, her mind still thick with the stillness of the church. Something in her chest hadn’t settled since she’d left, like a pebble was rolling around behind her heart, too small to name but too loud to ignore.

She climbed the path up to the porch steps and paused as the shapes of two men came into view.

One of them was Louis, seated on the porch rail with one boot resting against a pillar, a cigar burning between his fingers. The other stood just to the side, in the glow of the porch lantern, speaking with him in a low, even voice. It wasn’t until Mae moved closer that her steps slowed.

The man.

Her breath caught as recognition struck her—not sudden, but slow, like a fog lifting.

He was older than he looked. Or maybe just quieter. His hair, short and ruffled, caught the last golden bits of the sun. His clothes were work-worn but clean, and his boots had the reddish dust of the land on them. And still, that face. Those eyes.

The man who’d pulled the weeds behind their house.

The man who tipped his hat and asked to be invited in.

The man she hadn’t seen since Isaiah died.

They were speaking. She couldn’t hear the words—not until Louis noticed her approaching.

“There she go,” Louis said, standing up straight and flicking ash over the porch rail. “Mama been fussin’ all over the house wonderin’ where you slipped off to. Sun’s nearly down.”

Mae opened her mouth, then closed it again. She swallowed and nodded slowly. “I ain’t mean to worry her. I just… took a walk.”

Her voice was softer than usual. She hated that it was.

Louis gave her a look—one of those older-brother glances that held more than words—but he didn’t press. Instead, he gestured toward the man beside him.

“Ella-Mae, this here’s Remmick. He’s been helpin’ with the grounds.”

Mae stopped mid-step at the name.

Remmick.

She looked at him fully now, watched how he turned his head toward her. The light from the lantern above cast a soft sheen across his face, and it made his brown eyes seem darker than she remembered. They studied her for a moment—nothing aggressive, just… interested.

A corner of his mouth lifted in something like a smile.

“We’ve met,” she said quietly, her voice tugged back into her chest. “Back when the yard was bein’ tended to.”

“Mm.” Remmick gave the smallest nod, his voice low and warm like it had been that first morning. “I remember.”

There was a pause.

Mae adjusted the shawl around her arms, feeling its woven edge scrape her wrist where her pulse ran fast.

“I’m Ella-Mae,” she added, quieter now, for the sake of manners.

Remmick’s head dipped politely. “Pleasure.”

Louis turned to glance toward the front door. “Go on inside. I’ll be in shortly. I gotta finish up with him.”

Mae hesitated. Her eyes lingered on Remmick a second longer. He didn’t look at her the way other white men did—not with that stiff, expectant air, not with caution, not even with disrespect. He looked at her like he already knew her. Not deeply, but… just enough to keep watching.

She nodded once. “Alright,” she murmured. “I’ll tell Mama I’m home.”

She stepped up onto the porch, the wood groaning beneath her boots. As she passed them, she felt Remmick’s eyes on her back—felt it in her shoulders like heat. She didn’t look back, not even when she reached the front door. Her hand touched the knob, then paused.

Inside was warmth. Her mother’s voice. The comfort of kitchen smells and soft lighting.

Behind her was Remmick.

Not a threat.

Not a friend.

Just… something she wasn’t sure how to place.

So she opened the door.

The warmth of the house wrapped around Mae as soon as she stepped through the door. It smelled of black-eyed peas and cornbread, maybe cabbage on the stove too, and the hush of the house was only broken by the distant creak of a floorboard upstairs and the steady clink of pots coming from the kitchen.

She moved slowly, as if each step inside brought her further into the safety she didn’t quite feel anymore.

The brown paper bag crinkled faintly in her hand as she crossed the hall. Her heels clicked gently against the wood, familiar and soft, until she turned the corner and stepped into the kitchen’s golden warmth.

She barely had time to set the bag down on the counter before she heard—

“Ella-Mae.”

Her name, her full name, pulled from her mother’s throat like a sermon warning, thick with tension and concern.

Mae turned just as Florence rounded the kitchen table, eyes catching hers. Her brows were pulled together, and her mouth set in that firm line Mae knew meant she’d been stewing in worry for a good while.

“Mama, I—”

“Where you been?” Florence asked, voice low but urgent. “The sun just now kissin’ the ground and you still not home. You know better than to be out past sunset.”

Mae stood frozen for a second. She opened her mouth, but her throat was dry. She hadn’t meant to worry her. Truly. But time had passed quicker than it felt, and her head was still halfway between the church and the porch.

“I just went out,” she said softly, almost like it wasn’t good enough. “Just to town… and I stopped by the church.”

Florence’s eyes narrowed. “The church? You was there this whole time?”

Mae nodded, but guilt already prickled at her skin. “I didn’t mean to stay out that long, Mama. I was just thinkin’, walkin’…”

Florence reached out and rested a hand gently but firmly on her daughter’s cheek, turning her face a little like she used to when Mae was a girl and caught in a lie about who broke the sugar bowl.

“Your eyes red,” she murmured. “And your hands cold.”

Mae bit the inside of her cheek, eyes lowering.

“I’m sorry,” she said, voice thick now. “Didn’t mean to make you worry. I just… I needed air.”

There was a long pause between them, long enough for the stove to hiss and a pot lid to clatter.

Florence finally let out a breath and brushed Mae’s hair back from her forehead. Her hand lingered there, tender and tired.

“I don’t like it when you don’t come home before dark, Ella-Mae. Not with how cruel the world is to women like us. Not after…” Her voice trailed off, but they both knew what she was about to say.

Isaiah.

Mae nodded again. “I understand.”

Florence studied her for a moment longer, her thumb smoothing a crease above her brow.

Then, softer, she said, “Go on now. Change your dress. You smell like cold air.”

Mae let out a half-laugh, watery and low. “Yes, ma’am.”

Florence turned back toward the stove, and Mae took the moment to breathe again, just a little.

She glanced back toward the hallway where the porch door sat still slightly ajar, just barely. Through the crack, she could hear Louis’s low voice murmuring with Remmick’s.

Then she turned away.

And went upstairs.

Dinner was already being set when Mae came down the stairs.

She’d changed into a simple house dress the color of softened clay, and her hair had been tied back with a ribbon that didn’t quite match, but no one commented. The heels of her shoes tapped gently down the stairs, but the house felt oddly still. Not tense, just… muted.

When she stepped into the dining room, the chandelier was lit low and golden above them, casting everything in amber. Grace sat beside Mama, talking softly and fiddling with the edge of her linen napkin. Paul, as always, was slumped in his chair with his Bible not too far from reach, though thankfully closed for now. Louis had his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, one hand wrapped around his water glass, the other resting on the table as if he hadn’t quite decided whether he was hungry or just there out of duty.

The table, long and heavy with carved edges, was already lined with food. Chicken smothered in brown gravy, sweet potatoes mashed with syrup and butter, cornbread still steaming in its dish, and black-eyed peas cooked with bits of smoked ham.

Mae slipped quietly into the seat beside Grace, muttering a “’Scuse me” as she passed, and unfolded her napkin into her lap.

The clatter of serving spoons filled the silence for a few minutes. Plates were passed, dishes scraped clean of first helpings. Florence said grace before they all sat, but even that had felt shorter than usual. As they began eating, only the soft sounds of chewing, the gentle scrape of silverware, and the occasional sigh filled the room.

Grace eventually started to speak—something about how she and Mama would need to make a trip into the quarter for wedding fabric, and Florence nodded along with a tired kind of fondness. She added that the seamstress down on Dauphine was expecting them before the frost set in.

Mae heard every word, but they felt far away. She pushed sweet potato across her plate with the back of her fork, her appetite dimmed since returning from town.

“Mae,” Louis said, voice low but clear enough to cut through the small talk. “You alright?”

She looked up slowly, caught off guard. His eyes weren’t hard, just observant, like he’d been watching her for a while and decided to speak only now.

“I’m fine,” she said quickly. “Just tired, is all.”

Florence glanced at her from across the table. “She went by the old church,” she said, directing her words at Louis. 

At that, the sound of silverware eased. Louis leaned back in his chair just slightly and looked to Mae with something unreadable in his expression—part curiosity, part concern.

“You did?” he asked.

Mae nodded, keeping her tone even. “I was nearby, and just… felt like stopping by.”

Silence crept into the space between them, just long enough to settle.

Louis’s fingers drummed once on the wood. “Was Pastor Ward there?”

Mae’s eyes lifted to meet his.

She thought about the emptiness of the pews. The way her footsteps had echoed. The uneasy weight in her chest when she stood at the gate. And the hollow way the church still smelled like him, even though he hadn’t been there.

“I didn’t see him,” she said softly.

She didn’t add that she hoped she wouldn’t.

Louis nodded, once. He didn’t speak again right away, but the silence that followed his question was different now—thicker.

Grace cleared her throat gently and asked if the seamstress still carried ivory lace like she used to. Florence responded, grateful for the change in subject, and the conversation slowly resumed its rhythm, like a needle picking its way back through a worn groove.

Still, Louis didn’t ask any more questions.

And Mae didn’t offer anything else.

She just pushed another piece of cornbread to the side of her plate and stared at the flickering candle near the center of the table, its flame bowing gently, as though something unseen had brushed past.

—

The night was quieter than most. No cicadas sang, no wind stirred the tall grass near the edge of the yard. Even the rocking chair beneath Mae creaked gently, like it was mindful of the stillness that blanketed the De Pointe du Lac house.

She sat on the porch like she always did now, book in her lap, unopened. Her fingers rested on its spine, but she hadn’t flipped a page in over an hour. She hadn’t hummed, either. Her voice felt caught somewhere in her chest, tangled with questions she hadn’t been brave enough to say out loud.

Her eyes stayed fixed on the treeline—dark and deep and patient. She rocked softly, counting the trees like they were rosary beads, hoping it might calm her nerves.

One… two… three…

“Mae.”

She flinched.

Her name—spoken low, smooth, almost like it had been sung—came from the left side of the porch. Her heart skipped before her eyes turned sharply to the sound.

There he was.

That man.

Remmick.

He stood just beyond the steps, one hand resting lightly on the railing, the other slipped into his pocket. He didn’t wear the same gardening clothes from earlier that summer. No dirt, no gloves, no sun-worn linen. Tonight, he wore slacks and a white shirt, sleeves pushed to the elbows. Clean, composed. But it wasn’t the clothes that made Mae sit up straighter.

It was the way he said her name. Not Ella-Mae. Not Miss. Just Mae. Familiar. Too familiar.

Her body went still.

“You shouldn’t be out this late,” she said, voice tight as she straightened up in her seat. “Ain’t proper for a man to be comin’ ‘round a young woman’s house when the sun’s done gone down.”

Remmick let out a low laugh. Not loud. Not mocking. But it curled under her skin just the same.

“You always this proper, Mae?” he asked, head tilted slightly. “Even when no one’s lookin’?”

She didn’t like how that made her feel. Like he knew her in a way he had no right to.

“What you want?” she asked flatly, not unkindly, but with the edge of someone who’d had enough surprises for one lifetime.

Remmick lifted a shoulder like he hadn’t expected the question to sting. “Was passin’ by. Thought I’d see how you were doin’.”

Mae paused, then pushed herself up, slow and deliberate. Her fingers brushed the back of the rocking chair as she moved closer to the screen door—just in case.

“You don’t know me like that,” she said quietly. “Ain’t like we been talkin’. So why you care how I’m doin’?”

Remmick’s eyes never left her. He stepped closer to the railing, just a single stride, but Mae stepped back just as quickly.

Her hand hovered near the door handle.

That smile again—something like kindness stretched too wide, too sharp. “You was hurting when you got back today,” he said. “I could feel it.”

Mae’s breath hitched.

“What?” she asked, blinking slowly.

“I felt it,” he repeated. “Like a cut on your soul. Raw. Bleedin’. Screamin’ so loud I thought maybe you was calling me.”

“I didn’t,” she said fast. “I wasn’t calling nobody.”

“I know,” he said softly, like it mattered more to him than it should. “But that don’t mean I didn’t hear you.”

Mae’s throat went dry. Her fingers curled tighter around the edge of her shawl.

“You talk like you know things,” she muttered. “But I ain’t never told you nothin’. I ain’t never shown you nothin’.”

Remmick’s gaze didn’t waver. “You showed me plenty,” he murmured. “You just don’t know it yet.”

The silence between them stretched. Mae’s heart thudded heavy in her ears, louder than the crickets that had finally begun to chirp somewhere behind the house.

He didn’t move again. He didn’t need to.

“I’m goin’ inside now,” Mae said quietly.

Remmick dipped his head slightly. “Of course.”

She reached for the door and pulled it open, stepping over the threshold. Before she could close it behind her, she turned her head and asked, “You gon’ be hangin’ ‘round here more?”

He didn’t answer right away. But when he did, it was simple.

“If you want me to.”

The door shut with a soft click.

Mae stood on the other side, her back pressed against it. Her breath came slow, then faster.

She didn’t know what frightened her more—that he said he felt her pain.

Or that part of her believed him.

The hallway felt colder than usual as Mae climbed the stairs. She gripped the banister tighter than she needed to, each footfall soft against the runner laid down over dark wooden steps. The house was mostly quiet now—voices had hushed, plates were likely being washed, and Grace’s laughter, usually floating through the air somewhere, had long since vanished into her room.

At the top of the steps, Mae hesitated. Just a breath. Just enough time for her to hear her own heartbeat in her ears. She blinked slowly and turned toward her room.

The lamp beside her bed was already lit, casting a low amber glow that barely reached the corners of the room. She closed the door gently behind her, like slamming it might shatter whatever fragile hold she still had on herself.

She moved slowly. Unwrapped the shawl from around her shoulders. Unbuttoned her blouse, fingers trembling faintly—not from cold, but from something deeper. A leftover shake in her bones from that man—Remmick—and the way he looked at her like he’d peeled her open and read the softest, sorest parts of her.

She wanted to dismiss it. She tried to. But the thought kept circling her like a crow overhead.

He felt her pain.

How?

She changed into her nightgown, a soft, thin cotton thing, and moved to the small vanity to untie her hair. Her fingers worked slow through the strands, pulling them apart with gentle tugs. She caught her own eyes in the mirror—watched them, studied them—as if searching for proof she was still who she thought she was. But her reflection stared back blankly. Tired. Haunted. Curious.

When she was done, she walked across the room.

It was the same few steps she took every night, but they felt heavier now, like the weight of that look Remmick gave her lingered on her shoulders.

Her hand paused above the drawer.

The low, narrow one on the left.

The one nobody ever touched but her.

She drew in a breath, and then slowly, slowly opened it.

Inside, wrapped in an old handkerchief stitched with her initials, was a bird. A small one, no bigger than her palm. Its feathers were soft—still clung to the body even though its chest caved slightly from whatever had torn into it. The same wound as the others. Ripped, but not devoured. As if the thing that bit it didn’t want to eat. Just to mark.

Mae’s hands hovered over it, and then lifted the cloth delicately.

The bird’s head lolled slightly to the side, eyes dull now. Its neck had stiffened just slightly in the past day. But it hadn’t rotted—not yet.

No smell. Not unless you leaned in close. And no one ever did.

She didn’t know why she kept them.

That was a lie.

She knew exactly why.

There was something about them. Something sacred. Or maybe cursed. She hadn’t figured out which.

Each bird she’d found outside her window—sometimes with a wing bent too far backward, sometimes with blood dried across the grass—felt less like a warning now. And more like… a gift.

A strange, twisted token of something unspoken. A message without words.

She had thrown the first few away. She’d cried over them. Buried one behind the tool shed. Burned another.

But one night, after the fifth bird, something in her shifted.

Something curious. Something quiet and coiled like a serpent resting in her ribs.

She’d wrapped that bird and tucked it away.

And then another.

And another.

And now… four of them lived in that drawer. Carefully folded. Lined in handkerchiefs, each touched by time in different ways.

Mae stared down at the one from the previous night.

It had a red mark along its beak. Red, she noted. Not blood. Red like thread, almost. And she remembered something odd about how Remmick looked at her tonight. Not like a man who stumbled upon a woman by accident.

But like someone who knew her.

Like someone who’d left something behind for her to find.

The thought made her skin crawl.

And yet… she didn’t shut the drawer.

Instead, her fingers reached in and adjusted the cloth slightly—neater, more like a blanket than a shroud.

She closed the drawer carefully and stood there, frozen.

A part of her, a louder part now, felt shame—what was she doing?

But the other part… the one that still felt Remmick’s voice in her ear, still heard him say he sensed her pain…

That part felt calm. Possessed by something it couldn’t name.

That part felt seen.

Mae stepped back, breath shallow, and turned to crawl beneath the covers of her bed. The lamp flickered for a moment as she reached over to twist the knob.

Darkness settled in the room.

But sleep didn’t come easy.

Because something deep in her bones knew—

She was changing.

And something out in those woods was waiting for her to stop fighting it.

[bitter-post-millennial]

i've been thinking about an angsty little thing where remmick can hear there's something very wrong with your heart. it started small at first, he'd barely noticed when he met you, but lately it's been getting worse and worse (he can see it in your eyes, too. smell it on you) and it gets to the point where he's begging and pleading with you to just let him turn you - but you refuse every time. would rather die, in fact, than lose your soul. thoughts?

ᴛʜᴇ ᴡɪɴɴᴇʀ ᴛᴀᴋᴇꜱ ɪᴛ ᴀʟʟ

ᴡᴄ: 5.3k

ᴀ/ɴ: title taken directly from this incredible song. fun fact, i was actually donna in my hs junior year spring musical (second fav role ever). i built my entire performance around meryl streep's i fear. anyway enough about me, YASSSSSS THIS ASK HAD ME SALIVATING HEAVY ANGST MY BELOVED!!! i honestly could've turned this into a full fledged fic but decided against it since i had so much other stuff to work on. i did not hold back y'all WE ALL NEED TO HURT! hopefully it doesn't seem too rushed but i as i said before i wanted to keep it drabble length so i had to consolidate the depression.

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: established relationship, angst on x1000 lines of cocaine, this is actually so sad why did i make this, detailed description of heart issues, character death, very minorly playing around with vampire lore, excessive use of dividers

You never minded walking alone at night.

Had done it for years, really. Long before you met him. Something about the quiet made it easier to think, to breathe. The world got small when the sun went down. Just you, the dirt road, the cypress trees, and the warm Mississippi air pressing soft against your skin. Fireflies blinked like slow, patient stars at your feet. The cicadas hummed steady in the trees. And the moon was always so full, so close, you felt like you could reach up and pocket it if you wanted.

Folks told you it was foolish, of course. A woman of your complexion wandering out this late. But you weren’t reckless. You stayed on familiar paths, kept your wits about you. And for a long time, nothing ever gave you reason to be afraid.

Until him.

At first, you didn’t even see him.

The first few nights it was only a feeling. Something heavy hanging just behind your shoulder, close enough to stir the air but not close enough to touch. You’d pause. Look back. Find nothing. But the weight stayed, like a second shadow.

Then the sound started. The faintest crunch of boots against the loose gravel. The careful snap of a branch bending underfoot. Not rushed. Not clumsy. Deliberate.

You’d stop walking, heart thumping loud enough to hear in your ears.

Stillness.

Nothing but cicadas again.

It happened enough that your nerves should’ve snapped. But they didn’t. And maybe that was the strangest part. How the fear stayed distant, never quite blooming fully in your chest. Like whatever was following you didn’t mean you harm. Like it was waiting.

And then, one night, the silence broke.

“Evenin’.”

You nearly stumbled at the voice. Low, smooth, not more than a few feet behind you. You turned fast, breath caught sharp in your throat, and there he was.

Standing just under the curve of an old cypress, one hand hooked casually into his pocket, like he’d been there the whole time.

Pale, though not sickly, warm undertones kissed by the moonlight. Broad shoulders beneath a pressed white shirt, collar open at the throat, sleeves cuffed up just enough to bare strong forearms. His dark suspenders cut clean lines down his chest, and a simple gold chain glinted faintly at his neck. Hair dark, swept back loosely, like it couldn’t decide whether to fall or stay neat. And his eyes, those eyes. A blue so deep you swore they held pieces of the night inside them, pulsing faint beneath the moon’s glow.

He smiled, small and careful, like he didn’t want to scare you.

“Didn’t mean to startle ya, miss.”

You stared at him for a moment too long. Waiting for some signal. A reason to run. But none came.

He raised both hands slightly, as if to offer peace. “I been walkin’ out this way too. Thought I might introduce myself, since we seem to share the habit.”

And somehow, you let him.

His name was Remmick.

And after that night, he started joining you. Not every evening, not at first. But enough. Enough that the strange thing at your back became a quiet presence at your side.

He spoke little those first few weeks. Let you lead the conversation. Let you talk about your days, your small life, the world you carved out for yourself here. He listened with a kind of focus that made you self-conscious at first. Like every word out of your mouth was precious, worth tucking away somewhere safe.

Little by little, you learned how to read him. How his silences were full of thought, how his eyes softened when you smiled. How, even when he stood still, his chest rose and fell just a little slower than it ought to.

And how he never joined you before sundown.

He never offered much about himself. You didn’t press. Not then.

Until one night, cooler than usual, the sky pulled tight with stars, you invited him in. You don’t even remember why. Just that it felt right. The house was warm. The tea was sweet. And his eyes, God, those eyes, looked like they hadn’t seen home in years.

From that night forward, Remmick stayed close.

And now? He was part of your life.

The walks never stopped. But lately, they’d grown slower.

You noticed it first in your legs. The quiet heaviness that settled like wet cloth clinging to your bones. Then in your breath, how it seemed to catch quicker, how the cool night air filled your lungs less fully than it used to.

Still, you pushed forward. Like always.

The fireflies danced around your ankles, little pulses of amber blinking against the dark. You’d always loved them. They seemed softer here, in the night’s embrace. Like old friends keeping you company. You tried to focus on them instead. On the music of the frogs croaking near the creek, the whisper of wind through the tall cypress.

But you couldn’t ignore the ache that pressed into your chest, tight and hot beneath your ribs.

You pressed your hand there, fingers spreading instinctively as if you could ease it somehow, as if your own touch might convince your heart to behave.

Beside you, his voice came low, careful. “Ya alright?”

Remmick’s eyes were already on you. Always on you.

You nodded, too quickly. “Mmhmm. Just... winded, I guess.” You tried to lace the words with something light, tried to smile like you hadn’t just felt your own heartbeat stumble. “It’s been happenin’ more these days.”

He didn’t answer right away. But his gaze flickered.

Not surprise. No. He wasn’t surprised.

Something older moved in him. Something deeper, heavier. Like he’d been carrying this knowledge longer than you’d dared admit even to yourself.

He said nothing of what you both already knew.

Instead, he simply adjusted his pace again, falling half a step behind you, hand brushing your elbow in that soft, familiar way. Steadying without crowding. Comforting without pressing.

“Ya sure y’don’t wanna rest a while?”

You shook your head, biting down on the tightness in your throat.

“I’m fine, Remmick.” You smiled, though your breath came thinner than it should. “The air feels good tonight.”

He didn’t argue. He never did, not out loud.

But you felt it, how his eyes never truly left you. How they flicked between the dark path ahead and your unsteady steps, cataloguing each stagger of your breath, every time your hand drifted to your ribs.

His jaw flexed once. Twice.

And though he said nothing, you could feel it. The quiet storm building inside him.

Because the truth was, it wasn’t just your breath.

Not anymore.

The sharp pinches in your chest had been happening more often. Small flashes of pain that stole your breath for a moment, like invisible threads pulling tight beneath your skin. Your legs felt heavier in the mornings, your arms weaker by the end of the day. And when you were alone, when the world hushed itself and the stillness crept in, you could feel it clearest of all: your heart, stumbling through its rhythm. Like a bird with one wing broken, fluttering unevenly.

You hadn’t told him all of it.

You didn’t know how.

But Remmick?

Remmick knew anyway.

He could hear it. He could always hear it.

You caught him listening sometimes, when he thought you didn’t notice.

At night, when you were drifting to sleep, you’d feel his arm tighten around your waist, his head dipping just slightly, just enough for his ear to rest near your chest. Not in search of comfort. Not for closeness. But to listen.

To your heart.

To the quiet betrayals happening beneath your skin.

You could feel his breath hitch when it faltered. You could feel the way his thumb would start to trace soft, anxious circles on your stomach whenever it skipped.

He never said anything.

But it terrified him.

And somehow, that terrified you more.

Because if he was scared, a creature who had walked this earth longer than you could comprehend, who feared nothing and no one, what chance did you have?

The fireflies blinked around your feet again, little golden lights rising and falling like tiny prayers. The trees whispered overhead.

And Remmick stayed close.

Always close.

As if his nearness alone might steady you. Might hold you together.

But some things couldn’t be held.

Not forever.

And you both knew it.

Even if you hadn’t said it yet.

The morning started quiet.

Soft wind curling in through the open windows, carrying the faint smell of honeysuckle and damp earth. Sunlight poured in gentle stripes across the wooden floorboards, warm and golden, like the house itself was still waking up alongside you.

You hummed a little under your breath as you moved through the sitting room, fingertips trailing lightly across the old lace curtains as you straightened them. Dust motes spun in the light like tiny dancers, catching on the fabric of your dress as you bent to tuck a stray corner of the rug back into place.

It felt good to move. To do something.

Or at least, that’s what you told yourself.

Remmick, of course, didn’t agree. He never did.

He was only a few paces behind you now, arms folded across his chest, leaning lazy against the doorway. But you could feel his stare, heavy as a hand at your back. Watching every little thing. Waiting.

“Sugar, I told ya, I can get that,” he drawled softly. “Ain’t no sense in you strainin’ yourself none.”

You waved him off with a small smile. “I’m not strainin’. Just tidyin’.”

His brow twitched, jaw shifting like he wanted to argue but couldn’t quite find the place to press.

You weren’t fooling him.

You never really did.

Still, you moved carefully to the small table near the window, adjusting the vase there, fingers brushing over the wildflowers you’d gathered days before. They were already starting to droop a bit, their colors dulling under the weight of time.

That was the thing about delicate things.

They didn’t always last long.

Remmick stepped forward as you fussed with the tablecloth edge, voice gentle but firm. “Darlin’, truly. Let me.”

“I got it.”

You heard the faint exhale through his nose. A sound halfway between patience and worry. “You always got it. But that don’t mean you should.” His tone thickened a touch, slipping into that old softness when he got like this.

You didn’t answer. You just kept smoothing the fabric, pretending your fingers weren’t trembling slightly where they rested.

And for a moment, it seemed like that might be the end of it.

But then,

It hit.

Sudden.

Fast.

Like your lungs forgot what they were made to do.

You felt it first as a tightness, sharp and squeezing, high in your chest, and then the air simply wouldn’t come. Your head went light. The room spun soft at the edges, colors bleeding like watercolors left too long in the rain.

Your knees buckled before your mind even caught up.

But you never hit the floor.

Because Remmick was there.

Quicker than any man ought to move. Like he’d known, heard, the shift inside you before it even fully arrived. His arms caught around your middle, pulling you up against him in one swift, desperate motion. The vase tipped from the table and shattered somewhere behind you, but neither of you looked.

“Easy, easy now, I got ya, I got ya,” his voice broke, fruitlessly attempting to mask its own panic as he lowered you gently to the floor, cradling you upright against his chest.

You gasped, mouth open, searching for breath that wouldn’t come. The pressure in your ribs pulsed like a fist tightening around your heart.

“Oh, Christ almighty- breathe for me, sweetheart, please, come on now,” His hand moved to cup the side of your face, thumb stroking fast and shaky against your cheek. “Stay with me, hear? Just stay with me.”

Your vision narrowed, tunneling to the sharp blue of his eyes. Wide. Wild. His pupils blown so wide the color barely held. There was fear there, deep and raw, more than you’d ever seen from him before.

He was scared.

Truly scared.

And Lord, if that didn’t scare you more.

“I c-can’t-” you managed to wheeze, voice thin and breaking.

“Yes ya can. Yes ya can, baby. You’re right here with me. That’s it. That’s it, c’mon.” His arm tightened around you, steadying your weight as his free hand moved, pressing flat and careful against your sternum, like he could calm the storm inside you if he just touched it right. “Slow now, easy. Don’t fight it, breathe with me, darlin’.”

He rocked you gently as he spoke, his voice low and rhythmic, trying to guide your body back to itself. You felt the faint tremble in his limbs. He was shaking.

“Look at me,” he whispered, voice fraying at the edges. “Eyes on me, sugar, okay?”

You did.

Because you didn’t know what else to do.

The panic gnawed at your chest, but his voice, barely managing to keep itself together, laced with something old and desperate, cut through enough to ground you.

“That’s my girl. That’s it, there ya go.” His breathing exaggerated, slow and deep, trying to pull you into his rhythm. “In through the nose now, c’mon. Just like we do. Easy.”

Your chest hitched.

Then, finally, air.

Ragged and shallow at first, but air nonetheless. Enough to make the black at the edges of your vision pull back slightly.

“There it is, there she is,” Remmick exhaled, his whole body seeming to sag with the weight of it. “Good girl. Good girl, that’s it.”

You clutched weakly at his shirtfront, fingers curling into the fabric as your breathing steadied inch by inch. Tears pricked your eyes, partly from the panic, partly from the sheer relief of it.

“I-I don’t know what-”

“Shh. Don’t you worry ‘bout none of that now.” His hand never left your face, thumb brushing away a tear that slipped free. “It’s alright. You’re alright.”

But you could hear the strain behind his words.

Could see it in the way his throat worked, the way his jaw clenched and unclenched like he was fighting something back.

For the first time since you’d known him, Remmick looked like a man barely holding on.

“Remmick…” you whispered, voice still hoarse. “I’m sorry.”

His face broke then, like the word wounded him. “Ain’t nothin’ for you to be sorry for, sweetheart. Don’t you dare.” His voice cracked again as he blinked back tears of his own. “You scared me half to death.”

“I didn’t mean to-”

“I know you didn’t.” He swallowed hard, pulling you tighter against him. “That’s why I’m here. I got you. Always got you.”

The house had gone so quiet you could hear both your heartbeats.

Yours, still uneven.

His, pounding fast as a hammer.

The evening light bled soft through the windows, painting the little house in long streaks of gold. Cicadas buzzed outside, low and steady, a hum that sat heavy beneath the quiet between you.

You hadn’t moved far from the spot where he caught you earlier.

Even now, hours later, you sat curled against him on the small settee, your head resting on his chest, his arms locked tight around you like he was still scared you might slip through his fingers.

You didn’t have the strength to pull away.

Truth was, you didn’t want to.

The air between you had held nothing but silence for what felt like forever. But you’d known this was coming. Could feel it building behind his ribcage with every breath.

And finally, when the last threads of daylight slipped below the trees, he spoke.

“Y’know there’s another way.”

You closed your eyes.

There it was.

His voice was low. Steady on the surface, but trembling beneath, like something brittle pressed thin. The words caught now and then, like his throat couldn’t quite carry the weight of them.

“Y’don’t have to suffer like this, darlin’.” His hand rubbed slow along your arm. “I can stop it. You know I can.”

You swallowed, lips pressing tight together. “Remmick…”

“I mean it.” His grip tightened, almost instinctively. “I can keep ya safe. Keep ya here. No more of this. This sickness eatin’ at ya, takin’ little pieces more each day.” His chest hitched beneath your cheek. “Ya wouldn’t have to feel like that no more.”

You pulled back enough to meet his eyes. They shone too bright in the dim room, already wet at the corners, like just saying it out loud had cracked something open inside him.

“I don’t want that,” you whispered.

His face broke a little right there, like the words wounded him sharper than any knife could’ve.

“Y’don’t know what you’re sayin’.” His voice shook, barely more than breath. “Y’don’t- sweetheart, y’don’t see what I see. Y’don’t feel it.”

“I do.” Your voice was soft but firm. “I’ve thought about it. Long before now. And I know it sounds easy. Temptin’, even. But it ain’t livin’. Not for me.”

His breath hitched again, faster now. “Y’don’t know what it’s like. What it’s like for me, watchin’ ya like this. Every time ya stumble, every time your breath catches, I hear it. I hear your heart struggle. I hear what’s comin’ before ya even feel it.” His hand cupped your face suddenly, his thumb trembling where it brushed your cheek. “And one day I won’t hear it quick enough. One day I’ll be too slow.”

“Remmick-”

“Please.” The word broke out of him, so earnestly it made your throat ache. “Don’t make me watch ya go.”

Tears slipped free down his face now, unchecked. His chest rose and fell in sharp, uneven breaths as his hands clutched you tighter like the world itself was trying to pull you away from him.

“I can fix it. I can. Just say it. Say y’want me to, and it’s done.” His voice dropped to a whisper, wrecked and desperate. “I’ll be gentle with ya. Ya won’t even feel a thing. You’ll be safe. Forever.”

You reached up, pressing your hands over his where they held your face, trying to steady him.

“No,” you whispered. “Remmick, no.”

His whole body shuddered beneath you like the word shattered him all over again.

“Why?” His voice cracked on the single word, the sob behind it splitting straight up his throat. “Why won’t ya let me keep ya?”

“Because it’s not meant for me,” you whispered. “You know that.”

“I don’t care.” He choked on the words, burying his face into the crook of your neck now, clutching at you like something drowning. “I can’t lose you. I can’t, darlin’. Please, please, don’t ask me to stand by and watch ya fade. Don’t ask me to bury ya. Not again.”

His shoulders heaved with the weight of it, his sobs spilling out ragged and broken into your skin.

You held him.

Ran your fingers through his hair as his body trembled against you.

“I know you’re scared,” you whispered. “Lord knows I’m scared too. But I need you to love me enough to let me go when the time comes.”

“I-” he gasped, breath catching again. “I don’t know how to live without ya.”

You kissed the top of his head, feeling the salt of his tears soak into your dress. “You won’t have to. Not yet.”

He clung to you tighter still, as though each passing second might be stolen if he loosened his grip.

The house stayed quiet.

Only the sound of his breathing and your heartbeat filled the room, steady for now.

And so you held him, as the night stretched long and heavy, wrapped together in the slow ache of what neither of you could stop coming.

You wished it had killed you quickly.

That would’ve been easier. Cleaner.

Something swift, something merciful. Something that hit like a bolt of lightning in the middle of a sentence, gone before the thought even finished forming. You’d prayed for that, in quiet, exhausted moments. You’d begged for it, even. A sharp end, a quick fade. No drawn-out aching. No time for goodbyes.

But instead, it dragged you slow toward the end. Bit by bit. Breath by breath. Like the sickness wanted to savor its work.

Some mornings it started behind your eyes, a dull pressure you couldn’t blink away. Other days, it sat like lead in your spine, turning each small movement into something heavy and hollow. There were hours when you felt like a husk of yourself. Nothing inside but heat, and pain, and the weight of what was slipping through your fingers.

The mornings blurred together. Then the afternoons. Then the nights.

Meals became sips of broth. Then just water. Then even that burned going down. The world outside the bedroom slipped further and further out of reach. The sound of the creek, the light breeze from the back porch, the smell of wet grass after rain, gone now, like dreams too faint to hold onto. Each day stole more than the last. More air. More strength. More pieces of yourself.

Until all you had left was this bed.

And him.

Remmick never left your side. Not for a second. Not once.

He was always there, his silhouette hunched near the headboard, one hand gripping yours like a lifeline, the other on your torso, like he needed to feel the steady rise and fall of your chest to remind himself you were still breathing.

You’d lost count of how many nights he sat upright beside you, shoulders stiff and unmoving as stone, his frame outlined in the faint, flickering light of the oil lamp he kept burning low on the dresser. His clothes grew rumpled. His hair stayed uncombed. Days passed, and still he didn’t sleep. Didn’t eat. Like his body had surrendered to the same rhythm as yours. Waiting, waiting, waiting.

He cradled your hand in both of his like it was the last piece of you he could hold on to. Like if he held tight enough, if he laced your fingers between his and pressed the back of your hand to his chest, he might somehow keep your soul from slipping loose.

He barely spoke anymore.

No more half-jokes about your stubbornness. No more soft stories about the land or the creek or the way you used to look at him when you thought he wasn’t paying attention. That steady hum of his voice, the one that once wrapped around you so tenderly and completely was gone now, tucked deep beneath the weight of his silence.

Just watched. Listened. Waited.

The house was dim, curtains drawn to keep the light soft on your skin. He’d done that himself. He said the sun hurt your eyes. Said the light made your cheeks too flushed. But mostly, he did it so he could sit with you in a room that didn’t ask for anything else. So the world outside wouldn’t press in.

The only sound was the steady rasp of your breathing, thin and fragile as a thread pulled too taut.

You could feel it.

The end wasn’t far.

It sat just beyond the horizon of your chest. Looming, certain. Like a tide finally rolling in to claim what it had been circling all along. You felt it in the cold weight at the base of your spine, in the dull flutter of your heart as it labored harder for less. It wasn’t fear you felt, exactly. Just… clarity. Like the world had stilled enough to let you see it for what it really was.

Your eyes fluttered open, lashes sticking to the heat beneath them. You searched for him even though you already knew where he was.

Right there.

Always right there.

He looked up the moment your gaze found him, like he’d been waiting for that small flicker of movement all day.

His hands tightened around yours the second he saw your eyes open. Not hard, just firm enough to steady himself. Like if he didn’t hold on, he might fall apart entirely.

His face was pale, drawn thin from the weight of too many sleepless days. The angles of his cheekbones had sharpened. His jaw looked tense enough to crack. The skin beneath his eyes had hollowed into deep shadows, bruised with the kind of exhaustion that didn’t come from a lack of rest, but from a soul stretched too far for too long.

Grief was already carving its place inside him. You saw it in every angle of his face. Every shallow breath he took like he was afraid it might be his last with you.

And still, he held your hand.

Still, he stayed.

Still, he looked at you like nothing else in the world mattered. Because to him, nothing else ever would.

“Hey, darlin’.” His voice broke as he whispered it, low and rough.

You turned your head with effort, the motion slow and small like everything else these days. Still, you managed a soft smile just for him. It didn’t stretch far, didn’t brighten the way it once had, but it was real.

“Hey,” you breathed.

Remmick leaned in closer, close enough for his shadow to fall across your face. His fingers found your hair and ever so gently played with your curls, like he was afraid even that might be too much. His hands never used to shake. Now they trembled like he couldn’t hold anything steady, not even this moment.

“Y’still with me?” he asked, voice tight with held-in breath.

You gave the faintest nod. “I’m still here.”

He let out a shuddering breath and gripped your hand tighter in his. His thumb rubbed across your knuckles, over and over again, like maybe he could ground himself there. Keep you anchored with the rhythm of it.

“I-I don’t think I can do this,” he said, barely audible. “I don’t think I can sit here and just… watch ya fade away.”

You brushed your thumb along the back of his hand, your touch weak but steady. “You don’t have to watch. Just stay beside me. That’s all I want.”

Remmick blinked fast, but it didn’t stop the tears. They came anyway, slipping past his lashes in silence. He shook his head, his whole body trembling like something inside him was unraveling.

Because it was.

“I could stop it,” he whispered. “Y’know I could. I’ve been beggin’ you for weeks now, but... sweetheart, please. Please just let me. One word, and ya won’t have to go.”

He leaned his forehead to yours, breath hitching between words.

“I can fix it,” he said, broken and full of hope so fragile it barely stood upright. “I swear to God, I can fix it. Ya’d never feel like this again. Ya’d stay. We’d have time. Real time. Just say yes.”

Your eyes fluttered closed as you took a long, tired breath, letting his voice wrap around you like a favorite song. You wanted so badly to take the ache from him. To make it all better.

But your heart had already made its peace.

“Remmick,” you whispered, your voice soft as you could manage. “I know. I know you could. And I know you’d give up everythin’ to do it.”

He clutched your hand tighter against his chest, like he could keep your warmth there a little longer. His tears spilled freely now, streaking down his cheeks, wetting the pillow beneath you both.

“Then why?” he asked, voice cracking around the edges. “Why won’t ya let me? I can’t lose ya, sugar. I don’t know who I am without ya no more.”

You opened your eyes, and the sadness in his face nearly broke you in two.

“Because it wouldn’t be me anymore,” you whispered. “Not really. Not the way I am now. And I want you to remember me like this. Just me. Alive. Human. Yours.”

He shook his head again, wild with grief. “I don’t care what ya’d be. I’d still love ya. I’d love ya through all of it. I’d follow ya into hell if I had to.”

You smiled through the tears. “I know you would.”

Your breath hitched softly, chest fluttering like a bird trying to lift its wings one last time. He was already leaning close, so you reached up with what little strength you had and brushed your fingertips along his jaw. He caught your hand halfway and pressed it to his cheek like it meant everything.

“I love you, Remmick,” you whispered, so warm and sure it made his eyes squeeze shut.

He folded into the words like they gave him somewhere safe to fall.

“I love you more,” he sobbed, voice so thick he could barely speak. “More than life. More than anythin’. You hear me? You were always my breath, my light, my- my whole damn world.”

You smiled again, the edges weak but sweet. “Will you kiss me?”

His answer didn’t come in words, only in motion.

He bent toward you, lips trembling as he pressed them to yours. The kiss was soft. Full of everything he didn’t know how to say. The shape of every goodbye wrapped in one final touch. You could taste the salt of his grief, feel the way he poured every last bit of love into you.

When he pulled back, you leaned your forehead to his, your breaths mingling.

“I’m not scared,” you whispered.

He nodded, eyes shut tight.

“I’m right here,” he promised. “I’m not goin’ anywhere.”

And you smiled for him.

One last time.

Your eyes drifted closed.

Your chest rose, slow and shallow.

Then stilled.

The room fell silent.

The quiet stretched long.

Longer than time.

Longer than grief.

Nothing moved.

Nothing breathed.

Not for him.

And then,

You gasped.

Eyes flying open. Chest heaving. Sharp and full and wrong.

The world slammed back into you like a storm door flung wide. Too bright. Too loud. Too much. You choked on the first breath like it hurt, because it did. It burned. Your lungs screamed with it, your body flooded with sensation you’d already let go of. Air. Heat. Sound. Blood in your veins that thudded too hard and too fast.

And there he was.

Remmick.

Hovering above you, eyes wide and wet and terrified. His mouth trembled as it formed your name, soundless at first, then barely whispered, as if saying it too loud might shatter something sacred.

Your body was still wrapped in his arms.

Still warm.

Still here.

He was staring at you like you weren’t real. Like you might vanish if he blinked. His whole frame shook against yours, every muscle tensed to breaking. Until it wasn’t.

Until something in him gave way all at once, and he collapsed forward.

You caught him out of instinct, what little strength you had now cradling him back. But it was strange, how heavy he felt. How fast his body sank against yours.

And then you saw it.

His mouth.

Red.

Not the dry red of old blood. Not the glossy red of smudged lipstick or split skin.

Fresh red. Your red.

His fangs, half-bared and still slick, glinted faintly in the low light. His lips stained deep like wine on white linen. No attempt to clean them. No shame.

Only relief.

A smile had begun to form on his face, shaky and unsure, like a man standing at the altar of a god he’d never believed in until now.

You knew what he’d done.

Before you could feel anything about it, not anger, not sorrow, not horror, he sank deeper into your chest, arms going slack but clinging all the same. Like his body couldn’t decide whether to faint or hold on forever.

He’d spent everything.

Poured it all into you.

And now,

Remmick was trembling, wracked again and again with guttural sobs. Breathing, but just barely.

You lay there, dazed and aching, one hand caught in the back of his shirt, the other pressed gently to his damp hair.

The silence that followed was not peace.

It was something else.

Heavy.

Stained with love and betrayal and devotion and grief, all tangled so tightly together they might as well have been the same thing.

And you...

You held him anyway.

[bitter-post-millennial]

Bits of Home: 《James Cook, skins x reader 》

James Cook x femreader

A/N: Some scraps between reader and Cook that never made it out the drafts. Threw in a "what if" and now I’m lowkey gutted about how Home actually ends (I feel just like that TikTok audio — from Guardians of the Galaxy, actually — that says, “It broke my heart to put that tumor in her head".) You don’t have to read Home to get these bits — honestly, the “what if” might sting less if you haven’t. ♥♥Thanks so much for the love. The comments you leave genuinely keep me going.♥♥

Reader and Cook are literally this song: Home

Man, oh, man, you're my best friend, I scream it to the nothingness

The doorbell's been ringing like it’s got something to prove.

Loud. Relentless. Again and again, like whoever’s behind it thinks they can force their way in just with noise.

"“ALRIGHT—fuckin’—I’M COMING!" you shout back, each word sharp and jagged, matching the rhythm of the bell as you stomp through the hallway. You don’t even check the peephole—you’re too pissed for that. Just grab the door handle and yank it open like it’s got a grudge against you.

And there’s Freddie.

Bent slightly forward, breathless like he’s just legged it across half of Bristol, sweaty fringe stuck to his forehead. His hands are on his hips, and he’s not even looking at you—his eyes are glued to this massive black bag at his feet, like it's about to explode or grow legs and run off.

"What the f—"

“Your dad home?” he cuts you off, still half-wheezing, his voice rough and urgent in a way that shuts your mouth before the curse can land.

You’re tempted to say what you always say—he’s never here. Hasn’t been for weeks. Probably off chasing some new life you weren’t invited into. But you don’t. Because that would mean opening the door to all the feelings you’ve nailed shut behind your ribs.

So instead, you fold your arms like armour and lift your chin.

“Why? You fall out with your dad again and need somewhere to crash?”

It comes out more bitter than you meant, coated in venom you’ve been saving for someone else. You’ve been bracing for the next person to use you like a bolt hole, and for a second you let yourself think maybe that’s all this is.

But Freddie’s face shifts—softens. You see it in the little twitch of guilt, the way his eyes flick up to yours with something like hurt. And instantly, you feel like shit. Because Freddie wouldn’t. Not like that. Not to you.

“It’s not for me,” he says. And nods at the bag. “Help me get this inside, yeah?”

You hesitate, just for a second. Then grab one end, and holy shit—it’s heavy.

“What’ve you got in here?” you groan, practically tripping as you both heave it over the threshold. “Freddie, when I said I loved you enough to help you hide a body, I was joking.”

He barks out a laugh, quick and nervous. But before he can answer, the bag shifts. There’s a rustle. A puff of smoke. 

“Mate,” you mutter. “Your bin bag’s on fire.”

Then the top bursts open, like it’s been holding its breath—

—and out comes Cook.

Grinning. Cigarette dangling from his lips. Arms stretched above his head like he’s just won a fight or crawled out of the grave.

“S’alright, love,” he says, voice cracked and cocky. “Didn’t miss me too much, did ya?”

Your heart stutters. Stops. Then restarts with a lurch so hard it hurts.

You don’t speak. You can’t. Your mouth opens and closes once, then again. You look at Freddie like he might explain this, might slow the world down long enough for you to catch up.

“He’s not supposed to be here,” you manage. It comes out too quiet.

“Supposed to be in prison,” you say louder, jaw tight now, rage catching up with disbelief. “He’s meant to be inside.”

“Oi, I’m right here, y’know,” Cook says, stepping fully out of the bag like he does this kind of thing every Tuesday. He wobbles a bit, legs stiff from being curled up gods know how long, but he doesn’t take his eyes off you.

And you don’t take yours off him either.

Because he’s real. Cook. In your hallway. In your fucking house. Looking exactly like the boy you told you loved, just days before he disappeared.

You shove past the lump in your throat.

“I thought you were—”

“Arrested?” he offers with a grin. “Nah. Almost. Escaped”

Freddie clears his throat. “Couldn’t keep him at mine any longer. Dad’s asking questions.”

Now your anger finds somewhere to land. You round on Cook, voice like flint.

“You’ve been out this whole time? And you didn’t tell me? You let me think—”

He steps closer, hands up, not laughing anymore.

“I wanted to, alright? I fuckin’ tried. But I’m like, the most wanted bastard in Bristol. Couldn’t risk it. Couldn’t risk you.”

He grabs your face then, both hands on your cheeks, forcing you to look at him like it’s the only way to speak the truth. His thumb brushes just beneath your eye, soft. Too soft.

“Would’ve run straight to you if I could’ve. You know that.”

And fuck. You do.

You do because you remember. You remember his mouth on yours just before everything fell apart. The way he said he loved you like it burned coming out. Like he’d never said it before and might never say it again. You remember not knowing what to do with it—any of it. How you both shook with it. With fear, with wanting, with everything.

You step back. Break the contact. It’s too much. Still.

He drops his hands, but doesn’t take his eyes off you. 

“Can I stay?” he says, voice quieter now. “Just for a bit.”

You roll your eyes so hard it hurts, spin on your heel and walk toward the living room.

“You ever asked permission in your life, Cook?”

His laugh follows you down the hall, wild and warm and stupid.

“Didn’t think so.”

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Through the rain and the frost, through everything I do it all for you

You knew. You fuckin’ knew. Told him it was gonna piss it down, and what did he do?

“And why d’you listen to me anyway?!”

He looks at you like you’ve just stabbed him, dramatic as always, dripping from head to toe like someone dropped him in the canal.

You’d tried to stop him — said the air was thick, storm’s comin’, maybe don’t sneak out tonight, yeah? But he’d been pacing the whole day like a lion in a fuckin’ zoo. Kept moaning about the bathroom window being his only breath of freedom. "I’m suffocatin’, babe."

You told him to stop being such a dramatic little criminal.

Still, you caved. Of course you did.

Now you’re both soaked, head to toe, squelching back into your flat like two rats climbing out the deep end. The rain’s gotten into your bones, cold and mean, and you swear your jeans weigh about ten kilos each.

As soon as the door shuts behind you, you're stripping off layers like they’re tryin’ to strangle you. Cook just stands there like a stunned goldfish, watchin’ you fight with your hoodie like he’s never seen tits before.

“Me hands ain’t workin’,” you mutter through clenched teeth, fingers shaking. “Shit, I’m freezin’.”

You shove your hands in front of his face like he’s responsible for your blood circulation. He stares. You turn, presenting your back like a challenge.

“Do somethin’, will you?”

You point at your bra clasp, bouncing a bit on the spot to keep warm. He doesn’t move. Just stands there like a right muppet, starin’ at the moles on your back like they’re fuckin’ constellations.

“Cook,” you warn, “it ain’t the first time, get on with it.”

Snapped out of it, he fumbles the clasp and you feel the weight of the wet fabric drop to the floor. You expect him to say something crude, but he’s gone quiet. You look over your shoulder and his eyes are wide like he’s seeing something sacred. You don’t stay to indulge him.

You peg it up the stairs in your knickers, half-laughing, hair plastered to your face. At the halfway point you stop, dripping, stark, water tracing your spine, and you twist around to catch him still staring.

“You comin’ or what?”

You don’t wait. He’s already tearing his hoodie off on the way up, leaving a trail of wet clothes behind like some budget breadcrumb path. You’re already curled in the bath, knees to chest, when he gets there — arms wrapped around your legs, head tucked down, teeth still chattering.

Hot water’s rising and your whole body sighs at once.

You hold out your hand. It’s always like this. You stretch your palm toward him, even if you’re mad, even if you’re cold. And he always, always takes it.

But instead of getting in behind you like you expect, Cook steps over the tub and settles himself between your legs, back against your chest like he’s trying to disappear into you. He fits too easily there — knees up, spine curled, like a kid hiding from the world.

You blink. “You alright?”

He shrugs, then mutters, “You’re warmer.”

You rest your chin on his shoulder, wrap your arms around him. His skin’s still damp and goosebumped, but he’s starting to melt in the heat, muscles softening with every breath.

You don’t talk much after that. Just let the silence stretch, full and soft, while the water climbs over your legs and across his ribs. You run your fingers over his arms, down his chest, across the fading bruises he never explains.

He shivers again — not from cold this time. You brush your lips against the back of his neck, feel him exhale like he’s been holding it in all week.

There’s still storm in the sky and static under your skin, but in this moment, in your bathtub with Cook between your legs like it’s the only place he belongs—

You feel like this messy, soaked, slightly broken boy is yours. Even if neither of you’s said it. Even if you never do.

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Well, holy moly, me oh my, You're the apple of my eye. Girl, I never loved one like you

“Yeah, just like that, luv.”

You look up, and fuck — the way he's staring at you? It shoots straight between your legs like he pressed some hidden button in your core.

His eyes are blown wide, completely gone — starring you. His mouth is slack, panting like he’s run a marathon, but all he’s done is lie there while you go to town on him. His fringe is stuck to his forehead with sweat and his cheeks are flushed like a kid caught doing something naughty.

The sight makes your pussy clench, sharp and sudden. You shift slightly, grinding down on nothing like some desperate virgin, chasing a friction you know you won't get. Not like this. Not yet.

But you love it. The power. The heat. The way he’s fucking melting for you.

You flatten your tongue against the underside of his cock and drag it slowly, teasing the sensitive ridge until he lets out this guttural moan that makes your nipples harden. You can feel how heavy he is on your tongue, how alive he is in your mouth. It’s obscene. It's filthy.

It’s perfect.

His hand is tangled in your hair, guiding you without pushing, and the other comes up to your cheek, thumb brushing your skin, eyes locked on the way his cock disappears between your lips. Like he can’t believe it. Like he might die if he blinks.

“Fuckin’ hell,” he groans. “You’ve got no idea what you’re doin’ to me.”

But oh, you do. Because it’s doing things to you, too. Your underwear is soaked, clinging to you like a second skin, and every needy pulse between your legs is screaming for attention.

You hum around him, and the reaction is immediate — a shiver that runs through his entire body. You feel his thighs tense under your hands, his whole body surrendering to the sensation. And then he looks at you again, that same dazed, reverent look that makes your skin tingle.

“Oi,” he mutters, voice hoarse and dripping with amusement, “if you ain’t gonna use your hands, put ‘em somewhere else, sweetheart.”

You pull off him with a wet pop and grin up at him, cheeks flushed, lips red and shining with spit.

“You said no hands, Cookie.”

The nickname makes his cock twitch right next to your face — like it agrees with you.

“Yeah, well, changed my fuckin’ mind, didn’t I? Put ‘em on my balls. I shaved and everything.”

You pause, brows arching, lips just inches from the tip as your warm breath makes him shiver.

“…You shaved?”

You arch an eyebrow, and then tug his pants and briefs all the way down. What you see makes you bark a laugh.

“Soft as fucking peaches,” he says proudly, hips giving a little jerk, “don’t they deserve some love?”

You stare at him, momentarily speechless, lips wet and parted from how long you’ve been on your knees. Then your eyes narrow.

“Are you kidding me? You used my razor?”

“Obviously. That little green strip? Aloe vera magic, babe.”He chuckles, all low and rough and cocky.

You shake your head, but you’re grinning as you cradle his balls in your hand, fingers feather-light at first.

“You absolute goblin.”

“A sexy goblin, though.”

Your nails graze his smooth skin and you give him a gentle squeeze — just enough to make him hiss and clench his abs.

“Oi! No bollock torture, yeah?”

“You owe me a whole new pack of blades.”

“Then take it outta me,” he says with a wink, “go on, ruin me.”

And oh, you will. You lean forward and lick one of his balls with slow, deliberate intent — a long stroke that ends with your lips sucking him in, tongue swirling lazily.

You take him into your mouth again, slowly this time, lips stretched wide and obscene, and he writhes under you. That little jolt of satisfaction runs down your spine and coils in your gut when his hand finds your hair again, threading through the strands and guiding you like he can’t help himself.

You’re soaked, drunk on the sounds he makes. You want to be the reason he comes undone. You want to feel it — all of it. His body twitching under your touch, his filthy little whimpers, his cock twitching on your tongue.You could come just from this, honestly — from the taste, from the mess, from the fact that he’s yours, right now, panting and swearing and losing his damn mind in your mouth.

You take him deeper this time, feeling the stretch of your jaw, the weight of him. Your throat tightens just as he groans something unintelligible that might’ve been your name or might’ve been just “fuck” — either way, it makes your toes curl.

And then he whimpers. Loud.

That sound. That raw, helpless sound — it does something to you. You moan around him, loud enough to vibrate through his cock and into your core.

You push further, eager, greedy. He slips into your throat and you fight the gag with everything you’ve got, tears prickling at the corners of your eyes.

Then he laughs.

Actually laughs.

You pull off him again, coughing a little, eyes glassy with effort, and glare up at him.

He’s got the nerve to be grinning. Full-on dimples, devilish twinkle in his eye, proud as fuck.

“Chokin’ on me like a champ,” he says, wiping your tears away with his thumb. “My little throat goat.”

“Fuck off,” you mutter, but you're laughing too, breathless and hot and so turned on you could scream.

He grins wider. “You love it.”

You don’t answer. Instead, you slide him back into your mouth without warning — and this time you don’t stop. You work him hard, lips tight, tongue relentless, bobbing your head with a rhythm that makes his hips stutter.

He’s groaning now, constant and shameless, your name tangled in curses as his hand tightens in your hair.

“Fuck, princess. Fuck me — you’re perfect, ain’t you?”

You hum again, throat relaxing, letting him sink all the way in.

You feel him hit the back of your throat and then — twitch. Buck. Curse.

He’s close. You can feel it in the way his thighs shake, the way his breath stutters, the way his words fall apart into broken syllables.

“I’m gonna — fuck — you’re gonna make me—”

You nod without stopping, ready for it. Begging for it.

And then—

He pulls out.

Just like that. Slips out of your mouth with a slick pop.

You blink. Offended.

“Excuse me?”

But he’s already sitting up, panting like a dog, grabbing his cock in one hand with wild, manic eyes.

“No, no, wait—I got this. I wanna see it, baby. I’m gonna paint a fucking masterpiece.”

You snort. Loudly. Wiping your mouth with the back of your hand, still kneeling between his legs.

“A masterpiece?”

“Yes,” he huffs, jerking his cock furiously, tongue between his teeth like he’s concentrating on oil painting, not orgasm. “This is ART. Stay still.”

“You dramatic little shit.”

“Shh. Don’t move. You’re the canvas.”

You lean back on your heels, grinning like a wolf, watching him with raised eyebrows. He’s properly going for it now — fist pumping, jaw clenched, head thrown back. You reach up lazily and cup his balls, warm and heavy in your palm. He jolts like you electrocuted him.

“Jesus—bloody hell—”

“You were right,” you say, running your thumb along the seam, “soft as fucking peaches.”

“See?? I told you. I shaved for this. This is a curated experience.”

“With my razor, you knob.”

You give him a very gentle squeeze in retaliation, just enough to make him gasp and roll his eyes back.

He glares at you through bleary eyes. “Don’t ruin my moment.”

“You’re jerking off two inches from my face, babe. Moment’s already ruined.”

“Don’t mock the muse.”

You roll your eyes dramatically — but you stay still. Because deep down? It’s kinda hot. Filthy. Ridiculous. So him. And you love it.

Then he gasps — sharp and loud — and his whole body stiffens like he’s been electrocuted.

“Fucking—I’m coming—!”

And he does. Violently. A hot, messy splatter hits your cheek, your chin — and your nose.

You blink, frozen. There’s a pause.

Then he opens one eye and stares.

“…Did I just cum on your nose?”

You wipe it slowly, still stunned. Then grin.

“Right up the nostril, Cookie.”

He groans, flopping back dramatically, hand over his face.

“I ruined the canvas.”

“I’m gonna be smelling you for a week.”

“You’re welcome.”

You crawl up his chest, straddling his waist, your face still sticky and smug.

“That’s not how masterpieces work.”

“Sure it is,” he pants, hair a mess, grinning up at you. “It’s modern art. Abstract. Raw. Post-orgasmic expressionism.”

You slap his chest lightly.

“You owe me a tissue and a fucking smoothie.”

“I owe you everything, my throat goat queen.”

And then you're both laughing, tangled and filthy and breathless.

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Well, hot and heavy pumpkin pie. Chocolate candy, Jesus Christ. Ain't nothing please me more than you

It was late. That part of the night when your belly’s full and your eyelids start drooping heavy. You were both on the sofa, the telly on in the background, but neither of you paying it any real mind. He’d decided personal space was a myth, sprawled across you like he owned the place, head resting on your chest, body warm and lax and stupidly heavy. His thumb dragged lazy circles beneath your shirt, brushing skin without meaning to. Or maybe he did. Hard to tell with him.

Your fingers were in his hair, combing slow, soft strokes like you were calming a wild thing. Maybe you were. It felt calm. Still. Almost too still.

You’d lost track of how many days he’d been there. He’d slipped into your flat the way he always had—loud, grinning, with no warning—and just stayed. Like he belonged there. Like the crooked lamp in the corner or that painting above the sofa you never took down. He fit. Too well. And it scared you.

Because peace, in your world, didn’t last. It shifted, always. Sweet things left bitter aftertastes. And the longer it felt like home, the more it felt like something was about to snap.

"Your hair’s gotten long," you said absently, tugging a strand and holding it up to the light.

He didn’t lift his head. Just looked up at you through those ridiculous lashes.

"Yeah?"

You nodded, twisting the ends between your fingers.

"Can’t go out for a trim, can I? Bit risky, that. Don’t think a haircut’s worth prison."

You scratched at his scalp, watching his lashes flutter. The way he melted under your touch made something clench and soften all at once inside your chest.

"I like it," you said, barely audible.

"That ‘cause you’ve got more to grab when I’m between your legs?"

You wanted to be annoyed. Really, you did. But you just rolled your eyes and tugged his hair hard enough to make him wince.

"You’re such a dickhead."

He grinned like it was a compliment.

"You could cut it."

He shifted, chin now on your chest, breath warm against your collarbone. You looked down at him and your heart stuttered. You’d never seen sea storms in real life, but his eyes—they were the colour you imagined storms would be, right out in the middle of it. Dark and endless. And you knew, if you let him, you’d drown.

You didn’t say you loved him. Even if it was the only thing sitting in your throat. Instead, you nodded.

Which is how you ended up in the bathroom, him plopped on the toilet seat, legs splayed, and you between them with a pair of kitchen scissors meant for fish.

You’d never done this before. Not properly. But he didn’t question you once. Trusted you in that way he always had—reckless and absolute. And it made you feel something sharp and soft at the same time.

You’d finished the back as best you could, now working on the front. Your hand was steady. Almost.

His hands found your hips, settled there. Hot and firm and unmoving. You nearly dropped the scissors.

"You’re gonna end up bald if you keep that up."

"Worth it," he murmured, his hands slipping lower to squeeze your arse.

"Cook..."

It was a warning. Your eyes didn’t leave the hair in your hand, but you could feel his gaze, all heat and mischief.

And then—his lips, warm through the fabric of your tee, pressed against your belly.

You bit your lip to keep from groaning. Or gasping. Or saying something that’d break the moment.

His kisses moved upwards, grazing the space just beneath your bra. You stopped. Dropped your hands to your sides and stared at him. He looked up at you like he always did—like you were the only thing in the room.

You took his face in your hands, tilted it this way and that, pretending to check your work. But really, you were memorising. Every line. Every freckle. You wanted to kiss the bridge of his nose, his jaw, those lips—still chapped from chewing them when he got anxious.

"Keep looking at me like that, princess, and we’ll never finish."

His grip tightened on your arse and you let out a noise halfway between a laugh and a groan. The kind that twisted up your stomach.

"It’s done, you idiot," you said, lifting his chin and pressing a soft, quick kiss to his lips. Just a peck. But it left him blinking like you’d hit him.

You grabbed his hands, still clinging to your hips, and moved them away gently. Stepped aside so he could see himself in the mirror.

He stood, ran his fingers through his hair, eyes wide.

"Oi... you’ve actually done a decent job. Maybe you should sack off uni, start your own thing. Haircuts for dickheads. I’d be your first customer."

You shook your head, smiling despite yourself. He kept looking, kept touching his hair, and then—his expression shifted. Eyes a little darker. Mouth set different.

"Was lookin’ like a fuckin’ homeless bloke, weren’t I?"

You knew what he meant. Knew he wasn’t just talking about the hair.

You stepped behind him, wrapped your arms around his waist, rested your chin on his shoulder. He didn’t hesitate. Grabbed your hands where they rested on his stomach. Held on tight.

He looked at you in the mirror.

"You’re not," you said, voice thick. "You’ll always have a home, James. As long as I’m here."

He didn’t say anything. Didn’t have to. Just stared at you like you’d undone something in him.

It was too much. You buried your face in his neck, nose pressed to his skin. Too close. Too honest.

You kissed his shoulder. His jaw. The base of his neck.

He didn’t speak. But you felt the way his breath caught. The way his fingers curled tighter around yours.

Some things don’t need words. Not between you two.

Not then.

Not ever.

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Oh, home, let me come home. Home is wherever I'm with you

𝒲𝒽𝒶𝓉 𝒾𝒻… You never left.

“Movie night!”

His voice cuts through the flat like a firecracker, too loud for how small he is, but the joy’s contagious. He’s standing on the chair again, that same one you’ve told him a hundred bloody times not to stand on after tea.

"Oi, mate—what did your mum just say, eh?"

Cook’s voice comes from behind you, carrying the dishes through, trying to sound serious but failing. You can hear the grin beneath the growl.

“But—but…” His chubby hands shoot out toward you, knowing full well you’ll pick him up. You do. Instinct, innit. You set him back on the chair properly, his legs swinging like they can’t wait to be somewhere else.

Cook’s stacking plates, watching him with that stupid soft look he gets when he thinks you’re not watching him watch. The kid catches it too, can’t help but grin back at his dad.

“Have you picked one then, yeah?” you ask, brushing a few curls from his forehead. He wriggles down off the chair with a high-pitched squeal like gravity’s still a challenge.

He sprints off, comes back with a DVD case from the shelf, shaking it in his little hands like it’s trying to escape.

“Again?” you say, squinting at the cover. Not annoyed, more surprised. He nods so hard his whole body wobbles. “Well, lucky us. That’s exactly what I fancied.”

Cook peers over your shoulder, trying to clock the pick. You mouth the words at him—"Shrek 2"—and watch his face twist like he’s been personally betrayed. But he only nods, dead serious, like it’s the only reasonable option.

“Solid choice, mate. If the sound cuts out, I’ll do the voices. Not like I know it all off by heart or anything.”

You open your mouth to give him grief, but your son jumps in first:

“You be Donkey, Dad.”

You burst out laughing, a proper belly one.

“Oi! Why do I gotta be the one who never shuts up?”

“Not just that,” he says, brandishing the DVD case like a sword. “He’s the cat’s best mate. And I’m Puss in Boots!” He swings at imaginary dragons in the air, eyes wild with concentration.

Cook’s face softens in that way that makes your chest hurt. He doesn’t say anything for a second. You rub slow circles into his back, grounding him.

“So I’m the dragon, then?” you offer, trying to lighten it. He half-smiles. The kid stops mid-swing, scowling like you’ve missed something obvious.

“No, Mum. You’re Shrek.”

Cook wheezes a laugh beside you. You reach up, tug a bit of his hair—not enough to hurt, just enough to shut him up. He hisses, still laughing.

“That how you see me? I’m a grumpy green ogre to you, sweetheart?”

The boy claps a hand over his mouth, laughing too hard to answer right away.

“No, Mum!” he says, serious all of a sudden, meeting your eyes like he’s five going on forty. “You’re like Shrek ‘cause you always look after everyone. Like when he fought the dragon to save Donkey.”

You don’t say anything for a moment. You’re just looking at him, those big blue eyes that don’t belong to you. It’s Cook who brings you back, squeezing your hand hard—your anchor in all this.

“Go on then, champ. Stick it on. No time to waste.”

You mouth thank you at him.

He finishes up and drops himself onto the sofa like it owes him money, limbs everywhere. Your son curls up into his side like a perfect puzzle piece, still chatting about how funny the gingerbread man is and how he’s gonna be just like him when he’s big. Cook chuckles, tossing a blanket over them both.

You stay at the dining table, hunched over the laptop, surrounded by papers and notes and a document that hasn’t changed in days. Your fingers hover over the keyboard, useless. You flick through the same pages again, chasing facts that won’t land.

“Mum!”

“Yeah, sweetheart?” you answer, eyes still scanning.

“You’re missing the film.”

“No I’m not. I’m watching it,” you lie. You listen for a second, pick up the line and say in perfect time with Donkey: “Are we there yet?”

He nods, smug. You smile. You can���t remember your deadlines but you know every line of this bloody film.

The screen blurs. The weight behind your eyes starts pulling harder. You think about joining them on the sofa, but your legs feel nailed to the floor. Somewhere along the way your cheek sinks into your palm and everything slows.

The kid tugs at Cook’s shirt, pointing at you. Cook glances over and freezes.

“Dad?”

“Yeah?”

“Mum’s asleep.”

You’ve got your head in both hands, mouth parted, the glow of the telly washing over your face. Cook gets up quietly, the boy following him on tiptoe.

He crouches beside you, gently pulling the pen from your fingers and trying to wipe the ink smudges off your cheek.

“Mum’s always tired.”

Cook looks down at him, heart breaking a little. The kid’s looking at your notes like he’s searching for the answer too. Then he brushes your hair off your face, just like you do with him.

“She’s studying something she loves,” Cook says, more to himself than the boy.

The kid nods like it’s gospel.

“We can help her.”

Cook raises a brow. “Oh yeah?”

“I think the answers, and you write ‘em down.”

Cook snorts. “Not sure that’ll help much, mate.”

He yawns, and Cook remembers this life’s got routines now. School nights and bath times.

“Let’s get Mum to bed first, yeah?”He lifts you carefully, arms under your knees and back. “To bed, Mrs Cook.”

You stir, mumbling something about not being married. He huffs a laugh.

You snuggle closer to him, half-asleep. He nods at the boy, who follows along barefoot, solemn like it’s a mission.

“So that’s how it works,” the boy says, whisper-shouting. “When I fall asleep on the sofa, that’s how I wake up in bed.”

Cook grins. “Nah,bud. That’s magic. I’ve seen it myself.”

He lays you down slow, careful as anything. Like if he moves too quick, you might disappear. Your body folds into the mattress with a soft, weighted sigh, the kind that leaves your lips without permission. The boy clambers in after you, half-asleep already, and tucks himself right beneath your chin, like that’s where he was always meant to be.

Cook watches. Doesn’t move. Just… stands there.

There’s this look on his face, like his insides are doing somersaults. Like he’s just watched a miracle happen in his living room and doesn’t trust it not to vanish.

You, curled up with his son—your son—and that stupid film still whispering through the hallway. He’s never been given anything this good without it getting taken away. Part of him thinks it’s a trick. That maybe if he blinks too hard, the bed’ll be empty again and the flat cold.

But then your hand twitches out across the duvet, palm up, fingers slightly curled like they remember his shape. That same little motion. Like years ago, on the cold floor of someone else’s kitchen. On a rooftop. In a field where you shouldn’t’ve fallen asleep. That open hand that never asked, just offered. That open hand that always meant, I’ll hold the weight for a bit, if you’re too tired.

And God, is he tired.

He climbs in beside you without a sound. One arm around the boy—his heart, his tiny clone—and the other around your back. His fingers press into your spine just enough to feel the warmth of you. Just enough to believe you’re here. Still breathing. Still bloody stubborn.

He rests his forehead against yours. Breathes in that scent you carry, all crushed lavender and laundry powder and ink-stained skin. Smells like care. 

“He says we should finish your essay for you,” he whispers, soft as a joke that doesn’t want to wake the room.

Your mouth moves first, then the words come slurred, sleep-heavy. “Mmm... tell him he’s hired. Hope he likes footnotes. I pay in—” You pause. “In toast.”

He laughs through his nose, quiet so it doesn’t rattle the peace. “What about hazard pay?”

You nuzzle the top of your son’s head. “That’s... unlimited cuddles. And sometimes I hum.”

He breathes in your laugh like it’s something rare. You feel the boy shift, blindly stretching one foot to press against his dad’s thigh, like he can feel the distance and won’t have it.

You murmur again, voice nearly lost now. “Too warm. Can’t think. Head’s full of... bees. Nice bees. Not the mean ones. Just... fuzzy.”

He grins into the dark. “Yeah? Thought you didn’t do soft.”

“Don’t,” you mumble. “Shut up.”

But there’s no weight in it. No bite. Just the fog of sleep pulling at the edges of your words.

“Never thought I’d see the day,” he teases. “You... all snuggly and talkin’ about bees.”

Your hand finds the hem of his shirt, tugs it weakly. “I’m asleep. Doesn’t count. I’ll deny all of it in the morning.”

He kisses your temple, barely there. “Won’t need to. I’ll remember it for the both of us.”

You sigh again, melting deeper, as your son shifts once more, perfectly still now, his breath evening out. One of his hands stays on you. The other curls in Cook’s shirt like he doesn’t trust the night to hold the three of you without him.

…

The house smells… wrong.

Not dangerously wrong—no alarms going off, no smoke thick in the air—but there’s a definite whiff of burnt toast and something vaguely sweet and charred. You stir, face still pressed into the pillow, your body warm from where your son’s small limbs wrapped around you all night like a koala. You shift slowly, careful not to wake him. He murmurs something, lashes fluttering, then settles deeper into sleep.

You slip out of the bed in your T-shirt and sleep shorts, yawning through the stretch that pulls at your ribs. The hallway’s dim, quiet except for distant swearing and the soft ping of the toaster. That’s what gets you smiling before you even see him.

You find him shirtless in the kitchen, like a scene out of some ridiculous daydream. Except, in this version, the counters are a mess, something is smoking in a pan, and Cook is standing in front of the stove like it personally insulted his family.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake—” he mutters, poking at what might’ve once been a crumpet. “Stupid bloody bastard of a—that’s not even how you toast bread, is it?”

You stay in the doorway for a moment, arms crossed, watching him fight domestic appliances like they’re demons. His hair’s a mess. There’s flour on his temple and a smudge of something sticky across his chest. One sock on. He’s talking to the kettle like it betrayed him.

Your laugh slips out before you can hold it in.

He whirls around, spatula raised like a sword. “Don’t sneak up on me, woman, I’m in the trenches.”

You walk in slowly, shaking your head. “Is this how you woo me now? Burning carbs and cursing the toaster?”

“I made tea,” he says proudly, grabbing a mug and holding it out.

You take a sip. It’s cold. You grimace.

He winces. “Alright, round two then.”

“Step away from the toaster.”

He grins, hands up in mock surrender, backing away like you’re the armed one now. “You’re sexy when you take control of the breakfast battlefield.”

You toss the burnt crumpet straight into the bin and glance back at him, catching the soft, warm eyes on you. It hits you, again, how easy this has gotten for him. The living. The showing up. The little things. You never asked him to change—but he did. He became quieter in the mornings. Gentler. Swapped pub nights for pack lunches and school drop-offs. He’s still Cook—loud and shameless and rough around the edges—but he’s folded himself into your life like he was always meant to be there.

You feel his hand brush yours. Not by accident.

“You’re up early,” he says, voice quieter now.

You nod. “Smelled the chaos.”

“Was tryin’ to do breakfast in bed. But the toaster and I had words.”

You turn to face him, resting your hands on his hips, fingers skimming the warm skin of his back. He smells like flour and smoke and himself. You kiss the corner of his mouth, slow and unhurried.

He leans into it, his hand sliding up your side like he’s reminding himself you’re still real.

“I could ruin you on this counter,” he whispers, lips grazing your jaw, his voice low and ragged, “real quick. Before the gremlin wakes up.”

You snort softly. “Wouldn’t take much, would it?”

“Absolutely not,” he grins, already pressing you against the counter, hands slipping lower. “You in this shirt, I’m defenseless.”

You curl a hand around the back of his neck, pulling him in for another kiss. It’s slow. A bit filthy. His thumb slips under the hem of your shorts and you make a quiet, pleased noise against his mouth—

“MOOM—!”

You both jolt, heads knocking.

Cook immediately yanks his hands off your arse like a schoolboy caught cheating.

Your son barrels into the room at full speed, hair wild, face flushed with excitement. “I was a dragon! A red one! And I could fly and everything, and there was a bad guy and he tried to fight me but I just—whoosh!—and he went boom!”

Cook scoops him up before you can even react, lifting him high into the air, spinning him gently before settling him on his hip like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“A red dragon? That’s serious business,” he says, eyes wide.

“With horns! And I bit the bad guy. Like—RAHHHHH!”

“Course you did,” Cook says, completely sincere. “What happened then?”

“He exploded.”

“Exploded? No way.”

You lean against the counter, watching the two of them—your son bouncing with excitement, Cook nodding like he’s hearing a government briefing. He’s still shirtless. Still has flour on his face. He doesn’t care.

Your son wraps his arms around Cook’s neck mid-story. Cook tucks him close, humming quietly in that way he does sometimes, absent and gentle. You see it in the way his hand rubs slow circles over the boy’s back, grounding him. Like it’s just another day. Like it’s always been this.

And for a second—just a second—it feels like maybe it always will be.

The toast still burns in the background.

You’ll let it

⋆｡°✩ ⋆｡°✩ ⋆｡°✩⋆｡°✩ ⋆｡°✩ ⋆｡°✩⋆｡°✩ ⋆｡°✩ ⋆｡°✩⋆｡°✩ ⋆｡°✩ ⋆｡°✩

If Cook ever became a dad? Yeah, this is 100% the vibe. No question.

[bitter-post-millennial]

I want to motorboat his tits

price

[bitter-post-millennial]

wild cherries [3]

[masterlist]

Price x f!Reader - cw: dubcon, spanking, light sadomasochism, brat taming 18+ mdni - 10k words

And I guess the sound of the outward bound Made me a slave to my wanderin' ways.

The sky was powder grey the following morning, sun concealed by a sheer veil of dry white cloud. 

You had a fitful sleep. 

Wracked with feverish dreams of sun and skin, of plum bruises and cherry juice. You woke up many times throughout the night with cold sweat damp on the back of your neck, cunt shivering and slippery as you dreamed of the cowboy’s tormenting hand, of his thumb intruding into your slit. Of your wet knickers being held in a tight and burly fist, being shoved covertly into a worn pocket. 

It was near impossible for you to get comfortable in your bed – you were unable to lie on your back, for any pressure on your marred buttocks stung hot like a fresh brand.

Before the sun had risen you had been briefly awoken by the raucous sounds of the ranch whirring to life; disturbed by the yelling of your elder brother and his ranchmen from your second-storey window, by the humming engines of trucks and tractors rolling off to toil. The sounds, at least, brought you some form of nostalgic comfort, and it didn’t take you long to drift back to sleep. 

When you finally bothered to kick off your sheet and slip out of bed, it was after nine. You slid your feet into your sandal slippers and wandered down the moaning staircase in your linen nightdress, rubbing fists into your puffy sockets and making your sleep-blurred vision all sparkly. You heard your sister’s voice in the kitchen before you spotted her. 

“Slow morning?” She murmured, soft enough in tone that perhaps she didn’t intend for you to hear it. 

Evelyn was perched on a stool at the kitchen counter, frowning at her open laptop and tapping away contemptuously at the keys. You thought to ask her what she was working on, but knew the half-hearted response you’d get – a distracted oh, it’s nothing, while her eyes remain pinned to the screen. 

“Yep,” you croaked, scuffing over to the pantry and hanging off the open door. Perused the shelves for a box of cereal that didn’t have the word bran on it. 

“Eat quickly, will you?” She said, far more pointedly, and when you glanced over your shoulder she was looking right at you. Had that quirk in her lip that betrayed an uneasy vexation. “Miles is taking us over at quarter-to.” 

You frowned as you tugged a box of Honey Nut Cheerios from the back of the pantry, one with the cardboard flap ajar, and which you swear was the same box that had been there the last time you came to visit. 

“Taking us where?” You asked mindlessly, shuffling to the fridge to grab the milk. 

You heard a scoff from your sister as you poured the dry wheat cereal into an empty bowl. “To the neighbours’.” 

“What?” You spat, cocking your head around to glare at her. “Why?”

The adrenaline that rinsed you was sudden and sharp, at the thought of seeing the man again so soon after his incursion. Having to sit still, to pretend all is normal, to feign sweetness and ignorance as you stand in the presence of both he and your siblings in one room. Suddenly you didn’t want your cereal anymore. 

“We’ve got things to discuss with him,” she said grouchily. “And you have an apology to give.”

“Apology for what?” You snapped, resorting to petulance having been scolded. 

Evelyn only released an exasperated groan as she shut her laptop lid. “You know what,” she chided. “Second day here and you’ve already pissed him off.” 

“He wasn’t-” You started, biting your tongue just as swiftly as you had begun to blurt out that he was just as at fault as you. “He wasn’t pissed off.” 

“Miles told me he dragged you home by your ear, Bee,” she grumbled. “I don’t even want to know what you coulda done to get him that burned up.” 

“I didn’t even do anything,” you mumbled testily, tipping a splash of milk into your cereal. 

“Whatever. Just – be polite, and–” She sighed as she paused, “just don’t get into any more trouble, will you? We want him on our good side.” 

You snorted as you scooped a spoonful of your cereal and shoved it into your open mouth. “What are you going to discuss with him, then? Why do I even need to be there?”

“It’s – ugh. It’s a complicated situation, Bee,” she failed to explain, “but we need to be a united front. We’re a family, it’s a family business. A family ranch. We all need to be in it together.” 

You pursed your lips, fought the desire to furrow your brows in contempt. “Still don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

“Look, Miles can explain it better to you later. Just finish your breakfast and wear something – something presentable for once.” 

The Cheerios were stale and tasted like cardboard and dried syrup. You only shot your sister a foul look and huffed derisively, taking your cereal upstairs with you. 

Something presentable. Your sister had a way of insulting you without even needing to utter the words. That was her way of telling you that you had been dressing like a slut. Short sundresses were simply so much more practical for your escapades – easier to ride in, to walk in, let you feel the breeze on your skin. Ensured you wouldn’t bake alive under the summer sun. 

So you simply chose a slightly longer dress than usual. Dusty red plaid with a hem that brushed your calves, a wide neckline and little cap sleeves. Probably a hand-me-down from the seventies, one of the perks of so many generations of women living in the same farmhouse. It smelled like dust and patchouli. 

You scrunched your wild hair up into an uncombed ponytail, barely held in place by a floppy hair tie, and smeared some strawberry chapstick over your lips as you meandered your way down the stairs. 

Immediately crossed paths with Miles as he trudged down the hallway, black rancher hat still atop his head and a leather briefcase tucked under his arm. His tan button down was tucked into his jeans, a truly anomalous sight. 

“So why are we going to the neighbours’?” You asked pertly, as you immediately followed behind him towards the kitchen. 

He sighed gruffly, as you completely expected. It was always such a nuisance for them to explain things to you, to dumb it all down enough that you’d understand it. That, or, he was simply in a sour mood. Either just as likely. 

“We’re only going over for a conversation,” he deadpanned, dumping the briefcase on the island counter before going to the sink to get himself a glass of water. Evelyn was gone – busy making herself presentable, you assumed. As if she weren’t in a perpetual state of presentableness. 

You groaned. Their persistent vagueness was excruciating. “About what.” 

“It’s just – it’s all business stuff, Bee,” he said, exhaling sharply after downing the whole glass. Must have been hot out there. “Negotiations and junk – it’d bore you to death.” 

“Then why do I need to come?” You grumbled, crossing your arms as you leaned against the jamb of the open door. 

He pinched the bridge of his nose, already exasperated with you. You seemed to have that effect on people. “Look, if you really don’t want to come then don't. I’m not gonna drag you there.” 

“Eve said we have to be a united front,” you disputed. Still wanted an explanation. “What does that even mean?”

He smiled a little at that, moustache stretching with the grin. 

“Good at likening things to war, that woman,” he snorted. “She just means it’d be less – less formal if we show up, all of us. Ol’ John’s probably sick of both our faces by now.” 

“Probably sick of mine, now, too,” you said coyly, mindlessly tracing the lines of the hardwood with the tip of your big toe. 

He laughed at you, full and from his belly, and the room lightened up with it. “Likely,” he chortled, “Especially if you keep sniffin’ round after ‘im.” 

“Wasn’t sniffing. Only looking,” you murmured, through a bashful grin. “You’re not mad at me after yesterday?” 

“No, hun,” he said, rubbing his forehead, concern still eking through the creases in his brow. “Only surprised you got yourself caught so quickly.” 

You snickered. “Not mad at him for grabbing me, neither?” 

He shrugged. “No. That served you right.” 

“M’kay, fine,” you conceded demurely. “I’ll come, then.”

There was another truck parked beside Mr Price’s blue Chevy as Miles pulled up his long driveway, a black pickup coated in a layer of dust. 

Evelyn and Miles had been murmuring to each other for the duration of the short drive, bickering about some deal or other, about what to say and what not to say. In truth, you paid little attention, despite your earlier curiosity. Miles was right, it bored you to death, even attempting to listen in on whatever business endeavour the contentious visit was going to cover. You quietly stuck your head out of the window of the back seat, eyeing the looming homestead as you drove around the bend, and Miles pulled to a stop by the front porch. 

The air smelled wet and heavy when you hopped out and onto the gravel drive. The blanket of rolling clouds had swelled, distended with imminent rain sagging in its blue-grey bulges. You could feel it sticky and warm on your skin, it made your hairs prickle up. 

Your siblings were still mumbling between each other as they slammed shut their doors, wandering towards the porch steps, briefcases and papers in hand. All business, so they said. How tedious. 

While their backs were to you, you slinked towards Mr Price’s truck. 

You wondered if he spotted the cotton sin you left in the cab. You wondered why you had even thought to do such a thing at all. What was wrong with you? Were you really made so delusional by his degenerate punishment that you would so debase yourself? 

Humiliation simmered sour in your belly, as you heard your siblings knock on the great front door. You imagined John revealing your foul little secret, making some sly comment about it as you greeted him. Might he chastise you for your outrageously licentious behaviour? Shame you for your petulant whorishness? 

Perhaps he hadn’t seen your panties at all, inconspicuous as they were. 

With a swallow you stood on the tips of your toes, fingertips barely grazing the dusty metal of the truck, you peeked through the passenger window. Eyes scoured the leather seat, between the seatbelts, below the dashboard. 

They were gone. 

You wrenched your eyes shut, wetting them so you could check again, and again – eagerly seeking a glint of white fabric anywhere in the truck’s cabin. No sign. 

With that, you knew that not only had he noticed them – he must have touched them. Must have picked them up, that sliver of pointelle cotton, must have looked at them closely enough to determine what they were. Might he have noticed the fabric was still wet, cold to the touch between his fingers? 

Your tongue ran along the back of your teeth at the thought of him holding them, feeling the material in his hands, against his skin. At the thought of him knowing it had been the only barrier between his finger and your–

“Honeybee!” Hissed your sister through sharp teeth, and you jumped – spun around on the heel of your boot with your hands pinned to your sides. 

John stood in the open front door. Arms crossed. All three of them looked dead at you. 

“Coming,” you bleated, walking towards them as casually as you could make yourself appear. Your heart was fat in your throat, and your skin was sheeny with anxious sweat and humidity.  

You caught John’s eye as you sheepishly scooped a stray curl and tucked it behind your ear. His expression was rigid as stone, eyes squinting, lips in a censorious curl under his beard. The weight of his glare was leaden and your feet felt heavy. 

Did he know what you were looking for in his truck?

There was a faint quirk in his brow, you saw, as you approached and stood slyly behind your older siblings. A glint of surprise. Perhaps agog at the bravura of showing up at his home after your transgression, bold enough to bare your face to him.

“Whole family, eh?” He asked gruffly, heavy stare only leaving you when Miles offered a pleasant chuckle. 

“Only polite,” Miles said warmly, glancing over his shoulder at you. “Lil’ miss has some making up to do, too.” 

Your cheeks turned apple-red and you fought back the scowl that tugged at your mouth. Lil’ miss. Good at calling on your father’s old patronising habits, Miles. 

John only seemed to find the comment amusing, letting out a low huff, cracking a faint smirk. 

“S’that so?” He coaxed, amused. Sharp blues fastened to you once again, and you could only pick at your fingernails. 

You held your tongue, hoping you could convey that he’s the one who needs to apologise without having to say it aloud. His smugness was unearned, you had just as much to reveal about him as he did you.

He knew you wouldn’t out yourself. You could see it in his sinking smirk.

“It’s a new day, eh?” He grunted, standing to the side and flicking his head to beckon the lot of you inside. “C’mon in, then.”

Your siblings filed in first, but you dithered by the door. John waited in the arch, thick arms crossed cavalierly over his chest, he looked down his nose at you. You hoped he’d venture in after Evelyn and you could slink in behind, but he stayed put. Waiting for you to pass him. Kept your eye as you glowered up at him, daring him to say something; to admit what he had found, to apologise for assailing you, to castigate you for your insolence. 

There was plenty you wanted to say to him, and the words itched at the very tip of your tongue. You stifled them with your teeth instead. Let out an impudent huff as you nudged past him, and he followed closely behind you, shutting the door. You felt his livid warmth on your back, heard his coarse breathing and felt it tickle your hair. The adrenaline thumping through your runny blood made your fingertips tingle, you closed them into fists. 

The foyer was grand, almost cavernous; stained walnut wainscotting on all the walls, old patterned rugs peppered every floor. The enormous staircase unfurled in the centre of the hall, second story mezzanine wrapped around its edges, ornate spindle balustrades wrapped the stairs and the loft. An enormous light fixture hung from the centre second story ceiling, fashioned of deer antlers and many coruscant lightbulbs. You wondered how long it had been there. How many Prices ago it had been made by hand out of the severed antlers of hunted game. 

Seems your siblings had been here for many meetings before, because they knew immediately where to go – put themselves in some sort of drawing room past the stairs, and you meekly followed them. Had Mr Price at your tail like a collie herding you where he wanted you.

Led you to the room containing two imposing leather sofas, facing each other, a large slab of polished wood serving as a coffee table between them. The furthest wall contained floor-to-ceiling glass cabinets, filled to the brim with upright rifles. Long and short, hunting rifles, shotguns, double-barrels. Some of them looked a hundred years old. Towering transom windows lined the eastern wall, bathing the room in the dim ashen glow of the cloudy sky outside. A spinning fan hung from the ceiling. 

You noticed that there was another man in the room, only once you had been ferried in and stood awkwardly before you decided where to sit. He sat opposite your siblings with a black brick hat on his knee. Blond-haired and brown-eyed. 

John must have noticed you staring blankly at him, because his hand landed on your shoulder. A purely cordial touch, and yet it made you wince like he had spanked you again. 

“Ah, this’s Simon,” he said amicably, “he’s my foreman.” 

Simon stood and reached over to shake your hand, silent type, and gave you a stiff nod when you slipped your hand in his and shook it. Big and calloused, like John’s. 

Seemed to be business from there on. Miles opened his briefcase on the coffee table and pulled out a manila folder, a few sheets of paper with words and numbers printed on them. Evelyn had her laptop open on her knees. John and Simon leaned back into the couch with apathy engraved in their stone faces. Seemed your siblings were the ones here to do business. They were buttering him up for something. 

You went to sheepishly sit on the couch next to Miles as he started droning on about some sale, something about acreage and borders and permits, whatever. You glanced at his papers in hopes of spotting a word or two that might have jumped out at you. 

The moment you landed in the leather, though, you winced and sucked a gust of air through clenched teeth – the mark of Mr Price’s savage hand on your bottom burned white-hot under the sudden pressure, and the incisive pain shot through you like a bullet. 

John’s murky glare was already on you when you looked across the room. 

Didn’t need to say a word to you, his lour spoke for him. He was scolding you. 

You wondered what he would say to you, if he let himself. What words his tongue formed behind his teeth as he glowered at you. Serves you right. Don’t you get caught. Does that burn feel good?

He opened his mouth to speak, and your stomach plummeted. 

“Why don’t y’go fix us some drinks, girl?” he said gravely, directly to you, crudely interrupting your brother mid-spiel. 

Your brows twitched into a bemused frown, jaw loose as you failed to summon a response to him.  

Girl? The condescension in his tone made your blood roil in your veins, turbid with shards of spite. You weren’t stupid — you knew it was a thinly veiled demand to go away. To let the grown ups talk, as if you were not one of them. 

“I—”

“Mm, good idea,” Evelyn cooed calmly – but the bulgy-eyed tight-lipped look she shot you snapped behave. “I’ll have an ice water.”

“Me too,” said John, arm hung insouciantly over the back of the sofa. “Lil’ slice o’ lime would be nice, eh?”

You scoffed. “Sure,” you grumbled, vitriolic facetiousness bleeding into the word. You pushed yourself up from the couch and thundered out of the room. 

“You’re a doll,” John called after you, and you could hear the smugness coating his throat, thick as honey. 

Prick. Prick. 

You murmured it over and over under your breath as you steamed towards the kitchen, your angry boots echoing out in clunks with every step on his parquet floorboards. Only once you found your way to the kitchen entrance did you stop in your tracks, eyes raking over the cluttered counters and the open door to an outdoor veranda. 

You didn’t have to pour them drinks. You didn’t have to do anything. You were as much an adult as any of them, regardless of how egregiously they patronised you, or how many years of life they had gained on you. 

No, you could busy yourself with something else entirely. 

You had a treasure to find. 

The panties you fatuously left in his truck just to spite him. You wanted them back. 

It made your head muzzy with unease to think of him sitting across from your siblings, chatting away about something innocuous, all the while your dirty little secret was tucked away in the back of his mind. Stashing it up like a slug in the chamber of a rifle. Ready to fire it whenever the opportunity presented itself, whenever you displeased him. 

What could he have done with them? Perhaps he threw them away, tossed them in the trash where they belonged, or dumped them in the crick so he could be rid of them. Maybe he left them by the door, in anticipation of returning them. Maybe he has them in his pocket. 

You started with the coat rack by his front door. Skulking around on the tips of your leather toes, you stuck your fingers in every pocket of every jacket, no luck. 

Checked the laundry – fucking chaotic as it was in there, reeked of his sweat and the loamy smell of farm work. His boxers and sweat-stained t-shirts piled in baskets, plaid flannels tossed unlovingly over an ironing board, black triangular burns of a dropped iron painting the blue foam. 

The richly heady scent in there made you dizzy and hot on the back of your neck. Made your stomach flutter. Smelled like the barn. Like him bending you over the hay.  

No panties in there, either, and you dug through everything. Left it messier than it was when you got there, but you could be near certain he wouldn’t even notice. 

Upstairs, next. 

Crept up them as quietly as you could, begrudging the cries of the old wood as you made your way up. You noticed, as you made it to the landing, that all of the doors to old bedrooms were closed; those of his brothers, and his parents, sealed off like tombs. 

It made you swallow. The air was heavier up there, dense with dust and solitude. It was hotter, too, all of the warmth of the lower storey funnelled up the stairs and pumped into the mezzanine, and it was pyretic just to breathe it. 

One door was open, though, barely ajar. A tawny wax canvas jacket with a brown corduroy collar hung from the top of the old door. You recognised it immediately – John’s jacket. Old, worn-out, might have been his father’s, just like his hat. His bedroom, you were sure. You slithered towards it, holding your breath as devotedly as you might while submerged underwater. 

And as you got closer, you spotted it – a glimmer of white, the tongue of pointelle cotton sticking out of an open pocket on his coat. Right there. 

“Fuck y’think you’re doin’?” Came a bark from the stairs, and you jumped like a startled cat.

John came hounding towards you once he made it to the landing, and you immediately backed away from his door. You spun around to inch away, hoping you’d end up in a bathroom with a door that locked, but it became quickly obvious that you had nowhere to run. 

Exasperation radiated from him with each ragged breath – sick and tired more than furious, it made you shrink all the same. With a few short strides he was behind you, and you chirped in fright when he grabbed you by your ponytail and yanked you back like a puppy on a lead. 

He held your hair in a fist, pulling your head against his chest, angled back so you could look up at him from behind you. 

“Lookin’ for something?” He asked throatily, a low growl, accusation on his tongue. 

You yelped when he lightly tugged your ponytail, seemed to you like he did it just to make you squeak. “I was – I was just looking for the bathroom.” 

“Liar,” he grunted. 

“I’m n–”

“You’re in my good graces for now, honey,” he muttered, as his head craned beside yours, wiry beard grazing your cheek, “on account of your lil’ present.” 

Your ribs clamped shut around your lungs. Fingertips turned ice cold. Present. Such a euphemistic way to put it. A present. You froze when you felt his hand on your buttock, wide enough to cup it, fixing into place over the wound he had already left there. 

“But don’t you push your luck.”

Then he squeezed, and you shrieked, muffled quickly by a winded whimper — the pain as blinding and searing as a branding iron, shape of his hand all but cooked permanently into your skin. The palm of his hand may as well have been barbed, pierced the skin with a million little needles, it might have even hurt less. 

“That hurts,” you whined, cleaved to him by his grip on your hair. 

“Good,” he growled. 

Only then did he let you go, after twisting your body around to face the direction of the stairs. 

“Go’on,” he barked, goading you forward with a smack on your ass. “Get.” 

You meandered ahead like it hurt to walk. 

John hoped it did. He hoped that every time you moved, every time you sat down, every time you accidently brushed it with the caress of your skirt, you thought of him. Of every apology he struck out of you. Of every line you’ve ever crossed. 

Oh, what he’d give to see it. 

He reprimanded himself every time the image crossed his mind, of your supple little ass, defaced by his punishment. He simply couldn’t help it. He imagined that the weal of his hand was raised there, pricked with plum and cherry red, a marker of his authority. Of his territory. 

He had to be rid of you. Couldn’t focus on a single word lobbed at him by your diplomat of a brother while you were in the room with him, sucking up all the air and every drop of his attention. The dramatic suck of your teeth as you landed on the brand he gave you, just rubbing it in. 

Such a little shit, you were. Intractable animal. Asked you to fix a drink, and you couldn’t even do that. 

No, you slinked around his home instead, sticking your misbehaving little fingers into every room, filling his house up with the smell of you. Good thing he caught you before you snuck into his bedroom, leaving trails of you in his only refuge. He wouldn’t be able to sleep if you had. 

He kept a pointed glare hitched on your back as he followed you, limbs and teeth braced to chase and tackle you if you dared to bolt in any direction. But, a good girl for once, you made your way to the stairs, little eyes flicking over your shoulder every now and then to check whether he was still following you. He didn’t let more than two feet stretch between his body and yours. Not stupid enough to take that risk again. 

Far less revealing dress this time. He could still see down the neckline, and you had probably made sure of that. Could see the swell of your breasts, soft and round, their rise and fall as you breathed so meekly against him. Couldn’t see your pebbled nipples through the fabric, though. Skirt was quite a bit longer. For the best. 

He guessed your sister might have told you to wear it, proper as she was. Always painfully worried about image, and yet he could see right through her and your slimy prick of a brother. 

Still had no clue what to make of you. 

Were you cognisant of the effect you had on him? Were you toying with him for your own sake, or for theirs? 

Either way, he didn’t want it. 

Trouble. 

Your siblings waited for you at the bottom of the stairs, Evelyn with her arms crossed, and Miles gave him a suspicious glare through his pinched eyes on his way down. Mustn’t have liked the way John handled his little sister. Either too much of a coward, or too hungry for his bargain to say anything. Or, equally as likely, he was utterly blind to your exploits, enigmatic as you were. 

Didn’t matter. John could not give less of a shit about your brother’s notions. 

“Found ‘er,” he barked, watching as you grouchily wandered between the two of them and swiftly escaped through his front door. 

Evelyn pinched the bridge of her nose, an exasperated groan. “What was she doing this time?” 

John huffed. “Looking for the bathroom,” he said dryly, immediately questioning why he lied for you. So he buffered it; “Apparently.” 

“Sorry about her,” she said stiffly, it was evident you’d be receiving a scolding once the lot of you got home. “She’s – ugh. You know.” 

He had nothing to say to that. 

“Well – thanks for having us by, anyway, Jonathan,” she continued, suddenly perking up, returning to her prim and proper self. “Hope you’ll think about it? Just give us a call, will you? Or – drop by, you know, whenever. Door’s always open.”

He nodded apathetically. “Uh-huh.”

She returned with a nod of her own, a hopeful one, before she tucked her laptop under her arm and followed out after you, where you waited winsomely at the top of the porch steps. 

Miles sauntered towards him, then, thumbs tucked aloofly into the pockets of his jeans, until one hand landed on John’s shoulder. Gave him a squeeze, tighter than would be friendly. His jovial smile was translucent, and it faded fast, once the girls were out of earshot. 

“Don’t you fuck me on this, Jonathan,” he said derisively, snarled under breath. 

John chewed on nothing. His hands were in fists of their own volition. If he were to speak he’d say something regrettable, he knew himself well enough to be certain of that. So he said nothing, only glowered at the man who all but threatened him. 

“It’s the best offer we’re ever gonna get,” Miles rigidly insisted. “You know that as well as I do. We’ll be under in two years. Three if we’re lucky. This ain’t our world anymore.” 

John took measured breaths through his nose. Licked his teeth. The urge to maul the man like a bear rankled in every muscle. You probably wouldn’t forgive him, if he did such a thing. 

“You wanna keep that hand?” He asked hoarsely, monotone, through a clenching jaw. 

Miles grinned at that, as sunny as ever, before landing two genial pats on John’s shoulder. 

“S’alright,” he said, as he stepped back, fixing his black hat to the top of his head. Shot a glance at Simon, who hovered behind John like a shadow, until then unnoticed. “You’ll come around.”

You had left your bedroom door open when you put yourself to bed that night. 

Not to let anyone in, God forbid; though you did find yourself seeing the cowboy’s silhouette in your doorframe, a shadow in your periphery. Your heart flitted in your chest before you blinked him away. 

Instead the decision was some callback to your teenagehood. You had learned at fourteen that your cast iron doorknob squealed and clattered in dispute when you twisted it; loud enough to alert your father whenever you attempted to sneak out of the house after nightfall. Through trial and error, you discovered that if you left your oaken door ajar, only slightly, it would appear closed from the corner of the hall – where daddy would peek around before barking, good night, Honeybee. 

You were an adult now, though, and your father was long gone. For a time your brother tried to adopt the habit of monitoring you, but it was futile, even in your youth. 

You confounded even yourself with your precaution. You weren’t going anywhere, were you? No rules you intended to break? 

Your toes twitched. And your fingers twiddled. You squeezed your eyes shut, as if holding them closed for long enough would trick your mind into sleep, and didn’t instead focus the entirety of your attention on the still lingering sting of Mr Price’s hand. 

You couldn’t help but circle like a vulture the memory of the ground under your knees, the hay under your elbows. The barbaric clap of his hand on your skin, the grinding of your kneecaps into the gravelly dirt on every thrust. What you daydreamed his expression might have been as he hurled his retributive hand into the bare skin of your cheek. 

Might he have been frowning? Grinning? Did he inspect the damage of his handiwork very closely? Did he let his eyes linger on your curves and valleys longer than he should have? 

What went through his mind as he let his thumb venture down the cleft of you, as he pushed the tip into your slit through your sodden gusset? Might he have been marvelling in the wetness? Repulsed by its implication? 

What was he going to do with your knickers, your present as he called it? You imagined them tangled in his fingers, tucked into his fist in his pocket. Him pinching the fabric between his thick fingers as he spoke to his ranchmen. Would he tell his foreman about it? Would he show him?

Now you were entirely awake. Glaring holes into your plaster ceiling, listening to the hammering of your heart in your ears. 

Baking alive in your bed, you were covered only by your thin cotton sheet, and even that was too hot. You sweltered in it, a torrid heat that made your hair crispy and skin itchy. Sweat beaded along your brow, clammy on the back of your neck, and no matter how you laid, you found no comfort. No relief. 

Soon, you had slipped out of bed completely. 

You had not decided on a course of action, yet you crept through the gap in your bedroom door. The moonlit hallway moaned grumpily as you slithered down the stairs, ensuring the patter of your bare feet on the hardwood was as silent as you could muster. 

Plucked your father’s old Carhartt chore coat from its hook by the back door, canvassy and speckled with mud, and pulled it over your bare arms to provide at least some protection from the night. It was longer than your floral linen nightie, short and sheer as it was. You didn’t bother with shoes, your seasoned feet were well used to tip-toeing around the prairies bare. With a careful push of the screen door you stepped out onto the veranda, following your nose without the need for a torch. 

The night air was a cool relief, gentle and calming on your febrile skin. The quiet song of crickets filled the breezeless air, the occasional cry of a coyote in the far distance. Kept at bay by the guardian dogs that littered your ranch. Sometimes you thought you could sleep out there, curled up in the grass like a barn cat, if it weren’t for the gnats. 

You knew the path to Mr Price’s property so well you could navigate it with your eyes shut. Every rock to skip over, every fallen fence post, every tree marking the way. Nonetheless the swollen moon glowed unfettered by clouds, bathing the grassy hills in ultramarine and illuminating the way as you hopped his decrepit fence. 

You had a plan. 

Knew where the knickers were. In the pocket of his canvas jacket, hung on his door. He wouldn’t be expecting you to sneak in after dark, so surely his guard would be down. He’d be sat with his feet up in his lonely sitting room, cigar hooked in his finger, watching baseball highlights or whatever else solitary men busied themselves with. You were sure he wouldn't be sleeping yet. It wasn’t even ten at night, knowing him, he probably only turned in an hour or two ago. 

His ominous homestead came into view through the cottonwood trees, as you scampered between their trunks and over the vibrant underbrush. You creeped around the front of the house, silent step after silent step, hoping to spot an open window. 

And you found one, barely open, a sash window raised only an inch — you stuck your nosy fingers between the gap, carefully lifting the heavy pane by its dark-stained trim. Slipped inside like a little burglar. 

It was dark inside. You found yourself in what looked like a study, bulky mahogany desk in the centre of the room, spinning chair tucked underneath it. It was busy, filled to the brim with clutter and signs of life – seemingly untouched, layered in dust like it had been long abandoned. You supposed a man like Mr Price didn’t give much time to studying. 

You took a single step, and froze – your chore coat rustled loudly, dangerously so, even with a mere breath it threatened to alert your reticent neighbour to your intrusion. So you cautiously slipped your arms from its roomy sleeves, and gently left it in a pile by the very window through which you had trespassed. 

Now truly silent you inched towards the foyer like a spider. Every step whisper silent, moved on the balls of your feet, swallowed shallow breaths. 

The light was on in the kitchen – must be in there, you thought, and you avoided going anywhere near it. Instead you slithered up the staircase, one by one, where the faintest amber glow poured from an open door. As you retraced your steps to the landing, along the loft, to his door – the coat was gone. 

You would have cursed if you could speak aloud. Fuck, fuck, fuck. 

You could well have turned and left, abandoned the expedition altogether and prayed he didn’t hear you escaping. But you were in deep, now. Deep enough that giving up felt like a greater risk than persevering. Sunk cost. 

He must have hung the coat on the back of his door, or maybe dumped it on the end of his bed, or tossed it over the back of a chair. Perhaps he wore it out for the day, ensuring the panties were on his person, in case you dared to commit the very crime you now did. 

With kittenish fingers on the door, you eked it open, and its old dry hinges whimpered with the movement. Peeking through, you saw the origin of the faint light was seeping from a separate room; an ensuite, likely, though his bedroom was still bathed in darkness. 

It was different than how you had imagined it. You pictured something sparse, messy, beer bottles on the chest-of-drawers and a tissue box by the bed. A bachelor suite. 

Instead, it was well-kept. A painting of a pine-coated landscape hung over his bed, framed in ornately carved wood. His bed was made, an old hand-made quilt folded over by the head, and a plaid woolen blanket draped over the end. Little picture frames sat in a line on his dresser, too dark to see of who – but there were three of them, so you could guess. Two brothers and a pair of parents. 

His room smelled of him, warm and musky, rich with the terpenic scent of chypre cologne and cigar smoke. It made your mouth water. 

Then, you found them. 

Your little cotton knickers. Hung from the brass knob of the top drawer of his dresser. Bright white against the darkly stained pine. 

You swallowed and it went down your throat like broken glass. He hadn’t even hidden them. Brazenly hung them on display for anybody to see. 

Foolish of him. 

You glissaded towards the chest-of-drawers, plucked them from the knob with shaky fingers, and triple checked they were yours. And they were, absolutely – you could tell by the little satin rose of pink ribbon that adorned the front of them. 

Relief rinsed you warm and sweet once they were bundled in your hand, objective achieved. Yours again. You only needed to–

“Adding burglary to the list, are you?”

The rumbling voice blurted out from behind you and you sprung from the ground like a rabbit, squealing in the shock that wracked you. 

You swivelled in a blink with your heart in your throat, facing the man who had caught you. Still shaking with adrenaline, you could scarcely wrangle your tongue to utter a single word in your defence. 

“I’m – they’re–”

“Didn’t expect that,” he drawled. 

It was difficult to make him out, the tall silhouette of the prodigious man against the light of his ensuite bathroom, broad shoulders rocking as he sauntered in your direction. You watched in silence as he tucked in the tongue of the powder-blue towel wrapped around his hips. His tousled hair was wet and spiked – freshly showered, you guessed, the benzoin scent of his soap lingered in the air around him. 

“I’m – I’m not burg – burgling,” you stammered, finally finding your words, you straightened your spine. “I’m taking them back.” 

“No you’re not,” he grumbled, edging towards you, heavy thuds with each arrogant step. 

You were frozen in place. Shivering as though cold. Toes digging into the hardwood like it might fall out from beneath you. 

The moonlight glaring through his open window barely illuminated him on his approach; carving out the valleys of his gladiatorial chest, thick pectorals cast shadows over the well-padded abdominals of his bare stomach. His fuzzy towel sat precariously low on his hips, your impudent stare couldn’t help but trace the damp brown curls that trailed down from his navel. 

“They’re not yours,” you disputed, balling the soft panties in your fist and tucking your arms behind your back in a juvenile effort to hide them from him. 

Only once his face was doused in the silver light from the window could you make out his features; lids hung low over dark eyes, goading lips in a stern curl under his beard. 

“Yeah, they are,” he challenged, low voice oozing scorn. A shrinking foot away from you, you felt the heat of him radiating out from him, licking at your skin with warm little tongues. “They were a gift.” 

Your brows knit together as you endeavoured to stand your ground, tilting your head back so that you could glower up at him. You wrestled with yourself for any defences and found none. Nothing to say for yourself, no excuse to muster, no dispute to mount. 

“They were not a gift,” was all you said, puerile as you were. 

“Then they’re a fine,” he grunted, smirk fading, reaching a sturdy arm towards and around you. 

His indignant hand gripped your bicep, reeling it out from behind your back and pulling it towards him with absurd ease. You resisted – attempted to, at least – but any resilience in your arm was quick to falter, and he presented your balled fist palm-up like you had offered the prize to him of your own volition. 

Skittish eyes darted from your hand to his steely lour, you imagined yourself flipping a coin. 

Admit defeat; relinquish your cotton sin to its new owner, embolden him with your acquiescence, and find a way to live with the knowledge of their presence in his pocket. Or, better yet – snatch your knickers in a tight fist and scurry into the night, throw them into the woodburner when you get home, and pretend none of it had ever happened. 

Landed on tails. You impulsively yanked your fist from his grip, ducked past him with a hop and a skip, before bolting on your shaky legs towards his bedroom door. 

But as if he had readily anticipated that very move, predictable as you were, his thick arms had snatched you up before you had even noticed your capture. You squeaked in dispute, his arms like pythons constricted around you so tightly that they forced a desperate mewl from your throat. He riveted you firmly against his chest, tips of your toes barely grazing the hardwood beneath you.

Jaw pressed to the side of your head, his breathing was warm and strained against the burning shell of your ear.

“You want them back,” he rumbled, the barbarity in his voice sending cold terror down the nape of your neck. “You wear ‘em.”

Sipping quick and shallow breaths, you didn’t dare wriggle or buck in defiance of him. Not this time. There was a threat in his tone, ferine yet forthright, oozing from his throat like molten iron.

“Y-” you stuttered dizzily, heart thundering in your ears. “You want me to put them on?”

“Uh-huh,” he answered, cocksure, the vibration of his frayed voice prickled in your skin.  

He released you, then, and you dropped to your bare feet with a quiet thud. Fist clenched tightly around your ball of cotton, you sucked in a quivering breath before daring to move.

He crossed his arms imperiously, sniffed gruffly, already impatient. “Put ‘em on.” 

You nervously unfurled the white floral fabric from between your fingers. Checking them briefly to ensure you didn’t put them on back-to-front, you spread the waistband, and began to lean forward. 

“Other ones off first,” he groused, and you blinked at him over your shoulder. 

“I’m-” you began, cutting yourself off with a swallow as you meekly turned to face him. Warm blood rushed to the apples of your cheeks. “I haven’t got any on.”

You swore a smirk tugged at the corner of his ever-severe mouth, but he simply let a hoarse breath out through his nose. Letting your confession float unchallenged in the turgid air between you. 

“You’re a real troublemaker,” he chided, through gritted teeth. “Aren’t you.”

“I’m not,” you retorted, feeble and unpersuasive.

“No?” He sneered. “You break into my house in that pathetic little dress and no panties on, and you wouldn’t call that making fuckin’ trouble?”

“I-”

“Put them on.”

His order was as hard and piercing as a bullet, and it turned your blood runny as water, flooding hot into the most illicit parts of you.

Made obsequious, you followed his command. Bent forward and stepped your first toe through the leg of your panties, delicately placing your foot back to the floor, then followed the other. 

You drew careful air through wet lips as you shimmied the thin fabric up your thighs, forced to lift the slippery hem of your nightie as you adjusted them around your hips, a gentle snap as you flick the elastic of the hem to fix it over your unmarred cheek. You winced as the gusset sat flush with your pussy, cringing at the knowledge they had already been worn – they were dry, now, at least, no longer sodden with lust and sweat. Satisfied with their positioning, you floated the thin skirt back down to cover them, stroking your hips to settle the fabric. 

John stood across from you with his wide hand over his mouth, thumb and forefingers rubbing his cheeks as if releasing some tension in his grinding jaw. The rigid muscles of his arms strained and twitched under his ruddy skin. Tension visible from where you stood. 

With a huff, he straightened his spine, and your stare jumped to the long weight under his towel. Dawned on you that he wore nothing underneath it. Suddenly felt light-headed.

He grunted. “Show ´em to me.”

Your lips parted just slightly, toes curled, you obliged him. With impish fingers you clutched the lacy hem of your slip, coaxing it upward, you folded it into pleats in your fists. Up, up, up. The cool of the air between your legs was almost a relief. 

He inched forward. Closer to you. 

“Turn around.”

Sucked your bottom lip between your teeth, and worried for a moment you might chew it off. With your skirt hitched up, you spun around slowly on the tips of your toes until your nose was a few inches from his dresser. 

You felt his warm breathing on the top of your head, he was behind you. Sandwiched you between his body and his chest-of-drawers. Your only hope of escape was to do what you were told. 

With his thumb he grazed the hem of your panties where it sat against your disfigured cheek, and the sudden sting made you twitch.

“S’that hurt?” He asked roughly, and for a delirious moment you thought you might have heard some tenderness in his tone. 

You nodded flimsily. “Yes.” 

“Mh,” he grunted, whole hand ghosting over the sore skin as if to feel the texture of your wound on his palm. “Didn’t teach you a thing, did it.” 

“What was it s’posed to teach me,” you breathed, careful with your words. 

His paw raked over your side, fixing at your hip. “To stay the fuck away.”

“I can–” You panted, tongue heavy in your mouth, “I can go away. I can go.” 

His domineering hands were at your waist, the hem of your little dress scooped up with them. 

“Not now, you won’t.” 

Your stomach turned to lead. 

Suddenly possessed by the skittish need to bolt, you lurched to the side to un-wedge yourself from between him and the dresser – let out a squeal when he predictably ensnared you with leviathan arms. He wrangled you like cantankerous livestock, growling as he wrestled you until your back landed against the drawers. 

“Mister–” You yelped tightly, all air squeezed out of you by his restraint.

“Play stupid games, girl,” he snarled, “Y’win stupid prizes.” 

You whimpered, blinking up at him through fluttering lashes, a hair's breadth away from you. His eyes were almost sinister, pinned to you, inky black pools blown wide in the darkness. Predatory. 

“I’m sorry—” you squeaked, flustered and winded. 

Almost cracked a smirk. “Too late for that.”

Even as he threatened you, you were helplessly magnetised to him. His harsh glare oozed hatred and hunger and it made your heart buzz like a bee trapped in the cage of your ribs. He pinned you forcefully to his chest-of-drawers, a brass knob pressed into your spine, and like a broken filly your resistance turned to butter. Unctuous and supple. 

You weren’t certain whether he had sensed your capitulation, or if he simply steamrolled ahead in his blind paroxysm whether you liked it or not. His titanic hands had you by the thighs, and he jounced you up, propping you up on the very edge of a drawer that stuck out a mere inch from the dresser. You chirped as the hard wooden edge cut into your raw bottom – hurt less, somehow. Distracted. 

He kept your thighs jammed tightly together by his legs, and used a single hand to cuff both of your wrists, pinned them to your sternum. 

Your vision was blurry, skin burning so hot you could sear something on it – you looked down, and his towel had been shirked from his hips, cock landed heavy on your belly. 

Heavy, the operative word – you could see the flesh of your belly pillowing out around its trunk, thick and lengthy, shaft leading down to a bed of dark curls at the base of his stomach. Your throat swelled shut as you stared at it, dizzy at the sight, as he hooked two fingers into the waistband of your knickers.

He yanked the front of your panties down with impatience, unveiling your mound and making the taut elastic cut into the flesh of your hips. Didn’t pull them off all the way, though, only allowed himself enough room to feed his cock through the gap between your cunt and the gusset of your underwear.  

The lips of your pussy spread like petals as he wedged his cock between them, and your breath lodged in your throat – but he didn’t pierce you with it, not at that angle. The aperture between your cunt and thighs was tight, tight enough for him to gain traction, and it made you whimper. 

Only once the round head of his cock was buried in the valley of your pussy did you realise how slick you were. Mortifyingly so. Your syrup had pooled there, undisturbed until he split you open, and now you painted his shaft with it. 

He cracked a proud smile. Canines caught the glint of moonlight. His breathing turned ragged and you felt it on your open lips, sucking down the hot air he exhaled, and it made you feel drunk. 

“Feral little thing, ain’t ya?” He growled, grinding his cock out of the slit of your thighs before driving it back in, the friction of his shaft against your clitoris made your eyes flutter shut.

You only let out a little mewl in reply, trapped against the hard dresser that shook and clattered with every movement. He fucked the fissure between your thighs and cunt in earnest, and it was somehow embarrassing; that he refused to grant you the dignity of fucking you properly, of surfeiting your starved cunt with even an ounce of real attention. He gripped his cock by the base of his shaft and guided it into the slim gap, offering you only the chafing of his iron-hard length against your pebbled clitoris as he rutted.

It was barely satisfying, but it made you twitch and shiver with a neglected pleasure – just enough to turn you syrupy sweet, not enough to truly sate the little creature in you that put you in this very predicament. You tried to tighten your thighs, firmer than they were already, in the desperate hope that it might augment the pressure of his cock burnishing your slit, might drive it in at the right angle to break into you. 

But it wasn’t about you. Your enjoyment was inconsequential to him. 

This was your punishment. 

You could tell he approached the zenith of his own pleasure as his breathing became frayed and arrhythmic, and his thrusts unsteady – he stilled, large fist gripping his cock, and while his blunt head was still tunnelled into your knickers, he began to shuck his dick from its base, jerking off into the gap. 

It was mortifying – besides the denigration itself, of having him masturbate himself with you – the downright pitiful desperation you were dripping with. Coating his cock in it and yet remaining ignored. The tingles of an orgasm fluttered around you like a butterfly you could not catch, coiled up and unwinded over and over with every inward and outward rake of his shaft. 

You had no freedom to move while you were entangled with him; legs pinned shut and feet dangling off the ground, hands manacled to your chest so tightly your fingertips went cold. You had no option but to take what little he gave you. 

He let out a stifled groan, and you gasped when you realised he was coming — you watched his face as he finished himself, as you felt his come pump into the gusset of your panties, filling up the gap between your lips as he chased a few final ruts. You felt his cock jolt with the aftershocks of his climax, and he rested the entirety of his weight against you, forcing the rest of the air out of your feverish lungs. His jaw was viciously tight, huffing through his nose like a bull, and his squinting blue eyes were glued to you. Lucent with spite and a potent satisfaction. 

“Y-you–”

“Don’t make a damn fuss,” he muttered wryly, short-winded.

You whined as he tugged his cock from between your thighs, returning your knickers to their chaste position with a snap of the elastic over your mons.   

“You shouldn’t have – have done that–”

He all but snorted at that, as he stepped back from you – let you fall to your feet from where he had jammed you against the drawers. Kept your hands shackled together, though. “What else did you come here for, then, eh?”

My panties stayed unspoken, because it would have been a lie. 

You flinched when he raised his free hand, but he only grazed your jaw with his thumb. “Wanted a fuck, did you?”

Your head nodded itself despite your lack of instruction. Subconscious. Too humiliating to confirm of your own will. 

“Ain’t gonna happen,” he grunted, as he finally released your cuffed hands, dropping down to pick up the towel he had left in a pile on the floor. 

You moaned, rubbing your tender wrist, light-headed after the blustering outburst. Felt his come between your folds, slippery and hot, it escaped through the groin of your knickers and ran down the inside of your thigh. 

“Why not,” you whinged, quietly, as though hopeful he wouldn’t hear it. 

“Gotta earn it,” he jeered. “I ain’t rewarding your fuckin’ behaviour.” 

You wouldn’t tell him even this was a reward, in itself. The frustration was blistering hot, thumping in your temples. “I hate you.” 

“I bet,” he snorted, as he fixed his towel around his waist once again. “G’on. Go home.”

You scowled at him, lips curled and brows knitted tight. You wanted to throw something at him. 

“Fine,” you griped, as you reached under your dress to pull down your defiled knickers. 

“Don’t you dare,” he snapped. “You keep ‘em on and you walk in ‘em.” 

Your jaw went slack. “Are you serious?”

“Does it look like I’m jokin’?” 

It didn’t. Not a bit. He wore that same rigid face that sunk in his features every time he scolded you, lips in a line under his dense beard, brows flat and heavy over his squinting eyes. Somehow made more severe while he was without a shirt, you could see every ireful twitch of the worn muscles that rippled under his sun-baked skin. He could hurt you worse, if he wanted to. The thought makes you sweat. 

“Fine,” you groaned, again, and you impudently rammed him with your shoulder as you stormed past him and out of his bedroom door. 

You heard his low chortle on your way out, but he didn’t call out for you. No more snide remarks. You bashfully returned to the dark study, picked up your father’s chore coat, and slipped out the same window you had broken into. 

The walk back was sticky and uncomfortable. Suddenly you felt like buzzing insects were hovering around you, landing on your skin, hoping to poke in and suck you dry. The baying coyotes sounded closer than before, just over the hill. The moonlit air wasn’t cool enough to mollify your temper. The wheaten grass was sharp and splintery under your bare feet. The come in your gusset was viscid and gooey, glued between your thighs with every step. 

Yet, you were grotesquely proud of it. Wearing the evidence that Mr Price wasn’t as mighty as he purported to be. He didn’t ride a high horse. He came in your panties and made you walk in it, as a punishment. 

Truly depraved man. You knew that confidently, now. If he thought he had deterred you, he was sorely mistaken. 

You didn’t bother being quiet when you finally returned home after a slow and sulky walk through the night. Dumped your jacket on the floor by the back door rather than hanging it on its hook, trudged up the crying stairs and shut your door with a clank once you got to your bedroom. You tore the linen sheet off your bed and left it astray, before falling immediately into your mattress, flat on your stomach. 

You fell straight to sleep.

a/n: far be it from me to insert a political statement into my cowboy porn, but as a non-american depicting a sanitised rural USA, i feel the need to make clear my stance on everything happening over there (and the ripple effects it is having on the rest of the world): fuck trump and all his nazi partymen, fuck everyone who voted for him, and fuck every non-american who would have if they could. if you are supportive of or ambivalent about the oligarch-cum-drinking, bold-faced-fascist ideology of he and his ilk, just know that every breath you take is a fucking waste of oxygen. and if you're upset by that sentiment then fuck you too. no middle ground on this! love ya 

[bitter-post-millennial]

wild cherries [2]

[masterlist]

Price x f!Reader - tags: modern western AU, cowboy!Price, light sadomasochism, brat taming, spanking, humiliation, chasing, dubcon if you squint 18+ mdni - 7.1k words

Old enough now to change your name When so many love you, is it the same? It's the woman in you That makes you want to play this game

If Mr Price’s goal had been to deter you, he had sorely failed. 

Not his scoldings, nor his threats, nor his blatant distaste for you and your family did anything to discourage your habits. More than anything, he emboldened you. There was something in his voice, you thought, some reflection in his censorious eyes that told you there was more to find. That you needed only summon the bravery to dig deeper. 

You were sent home with the uneaten jam, and when you dumped it on the kitchen counter, Evelyn had scoffed, appalled; “What an asshole.”

When you asked her what she thought was going to happen, she merely sucked her teeth and stormed off to inform Miles of your apparent failure. 

There was more at play than they were willing to share with you, though that wasn’t uncommon. That had even been the case even while your parents were still alive. You’re just away-with-the-fairies, daddy used to tell you, and thus your siblings deemed you ill-prepared; too airheaded to assist them with the supposedly meticulous puzzle of running a family business.

It didn’t bother you, though, not too much. It did hurt when they would exchange unspoken words at your expense, shooting each other a glance when you attempted to wedge yourself into whatever scheme they were working on. But, all the same, you knew that you would hate shouldering that level of responsibility. That you’d bitterly begrudge the weight of generational expectations if they were dropped on you, as they were on them. 

No, as the youngest, silliest sibling, you were given more grace. You were allowed to roam unfettered. Not purposefully, no explicit permission was given to encourage your escapades - instead, not two days after returning home, it was as though they had forgotten that you were there at all. If you kept to yourself, stayed out of trouble, they paid no mind to your capers; there was always something more important that pulled their attention away. 

So, while they were busy ordering around their ranchmen and managing the many industries of your family ranch, you had already slithered through your little broken gate, before the scorching midsummer sun had made it halfway across the sky.

You meandered down the rows of his overgrown cherry trees like they belonged to you. The trees were old, likely fruiting since before you were born, and their trunks were thick and sturdy at the base. They had once been well pruned, so the lower branches were stockier, but years of neglect had allowed skinnier, floppier chutes to grow out from the tops. They were so laden with fruit that they drooped low, and you felt as if they were reaching down to offer their treats directly to you. 

You picked the prettiest, glossiest, reddest ones, and made a basket out of the skirt of your cream-coloured frock; nobody was around to see your bared legs underneath, and so you collected as many as would fit. Popping them behind your teeth and meticulously nibbling the flesh from the pit, you’d spit the cleaned core into the grass as you moved onto the next. Maybe, you thought, the pits you discarded would one day grow into even more trees to succeed the old ones.

You left a trail wherever you ventured. Little wet pits and green tooth-pick stalks in piles around the place; in stables, along pathways, among the cows. Sometimes you’d leave juicy red fingerprints on door frames, on the planks of fences, on horse snouts – perfectly incriminating.  

In scuffing sandals you wandered aimlessly along an old dirt road, long unused; green sprigs of grass and bunches of wildflowers almost covered it entirely. An old route that settlers may have followed state to state, spotted occasionally with two-hundred-year-old milestones, ignored just enough to have been spared from crumbling to dust.  

Shaded by a cottonwood, humming to yourself, you created a little tipi with your cherry stalks on the flat top of a mile marker. Balanced them carefully as you licked sweet flesh from your teeth. And when a gentle breeze blew it over, scattering your creation, you leaned over the stone to pick them from the dry gravel around its base.  

One, two, three, four… 

At the familiar rumble of a truck trundling over dirt, you straighten your spine, palms resting on the edge of the milestone as you look over your shoulder. A dusty Chevy square-body had already coasted to a stop behind you, pale blue paint faded and matte after at least a decade of proper use.  

There he was, the enigmatic man, hanging his elbow out of the open window. John squinted at you through the glare of the afternoon sun, the wrinkles in the corners of his eyes pinching, barely shaded by the cattleman he wore even inside his truck. Your throat bobbed with a swallow as you caught his eye, adrenaline flickered like a flame in your chest. 

With a disapproving suck of his teeth, he grumbled at you, “What’d I tell you, last time I saw you?” 

Plucking the short skirt of your cotton dress downward, to cover where it had ridden up, you spun around to face him demurely.  

“D’you remember?” He insisted, tone richly disparaging. 

“You don’t want trouble,” you answered meekly, through a little smile, shyly scratching the back of one hand with the fingernails of the other. 

“I don’t want trouble,” he repeated, a confirming grunt, as he tapped the metal door with his palm. He flicked his head, gesturing for you to make your way around to the passenger side. “G’on. Get in.”  

Your brows knotted in doubtful confusion. “What for?” 

“I’m takin’ you back to your brother,” he barked, irate and impatient, “I’ve got some words for him, too.” 

You absently kicked the rocky dirt with the heel of your sandal, pouting at him. “What words would those be?”  

With a snort, he rocked his head to glare ahead out of his windshield, then back to you. “To keep a fuckin’ handle on you.”  

“Don’t think there’s anything you could tell him that he hasn’t already tried,” you mumbled, attempting to subtly flick the handful of cherry stalks you had collected to the ground.  

He chuckled at that, breathy and hoarse, a hint of frustration in his throat. “I believe that,” he scoffed. “C’mon. In. Don’t make me ask again.”  

You chewed on your lip, squinting in challenge as you stood up straight. “Or what?”  

Glowering at you, nostrils flared in frustration, he seemed to swallow what must have been an inappropriate retort. Instead, his arm retracted through his window, and following the thud of the handle he swung open the door with his forearm.  

With a hop he landed in the dirt, dust rising from under his well-worn leather boots. Christ, how he towered over you. It may well have been the menacing shadow of his sizzling anger that made him seem so daunting, and yet so delightfully thrilling. You felt the prickles of gooseflesh tingle down the back of your neck as you tilted your head to look up at him, sheepishly watching his steady approach, not yet daring to retreat.  

“You’ll be in more trouble than I will if you lay a hand on me,” you spat, with a faint smirk in your lips.  

He gazed down the bridge of his nose at you, lour combed you from your bare legs to your skittish expression - but, stare caught brazenly on your chest, his sneer sunk quickly into a pout of disapproval.

“Care to explain this?” He queried severely, wide hand reaching for you, you leaned back further against the milestone behind you as if you might evade him. With his fingers he pinched the cream cotton of your blouse, and for a moment you feared he was peering down the gap, blatantly inspecting your bare breasts underneath.  

But, no, he instead curled the light fabric between his fingers to show you the bright red stain dribbled down the front.  

Oops. Your gut reaction was to giggle, yet unsure whether to admit guilt or feign ignorance. 

As you parted your lips to speak, his judging hand moved to your face; a hold of your chin with a thumb and hooked finger. Piercing eyes glued to your lips, his impatient focus withered into ire, shadowed under the brim of his cattleman.  

Your tongue writhed behind your teeth, heart thumping in your throat, as he tilted your head up and to the side. His thumb wiped over your bottom lip, firmly and precisely, from the corner to the centre. Your lips were suddenly hypersensitive, his touch charged, it sent a tingling current through the soft pink flesh and made your mouth all wet. 

“You’re a little thief,” he gritted, dropping your head and peering at the red smear of juice on the pad of his thumb. “Aren’t you.”  

Were you scared of him? 

It was hard to distinguish your fluttering heart rate between terror and thrill – a touch of both. Because you didn’t know him. You couldn’t trust him. You had no basis to assume he wouldn’t club you with a closed fist and throw you in the back of his pickup. But you felt the prickles his touch left behind on your lip. You got stuck on his pinched blue eyes, the glare of the sun reflected off your dress and illuminated them like they glowed from within.  

“No I’m not,” you muttered, readjusting your dress after he left creases in the neckline.  

“And a liar?” He scoffed, as he grabbed one of your wrists – tugging up your hand to reveal the sticky burgundy juice under your fingernails, drips dried in your palm. “You’re covered in evidence, honey.”  

Snatching your hand from him, you crossed your arms in petulance. “It’s not stealing if you don’t use it.”  

“The fuck it isn’t,” he snapped, wiping his juicy thumb off on his denim-blue button down, leaving a stain of red among the blue. He hooked his hands onto his hips. “Now get in the goddamn truck.”  

“I can walk home,” you grumbled, “you’re not the boss of me.”  

Huffing in anger, he leaned forward, looming over you with a domineering scowl. “While you’re on my property – yes I am.”  

Glaring up at him from under your brow, you nibbled at the inside of your lip, pursing your lips. “What’re you gonna do if I don’t go with you. Kidnap me?”  

He tilted his head, shrugged his shoulders. “I’ve got some rope in the truck,” he gruffly warned, “you gonna make me use it?”  

Did you imagine the glint in his eye? Did you make up the lascivious quip in his tone? Whether or not it was dreamt, it plucked a coy smirk in your lips.  

He was daring you, wasn’t he? Goading you to challenge him.  

So with a glistening smile you reached for his cattleman hat – plucked it from his head, and swiftly placed it on your own. Too big to sit properly, you perched it on the back of your head so that you could still see out from under the brim.  

“Hey!” He barked, lunging to snatch it back from you – but you bolted, kicking off your sandals, ducking under his arm and sprinting across the dirt road. Through the field of grass and dry wildflowers, you bounded like a deer. “Fuck’s sake.”  

Holding his hat in place, you peeked over your shoulder in your escape, and he was swiftly in pursuit.  

“God dammit, girl, you get back here!” He roared – already closing the distance. You hadn’t expected a man as bulky as him to sprint as fast as he was, but he charged after you like a grizzly.  

You only giggled, leaping over fallen logs and stray planks of wood, weaving between the trees that littered the outskirts of his prairies.  

“If you get so much as a dent in that hat I’ll fuckin’–”  

“You’ll what?” You squealed through a grin, holding the skirt of your short dress in a fist against your hips, to allow your legs to sprint in full stride.  

You heard him grunt, close to a growl, as he encroached on you. “You’ll be in big fuckin’ trouble!” 

Breathless, panting, you failed to think of any witty response as you dashed towards one of the many stables on his expansive property – this one devoid of horses or livestock, simply a storage building for stacks of haybales and racks of tools. You’d perused it before. He might have found more discarded cherry pits in there. 

He was behind you already, as you barrelled through the ajar stable door, tumbling into the centre of the dishevelled space. Illuminated only by the cracks of glowing sunlight that broke through gaps in the plywood boards, you stood among scattered hay and dust. You turned and faced the entrance, watching in anticipation as he steamed in after you.  

Face burning red in fury and exasperation, he jabbed two angry fingers in your direction. “Give me the hat,” he ordered, throaty and severely – not an ounce of humour left.  

But stubborn as you were, overly enjoying the needless chase, you were not going to capitulate that easily. You stood poised to dash, and with hunched shoulders, he prepared to hound after you.  

“I like it,” you puffed, exhilarated, purposefully impudent. You pinched the brim, pulling it down with a disingenuous hat-tip. “It probably looks better on me.”  

“Even if it does,” he chided through teeth, out of breath, “it’s not yours.”  

You snickered girlishly, pursing your lips. “Maybe it should be.”  

“Give it to me.” He thundered, hand outstretched, your heart flipped within your ribs at the sudden eruption of stern rage.  

So you spun on the ball of your bare foot, before flitting hastily towards the rickety ladder that led up to the hayloft. Clambering up it like a spider, the old wood and rusted nails squealed in dispute of being used for likely the first time in decades.  

But he was blindingly rapid in his chase, and before you made it even halfway up the ladder, his heaving forearm scooped around your waist and hooked you by the stomach.  

“C’mere,” he growled, through a clenched jaw, as he peeled you from the ladder; hoisting you like a small animal, he held your back to his chest with a constricting arm and your feet dangled high off the ground. 

You writhed and kicked, bucking like a goat, still holding his hat tightly to your head to prevent him from snatching it back from you. “Let go of me!” You squeaked, still giggling.  

“No,” he snarled, “I’m taking my fuckin’ hat back, and then I’m taking you back to your big brother so he can knock some goddamn sense into you.” 

You whinged, clutching his thick forearm in an effort to loosen his grip. You dug your nails into his tanned and hairy skin, corded with veins bulging from the exertion of keeping you contained. His body burned like a furnace, pectorals stiffening underneath you as he flexed them while he began hauling you towards the exit.  

“It’s just a hat,” you whined, “you’ve probably got plenty of them.”  

Your obstinance was aimless – no particular interest in the hat, and no true understanding of why you fought so desperately to keep it. Maybe you just wanted to see how far you could push him. Wanted to see what would happen once you went over the edge.  

“It was my father’s,” he griped, anger approaching a boiling point as you continued to squirm around in his grip.  

You groaned in dispute, still holding the leather cattleman tightly to your head. “Well he won’t be needing it, will he?”  

That was a step over the line.  

You knew it immediately, quick to bite down hard on your tongue after the words spat from your lips like poison.  

His retaliation was sudden and severe; dragging you closer to the exit, he tossed you unceremoniously, almost tumbling down with you into the pile of block-shaped haybales that sat by the stable door. You landed face-down against a bale, winded, a squeak jumping from your chest with the impact; and his hat toppled from your head, rolling out of reach.   

He dropped to his knees behind you, leaned his forearm heavy against your lower back, and you were flustered and confused by his haste – skirt hitched up by the fall, he suddenly swung his free hand down with an open palm, smacking against the bare skin of your ass with a thunderous whack. 

“Ah!” You squealed, a shriek, followed quickly by a breathless whine that slipped from your lungs outside of your control. The explosive clap rang in your ears, echoing within the bowels of the stables, loud and shrill. And the sting was sharp, hot and prickling like a brand, no doubt the raised outline of his hand was quick to form in your shivering skin.  

A silence followed, pregnant and heavy, and you dared not move nor breathe too loudly – you inhaled and exhaled with trembling breaths, lips parted and wet, eyes wide as you stared into the packed hay.  

He was dead quiet, too. Panting throatily, he kept you in place - grip of you not easing, though he stayed utterly still. You waited for him to apologise, to express some remorse for his blatant degradation, to beg for you not to tell your family what he did. But he was silent. Almost proud. 

You tilted your head slowly, peering at him doe-eyed over your shoulder. “I’m sorry,” you whimpered, close to a whisper, dripping with pleading humiliation.  

“For what?” He growled; voracity burned hot and bright in his otherwise shadowed glower, and you felt yourself shrivel, intimidated into diffident obedience.  

With a whine you turned your head back, facing ahead into the shack wall, you spoke quietly and nervously. “For taking your hat.”  

Followed another swing of his arm, wide hand colliding with your rear in another deafening crack, forcing a laboured squeak from your chest. But there was something more than pain in your throat, wasn’t there? A whisper of thrill, a yelp of delight in your subsequent gasp.  

And he must have heard it, taken it as encouragement. You felt the hand that pinned you down curl into a fist, balling the fabric of your dress tightly in his palm and lifting up the hem even further. You felt the cool air of the stable bite at your stinging skin, your rear entirely exposed to him.  

“Yeah?” He rumbled, gritting teeth, huffing like a beast. “What else?” 

You stared face down into the bale of prickling hay, sipping the turgid air like warm milk and scouring your mind for your next apology. There was a long list of transgressions he could demand an apology for. Would he punish you for every single one? Did you want him to? 

His spread hand hovered over the skin of your ass, a threat – it ghosted over the fine fuzz and triggered ripples of gooseflesh to radiate out from the faint touch. 

“I’m sorry for–” you uttered, barely a croak, “for making you chase me.” 

The second you spoke it, your entire body tensed itself on instinct – girding itself for the discipline that would inevitably follow. Swift and purposeful, he raised his arm, reeling it back like the string of a bow. And he released it just as suddenly, hurling his palm downward rapidly enough to emit a whistle through the air; it collided with your ass in a sharp smack, over the same burning handprint he had already left there. 

The force of it thrusted you forward, knocked a helpless squeal from your throat. You whimpered at the grit and dust grinding under your knees as it rocked you, your hands that had flat on the haybale turned to fists as you desperately squeezed handfuls of straw. 

“Mhm,” he grumbled, grave and deep. “And?” 

You swallowed air through your open mouth, your heart thundered in your ears – out of breath, but too wary to inhale deeply enough to sate it.  

“For…” you hesitated, “for talking bad on your father.” 

Keeping your hips still with his restraining forearm, he raised his free arm once again; you held your breath, squeezed shut your eyes in preparation for the blow. Swing. Smack. 

Each collision of his vicious hand over the same spot burned worse than the last, as though his palm was adorned with barbs that pierced your fevered skin on impact. Yet a quiet moan slithered from your chest, slipped from your tongue, oozed like honey. 

He drew in a grumbling breath, strained as he sucked it deep. Could he hear the pining titillation in your throat, dripping from each yelp? Might he hit you harder for it?  

You winced, shivered, as his wide hand rested against the matching print that only grew more raised and more red by the second, the touch by turn warming and punishing. “Keep goin’.” 

“I’m–” 

Bitten off by a gasp as his fingers pushed in only slightly, they burrowed into the pillowy flesh of your ass as though the squeeze was unintentional – the pressure on your near-broken skin inflicted a sparkling ache that made you whimper. 

“I’m sorry for stealing cherries,” you force out, in a wet mewl. 

He bore his dissatisfaction with a cocksure suck of his teeth. “Whose cherries?” 

“Yours,” you squeaked.  

“Mh,” he nodded, grinded out through a tight jaw. “Mine.” 

Followed quickly your castigation; the swish of his hand hurtling through the air, the ear-splitting crack of his open palm striking beaten flesh, the whine of twisted thrill that squealed out from your lips. 

“My cherries–” he spat, unrelenting; again he lifted his palm, letting it hover in the air for a brief moment before he brought it down with a force.  

Smack. 

“–My orchard–” 

Smack. 

“–My hat–” 

Smack. 

“–My horses–” 

Smack. 

“–My stable–” 

Smack. 

“–My land.” 

Smack. 

The final blow threw a saccharine cry from your heaving lungs, dosed with a shameful squeak of desperation, wet and eager; eyes watering, your head collapsed into the haybale, prickly against your bright red cheek. 

The skin of your rear stung numb, throbbing like a heartbeat, your knees shook with the adrenaline that riddled you from head to toe and turned your muscles to jelly.   

You adjusted your knees to balance yourself after he had knocked you off kilter, and you felt the slick that had seeped from you. With a grimace of ignited humiliation, you realised your cunt was drenched in slippery syrup, the cool air biting cold at the saturated patch of your floral pointelle panties. 

You could only suck your bottom lip between your teeth, biting down in abashment and guilt, self-flagellation for the burning heat that had pooled between your legs; almost as blindingly consuming as the white-hot sting of his hand-shaped brand. 

He leaned back from you, balanced himself with his hand on your ass. Panting like a wolf, he wiped his brow with the back of his hand as though he had overexerted himself, broken a sweat in his outburst. Seemed to pause as he looked over his handiwork – had spanked you hard enough that you wouldn’t doubt how crisp the perfect outline of his hand would have been. Perhaps it was purple, speckled with the spots of broken capillaries and blood seeping under the hot skin. 

But it mustn’t have been the damage he had inflicted that he was stuck on, as you heard his heavy breathing degrade into hoarse, animalistic chuffing; a broken grunt as though he had been kicked in the stomach. 

You felt his thumb, slow and probing as though influenced by an unseen force – creep towards the cleft of your ass, running along the elastic lace hem of your panties. Teased the trim like it might slip underneath, but it didn’t. No, instead, he hovered it over the gusset, barely grazing the sodden fabric. 

Eyes fluttering shut, you inhaled weakly, a quiet whine as he pushed his thumb into the valley of your cunt; wetting the tip with your fluid that soaked the thin cotton, dipping into you as though the single layer of fabric wasn’t the only barrier preventing him from plunging it deeper. 

He must have felt the ring of muscle at your entrance tighten and twitch, an inadvertent reflex to his intrusion – because he pressed the pad of his thumb a little deeper to feel it flutter around him, before he pulled his hand away. You quickly released a sharp and feverish breath, cunt still pulsing around the painful absence of his finger. 

“Alright,” he huffed, through teeth, as he rubbed the back of his head in exasperation. “Reckon you learned your lesson?” 

You squeaked as you felt his pelvis press against yours, weighing against you from behind; as he leaned over you, reaching past you to pick up the cattleman that he had knocked from your head. 

“Huh?” He persisted.  

“Yes,” you croaked, realising his demand, you were quick to follow it. You leaned upright, kneeling still, as you tugged down the skirt of your dress to cover yourself; grimacing as the light fabric brushed over the burning welt on your rear. 

With a hand on his knee he pushed himself to stand, sniffing in vexation as he dusted off his jeans. Bowed his head to put his hat back in its rightful place, pinching the leather crown with a single hand as he gave it a shimmy to adjust it. “Yes what?” 

Through a whimper, you whispered, “Yes sir.” 

“’Atta girl,” he gritted, “learned you some manners.” 

You feebly swept a lock of your dishevelled hair from your face, tucking it behind your ear, too poignantly humiliated to think of anything pert to utter. 

“Up y’get.” 

It took you a moment to gather the nerve to stand, breathing carefully as you placed your hand on the edge of the haybale. Impatient, evidently, John bent down to you, slipping his broad hands under your arms in an effort to pick you up. 

You yipped, wriggling away from his grasping hands as he hoisted you upright, and you landed on your feet with a wobble. “I can walk,” you bit. 

“Yeah, right,” he groused, spinning you by the torso before hooking his arm around your waist; you yelped as he tossed you callously over his shoulder like a wet rag. “I ain’t letting you run off again, missy.” 

“I wasn’t gonna run,” you whinged, but you mustered no resistance as he hauled you towards the stable door, kicking it open with his boot. 

He snorted as he adjusted you on his shoulder, carting you out into the scorching midday sun. The hum of the cicadas blared, almost deafening, and there was no cool breeze to alleviate the burn on your rear; only the sun to bake it.  

Trudging through the long grass, no doubt towards his truck, he chided; “D’you expect me to trust you?” 

You bit your tongue, combed your scrambled mind for any retaliation. “I don’t want to get in trouble again,” you mumbled.   

“I don’t believe that for a second,” he sneered, “I think trouble is the only thing you want.”  

The pressure of his thumb lingered against your entrance, a permanent impression that made your heart flutter at the memory. Perhaps he was right.  

“That’s not true.”  

“No?” He questioned scornfully, grasping hand digging into the side of your waist to keep you steady. “Then why’d you come back here, huh?”  

You pouted, staring into the grass, watching the back of his boots rise and fall with each step. Would you tell him it was just to see him? Just to have him find and scold you? Just to toe the line? Long since crossed, wasn’t it.  

“I wanted some cherries,” you lied.  

“Uh-huh,” he scoffed, as the grass began to shorten, bleeding to the rubble and dust of the old road. You heard the deep click of a handle, the rattling of the truck door, the moaning of its old hinges as it swung open. “Was it worth it?” 

You hesitated, gasping as he tossed you into the passenger door of his Chevy – you landed on your back across the worn leather bench seat, bouncing slightly in the fall, head narrowly missing the steering wheel. 

“Yes,” you breathed, to answer his question, and he froze like you had caught him in a bear trap.  

He stood imperiously between your knees as your feet dangled out of the open door, skirt having been rucked up by the landing. He glowered down at you, lips in a thin and admonishing line, but his predacious eyes betrayed his stoicism.  

Glare clawed down your splayed form from your dewy lips to the swell of your breasts, to the bare skin where your thighs met your hips. Catching a glimpse of the mound of your pussy from under the hem, hidden from him by the dainty fabric of your underwear.  

He breathed raggedly through flared nostrils, put a white-knuckled hand against the top of the doorframe, casting a looming shadow over your body. His gaze was pointed, fiery, burned from lidded eyes - you felt the heat of his stare, it made you sweat. Made your cunt ache unbearably for his attention.  

Tongue squirming, too bashful to form a plea; you made your entreaty with a meek hand, tracing your fingertips down your stomach, catching in the pleats and folds of your linen dress. With a hook of your fingers under the hem of your skirt, you coaxed it upwards, coyly exposing yourself bit by bit. Watched cautiously as his lour raptly followed your movements, belying his stone-faced expression.  

But he stopped you, or himself, with a light smack on the outside of your thigh, a scolding. And he ordered, dark and strained;  

“Settle down.”  

With a moan of petulant defeat, you dropped your arm to your side.  

“I’m takin’ you home,” he grumbled, reaching for your skirt – did so with purposeful cruelty, letting his calloused hand graze up your thigh as he grabbed the hem and tugged it downwards to cover your panties.  

He took impatient hold of your knees and swivelled them inside the cab, before shutting the passenger door with a creaking swing and a loud slam. You sat yourself upright, wincing at the painful reminder of the lashings on your rear as it pressed into the firm leather seat. He marched around the truck and hopped in behind the steering wheel, you crossed your arms churlishly as you glared out the passenger window.  

You bounced around in your seat as he started the engine and accelerated off down the deteriorated dirt road, the vibrations of the rolling vehicle doing little to settle the sore throbbing between your legs.  

“I’m telling my brother what you did,” you griped, rich with spite.  

“You can tell ‘im whatever you want,” he scoffed, hanging his arm out his open window, wrenching the steering wheel in the tight grip of his closer hand.  

“I’ll tell him you hit me.”  

“Yeah?” He gibed, “Gonna tell him how worked up you got?”  

Scowling, you felt your cheeks glow red as you stared out the window. “I’m not worked up,” you fibbed.  

“Sure seems like it.” You could hear his smirk without having to look at him.  

You fumed. “Sounds like you’re proud of yourself." 

He only released a quiet huff of scornful laughter in response to that. Nothing snide left to say, now that you’d accused him of purposefully arousing you. But he was right. It was all you could think about, writhing and sizzling in your mind and in your stomach; a fire that he had lit. Now he mocked you for being ablaze.  

You could only sulk, keeping your arms vitriolically crossed and refusing to utter a single word until the truck rolled up your drive, and came to a halt over the raw gravel of the turn-around. 

You spotted Miles in discussion with the foreman by the front steps of your family farmhouse, head bowed as though discussing something of import. But upon seeing John’s truck approaching, he dismissed him with a wave, and adjusted the black pinch-front hat that shaded his face while walking in the truck’s direction. 

John left the engine running and hopped out with a grunt. You sorely begrudged the idea of letting him best you, allowing him to feel like he had been victorious in forcibly taming you. Your cheeks, still pink, burned even hotter at the thought of him scolding you to your brother like you were wayward juvenile. 

So in the brief seconds you had before he stormed around to the passenger side, you slipped your hands under your dress. Tucked your fingertips into the waistband of your panties, bucked your hips as you shimmied them down your legs and plucked them over your feet. And you nestled them behind you, out of sight as John yanked open your door, beckoning with an impatient and commanding hand for you to step out.  

You groaned as you followed his wordless demand, jumping down into the gravel and glaring up at him with a vindictive curl in your lips. You spitefully stayed still, then, not taking a step in any direction of your own volition, wary that he might glance upwards and spot the coquettish little calling card you left in his truck.  

“Move it,” he ordered.   

You only pouted. “You’re such a dick.”  

With an exasperated roll of his eyes, he tugged your shoulder in the direction of your house – then lodged his hand at the back of your neck, under your hair, an authoritative grasp so that he could drive you by it. And he did, you stumbled awkwardly over your bare feet as he nudged you along.  

Miles had his hands on his hips, but crossed his arms dubiously as he came to a stop in front of you.

“Jonathan,” he greeted stiffly, blinking at you with a knit in his brow. “Y’found her.” 

You gave him a look of insolent anger before you glared into the distance, flushed with fervent humiliation, disguising it as malice. You crossed your arms over your chest, hiding the cherry stains from him. 

“Trespassing,” John growled tersely. “Again.” 

Miles hooked his thumbs in his belt loops, squinting at him. You had expected him to put up more of a fuss, to berate the estranged neighbour for being as bold as to put his hand on you, carting you around like one of his cattle. It seemed, though, that he was more interested in maintaining a degree of decorum, keeping the peace, for a reason you could not fathom but were nonetheless grateful for. 

“Fence is on your property, John. S’your problem if she fits through the gaps.”  

“You need to keep a handle on her,” John snarled, thick with derision, fuse running short. He released your neck with a slight shove, then, and you vindictively rolled your shoulder away from his lingering touch.  

Miles snorted. “Looks like y’got a better handle on her than I ever will.”  

Had enough, you stormed away from the condescending rancher, marching with your arms crossed towards the steps.  

“Y’know what happens if I catch you back on my property, don’t you, girl?” John barked after you, a growl in his throat. 

Shoving past your bewildered brother as you trudged up the creaking stairs, you rolled your eyes. Concealed the coy smirk that curled in the corner of your lips, you answered with a grouse;  

“Trouble.”  

-----

John wiped an open hand down his face as he sped along the dirt drive, white-knuckled and stiff. 

The road was clear and bright ahead of him, glowing by virtue of the blinding sun, and yet he could not focus on it. His vision blurred by the image of you standing winsomely among the wildflowers. He was distracted by the sight of the harsh sunlight unveiling you, the thin cotton of your dress failing to conceal the shadows of your soft nipples, blissfully unaware they were revealed to him so vividly. 

His palm still stung red and hot, tingled under his skin like needle pricks in the aftermath of his ruthless discipline. He knew he should feel guilty. That he should be chastising himself for assaulting you, for unleashing his long-caged fury in an eruption of rapacious torment. 

But he didn’t. He felt not an ounce of shame. 

Instead, he felt angry. Angry at the knot that was tight and wrenching in his stomach, at the heat that flared in the back of his neck. Angry that he could still smell you in the cab of his car, your berry-scented shampoo and the animal musk of your frightened sweat, drawn out by the chase. 

Angry that he fell for your bait, that he gave you the satisfaction of retaliation for your insolent behaviour. 

Christ, some satisfaction he gave you. 

Despite all valiant effort he could not dispel the picture of your tiny, frilly knickers. Worn under your sheer frock, so visible in the sunlight, as if to purposefully entice him upon their reveal. The delicate fabric turned so dark where it was sodden, it demanded his attention even if he attempted to ignore it. His compulsion to touch between your legs was undriven, and he could not resist it - he had to check, to know for certain, that such an abasement had filled your cunt with eager nectar, so much of it. That your body responded to its punishment as praise, to its degradation as pleasure. 

Such knowledge ridded him of any guilt, even if it should have done the opposite. But it did little to temper his indignation. Now, he understands what drives you. The fuel for your delinquency. 

Is it a lack of attention, sweetheart? Do you yearn for somebody to notice your misdeeds? For someone to care to penalise you?

Are you so bored, so neglected, that your cunt drives you to self-sabotage? 

He should have guessed it from your persistence, from the frequency of your unwanted visits and the habitual nature of your crimes. From your coy little smiles, the way you’d flutter your pretty eyes at him whenever he scolded you. 

He knew then, conclusively, that in order to deter you, he mustn’t embolden you. Mustn’t satisfy you with his anger or his reprimand, mustn’t indulge your kittenish efforts to provoke him. 

But he heard still your cloying cries ringing loud in his ears, the yelps he forced from your little throat each time he struck the soft, supple flesh of your rear. Still saw the way your skin rippled with the impact, the way your fine hairs stood on end after each lashing. The pretty purple marbling that formed in his handprint, swollen and red. The way your loose hair spread over your shoulders, knotting and picking up bits of straw from where you had landed. The way your toes curled when his touching shifted from punishment to exploration, when his fingertip felt the lips of your soaking pussy through the painfully thin cotton of your panties. 

Fuck. 

It would be far easier said than done. 

Would you get that wet, so wet, if he simply yelled at you? If he chased you once again off his property? If he berated you for helping yourself to his fruits? 

He glanced over his shoulder to where you had sat cross-armed and sulking, where your bare thighs had pressed against the leather of his truck seat. Wondered if your juices might have soaked through your knickers on the drive over, worsened by the bouncing of the truck trundling over raw dirt and loose stones. 

Instead, he was met with a little white handkerchief. Soft woven fabric, and as he tried to peel his eyes from the road to inspect it closer, he saw it was dotted with small and dainty flowers, pink and green. 

He recognised them, in a heartbeat; pulled his truck to a screeching halt and pulled up onto the grassy shoulder, next to the poplar windbreak that lined his fence. He reached over to snatch up the little white bundle, eyes squinting in disbelief as he felt the gentle fabric between his fingers, still warm from where it had been tight against your skin.

Unfurled them in his hands, and the air escaped his lungs in a jagged breath. 

“Fuck’s sake,” he growled hoarsely to himself, and he felt his scruples boil away, dissolving into steam.

Your panties. Left for him in the passenger seat like some salacious memento, a token to remind him of his depravity. Were you mocking him with them? 

He unconsciously rubbed the fabric in his fingers, finding the spot that sat flush with your cunt; still wet, cold in his hands, glistening with your syrup. He let out a defeated huff as he balled up the knickers in a tight fist, now powerless to the urge; raised your favour to his face and buried his nose in the bunched up fabric. 

The elasticated cotton was warm and soft on his skin, and he breathed in your scent deep and slow. It filled his chest and sinuses like smoke; your aroma was subtle, delectable, something utterly primal. The smell of sex and balsam, it made him grunt into the muffling fabric, made his thumping blood flood into his cock like the breaking of a damn.  

Might you taste as good as you smell, sweetheart? 

He scented you and his mouth watered like it was your cunt he was buried in, like the folds of the soft cotton brushing his skin were the petals of your pussy, and he wanted nothing more than to taste you. He grinded his palm against his length; rigid, twitching, straining in his trousers - tranced, he ripped at his button fly, shoving a hungry hand into his chequered boxers and taking his thick cock in a fist. 

His grip of his shaft was tight and hasty, he ran his fist up and down the length of it, rolling his foreskin over the sensitive head; to bring himself some reprieve, he told himself, to alleviate the ravening fury that pervaded him since you arrived at his doorstep. 

But the raucous thunder of an incoming truck knocked him quickly out of his delusion, and he swore at himself. Slammed the steering wheel with an exasperated palm. He resentfully tucked his throbbing cock back into his boxers, did up each of the labouring buttons of his fly, and adjusted himself in his seat as if he could ever find comfort. He stomped a frustrated boot into the accelerator and veered back onto the dirt road, faster than necessary, homeward bound once again. 

He stuffed your panties into his pocket, and rubbed his jaw with a rigid hand. Gritted his teeth for the entirety of the short drive home. 

Get a fucking grip.

[bitter-post-millennial]

wild cherries [1]

[masterlist]

Price x f!Reader - tags: modern western AU, cowboy!Price, light sadomasochism, brat taming, spanking, humiliation, chasing, dubcon if you squint 18+ mdni - 5k words

Tell me why, Is it hard to make arrangements with yourself When you're old enough to repay but young enough to sell?

Daddy used to warn you about wandering onto the Prices’ property. 

The lichen-coated fence that separated their land and your family’s spanned miles; carving through tall dry grass, through woods of white oak and ponderosa, crossing the babbling river that fed water to both ranches. The barrier itself was fairly short and easy enough to climb over, but there was one small gap where the splintering planks had fallen from their fastenings. Tucked under a towering cottonwood tree, hidden by the grass, it was easy to wander through as if it were your own long-neglected cherry orchard on the other side.   

You had almost lost your little gateway, after so many years away; at a college across the country for four, and hopping between jobs like a rabbit for the next few. In that time the grass surrounding the fence had grown long and dense, the thicket far thornier and weedier than it was when you were a girl. 

Then, you really only knew the Prices by name. You were expressly forbidden to talk to, let alone look at any of them. They aren’t nice boys, daddy had told you, I won’t have them near you.

Now there was only one left, and it seemed the rules had changed. 

Jonathan Price, the last remaining, was a reticent man. A shadowy figure, who you might occasionally see on horseback up on the hilltops of his ranch, tan cattleman hat bowed as he surveyed his acreage. You had met him, once, as a girl. Then, he was in his early twenties, tall and aloof. Eldest of three sons, all three of whom had enlisted and served, sent to fight a war whose nature you were oblivious to in your innocence. He had been absent for years, and once his father was taken by whatever cancer he chose not to treat, John was the only one of the three to return.  

His father you had known, vaguely, only as a man that your father despised with an unwavering passion. Some daft rivalry, originating long before you were born, the seeds of which were planted many generations ago. Whatever enmity that existed between dead old men had not quite been passed on to the remaining sons, it seemed – where there might have been out-and-out conflict, existed only cold disinterest.  

Your older brother Miles had told you as much, when he picked you up from the airport a three-hour drive south. More than fifteen years your senior, Miles was thrust into the demanding vacuum your father left, and despite laments, he certainly played the part. 

“It wasn’t a question,” he chided, glancing at you from the corner of his eye. There it was, that glimmer of your father’s spirit, especially bright whenever Miles got away with telling you what to do. 

You hung your elbow out of the window of his carmine red Silverado - a new toy - and rested your chin on the back of your hand. 

Only offered back a grumble; “I don’t even know him.” 

A lie. 

You had encountered him the last time you returned home for summer, and the time before that. Encountered was the sweeter way to put it, pestered might be better suited. 

Once you heard he had finally come home, you found yourself impishly eager to pry, to observe, to take a mere glance at the last remaining man of the family yours hated so ferociously. You were strangely captivated by him, in a nosy sort of way. Intrigued by the mystery that shrouded him, the man you were never allowed to know. 

And you had always been at the mercy of your wicked curiosity. You couldn’t help it. It was an impulse, a compulsion, to stick your fingers where they didn’t belong. You would habitually explore his acres when you came home from college, then during your brief stints of being in-between jobs. When you ventured through the gap in the fence, you’d prowl around his estate like you were attempting to memorise a maze. You’d peek into his old and empty shacks, pet his mooing cattle, pick handfuls of wildflowers from his unkempt fields.  

Sometimes you’d sneak into his stables. You’d coo at his horses, stroke their velvet snouts, feed them the flowers you had plucked with a smile. They had grown to like you, his sweet horses, you wished you could know their names. They probably liked you more than him, no doubt, the mysterious little neighbour that would sneak in at dusk and feed them treats.  

But your most regular habit – one that had gotten you into trouble before – was your proclivity for picking bunches of glossy red cherries from his rows of fruiting cherry trees. The orchard was under-loved and weedy, but those glimmering little baubles of ruby were just too delightful to let fall to the grass and rot.  

The most recent occasion you had slithered into his orchard, last summer, he had caught you. While your arms were stretched far above you, reaching among the droopy branches and floppy leaves to pick the brightest sun-ripened cherries, you heard him holler; 

Hey! I see you in there, missy!

Lips stained red, slick with sweet juice, you gave him a puckish grin before you ran off like a hare and hopped back over the fence.  

There’ll be trouble next time I catch you over here, little lady, he had roared after you, watching you clamber over the oaken planks. You hear me?

Miles chuckled at your retort, dragging you back from the warmth of your rose-tinted reverie. “Well, he knows you.” 

“So?” You bit, shutting your eyes as the warm summer wind lapped at your skin. 

“So, it’d be rude if you don’t go and say hi.” 

“I don’t think he’d care whether I say hi,” you muttered. “He hates us.” 

Miles returned a terse sigh. “I’m trying to change that. I don’t want us to keep fighting the same fight our dads did. I don’t think anyone alive even remembers what the fight was about.” 

You knew you were getting close to home when you drove past the towering boxelder tree with the crooked trunk, the one you had named the wobbly tree as a little girl; it always looked like it was on the verge of toppling over. From that tree onwards, you had committed the landscape to memory. The distant mountain peaks that caught the red glow of the afternoon sun. The dense lumber pines that coated the closer rolling hills. The rows of poplars and cedar windbreaks that protected their plots of farmland. The blue and yellow wildflowers that grew over the edges of the chip seal road. 

You listened to the roar of cicadas, loud enough to be heard over the engine of the truck; a sound you didn’t realise you missed so dearly until you escaped the perpetual industrial hum of the inner city. 

Home, at last. Under the old log archway, boasting the hanging wrought iron sigil of a rearing stallion, and your family’s claim; Fenton Ranch. The truck rolled over the raw gravel of your long driveway, reduced to dust under decades of heavy tyres. You could smell home in the air; distant firesmoke, livestock, cut grass. You drove past the stables, then the sheds, you spotted some of the familiar faces of ranch hands that had worked for your father before they worked for Miles. Among them, some new ones. 

Your generations-old house came into view, two storeys high with a wrap-around veranda, cladded in chipped white siding and adorned in carved cornices. Sat atop a circular hill of dry grass, it was sheltered by a ring of century-old white oaks that kept it shaded from the blistering summer sun. 

At the top of the porch steps stood your sister Evelyn, tall and well-dressed, she leaned against a column and offered an insouciant wave as Miles pulled the truck to a stop. 

Dust rose from under your sandalled feet as you hopped out of the truck and into the gravel, raising your arms to the sky to stretch out the tension that had built in your stomach. As the stretch forced a squeal through your gritted teeth, Evelyn called to you; 

“Hope you don’t think you’re on vacation, Honeybee.” 

There was a touch of humour in her tone, but knowing your ever-pragmatic sister, she was not joking. 

You did think it funny how quickly hearing your nickname hurled you back in time, had you feeling as though you had never left home. A teasing sobriquet stemming from your toddlerhood; having learned that bees get their honey from flowers, you developed a penchant for suckling on them - clovers and dandelions that you had picked from the grass, honeysuckle and lilac plucked from bushes within reach. My little honeybee, mom used to call you. A nickname that stood firm after she passed, repeated in honour of her, so often that as far as those around you were concerned it had long usurped your birth name. 

Miles hauled your old suitcase from the bed of his truck, unrequested; he was a gentleman, on occasion, when he felt it appropriate to be one. You followed him towards the house, stopping to greet your sister en route as he continued to carry your cargo to your bedroom. 

Evelyn gave you a smile and hug with her slender arms, quick and purposeful. Straight to business; “So what happened with Wendell Bishop? I thought you liked it there?” 

The marketing agency that recently had you in their employ, the third company you had worked for in the last two years. You stifled a roll of your eyes with a slow blink, not wanting to argue with your sister in the first five minutes of returning home - though it would be far from the first time. Despite Evelyn being closer in age to your brother than yourself, you bickered like you had been born a day apart. 

“It was fine, I just - it wasn’t for me.” 

“Ugh, for God’s sake, Bee.” She groaned, “it’s never for you.” 

You had no dispute within you but a shrug, and you walked past her to head indoors.

“You know you can’t float around forever,” she barked after you, and you shut the screen door behind you. 

The interior of your house was breezy, windows and doors open to allow the summer draught to flow through every room and corridor like blood through veins. The old hardwood creaked and groaned underfoot as you wandered towards the staircase, catching brief glances at the old family photographs that peppered the patterned walls. Some from your childhood, some faded sepia film dating back three generations; Fenton ancestors whose names you had forgotten or never learned. 

Miles brushed past you as you made your way to your bedroom, and he stopped you with a word. 

“Evelyn made jam,” he said, and the edge in his tone told you that you needed to stop and listen. 

The recipe for the strawberry jam the women of your family would make on special occasions was one passed down from grandmother to mother to daughter since the inception of the line. It incorporated a touch of cranberry to make it a little tart, a sprinkle of salt to deepen the flavour. What made it extra special, mom would say, was that it was made with love. You didn’t imagine Evelyn put much love into it, because it wasn’t written explicitly into the recipe, wasn’t given quantifiable measurements.  

“You’ll take him some, won’t you?” Miles asked, when you only gave him a small grin of pleasant disinterest. 

You chewed your lip, kicked the floorboards with your heel. Inevitably, you would have slinked over the fence and skulked around the Prices’ land once the sun kissed the horizon, once you could be sure the man and his ranchmen would be settling in for supper. Some unfathomable part of you would rather be caught by him in the act of a crime, than to knock on his door like a sycophant. 

There was something vaguely humiliating about the idea, presenting yourself on his doorstep, as though supplicating for approval you didn’t want or need. Obvious that you had been ordered by your authoritarian brother to go and apologise to Mr Price for your past transgressions. While, in actuality, Miles was not at all privy to such transgressions, you knew Jonathan would find sneering satisfaction in seeing you feign politeness, play at being ladylike. 

As far as Miles could tell from your sulking, though, you were merely nervous about being forced to greet an intimidating stranger. Not entirely incorrect, you supposed. 

“Sure,” you finally conceded, with a huff. “I’ll go over in a bit.” 

Miles offered a pleased grin under his sun-bleached beard, placed his sturdy and grateful hands on your shoulders.  “‘Preciate it, Bee.” 

You took a brief hour to recuperate after the long drive. Rinsed your face and combed out your wind-knotted hair, unpacked your well fed suitcase into your old and rickety chest-of-drawers. Everything you owned you had stuffed into luggage - the lease at your little apartment had come to an end, you knew you’d be home for the foreseeable future. You hung your winter coats away in your closet, out of season. You lined up your shoes and boots by the door. 

You greeted the working collies with a scruff of their heads and a kiss on their noses, as you ventured outside into the heat of the afternoon. You said hello to the greying foreman who knew you from your girlhood. 

“Soda’s turned out behind the barn,” he told you, and you gave him a sunny smile as you trudged over in your well-worn boots; their tan leather dry and wrinkly, the thread of the embroidered paisley patterning had come loose in spots after years of putting the boots to work. 

You spotted your painted mare in the middle of the paddock behind the stables, grazing on golden grass, dried to hay. Recognised her by the white splotches on her chestnut coat, the bright stripe that ran down the centre of her head and turned her snout pink. She raised her head at your familiar whistle, and you heard her whinny cheerily before she trotted towards the log fence you leaned over. 

“Hey, sweet girl,” you cooed. You petted her snout with a loving hand, and she nickered softly to greet you. “Missed ya.” 

You led her through the gate into the shade of the barn, adjusted her bridle over her head and fed the bit between her teeth. Using an old step-stool you hoisted yourself up and over her back, with no stirrups to help you. 

You had always preferred riding bareback; Soda’s coat was soft, and her back was narrow and forgiving. You imagined saddles as corsets, that the poor girl lacked the kind of mouth that could tell you how sorely uncomfortable it was. But you thought she said as much in the ways she could, with a toss of her head and a loud snort whenever she was approached with one. 

Besides, you often took her for rides on a whim, forgoing instructions to stay within sight of the house - it was easier to hop on her back and trot off into the trees without having to saddle her. 

Your short powder-pink sundress rode up your bare thighs as you adjusted your legs to bestride your horse. You tugged the linen hem down with a shimmy, to avoid revealing the treats underneath to the odd ranchman that passed by. Mom would always chastise you when you rode in a skirt, hammered on about how indecent and impractical it was. She wasn’t here to tell you so, now. If she was, you would have told her it was too hot for jeans. 

“Hey,” you heard a sharp holler from your sister, she trotted towards you as you rode Soda out of the barn. “Hold up.” 

You looked down at Evelyn - only on horseback did you have the ability to do so - and she raised a crocheted net bag for you to take. Carrying three jars of jam, each a different shape and with multi-coloured lids - you had almost forgotten your homecoming gift.  

“Oh, yeah,” you said, with an apologetic giggle, taking the bag by the handle. “Is there still some left for us?” 

“Plenty,” Evelyn replied through a smile. “He doesn’t get all of it.” 

“What’s a lonely man going to do with all this jam, anyway?” You asked coyly, and Evelyn pursed her lips at the playful derision in your words. 

“Hopefully, eat it with a spoon and think about how kind we were to share it with him,” she answered, with her brows raised. “And come to ask us for more.” 

You tilted your head, a bewildered knit between your brows. “You guys buttering him up for something?” 

She gave you that pacifying grin, the one that told you she believed the true answer would be beyond you. “‘S nothin’ like that, Bee. We’re just trying to smooth things over.” 

Her answer was dishonest, you saw through her simper. But it was never worth the effort to pry any further. “Whatever,” you chuffed, tugging at the reins and setting off.

“You can take the truck, you know,” Evelyn yapped, before you had the chance to give Soda a gentle kick to speed her up. 

Shrugged. “It’s a nice ride.” 

Evelyn frowned at that. “How would you know, hm?” 

Another shrug, you concealed the flush in your cheeks as you turned to trot down the drive. 

It was a nice ride. Soda had a steady gait that never made you sore, and she was pleased for the outing, as easily bored as you were. You decided to take the conventional route to the Price ranch - this was an official visit, after all. Stayed in line with the drive, you mindlessly plucked leaves off of reaching branches as you passed them and tossed them to the grass beneath you. Cars and pickups passed you on the road, kicking up dust and making you squint. The sun of the late afternoon was baking on your back, but the warmth was a tender embrace, and the gentle breeze that cooled you was a kiss to follow it. 

The majority of the trees on the Price Ranch were bunched around its borders, though the odd fir or cottonwood was scattered among the wheatgrass-coated hills; enough shade for his hordes of black anguses to huddle under. 

You passed under the towering arch of the gate, the logs aged and splintering, the stone pillars holding them up were worn down by wind and dust. The sign above you flaunted in great big letters, like a shout, PRICE. Beneath it the head of a longhorn, carved directly into the stained pine shield that hung from its chains. The road to his gargantuan farmhouse was winding but mostly flat, and you gave Soda an encouraging pat on the side of her neck, as if she was the one in need of reassurance. 

Even the house was foreboding, much like the man himself - dark and expansive, constructed with stacked logs and piled stones, rock chimneys climbed up three of its walls. Its windows were vast but few and far between, grids of stained wood crossed over the glass and made it difficult to see in from a distance; to your chagrin. 

You dismounted Soda by a fenced pasture, and hitched her reins to one of its posts. She was a loyal girl, but as helplessly subject to her curiosity as you; she needed an anchor to keep her from drifting away and whinnying at the stallion in the paddock over. 

Patting down your skirt and hanging the bag of clinking jars from your shoulder, you marched with an artificial confidence up the stone steps of his front entrance. Drummed the front door with your knuckles in three sturdy knocks, you hung the net bag by the handle from two demure hands, fingers knitted together.

You swallowed. 

Came the deep thumping of heavy footsteps, they approached the other side of the door, slow and beating. A clatter, a thud.   

The door swung open and just about vacuumed you inside, you adjusted your feet so you didn’t lose balance.

Jonathan was almost as tall, near as wide as the doorframe he stood in. He glanced above you, expecting someone taller, before he craned his head downward to look at you, and you felt your heart flip behind your sternum.

“Well,” he huffed, voice hoarse from a day’s worth of yelling. His stare narrowed as he soaked you in, crow’s-feet creased; piercing eyes raked from your head to your feet, painfully slowly, and back up again. “Ain’t you a nice surprise.” 

His cocksure voice was rumbling and deep, it sunk under your skin and made you turn pink. You had only ever heard him shouting, heard his roars in the distance when he chastised either you or his ranchmen. Now he uttered his words so low that you could hear the gravel in his throat, it made you want to press your ear to his padded chest and feel the vibrations of his sonorous voice directly from its origin. 

You took the same time to inspect him - realising you hadn’t ever seen him up this close, close enough to smell him. He smelt of hard work and cigar smoke, salt and musk, the warmth of his mammoth body reached out and touched you as if the evening air was suddenly cold. His smoky blue t-shirt had stains of sweat between his broad pectorals and down from his neck, the cotton coated in dust - he had only just turned in from a long day of wrangling, hadn’t yet had the chance to shower or to change. 

He lifted a bronzed and furry arm to lean his elbow against the jamb of the door, so thick with well-earned muscle they threatened to tear the sleeves of his shirt with the slightest flex. You wondered if he picked up his cows with his bare arms, carried them around like they weighed no more than bales of hay. 

His cheeks were ruddy with sunburn and vigour, his firm jaw coated by a dark and barely kempt beard, specked with silvers. His expression was stern, though a glimmer of interest in his steel-blue eyes belied his severity. Heavy lids hung low by virtue of looking down at you, his lips in an analytical curl under the thick moustache that grew under his nose. 

You blinked up at him, and opened your lips to speak - but a gruff snicker from him sucked the air from your lungs before you could utter a word to greet him. 

“Brought me a gift?” He asked richly, glare stuck on you and not the sack of ruby-red jam you hung from your fingers. 

Finding yourself, you gave him a pursed smile. “Miles made me come and say hi.” 

“Made you, did he?” He snorted, oozing a knowing arrogance. 

“Yep,” you said, lifting the bag to present it to him. “Eve cooked up some jam.” 

You saw his temples bulge as his jaw clenched tightly, expression sinking into what looked to you like twisted disappointment. 

“Nice o’ you,” he grunted disinterestedly, paying no mind to your olive branch. After a troubled sigh, he asked; “Where’ve you been, lil’ miss Honeybee?” 

The use of your nickname made gooseflesh shiver down your spine. He could only have heard that from your siblings or their ranchmen - how often had they spoken to him? Discussed you while you weren’t there to hear it? Last you thought, they never interacted at all. Now, he seemed to mock you with it. 

But he uttered it so casually, with such a coating of sugar, that it rinsed you like praise. 

“Just working,” you replied flatly, shuffling on your feet, vaguely embarrassed to admit you had abandoned the job already. “In the city.” 

“Mh,” he hummed, giving you a placid nod. “Back for good?”

You bit back the smirk that coaxed your lips. “Maybe.” 

“I’ll have to build a taller fence, then, won’t I?” 

Unable to discern if there was any humour in the forcefulness of his tone, your tongue curled behind your teeth as you tried to find a response that wouldn’t incriminate you. 

And you failed. “I’m a good climber.” 

He didn’t quite smile, you saw his chest rise and fall with a hounded breath. 

“I bet you are.” 

The air became thick, filled your lungs like smoke, and you almost coughed in the loaded silence. 

“Y’know,” he started, crossing his arms over his wide chest, tucking his hands under his arms and inadvertently augmenting the biceps you shamelessly stared at. “Your sister came ‘round the other day. Warned me about you.” 

Your brow furrowed at that. “Really?”  

You could tell he battled a grin, he licked his teeth behind stiff lips. “Uh huh.” 

Wondering how often he had conversed with her, you swallowed the juvenile jealousy that rose in your throat. “What’d she say.” 

“That you’re prone to getting in trouble,” he said, through a deep purr. “But she told me you don’t try to.”

You tilted your head, and the sly simper that had you had been containing finally curled in your lips. “I don’t know why she’d say somethin’ like-” 

“I don’t believe her,” he gritted, steamrolling over your flimsy defence. 

Heat blossomed in the apples of your cheeks. “You don't?” 

“No,” he rumbled, leaning down to you. His face a foot from yours, you shrunk under his glower, watching him cautiously from under flitting lashes. “I think you try very hard.” 

You held your tongue between your teeth, taming it before it gushed out something you might regret. Clawed at your mind for any kind of refutation, but it melted like sugar on your tongue. 

Watching in bashful silence, John reached forward and hooked a finger into your bag. Reaching inside, he plucked out a jar; it was dwarfed within his wide hand, he spun it around in his palm as though looking for a label. He went to open it, and the tendons and muscles of his forearms rippled under his skin as he twisted off the stubborn gingham-patterned lid. It broke loose with a pop.

He dipped his pointer finger into the juicy red preserves, scooping out a lump of it. Thick finger sticky with the sugared fruit, he put the tip of it between his lips, sucked it clean as he looked down the bridge of his nose at you. 

His mouth made wet noises as he evaluated the flavours with his tongue, you felt a flutter in your core. Lips pursed, he raised his eyebrows. “‘S good,” he remarked. 

You smiled sheepishly. “Well, it’s yours,” you raise the bag. “These too.” 

He twisted the lid back onto the jar, then took a step towards you as he reached for your net bag and dropped the jar back in with the rest. And he continued forward, another step, and you landed on your hind foot. You inched backwards as he loomed over you, and backwards again; you felt your heel go over the edge of the top step, your balance tipped - until his firm hand caught your upper arm, and he swiftly held you upright. 

Lost for words, you opened your mouth. “I-”

But he shut you up with a bear grip of both of your shoulders, and adrenaline needled down the nape of your neck. He lifted you a few inches off the step, and spun you around like a doll before dropping you unceremoniously back to your feet, facing out towards your horse.

He was instructing you to leave, unsaid but unsubtle. 

“Go on,” he chuffed, and your breath hitched as he gave you a cajoling pat on your behind with his palm to coax you forward. 

You obliged him, walking abashedly towards Soda with your heart in your throat and your gift ungiven. He followed you closely, not allowing more than two feet of distance to grow between his body and yours; as though prepared to snatch you if you dared to bolt. 

“Tell your sister, I don’t want her goddamn gifts,” he sneered, and you dared not look over your shoulder at him. 

Soda gave you a quiet nicker as you came to a stop beside her, ears flicking nervously at the predator behind you. You shushed her gently as you unhitched her reins, and using the bottom rail of the fence you stepped up to mount her. Reaching over her back, your legs hung over her side as you awkwardly tried to pull yourself upward. 

You felt the evening breeze under your skirt, quietly aware of how much of yourself you bared to him. You wondered whether he might be stealing his glances, if he might have spotted the pink hem of the panties you wore underneath. You wondered if he thought they were pretty. You wondered if he wanted to see what they concealed.��

You yipped as you suddenly felt his hand against your ass, a heavy fist; realising quickly that he had clutched the hem of your dress, when he tugged it downwards to give you some decency. Scolding you implicitly.

With a frayed breath, he growled; “And I don’t want fuckin’ trouble.” 

Swallowing a timid gasp, you pulled yourself up onto the mare’s back and mounted her properly, legs hanging over either side of her torso. You hoped that from your perch he couldn’t see the glowing red in your cheeks, the flare of heat that spread over your decolletage like a rash. 

“You hear me?” He badgered, arms crossed and brow rigid. 

You gave him a winsome nod, an imperceptible simper, as you gave Soda a soft kick in her side to set her off. 

With an innocent grin, you crooned; “I’ll do my best, mister.”

can you tell i love neil young

[bitter-post-millennial]

iron tide [1]

fisherman price x reader cw: noncon undressing/bathing, dubcon touching. 11k words. 18+ mdni the crew aboard a deep-sea crabbing vessel rescue a woman adrift in the north sea. you wake up on a boat surrounded by men you don't know, with no memory of where you came from. or: john price rescues you from certain death and decides that you belong to him [masterlist]

Jonathan had long forsaken his godliness; but if he were to deify anything, it would be the Sea. 

Great big blue, infinitely vast and infinitely deep. She was sweet when she was still, gentle, little ebbs like kisses against the barnacled hull — formidable when she was angry, titanic swells like mountains that crashed and shattered and sucked irreverent men down into the depths of her. 

She took as much as she gave, demanded sacrifices for her gifts. Stole his father when he was a boy, swept off the deck of his ship by a rancorous wave and cast out into the expanse before she inevitably swallowed him. But what she purloined she returned in abundance — a cornucopia of life; fish, lobsters, molluscs — and enough crabs for John to make his living for the better part of his life once he retired from the Navy. 

In more recent years, though, he had begun to lose faith in her, too. 

The seas were violent and only getting rougher, warmer when they needed to be cold to let the crabs get meatier, colder when they needed to be warm so they could replenish their numbers. 

A burgeoning resentment had rooted in his crew like a spreading cancer, minute at first but steadily swelling — every year they were paid a little less and damaged a little more, and who else was there to blame but their skipper? 

Wrong spot, wrong depth, wrong time of year; he seemed to keep getting it wrong, despite decades and decades of seafare. As though the Sea was punishing him, as though he had taken too much — only a matter of time before it was his turn to give. 

She made known her spite as he leaned over the paint-chipped railing of the deck-facing balcony, watching his crew haul in pot after pot from the raging ocean. Each cage more vacant than the last, the crabs smaller than he had come to expect from the once generous North Sea, soft brown shells where they should have been thick, ochre red, and thorny. Half of them too small to keep, so were begrudgingly tossed back into the deep.

The sun had set not ten minutes prior, hidden by black cloud and dense fog, the sea and sky smudged into a uniform shade of gloaming blue. The waves were tempestuous, whitecaps high and valleys low — the Iron Tide was a resilient girl, and she carved through the bulk of the swells, but even she could not avoid the plummets and climbs of an ocean this rough. He felt the mist of the cracking waves on his cheeks, the wind blistering cold and forcing him to squint. 

As the Captain he had outgrown the need to get his hands dirty, he could stay in the comfort of the wheelhouse if he wished — but he still liked to venture down to the deck to pull ropes and haul pots when he could, if only to show his crew how it was properly done. He liked to ensure his callouses stayed thick and his mettle hadn’t turned soft. 

“This’s a fucken’ suicide set, captain!” Roared Johnny from the deck, work-worn voice barely audible over the bellows of the waves on the hull. Lead deckhand with the attitude of a first mate. 

The first mate himself, Simon, had begun ascending the rusty steel stairs with an uncharacteristic urgency, the hood of his fluorescent orange jacket around his shoulders, kept there by the wind. 

“How many ‘ve we got?” John asked him, jaundiced, having to shout over the gale. 

“Thirty-two,” Simon said rigidly, “from twenty pots.” 

“Fuck’s sake,” John grunted, aggravated, smacking the rail with his palm. He cynically observed the next pot as it was hauled up, even emptier than the last one, and he made up his mind. “Alright, set ‘em back.”

“They’ve been soaking for twenty-four hours,” Simon disputed, but the pith of his irritation resided in the knowledge of how much labour had already been wasted. It was an inexorable fact, though — there was little point in retrieving them now, as empty as they were. 

“It’s a waste of time to haul them all,” John barked. “What have we got, seventy to go? Set them back.” 

Simon rubbed the bridge of his nose with a thumb, exasperated. “Alright.” 

He echoed the Captain’s command in a roar down the stairs, deckhands looking up to listen before they obeyed — John watched, disenchanted, as they began launching the string of pots over the side of the deck one by one, throwing loops of yellow nylon rope and the bright red marker buoys out to follow them. 

It was easy for John to fall into a sour mood, and after the abysmal stew Nikolai had thrown together for their supper, his fuse was cut even shorter. Seemed the Russian mechanic’s turn to cook always landed on the harshest nights, left everyone crotchety and indolent. 

He needed nicotine. 

He made his way back to the helm with a crease in his brow and his jaw in knots. The bolted windows spanning the length of the bridge were near impossible to see through, the battering of sea spray distorting the view of the dark ocean that extended unendingly past the bow. He glared out into the abyss for a beat, stoically watching the black waves, wondering what next the Sea would punish him with. 

A blink of red pierced through the mist. 

He almost ignored it, at first, rubbing his forehead as he twisted his spinning chair behind the helm — until it was there, again; a pin-prick of bright carmine, cutting through the blue sea fog and disappearing behind a wave. 

Frowning as he leaned into the radar screen, his eyes scoured over the bright blue disk and immediately caught on a tiny yellow blip. Due north, twenty degrees west. It was faint, flickering every odd moment, and he stared at it vigilantly — a spot he would normally dismiss as sea clutter, if not for the blinking light he thought he saw on the horizon. 

He reeled down the window by the seat and stuck his head out into the winds, squinting through the spray — at the top of a crest shone the little red light, blinking at half-second intervals, clear as day. 

The realisation rinsed him colder than seawater. 

A lifeboat. 

He snatched the intercom radio from its hook by the wheel and held it to his lips. 

“All hands—” He barked, “Secure the deck. Got a lifeboat up ahead. Prepare for rescue.” 

Simon’s crackling voice quickly came back through the radio, from the call point on the deck. “D’you say a lifeboat?” 

“That’s what I said.” 

“Roger.” 

John could hear the yelling on deck from the wheelhouse, all that fervour frothing up at the prospect of an emergency; a new challenge. He immediately spun the wheel to adjust the rudder, steering the boat in the direction of the blip on the radar. Gently pushed the throttle to catch up and felt the roaring engine quake through the boat, the sharp bow of his ship cut through the swells like a fist through a wall. 

“See it,” Simon called through the intercom. 

“What’ve we got?” 

“Life raft.” 

He tugged the throttle lever back to halt the boat on approach, aligning the vessel so that the lifeboat was portside, knuckles white on the wheel. He set the engine to hold station before marching out to the deck, bracing for the wind as he hurried across the steel balcony and down the ladder, knurled steel stairs clanging loudly with every thud of his boots. 

“Any survivors onboard?” John shouted, joining his crew where they peered over the railing, as another wave cascaded over the gunwale, greenwater flooding the deck before gushing out of the scuppers. 

There it was, neon orange and climbing up a steep swell. Hardly a lifeboat — an inflatable raft, little red light blinking atop a rounded corner. From the deck he could tell it was ancient, the bright skin of the raft peeling and blistering, exposing the ballooning black rubber within that kept it afloat. Modern regulations demanded modern lifeboats — fully enclosed boats with their own motors, search and rescue transponders equipped. He struggled to imagine the kind of vessel the raft had even come from; certainly not a cruise ship, or any legally operating fishing or passenger boat. 

“Only one,” Alex answered, yelling over the roar of the ocean. 

Nik let out a grunt, dismissing it all with a sweep of his hand. “That woman is dead.” 

John squinted at the raft, and quickly determined that Nikolai wasn’t unreasonable for thinking so.

The woman aboard the raft lay face down in the orange bed, bare-footed, nothing on but a saturated ivory dress that clung to her skin like glue. Sodden hair webbed across her back, tresses floating in the inch of water that filled the basin of the boat. 

Even if she were a corpse already, though, he wasn’t going to let the Sea digest her unchallenged. 

“Alright,” he declared, chewing on his plan before he uttered it. “I’ll strap on the lifeline, jump in and grab her, then you lot can reel me back in.” 

The disputes were quick to gush from his crew, all cursing and shaking heads. 

“Get fucked,” Alex scoffed, appaled, “skipper jumping overboard? What world are you living in?”

“You gonna do it, then, Keller?” John retorted, lips in a line. 

“I can,” Soap yelled, already shucking off his heavy jacket. Daredevil that he was.

John gritted his teeth. Wasn’t sold on the risk of losing his lead deckhand; but as he considered it, he would never be prepared to risk losing any of them. 

“You sure?” 

“Ah’m the best swimmer,” he boasted through a grin, now down to his thermals, shoulders raised in the cold and rubbing his hands together. 

“Good man,” John nodded approvingly, and the crew quickly went to work strapping him in — hooked the harness over his shoulders and secured it in the front, fed the end of the long blue rope into the winch so he could be retrieved after the catch. 

Came the thudding of boots on the deck, running towards the commotion; “Fuck’s going on? Why’s the engine idle?”

Kyle, the ship’s engineer, finally emerging from the engine room with a smudge of gear oil on his cheek. Must have had his earbuds in when the Captain issued the all hands directive. 

John let out a huff, not prepared to give a long justification to the designated safety officer, conscientious as he was.

“Oh shit—” Gaz chirped, discovering on his own the gravity of the situation, as he glanced over the railing and spotted the raft. “Is she alive?”

“We’re about t’find out,” Soap said keenly, bouncing on the balls of his feet to warm himself up. 

“You’re jumping in?” Gaz balked, “That’s — you’re fuckin’ mental.”

John let out a sharp huff. He didn’t disagree, but he thought it counterproductive to express any reluctance. “Got a better idea, lad?” 

Gaz sighed anxiously as he clutched the guardrail, head hanging from his shoulders. He knew as well as John that this was the only option — it was that, or leave the woman adrift in the ocean to die, if she weren’t already. 

John held fast to his pragmatism, but his morals were unyielding. Nobody gets left behind. 

Men took turns giving Johnny good luck pats on the back as he climbed over the railing. He hung off the other side like a monkey with his fist around the bar, looking down into the furious ocean and taking an anticipatory breath. 

The crew watched raptly and let loose a strident cheer as he launched off, diving into the waves with knife-pointed arms and sinking out of sight. Nik remained steadfast by the hydraulic winch, ready to set it off at any indication of either success or failure. 

Soap reemerged from the water with a visible gasp ten-odd metres out, breaking through the white foam and powering ahead in a freestyle stroke. He reached the raft quickly, and climbed aboard like a wet dog, hauling himself up over the ballooning sides and almost pulling it under the water with him. He kneeled beside the woman once he was in, pulling her by the shoulder to assess her — he gave no indication to the crew as to her status before he hoisted her up and held her tight to his chest, arms hooked under hers so that she wore him like a backpack.

He pushed himself back into the water with an eager holler; “Got ‘er!”

Nik immediately pulled the lever on the winch and it zipped loudly as it began spinning, winding up the rope and hauling Johnny through the swelling sea. The crane arm of the davit extended far enough beyond the gunwale that he didn’t slam into the hull on his ascent, and he clung to the limp woman for dear life — John and his deckhands leaned as far over the railing as they could without toppling overboard, hooking the rope that suspended the swimmer and heaving he and his cargo onboard. 

Soap coughed out a splatter of seawater as he gingerly lay the woman on her back, before rolling over and wiping down his face, dripping wet.

“Found yerself a mermaid, cap,” he sputtered, sniffing and shivering violently as he pushed himself to stand. 

“Nicely fuckin’ done, Soap,” Alex lauded, smacking him on the back and earning a screech from the Scotsman. 

“‘S too cold,” he bit, grabbing at his genitals through his sodden thermals. “Ma fucken’ balls are gone.” 

“Go in and get dry,” the Captain barked, as he hurriedly crouched beside the woman, sweeping locks of drenched hair from where it stuck to her face. 

“Jesus,” Gaz muttered concernedly. 

Her skin was bitterly cold, but soft on her cheeks; some indication that resuscitation might have been possible, that her skin wasn’t as stiff and waxy as corpse skin would have been. Eyes were lightly shut, her thick lashes clumped together by seawater. He used a gentle thumb to lift up an eyelid, and her pupils were nice and black — blown out, but not clouded over. Laces of capillaries meshed through her white scleras. Blood still bright red.

“How’s she looking?” Alex asked, crouching beside John, pessimism in his throat. 

“She’s frigid,” John said grimly.

“Could be hypothermic,” Gaz said from behind him, worry leaden in every word. “That water is barely higher than zero.” 

“Mh,” John grunted in agreement, hastily pressing the palps of his fingers under her jaw into a spongy jugular, held there for a few seconds — no pulse. “We’ll worry about warmin’ her up once we get her breathing.” 

He leaned back and interlaced his fingers, laying his hands knuckles down between her breasts. Pushed his weight into her sternum with a hard shove and her ribs sunk underneath him, bouncing back up when he released the pressure. Repeat. Over, and over, grunting with each desperate compression.

The heaving bodies of five men caging her kept the bulk of the angry waves from dousing her, the spray crashed over John’s back and dripped from him, beads landing on her body. Solemn silence hung heavy between them, as though fearful that expressing any hope would condemn her to certain death. Simon clutched John’s shoulder, grip encouraging. 

He counted his compressions until he reached thirty, before he urgently keeled forward and pressed his mouth to her cold lips, pinching her nose and lifting her chin — pumped air from his lungs into hers with a forceful breath, then another, then another. Her chest rose as it filled up with his air, sunk again as he let it seep out from behind her teeth. 

Returned to compressions. Push. Push. Push. He pressed so hard into her sternum that her ribs threatened to snap under the weight of him, but they were rubbery enough to withstand it. 

Continued the next round until he reached twenty-one — when water began to rise up her throat, sloshing about in her open mouth and trickling out of its corners. He urgently halted his compressions to flip her onto her side and tip out the brine, hammering into the midline of her back with an open palm. 

“C’mon, love,” John growled, teeth gritting. “Cough it up for me.” 

As though she had heard him, a gurgle eked from her throat, torso retching as an eruption of water gushed out of her mouth and sprayed over the deck. A few weak coughs followed the first, and she shuddered — the men roared in shock and celebration as John returned her to her back. 

Her eyes fluttered open for less than a second, shrinking pupils fixed on John for a heartbeat — wet, glittering under the beaming of the deck lights, carving straight through him and taking root in the marrow of his skull. Vacant and yet swollen, the glow of life anew, as though glaring right into the heavens — and with a little sigh, they feathered shut again. 

He held a hand to her cheek, gave her head a soft shake; prepared to continue the chest compressions, but as he curled forward and held his ear to her lips, he felt her breathing, shaky and weak against the cartilage shell. 

“She breathin’?” Simon asked bluntly, laden with apprehension. 

“Yeah,” John huffed, relief potent as liquor flooded hot into his chest and made his temples throb. 

“Good shit, cap’n,” Alex commended, releasing a puff of pent air, just as relieved as the lot of them. 

John nodded dismissively, hands on his knees, before he pushed himself to stand. He stood over the girl and hoisted her up with his hands under her arms, before delicately draping her over his shoulder.

“Gaz, help me with her, will you?” He grunted, before marching toward the stairs up to the superstructure. “You three — fun’s over. Get back to setting the pots. I’ll send Soap back out once he’s in his dries.”

“Aye aye,” Alex said facetiously, shaking out his hands as he and the others returned to the stack they had just tied down. 

“What’s the plan?” Kyle asked stiffly, in quick pursuit as John steamed up the stairs. 

“Gotta get her warm,” John said. 

“Yeah—” he agreed with a hesitant tone, “what d’you want me for?”

John’s eyes rolled into his skull. “You did a couple years of health science, didn’t you?” 

“One year,” Kyle corrected. 

John could have said that he wanted Gaz specifically because he was the ship’s assigned safety officer, or because he was the only man aboard with a university degree. But, in truth, he wanted him simply for the fact he was the least likely of all of his crewmen to make stripping the girl into something needlessly lascivious. 

He carted her to the head in steady stride, passing Johnny through the narrow corridor as he dried himself off with a towel around his neck. 

“She’s alive?” He asked hopefully. 

“Uh-huh,” John rumbled. 

Soap triple-smacked the veneer panel of the wall with a flat hand in excitement, all but bouncing off the ceiling with it. “Halle-fucken’-lujah! Need help warmin’ her up?” 

“No. Get your skins on and head back out to deck, Johnny, y’got more pots to drop.” 

Johnny groaned like a teenager, but he went off as he was told.

The head was small — enough room for a toilet, a shower, and a three-inch wide sink, not quite the floorspace to lay her down gracefully. John tore back the curtain and propped her up against the wall of the shower, nestling her into the corner so her head leaned against the perpendicular wall. 

No sense in wasting time. He clinically peeled the sodden fabric of her white dress up her thighs, lifting her limp leg to tug the skirt out from under her. 

“Christ—” Gaz grumbled, disquieted, he turned away. 

“Will y’hold her arms up for me?” John monotonously requested, uninterested in the boy’s reservations. 

Gaz sighed as he obeyed the order, taking her cold hands by the wrists and holding them above her head. John hiked up her dress without reservation, revealing the saturated bra and underwear she wore underneath, as he lifted it her arms up above her head. 

“This’s fucked up,” Gaz mumbled. 

“What is.” 

“Taking her clothes off,” he said, reluctance poignant. 

“You’d rather we let her freeze to death, eh?” John bit, not even dignifying the engineer’s aversion by turning to look at him. 

He tugged her flaccid body towards him, and her head fell against his shoulder — he reached under her arm into the space between her back and the shower wall, unclasping her bra with a single hand. 

“No,” Kyle acquiesced. “Do we really need to take off her underwear, though?”

“She’s not gonna get warm in wet knickers, is she,” John grumbled, frustration blossoming, releasing it in a sharp sigh. “Y’need to grow up, Garrick. Go and grab my jersey and a towel from the laundry, then.”

“Okay. Sure, yeah,” he agreed, marching out of the head like he might trip over in his haste. 

John bit down on nothing as he pulled the straps of the girl’s bra down her arms, adding it to the pile atop her drenched dress. Didn’t help that she was a lovely thing — pudding-soft curves, pretty little face — might lend an explanation to the young engineer’s discomfort, couldn’t reconcile the attraction he felt to a near-dead woman while she was incognisant of her nudity. 

John did not care, he had no qualms. 

A pragmatist, through and through. He felt no shame for admiring her as he leaned her back against the laminate wall, nipples grey-purple and hard as pebbles by virtue of her palpable hypothermia. Soft lips were slack, not as blue as they had been when she was fished out of the ocean, now that her blood was pumping again. 

He wasted no time ogling her, though, he was no reprobate. His only priority was getting her warm and awake. And that happened to involve hooking his fingers into the waistband of her knickers, saturated in seawater and cleaving fast to her skin. 

He hooked an arm around her to lift her from the shower floor, used the other hand to tug her underwear over the swell of her bottom before he set her back down to reel them down her thighs. 

Pretty cunt, too. Unshaven, how he liked them. 

He reached up for the shower head, held it in a fist as he switched on the water. Already nice and warm, preheated by the engine-powered calorifiers. He held the stream of warm water over her chest, watching as it cascaded over her breasts and flooded between her thighs. Didn’t care if he got himself wet in so doing. Checked her pulse every odd moment with the pad of a finger on her wrist, ensured her chest continued to rise and fall. 

Rubbed his free hand over her skin to scrub off all the salt; started modestly with her arms, shoulders, back — but was unhesitant in rinsing and scrubbing her armpits, down her belly, between her legs. Didn’t touch her pussy, though, even John felt that was a step too far. He simply rinsed it. Let the water run over her mons and channel down the cleft of her unaided. 

He tilted her head back and ran the warm stream over her hairline, careful not to let too much water pour down her face. He combed thick fingers through the tresses, scrunching her hair into a ball to wring out the brine before rinsing it out again. 

As he carded his fingers through her scalp, though, he felt a lump; just above her hairline, concealed by the locks. A squishy protrusion from the skull, with a frayed ridge through the centre of it. Only then did he see the diluted blood in the water that puddled at the bottom of the shower, originating from the ends of her saturated hair. 

Add that to the list of ailments, he thought. Poor wee girl. They’d need to tend to that. 

Kyle finally returned with a cautious knock on the door, a single knuckle. 

“D’you fall overboard, Garrick?” John murmured — he had been gone far longer than it should have taken to find the items he requested. 

“Sorry,” he said. “Couldn’t figure out which fleece was yours.” 

John said nothing. 

“She warming up yet?” Gaz asked tightly, likely not even looking in the direction of the shower, now that she was entirely nude. 

The girl’s skin was now plush and pink under the heat of the water, and felt warm to the touch under the back of John’s hand; so with a satisfied nod he shut off the water and hooked the showerhead back into its fastening. 

He reached backward with a gesturing hand, and Gaz handed him the crisp towel he had brought from the laundry without a word. 

“Looks like she got hit in the head,” John commented, as he draped the towel over the girl's front, rubbing her down to get her dry. Arms, shoulders, armpits, thighs, feet. He was thorough. 

“Shit,” Gaz said morosely, half-hearted. Soft young man, soft in a way John was almost envious of. Sometimes he wondered if he had grown too rough around the edges, too abrasive for his own good. “What the fuck happened to ‘er?” 

“Not a clue,” John said. “Nothing good.” 

“That life raft was — that was non-standard,” Gaz pondered aloud. 

“Thought the same thing,” John replied, as he scrunched her hair in the towel, twisting it up to wring out the water. He was careful with the top of her head — dabbing her scalp gently, leaving dark red smears in the blue fibres. 

“Ferry capsized, maybe?” 

“We would’ve heard about a ship capsizing nearby,” John said. “‘Specially a passenger vessel. They’d have blasted the distress call out in every direction.” 

“Mh,” Gaz agreed. 

“She had no shoes on,” John remarked, tone sombre. “No gear, no jacket.” 

“Running away from something?” asked Gaz, picking up what John might have been suggesting. 

“Maybe,” John said, before hanging the towel around her back and hauling her up from the floor with an arm around her ribs. 

He hung her floppy arms over his shoulder, kept her body tight to him, the towel just long enough to conceal her buttocks from Gaz, sensitive lad. He kept her up with a forearm under her rear, bounced her to adjust. She was impossibly easy to lift; John could have carried her one-handed, if he were less concerned about avoiding brandishing her nudity around the ship. 

Gaz followed him out of the head, towards the galley. 

“She had no belongings with her, eh?” Gaz asked, “no wallet, nothing?” 

“No.” 

Kyle let out a long sigh, worry oozing from his every pore. “Don’t wanna imagine how long she was drifting for.” 

John nodded, as he sat her down on the bench seat of the dining table, the thin vinyl cushion squeaking underneath her. He dumped the towel, and grabbed his jersey from Gaz — one of his heavy Patagonia fleeces, fabric thick, plush like sheepskin, dark navy with a zip collar. He pulled it over her head, fed her arms through the long sleeves and adjusted it down her torso. It was long enough that it reached her mid-thighs, hands two-thirds of the way through the sleeves — big enough to conceal everything, and cozy enough to keep her warm. He pulled her hair out from inside the collar and lay it to one side over her shoulder. 

“Grab me the first aid kit,” John ordered dryly, as he leaned her against the seat, holding her head upright with a hand at the back of her skull. 

He fingered through her locks of damp hair, looking closely for the contusion that he felt ballooning out of her scalp — found it, eventually, dark purple and swollen, sticky burgundy blood coagulating around the open wound and gluing bits of hair together. 

“Think she fell?” Gaz asked, as he returned with the red polyester pouch after rummaging through the galley cabinets, unzipping and unfurling it. 

“S’there betadine in there?” John asked, before he had acknowledged the engineer’s question. “Hard to say, it looks rough.” 

Kyle handed him the little brown dropper of iodine solution, popping off the cap for him. “You don’t think someone hit her.” 

John’s jaw tightened. “If they did, they hit her bloody hard.” 

“Fuckin’ hell,” Gaz grumbled, upset, watching with his arms crossed as John tipped over the little bottle. He squeezed out several rust-brown drops, they landed squarely in the wound in her scalp, emulsifying with the tissue. “This’s all — just wrong.” 

“Least she’s alive,” John murmured, through a huff, as he put down the betadine. No use in attempting to bandage it, the laceration was small enough that it would heal on its own if left unbothered. 

“Wonder where her home is,” Gaz mused, tone dismal. 

“We’ll ‘ave to see what the bird says when she wakes up,” John said, laying the girl down on her side, tucking up her knees. 

“What if she doesn’t?” 

“She will,” John asserted as he stood, rapping an appreciative hand on Kyle’s shoulder. “Keep an eye on her, will you? I need to get back to the bridge.” 

“Okay,” Gaz nodded tightly. 

“And get her a blanket,” John ordered on his way to the ladder. “Call me if anything changes, yeah?” 

“Will do, Captain.” 

You tasted salt on your tongue.

It was dark, and your body was so heavy — your neurons fired off to raise an arm, and all they mustered was the twitch of a finger. Skin felt warm and viscid, lacquered in a tepid layer of tar as though fully submerged in gooey black pitch, too thick to move around in.

Your eyes perceived nothing but deep, liquid burgundy, and the sparking of white-and-red stars that encroached on the borders of your vision, writhing and swirling in the abyss of your blindness. 

Still, salt on your tongue. 

It was foul, overpowering, all consuming — that brackish grit in every corner of your mouth, between your teeth, crystallising in the back of your throat. It filled your nose, stung where it adhered to the delicate mucosa of your nostrils, every breath hurt to take in. 

You could feel it in your lungs, too. Shards of salt embedded in your bronchioles, saline glutted alveoli, trachea plugged with viscous brine. 

Your diaphragm spasmed beyond your control, body seizing as you erupted into a coughing fit — wet and phlegmy, salty fluid gurgling in your chest and hucking out of your mouth with every ragged splutter, you almost choked on it as you heaved in as much air as your lungs could imbibe. 

Your eyes shot open, then, vision so blurry that you had to wrench them closed a few times before the membrane over your corneas began to dissipate. 

A rubbery cushion under the side of your head, fuzzy fabric enveloping your arms and chest, something scratchy and heavy over your legs. Warm, sore — you ached everywhere, every joint stiff, every muscle burning, every organ twisting and floundering inside you. 

Dizziness wracked through your head, brain swimming free within your skull, spinning around in circles and bouncing against the walls of its cavity as though you were being tipped forward and backward and forward again. 

Nausea swelled up quickly, filled you up to the ears and made your stomach cramp and contort — bile rose up your throat and burned on its way up, you leaned over the surface you lay on and let it spill out from your teeth. Hardly any vomit, merely an oozing stream of chartreuse bile that dripped in strings from the corner of your mouth. 

You heard a voice, a man’s voice, at first too disoriented to understand it. 

“Shit — oh my god, you’re—”

A hoarse groan escaped your chest in response, not a noise you made on purpose, as you tried to roll onto your back. 

“Are you okay?” He asked urgently, and suddenly you noticed a pair of knees under a table beside you, only as they shifted when the person stood. “Hey — you’re okay, you’re—”

You moaned again, squinting under the bright light above you, vision distorted by vertigo and brine. Tongue too fat to form any words yet. 

“You’re okay, let me — let me get you some water.” 

You heard the hurried thuds of boots away from you, and you rubbed your eyes with the heels of your palms, finally able to see properly once you opened your eyes again. Shakily pulled yourself upright with a hand on the table, muscles quivering so violently that they could barely hold you up — but fired adrenaline began to kick in, thumping out from your chest and buzzing in your fingertips as you glanced around the room, utterly alien to you. 

“Where…” you croaked, soaking in your surroundings. Panelled walls of honey oak, an ugly veneered table in front of you, you sat on its bench seat. A small circular window sat above the table, bolted around its borders, and a single light bulb hung from the ceiling. 

The room smelled like dish soap and body odour, fetid with the scent of an unwashed sponge and a hovering note of fish carcass. A small kitchen, as you turned your head around to check behind you — the man towered over a sink, you heard the hiss of running water. 

“Where am I?” You finally asked, finding your words, but your voice was as frayed as if you had swallowed glass.

The man turned then, and you did not recognise him. Not at all. A complete stranger, with a furrow in his brow, and an awkward smile tugging at the corner of his lips. 

You bolted up from the seat then, tossing aside the blanket that rested on your knees, fight-or-flight reigniting your muscles and setting your heart into overdrive — your head spun with it, and your balance was completely off kilter, you had to continually readjust your feet to keep yourself upright. 

“Hey — hey, easy,” he said edgily, voice soft. 

“Who the fuck are you?” You barked, immediately defensive, you tried to keep your eyes pinned to him while you made note of your peripheral surroundings. 

“I’m — I’m sorry, I didn’t — I’m Gaz. Kyle. I’m Kyle.” 

You scowled at him, panting, hackles raised high as you shuffled away from the table. “I don’t know anyone called Kyle,” you hissed. “Or anyone called Gaz.” 

“We haven’t met before,” he said, body twisting to face you as you inched around him. 

He put down the glass of water he held in his hand, and that only further enkindled your terror. Now his hands were free. He could tackle you, if he wanted to. Tall man that he was, muscular under his black jersey, his big doe-eyes did nothing to soften you to him. 

“We found you in the water,” he tried to explain, “we thought you were dead. But we rescued you.” 

“The fuck do you mean, found me?” You spat, now approaching the kitchen, your eyes scoured around for something to grab. 

He could detect your scheming, inched closer to you on quiet feet, attempting to flank you. 

So you dashed — bolted towards the small cooktop, where a magnetic strip mounted on the wall held an array of kitchen knives. 

“Fuck—” He cursed, through teeth, failing to grab you in time before you snatched one by the handle, and held the blade in front of you with both hands. 

You jabbed it at him as you backed out of his reach, arms so shaky you almost dropped it — but you kept it tight, holding onto it with vicious devotion, as though dropping it would be your death sentence. 

He held up his hands, not in surrender, but as if he were attempting to settle a wild animal. “Okay, love, take it easy.” 

“Stay away from me,” you shouted, trembling, backing away cautiously. 

“Captain!” The man roared worriedly toward the ceiling, and you flinched. “Look, love, I’m not going to—”

“Fuck you,” you bit, before you spun on a heel and flew towards an archway. 

“Shit.” He cursed as you escaped, but he had not yet pursued you. 

You scurried down the narrow corridor, bare feet aching with every step, knife extended in front of you and prepared to slash at anything that got in your way. You were wobbling all over the place, as though the ground beneath you was rocking back and forth; you toppled into the wall on your right, yelping as you tried to get yourself upright again. 

You reached a great big industrial door, painted blue and with a tiny circular porthole too high for you to see through. It had a wheel in the centre of it, connected to a series of bars that spanned it from top to bottom. Not a door you had ever seen before, but you inexplicably knew to twist the wheel — left, first go, and the bars shrunk away from the top and bottom, the steel door unsealing with a clank. 

Now you heard the thuds of running boots, fast, growing louder, closer — you shouldered open the heavy door and leapt over the lip at the bottom, immediately blasted with an ice-cold wind that made you shrivel up and almost retreat back inside. 

The sky was stark black, and you were blinded by floodlights. You stumbled towards the railing, hanging onto it for dear life as you almost slipped over on the frigid metal grating under your feet — it felt like barbed wire on your soles, and you whimpered with every step. 

Your fierce desperation to escape trumped any pain, though, you burned hot as a boiler, thundering adrenaline keeping you aflame. You spun your head around to determine where you were; a pitch-dark abyss surrounded you on all sides — no sky, no ground, no lights on the horizon, nothing. You peered over the balustrade and realised then that you were on a ship, now seeing the building-tall waves that cascaded over the floor below, bedizened in ropes and grates and metal cages and buoys, populated with a few people in neon jackets. 

“Hey—” Came a bark from behind you, and you shrieked — immediately scurrying towards a steep staircase, pole-narrow, almost toppling down it as you bounced to every second step. 

The floor of the deck consisted of slippery water-logged wood, and the soles of your feet struggled to find any grip as you sprinted across it. You weren’t even sure where you were running, just away, from the man who had followed you — but it became quickly clear you had no escape, and the orange-jacketed men on the deck had turned their heads to spot you.

“Oh, fuck—” One barked. 

Another erupted in bewildered laughter; “She breathes, alright!” 

“Oi — girl—” Called one. 

“C’mere, hen!” Shouted another, Scottish. “We don’t bite!” 

You sobbed as you ran, ravaged by a fear so potent it made your heart shrivel up like a raisin — you were sprayed by a crashing wave, blinded by the salt, and your feet slipped out from under you. Collided into the hard ground with a slam, a bounce, you skidded across the wood and your knife tumbled out of your grip, sliding out of reach. 

Only as you flopped around on the greasy floor did you realise your nudity under the sweater you were wearing, bare thighs slick with cold sea water, ass bitten by the arctic wind. You scrambled to get yourself back up, crawling on your hands and knees towards your only weapon — until a thick arm hooked under your belly, swiftly hoisting you up from the ground with yank, and you squealed. 

“Easy, now, woman—” Gritted the man, the hoarse growl of an old dog, and he held you flat to his chest. “In such a hurry to go back overboard, eh?” 

You wailed, attempted to buck yourself free from him while your feet dangled off the floor, but he only secured his grip with another mammoth arm. The other men on the deck approached hastily, concern and confusion etched in their cold-ruddy faces, looking between each other as though waiting for somebody to decide what to do with you. 

“Let me go,” you sobbed, paltry voice broken by hiccups, you spluttered and cried and kicked when you could muster it. “Please, please—”

“Put her down, Nik, for fuck’s sake.” Came the roar of another man, approaching from further away, an authoritative fury that your captor swiftly obeyed. 

You landed on your bare feet onto the wet floor with a squelch, and a sob, but he kept a firm grip of your shoulder to prevent you from fleeing. You wouldn’t have, though — now, it was clear to you — there was nowhere to run. 

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Yelled the evident commander, “All of you? Christ, look, you’ve scared the shit out of her.” 

You saw him, then, as he stood in front of you — towering, heaving, you felt the vibrations of his heavy feet on the deck with each step. Broad shoulders cloaked in a rugged navy jacket, the hood pooled around his neck, a pair of roomy yellow overalls strapped over the waterproof layer. A black knitted beanie sat on the top of his head, folded just above his furrowed brows. His lips were in a snarl under his dense beard while he addressed the other men, but they softened into a neutral line when he looked at you. 

There was something familiar about him, not that you could place it; a face you might have seen in a dream, or crossing the street once. A face you could imagine with a glowing light beaming from behind it, as though the moon eclipsing a sun. You had no memory to tie to it, and yet, it settled you slightly. 

“Y’alright, love,” he said, voice honey-warm and thick with gravel, he held a hand in your direction and gestured to follow him. “Come back in, will you? Too cold for you out here, eh?” 

You sipped a shaky breath, shivering in the bitter wind, glancing at the men surrounding you from under your brow. Returning to the man that gestured for you, you gave him a feeble nod, and waddled in his direction. 

“Tha’s it, c’mon,” he said gently, hovering a hand at the small of your back. He turned over his shoulder to shout at the others; “You lot have more pots to set, don’t you? Get back to fuckin’ work.” 

He guided you gingerly towards the stairs, close behind you to ensure you didn’t slip over on the way up. Opened the weathertight door to let you in, but walked in front of you down the same corridor you had escaped through. You held your arms tight around yourself, left soggy footprints along the vinyl floor. 

“Got yourself all wet again,” he said, an edge of irritation in his tone. 

“D’you get her?” Came a call from the kitchen you had awoken in, and the man — Kyle — appeared at the end of the hallway. You froze. 

“Go finish your work, Gaz, y’still got an hour on the clock.” He ordered flatly, and Kyle looked at you past him. 

“Yes, Captain,” he grunted disdainfully, shouldering past the man in front of you, and squeezing around you where you pressed yourself into the wall. “Hope you’re feeling okay,” he mumbled sheepishly, before disappearing down a flight of stairs. 

The captain looked back at you, flicked his head in the direction of the kitchen. “C’mon, let's get you dry.” 

The kitchen was much smaller than you remembered it being not a few minutes prior — cozy, much warmer than outside but still not quite warm.

“Siddown,” he said from the kitchen, not as forceful as a command but just as compulsory. You gingerly sat yourself on the same bench you had woken up on, watching him carefully, lips sealed. 

He approached you with a tall cup of water, held by the rim with the tips of his fingers. “Drink it.”

You took the cup timidly, but once it was in your grip you did not hesitate; tipped it into your mouth and skulled it down desperately, a dribble escaping the corner of your mouth. You had no idea how thirsty you were until fresh water touched your lips — fresh, not salty — you panted like a dog when the cup was empty, half-quenched. 

He took it from you, filled it back up at the sink before bringing it back, and you drank the second cupful just as quickly. 

“Better?” He asked, and you nodded, wiped your mouth with your hand. 

“Thank you,” you said quietly. 

You watched as he grabbed a light blue towel from the tabletop, and for a moment you thought he might hand it to you — instead he crouched in front of you, and took your leg by the ankle. 

You immediately chirped and attempted to tug your foot free on reflex, but his grip was firm; entire hand wrapped tight around your ankle, he gave you a tut. 

“Settle down,” he snipped, resting the sole of your foot on his collarbone. “I’m only dryin’ you off.” 

Said with such certainty that you began to doubt your instinct that it was inappropriate for him to put his hands on you — tempered by the feeling that he knew what he was doing, that he was only taking care of you. 

He looked at you impatiently until your tensed muscles eased, before he nodded in satisfaction. He hooked your foot over his shoulder so that your ankle rested on his trapezius, before he bunched the towel up in a fist and ran it up the length of your leg. 

You leaned on your arms behind you, heart in your throat, beating so fast that you could hear it buzzing in your ears. 

He was focused, wiping the seawater and muck off your skin, up and down your thighs, down the underside of your leg. 

“Took a tumble, did you?” He asked plainly, dabbing a fresh graze on your knee with the towel, making you flinch with the sting. 

“Yeah,” you said meekly; you were sure it would bruise eventually, but it was largely painless for the time being. 

He tutted you, but continued, wiped down your calf and dried off your foot last; he was fastidious about it, pushed the fibers of the towel between your toes, engulfed your foot in the cotton, scrubbed it along the sole of your foot and your toes curled with the tickle.

He set that leg down once he was done with it, and wordlessly demanded the other with a curl of his fingers. 

Confounding yourself, you did as you were told, and offered him your other leg; he repeated the procedure, resting your foot on his shoulder and scrubbing your leg with the crunchy towel, unabashedly wiping up to the top of your thigh, between your legs, under your knees. 

It didn’t escape your notice that you were naked underneath the jersey, and if he were to look a little higher his eyes would be square with your pussy. The thought made you tighten, and he gave you a disapproving glance when he felt it — but he finished with the other foot, and set your leg free again. 

“Thank you,” you muttered, tight-lipped, dizzy with confusion. 

“D’you want a new jersey?” He asked as he stood, swiping a hand over the sleeve shoulder, where seaspray had beaded on the outside of the fleece. 

“I’m okay,” you said timidly, tucking your legs together. 

He nodded, dropping the towel back on the table. “Alright, pet,” he said. “Let’s get you a cuppa, yeah?” 

You were quiet, but he busied himself in the tiny kitchen anyway — followed the rumbling of a water boiler and the slosh of hot water, the opening and closing of cabinets and drawers, the tinking of a spoon in a teacup.

“Hope you take it with milk and sugar,” he said. “You’re getting it whether you like it or not.” 

“That’s fine,” you croaked. 

“Good girl,” he said, as he returned with a brown glass mug and set it down on the table in front of you. “Gotta get some sugar in you. You remember the last time you ate?”

You shook your head. 

“Mh, well, let’s get you fed.” 

“I’m not — I’m not hungry right now,” you said hesitantly, and when a divot pulled in his brows, you clarified; “don’t think I can keep much down yet.” 

He nodded. “No problem, love,” he answered, with a pacifying grin. “How’s the head?”

“Where am I?” You asked pointedly, cutting to the chase, unwilling to take a sip of your tea out of lingering suspicion. 

He sat down across from you, landing in the bench seat with a grunt, interlocking his fingers on the surface of the table. His glare was scrutinising, albeit gentle, as though checking rather than inspecting. 

“You’re aboard the Iron Tide,” he said candidly. “We’re fishing for crabs in the North Sea.” 

“Iron Tide?” 

“That’s the name of the ship, love,” he answered, a little patronising. “I’m her skipper, I’m Jonathan. You met Gaz, he’s our engineer — he gave you a fright, I bet, but he’s a good lad.” 

You nodded edgily, looking askance at him. “Okay… but, how did I get here?” 

He smiled sombrely at that, crow’s feet pinching in the corners of his tired eyes. An oceanic blue, you noticed, little round seas reflecting the light that bounced off the table beneath him. 

“Was hopin’ you could tell me that, pet,” he gibed, nodding at your mug. “Drink your tea.” 

You took a sip, as you were told. Just cooled enough to sip with a slurp, blanketing your salty tongue, warm and saccharine, hot as it went down your throat. Earl grey. The taste made you feel tucked in, as though a blanket were over your legs, a pillow behind your head — but the murky memory was as fleeting as it was vague. You swallowed it with a sigh, and he looked pleased. 

“So?” 

“So what?” You asked, with a frown. 

“How’d you end up on the high seas, hm?” 

“I—” You cut yourself off, as you stared into the steaming surface of your tawny-coloured tea. 

Words danced at the tip of your tongue, amorphous and flavourless, nothing you could place. Notions that, if you were to reach for them, would drift away, or turn to smoke. 

You didn’t have an answer. 

“I don’t know,” you said, voice shaky, glancing at him with worry knitting in your brows as though he might be able to remind you. 

“You don’t remember?” He asked carefully. 

A piteous heat swelled beneath your eyes, tears welling from their ducts and pooling in your eyes, your vision went blurry with it. You shook your head. 

“S’alright, pet,” he said, fixing a hand to your wrist across the table. “It’ll come back to you. Do you remember anything at all? If you were on a boat, what country you’re from?” 

Again you shook your head, sniffling, you wiped an errant tear with the soft sleeve of the oversized fleece you have no memory of putting on. “No.” 

Concern cracked through his stoic expression, and it only made you more upset.

“Do you know your name, love?” 

You vacuumed in a slow and trembling breath, eyes bouncing between your hands, as if they might hold the answer. You could think of names — Jessica, Lucy, Nina, Anna, Rebecca — but they were only that, random names floating about in the air around you, and you could not pin any of them as your own with any certainty. 

“No,” you eked, followed swiftly by a sob, despite your effort to swallow it. 

He exhaled, long and beleaguered, stroking the back of your hand with his colossal thumb. Hands as big as saucers, calloused and molten hot to the touch. Made your hand look like a pixie’s underneath it.  

“Don’t fret, eh?” He said, failing to comfort you. “Y’got plenty of time to remember. Just finish your tea.” 

“What do you mean?” You asked weakly, plenty of time comment making you uneasy. “Aren’t you going to take me to — back to land?” 

He smiled, bemused, as he released your wrist with a pat and leaned back against the bench seat, hanging an arm insouciantly over the back. 

“Not heading all the way back to port yet, love,” he said frankly. “We only left a couple days ago. Got a lot more crabs to catch.” 

“I’m — I have to stay on this boat until you’re done fishing?” You asked, fighting back the tears that threatened another cascade. 

He tilted his head. “This’s my job. If I don’t get crabs, I don’t get paid. Neither do the other lads, ‘n they won’t be letting that happen.” 

You pouted, lip quivering and face scrunching, and he let out a huff. 

“Look, sweetheart, what would I even do with you if I took you back now?” He asked, tone rigid. “Y’got no ID, no passport, no papers, nothing on you but that bloody frock. We don’t even know what country you belong to. You’d get snatched up by the authorities and tossed around immigration services until your head is on backwards.” 

You sniffled, wiped your cheek with your sleeve. You had no argument, and even if you had the energy to muster one, you had no knowledge of how such a system worked, or where you would possibly go if they allowed you free movement. You’re sure you’d have a house somewhere, a family, someone out there must be looking for you…

The thought made you cry again, head falling from your shoulders and landing in your hands, you sobbed unremittingly into the dense fleece. 

Jonathan sighed at that, evidently growing impatient, but he pushed himself to stand — he was suddenly next to you, planting himself on the bench with his thigh against yours, and he draped an arm around your shoulder. 

“S’alright,” he crooned, voice as deep and rumbling as an engine, and you found yourself curling into him on instinct. Tucked up under his arm, head on his chest, a warm hand rested on the side of your head and smoothed down your hair. “We’ll sort it out.” 

“I don’t even kn-know where my home is,” you blubbered into him, muffled by his jacket, still speckled with beads of sea mist. “Or if — if I’ve got a family, or a husband—”

“Y’look a little young for one o’ those,” he remarked, with a chortle. 

“What if I don’t remember anything? Ever?” You cried, and he stroked the shell of your ear with his calloused thumb, fingers woven in your hair. 

“None o’ that,” he grumbled, you couldn’t determine if he was rocking you or if it was simply the motions of the boat tipping over the waves. “No wallowing on my ship. Keep your chin up, and you’ll be fine.” 

You whimpered, but nodded, and he petted your head like a cat. 

“We got another nine or ten days at sea,” he said, comforting hand retreating from you, resting on his lap. Kept his heavy arm coiled around you, though, and you were daftly grateful for it. He patted you on the far shoulder with a stiff hand. “You’re a tough girl, yeah?”

“I dunno,” you sniffled, sitting yourself upright and reeling away from him. He released you, then, arms crossing over his chest instead. 

“Well you survived God knows how long floating around in the North Sea, pet, I’d call that pretty tough.”

You attempted to compose yourself, sucking deep a breath and wiping down your face with your sleeves. Hoped that whoever’s fleece it was didn’t care about tears and snot being smeared over the cuffs. 

“Is there somewhere for me to sleep?” You asked cautiously, in an attempt to come to terms with reality — nine or ten nights of sleeping on a fishing boat. It made you sick to think about. 

He curled his lips as he thought for a moment. “You can sleep in my bed,” he said. “Skipper’s cabin is a lot nicer than the crew berths, I’ll tell you that.”

You blinked at him, uncertain — it was unsettlingly vague whether that meant he was offering you the bed to yourself. 

“Or you can ask one of the lads to share a bunk with them, I’m sure they wouldn’t mind.”

You shook your head hastily, and he cracked a grin. “No, thank you, skipper’s cabin sounds good, please.”

“Alrighty,” he concurred, with a nod, the deal done. “Sleepy already, eh?”

You nodded sheepishly — for the most part, you just wanted to be alone, somewhere quiet and enclosed, out of sight. But you were utterly drained, left ravaged by receding adrenaline, body battered and bruised. Curling up in a bed sounded luxurious, and heaven only knows how long it had been since you slept in one. 

“Y’only been awake for twenty minutes,” he joked. “And you’ve hardly touched your tea.”

He flicked his head towards the mug, and his imperious expression made clear that he wanted you to finish it. 

So, if only appease him, you clutched the mug and tipped it into your mouth, sucking down the now luke-warm tea in five hefty gulps. Licked your lips when you were done, and dumped the mug back on the table. 

“Happy?” 

He smiled wide, let out a haughty chuckle. “Nicely done,” he said. “Alright, then, let’s get you tucked in.”

He pushed himself to stand with a grunt, finally freeing you from behind the table, and you followed him. 

“Y’sure you don’t want a bite?” 

You shook your head. “Maybe in the morning, if that’s okay.” 

He laughed as he made his way toward an upward staircase. “Morning’s fine, but I’m not having you starve yourself.”

“I won’t.”

As you climbed to the top of the stairs you reached the bridge — a large control station with many screens, all showing different radars and panels and numbers. The wheel was there, too, a spinning chair with a sweater thrown over the back of it tucked in front of it. Sea spray made pattering rain-like noises on the thick windows, but very little light came in from them. The air was thick with cigar smoke and terpenic air freshener, the everpresent ghost of saltwater lingering in between. 

“Just through here,” he instructed, and you followed him around to the other side, through a door, and down a shorter staircase. 

There you were met with a bedroom; it was intimate, stuffed full of bags and boxes and papers. A fold-out desk jutted out from an warm-wood wall, covered in maps weighed down by protractors and a drawing compass. Coats hung over hooks, boots lined up by the door. 

A cot bolted to the wall, perhaps a king single, unmade — a thick duvet with a red-and-navy plaid blanket tossed overtop, heavy wool that you could ascertain would be itchy without needing to touch it. A single pillow in a navy pillowcase, cream-coloured fitted sheet likely toned off-white due to age or overuse. 

It was rich with musk in there, the single porthole window not able to be opened, and the heady scent made you dizzy. You imagined it was only a marginally diluted version of the same scent you’d get pressing your nose into his armpit. It was only tempered by traces of toothpaste and cigarettes, and the potent smell of Imperial Leather bar soap. Daft that you remembered that, and little else. 

“Not a five-star hotel, eh?” He gibed, nudging you with his elbow. You didn’t have a response, at first, and he chided you; “Don’t be a sourpuss. No room for being fussy here, love.”

“No — this is perfect, thank you, I’ll sleep anywhere.” 

He smiled and crossed his arms, rocking on the balls of his feet. “Alright, well, you get yourself comfortable then,” he said. “Loo’s just through there, if you need it. Use my toothbrush if you like, just give it a wash after, eh?”

You almost grimaced at the thought of sharing his toothbrush, but the lingering bile and salt in your mouth had you looking forward to the taste of toothpaste. 

“Need anything else, pet?” He asked, still gruff. “Paracetamol? I can get you something else to sleep in—”

“I’m okay, thank you,” you insisted, perhaps too plainly eager to get him out of the room. 

“Alright, love,” he said. “G’night, then. I’ll just be up there, still got some steering to do.”

“Okay.”

With a firm nod, he turned around and headed out of the cabin, shutting the door behind him. 

You let out a pent breath once you were alone, potent exhaustion suddenly crashing into you like a train. You stumbled into the tiny ensuite — a small toilet and a sink, the shower head jutting out from the wall above the commode — rinsed his frayed toothbrush under the tap and globbed on some colgate. 

Brushing your teeth made you feel marginally human again, and you spent a good five minutes scrubbing out every crevice of your mouth. You washed it afterwards, like he said, and stuck it to the wall with the suction cup on the back of it. 

There was no mirror, and you found yourself glad of it. You couldn’t yet confront the fact that you did not remember what you looked like, an existential dread that simmered in your belly, but too tired to churn up. 

Only then, as you glanced at his bar of soap (it was Imperial Leather, as you had guessed), did you realise how clean you felt — you wondered if he had washed you, and now you were certain that he had changed you. The thought made you shiver, and you tried not to think about it. 

His bed was squeaky underneath you, and the mattress so soft that you sunk deep into it; the weight of him permanently embedded in the springs, you settled into the divot like a cat, curled up towards the wall. It was bitterly cold in the cabin, much like the rest of the ship, so you tugged the blankets up your cheek, rubbing your icy feet together to warm them up. 

The sheets reeked of him, of man and musk, the pillow smelt of scalp and salt. It was unusually comforting. Such a human smell, and as you tucked yourself under his layers of blankets it swirled around in the front of your head and made you dozy. 

Sleep called to you, dark and ebbing, and you slipped willingly beneath the surface. 

You were roused, only slightly, at the sound of a door handle. 

Not alert enough to open your eyes, you still floated deep in slumber, soft and warm. Your consciousness ascended close enough to the shallows to acknowledge the opening of a door, the footsteps across a hollow floor, but the sounds conveyed no meaning to you. 

Sleep pulled you downward but you floated languidly back up at each noise; the fizz of running water, the scrubbing of brushing teeth, the spit of toothpaste.  

A zip being undone, velcro being ripped open, boot laces being untied. The clunk of a shutting door, a cough, a grunt, and you finally broke the surface. 

Now entirely awake, you remained completely still — not out of fear, you didn’t think — perhaps in the hope that he would leave you alone to keep sleeping, absolutely not ready to get up yet. He made no effort to be quiet, as he dumped his boots by the door, rummaged around in his belongings for a moment, coughed again. 

You kept your nose close to the wall, eyes barely open. He flicked off a light switch and the room was abruptly drowned in darkness. 

The blanket was lifted from you, then, and you flinched — with the cold air nipping at your skin, you realised your long jersey had been hiked up in your sleep, and your bare bottom half was starkly exposed. 

You froze, curled up, tongue in your teeth; until a sudden weight plummeted into the mattress, bouncing you up before sinking deep behind you, causing you to slide into the dip.  

With a grunt and a huff the blanket was pulled back up over you, scratchy wool brushing your cheeks. A titanic arm hooked over your stomach, and you squeaked — he paid no mind, yanking you backwards until your back was flush with his chest, ass nestled into his lower belly, his thighs tucked up behind yours. 

You held your breath, skittish, not yet daring to move; he let out a deep sigh into the back of your head, warm breath seeping through your hair and into your skull. 

His entire body was a furnace, burning hot, and you felt yourself melting into him whether you liked it or not. A mammoth hot water bottle, wrapped around and behind you, keeping you soothingly warm. 

His hand ventured nowhere untoward, arm only hanging listlessly over the divot of your waist, forearm tucked into your chest. He felt clothed against you, sweatpants and a thermal on. 

There was something wrong about it — something off, a survival instinct that buzzed around you, humming like a mosquito, a ringing in your ear, annoying and persistent. 

But his pyretic warmth made you lightheaded, so comfortable tucked into him that it felt like you were already dreaming. 

With a heavy blink, and a deflating breath, you sunk deep into him and let slumber swallow you whole once again.