flixpii

[flixpii]

Remmick thinks he’s Dewey from School of Rock btw

[flixpii]

[flixpii]

Chapter 14

link to a03 !

word count : 13k

a/n : y'all... i be forgetting to post the chapters here from ao3 sometimes 😭

The house was too still.

Mae woke to it—an absence that pressed against her ears, making the quiet feel louder than any noise. No clatter of pans in the kitchen, no muted hum of Grace humming while setting the table. Even the air seemed unmoving, the weight of it holding the curtains stiff against their ties.

She sat up slowly, her hair falling over one shoulder, and listened. Somewhere far off, a carriage rolled past, the sound thin and swallowed before it reached her fully. Beneath it, there was nothing. No Florence calling for anyone to rise. No scrape of chairs across the dining room floor.

The faint scent of last night’s rain still lingered, damp and metallic, carried in through the cracked window. She swung her legs over the side of the bed, toes brushing against the cool rug, and glanced toward the small sewing table in the corner. Her half-finished work from yesterday sat there, still and expectant—needle halfway through a stitch, fabric draped like it had been waiting for her return.

As she dressed, she kept thinking about the conversation on the street the evening before. His voice, low enough to almost be lost to the wind. Was it your decision to leave?

She hadn’t answered him. She didn’t owe him an answer.

Still, it clung to her in the quiet, the way certain questions do—more persistent in the silence than they ever were in the moment.

Mae opened her door to the hallway, the hinges giving a faint groan that seemed almost too loud in the morning hush. The air out here felt heavier, as though the house had been holding its breath for hours. Light spilled weakly in from the front windows, filtered and pale, barely reaching the floorboards beneath her feet.

She stepped out, her slippers brushing over the long rug that ran down the center of the hall. The stillness wasn’t just in the air—it was in the walls, in the way the old boards beneath her seemed reluctant to creak, as though they too were trying not to be heard.

Somewhere deeper in the house, she could hear the muffled sound of movement—her mama’s slow, measured steps, maybe, or a door closing gently. Not the brisk efficiency she usually carried in the mornings, but something more deliberate, weighted. It made Mae slow her own pace, like she might disturb something delicate if she moved too quickly.

She passed the closed doors of her siblings’ rooms, pausing briefly at Grace’s. No music, no quiet singing, no clinking of hairpins or swish of fabric as she got dressed. Mae almost lifted her hand to knock but let it fall back to her side. There was a mood in the house, and it felt wrong to break it too soon.

The scent of coffee drifted faintly from the kitchen, but it was sharper this morning, the way it got when the pot had been sitting too long on the stove. Usually, by now, someone would have called her down, fussing over her for sleeping late, but no one had.

She trailed her fingertips along the wall as she reached the top of the stairs, the wallpaper cool beneath her skin. Looking down into the front room, she caught sight of the parlor curtains, drawn halfway shut against the morning light, casting the furniture in a half-shadow. The clock on the mantel ticked steadily, the sound too precise, too alone.

For a moment she just stood there, halfway between the hall and the stairs, the house’s silence pooling around her ankles like water. Something about it made her chest feel tight—not the kind of quiet that soothed, but the kind that felt like it was waiting.

The stairs creaked under Mae’s bare feet as she made her way down, one hand brushing the banister, the other holding the edge of her shawl closed at her chest. Morning light slanted through the high windows, soft and slivered, casting faint shadows along the floral wallpaper. The house was quiet, but not peaceful. It held something else this morning—a kind of hush that made the silence feel like it was watching.

As she stepped off the final stair, her eyes traveled across the room. The sitting area was empty, save for the low sound of a clock ticking and the lingering scent of chicory coffee. Her breath caught in her throat at the distant clatter of plates and cutlery, and she knew, even before rounding the corner into the kitchen, who would be there waiting.

Florence stood at the counter, folding a dishtowel with care. She looked up at the sound of Mae’s footfalls, her expression unreadable at first. Then—smoothed into something softer, as if it had been waiting there just beneath the surface.

“Mornin’, baby,�� Florence said, her voice quiet. She wiped her hands on the cloth and set it aside. “How you sleep?”

Mae didn’t answer right away. Her shoulders were still knotted from the restless night, her mind too full of thoughts she couldn’t seem to file away.

“Well enough,” she said eventually, her voice gentle but guarded.

Florence nodded and reached for the coffee pot. “There’s still some warm on the stove if you want a cup. One of the hands made eggs too, but they’re probably cold now.” She turned to glance at her. “Go on, eat you somethin’. I’ll talk to you after.”

Mae blinked, caught in the ease of the sentence—the casual way her mama dropped those words into the air, like they didn’t carry any weight. But they did. And Mae felt it. Felt it deep in her stomach like a stone.

She nodded without speaking and walked past her toward the cupboards, her movements quiet and slow. Florence didn’t press, didn’t follow—just stood there at the counter folding that same towel again, like her hands needed something to do.

The air between them stretched thin. Not hostile. Not cold. But full of something waiting.

And Mae knew.

Whatever her mama had to say—it wasn’t going to be easy.

And it wasn’t going to be something she’d like.

Mae sat at the kitchen table, the porcelain warm beneath her fingers, and stared at the food for longer than she ate it. The eggs had gone soft and a little rubbery, the toast cool to the touch, but that didn’t matter—this was about the minutes she could stretch, the seconds she could steal before her mama’s voice called her into the other room.

She picked up her fork and chewed slowly, setting it down after each bite, letting her gaze wander across the room to the faint dust motes drifting in the sunlight. Every small movement became deliberate—breaking the toast into small pieces, pressing them into the egg until the yellow bled into the bread, taking long, measured sips of coffee.

Florence busied herself at the counter, inspecting new jars, commenting on them, setting them aside with a quiet clink . She didn’t look Mae’s way, not yet, but Mae could feel the awareness between them, as if her mama was waiting for her to be done before the conversation began.

Mae took another slow bite. She let the silence linger. She thought about getting up to refill her coffee just to buy more time, maybe even washing her dish by herself instead of leaving it in the sink. But no matter how long she dragged it out, the end would come—the moment she’d have to turn toward her mama and hear what was coming.

She pushed the last bit of egg around her plate, hoping if she moved it enough, it might disappear.

Mae finally scraped the last bite from her plate, though she hardly tasted it. Her movements were slow as she stood and carried her dish to the sink, keeping her head down as if moving quietly would make her invisible. The water tap squeaked softly under her fingers as she turned it on, preparing to rinse.

But her mama’s voice caught her before she could finish the motion.

“Leave it,” Florence said gently, without turning from the counter. “Them girls’ll handle it.”

Mae paused, her hand still hovering over the faucet. The water ran quietly in the basin, steam curling up in lazy ribbons. She didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just stood there as the realization sank in—her mama knew. Knew she was dragging her feet. Knew she was trying to buy time.

Slowly, Mae turned off the tap. The kitchen felt warmer now, as if the walls had shifted closer, as if time itself had narrowed.

She set the plate in the basin with a soft clink and dried her hands on the towel at her hip, still trying not to meet her mother’s eyes.

“Go on and sit,” Florence said, still with that same calm tone. “We’ll talk now.”

Mae gave a faint nod, then made her way slowly to the kitchen table, her body heavy with everything she didn’t want to hear.

The day had thinned into that strange quiet just before evening—when the light stretched long and low across the porches and rooftops, and the air carried a stillness that felt almost holy. Mae walked with her arms folded, hands tucked beneath her elbows as she moved along the cracked sidewalk that lined their neighborhood. Each step echoed soft in her shoes, a hush against the gravel and winter-dried leaves.

She hadn’t planned on walking. Not really. But the moment the screen door clicked shut behind her, her feet moved on their own—anything to get out of the house for a while. Anything to keep her legs busy while her mind tried to untangle the knot Florence had handed her that morning.

Aunt Josephine. Up north. By the end of the month.

The words looped over and over, like laundry spinning through a wringer, never quite getting clean.

The talk hadn’t been cruel. Just final. Her mama, all stiff-backed and calm, had sat across from her at the kitchen table and laid it all out like a map: the train ticket, the guest room in Aunt Josephine's house, the little town nestled along a lake that still froze over in the winter. “It’ll be good for you,” Florence had said again. Mae could still hear the sound of her voice—quiet but firm, like she’d already prayed about it and made peace with the decision.

Now Mae passed the fence of an old neighbor’s yard where the scent of pine lingered from the tree still shedding needles. She glanced at the porch, where the neighbor—Mr. Beecham, she thought his name was—watched her with a vague kind of curiosity, a look that lingered just long enough to remind her of something uncomfortable.

She lowered her gaze and kept walking, boots brushing through a small drift of dead grass. There was a slight dampness in the air, not quite rain, but enough to chill her cheeks. She pulled her coat tighter around herself.

She didn’t want to go.

Not because she didn’t love her aunt. Not because she feared the cold or the change or the silence that would follow her up there like a second shadow. But because she was just beginning to feel like she could breathe again. The festival. The sewing. The walks. The chance moments. The color coming back into the world.

Why now?

Mae reached the end of the block and slowed her steps. The air smelled of chimney smoke and someone’s fried onions. She tilted her face to the side, watching a crow hop across a picket fence, its wings twitching like it could sense her mood. Maybe it could.

She exhaled, long and low. Her breath fogged the air in front of her. She didn’t know how long she stood there, just listening to the quiet shuffle of the town settling into itself for the evening.

A dog barked in the distance. Somewhere, a radio played softly through an open window.

She didn’t want to go.

But nobody had asked.

The decision to head into town wasn’t made with certainty.

It came quiet, like most things did lately. A drifting thought she followed before it could drift away. Mae turned back toward the house just long enough to grab a small shawl from the porch hook—her mama’s, she realized after wrapping it around her shoulders—and then she kept walking, down the slope of the neighborhood and toward the main road where the trolley passed every other hour.

She hadn’t been to her old town since the fall. Since before the cold settled in and the fabric of her days began to unravel. She told herself it would be just for a short visit. Just to see.

The streets changed in winter.

Not in color, not in shape—but in the way they sounded . The clatter of footsteps on brick, the hush of wind through the narrow alleys. The little shops that once beckoned with brightness now sat quieter, softened by the season’s chill. As she stepped off the streetcar and made her way along the familiar path, a strange ache moved through her chest—sharp, then gentle.

She passed the barbershop with the leaning front step, its bell chiming faintly as someone exited. She passed the bakery that once set their pies to cool on the window ledge, the smell of sugar and butter just barely reaching her.

And then the row of shops she hadn’t set foot in since last year.

The dressmaker’s. The milliner’s. Miss Odessa’s mercantile.

Her pace slowed. The shawl tugged at her shoulders with the weight of wind, and her hand reached for it absently, fingers brushing the fraying edge.

The bell above the mercantile still jangled the same way when she stepped inside, a thin, metallic sound that rang in her ears and heart alike. The warmth of the store wrapped around her immediately—lamplight flickering against wood-paneled walls, the familiar scent of beeswax, leather, and dried herbs clinging to the shelves.

She drifted. First to the counter, then along the rows of buttons and thread and ribbon spools. Her fingertips grazed them without purpose, the same way someone might run a hand over the headstone of an old friend—something both fond and sorrowful all at once.

Behind her, a radio hummed low from the back room. The tune was familiar, but she couldn’t name it.

She stood there for a long moment, alone with the past, and the quiet of a place that hadn’t changed, even if she had.

Mae’s fingertips skimmed a jar of glass buttons as if feeling her way through a memory. She didn’t need anything from the store, not really. She’d touched the spools and admired the cloth, but it wasn’t about the fabric. It was the silence. The soft clink of the shopkeeper’s radio. The amber light catching against old wood. She needed to remember something that wasn’t now .

So she wandered. Turned a corner near the windowed shelves stacked with cotton bolts in early spring colors, pale yellows and soft blues. Her eyes landed on a shade of green—something that reminded her of moss and the skin of a pear—and she reached for it, brushing the folded edge lightly between her fingers.

Then—

“Ella-Mae?”

She stilled.

Her name cut through the low rustle of the store like a blade. Not loud, not even urgent, but it reached far too deep. She turned, slow and reluctant, already knowing— feeling —what face she’d see.

It was him. Aldonis.

The man from the jazz spot all those months ago. December. The same man who’d sent a drink her way in that smokey club just off the Quarter. The one who knew her name before she ever gave it, claimed he’d seen her at St. Augustine’s, and told her to be careful in the city’s dark corners.

He stood at the end of the aisle, hat in his hand, coat draped over one arm. There was that same disarming smile again—subtle, unreadable, and somehow out of place. Like he’d stepped in from a different story entirely.

Mae, on the other hand, didn’t smile at all.

She blinked once, then let her gaze drop to the bolt of fabric in her hand. Like if she just kept pretending to be busy, the moment might fold itself up and disappear.

It didn’t.

A bitter thought crept through her like smoke under a door: Life really does like running me into people I didn’t ask for—like it’s trying to prove something.

Not even a full day since her talk with Florence. Not even a full day since she told Remmick goodbye—again—and now this ?

She took a breath and turned fully to face Aldonis, arms lightly crossed now, the fabric left on the shelf behind her. Her voice came quiet, but even.

“…What’re you doin’ here?”

Aldonis’s smile didn’t reach his eyes this time. He studied her, head slightly tilted, and then took a step closer—slow, unassuming, like he didn’t want to spook a bird off a branch. Still, he left space between them. Enough to signal that he wasn’t trying to crowd her, though his presence still felt far too close.

He glanced around the quiet shop, as if taking it in for the first time, before his eyes returned to her.

“I could ask you the same thing,” he said lightly, brushing imaginary lint from his sleeve. “Didn’t figure you for this town again. Thought Louis had moved out for good.”

The mention of her brother made Mae’s stomach tense, but she kept her expression even. She said nothing. Just blinked, slow and calm, like she was trying to blink away the sudden tension scratching at the inside of her throat.

There was a pause.

Aldonis shifted his weight, one hand dipping into the pocket of his coat as he added, “Unless… you married and moved back. That it?”

Mae didn’t answer at first.

The question didn’t feel like a jab—more like curiosity—but it still landed wrong. Maybe it was the assumption. Or maybe it was just the day . The week. The month . It all sat heavy on her tongue like the bitter end of a song she didn’t want to hear again.

Her eyes narrowed a touch, not in anger, but in assessment.

“No,” she said, quiet but clear. “Ain’t married.”

It was the truth, and somehow it felt heavier than a lie.

Aldonis made a low sound in his throat—somewhere between a chuckle and a hum—as he looked past her for a moment, eyes trailing the shelves like he wasn’t quite ready to meet hers again.

“Well,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “Not sure why I assumed. You just had that look. Like someone who’d… settled into things.”

Mae didn’t answer.

He looked back at her, and something in his smile faltered just slightly.

“You always walk around alone like this?”

Mae folded her arms loosely across her chest. “Only when I think I won’t be bothered.”

It wasn’t sharp. But it wasn’t soft, either.

Aldonis’s eyebrows lifted just a bit. “That so?”

She nodded. “And last I remember, you were the one sittin’ across from me like I owed you conversation.”

Aldonis hesitated. He tapped a finger once against the edge of a display case and exhaled through his nose. “Right. That night. Didn’t leave the best impression, huh?”

“You think?”

Her voice was dry, but not angry. Just… tired. Mae didn’t want to rehash it—not really—but there it was again. That familiar unease clinging to the back of her neck, rising like a tide she couldn’t ignore.

“You sent me a drink,” she continued. “Then sat down like you had a right to. No hello. No nothing. Just… questions.”

Aldonis raised both hands halfway, a light gesture of defense.

“Fair enough,” he said. “Wasn’t tryin’ to come off like that. Guess I was just used to talkin’ however I wanted.”

“That ain’t an excuse,” Mae said.

Another pause stretched between them. The soft creak of the store’s old ceiling fan filled the silence.

“I’m not mad,” she added, softer now. “I just don’t got the energy for strange men thinkin’ they can talk to me however they please.”

Aldonis let that hang in the air a moment before giving a shallow nod. “Suppose you’re right.”

His tone had shifted—slightly less performative, but still wrapped in something unreadable. He didn’t look away from her this time. Just tilted his head like he was trying to get a better read.

“You still got that same look though,” he said. “Like you’re carryin’ somethin’ heavy.”

Mae’s brows flicked together. Her arms stayed crossed.

“And you still talk like you know people you don’t.”

He smiled faintly, but it didn’t linger.

“I just notice things,” he said.

“Well,” Mae said, taking a small step back. “Maybe you oughta stop noticin’ me.”

It wasn’t cruel. But it was clear.

She started to turn away, ready to end the conversation for good.

Aldonis didn’t follow, but his voice carried behind her like the last note of a fading song.

“Didn’t mean no harm then,” he said. “Don’t now, either.”

Mae didn’t respond. Just kept walking, the weight of the day growing heavier with each step—Aldonis's presence stirring something she thought she'd left behind in December.

The air hit her different the moment she stepped outside.

The sun had shifted in the sky, leaning toward the late afternoon, casting the sidewalks in long gold shadows that did nothing to warm her. The bell above the store door gave one last half-hearted jingle behind her before falling silent again.

Mae paused just past the awning, letting the light catch against her eyes as she squinted down the street. People passed in idle clusters. A child tugged at their mother’s skirts. Somewhere across the way, a man stood perched on a ladder, painting the trim of a shop window. A dog barked faintly in the distance.

But all Mae felt was the simmering tangle in her chest.

Running into Aldonis again—of all people—felt like life’s little way of mocking her. A sick joke. Like the world hadn’t quite finished reminding her that her decisions weren’t really hers. That even her small attempts to regain a sliver of control came with consequences, interruptions, setbacks. People watching. People assuming.

She exhaled through her nose and pulled her coat a little tighter, her fingers trembling slightly with the movement. Not from cold, but from the low, creeping frustration that had taken root sometime in December and never really left.

All she wanted was a moment. Something still. Quiet. Simple.

Not that.

Not him.

She didn’t even glance back at the storefront. Just began walking. Her shoes clicking against the pavement, not in a hurry, but with purpose. The kind of purpose that came from needing to be away from something rather than toward anything in particular.

Just home, she thought. Just home and quiet.

Her thoughts wandered—circling around the earlier conversation with her mama, the way Florence had spoken so plainly about Mae’s future as if Mae had no say in it at all. Then Aldonis, like a ghost from a night she’d already buried. And underneath it all, the faint, unshakable sense that something still loomed. Something she hadn’t named.

As she walked, she barely looked at the shops or people. The afternoon wind tugged gently at the hem of her coat. Somewhere behind her, the church bells began to chime the hour—soft and distant.

And Mae kept moving, jaw set, each step pushing her closer to a house she wasn’t sure she wanted to return to.

The sun had dropped a little lower by the time Mae made it back near her street. The gold warmth of the afternoon was thinning into a dull, muted haze, and the streets had quieted. Less foot traffic now. Fewer eyes. Only the sound of a distant screen door slamming shut, a wind chime gently ticking, the soft rustle of something shifting in the hedges.

She rounded the last block, just a few houses off from where her neighborhood split from the roads leading into the Quarter, when she saw him.

Remmick.

Standing half-shadowed near the edge of a cypress-stained fence, right where the sun had caught on the brick in a way that painted him in light and shade both.

Her heart gave a subtle, inward jolt.

He wasn’t doing anything. Just standing. One hand tucked in his pocket, the other holding a matchbook between two fingers as if deciding whether to light another cigarette. His head tilted a bit like he’d been expecting her, or maybe hoping. The slope of his shoulders didn’t look tense, but there was something about his stillness that always unnerved her—something quiet and animal, like a creature pausing to listen before making its move.

Mae froze mid-step.

Not out of fear. Not exactly. But caution. Wariness. Maybe something stranger—something she didn’t want to admit felt like anticipation.

Remmick's eyes met hers, sharp and unflinching.

For a moment, they just stared at each other across the breath of the street. Her fingers curled around the strap of her bag. He didn’t smile. Didn’t move. Just stood in that long, narrow silence.

Then, as casually as if he’d spotted a neighbor, he spoke.

“Hello, Miss Ella-Mae.”

His voice rolled through the air, low and smooth, carrying too easily in the quiet stretch between them.

Mae swallowed. Seeing him here, so close to her neighborhood, after the long walk home, after Aldonis… it was like a final straw being laid atop an already burdened back.

She didn’t answer at first. Just took a few steps forward, slow and hesitant, until she stood across from him on the walk. Her eyes scanned the road, the windows, the porches. Empty. Still. But still close enough that anyone could be watching.

“You always walk this way?” she asked, voice clipped as she crossed her arms.

“Only when it leads me somewhere worth the walk.”

She rolled her eyes before she could stop herself. “Don’t start.”

“I didn’t,” he replied simply, still not moving, still not smiling. “Just said hello.”

Mae stared at him. “And what would you’ve done if I didn’t pass by?”

He finally offered the hint of a grin. “Would’ve kept on waiting. Or maybe walked a little further. Sometimes the day surprises you.”

Something in his tone made her bristle.

“You shouldn’t be here,” she said quietly, trying to edge steel into her voice. “This close to where I live. My mama—”

“I know,” he said, not unkindly. “I remember.”

Silence dropped again.

The wind shifted. Mae could smell a trace of smoke. Not cigarette smoke—but something sharper. Something earthy and faintly sweet, like ash stirred with sugarcane. She tried not to shiver.

Finally, Remmick stepped back from the fence, tilting his head slightly as he studied her. His eyes lingered a beat too long.

“You headed home?” he asked.

She didn’t respond. Just narrowed her gaze.

“I won’t follow,” he said. “You’ve made it clear.”

He moved then—just a slow, backward step toward the deeper shade of the Quarter’s edge.

But before she could pass him entirely, before the distance between them became real again, he said, almost absently:

“I wouldn’t let them send you away if I were you.”

Mae stopped dead in her tracks.

Her back straightened, breath caught halfway in her chest. Slowly, she turned to look at him, suspicion and heat prickling up her spine.

But Remmick didn’t move. He didn’t vanish into the Quarter’s shadow like before. He just stood there—half in the light, half in the shade—watching her like he was waiting for something.

Her lips parted, just barely. A thought rose in her throat, something half-formed, but before she could speak, his voice broke in soft but sure:

“Do you wanna see me tonight?”

Mae blinked. Her whole face stiffened as heat rushed into her ears. “What?”

He didn’t repeat himself. Just tilted his head slightly, like he was already reading her answer in her expression.

Her mouth opened again, and this time she found words, though they came out breathless and sharp. “You really got the nerve.”

A faint grin tugged at the corner of his mouth.

“I ain’t talkin’ about anything like that,” he said. “I just… I wanted to show you a spot. Before you go.”

That last part stung, more than she wanted it to.

She stared at him. Long enough for the silence between them to turn into something strange and stretched, something that pulled at her ribs and curled at the edges of her breath. His voice had gone quiet again. Unassuming. And the way he looked at her—calm, steady—made it even worse.

Mae swallowed once, hard. Then said nothing.

Remmick waited.

Still, he didn’t come closer. Just let the wind stir the hem of his shirt, the edge of his jacket. Just let her decide.

And for the first time in days, the choice didn’t feel like someone else’s to make.

The room was hushed except for the soft creak of the vanity stool as Mae shifted her weight.

She sat before the mirror with her elbows resting lightly on the table, chin dipped just enough to make her face seem shadowed by the warm lamplight. The brush in her hand hovered near her temple, forgotten mid-motion, as her eyes locked onto her own reflection.

She looked calm. But her insides were restless.

"Fine." That’s what she’d said. Just one word. Tossed out like it meant nothing.

And now she wanted to slap herself for it.

Mae dragged the brush through her hair slowly, letting the bristles pull at the tight edges of her thoughts. She wasn’t even sure why she’d agreed. Maybe it was the heat in her chest when he asked—maybe it was the way he didn’t ask her like she was breakable. Maybe it was the way he’d stood there in the middle of the street like he knew she wouldn’t say no.

Or maybe she had wanted to say yes. Just a little.

She sighed. Set the brush down.

Her fingers moved next to her earrings—small, gold, dainty things she rarely wore unless it was for church or special company. And this sure wasn’t church.

Was it company?

She didn’t even know what this was. And that made her stomach knot tighter than anything else.

Behind her, the window rattled softly as the wind picked up. Somewhere out in the dark, a dog barked. The world felt thick and wide and watching, like it knew where she was going before she did.

Mae reached for the side of the vanity and pulled herself up to standing.

She stared at her reflection one last time. It didn’t offer answers. Only the same uncertainty stitched into her brows and tucked behind her eyes.

But she smoothed her skirt anyway. Slipped on her shoes. Told herself one more time she could always change her mind.

The hallway was still and dim, lit only by the slant of golden light coming from under the kitchen door. Everyone had long since retired for the evening. She could hear the faint creak of pipes and the occasional thump of shifting wood, the house settling into its bones.

Louis wasn’t home tonight. Florence had mentioned he was staying out late, working on some last-minute errands. That left just Grace and Paul upstairs—both likely tucked into their rooms.

Mae stood by the front door, her hand on the knob. She waited.

A few more seconds passed. Silence.

She turned the knob slowly, careful not to let it groan or click. The hinges protested faintly, but not loud enough to draw attention. She slipped out the door and closed it behind her with a soft press, not a pull. Every movement felt deliberate, quieted by instinct.

When the latch finally caught, and she was on the other side, her shoulders fell—not with defeat, but with a guilty sort of relief.

The night air greeted her with a soft brush against her skin, cool and scented with garden soil and the faintest touch of camellia. The street was empty save for a dim lantern or two glowing on porches, moths dancing lazily around them like whispers.

Mae looked back at the house one last time—its silhouette hushed and still.

And then she turned.

As her feet hit the worn path toward the street, something fluttered in her chest. Not quite fear. Not quite excitement either. Just something young, almost bashful. She felt like a schoolgirl sneaking out for a forbidden meeting. Like some breathless moment from a serial romance Grace might hide beneath her bed.

Mae didn’t think of this night as a date or anything.

Still… she couldn’t shake the flush of nerves climbing her spine as she walked on, toward wherever this night might lead her.

The metal gate let out a soft clink as Mae pushed it open, its hinges old but familiar. She stepped beyond it like she was slipping into another world—one just slightly removed from the quiet safety of home.

The night was cooler now, touched by the barest trace of mist that clung to the ground like a memory reluctant to lift. Her shoes clicked gently on the uneven stone path, each step slow, hesitant. The houses behind her dimmed into shadow, porch lights flickering like half-hearted lanterns on a foggy dock.

Mae tucked her hands into the sleeves of her cardigan and kept walking.

She wasn’t in a rush. Maybe part of her didn’t want to get there. Maybe part of her was stalling, hoping the night would shift or fate would intervene, sending a storm or a sudden call from home. But the sky stayed clear, and the silence didn’t offer any interruption.

Streetlamps flickered in rhythm with her thoughts—soft, quiet, spiraling. Her footsteps slowed as she reached the corner where the path narrowed. There was something stilling about the quiet here. A hush that clung to the street, as if it had pressed a finger to its lips.

Mae glanced up at the faint curve of the moon. Not full, but still bright enough to silver the edges of rooftops and ripple across puddles left from a morning drizzle.

Her thoughts were too loud.

She rubbed at her wrist as she walked, fidgeting with the sleeve’s seam. She almost turned around—almost—but her legs kept moving, stubborn and slow.

And then she saw him.

He was just there, at the edge of the path near a low iron fence cloaked in ivy, where the trees began to thin. As if he’d stepped out of the night itself. One hand rested on the top rail. The other hung by his side, long fingers gloved in shadow. The faintest trail of smoke curled from the cigarette in his mouth, the cherry ember flaring with each breath.

He didn’t speak at first. Just watched her with those pale, unreadable eyes.

And Mae, despite everything, didn’t stop walking.

The stillness between them stretched—delicate, strange, and laced with something unspoken.

Mae’s steps slowed as she neared him, heart thudding louder than her shoes against the street. The air between them was close now—thick with things neither of them had said yet. She didn’t know if it was the cool hush of night or the look in his eyes, but something in her stilled.

Remmick exhaled a thin stream of smoke and flicked the ash off the side, then turned his head fully toward her.

“I wasn’t sure you’d come,” he said, voice low, like it was meant only for her and the quiet around them.

Mae swallowed but didn’t answer. Her arms folded instinctively across her chest, fingers curling into her sleeves.

He tilted his head, studying her in that strange, unreadable way he did—like he saw more than she wanted to show.

“I know it’s late,” he added, voice gentler now. “Wasn’t tryin’ to put you out.”

She raised an eyebrow, still not speaking, still unsure why she’d said yes in the first place—except maybe to prove something to herself. Or maybe to see what else he’d say.

Remmick straightened, his height more apparent beneath the glow of the streetlamp. He tucked his cigarette between his lips for a final draw before tossing it to the gutter, then wiped his fingers against his coat.

He looked back to her. “It ain’t far.”

Mae nodded once. Barely.

And they began to walk.

Their steps weren’t synchronized at first. She kept a small distance, not out of fear—no, not that—but because closeness felt like something she hadn’t earned yet. Or maybe something she didn’t trust herself with.

The silence between them wasn’t uncomfortable. Just full. Like it could break open at any moment and spill something neither of them was ready to carry.

The street unfolded ahead of them in long shadows and patches of amber light, the kind that flickered and buzzed from streetlamps too old to shine right. Mae walked just behind and to the side of him, close enough that she could hear the crunch of his boots against the gravel, but far enough that if someone looked out their window, they might not think they were together.

The air was cool against her skin, damp with the breath of the city. Somewhere in the distance, a horn sounded—low and dragging like someone crying through a brass pipe. New Orleans always seemed to hum at night. A different hum than the Quarter, less wild, less lively. This hum settled low in the ribs, drumming against the bone like it had nowhere else to go.

Mae kept her arms crossed, her fingers digging into her sleeves, gaze flicking from the sidewalk to the houses they passed. Her heart hadn’t quite slowed since stepping outside. There was an edge in her chest, sharp and anxious, that pressed harder with every step they took away from the neighborhoods she knew.

Where was he taking me?

She hadn’t asked. And now it was too late to ask without sounding nervous, without giving herself away.

Her thoughts turned, circling. Part of her prayed he was leading her somewhere quiet, somewhere out of the way. Somewhere no one would recognize her—especially not the folks who talked. The ones who didn’t need much to make something out of nothing.

The other part of her was already bracing for the sound of her name, said by someone from a porch or behind a shuttered window. The very idea made her stomach twist.

You shouldn’t’ve said yes , her mind hissed. Should’ve let him walk away.

But she had said yes. And she couldn’t take it back now.

Her eyes moved to his back as he walked ahead. Remmick hadn’t said anything since they left the corner. His frame casting a tall, spindly shadow in front of him, distorted by the uneven sidewalk. The hem of his coat swayed like it had its own rhythm, catching the breeze now and then. He looked calm. He always looked calm.

Too calm.

Mae couldn’t help but wonder if it was a lie. If he wasn’t thinking just as much as she was. She didn’t trust it—his quiet. Didn’t trust the way he could carry silence like it was a part of him.

And still… here she was.

The thought made her bite the inside of her cheek. Her pride warred with her curiosity, and both lost to the part of her that just wanted to know . To understand why he always showed up just when she’d convinced herself he was gone.

They rounded a slow bend. The streets here looked different. Less polished. More forgotten. Her eyes lingered on the cracked edges of brick buildings, the tired-looking stoops. She didn’t recognize this part of the area, and she realized with a slow curl of unease that he’d been the only one who seemed to know where they were going.

Mae exhaled slowly, her voice nearly rising to speak—

But before she could, Remmick’s voice broke the silence.

“You alright?” he asked, not looking at her, but his voice low and aware.

Mae blinked at the question. She didn’t answer right away.

He finally glanced her way then, and under the orange light, his face looked a little older, a little sadder—like something lingered just behind his expression.

“I said I’d show you somethin’,” he added, and his voice was gentler this time. “And I meant it.”

Mae studied him. The breath in her chest stalled for a second before she gave the smallest nod.

Still unsure. Still following.

But maybe—just maybe—ready to see.

They turned the corner with quiet steps, the soles of their shoes brushing over a patchwork of uneven stone and dirt. The night air shifted. It grew warmer somehow, thicker, touched with the scent of fried dough and the earthy trace of wet pavement that never fully dried.

Mae’s brow furrowed slightly.

She hadn’t noticed it at first, too caught in the rhythm of their silence, but now…

Somewhere ahead, music rose. Not loud—but soft and meandering, like a lullaby played through a saxophone. A slow, easy tune laced with the soft hush of laughter and the clink of glasses. Not the raucous energy of the Quarter’s deeper belly, but something more peripheral. Calmer.

Still—

Her chest tightened.

She looked around, noting how different the buildings looked here. Less like the ones by her home, more like the worn bricked edges and wrought iron balconies she knew too well. The light here had that same flickering quality, catching on the curls of metal, painting long shadows across the cracked plaster walls.

It hit her all at once.

This wasn’t just another side street.

This was the Quarter.

Only… they were coming at it from a different angle.

Not through the front where the old church sat. Not past the place where she and Louis used to buy chicory coffee and sweetbread on slow afternoons. This was another entrance, one she never thought to use. A narrow mouth of a street that slithered between older shops and shuttered storefronts. The kind you could blink and miss.

Her pace slowed instinctively.

Remmick didn’t say anything, just kept walking like he’d expected her to realize eventually. Like he’d counted on it.

Mae frowned and pulled her arms tighter around herself.

You said you didn’t want to be seen.

Her thoughts grew prickly, defensive. Her fingers tensed around her elbows as they passed under a flickering lamp. She shifted her head just slightly to look behind them. No one seemed to be watching. No one calling her name. 

But she felt that old sensation beginning to rise. Like eyes behind curtains. Like judgement hanging on someone else’s breath.

She hated that she couldn’t fully name the emotion twisting in her gut.

Hated more that Remmick seemed to be reading the road like a map burned into the back of his mind.

She broke the silence.

“…This is the Quarter.”

It wasn’t a question. More an accusation.

Remmick slowed just a touch. Not apologetic, not smug. Just… quiet. He looked back at her over his shoulder and gave a soft nod.

“Just the edge of it,” he said. “A quieter part. Ain’t like where we were that night.”

Mae didn’t respond. Her jaw tensed, but she kept walking. Her heels echoed a little louder now against the stone.

Behind the music, the laughter, and the hum of life that always hovered in this place… she could feel the pressure building again. Something thick and unspoken.

But still, she followed.

Even when she knew she shouldn’t.

Even when her body wanted to turn back.

Because something else pulled her forward.

And it wore his name.

They didn’t speak again after she named the place. Just walked in tandem down the crooked path, her footsteps lighter, more cautious now. The air was different here—more fragrant, laced with fried batter, tobacco smoke, and something faintly floral she couldn’t place.

It wasn’t long before they reached a small brick building tucked just off the street. There was no sign out front. No open door or welcome lantern. But from inside, Mae could hear the muffled hum of music—an upright bass, a slow clap, something warm and smooth like molasses poured over a flame.

Remmick stopped near the side, beside a narrow, chipped doorway nearly hidden beneath an overgrown vine of trumpet flowers. He looked to her, and for a brief second, Mae wondered if he’d speak—offer some explanation, maybe a word to settle the quickened beat in her chest.

But he didn’t.

He just reached forward, fingers brushing the door handle, and pushed it open.

The hinges gave a low groan as the door creaked inward, revealing a tight hallway bathed in amber light. The air inside was thicker—warmer. Mae stepped in slowly, her senses immediately drinking in the scent of spiced wine, old wood, and something smoky sweet curling from deeper within.

Remmick didn’t rush her.

He stood behind, letting the door shut softly behind them. Then, with a nod of his head, he motioned her forward.

She followed.

The corridor was narrow, but clean. Along the wall hung faded photographs—sepia-toned images of dancers mid-motion, musicians with sweat glistening on their brows. A woman in a feathered hat, caught mid-laugh. A young man with a violin gripped in his hands.

Mae’s breath caught in her throat.

There was something sacred about the space. Something lived-in. Secret.

At the end of the hall, Remmick stepped ahead and pressed his hand to another door, this one without a knob, and gave it a careful push.

The sound washed over them instantly.

Music. Louder now. Real. Live.

Mae blinked as the room opened around her—a low-lit parlor dressed in burgundy curtains and low-hanging lamps. A small stage sat to the far right, where a band was easing through a dreamy ballad. Upright bass, piano, a slow horn. The kind of sound that made your spine sway without realizing.

A few tables were scattered around the room, most already filled. People leaned in close over drinks. They talked low. They laughed behind the rims of glasses. But there was no booming laughter or shouts—only something intimate, velvet-smooth and soft at the edges.

“Won’t be long,” Remmick said gently. “Music like this… don’t come around often.”

Mae swallowed.

Her hand drifted to the edge of her coat. For a split second, she considered turning around, offering some excuse about the time. But her body didn’t move.

Instead, she followed him.

She didn’t know what this place was. Or who else might be watching.

But in that moment—with the music rising, her pulse in her throat, and the warmth of the room creeping into her skin—Mae wasn’t ready to leave.

Not just yet.

They moved through the narrow, crooked hallway in near silence, their steps echoing faintly against warped floorboards. The smell inside was different than she’d expected—old wood, faint traces of smoke, something sharp beneath it all that didn’t quite settle right in her nose.

The place wasn’t what you’d call refined. It had character, sure, but not the kind you read about in travel journals. Peeling paint along the corners of the wall, uneven floorboards that creaked in protest, and a ceiling fan that spun just slow enough to be useless. The tables were mismatched, the chairs wobbling on legs that had seen better decades. A flickering wall sconce lit a far corner where someone had scrawled something in charcoal—half rubbed away now, illegible.

But there was music.

Low and lazy, curling from a speaker rigged somewhere near the front. Laughter too, from a few folks near the bar, their voices carrying with the kind of ease that only came from people who’d grown used to the room’s cracks and shadows.

Mae followed Remmick deeper in, eyes scanning instinctively for faces. But no one looked her way. Not even once. Still, the back of her neck prickled like someone might.

He paused, then turned slightly to gesture toward a spot—tucked along the wall beside an old piano draped in an afghan that didn’t quite hide the damage along the keys. 

The spot he’d chosen wasn’t just convenient . It was purposeful. Mae noticed it right away—the way the light pooled just shy of the corner table. The way the heavy velvet curtain beside it fell just so, giving them a bit of shadow, a bit of cover. From the rest of the room, they were all but tucked away. Her first instinct was suspicion.

But the second?

Something that nearly softened.

Because it meant he’d listened. Or at least remembered.

The booth beneath her gave the softest creak as she eased down. Across from her, Remmick lowered himself into his own seat, his movements careful, too precise for someone meant to be relaxed. He leaned back slightly, his arms resting on either side himself, eyes drifting toward the front of the room like he hadn’t been watching her the entire time.

But she could feel him.

Not in the obvious way. Not the way other men watched, that burning attention with a grin behind it. No. Remmick’s gaze felt quieter. 

It wasn’t leering. It wasn’t even particularly intense. But it was there. His attention. His presence. The way the air shifted ever so slightly with each breath he took.

She cleared her throat softly, pretending to fuss with her sleeve, then set her hands in her lap.

Remmick leaned back a little, giving her space, eyes drifting toward the band. But his voice, when he spoke, came low, like he was only offering it to her.

“You alright?”

It was an innocent question. An easy one. But Mae could feel how deeply it meant something else.

Not just: Are you alright right now?

But: Are you alright here— with me?

She didn’t answer at first.

Instead, she looked around the room one last time. Nobody she knew. Nobody looking at her. The world, for now, was letting her pass unnoticed.

She let out a quiet breath through her nose.

“I’m fine,” she said finally, not looking up.

“Mm.”

He didn’t press.

But he didn’t blink much either.

She caught the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth—something like a smile, but not quite. Like he was holding one back, or maybe holding something else entirely.

“I picked this place,” he said after a stretch of silence, “because I figured it’d be quieter. Less… prying eyes.”

That gave her pause. She glanced up at him, just a little.

He shrugged, leaning forward now, elbows on the table. “Didn’t want you worrying the whole time.”

Mae bit down on the inside of her cheek. Something in her shifted, uncertain if she felt more exposed or more seen.

The lights flickered once before settling again.

“I noticed,” she said simply, adjusting her coat collar. “Thank you.”

Remmick gave a small nod. “You’re welcome.”

Neither of them moved to say anything else just yet.

The song changed. Another slow rhythm curling through the parlor.

And in that silence, with the music swelling and the warm shadows gathering around their table, Mae found herself settling in just a little deeper. Not relaxing, exactly—but no longer on the edge of her seat.

The music swelled—not loud, but full. A low brass hum rose and fell like something exhaling, and somewhere in the rhythm, the hush between them began to feel heavier. Mae shifted in her seat, her fingers brushing the side of her glass though she hadn’t taken a single sip since sitting back down.

Remmick’s gaze flicked toward her once, then dropped to the table.

“I didn’t think you’d come,” he said finally.

Mae blinked, then gave a soft, almost breathless laugh that didn’t reach her eyes. “Neither did I.”

He tilted his head, mouth pulling into that same unreadable line he always seemed to wear. “Then why’d you say yes?”

She didn’t answer right away. The music was easier to listen to than the sound of her own thoughts. In truth, she didn’t know how to explain it. She’d felt like she was watching her own body say it, her mouth moving faster than her mind.

“I think,” she started, then paused. “I think I wanted to remember what it felt like to choose something. Even if it was stupid.”

His eyes met hers at that. There was something patient in the way he looked at her—like he could sit there forever if it meant hearing the answer. But Mae didn’t give him more. She pressed her lips together, arms crossing tight over her stomach.

“Then I’m glad you chose me,” he said quietly.

She rolled her eyes, not from annoyance, but from the way his words curled too easily around her. “You make it sound like this is a date.”

He didn’t smile, but there was something teasing in the way he leaned back, arms stretching across the table in front of him. “Ain’t it?”

Mae gave him a look. “Not hardly.”

Remmick hummed, letting his gaze drift toward the front of the room. “Could’ve fooled me. I cleaned up, didn’t I?”

She did glance at him then, and only then noticed that he was wearing something a little neater. Not fancy—Remmick never seemed to do fancy—but his shirt was pressed, the dark collar still damp near the edges like he’d rushed to iron it. His sleeves were rolled up, revealing forearms still slightly smudged with something that looked like paint or dirt.

“You still got something on your hands,” she muttered.

He looked down at them, then shrugged. “Forgot to scrub. You caught me honest.”

Mae shook her head, and for a moment, the tension slipped. Her shoulders softened just slightly, but it returned quickly when she remembered why she was here—and that she wasn’t supposed to be.

“You know I ain’t supposed to be out here,” she said, low enough that it could’ve been mistaken for a thought.

“I know.” He turned back to her, voice gentler now. “But you are.”

And that truth sat between them—warm, unspoken, maybe a little dangerous.

She looked down again, eyes tracing the edge of the table. “I won’t be for long.”

He stilled, as if the air had cooled a notch. “You really leavin’?”

Mae nodded once.

Remmick didn’t speak. Didn’t try to convince her. He just watched her for a moment longer, then reached for the candle between them and gently turned it, like he could coax time to slow with just his fingertips.

Then he said, almost idly, “Then I’m glad you gave me tonight.”

Mae wasn’t sure why her throat felt tight, or why her chest ached a little when he said it like that.

She didn’t reply. Only looked down again.

But she didn’t get up either.

Mae shifted slightly, the candlelight brushing the side of her face as she glanced toward the bar. The music behind them had begun to slow into something softer—murmurs of strings and breathy horns—and it left more space for her thoughts to trickle in.

She cleared her throat lightly. “Aren’t you gonna get somethin’ to drink?”

Remmick’s eyes lifted to hers, then lingered on her for a long moment. Not with surprise. Just… stillness. That curious, slow sort of stillness he often wore when he was trying to figure out what she really meant beneath the words.

“I’m fine,” he said finally. His voice was low, deliberate.

Mae raised an eyebrow. “Don’t drink?”

“I do,” he answered. “Just not the usual things. Not tonight.”

There was something pointed in the way he said it—not threatening, not even teasing. Just honest. Plain and unapologetic.

Mae held his gaze for a second longer before looking away. “Mm,” she murmured, brushing her finger along the rim of her glass. “Didn’t think you were the type to sit in a place like this without a glass in your hand.”

“I didn’t come here for a drink,” Remmick said. His words came quiet, but steady. “I came here with you.”

That made her pause. She didn’t look up, didn’t let herself react. But her fingers stilled around the rim of the glass.

She reached for the water instead, pretending her throat was dry. It was.

He leaned back in the booth again, one arm resting along the worn top of the seat, the other now casually tracing the grain of the wood near his side of the table. “But if you want me to have somethin’, I’ll get it.”

Mae glanced up at him then. “I ain’t tellin’ you what to do.”

A shadow of a smile touched the corner of his mouth. “Didn’t say you were.”

They sat with that for a moment, the tension settling once more—not sharp or cutting, but stretched taut like something waiting. The chatter and music from the rest of the building surrounded them, soft and unbothered, as if the world hadn’t noticed the strange little bubble the two of them sat in.

Then Mae said, half to herself, “You just don’t ever seem to do what I expect.”

Remmick didn’t blink. “Good.”

That made her look up fully, eyes narrowing. “What’s that mean?”

He tilted his head slightly. “Means maybe I’d rather keep you guessin’ than let you decide who I am too soon.”

Mae gave a quiet scoff, shaking her head like she was shaking him off, like he was just some fog in the air—but the heat in her chest told her it wasn’t working.

“Guess you like being mysterious, huh?” she muttered.

“No,” he said, his voice soft now. “I like being honest. Mystery’s just what it looks like when folks don’t want to hear the truth.”

Something in that made her go still again.

Mae’s gaze slipped toward the band as another tune began to lift and weave through the room. It was smoother than the last—syrupy slow with a pulse like something lazy in the heat. The trumpet player leaned into the melody, eyes closed, like he was trying to coax something tender from the air itself. The drumbeat was low, almost like a heartbeat. It stirred something under her skin.

She didn’t realize she was watching them so intently until Remmick spoke again.

“You got a thing for instruments?” he asked.

Mae blinked, drawn back into the booth. She glanced at him, his face now angled toward her in the hush between sentences. His question hadn’t sounded teasing—just genuinely curious.

She shrugged a little, lips pressing together. “Not really,” she said after a beat. “Would rather dance than sit still tryin’ to play one.”

Remmick’s brow ticked slightly at that. “That so?”

Mae hummed. “I like the way music moves through you. You feel it in your body, not just your ears. Makes it easier to forget yourself for a while.”

She wasn’t sure why she said that part. It just came out.

But Remmick didn’t push or prod. He only watched her, the line of his mouth softening as the candle flickered against the cut of his jaw.

“You forget yourself often?” he asked, voice low.

Mae didn’t answer right away. She just let her fingers trail along the base of her water glass, watching the condensation bead under her touch. She could feel his attention on her, steady and warm like the sun against the side of her face.

“Sometimes,” she said finally, quiet. “Sometimes it’s the only thing that makes the day pass easier.”

Remmick nodded once, not as though he agreed—but as though he understood.

They both fell quiet again, letting the music settle between them. The singer had started crooning now, soft and mournful, something about stars and memory. The band backed him in slow spirals.

Mae didn’t dare look at Remmick for a moment—not with how heavy her chest felt, or how odd it was to feel so seen in a room so dim.

But she could feel him looking at her.

She could always feel when he was.

Mae leaned back a little, her shoulders sloping softer than before, as if something had begun to loosen inside her. The music helped. The hush of the booth helped. But more than anything, it was the way Remmick looked at her—not with the hunger she’d feared, not with pity either. Just with attention. Unflinching, undivided attention.

“I wanted to dance at the Easter festival,” she said, her voice quiet but clearer than before.

Remmick looked at her, the faintest shift of interest in his expression. “Yeah?”

She nodded, lips pressed in a line for a moment before she spoke again. “I was workin’ on my outfit for it. Even had the shoes picked out. I had it all planned.”

There was a long breath, like she hadn’t meant to say that much. But the silence gave her space to go on, and something about the calm in his eyes made it easier to speak plainly.

“I used to dance all the time,” she said, a wry smile tugging at one corner of her mouth. “When I was little, I’d dance in the yard till I got dizzy. And later, when I was old enough, I’d go to the socials—church ones, sometimes the neighbor’s get-togethers. Didn’t matter where.”

Her eyes dropped to the table, her fingers grazing the rim of her glass. “Sometimes I think dancin’ was the only time I ever felt like myself. Like I didn’t have to be anyone else. Just… me, and the music, and the air.”

She blinked, like she hadn’t realized how much that memory still stirred in her chest. The weight of the present—the house, her mama, the unspoken decision she was supposed to follow through on—it all pressed in around the edges.

“But now,” she added after a beat, “feels like I’m always stuck watchin’ the music instead of movin’ with it. Like life kept goin’ but I stayed sittin’ down.”

She laughed softly, not out of humor, but out of disbelief at herself for being so vulnerable. “You must think I’m foolish.”

Remmick didn’t laugh. Didn’t nod or shake his head. His gaze was steady, dark in the amber light.

“I don’t,” he said. “I think you’re rememberin’ what you need.”

That silenced her. Her heart gave a slow thump.

The band played on, and for a fleeting second, Mae felt something ache in her legs—an old muscle memory itching to move, to be part of something again.

But she only sat there, eyes drifting back to the stage. The music was soft again, brushing gently against the curve of her thoughts.

And beside her, Remmick stayed quiet. Not pushing. Just listening.

The music shifted into something gentler, the notes curling through the low-lit space like smoke. It swelled and dipped, not too loud, not too soft—just enough to carry the weight of silence between two people who weren’t quite sure what to do with it.

Mae leaned into the quiet. Not to fill it. Not to escape it. Just to sit in it.

For once, it didn’t feel suffocating.

She could feel the shape of Remmick’s attention on her again, like a hand placed just above her skin—warm, but not touching. And still, he said nothing.

She let her eyes drift across the little room. The wood-paneled walls. The scuffed legs of tables. The way candlelight flickered against old glass. Nothing here was perfect. The place smelled faintly of lemon polish and cigarette ash. There was a scratch on the mirror behind the bar, and the floor creaked every time someone leaned too far in their chair.

But it was… safe, in a strange way. Not because of what it was, but because of how carefully she’d been led here. Because of the thought it must have taken to find the one booth shadowed enough to hide her face, far enough to keep her secrets intact.

Her hands sat in her lap, fingers idly brushing the hem of her sleeve.

“You ever dance?” she asked suddenly, eyes still on the band.

Remmick’s gaze flicked toward the stage, and he tilted his head like he was trying to remember something.

“Once or twice,” he said, slow. “A long time ago.”

“You any good?”

He smiled—just barely. “Only if no one’s lookin’.”

That made her laugh under her breath. Soft and unexpected. A corner of warmth opening in her chest before she could help it.

She turned to glance at him and caught him already watching her with a kind of steadiness that made her throat tighten a little.

There was something behind his eyes she didn’t know how to name. Not sadness. Not desire. Just something vast. Old, maybe. Lonely, even when he smiled.

“I think you remember more than you let on,” she said.

Remmick didn’t deny it.

And she didn’t press.

Mae let out a breath through her nose and rested her arms on the table, gaze drifting. She didn’t feel like the version of herself from that morning. The one at the mirror, mentally pacing. The one who was supposed to be packing up, preparing to vanish from this place like a smudge wiped clean.

Her fingers drummed gently on the table, the sound barely audible over the soft hum of the room. Remmick hadn’t spoken again, but he was still watching her. Like he was waiting for something, or maybe deciding how much he wanted to know.

Then—

“Your family,” he said, his voice cutting through the quiet. “They treat you well?”

Mae’s eyes lifted to meet his.

The question didn’t sound loaded. But it still made her sit up a little straighter.

“They’re my family,” she answered slowly. Not cold. Just careful. “It’s not always easy, but they do what they can.”

Remmick nodded, looking away for a moment. His hand moved across the table—slow, thoughtless—and she watched the way his fingers grazed the wood of the table before falling still again.

“I only ask,” he said, voice quieter now, “because you don’t seem all that happy when you talk about them.”

Mae said nothing at first. Her shoulders shifted, a subtle tightening beneath her coat. That was too close. Too sharp. Her mama’s voice echoed somewhere in the back of her mind, too loud for the room they sat in.

“I ain’t unhappy,” she murmured.

Remmick didn’t push.

Instead, he sat with it.

Another pause stretched out—almost enough for her to let it go—but then he spoke again, gentler this time.

“Is it your mama? Or all of them?”

Mae looked away. Her gaze landed on the band again, on the way the trumpet player bobbed slightly with each note, lost in the music. It felt easier to look there than back at him.

“She’s not cruel,” Mae said at last. “Just… scared. She’s seen things. Lost people. That kind of fear, it don’t let go easy.”

Remmick’s head tilted slightly, his expression unreadable in the low light.

“And you?” he asked.

Mae blinked.

“What about me?”

“Are you scared, too?”

She didn’t answer. Didn’t have one. Or maybe didn’t want to say the truth out loud.

He let it sit. Didn’t fill the space. Didn’t twist the knife.

Mae let her gaze drift over the room once more, noting how it had begun to thin slightly. One couple swayed lazily near the band, and the old man at the bar had long since nodded off on his stool.

Then, Remmick shifted in his seat.

His voice, low and almost reluctant, broke the spell.

“There’s something I want to show you.”

Mae blinked, her attention pulling back to him. “Here?”

He nodded, then offered the faintest of smiles—wary, like he didn’t want to scare her off. “It’s nothing strange. Just… something in the back. I think you’d like it.”

Mae hesitated. That careful little warning lit up somewhere in her ribs, the one she was used to listening to.

But something about the way he said it—soft, measured, without that glint of anticipation other men usually wore—eased it down again. He wasn’t pushing. Just offering.

She gave him a slow nod. “Alright.”

He stood first, quiet and unhurried, and gestured toward the side hallway that curved deeper into the building. It wasn’t grand or eerie—just dim, the light bulbs overhead flickering gently like tired stars. She followed him, her steps soft against the old wooden floor. The laughter and music faded with each step.

The hallway narrowed a bit before opening up into a small room. It looked like it might’ve been used for storage once, maybe still was. Shelves lined one wall, filled with odds and ends—forgotten instruments, dusty bottles, old handbills from performances decades past. But what caught her eye was the wall to the left: covered in old photographs, faded and curling with age.

Remmick didn’t speak right away. He let her take it in.

Mae stepped closer. The pictures were of musicians—some young, some older—posing with trumpets or saxophones or smiling beside bandstands. Some looked professionally done; others were blurry, clearly taken in the middle of a set. But all of them had been loved enough to be kept.

“It’s… people who used to play here?” she asked softly.

Remmick nodded. “Some of them still do. Most don’t.”

“Are you one of ’em?” she glanced at him, only half-teasing.

He huffed a laugh. “I’m not.”

Mae looked at him again. “You look like you would.”

Remmick tilted his head slightly, as if unsure whether it was a compliment or a read. Then his voice dropped just a little. “Would you believe me if I said I used to play a few instruments?”

She raised a brow. “You?”

He smirked, just barely. “Long, long time ago.”

Mae didn’t ask how long. She didn’t have to. The air said enough.

She turned back toward the photographs, the soft scent of wood polish and something old and musky lingering in the air. There was history here. And for a moment, despite everything, she felt oddly… safe in it. Like she’d stepped through time and found a place that remembered things, even if the rest of the world forgot.

Remmick stood beside her, just close enough that she could feel the warmth he carried—or whatever passed for it.

“You brought me back here,” she murmured, “just to show me some old photos?”

He was quiet for a beat.

“Not just that,” he said, voice low. “I wanted you to know that I listen. When you speak. That I think about the things you say… even after you’re gone.”

Mae didn’t move. But her breath caught slightly in her chest, soft and sharp, like something fragile fluttering too close to the edge of being felt.

Remmick didn’t turn to look at her just yet. He kept his eyes on the old photographs—faces frozen in time, moments immortalized under yellowing glass. His voice, when it came again, was quieter. Like he was almost embarrassed by it.

“I know I can be a little… odd,” he said, almost with a shrug. “Maybe too much, sometimes.”

That got Mae to glance sideways at him, just slightly.

He finally looked at her. Not smiling now, but not frowning either. Something open stretched across his face—bare, honest, strange in how soft it made him seem.

“But if I could have just a few nights like this,” he continued, “before you go… I think maybe you’d get to know me. The right parts.”

That last part hung between them, warm and uncertain. A quiet offering.

Mae didn’t answer right away. But something in her expression had shifted—less guarded, even if she didn’t want it to be.

She turned her gaze back to the wall, to the people who had come and gone before her. And for the first time in a while, she didn’t feel quite so haunted.

They didn’t speak much after that.

Remmick held the door open for her as they stepped out of the small, shadowed room and back into the low hum of the building—where the air was thicker with music, laughter, and the scent of late-night perfume and old wood. The band was still playing, though slower now. A drowsy kind of rhythm filled the corners of the space, like the night was settling into itself.

Mae walked ahead of him at first, weaving through the tables, conscious of every step. Every shift of air. Every pair of eyes that might catch hers.

But no one looked up.

And when they stepped outside into the narrow street behind the building, the door creaked shut behind them with a finality that made Mae’s shoulders fall just slightly.

The Quarter looked different from this angle.

The lights were dimmer. The laughter more distant. Like they’d walked out of a dream and back into the real world, where shadows lengthened under the streetlamps and carriages rattled somewhere far off.

Remmick walked beside her without saying a word.

Mae didn’t speak either. Not yet. Her hands were folded inside her coat, but her fingers were twisting the hem of her sleeve, the same way they always did when her thoughts got loud.

Remmick’s hands were in his pockets. His coat hung open. The night didn’t seem to bother him.

It was quiet between them—but not uncomfortable. Just a quiet full of things unsaid.

When they reached the edge of the Quarter, where the noise softened into silence and the familiar roads curved toward home, Mae finally glanced sideways at him.

“You really knew where to pick,” she said softly, not quite smiling, but not cold either.

Remmick looked at her then. “I pay attention.”

Mae looked away, her lips pressing together like something wanted to form behind them but didn’t. Not yet.

They kept walking. Slow, unhurried. As if neither of them wanted to be the first to say goodnight.

But the street ahead grew more familiar. The houses. The shape of the oak trees. The feeling of home tightening around her, reminding her of who she was and what she was expected to be.

Mae slowed as they neared the gate. She could just make out the silhouette of the house, dim and distant.

“This is me,” she murmured.

Remmick stopped beside her, his eyes catching the faint silver of her profile in the moonlight.

She didn’t move to go yet. She just looked at the gate. Then at him.

“Thanks,” she said.

He dipped his head slightly. “Anytime.”

There was a long pause before she added, “This doesn’t mean—”

“I know,” he said. Quiet. Gentle.

Another beat passed between them before she turned, her footsteps light as she opened the gate and slipped through. She didn’t look back until she reached just in front of the porch.

When she finally turned her head, Remmick was still standing by the gate.

Watching.

Waiting.

But only for a second longer.

Then he turned, melting back into the dark as quietly as he’d come.

The night air clung to her skin as Mae slipped through the yard, the soles of her shoes soft against the packed dirt path. It was late enough now that the neighborhood had gone still, windows dimmed and doors shut. Even the insects had quieted into a dull hum.

She moved with purpose, but not haste, cutting behind the house like she’d done so many times as a girl sneaking out just to breathe. The back porch creaked beneath her steps, familiar and worn. She paused at the edge—gazing up at the house like it might sense her coming.

Just in case.

If anyone was still up—and Lord knows Florence sometimes sat up reading in her chair—she needed a believable story. One that made sense.

A moment to herself. A walk in the garden. The cool air to soothe a restless mind.

Mae opened the screen door with a quiet hand and stepped into the house, letting it close with only the softest clatter. The wooden boards of the floor felt warm underfoot, like they’d been holding the day’s sun long after it dipped beneath the horizon.

She lingered there, her breath slow and shallow, listening.

The faint tick of the grandfather clock inside.

The clink of a pot settling on the stove.

No voices.

No footsteps.

She shifted forward, careful and deliberate, then slipped further into the house through the back door. The scent of rosemary and lemon from supper still lingered in the air, and the oil lamp in the hall had burned low.

She didn’t call out.

Just in case.

Mae walked the hallway with practiced ease, her fingers brushing the familiar edges of the paneling. It was so strange, being inside the same home as the family she grew up with and feeling like she was sneaking around in someone else’s life.

Every step deeper into the house felt like a test. If someone saw her, she’d smile. She’d yawn. She’d say she’d been out back with a blanket and a glass of water, watching the stars. She’d even point to a spot on the grass if she had to.

But no one stopped her.

Not tonight.

When she finally reached the stairs, her body seemed to exhale all at once. She gave the hall one last glance over her shoulder—just to be sure—then tiptoed her way up.

And the quiet swallowed her again.

tags : @endofradio @bitter-post-millennial

[flixpii]

PLEASSEEEEEEEEE GODDDDD PLEASEEEE WRITE ABOUT PEGGING REMMICK PLEASEE PLEASE PLEASE THANK YOU GOD

pegging

word count : 8.8k (i got carried away...)

masterlist | taglist

a/n : bless you anon. been thinking about pegging him since i saw him begging on that porch. i want to thank @cherryxhaze for the idea where he sucks the strap. the entire idea of sticking it outside the door, only allowing him to take what is offered, is from her beautiful brain. thank you. 🧎🏾‍♀️

i'm definitely ignoring the logic that vampires don't need to breathe.

warnings (mdni 18+) : sub!remmick, strap-on play (reader wears a strap), blowjob/oral with strap, face-fucking, hair pulling, choking/gagging, drool/spit, overstimulation, use of cock ring, orgasm denial, begging, light degradation, pegging (anal penetration with strap), fingering (m!receiving), dirty talk, praise kink, handjob, crying during sex, aftercare, first time writing pegging (have mercy on my soul)

You hear him before you see him.

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

The sound stops just shy of your front door.

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

You know it’s him.

Remmick.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He doesn’t move at first.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Go on,” you murmur.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Another inch.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You don’t give him many.

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

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

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

And he’s starting to unravel.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then you pull out.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Stand up.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Come in.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Undress.”

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

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

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

Those go next.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“On your knees,” you murmur.

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

“Turn around.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You hum in approval.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Fuck,” he whispers hoarse.

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

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

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

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

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

“So greedy,” you murmur against his skin.

“I’m not,” he pants, voice ragged.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“…fuck me,” he whispers.

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

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

He nods once, shoulders tense, head dipping forward.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Not yet.”

The words slice through him, soft but absolute.

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

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

Then your hand leaves his hip.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You don’t let him recover.

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

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

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

Then the words tumble free, ruined and pleading:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then—

“I wanna do that again.”

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

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

And he will.

You both know it.

re-doing my tag-list so, if anyone wants to be on it, let me know !

[flixpii]

remmick probably

posting the pegging one-shot tonight 😮‍💨

[flixpii]

HEY!!!! HI!!! It’s you!

I read your Never Not Yours fic on Ao3 like a month ago and I left a comment about how you helped me figure out how to write one of my characters, and I mentioned at the bottom of my comment I was gonna practice drawing some expressions for my characters. I just thought I’d share a wip of the drawing I ended up making after reading ur stuff ❤️

This isn’t the final but I finished it like two days after commenting and haven’t had time to come back till now. This is one of my leads ❤️❤️

Oh and I started reading your other fic, “The Night I Chose You”! GOOD SAUCE 👌 love the way the reader comes off as a silent baddie barely restraining themselves. Keep up the good work, you write really well :D

omg this is so sweet 😭💗 thank you for coming back to share this !! i remember your comment and now seeing this wip tied to it has me grinning like an idiot. the atmosphere in your piece is gorgeous—the shadows and those purples/greys feel so haunting but tender at the same time. you captured such a strong, vulnerable expression here, i can see the character’s inner world all over their face.

also the fact that my fic could spark even a fraction of that for you?? i’m genuinely honored. that’s the best kind of full-circle moment: me writing something, you reading it, then channeling it into your own art. just beautiful !

and aaaahhh i’m so glad you picked up the night i chose you too ! thank you for reading, sharing, and just being so kind 🫶🏾 keep going with your art, i can already tell it’s going to be something special 🥹

[flixpii]

HAIGH TUMBLRINAS!

firstly thank you all so much for 400 followers. i'm so glad you all enjoy my fics and i've loved writing and making art for you all x.

horror trope halloween fictober!

1 ALL IN THE EYES

2 BLOOD MAGIC

3 CLASSIC VAMPIRE

4 DEAL WITH THE DEVIL

5 DON’T GO IN THE WOODS

6 EERIE FLICKERING LIGHT

7 FRANKENSTEIN’S MONSTER

8 GHOST STORY

9 HOLY BURNS EVIL

10 HOSTILE HITCHIKER

11 INITIATION CEREMONY

12 JUMP SCARE

13 KISS OF THE VAMPIRE

14 LESBIAN VAMPIRE

15 MAD SCIENTIST

16 MALEVOLENT MASKED MAN

17 MUST BE INVITED

18 NEW HOUSE, NEW PROBLEMS

19 OMINOUS KNOCKING

20 PAINFUL TRANSFORMATION

21 RED EYES, TAKE WARNING

22 THE RENFIELD

23 SILVER BULLET

24 SUCCUBI/INCUBI

25 TEARS OF BLOOD

26 THEATRE PHANTOM

27 URBAN LEGENDS

28 VENGEFUL GHOST

29 WOLF MAN

30 YOUR SOUL IS MINE

31 FINAL GIRL

i'm so excited to see what yous write and if you do feel free to tag #abhi's horror trope fictober so i can see it!

HAPPY HAUNTING!

[flixpii]

to give you guys a gist, these are the current wips that i’m focusing on atm 🧎🏾‍♀️

untitled remmick x reader (nosferatu au)

untitled college roommate!remmick x blk!reader

pegging (reader pegs remmick—also received an absolutely great idea from a friend that involves him sucking the strap 👀)

doggy-sitting (lion kaminski x dogsitter!reader)

the pegging one will most likely be done tomorrow if i have the motivation to finish it tonight 😫

been working on the nosferatu au since july, but ended up momentarily scrapping it because i didn’t like where it was going 😭 now i’m dedicated to get it finished

might (very high chance) make the college roommate!remmick into a two-shot because i have so many ideas (thank you luna for your freakiness)

[flixpii]

ugh i loved your vampire!reader fic so much 😩 just imagine vampire!remmick coming across vampire!reader one night (the first vampire he’s seen in centuries) and he’s just so convinced they’re meant to be together that he actually neeeever gives up on courting her, despite how much she insists on being alone and swearing off love. ofc eventually it has to work and she reciprocates, and even if it’s even more centuries after they meet, he would love her with open arms 💔 my heart

i’m so glad you liked it !! 🫶🏾

i adore this idea so much 😭 remmick finally crossing paths with another of his kind after centuries… the yearning and persistence he’d pour into courting her would be unreal. i love the contrast too: him chasing eternity with her while she swears off love entirely, only for time itself to break down her walls. centuries of his ass until she finally lets him in… & by then he’s still there, waiting with open arms

-

the first night he saw you, moonlight cutting your silhouette in the alleyway, remmick knew. it had been lifetimes since he’d caught the scent of another like him, centuries of silence and solitude. but there you were, eyes catching on his with the same glow he thought he’d never see again.

you tried to push him away—sharp words, colder than your fangs ever could be. you told him you wanted nothing of love, nothing of eternity bound to anyone but yourself. and yet, he came back. every decade. every century. finding you wherever the world carried you, always patient, always sure.

and when the centuries softened you, when loneliness cracked your iron resolve, you found him still standing there. the same quiet devotion, the same open arms, waiting. remmick never once stopped believing you were meant to be his. and when you finally reached back for him, it was like the universe had only been waiting for that moment—for the two of you to be endless together.

might make an actual one-shot

remmick calling her if he had a phone :

[flixpii]

it was foreshadowed the entire time

sammie removing the plants (veil)

smoke killing the snake (remmick)

[flixpii]

whoever got you to consider doing a part 3 THANK YOU.

anon, come get your praise !

[flixpii]

Are you gonna make some other one shots into fics? Or mini series

i’ve been thinking abt doing a part 1.5/2 for some of them, but i haven’t thought far enough to actually brainstorm

i’m getting these requests out before i even touch on anything else

[flixpii]

DEADASS make a part 3 of the 2 shot series like where we don’t DIE???? Deadass I will throw money at you.

i’ll think abt it 😫

currently stacked up so, even if i do, it would take awhile

[flixpii]

curls

blk!fem!reader x remmick

word count : 764

synopsis : remmick does not grow. his body is forever locked in the hour he was turned. he cannot change, but you do. and he loves you for it.

masterlist | taglist

a/n : this is definitely not inspired by my wash day this past saturday … friendly advice: do not procrastinate doing your hair until the last moment when you have something important to do the next day 💔 and don’t be letting just anybody touch your hair !!!

warnings : fluff, mentions of being stuck, once again using iwtv logic, modern times? (didn’t feel like going through a timeline to find out when diffusers were invented)

you don’t hear him come in at first.

your fingers are buried in your hair, working a leave-in cream through your curls, when the front door creaks and then clicks shut again. the soft rustle of his coat follows, then the sound of shoes being kicked off without care. you don’t turn to greet him—he’ll come find you when he’s ready. he always does.

instead, you hum quietly, combing your hands through the ends to detangle. you glance at the wide-tooth comb resting beside you on the couch, but you don’t reach for it just yet. The strands are soft tonight, springy. your curls have been loving the weather lately.

so has he.

“is it wash day?” his voice comes low and familiar from the hallway, and then he appears, already toeing off his socks, hair damp from the rain.

you nod. “yeah. i did a deep condition this time.”

he crosses the room, quiet and steady, and you shift on the couch to make room for him. he doesn’t sit right away. just stands there, looking down at you, gaze soft and a little distant in that way it gets when he’s holding back more than he knows how to say.

you pat the floor between your legs. “you wanna sit?”

he hesitates—but only for a moment—then eases down between your thighs, settling back against the couch. he lets out a long breath, like just that small gesture unraveled something inside him. you reach over for the comb and pause, eyes drifting to his head.

“your hair’s shorter,” you murmur, brushing your fingers gently across the ends. “you tried again?”

he huffs out a laugh, small and tired. “yeah. cut it this morning.”

you smile, fingers threading through his dark strands. they’re still wet at the roots—of course they are. already regrown like it always does. every follicle, every strand, reset to the same length, the same texture, the same cut he had when he was turned.

eternally him.

unchanging.

but you—you are softness in motion. a different curl pattern in winter. braids in summer. twists and silk wraps and coily buns and silk presses. you are change. and he loves you for it.

he just doesn’t always know how to say it.

“i brought some stuff out,” you say, reaching beside you. “wanna let me try something new?”

he tilts his head up to glance at the products on the cushion—curl creams, mousse, oils, a diffuser he doesn’t understand but pretends to—and then gives a slow, curious nod. “you think it’ll work on me?”

“i think we won’t know unless we try.”

and so you do.

you part his hair carefully, warm hands moving with practiced ease. he’s quiet the whole time, barely breathing. not out of nerves—he doesn’t need breath like you do—but out of reverence. you know this by now. know the weight of your hands in his hair means something to him. something that still aches to be spoken.

“i used to grow mine out,” he says suddenly, voice quiet. “before I was turned.”

you pause for only a moment, then keep working. “yeah?”

“mm.” a beat passes. “cut it all off the day before. wish I hadn’t. would’ve been nice. to see what it would’ve looked like.”

you lean forward, pressing a kiss to the top of his head. “you’d look good no matter what.”

he lets out a low, pleased sound. almost bashful.

as you rake your fingers through again, he leans into your touch—head heavy against your stomach, eyes fluttering shut. the smell of citrus fills the room, and the patter of rain drifts through the windows. you let the silence stretch.

“how’s it look?” he asks after a while, voice low.

you kiss the top of his head.

“like someone loved you.”

he turns, just enough to rest his cheek against your knee. his eyes are glassy. you let your fingers drift across his temple, his jaw, his freshly softened hair.

“thank you,” he says.

you don’t need him to say what else he’s thinking. you already know. you’ve caught him watching you twist your hair before bed, wide-eyed like it’s magic. you’ve caught him running his fingers over the shedded strands left in your comb like they hold the secrets of the universe.

to him, they probably do.

he loves you. and part of loving you means loving the things about you that he’ll never have—never grow, never change, never soften or shift with time.

but tonight, at least, he can be part of it. just a little.

and that’s enough.

[flixpii]

it’s always so lovely to find a blog through the most heart-wrenching, angsty fic with a beautiful ending only to click the master list and there’s also some absolute filth put out by the same person. that’s how i feel about u because how are you so good at writing so many different genres

omg stoppp that’s literally the best compliment 😭 i just kinda write whatever mood strikes so i’m glad it works somehow lmao

i promise it’s just one brain cell doing backflips at random

[flixpii]

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎𝐑 𝐄 𝐌 𝐌 𝐈 𝐂 𝐊

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ .ᐟ 𝒎𝒂𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒍𝒊𝒔𝒕

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎all fem!reader unless stated otherwise !

fics !

⁺ they said the girl died cryin’ scripture (fem!oc x remmick)

⁺ the sky was the first witness

long one-shots ! (4k+)

⁺ “why you here ?”

⁺ the hunt ends here

⁺ too much, not enough

⁺ “god turned his face, and he took me whole.”

⁺ morde me

⁺ don’t say love, just stay

⁺ the night i chose you

⁺ untitled (college roommate!remmick)

⁺ untitled remmick x reader (nosferatu au)

short one-shots ! (-3k)

⁺ not inside

⁺ beneath the fireworks

⁺ fem!reader x remmick (straight smut. no title)

⁺ holy girl

⁺ keep you warm

⁺ curls

two-shots !

⁺ never not yours part one

⁺ never not yours part two

requests !

⁺ werewolf!reader x remmick

⁺ biting

⁺ period panty sucking

⁺ creep (stan!stalker!remmick)

⁺ pegging

blurbs !

⁺ virgin!remmick

⁺ papa!remmick & his breeding problem

[flixpii]

"Please forgive me for writing freaky shit" nah we LOVE the freaky shit keep it coming!!

everybody heard them??

i got something for y’all real soon